Page 25 of Not Home Alone

I check my phone to see if Merrily has reached out, and what do you know? There’s a text from an unknown number:

We’ll discuss more terms tonight.

Adorable. I knew she’d be in. I know she will never forgive me for what I did to her—and she shouldn’t. I just need people to think she did. No good could ever come from us really getting along. But I can help her dad’s business, at least. He’s the kind of father who actually deserves my help. The kind who doesn’t send his kid off to boarding school when his wife isn’t around anymore.

I add Merrily’s name and number to my contacts and then type out a reply:

GRANT: Message received. I have also received the singing message you sent. See you at MY house at six. Any and all foam snowmen will be disposed of immediately.

MERRILY: No idea what you’re talking about! I will see you at MY house at six.

MERRILY: And I would NEVER use foam because it’s not biodegradable.

MERRILY: But it did rhyme.

MERRILY: But I have no idea what singing message you’re talking about.

I open the group chat with Ava and Todd, re-reading the texts they sent before I went into the meeting.

AVA: Grant. Why is Quinn asking me if you’re really dating Merrily Tucker?

AVA: Are you dating Merrily Tucker?

TODD: Isn’t she the one from The Notcracker?

AVA: Her father owns The Christmas Barn.

TODD: She was cute.

TODD: Do not tell my wife I said that.

AVA: Grant, why are you being so difficult? Just go out with Quinn.

AVA: And then ask her to marry you so she’ll leave me alone.

AVA: And get her a really nice engagement ring.

AVA: But not as nice as mine.

GRANT: Yes. I am dating Merrily Tucker. Yes, the one from The Notcracker. She has forgiven me. Who wouldn’t? No to everything re: Quinn.

I slide my phone back in my pocket, confident that the one text will buy me at least a couple of days’ reprieve from Quinn’s advances. News of Merrily’s forgiveness won’t spread to the locals whose opinions I’m trying to change, since my half-siblings don’t talk to those people. But things are moving in the right direction. Even though they’re moving in the same direction as an annoying, superhot nutjob who’s obsessed with the worst holiday of the year. But it’s only for two weeks. I’ll make it work.

Returning to my dad’s office, I knock on the open door as I enter. He’s typing out an email. He learned to type on a typewriter and still stabs at the elegant keys of his Bluetooth keyboard like he’s mad at them. I think retirement will be good for him. Or possibly disastrous.

“You’re not serious about Voss, are you?”

“Dead serious,” he says, still staring at his monitor. “Can I announce you as my replacement yet?”

“I still haven’t made a decision. But do not move forward with Voss until I’ve given you an answer.”

He frowns and stabs at the keyboard even harder. It’s how I always think of him. “Still no interest in power or gaining access to five million dollars, huh? Must be fun to be so carefree.”

Yeah. It’s a non-stop party.

Everyone, my family included, still thinks I’m the bratty youngest Moody who grew up to be a dickhead trust fund playboy. Yeah, I have a trust fund. But my dad set it up so that I don’t get access to the principal unless I take over as CEO—or when I turn thirty-five. In seven years.

I never liked the terms, so I found an elite, grown-up way of rebelling. I went to business school and got a job at a consulting firm in New York instead. After studying business management, I make decent money—not millions, but I earn it. From working. And understanding how businesses are run.