“Jed, come on. This isn’t happening. Be realistic,” Jackson scoffs, his body visibly tensing further as he speaks.
“It is, and it will. This is nonnegotiable. Have the party together or have a permanent record due to your negligence. The choice is yours. I’ll expect you to pick a date and get started on the planning, immediately. And one last thing.” He glances between us. “Everyone is invited. There’s no singling anyone out. The point of this… punishment, per se, is to make both of you and your families understand that Strawberry Hollow values community, and there shouldn’t be such bitterness between our residents. We should all come together during this Christmas season and spread joy. It’s the reason for the season, after all.”
For a moment, everyone is silent. I even almost feel bad for Wayne, who’s standing in the back, glancing between the three of us with a somber expression.
Thanks for nothing, Sheriff.
“Throw this party, and bury the hatchet while you’re at it. You two caused the damage, so I want the two of you to work together, and I do not want to have to get a call like this again. Understand?”
Obediently, we both nod, and with a smile, he tips his head at us and turns back toward Wayne as if he didn’t just flip our entire world upside down on its axis.
Once we’ve signed the discharge paperwork and have been officially released, I practically bust through the front doors of the jail, out into the frigid December air, pulling my jacket tighter around me.
I’m so upset, and angry, and just… ready to explode on someone. Particularly the stupidly attractive man on my heels.
“This is all your fault!” I grit out as I whip around to face him, my finger pointed in his face. “God, I hate you.”
“My fault? How in the hell is this my fault? You’re the one who decided to fight with me like a petulant child over a fucking Christmas decoration,” Jackson retorts, taking a step closer to me. I can feel the frustration radiating off him in thick, pulsating waves.
Good, because I’m frustrated just as much, if not more, than he is. My parents are going to have a colossal meltdown when I break the news that their beloved Christmas party is being… tainted by the Pearce family.
That a tradition that has been in our family for generations is now gone, all because of me.
What an absolute mess.
“Clearly, I didn’t do this by myself, Pearce. You are just as guilty as I am, and that’s exactly why we both just spent the night in jail. I didn’t sit there alone.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me. I just spent the night against my will with Strawberry Hollow’s very own ice princess.”
My gaze narrows, my chest heaving as we stand toe to toe on the sidewalk outside of the jail.
I heard Mayor Davis loud and clear. I know what the consequences are. I get it.
But… I also don’t know how it’s physically possible for me to be around this man for longer than thirty seconds without wanting to rip his clothes off while simultaneously wanting to punch him right in his smug face.
It’s not happening.
There’s no way that we can work together.
“This isn’t going to work,” I mutter defeatedly. “Working with you is impossible.”
The small space between his dark brows furrows as he shakes his head and leans forward. “Oh… it’s happening. I’ll be damned if I let you taint my reputation in this town. Looks like we’re throwing a party together, Emmie.”
Joy to the world.
It looks like we’re both going to need a Christmas miracle to make it through the next few weeks unscathed.
jackson
Joy to the world… not.
I need a fucking drink and to forget the past twenty-four hours ever happened. Even if it is barely lunchtime.
I just spent the night in a damn jail cell.
The bell above my head jingles as I push through the old wooden door of the Rusty Rooster, and my best friend, Oliver, greets me with a nod and the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen.
“Well, if it isn’t the delinquent himself gracing my bar during lunch hour?” He chuckles as he places a glass on the bar top and pours a dark amber whiskey into it before sliding it my way.
Unsurprisingly, the word spread like wildfire, as it usually does. The residents of Strawberry Hollow waste no time when it comes to gossip. That much I know.
The legs of the barstool scrape across the floor as I sit, my fingers folding around the glass and lifting it to my lips. “Ask me how I get into the shit that I do.” I sigh, taking a long sip. “This one might actually take the cake though.”
Oliver’s smirk widens. “Yeah, you two are the talk of the town, brother. You know how fast news spreads in this town. Already got the down-low from Bree.”
I was hoping that I had time to speak with my parents about the events from last night, but I should’ve known better.
I should’ve known that everyone would know before lunch. Hell, everyone probably knew before the ink dried from my fingerprinting at the station.
“Haven’t I already suffered enough?” I ask, my brows rising in question.
“Nah. I think the suffering has only just begun. But I mean, I guess that depends on who you ask because I, for one, think that Emma Worthington is hot as fuck, and you’re an idiot for disliking her.”
My gaze narrows. “Yeah, well, she irks my nerves with her holier-than-thou attitude.”
I feel my phone going off in my pocket, so I reach down and fish it out of my jeans, glancing at the unknown number on the screen.
A text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Can we please meet to discuss this unfortunate arrangement?
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter, raising my gaze to Oliver, who’s back to grinning. “Don’t say a fucking word.”
Me: Sorry, this number is currently disconnected and unavailable to ice princesses. Please try again… never.
Emmie: It honestly surprises me how much you continue to prove your immaturity. How does it feel to be over thirty and still a man-child?
Me: Did you text me just to insult me or is there something else I can help you with?
Lifting the glass to my lips, I drain the whiskey, savoring the bite of the liquid as it slides down my throat. Just enough to make it possible to deal with the ice princess on the other side of the phone.
Emmie: We have only three weeks to make this disaster of a party happen, and I happen to not like to wait until the last minute to do anything.
Me: What’s there to plan? It’s a Christmas party. Red, green, a tree, some lights, lots of alcohol.
Emmie: I’m not even going to dignify that with an actual response. Tomorrow, 8 am. Hollow Brewhouse. Don’t be late.
Me: I’m never late.
Emmie: Something tells me that is not true. Bye, Pearce.
I huff as I set my phone down on the bar and lean back in the barstool.
It’s almost Christmas, and even Oliver’s bar is decorated for the occasion. There are strings of multicolored Christmas lights draped along the wooden beams above our heads, tinsel lining the bar, and a sad-looking, skinny Christmas tree in the corner by the karaoke stage with Rusty Rooster coasters as ornaments, along with candy canes.
It’s about as festive as a bar can get, and while I’m generally excited for the holidays, this year, I haven’t felt as much in the spirit. It’s always a big deal for our family, so I’ve been trying not to be a total Scrooge for Ma.