This is not a holiday ro.., p.1
This Is Not a Holiday Romance, page 1
THIS IS NOT A HOLIDAY ROMANCE
CAMILLA ISLEY
To all of us who have ever been snowed in by a storm but, contrary to what we’ve read, never with a handsome heartthrob. Let’s keep on living vicariously through our books…
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
More from Camilla Isley
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Camilla Isley
About Boldwood Books
1
NINA
I’m about to drop a bag of popcorn in the microwave ready for a rom-com marathon with my roommates when my phone pings with a message from my brother.
Dylanosaur
My dearest sister
Oof. With that opening, he’s sure about to ask for something I’d rather clean my entire house with a toothbrush than agree to. Nuh-uh. I’m already wearing my pajamas ready for nineties Hugh Grant and bed, nothing more.
Nina
Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer’s no
Dylanosaur
Please. I’m stuck with one hand down the garbage disposal and I need you to come rescue me
I try to picture all the scenarios of how Dylan might’ve gotten into that predicament, but give up just as quickly. I don’t want to know.
Nina
Can’t your *angelic* roommate save you?
And by angelic, I mean spawn of Satan devil incarnate.
Dylanosaur
Tristan is away on a business trip
Pretty please?
I think longingly of the classic holiday movie we were about to watch and sigh.
Nina
On my way
Dylanosaur
I knew you were my favorite sister
Nina
I’m your only sister
P.S. Lucky you had your phone on you before you got stuck
Dylanosaur
Actually, I’m dictating. My phone is in the living room
Nina
Is your phone’s virtual assistant reading my answers aloud to you?
Dylanosaur
Yes
Nina
Alexa, please play Justin Bieber’s latest album at top volume
I smirk, imagining my brother shouting a counter order to be heard over the music. With a sigh, I drop the still-closed bag of popcorn back into the box and prepare to tell my roommates movie night is over for me.
“How long is that popcorn taking?” Hunter asks, as if on cue.
I exit the kitchen and find her kneeling on the couch, her hands on the backrest, straining her neck to check what I’m doing. Her wavy dark hair frames her face as she balances at a weird angle.
“Roomies,” I announce, stepping fully into the living room. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to call a raincheck on rom-com night.”
“No, why?” Rowena asks. The light catches on her glasses as she looks up from her phone, her chestnut braid swaying with the movement.
“I have to go save my idiot brother from himself.”
Hunter’s eyes get a little brighter at the mention of Dylan. “What happened?” she probes, her curiosity thinly masked.
“He’s trapped himself in the garbage disposal,” I explain, putting away my phone and pulling on a puffer jacket.
“Can’t the Prince of Darkness save him?”
I chuckle at Rowena’s use of our favorite nickname for my brother’s evil roommate. “On a business trip, the useless prick.” I ready myself to brave the cold, pulling on my Uggs over my pajamas. “If I hurry, I can be back in time to watch the movie.”
“You’re going in your PJs?” Rowena questions, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“Yep, it’s only a couple of blocks. I’m not getting dressed again.”
“We should go with you,” Hunter suggests eagerly.
I frown. “Why would you want to go out in the freezing cold?”
“Your brother and the Prince of Darkness have a huge TV,” Hunter explains, blushing slightly.
“And they have premium cable,” Rowena interjects. “We could watch something new, instead of rewatching Love Actually for the millionth time. It’s only a couple of blocks, as you said.”
“Plus, you shouldn’t walk around the city alone at night,” Hunter insists.
“It’s decided,” Rowena declares “We’re moving the pajama party to your brother’s place.”
Dylan will be grumpy about the home invasion, but he’s the one who needs rescuing. I shrug. “Let’s go.”
I use my spare set of keys—the fact that I have them irks the Prince of Darkness to no end and is also why I’ll never give them back—to let myself into my brother’s building.
I know I’m in trouble when we step out of the elevator and hear the distant notes of a Justin Bieber song. The volume intensifies as we reach the corner unit—because my brother, the investment banker, and the Prince of Darkness, CEO of an evil tech corporation (I don’t really understand what his fintech company does but it must be something wicked if he runs it) live in the most expensive apartment on the top floor. Which, with New York’s real estate prices, would still have been impossible even with their fancy jobs. But Tristan’s father, probably Satan himself, gifted the place to his little mini demon as a graduation present. Dylan pays him a lowball rent, and they split expenses.
