Page 12 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year

“Oh, this isn’t for you,” he said. “It’s for me. The back seat is way safer than the front.”

He caught Emily’s gaze in the rearview mirror and she stuck her tongue out at him. “Colin is still mad that I beat him at go-carts when we were seven. He doesn’t appreciate my driving.”

“So I should put my seat belt on?” Maggie asked and Colin laughed. Then Emily slammed on the gas and peeled out of the parking lot, running over the curb on the way.

By the time they reached the eleven-bedroom mansion on a rocky beach in Rhode Island, Maggie knew three things: Emily was a fashion major and a terrible driver and Maggie’s new best friend.

By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around she knew one more: she was in love with Colin Livingston.

Chapter Eight

Three Days Before Christmas

The car wasn’t a cherry red BMW. There were no Christmas songs on the radio. And absolutely no one was going to teach her a made-up version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” or give her five golden Chandler Bings for a silly present.

This was a whole new Christmas adventure, so Maggie tried to focus on all the ways that it was different. Like the chauffeur’s little tweed hat or the surreal sensation of riding on the wrong side of the road as they drove across the frosty hills.

Or, Maggie reluctantly admitted, the man on the other side of the car.

Adingpierced the silence.

Ethan hadn’t spoken since the airport. He hadn’t looked at her since the wink.

Ding.

She watched him tap his phone to check a text from Amber.Where are you, Mr. Hotstuff?

Oh please...

Ding.

This one was from Maya:WE MISS YOU.

Ding.

Brooklyn:You seriously aren’t coming?

Ding.

Kimmy:I refuse to have Christmas without you.

Ding.

Rachel:I can beg, you know? Do you want me to beg?

“Say whatever it is you’re thinking over there before your head explodes.”

Ding.

Maggie could have denied that shewas snooping, but she was far too tired and too jet-lagged to try. “You’re... popular.”

“These are from the last eight hours. We must have just gotten service.”

“Oh.” She looked at her own phone. Twenty percent battery. Two bars. And not a single sound.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.Ethan barely glanced at a string of texts from “Do Not Resuscitate,” then sighed and powered off the phone. “Please tell me they don’t have cell service wherever we’re going,” he called up to the driver.

“It comes and goes,” the older man said simply, and Ethan leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.