Hottie for the Holidays (Three Steamy Holiday Rom Coms)

“Oh God,” I mutter, blood rushing in my ears as my anxiety peaks.

By the time the text comes in, I’m stressing so hard I don’t hear the notification chirp. But I feel the vibration and, like all mothers, instantly yank my cell from my coat pocket to ensure Lexi doesn’t need me to pick her up from school.

Thankfully, she doesn’t.

If I had to see her right now, I wouldn’t be able to hide my swollen eyes, and Lexi’s always been perceptive. At six, she could sense when I’d had a bad day and needed a hug. At sixteen, she sees through me in a heartbeat. And she knows I got the keys to the new flip today. She’d instantly realize we’re in trouble.

Luckily, I still have until this afternoon to pull myself together and hide the scary truth from my daughter.

Unluckily, I have to deal with the Wicked Witch of the Upper West Side first.

There are probably worse people in the world than Stephanie Pinkerton, but not many, and none in my personal acquaintance. In a perfect world, I would have left Stephanie, and her ability to make me feel like a wad of cheap bubblegum stuck on her shoe, behind in high school. But our parents are friends, and staying on the Hope for The Homeless charity board had meant so much to my grandmother.

Gram died years ago, but she’s still with me; a gentle voice in my ear reminding me that it’s the most wonderful time of the year, and even Sucky, Stuck-up, Poop Face Stephanie deserves a little holiday cheer.

So when I read Stephanie’s text—RSVP? Am I going to get one from you? Or are you just going to show up like you did last year and expect the rest of us to scramble to accommodate you?—I take a deep breath before responding.

Then I harness the better angels of my nature and calmly tap out—I RSVP-ed via e-mail last week. So I should be all set. Hope you’re having a great day!

I’m having a very busy day, single-handedly cleaning up a hundred messes while the rest of my committee gets their nails done—she shoots back—And are you sure about that RSVP? Your name’s not on my final list. I thought maybe you’d decided to skip this year, since it’s such a couple-heavy event and you fly solo.

Fly solo. It sounds like a fun, adventurous thing, and I’m sure it is for some people, but I’d rather have a plus one.

And Stephanie knows it.

There’s little doubt in my mind that her last sentence was an intentional dig, a hunch that’s confirmed when she adds—So if you want to sit this one out, I won’t tell your parents. Spare you a night of standing around looking awkward while everyone else has a good time.

“Eat a pound of reindeer poop and die, Stephanie,” I mutter, my jaw going tight as my fingers fly.

She’s just so smug and evil and shameless about being smug and evil that I go out of my head for a moment.

My face flushes hot and my vision blurs, and by the time I pull my screen back into focus, I see that I’ve written—No, I’ll be there. And I’ll have a plus one this year. I’m bringing my boyfriend!

What? Shit!

My stomach drops, and my mouth goes dry.

I hit the backspace button and rub frantically at the screen, but it’s too late. The text has been sent, and my finger doesn’t have magic, stupid-decision-erasing powers.

“Shit! Shit, shit!” I hiss, my heart racing as I tap my foot fast against the dusty boards.

Beneath me, the Christmas toilet groans softly, agreeing that I’ve made a mess I have no chance of cleaning up.

2

Maggie

There’s only one way out of this.

I need a lie.

A good one. And fast.

I’ll explain that I was just kidding, or that I’m suffering from asbestos poisoning from my new house, or that someone stole my phone and is prank texting my frenemies for fun.

My fingers move across the keys, making it up as I go along, but Stephanie beats me to the punch.

Wow. Really? Well, that’s a surprise, she texts. I look forward to meeting this guy. I didn’t realize men in Manhattan were dating single mothers. Maybe there’s hope for my sister, after all. She’s in great shape and has an incredible career.

Inferring, of course, that I am not in great shape and do not have an incredible career.

“Oh, shut up, Stephanie,” I growl before shutting off my phone with a firm click of my thumb and stuffing it in my coat pocket. It’s the only way to keep from saying something I’ll regret.

Or something else I’ll regret.

Though something I’ll regret more than making up a fantasy boyfriend I won’t be able to deliver by seven p.m. tonight is hard to imagine right now.

Poo on a peppermint stick. Could this day get any worse?