Sleighed It: A Billionaire Bad Boys Holiday Novella (Billionaire Bad Boys #3.7)

by Max Monroe

  Is it obvious my aunt Rhonda really likes names that start with R?

  And dick?

  Four kids, guys.

  Dick and Savannah’s cozy living room was packed. I silently prayed everyone would be on their very best and disaster-free behavior.

  “Where’s Will and Melody and my favorite niece?” I asked once I realized my brother and his family were nowhere to be found. We needed them to stabilize the normalcy equilibrium!

  “Dr. Obscene won’t make it tonight,” my father answered loudly as he cleared Randy and Ricky out of the way and plopped down onto the couch. The man had no filter, and ever since Will had starred in The Doctor Is In—a crazy-popular reality docuseries about his career as an obstetrician, good ol’ Dick wouldn’t let the outrageous nickname die.

  “Will is on call tonight,” my mom kindly added, “so they stopped by earlier for a light Thanksgiving lunch with your dad and me.”

  That bastard! He probably wasn’t even on call. He just didn’t want to deal with the insanity that followed our father’s side of the family around like a fucking tail.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and sent my traitor brother a quick text.

  Me: You dirty liar! You’re not even on call, are you? You’re just putting your sanity above mine like a narcissist.

  Will: Reread that text and tell me who sounds like the real narcissist. Happy Thanksgiving, Georgie! Love you!

  Me, self-centered? As if!

  Me: Let me guess, you’re on call for Christmas too…

  Will: Well…

  Me: I kind of hate you right now, William.

  Will: Love you too, Gigi!

  Me: Ugh. Give Mel and my favorite niece a kiss for me.

  Will: No kiss for me?

  Me: Shove off.

  Will: Advice: Don’t stay past dessert. Uncle Donnie started drinking as soon as he got there—right as we were leaving—four hours ago. We both know Uncle Donnie, and that much beer makes for a bad combination.

  Me: If it were up to me, I wouldn’t stay past appetizers.

  Will: Hahahahahahaha

  Me: Shut up, asshole.

  My brother was always my buffer at these shindigs. If Granny started hounding me about something ridiculous, I’d just mention something awful Will had done. And when Uncle Donnie passed beer number ten, I’d throw Will into the pit of doom like a virgin sacrifice and run.

  How in the hell was I going to survive without him?

  We had been at my parents’ for all of twenty minutes when the first flood of anxiety overflowed my veins, spilling out into my body and urging that claustrophobic, eye-twitchy sensation I’d come to associate with holidays and my family.

  Uncle Donnie was currently motorboating Aunt Rhonda in the kitchen while Dick and Savannah looked on. They’d made a bet that the action didn’t actually make the sound of a marine motor, and Uncle Donnie had set about proving them wrong. Raymond followed his wife past the doorway, currently blocking my view, thankfully, but then started humping the air behind her. Ricky and Ralphie snickered from their spot on the fireplace hearth.

  “How much longer do we need to be here?” I whispered to my husband behind gritted teeth. He just grinned, wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and tucked me into his side.

  “Baby, we haven’t even eaten dinner yet.”

  “I know, but maybe we can make up an excuse to leave early,” I whispered back. “Maybe I can convince Julia to act like she’s sick so we all have to leave?”

  Kline raised an amused brow.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “I won’t bring our five-year-old into it. But I know I can definitely fake a stomach bug.”

  It was sad that on Thanksgiving, a day meant to remind us of all of our blessings and the wonderful things in our lives, I was silently wondering if there was some type of fake emergency I could come up with so that Kline, the girls, and I could escape without trauma but…did I mention my uncle’s face was fully seated in my aunt’s breasts?

  “Georgia,” Kline whispered in my ear, a little laugh roughening his mostly smooth voice, “I love you endlessly, and I can sense your desperation, but you and I both know you’re a shit liar. We’d never make it out of here unquestioned.”

  I frowned dramatically.

  “Not to mention, even though your family is batshit crazy, we shouldn’t dip out on them in the middle of Thanksgiving.”

