The Dragon and the Rose

  “Oh, please let me help!” Kresley creates a skyscraper of dirty dishes before Emma can answer.

  “Me, too.” I jump up and try to pull the plate from Gage, but he tugs back, offering a dimple-laden grin.

  “That won’t be necessary, Skyla.” Emma frowns at the current tug of war Gage has incited. “Please do be careful with my mother’s fine china.” She snaps the plate up with ease and nearly decapitates me in the process.

  “Busted,” Gage mouths. I like this version of my husband, playful, sweet, in every way the person he used to be.

  We head to the living room where Barron dons a Santa hat and cues the Christmas carols over the speakers.

  Logan puts on a movie, quiet in the background, some old comedy about a bunch of high school girls. Every now and again, a bout of laughter circles the room.

  Emma’s tree is immaculate. Stark white—lit perfectly from top to bottom with matching white lights. It’s artificial, of course. God forbid a single needle touch the ground. Plus she says it’s better for the environment because, apparently, plastic always is. Gold ornaments bejewel the tree, perfectly spaced at ten-inch intervals. And then there are the bows. Bright cherry red bows set every third row, again economically spaced just so. A mechanical angel is set on top with fiber optic wings that repeat a rainbow of colors on a loop. My mom would love this tree, but she’s wise enough to never have one like it. Where are all the cute macaroni angels and glitter balls of Styrofoam that young Gage and Logan made in school? I should ask Emma for them. She would never appreciate them like I could.

  “Now remember!” Barron shouts over the happy holiday tunes belting out a little too loud. “It’s not the gift, but the thought that counts!”

  Giselle leans into me. “I sure hope one of those pretty blue bags have my name on it. That’s my favorite color.”

  I crane my neck and gasp. A row of three tiny aqua bags line the underbelly of the tree where the nativity would sit at the Landon house—the word Tiffany’s emblazoned proudly on the front.

  “Dear God up in heaven! Yes, please,” I whisper back.

  Crap. I can feel myself getting hot over the pricey little packages.

  “Who do you think they’re from?” I ask as covert as possible.

  “Santa.” Her shoulders rise to her ears with excitement. “And my mom. Santa is very busy this time of year. He dropped some presents off early so she could help wrap them.” She wrinkles her nose and giggles. “Isn’t that the greatest? Santa has already been to my house!”

  Wow. Emerson Kragger would probably beg me to stick a thousand little pine needles in her eyes if she knew how adorably innocent Giselle is being while running around with her hardcore Goth body. Not that Giselle is hardcore, and she’s certainly not Goth. I’d roll my eyes at Emma for keeping up the Santa farce, but, in all fairness, Giselle never had that bit of Christmas magic when she was little.

  “Hey.” I wrap my arms around the handsome man next to me, my husband. “Do you think our gifts are lame?” Our gifts are lame, but I’m hoping he’ll say something positive that will make me feel instantly better about them. We literally bought every single person on our list the exact same thing—a tin of butter cookies from the dollar store because that’s what poor married couples do. And, if we save real hard, next year we might even upgrade to a popcorn tub with three different flavors.

  “It’s fine.” He pats my knee. “Speaking of gifts—hey, Ellis, are you busy next weekend?”

  “Next weekend? That’s New Year’s Eve. Damn straight I’m busy. I’ve got six different DJs lined up for an all-night, all-morning extravaganza.”

  Gage frowns, and his dimples dig in. God, this man is gorgeous any way you slice him.

  “Why don’t you ask Logan?” I whisper. It breaks my heart that they haven’t been getting along. Although, I can hardly blame Logan. If someone turned my body over to a mad scientist, I’d be pretty pissed, too. “Or Liam?”

  “They’re sort of a package deal.” He groans as he mulls it over. “I was just thinking we could double date. If he’s that serious about Giselle, I want to be around the two of them a little more. You’re a good influence on my sister. She needs a girl who can steer her in the right direction.”

  “You literally just melted my heart. Of course, I’d love to double date with them.”

  Ellis flicks off his shoes and sets his sock feet up on the coffee table. Whenever Ellis does something questionably uncouth at the Oliver’s house, I secretly cheer him on. Both Drake and Ethan have done that on numerous occasions at home, and no one ever says boo.

