How My Brother's Best Friend Stole Christmas

Not my brother’s little sister.

Not the pesky kid who’d followed him around all those years.

Not the trash-talking video game buddy.

I wanted Sam Porter to see me.

The girl who’d loved him silently but passionately for five long years.

“Fine,” I grabbed the purse. “The condoms are in there?”

“Three,” Joy said with a waggle of her eyebrows. “Just in case.”

All of this felt stupid. Stupid, stupid. But I was doing it. I had a thong on, so there was no point in backing out now. “Let’s go,” I said and we left the break room to go back to the main room of the warehouse with my desk and the packing section and the shelves of ornaments.

Joy grabbed her own purse. Another tiny little bag, but whatever she saw in there made her face go white. Her entire body still.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said, closing the bag and waving me off. “Just something I forgot. Let’s go.”

I picked up my phone from where it had been sitting facedown for the duration of this makeover. I had two missed calls from my brother and a bunch of texts.

Hey! The first one said. Are you at the party? I can’t find you.

Soph, the second one said. Get up here now! I’m making an announcement…

Crap, said the third. I can’t put this off any longer. Hurry your ass up.

Well, shit, I thought. This seemed dramatic. But then, everything with my brother was dramatic these days.

The shipping department was on the first floor of the Kane Co. building, separated by a door from the workshops where Joy made her magical you-wouldn’t-freaking-believe-how-expensive-they-are Christmas ornaments. The workshop had windows that allowed people to stroll by on the sidewalk, look in, and get swept up in Joy and her crew of glassblowers.

I had a heart made out of concrete and zero Christmas spirit, and even I was amazed by what they could do.

The party was on the top floor. The fancy floor. You can probably guess how much time I spent there.

Zero. The answer is zero.

My brother had gone all out for this party. And let me tell you, usually Christmas was a dry, panicked affair around here. Like, we spent all this time creating wonder and good cheer only to ship it off and leave ourselves with none. But since Dad was arrested and Wes took over, Kane Co. was turning things around. A few weeks ago I almost put up a tree in my own apartment. Almost.

We climbed the three steps out of the warehouse, through the door into the cool and quiet workshop to the lobby.

The elevators were doing a brisk business shuttling employees and guests up to the fifth floor. Outside snow was swirling. Another winter storm that was about to pound Denver. But what bothered the good citizens of Denver every other day was somehow magical on Christmas Eve. Everyone coming in laughed, red cheeked, as they shrugged snow off their coats and brushed it out of their hair.

Standing there, surrounded by holiday joy and delight, dressed like some kind of holiday vixen, I allowed myself to get swept up in the spirit—in the possibility. And I let go of my fear and my stress and I let myself to believe that everything was going to be all right.

That this holiday party was going to be the start of a whole new life for Kane Co., for my brother, but especially for me.

And Fucking Sam Porter.

2

Once we got up to the party, Joy took off like a shot. And I realized how much I’d been counting on her as a wingman.

Okay. All right. No need to panic.

I needed to find my Drama Queen brother anyway.

The party floor was amazing. There was a band and free-flowing booze and waiters walking around with snacks on trays, all making it clear that just because my father had been hauled off for embezzlement no one needed to panic. There was a new sheriff in town—that sheriff being my brother—and things were A-okay at Kane Co.

The band was a nice touch.

I skirted the edge of the party, where the shadows were thick. People were gathered around cocktail tables talking shit and eating fancy snacks. They were laughing—which was good—and I slipped by them all, unnoticed or maybe even unrecognized by employees.

Getting cocky I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and turned, only to come face to face with my mother. Gloria Kane.

Oh God.

“I didn’t recognize you,” she said. My mother was the personification of a cool breeze. A draft that made you reach for a blanket. She wore a black suit; she always wore a black suit. Her only nod to the holiday was a pin on the jacket, a gold circle that maybe was supposed to be a wreath. I mean, ho-ho-ho and all that. Her hair was in its bun, pulled so tight it made my own head hurt.