  Why did my husband have to be so fucking noble all the time?

  Normally, it was one of my favorite qualities of his, but not today. Today, I needed him to be less magnanimous and more let’s get the fuck out of here.

  I groaned, and he only held me tighter, a small smirk kissing his lips.

  While Julia and Evie appeared content with playing Barbies on the floor of the living room—mercifully oblivious to the orgy in the kitchen—I silently tried my damnedest to be thankful our girls weren’t screaming and pulling each other’s hair out and find my happy place.

  Only growing up with a brother, I’d realized quickly with my two girls that sisters were an enigma—one minute fighting, and the next the best of friends. You never knew what you were going to get.

  “Georgia, honey,” my mother beckoned me from the kitchen. I turned slowly, peeking minutely out one eye to try to avoid further scarring myself for life. Luckily, the only pie in sight was pumpkin, and my mother was sliding it gracefully into the oven.

  “Yes?”

  “Mind pouring Granny another glass of wine?”

  I glanced back to the recliner in the other corner of the living room to find my Granny guzzling the rest of the wine in her glass, her lips already stained a deep purple from who fucking knows how many glasses of Merlot she’d already consumed.

  Her eyes met mine, and she raised her glass in the air. “Snap, snap, Georgie.”

  Hell’s bells. Granny was drunk, and we hadn’t even started dinner yet.

  “Sure thing, Granny,” I muttered and left Kline in the living room to walk into the kitchen and grab my father’s eighty-eight-year-old mother more booze.

  Upon arrival in the kitchen, I noticed something far scarier than my aunt and uncle’s PDA—my mother’s normal display of food was nonexistent. I glanced around the counters feverishly, but they were startlingly empty. No mashed potatoes or stuffing or turkey or any and all of the other delicious food staples that signified Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Uh…do you need help with anything, Mom?” I asked, and she shook her head as she pulled the cork on a fresh bottle of Merlot.

  Fuck, I hoped Granny hadn’t already finished off bottle number one by herself. She was known for having a loose and inappropriate mouth once alcohol came into play, and my cousins would do nothing more than egg her on.

  “Nope.” She shook her head. “Granny insisted on handling Thanksgiving dinner this year.”

  I looked around the empty counters again, my skepticism growing. I didn’t see any fucking food.

  “Apparently,” my mom went on, “she managed to get a very famous New York chef to make our dinner. Isn’t that a wonderful treat this year?”

  A renowned chef dropping everything to cook dinner for my family on Thanksgiving of all days? It all sounded pretty fucking sketchy if you asked me.

  Growing agitated at the thought of no food to cut the effects of all the booze, I took a quick glance into the dining room, where only empty dishes, glasses, plates, and cutlery sat. “Uh…okay…but…where is the chef, and where the hell is the food?”

  “Granny said the food will be delivered at six p.m. on the dot.”

  I squinted in confusion. “So…who exactly is this famous chef?”

  My mother shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I thought it was really thoughtful of Granny to offer to handle the food this year. It’s been nice not having to spend the whole day cooking. Your father has quite enjoyed it too,” she added and waggled her eyebrows. “He definitely worked up an appetite for Thanksgiving this morning and this afternoon.”

  �
�Hell yes!” Uncle Donnie cheered, slapping my father with a resounding high five.

  It was times like these that I wished I had one of those marm-y moms that were uptight and could barely spell the word sex, much less say anything about sex out loud. But that wasn’t my reality. Savannah Cummings was a certified sex therapist and world-renowned over-sharer.

  “Wow. Thanks, Mom. That’s exactly what I wanted to be thinking about right before dinner.”

  She waved me off with a grin. “Sex and intimacy are good for the soul and your marriage, honey. Speaking of which, how are things between you and Kline? Is the sex still—”

  “Everything’s good, Mom.” I cut her off and held up Granny’s newly filled glass of wine. “I better get this glass of Merlot to Granny before she starts yelling at my kids about empty glasses being for pansy-asses.”

