“You think so?"
“I know so.” I laugh. “So enjoy the time off. You work too hard.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Her tone is softer this time. More subtle. I can tell she’s thinking of something. “Speaking of working, are you still there? I don’t want to see you running yourself into the ground like you always do.”
I hesitate. “I’m not. I’m doing the opposite, actually. Kind of got myself stuck Christmas decoration shopping.”
“You? Christmas? Shopping?”
“Don’t act so surprised.”
“I’m not acting at all,” Marilyn answers. “I thought you hated the holidays. In fact, I know you do. I’m going to have to break out the ice-skates.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because Hell just froze over.” I can hear her smile over ten miles away. “Who is this impostor and what has he done with my brother, Heath?”
I snort, walking waywardly down a white-tiled aisle. “He’s chopped the real Heath’s balls off and shoved them into a shredder, just for kicks.”
“Uh huh,” Marilyn presses. “And the pod-Heath?”
“He’s carrying two nutcracker figurines, a pile of tinsel and more Christmas lights than you can shake Santa’s cock at.”
“He’s fictional, Heath. Fictional characters don’t have cocks.”
“I’m sure he did before Mrs. Claus got to him.”
“Oh, I see…” she coos, the pitch of her tiny voice twisting as the wheels spin in her suspicious mind. “There’s a ‘Mrs.’ involved. Give. Who’s the girl, Heath? And don’t pretend there isn’t one. You already told on yourself.”
The words stick in my throat. I’m tempted to hold back, but I know my sister. She’ll hear it in my voice or figure it out herself, her cute narrow nose always sticking where it doesn’t belong. Mostly in my business. I take a deep breath, savoring her name. “Violet Keats.”
“You mean the Violet Keats? The Violet Keats you told me you couldn’t stand? My Violet Keats?” she presses.
“Since when has she been your Violet Keats?”
“Since we’ve been hanging out every week after you took off to LA. You do know that I helped her get the job at daddy’s firm?”
“And you’re so humble about it,” I rumble low.
“I am.” My brat sister giggles. “She didn’t need my help. She’s smart, Heath. Really sharp. She’d be a catch to any firm…or man for that matter. So my question is…” she hums, “what in the world is she doing with you?”
“Besides making me question if I have a cock anymore?” I snort with a small laugh. “Teaching me a thing or two about the ten different types of tinsels.”
“Tinsel—I know nothing about it. Call me when the conversation is about lipstick. And who, dear brother, said you ever had a cock?”
I glance up at the ceiling, my eyes glued to it as I exhale. “‘Preciate it, sis. Nice talking to you. Thanks for the Christmas spirit.”
She only giggles in response. “Any time, bro. I love you.”
“Love you too, Squirt.”
Ending the call, I can’t help but think about how enamored every Sparrow seems to be with Violet Keats, my gaze catching the gorgeous lawyer out of the corner of my eye. She’s absolutely fucking adorable, when she’s loose like this, laughing—herself.
Within minutes, I send her back to the waiting town car, throwing the rest of the items into the cart. Heading to the cashier, I wonder what will happen when I eventually head back to Hollywood…and how the hell I’m going to get this woman out of my system.
VIOLET
I don’t have nearly enough cheer to drown in.
Tinsel is everywhere, attached along my face and clothes. Streaked across the front of my blue button-down shirt, hanging along stray strands of my ruby hair, any stranger coming into the back seat of Heath’s chauffeured town car might think I’ve been in a hurricane.
A Tropical Shit-Storm is more like it.
I’ve been hit by a Category Five Heath, and the only way I know how to recover is to dive headfirst into a mountain of Christmas.
Sitting in the idling vehicle, my bags are covered in silver glitter, from top to bottom. My southern, Georgia-bred Grandmother Nelly’s voice is somehow in my head, chastising the holiday mess I’m currently making in Heath’s expensive rented car, but it’s the other voice in my head—the low, masculine one that I’m more afraid of. The one that speaks to me in silk-lined, raspy tones.
A rumbling, decadent sound that’s in my ear. Seducing me without my permission.
The wind whips outside the windows, the signs of a new winter storm to come, and as I try to calm my frayed nerves, my fifth attempt of the night, my cell phone rings, sending my fingers flying towards my purse, a trail of white snowflake dust tumbling in its wake.
I answer the phone with a screech, not even glancing at the screen. “Violet Keats speaking.”
But there’s no answer.
Nothing but static and bits of silence on the other end. In the relative quiet of the town car’s back seat, with nothing but December winds to keep me company, I feel an uncertain chill run down my spine as I wait for a reply, my shoulder squeezing the tiny black square closer to my face. I frown, wrapping one hand around its base, and my heart beat picks up speed, its pace playing a rhythm that reaches into my ears. I wait a second more.
“Hello?”
A harsh breath expels over the phone line. A beat follows. Then two. A voice soon follows after.
“Oh my gosh,” it sighs, breathy and broken. “It’s me—Em, Violet. I’m so sorry. I must have butt-dialed you.”
My heart slows, finding its steady beat again. “Emily.” I clutch a dusty hand to my chest. “Shit, I thought you were…”
“Who?”
“I don’t know… I guess the new case I’ve been working on has put me on edge. What’s up?”
The most chipper secretary in the world assesses me over the phone, and I can practically sense the inquisition in her gold-green eyes. With only not so many months under her belt in her brand new role, Emily Armand is every bit of the overbearing mother I never had.
Only this “makeshift mother” is twenty-three. And loud.
I actually cower a little over the phone and under her scrutiny, putting my money on the fact that she’s probably heard every word I’ve been thinking.
I sigh before offering up an explanation.
“Want to talk about it? I can help!”
I snort softly. “God, I wish you could.”
“No, seriously.” Emily’s voice turns wistful. “I have a Juris Doctorate from CUNY. I know a thing or two.”
My heart stops. “Em,” I say, leaning farther into the phone. “How—then why are you…?”
“Just a secretary?” She scoffs on a small laugh. “An ex-boyfriend of mine told me I couldn’t hack being an attorney. Said I should stick to what I was good at: looking pretty and shopping.”
Huh. A lot like my ex-husband. A man who resented my success from the very start. I exhale slowly.