“The big man?”
“Ho, ho, ho!” she rumbles. “Word on the street is, he’s a lot higher up than that Magnum d-bag.”
Oof. I should’ve known.
“Need help wrapping stuff for your folks?”
She dives down on the sofa next to me and we talk about our holiday plans, never missing an opportunity to tell me to go out and get laid. I just tell her I need to get away.
Since she’ll be staying in the city, Paige lends me her car, and I drive home to the ’burbs. If I’m not going into the office every day, I might as well spend some time in my old bedroom. Except for Thanksgiving, I haven’t seen my parents nearly enough ever since Dad’s heart appointments.
I swing the front door open—still unlocked, sigh—and step inside.
It’s warm and cozy as ever with a crackling fire. My nostrils bristle, gingerbread and sugary goodness everywhere. I grin.
“I see Mom made cookies already,” I say, turning to lock the door. For the next few days, at least, I’ll know they’re safe.
Mom bolts in from the kitchen and hugs me, practically lifting me off my feet.
“This is the best Christmas ever! My baby is home, and I’m a bestseller!”
Oh, Magnus Heron.
You thought you were helping, but you’ve created an author-monster.
“Congratulations, Mom. And I come home for Christmas every year.”
She pats my cheek. “Oh, I know you do, because you’re the best daughter ever. Aren’t you pumped for my big win with Farm Love? Everybody adores Sir Oinkswell! My next book is gonna sell even more!”
She scrunches up her nose and makes this obnoxious pig noise.
Moms. Gotta love ’em, right?
I hug her again. “I know, and I’m so happy for you. But I’m just saying...don’t be surprised if it’s a while before you hit the list again. They can’t all be blockbusters.”
“Well, since I hit the list, I’ve been selling like a hundred more copies per day! And the reviews don’t lie. The people want sexy Marines taking down evil clowns and winning the girl.” Mom moves away from me and claps excitedly.
My smile falls. “You’re selling that many?”
Oh, crap. Heron, what the hell are you doing?
Because I haven’t been buying them. I find her book on my phone, and the reviews look genuine enough...
I’m just as surprised as anyone this boost might’ve been the kick she needed to hook a real audience. And if it’s all thanks to my beast of a boss, I have all the more reason to thank him.
She smiles so huge her face lights up. “Some of my other books are trickling in sales, too. The backlist is fired up and catching readers. I’m a real author, Brina. You’re going to see my stuff on Netflix and cable someday! It’s so exciting. I’ve been at this for twenty years.”
“I know,” I say stiffly. Yes, it’s so nice to see her happy, but I still can’t help feeling a little dishonest. “You deserve it, Mom, and so does Sir Oinkswell. Every last dollar.”
I oink back at her and she laughs. I’m just trying to squelch the firestorm in my head.
Also, I can’t decide if I want to crucify my boss or kiss him to death. But since the latter’s off-limits...
I go to my room to drop my bag down and text Mag where Mom can’t see.
Sabrina: Quit buying my mom’s books. She thinks she’s on her way to movie stardom or something, and I can’t buy enough books for her not to be crushed. I’m just your EA. You wanted it that way. Plus, I’m sure you’ve never purchased another assistant’s mother’s books.
Magnus: Don’t get your panties in a twist. I haven’t bought her books since we were in Arizona that day. It was a one-time thing.
Uh-oh. Worst hopes and fears confirmed.
But how do I know he’s telling the truth?
Sabrina: Then how, pray tell, is she still selling 50-100 copies a day??? I add a lady shrugging emoji.
Magnus: Sales beget sales, Miss Bristol. Marketing 101. Let your dear old mom be a lesson.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe.
But I’m still not sold on her freaky hot Marine-prize pig-serial killer clown thing screaming success.
Sabrina: Yeah, okay. Funny how I always bought her books, and that never got her sustained sales.
Magnus: You never put her on a list. Visibility is king with these online retailers. Books are the same as every other product. Research the algorithms yourself and leave me to enjoy my scotch.
Sabrina: Your poor liver, snarlypants. I add a smiley face with its tongue hanging out.
Magnus: Don’t worry about my liver. You’re just my EA, remember?
I don’t point out that only one of us got a choice in that.
Dear God.
No one infuriates me like this walking trope of a man.
In the morning, Mom piles the table high with all my favorites: cinnamon apple pancakes, sizzling bacon, and homemade hot chocolate.
My favorite part of being home might be the company, but the food’s a close second, and so is the nostalgia.
She used to do this every day of Christmas break when I was a kid. And just like then, Dad sits next to me, the newspaper open with a heaping gas station cup of black coffee at his side.
I keep the comments about caffeine and his heart to myself, filling my belly up and planning on being rolled out of here when my phone goes off.
Heron flashes across my screen.
Mom clears her throat. She hates me having my phone at the table.
“It’s my boss,” I whisper, smiling sheepishly.
“He bothers you over the holidays too?” Dad grumbles, looking up from the news. “Jackass.”
“Nolan, no.” Mom’s voice is warm and excited. “He’s not bothering her. He’s just keeping in touch.”
I haven’t even gotten the message open yet. I glance at Mom over my phone.
What the hell does she mean?
“Honey, you call me at least three times a week and mention him by name every time. I know he’s not just your boss.” She takes a bite of her pancake. “You can be honest with us.”
“He’s what?” I echo back, distracted by a photo in my messenger. It’s Mag’s hand, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and it fills my screen.
Magnus: It’s no Heron blend, but it’s good.
I smile helplessly.
“Seeee?” Mom whispers.
Dad chuckles, hiding behind his paper.
I groan. I’ll set them straight in a minute. But for now...
Better than your scotch? I type back, breaking into a blush.
Magnus: No. But it’ll do since it’s the wrong time of day for scotch. Thank you, and Merry Christmas again.
I giggle, my heart doing this wibbly swing.
I power the phone off and look at Mom. “He’s my boss. Nothing more. I promise.”
“Sweetheart, you smiled bigger than I do over my books when you saw his text.”
I sigh. “Mom, you live for love stories. This isn’t a romance. I work for this guy and he’s kind of a demanding ass...I just need to keep my job. Staying on good terms is part of it. Besides, he’s a shameless workaholic. He isn’t interested in anything else.”
“Oh?” Mom asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Oh, what?”