As I unlock the door and step into the apartment, the decibel level of the song becomes unbearable. I dash into the wide-open space, all modern furniture and wall-wide windows, trying to locate a shutoff button. From his half-reclining position over the sink, my brother stares murder at me but still points with his free hand to the smart speaker assistant on the shiny crystal coffee table.
When I pulled the prank on Dylan, I hadn’t expected him not to be able to shut off the album. But I didn’t consider that the sound system in Satan’s lair is concert-level loud. Dylan’s bad for his poor taste in roommates.
To make the music stop, I have to physically grab the speaker, bring the AI out in the hall, and impart the instructions where she can hear me. When I come back, Dylan is being interrogated by Rowena on the dynamics of his accident while Hunter just stares at him, lost in some sort of trance.
“I dropped my ring,” Dylan explains.
I roll my eyes as I remove my outer layers and pull my natural dark blonde hair up in a topknot. I hate that stupid ring. When my brother and the Prince of Darkness won the basketball national championship in their senior year at Duke, it was all anyone could talk about—for months. Over and over, I had to listen to how many blocks Dylan pulled off, how many shots from three Tristan sunk, and what a glorious game it was. One that I was forced to witness in person, to show my sisterly supportiveness. I wouldn’t have minded if it were only Dylan playing. But having to stomach number 666 swagger through the entire two halves, making acrobatic dunks, and sending more than one cheerleader to the emergency room with fainting spells was just too much—666 definitely wasn’t Tristan’s number, but that’s how I like to remember it.
I roll up the sleeves of my pajama top and step into the kitchen, beaming at my brother. “So, what do you want me to do?”
Dylan glares at me. “You left me in Bieber hell for half an hour. I’m going to strangle you the second I get free.”
Keeping a safe distance, I hop onto the black marble counter—black souls must come with black fixtures. “I’m glad you brought that up in advance, dearest brother, so we can negotiate the terms of your release.”
“Nina, I swear—”
“Hush, hush… here are my terms.” I count off my fingers. “I get an immediate pardon for the Bieber incident—I’m sorry, by the way, I didn’t know your speakers could produce a sonic boom.”
Dylan stares daggers at me but nods.
“I’m going to need verbal confirmation.”
“Apology accepted,” he grits out. Not like he has a choice. “And what else?”
“Me and the girls get to watch a movie of our choosing on your superior appliances and cable service.”
“Yeah, why did you bring the entire cheer squad?” He pushes his fringe of blond hair—unfairly lighter than mine—out of his face.
“We’re here for protection,” Hunter squeals a bit too loud. “Couldn’t let your sister walk alone in the middle of the night.”
“It’s not the eighties,” Dylan protests.
“They’re here for the premium streaming, mostly. Do you accept our terms?”
My brother’s eyes gleam with playful spite. “Next time one of your toilets clogs and you don’t know what to do, I’m going to have so much fun telling you to call a plumber.”
“No. I take the deal.”
“Perfect.” I hop off the counter. “You gals pick a movie while I solve this.”
“Do you have popcorn?” Hunter asks my brother.
“Second cabinet to the left.”
She finds the snacks and pops them into the microwave—also black. “Thanks.”
“How do I free you?” I ask Dylan.
“There’s a toolbox under the sink in the laundry room. You’re going to need to unscrew the disposal from underneath.”
That’s how, ten minutes later, I end up with a deluge of triturated, decomposing, wet refuse on my chest. “Ew.” I emerge from under the sink. “You owe me big time for this brother, big time.”
“The Bieber thing makes us even,” Dylan says, massaging his wrist.
“I’m going to need a shower.”
“Be quick,” Hunter calls from where they’re nestled on the gigantic sectional couch. “We want to watch the movie.”
“Trust me, no one wants to be rid of this garbage faster than me.”
I step out of the kitchen, wiping my dirty hands on my already ruined flannel PJ top, and freeze when I hear a key turn in the front door’s lock.
I’m still frozen in place when the Prince of Darkness enters the apartment and finds me standing in his living room with sewage running down my chest and smelling like the aftermath of a skunk convention.
2
NINA
No matter that my hands are still half covered in slime, the moment I spot Tristan, I reach up and undo the topknot on my head, smoothing my hair down to cover my jug ears.
I know, I know. I’m supposed to love my body as it is, and jug ears are nothing to be ashamed of. I should own them as part of myself. And I mostly do, unless in the presence of the Prince of Darkness.
Our eyes lock across the room. I take in his expensive suit, wrinkled after a long flight, his elegant coat, trolley, and slightly less-than-perfect hair. The dark circles under his eyes that, unfortunately, don’t make the blue of his irises any less piercing. He does the same and inspects my shoeless feet, flannel PJs, and the muck running down my front.
