The Christmas Romance Wish (Love, Laughs & Mystery in Coco Key #5)

1. Emmie

Emmie

CHAPTER 1

They say love conquers all, but my life story isn’t a romance. Well, if it was, it would be a dramatic tale of unrequited affection for a man I’ve never met.

Cue a lengthy sigh and me flopping theatrically onto a soft surface like a settee. I had one of those in what my brothers called my “Princess Closet.” It was a massive dressing room with a mirrored vanity, an island for my accessories, and custom shelving and cabinets.

As far as they’re concerned, I am a princess, but now I’m locked away in a tower—the fourth floor of Summit Spire, to be exact. It’s a building with a doorman in SoHo. My brothers insisted I live in a place with security.

If I were to walk into the hall right now, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a couple of men in black suits and earpieces guarding the door.

To say they’re overprotective is an understatement. Which is part of the reason I moved almost as far away as I could.

I love all four of my big brothers, but a girl needs some breathing room and a quiet place to write with amenities nearby—like a bakery café with the best peppermint mochas—within walking distance. At least one a day is essential, a requirement for productivity, and most definitely a tax write-off. Anyone who sits at a computer all day knows what I’m talking about.

Back in Coco Key, I loved walking on the beach, but there wasn't a single decent coffee shop for miles. Priorities, people. However, I recently heard there’s a new coffee bookshop combo in town.

This may not be a love story, but I do tell stories professionally. They’re most often true ones of the biographical or memoir variety. I’m sometimes a ghostwriter, but more often a co-author.

The problem is, I don’t have my own story, especially not one that involves love. My specialty is bringing other people’s tragedies and triumphs, losses and wins, and sacrifices alive on the page.

As for my real life, there’s not much to tell.

But I do have a secret, which isn’t surprising since I’ve learned to keep certain things to myself, especially my feelings and worries. It wasn’t so much because of my brothers—okay, they’re pranksters, so I’ve always been a little cautious even though I avoided being their target. No, it’s because I opened my heart once and then had the door slammed in my face, literally.

I’m not pining over the guy. There is no love lost there, but between my fractured family situation, the four human shields who try to shelter me from everything, and my singular romance failure, I’ve become what my roommate calls a turtle.

Solitary, sometimes nervous, and selectively introverted. I admit, I tend to overthink.

Speaking of Dylann, from the other room, she calls, “Oh, Doodles. Doodles? You in there?” Without waiting for me to answer, the door swings open. “Of course you are.”

It’s true. I rarely leave lately except for my peppermint mocha runs.

We have a three-bedroom apartment with a view of a brick building. But it’s secure and, according to my brothers, that’s all that matters. Not that they have a say since I pay for it, along with the rest of my bills. I’ve never had anyone else to answer to, so they have authority in my life. I’m also the youngest, the baby—and never got to know our parents.

With the four of them and the nannies, it was a real helicopter-hovering overprotective situation—minus the parents. We didn’t have those. Suffice it to say, I rather like my adult life where there isn’t someone constantly looking over my shoulder.

Except now. I sense Dylann peering at my laptop screen.

I slam it shut. Rolling onto my back, I press to sit.

“How can you write while lying on your stomach down there on the floor?”

“Says the girl who goes to yoga class five days a week.” I smooth my hand over the area rug. “Plus, it’s plush.”

Dylann lowers down and crosses her legs. “Unless you weren’t writing...”

“I got a kink in my neck and needed to change positions.” I massage it for emphasis.

Even though my job requires me to be sedentary, the repetitive movement is hard on my body, hence, the daily, and sometimes twice daily, walks to get a peppermint mocha. And it explains my present location on the floor. Probably.

Dylann narrows her eyes and shakes her head as if catching me red-handed. “You’re in Crush Pose.”

“Is that one of your yoga-Pilates-barre hybrid class moves?” She’s dragged me to a few of them and they wrecked me. We both learned that I’m not a muscley pretzel.

She smirks, aware I’m trying to avoid the coming conversation—the one we’ve been having since she started calling me Doodles a few months ago.

Dylann gets to her feet and circles me like she’s breaking down a crime investigation. “The Crush Pose is not to be confused with the Crush Swoon. That is the Victorian-era version where a woman dramatically throws the back of her hand to her forehead and then collapses onto a divan. The Crush Pose is best understood if you’ve ever seen movies set in the 1960s when a girl is on the phone, most likely talking about a boy she has a crush on rather than to him, though that can apply to this scenario too. Let me demonstrate.”

Dylann lowers onto the floor flat on her stomach, bends her knees, and swings her legs slowly back and forth. She balances on her elbow, cheek pressed to her hand with a pretend telephone up to her ear. With her other hand, she twirls the imaginary phone cord around her finger and snaps invisible gum.

I throw the pillow I use to support my lower back from my swivel chair at her. “I was not doing that.”

“You were doing the modern version of that.”

“Was not.”

She grabs the notebook I always keep with me while writing to jot down notes to come back to later. “Let’s see. Are there any fresh doodles ?”

I huff. Approximately three months ago, she caught me doodling hearts in the notebook while talking on the phone to my partner in my current co-writing project. But the crush, or whatever, had been growing well before that. Nine months and twenty-nine days, to be exact. This, I keep to myself.