  Honestly, I didn’t know which was worse: feeding Granny more booze, or talking about new-age sex positions with my mother. It seemed like a lose-lose situation to me, and the only obvious option was self-preservation. Granny was a grown-ass woman, and if she wanted to get all boozed up and spout nonsense during dinner, that was her business. I’d just have to pray no one else’s “nonsense,” as she put it, pushed her out of control.

  “Here, Gran,” I said and carefully handed her the glass.

  “Geez, it took you long enough,” she muttered. “I thought I might die of old age before you made it in here.”

  Boy, my granny is only getting sweeter with each passing year.

  I forced a smile to my lips and moved to the opposite side of the room, far away from the crotchety old lady guzzling wine. Finding a spot between Kline and my father, I attempted to enjoy the football game, and from the looks of it, Seattle was kicking Minnesota’s ass.

  I’d never been a huge fan of professional football, but ever since I’d started working as the Mavericks’ Director of Marketing, I’d grown to enjoy it. Well, at least more than I used to. To be honest, I still didn’t really understand the game, but I sure as shit knew how to market the team. When it came to filling the stadium with fans and gaining new endorsements for my players, I’d become a goddamn professional.

  But understanding the game itself was more of a work in progress—one that might take eternity to complete.

  Sure seems like I need some Team Edward now.

  “You idiots! What are you doing!” my uncle Donnie shouted toward the television while my dad cheered. “Yes! That’s it!”

  As a result, venomous looks were exchanged.

  Dick and Donnie were diehard fans for whatever team the other hated. It didn’t matter who was playing or that nothing of actual substance was at stake, my dad and his brother cheered for their chosen team like they’d been fans their entire lives.

  “Man, it’s not looking good for your boys, Don. Your quarterback might as well be standing around with his dick in his hands.”

  “Shut up, Dick!”

  My dad just grinned, loving every damn minute of his brother’s misery. It was a lifelong urge for brotherly competition that wouldn’t die until they did. Unfortunately for everyone else in the house, it oftentimes turned ugly.

  Donnie jumped as his player went down, and I flinched unconsciously as visions of a sporting match of our own—though, less football and more blood sport—played out in my head.

  For the love of God, Dad, stop taunting Uncle Donnie…he’s got four giant sons as backup, and all you’ve got is me.

  Just as a commercial break finally eased the tension in the room—as well as the knot in my chest—the doorbell rang.

  Fluffing great. Who’s this now?

  Granny hooted, slamming the recliner down and startling my attention to her. A smile curved her lips as she glanced at her watch. “Six o’clock on the dot! Dinner is here!”

  Curious, and still skeptical—read: terrified—about the dinner situation, I hopped out of my seat and headed into the entry with my grandmother not too far behind.

  A young, twentysomething man stood on the front porch with way too much innocence. He didn’t look at all how I’d imagined a renowned chef in New York City did. He’d need twenty more layers of wrinkles and badassery. My brow pinched nervously. “Hello, my name is Michael, and I have a Meals on Wheels delivery for a—” he paused for a brief moment and glanced at his clipboard “—Sadie Cummings.”

  I’m sorry, had he just said Meals on Wheels? As in, the food delivery service for the elderly and disabled?

  My gaze moved to his fleece jacket, the logo threaded carefully into the right side of his chest.

  Ah, fucking hell.

  My granny had just illegally utilized a humanitarian community resource for our Thanksgiving dinner.

  Famous NYC chef my ass. I knew it didn’t add up!

  “That’s me,” Granny said proudly. “You are just on time!”

  “Just sign here, ma’am.” Michael held out his clipboard, and gladly, Granny signed on the dotted line. “If you give me a minute, I’ll grab everything from the truck.”

  “Just carry it on in, Michael.” Granny waved her hand generously toward the entryway. “We’ve got a hungry house waiting to dig in!”

  Her voice held more affection for Michael than it had for me.

  When he chuckled and jogged for his truck, I knew why. He humored her and moved at a brisk pace. Not to mention, he clearly wasn’t bothered by the goddamn scheme my grandmother had running here.

