Page 12 of Not Home Alone

JOY: Whaaaaaaaaat?!

JOY: Shit, I have to get back to the office, but WHAAAAAT?!

I don’t know how to reply to that, but I have a call coming in. From my boss, Karla, in Ann Arbor. I sent her a proposal before I left. She must be calling because she loves it so much and wants to offer me a promotion. Except, I can’t answer it, because it sounds like someone put a microphone in a washing machine filled with metal chains and turned on the spin cycle.

I send it to voicemail and finish drying off. I get a text within seconds.

KARLA: Sorry to bother you, but Brock has an emergency at the Pinnacle event, and I need you to talk him through it ASAP. Thanks!

Ah.

So, not a promotion.

A reminder that I do everyone else’s work for less pay. I will call him back as soon as I put on something appropriate and get Grant to stop acting like such a child.

FOUR

GRANT

I despise death metal, but not as much as I loathe Christmas songs.

Before I turned on the music, while savoring a little scotch, I called my business manager in New York. Why the hell did Curtis? rent out my house to someone over the holidays when I specifically said not to, I asked? He confidently assured me that he’d definitely emailed his assistant to call Chad? to tell him to block off the last few weeks of December. But it turns out, by the time she called Chris? he had already rented it to someone through Airbnb, and he asked whether he should cancel the reservation. Long story short, they forgot to ask me, and they never gave him an answer. Because, of course they didn’t. I should have just called Conrad? myself. I always end up doing everything myself.

And now, when I’m supposed to be enjoying an entire night free from the annoyances of other people—after spending two hours removing all evidence of Christmas from this house—I have to be under the same roof as Cindy Lou Who. Why is she here? I thought she stays with her dad when she’s in town. I know for a fact that her father hasn’t moved away or died. Also, what kind of maniac brings a Santa vibrator in her carry-on bag?

A horny one that I need to stay the hell away from, that’s who.

But it’s just for one night. I’ll get her a room somewhere. I’ll have no trouble resisting her until then. My dick did not get the memo, but I’ll get it under control. Blasting death metal serves a dual purpose. It’s annoying to Merrily Tucker, and it’s about as erotic as listening to a gas-powered lawnmower idle in the background while someone coughs into a microphone.

I still want to see her naked, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m a man. If there’s a beautiful woman taking a bath in the same house as you, it doesn’t matter that she hates you—you need to see what that woman looks like when she’s hating you with no clothes on. That’s just basic Man Math.

But I’m not going up there. She’s not going to derail me from relishing these precious hours away from my family. The rest of the night will proceed as planned. It’s been ten years since I proved I was a dickhead to everyone in Holly Grove. I can remember the look on Merrily’s face like it was yesterday. And I should regret it—I do regret hurting her—but I need to be the dickhead youngest son who’ll never settle down. The kind of guy nobody expects anything from. The lone wolf.

Not the big bad wolf who lets Little Red Riding Hood stay in the guest house of his den over Christmas.

Although, I might have to explore that scenario further when I’m alone.

There’s nothing in the fridge except for the six bottles of local micro brews I brought and that’ll do. As I’m arranging the amber bottles on the kitchen island counter, I see movement out of the corner of my eye.

Merrily.

She is exactly as riled up as I’d hoped she’d be and twice as hot as before she took a bath. It’s not ideal. She’s wearing sleep shorts and a tank top that says “When I think about you, I touch my elf.”

And there’s a naughty little elf looking up in the general area of her left nipple. It’s the most heinous tank top I have ever seen, and I can’t stop staring.

She’s yelling at me and it’s fantastic. Leaning against the edge of the counter, I smile at her and say, “What was that?”

“Turn the music off!”

I cup a hand to my ear and explain in a calm voice, “I can’t hear you, Tucker. The music’s too loud.”

She holds up her phone and shakes it at me, like an old man shaking a cane while yelling at a noisy kid, except that she’s a hot blonde woman with damp hair and no bra and she has surprisingly good muscle definition in her arms. “Turn! The! Music! Off! I have to make a call!”

She is annoyingly adorable when she’s livid.

I turn the music off from the app on my phone. I’m not a monster. But she keeps yelling the same words over and over until she realizes the Septic Tank Overlords, or whatever the band’s called, are no longer punching our eardrums. “Please stop yelling. This is a family neighborhood.”

She makes the sound of a frustrated cartoon squirrel. And then she hops. She’s barefoot. Her legs are bare. And smooth. And they look like they’re still warm from the bath. And flexible.