“Hmm. This little heart looks recent.” She rubs her finger over it to see if the ink is still wet.

I snatch it back from her and pout, sort of. I’m not really mad because she’s not entirely wrong, but I don’t want to admit that.

Dylann waggles her eyebrows. “So, how’s the heartthrob?”

“Why are you still in pajamas?” I ask, changing the topic.

Dylann sits up. She’s tall and lanky, the kind of woman with boundless energy when it comes to birthdays, holidays, and Mondays. “It’s a Saturday less than a week before Christmas. If people can get away with wearing ugly sweaters, a coordinating loungewear set with a candy cane print is perfectly acceptable this time of year.”

As always, I don’t want to think about Christmas.

Dylann wanders out of my office and I hear my dresser drawer open. “You must have something in here festive to wear while we decorate. ”

Standing in the doorway to my bedroom, I say, “Where’s Jacob?”

“Don’t get your ribbon candy in a twist. He’s on his way. We’re going to decorate together.”

“I have to pack.”

“You’re not leaving for Island Tropicale until after Christmas,” she says with a flourish.

“Do you mean Coco Key?” My tone is flat because even though I’m excited to see my brothers, going back there comes with baggage—the heavy kind I’ve been dragging around for my entire life.

“Don’t sound so excited to spend a week where it isn’t snowing.”

“I like snow and the wintertime. It’s pretty and peaceful.” I glance out the window at the steely sky.

“Like a lady warlock. Like the winter witch. Ooh, a yeti-ette.” Dylann laughs and makes creeping fingers.

“Ha ha,” I say without humor.

“Anyway, I’ve seen you pack. It’s more of a toss whatever in a bag and call it good.”

Frowning, I cross my arms in front of my chest. “I do not. I use travel cubes and have an entire system for maximizing space in my luggage.”

“I was teasing because you’re not leaving until after Christmas. There’s plenty of time. Unless you mean?—”

She refers to the thing we don’t talk about. Our lease expires on January first. She’s getting married this spring and she and Jacob are moving to the burbs. It doesn’t make sense for us to renew, so I’m supposed to move to my brother’s place and she’ll stay with her parents until the wedding.

“Change of plans,” I mutter.

Dylann pauses, mid-rooting through my drawers, which I will have to reorganize later. For the record, I do not own Christmas-themed pajamas. I possess but a single holiday item and it’s a photograph I lost in college. I stowed the image of my parents holding me in the attic of my mind and do my best to forget about it for three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year.

“Do you mean you’re not moving into Royal’s luxury penthouse?”

“Regrettably, that’s still on the table.”

“Don’t make it sound so awful to live in one of the most desirable buildings in Manhattan. It’s practically a city unto itself with every amenity you can think of.”

I acknowledge that it’s incredibly gracious for my brother to let me stay in his empty penthouse apartment. However, it’s on the twentieth floor of the building, which could be a problem. Not only that, but I’m afraid if I live under his roof, he’ll have even more authority over me even though he’s returned to his roots in Coco Key.

“Hey, come back,” Dylann says gently, knowing I tend to get lost in the corridors of my mind.

She studies me for a long moment and then says, “Wait. You have a certain look. I see it in your eyes. When you said you have a change of plans, you mean you’re going to see him , aren’t you?”

I force myself not to smile. The trip to meet my co-writer in person had been pitched as a way for us to finalize the manuscript before I turn it in to the editor. I did a lot of lip-nibbling debate with myself about whether it was a good idea.

For one, I don’t like flying. For two, peopling in person is worse than flying. Three, I might have an itty-bitty crush on the guy.

Hopping and squealing, Dylann takes my hands and flings them wildly between us. “You were just emailing him, weren’t you? That was why you were in Crush Pose.”

“I don’t have a crush on him.”

I do. I do. I do.

“You have a something on him. I have experience with these things.” Dylann met her fiancé on an app I helped create called Marry Me . She’s an example of how effective it is for people who don’t want to be part of modern dating culture and would rather engage in a more traditional style of courtship.

“To skip to the good part,” as we dubbed it.

After their initial “match,” she and Jacob got to know each other in person like in the old days. Five months later, they’re planning their big day and future.

Her eyes light up. “You’re going to finally meet Captain America, your real-life book boyfriend?”

I cast her a glare. “That’s not how book boyfriends work and he’s not available. More like Captain Untouchable.”

“Oh, right. Hands and eyes off. The merchandise is taken. No peeking until Christmas.” She puts her hands in front of her eyes and plays peekaboo.

“Don’t remind me.”

In the fall, I caught a cold and caught feelings for a guy who is not available. He was so sweet when I was under the weather and sent me a care package along with daily chicken soup delivery.

The only problem is, we haven’t met in real life. I don’t even know what he looks like because his social media presence is non-existent. He’s old school...and older than me by a bit.

“Remember, he has Ginny,” I remind myself and Dylann.

“What’s his real name again?”

“Alexander Armstrong.” It’s hard to say his name around the smile that insists on making an appearance whenever I utter those two words, think them, or write them.