  At a complete loss for what to say, I followed Michael’s lead down the hall and into the kitchen as he carried in the first box of food.

  “Look, Mom,” I announced, and sarcasm dripped from my voice like honey. “Granny ordered us Thanksgiving on Wheels.”

  Savannah’s head came up slowly and then all at once as she noticed the Meals on Wheels insignia on the box. “Oh my.”

  Yeah, oh my was right.

  “Dinner is served, everyone!” Granny proudly announced to everyone in the living room as Michael finished filling the kitchen island with several more boxes and took his leave.

  Lucky bastard.

  “Actually,” my mother chimed in as she opened up a box to find individual meal trays labeled with heating instructions, “it’s not served…yet.”

  “What’s going on, Vanna?” Dick was happy to stay uninvolved until dinner got delayed. Now he had fucks, and he was ready to fucking give them.

  “Well, Dick…” My mother’s voice walked an impressive line between polite calm and I’ll fuck your shit up real good. “Your mother generously ordered us Meals on Wheels for Thanksgiving. And it’s going to take another—” she glanced down at one of the trays “—twenty minutes before dinner will be hot and ready.”

  “Oh!” Julia exclaimed excitedly once she plopped her little butt on a barstool and started browsing through our dinner trays. “I wants the ones with Jell-Os and chocolate puddings!”

  Fucking hell. It was one of those “easy chew” trays!

  “Me too,” Randy offered, giving my five-year-old a steely, competitive brow. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Kline stepping a little closer, just in case he had to protect her.

  Jesus Christmas.

  My appetite was officially lost. The combination of guilt over eating something that should’ve been delivered to people who actually needed it and social anxiety at the hands of my family was a potent suppressant.

  “Everyone go back into the living room, enjoy the rest of the game, and I’ll get these meals heated up,” my mother ordered with a wave of her hand.

  “Already on it, Savannah!” Donnie chimed in as he stepped back inside the French doors that led to the back deck. “I went ahead and fired up the grill and put a few meals on the barbie!” he exclaimed and then proceeded to crack up at himself.

  My mother’s eyes darted to my father, who had already made himself comfortable on the couch again. “Dick, honey, did you happen to fix the gas on that grill?”

  It took a whole two seconds before my dad shot out of his
recliner and to his feet. But by the time he reached the deck doors, it was too late. Flames of gold and orange and red filled our normally wooded view from the window.

  “Oh my God!” my mother and I shouted at the same time.

  “Oh! Fireworks!” Julia cheered and started to hop off her barstool. “I wants to go outside and sees the fireworks!”

  “No,” Kline stated firmly, swooping our daughter off her feet and into his arms. “Those aren’t fireworks, sweetie. Let’s you, me, and Evie go play in the front yard.”

  He moved swiftly down the front hall, and I was thankful. The language was about to go foul in here, and I wasn’t convinced some of it wouldn’t be from my very own mouth.

  My cousins and their wives looked on with smiles—the fucking lunatics. It was like they actually liked this shit.

  “Goddammit, Donnie! The whole fucking deck is gonna go up in flames!” Dick shouted at his brother on the deck.

  “Don’t be so fucking dramatic, Dick! It’s just a little fire!”

  “A little fire, my ass! Vanna call 9-1-1!”

  “Happy fucking Holidays,” I muttered to myself, but Granny overheard and started into a rolling, choking chuckle.

  Thanksgiving on Wheels and an actual explosion on the deck—it was definitely the holidays with my family.

  Once the fire department had given my parents the all clear and assured them there was no damage to the house itself—thankfully, Dick had managed to break out the fire extinguisher and keep flames down to a dull roar—and that they didn’t need to stay in a hotel for the evening, Kline and I packed up the girls and headed home.

  During the drive, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what Christmas would be like.

  My eyes stung as all different scenarios—all equally fucking awful—assaulted me.

  God, I just wanted to enjoy a good Christmas this year. A perfect Christmas. A Hallmark card-worthy holiday with Kline and the girls.