He raises an eyebrow, giving me a curt nod. “Gremlin.”
One word. One word out of his fucking mouth and my hate for him flares.
Before you pick sides or call me exaggerated, I should probably give you a little context. The first time I met Tristan Montgomery was fifteen years ago, when we were thirteen and eighteen, respectively. It was around this time of year, December 20. He and Dylan had had a game in New York on the 19th, and instead of going back to Duke, they came straight to mine and Dylan’s hometown, Mystic, Connecticut, to spend the holidays.
Tristan’s family had ditched him for Christmas or something, I don’t remember. But I know that at the time I felt sorry for him. Now I understand why not even his parents would want to spend winter break with him.
Anyway, the second my brother walked into the house with his tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed friend, I had a crush. An infatuation so all-consuming that I was ready to tear down all my Adam Levine posters from my bedroom and replace them with Tristan Montgomery ones. I would’ve traded all my Twilight books, even the limited editions, for a simple nod from him.
In all my years of sharing a house with a basketball player, I had never taken notice of Dylan’s athletic build the same way all my friends seemed to. To me, his six-foot-five frame, muscular arms, and broad shoulders were completely normal. Unremarkable even. But on his best friend, I noticed. Oh, I noticed.
What can I say? I was young and naïve.
For the first few days, I was too shy to even say good morning to Tristan. Then one night, I gathered my courage and made an approach. He and my brother were playing video games in the basement after dinner, so I made hot chocolates for the three of us. I brought the mugs down and, after delivering them to the boys, I went back up the stairs, pretending to leave. Instead, I sat on a high carpeted step hidden from view. I pulled my knees up while I sipped my chocolate, waiting to eavesdrop if they’d say something about me.
Guess how well that went.
“Dude,” Tristan snickered, “you didn’t mention you were living with a gremlin.”
“Don’t be a jerk,” Dylan chided him.
“I’m not being a jerk, she’s cute.” There was a muffled oof from Dylan, maybe Tristan elbowing him. “Come on,” he continued, “don’t tell me you’ve never noticed the resemblance. Big eyes, wild hair, floppy ears.”
In my defense, I still hadn’t discovered the use of hair conditioner and my hair was a frizzy mess that could’ve very well made me resemble a crazed gremlin. By some miracle, I also had sailed through all my previous eight grades of school without being bullied or made fun of because of my jug ears. I had never been too self-conscious about them until that night.
With my heart already broken by his mean comments but a glutton for punishment, I peeked through the railing to see what they were doing. Tristan was mewling while cupping both his ears, making them jut out.
I saw red. I lost all rational thinking and stormed down the stairs, screaming, “You’re an asshole!” Not contented, I threw my hot chocolate at Tristan, hitting him in the center of his Blue Devils hoody. I ruined the sweatshirt but didn’t cause any burns—regrettably.
The last thing I heard as I stomped away was Tristan asking my brother, “Man, did you feed her after midnight or something?”
It was rampaging hate between us from that night on. The next time I saw him was the following summer. My hair was subdued into a perfect shine and left unconstrained to cover my ears for the entire extent of his visit. Even if he kept throwing me in the pool as a declared retaliation for ruining his favorite hoodie. And the constant surprise splashes made the effort to keep my hair dry and glossy seem futile. He also still called me Gremlin and hasn’t stopped ever since.
Our feud has only intensified over the years. On the too-frequent occasions I’ve been forced to stomach his presence, it’s been an all-out war. We started with childish skirmishes, like my habit to tie his shoelaces together—unfortunately he fell flat on his nose only the first time. Or the way I’d constantly change his gaming profile name in our basement to varied insults. And that one time I put bleach in his shampoo—orange-haired Tristan was a sight to behold. That same night, he put a Bluetooth speaker in my room and convinced me I had a ghost in the closet, I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.
Over the years, we’ve evolved into more grown-up pranks. I’ve signed him up for multiple dating profiles stating he lived with three cats, wanted to get married as soon as possible, and have five kids. I gave away his real phone number, which he’s had to change twice. With that face, the calls just kept on coming. I don’t have proof, but for every spam call or email I receive for services I never signed up for, I know Tristan is behind it. The first year I moved to New York, he stole Dylan’s phone and told me to come to my brother’s birthday party in a costume. Let’s just say the bunny scene from Bridget Jones has nothing on me. I tried to own my cheerleader getup with pride, but he kept smirking all night and it just ended with me throwing my pom-poms at him.
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