“The other part too.”

“Retired SEAL Officer?”

“Okay, now put it all together.”

I playfully swat Dylann because she knows how I feel and wants me to admit it.

“Retired SEAL Officer Alexander Armstrong is taken, and he’s older than me...and he was in the military.”

“I got that with the whole retired SEAL Officer part. Remind me why the military part is a problem?”

I lift onto my toes and with a flat hand measure my oldest brother’s height and outline his formidable build. “Magnus?”

Dylann narrows her eyes. “And that’s a problem because....? Wouldn’t he want you to be with a fellow soldier?”

I’m proud of Mag, but he carries a lot of baggage. Alex too, as I’ve learned. “They’re also the same age. Thirty-eight. Like you, I’m twenty-six.”

“Your birthday is soon. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with a little May-December romance. Also, and I say this with love, maybe your brothers should have less jurisdiction in your life.”

There’s some truth to that, but the bigger, harder one for me to recognize is that while they may have built the fence around me, I’m the one who entered and locked the gate. After the whole thing with stupid Tad, I kind of withdrew from social life. It hurt but in a humiliating way rather than breaking my heart. That thing is still intact and uneasy about taking any more risks.

Dylann picks up the framed photo of my brothers and me from my dresser. “Also, for the record, your brother is hot.”

“You’re getting married in a few months.”

“I know, but Magnus is still a fine specimen of a man. Can’t be denied.”

“Ew. You haven’t seen him pick his nose. Also, he found someone.”

“And so will you.”

I pretend that the comment doesn’t sting. I kind of wish Dylann said that I already have found my special someone. Then again, I haven’t officially met Alex, and he has a special someone. He’s mentioned Ginny a couple of times, though didn’t comment on whether she’s his girlfriend or fiancée. They’re not married. Not yet.

“You could think about it this way—those are also reasons to be together. He’s mature, strong, and a hero.” Dylann opens my closet and from the depths, she pulls out a pair of outrageous high heels that I wore on Halloween in college—they remind me of a wedding cake studded with sparkly stones and pearls. “If you’re going to see Captain America, you have to bring these. I forgot you owned footwear like this.”

When I moved to New York, I tried to fit the stereotypical, posh metropolitan mold with high fashion and glamorous looks. That didn’t last long because I didn’t feel like I fit in. I never have—not back in Coco Key. Not here. “We both know that I typically live in leggings and sweatshirts. Alex lives on a ranch, so I don’t think those will be practical.”

She stuffs them in my suitcase, open on the bed. “You were in Crush Pose. These are sugar shoes. You’re taking them. One look at you in them and Captain America will change his mind about Jenny or Gwenny or whoever.”

“Ginny,” I correct.

I’m not a homewrecker. I was raised to be loyal and would never consider dating or tempting someone away from their current significant other.

Taking the shoes out of the suitcase, I say, “I’m heading out to Utah in a strictly professional capacity.”

“No pleasure?” Dylann puts the shoes back in.

I remove them. “None.”

“Emmie, one of the things I love about you is that you’re an old soul.”

We’ve talked about this before and I believe her—proof being her appreciation for old things like vinyl records.

“But maybe try letting yourself be young for once.”

“Look how that turned out,” I mumble.

“Don’t tell me your reluctance to meet someone is still because of the Tid Bit thing.” Dylann slides the shoes into my suitcase.

I wave my hand and take the shoes out with the other. “No. That breakup was more of a superficial wound. An abrasion.”

“He said you’re not datable or marriage material and so far, you’ve been holed up here like he was right. We both know he was wrong.”

So far, evidence has proven otherwise. Then again, I don’t go out much. It’s easier to be with people I know and trust. With my brothers, I can be myself, so long as I don’t talk about guys. With Dylann, I can be myself unless I’m talking about guys.

If Tad, aka Tid Bit, was here, he’d catch the fiercest Dylann Mitchum glare. “Don’t you think it’s ironic that you and Tid Bit created an app to promote long-term relationships and he broke up with you for a fling?”

“Multiple flings. And yes, that wasn’t lost on me.”

“And yet, you haven’t so much as had coffee with a guy since then.”

I twist a loose string from my bedspread around my finger. “It was humiliating to be the creator of the Marry Me app and have everything turn out that way.”

“You can’t let it keep you from experiencing comfort and joy,” Dylann says.

She’s right and reminds me of the more deeply rooted problem. Christmas.

She tucks the shoes back in my suitcase at the same time my phone rings.

Alex’s name appears on the screen.

“Ooh. Captain America calls. Are you going to answer?”

I shoo Dylann away and pick up as I flop onto my bed, and without realizing it, assume what she called the Crush Pose.

“Hey, Emmie,” Alex says in his deep, smooth voice with a twinge of a western accent.

As usual, those pesky butterflies in my belly hum to life when we talk or I get a notification that he sent an email or text.

The guy on the other end of the line can no longer be my crush because soon I’m going to meet him and Ginny. It was fine to pine over him from afar. This is about to get real and I have to squash it.

These are just silly, swoony insects in my belly.

They’re bah humbugs.

But I don’t have the heart to squish them.