Page 68 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

I nudged gently against his shoulder. “No way. I’m going to make them think you’re ungrateful so they stop liking you.”

There was a card for me too. This one had a picture of a cartoon squirrel on it, and said:

Our favourite Ardy, we thought long and hard about what to get you this year, and then realised there was nothing we could give our twenty-something–making-his-way-in-the world that would be better than cold hard cash. So we’ve sent you some direct to your bank account. And also some socks. But these do not count as legal tender, so they are enclosed. We nearly sent pants as well but we have decided you are old enough now that it would be creepy. Which is our way of saying: Buy your own damn pants. All our love, Mum, Hazel, and Rabbie.

The socks were another Mum special: They were super soft and came in all the colours of the rainbow. I donated the dark purple pair to Ellery, in case she felt left out, and she put them on straightaway. Such was the power of Mum’s socks.

And the box, which I think we were all starting to believe was actually a dimension to a pocket plane of presents, still wasn’t empty. The was a stocking each for Nik and me (although I shared mine with Ellery), stuffed with the usual assortment of chocolate coins, tangerines, funny little puzzles that Rabbie had found or made, card games, seaglass, pocket books, stationery, and—of course—a Rubik’s Cube for me. I groaned as Ellery unwrapped it.

“What’s the matter?”

“They do this every year. The fucking bastards.”

Nik tilted his head quizzically. “Give you a Rubik’s Cube? Wow, yeah, your family are total monsters.”

“I hate the damn things. I can’t do them. I might, when I was younger, have legitimately thrown tantrums over them. But”—I grit my teeth—“I can’t stop fiddling with them.”

“You do know there’s a trick to them, right?”

“OMG, yes. I know there’s a trick to them. I have read the Internet. I have followed step-by-step instructions on YouTube. I still can’t fucking do them.”

“Pass it here,” said Nik, already insufferable. And Ellery threw him the small, plastic bane of my life. A flurry of clicks followed. And within about thirty seconds, he smugly placed a completed Rubik’s Cube on the bedside table. “Boom baby.”

Ellery stared at it for a long moment. “I can’t decide if that was weirdly sexy.”

“You”—I glared at Nik, who was making zero attempt to pretend he wasn’t laughing at me—“engineering dick.”

He fluttered his lashes. “I’m saving you, Arden. Saving you from yourself.”

“I’m just going to get in this box and mail myself back to England.”

“Don’t do that.” Ellery had crept over and was peering into the depths. “There’s still stuff inside.”

And she was correct: Right down at the bottom, lovingly cushioned in tissue paper, was a lavish assortment of all my favourite goodies. Shortbread, tablet, some mini-Dundee cakes, Tunnock’s caramel wafers, packets of Soor plooms, a bottle of Rabbie’s homemade mead, and oh joy of joys, even a couple of cans of Irn-Bru. I cracked one open and took a deep draught of rusty orange fizziness.

“Ahhhhh.”

“You know,” Nik told me, “the fact you actually like that stuff makes me genuinely doubt you’re English.”

I made an unseemly, if inevitable, noise. “I was raised on it. It is literally magic.”

Ellery made alet me try itgesture. It was probably the first time I’d ever seen her look shocked. “That is…horrible.”

“Yes.” My eyes fluttered in Irn-Brugasmic bliss. “Yes it is.”

We were quiet for a while, preoccupied with eating and drinking in that lazy Christmas afternoon way when you aren’t really hungry or thirsty but it’s satisfying to keep doing both anyway.

Eventually, Ellery looked up from the packet of Soor plooms she’d commandeered, and said slightly wistfully, “Your family’s really nice.”

“They’re the best.” Suddenly, I realised this wasn’t the most tactful thing to be saying in front of Ellery and Nik, since they both had pretty strained home lives. “But family can be who you choose, not just the people you’re stuck with.”

She made a contemptuous noise. “Screw family.”

“Not a traditional toast by any means.” Nik had made significant inroads into the mead. “But I’ll drink to it.”

“Family leave you. Let you down. Fuck you up.” But then Ellery paused, her lips curling into a smile. “Friends, though. Maybe they’re worth something.”

I hoisted up my second can of Irn-Bru, and Nik waved the mead bottle. “Friends,” we chorused.