Page 6 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss (Coming For Christmas #3)

chapter

six

Mia

By the time I make it home that night, I’ve convinced myself that agreeing to be Ford McCall’s fake girlfriend was a fever dream.

End game, I remind myself. This is about securing an exclusive contract for my sister.

I can deal with my sanity later.

I kick off my heels in the general direction of the couch and flop face-first onto my bed. I don’t even reach for Netflix. I reach for my phone.

ME: I’ve made a deal with the actual devil.

ESME: Tall? Dark? Glowers like he’s constipated?

ME: The very one.

ESME: DETAILS.

ME: Your Christmas present this year is five years of Cactus Girl exclusivity.

ESME: OMG. OMG. OMG. Are you serious?

ME: I traded my dignity. And possibly my immortal soul.

ESME: Pfft. Dignity is overrated anyway.

EMSE: Precisely what did you agree to?

ME: To be Ford’s fake girlfriend at his family Christmas. Whole weekend. His lake house. His family and Thorne’s. Which means Natasha.

ESME: this is me screaming in all caps because THAT IS THE BEST ROM-COM PLOT EVER.

ME: This isn’t a rom-com, Esme. This is my actual life.

ESME: Potato, potahto. You’re finally going to test my theory.

ME: If you’re about to bring up blowjobs?—

ESME: IF? Babe, it’s science. Men can’t stay grumpy post-orgasm.

ME: He can. Ford McCall could win Olympic gold in Post-Orgasm Grumpiness.

ESME: Do you know that for sure, because if so, you’ve been leaving out significant details.

ME: No, obviously I don’t know that. I’m speculating.

ME: What am I going to do?

ESME: You’re going to knock him on his ass. Red dress. Killer heels. Good bra.

ME: I already wear a good bra.

ESME: No, I mean the good bra. The one with lace and questionable engineering.

ME: …You’re evil.

ESME: Evil genius. Which is why I just ordered you an emergency weekend kit. Check your doorstep tomorrow.

ME: If it’s lingerie, I’m sending it back.

ESME: Sure. Right after you model it for Ford “I Don’t Smile” McCall.

ME: I’m blocking you.

ESME: You love me. Almost as much as you love him.

ME: middle finger emoji vomit emoji wine glass emoji

ESME: Cheers to fake girlfriends and real orgasms.

I toss my phone onto the bedspread and groan into my pillow. Esme’s wrong, of course. Completely, totally wrong.

Probably.

The next morning, my doorbell rings at an hour that should be illegal. I shuffle out in pajamas and open the door to find a plain brown box on my doormat. There’s a neon pink Post-it stuck to the top.

You’re welcome. –E

Dread coils in my stomach. I drag the box inside like it might explode and set it on the kitchen table. With the caution of someone handling live dynamite, I peel back the tape.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper:

A bright red slip of lingerie that looks like it was stitched together by Satan himself.

A travel-sized bottle of “champagne-scented” massage oil.

A box of condoms. Extra-large. I choke.

An entire bag of mini candy canes.

A handwritten list titled Esme’s Holiday Survival Guide that reads:

1. Smile. It’ll drive him crazy.

2. Accidentally brush against him. Often.

3. Do not—under any circumstances—let Natasha win.

4. The bra is non-negotiable.

At the bottom of the box, taped to a candy cane, is another Post-it:

PS: Don’t forget you actually like him. Even if he glares. Especially if he glares.

I drop back into my chair, lingerie dangling from my hand like a scarlet flag of doom.

“Oh God,” I whisper to myself. “I’m going to die in that lake house. And I’ll be buried in lace handcrafted by Satan himself.”