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Games are momentarily forgotten as I’m swallowed into a sea of hugs, everyone talking without waiting for anyone else. The commotion manages to pull my father from his book long enough for a quick kiss on the cheek as he asks me about the drive.
My twin’s voice rises above the din, loud and booming, from the direction of the kitchen. To find Timbo, follow the noise.
I haven’t seen him since before the accident. The one that nearly killed him and cost him his career as a stunt performer. The one my family didn’t tell me about for days after it happened because they didn’t want to ‘ruin’ my holiday in Italy.
That accident.
I offered to fly out to LA to look after him, but he didn’t need me or even want me there. Then he didn’t come home for Thanksgiving, spending it in California with some girlfriend.
Which, okay, it hurt. A lot. I get it, we aren’t that close anymore. We haven’t been close since we were fourteen and Nic moved in across the street, replacing me as Timothy’s best friend. But Timothy’s accident scared the hell out of me, and I want us to get back to how things used to be. This holiday—the two weeks out of the year my entire family gets together under one roof—is the perfect opportunity. Nic’s absence is going to make this easier.
Extricating myself from everyone, I head toward the kitchen and the sound of Timothy’s voice. Doesn’t matter what story he’s telling—they’re all the same. Huge explosions. Massive jumps. Impressive falls. Timbo the handsome stuntman, no fears. Certain death. A hot doctor or nurse if this is about one of the times he broke something or needed stitches.
I round the doorway into the kitchen and slam hard into someone headed out.
Dominic Fontana grabs my arms, stopping me from falling as my holiday cheer goes up like a Yule Log.
“You.”
I might have growled that.
He stares at me with those damned silver-gray eyes of his. They’re cold and aloof because he’s cold and aloof. His lips press together in displeasure, and same, buddy.
He hasn’t changed. His long dark lashes are proof the universe is an asshole, as are those cheekbones. Hair a shade lighter than black sets off the silvery undertones of his flawless porcelain skin and his resting dick face manages to come across as a broody smolder.
He’s ruined pretty men for me.
“Jessie,” he says in a rumble, barely moving those lips.
He glares, and I glare back. It’s a battle of the wills I’m not losing.
Timothy coughs. Nic looks first, so I win.
My brother points up.
Nic and I look up.
Oh, hell no.
Mistletoe.
We shove at each other in our haste to escape and once again, I end up on my ass.
“Fuckstick,” I mutter, getting to my feet, but Nic’s long gone.
My brother is smirking at me. I’m about to march over and give him hell when my mother, kitchen goddess, queen of cookbooks and TV shows alike, sails out of the butler’s pantry, crushing me into a hug that’s three parts cinnamon, one part Dior.
She pulls back and squeezes my arms. “You made it. I was starting to worry.”
“Mom, take the mistletoe down. Please.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Her light brown eyes search my face first, then look about the kitchen, noticing the sudden absence. Her smile widens. “Nic wouldn’t kiss you?”
Neither mistletoe nor spinning bottles could make that happen.
Timothy snorts. “Jessie wishes he would.”
My stomach swoops. “I do not.”
