Rebel Without A Claus

I grinned slowly. “You’re my favorite brother-in-law.”

“I’m your only brother-in-law.”

“And thank God for that. I couldn’t cope with another sister.”

“What if you had a brother?”

“I would take a gay brother and brother-in-law over another sister any day,” I replied. “Since you live with my sister, I don’t think I need to explain that.”

“You do not.” He pointed towards the barn doors. “Go. I’ll be right there.”

“You’re shirking your duties,” I said, walking backward.

“If anyone asks, I’ll say you led me astray. Everyone will believe me. It’s fine.”

Damn.

What did a girl have to do to shake off a teen rebel reputation?

Not work as Santa’s little fucking helper, apparently.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I was just going to say it—I fucking hated Christmas shopping.

In my very humble and very frequently expressed opinion, it was filled with dramatic, cheery bastards who hummed the most irritating song ever under their breath.

That’s right, Mariah. I’m looking at you, and no, I don’t care what you want for Christmas.

There was far too much pushing and shoving, and if one more person elbowed me over a fucking cookbook, I was going to shove my own elbow right in their eye. I was not against a little violence on a weekday morning.

It wasn’t my fault if I woke up and other people made me choose violence.

All right, so that was a line right out of a serial killer playbook, but the point still stood.

If you pissed someone off, the likelihood of you getting punched was quite high.

Today, those high likelihoods were running fucking rampant.

I did not have the patience for this crud.

I grabbed the last 285 Ways to Use Your Pressure Cooker cookbook from the shelf and shoved it in my cart. Two-hundred-and-eighty-five seemed like an excessive number, but who was I to judge?

My mother loved her pressure cooker, and if this was what she wanted, then this she could have.

Maybe she’d make something other than chili or baked potatoes.

Unlikely, but only time would tell.

I opened the scrappy piece of paper my sister had handed me with her last-minute list written on it. Honestly, one day, I was going to be partially responsible for her being in a senior home, and I was going to convince her children to give her at least two nights in a really, really shitty one.

Or just tell her I was sending her to Hawaii but actually send her to a crappy ass motel for her fortieth birthday.

Yeah.

That one.

That was freaking fun.

For a bratty little sister. Probably not so much for everyone else, but I didn’t really care about that.

I meandered about the store without killing anyone—a miracle, really—and finished Verity’s Christmas shopping for her. Thankfully, Michael had taken control of all Jasmine’s gifts that she hadn’t already ordered in a moody, three a.m. pregnancy tantrum, so I was only responsible for the gifts of the immediate family.

It was a few too many gifts, if you asked me.

Especially when my sister was a master gift buyer and I was, honestly, a total brick when it came to giving gifts. The only reason I had such a good one for my mom was because I heard her saying she’d love it and I called dibs on our sibling WhatsApp chat.

That didn’t mean I was enjoying this.

Not at all.

People were so aggressive.

Over menial things. Like books and toys and shit that was all material bullshit.

Were you healthy? Did you have food? A roof over your head? Shoes that fit? Clothes that kept you warm?

If you could answer yes to all those things, then you were absolutely fine.

You were rich beyond belief.

Everything else was just… stuff.

No wonder my family thought I was the Grinch. Although I preferred to think of myself as Cindy-Lou Who, but whatever. Sometimes I had to let them think they were right.

I shuffled past two women who had carts full of the brim of the very stuff I’d just been moaning about. They were taking up the entire aisle while debating if Ruby would like the blue or the orange roller-skates.

I doubted Ruby would care. She’d probably just use them for ten minutes and then they’d sit in the garage for the next six months.

I skirted around a man who was arguing on the phone, a stressed-looking mom who was bouncing a crying baby on her hip, and an elderly couple trying to figure out where those, “Damn Bose headphones are.”

As I was not actually a horrible person, contrary to popular belief, I paused in my trip down the electronics aisle to point out the brand they were looking for.

I wished my grandfather would buy me headphones.

I’d be lucky if Gramps saved me any eggnog.

Right. Booze. That was what I needed.

For me. I needed it for me. It was going to be my Christmas present to myself.

Alcohol poisoning.

At least it would get me out of having to do all the bullshit on Christmas day.