  “Ellis,” Emma sings as she enters the room with her dutiful little elf by her side. It’s really no joke. Every time Kresley hitches her hair behind her ears, I try not to laugh. It’s not that they’re pointy and cute—she wishes. They’re disturbingly huge. Donkey ears is more accurate. So I guess technically that makes her the Christmas ass.

  “Ellis, your feet stink.” Liam kicks them off the table.

  Giselle smacks her uncle’s shoulder. “They don’t stink.”

  “Thank you.” Ellis nods into her with an adorable grin. Despite the fact he’s Ellis, I really do love the way he cares for her.

  Giselle touches her finger to his nose. “They smell like potato chips. Those funny triangle ones.”

  “Doritos.” Ellis affirms. “That’s right. Face five, baby.”

  “All right.” Barron holds up a gift before the lip smacking can commence. “It’s time to pass out the presents!”

  “Yay!” Giselle bounces up and down in her seat, shouting and clapping as if the jolly old elf himself just materialized into the room.

  “Logan why don’t you help?” Barron tosses his brother an additional Santa hat. Logan happily sinks the red cap over his head, and my heart cinches. Logan Oliver puts every other Santa in existence to shame. I lower my lashes, trying to look everywhere but at Logan Claus. And, despite my efforts, I can feel my face heating to crimson. He comes straight over and sets a neatly wrapped package in my lap—candy apple red with a svelte silver bow.

  “This is from me, to the both of you.” Logan offers a warm smile first to me then Gage. Sometimes it feels as if this just gets harder.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  The gifts get evenly dispersed, and Logan and Barron take their seat.

  “How shall we open gifts? Oldest to youngest?” Barron teases, causing Giselle to protest a little too loudly. “Very well. Youngest to oldest—one gift each until we’re done.”

  I lean into Gage. “Is this how you’ve always done it?”

  “Every year.”

  “Nice.” Sort of. Emma has a way of sterilizing the holiday. For some reason Christmas at the Oliver’s seems sanitized of all its fun.

  I glance down at the pile of gifts in front of me and melt when I read the tags. Most read to Gage and Skyla.

  “We’re getting couple gifts!” I whisper.

  His arm warms my waist. “Because we’re a couple.” He dots my ear with a kiss. “A perfect couple.”

  I’d have to agree. Almost.

  Giselle gets straight to business and holds up her tiny blue Tiffany’s bag with a victorious taunt. “I hope it’s a new cell phone case—the one with all the sparkles like Brielle has.” She’s all about Bree these days. Not so sure I like that. Gage gives my side a squeeze as if he’s thinking the very same thing.

  Shockingly, it’s not a sparkly cellphone case. It’s not even one of the gorgeous bangles I saw while shopping with Laken. It’s a pendant.

  “Do you know who Picasso is?” Emma over annunciates while shouting at her daughter. Sometimes I want to shake her and tell her to treat Giselle like any other quasi-adult, or she’ll stagnate in this half-child phase forever. “A relative of his designed that pendant. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  I’m too far away to properly gawk, and it’s only then I note that Giselle has two Tiffany bags in her possession. Barron probably gave her mine by mistake.

/>   “If you open the other one, it has the necklace in it. It’s just a silver chain.” Emma shouts once again in a staccato like manner.

  “Way to spoil the gift,” I whisper to Gage.

  My eye falls over to Kresley who’s fisting one of the little precious bags in her hand. My Tiffany’s bag. Certainly Emma wouldn’t gift her my silver Tiffany’s bracelet, would she?

  Ellis goes and opens a radio. A radio. What the hell is that thing anyway? I almost feel sorry for Emma. But really I should feel sorry for Ellis because it’s becoming obvious she doesn’t care for him either.

  Gage goes next and opens a gorgeous blue silk tie the exact color of his eyes.

  “Thanks, Santa!” Gage waves it at his parents.

  “Isn’t that amazing?” Giselle bops with the enthusiasm of a three-year-old. “Santa knew you would be needing it for your new job at the bank!”

  The room stills a moment.

  “What new job?” I’m not sure why, but the revelation feels like a punch in the gut. “Did you get a new job?”

  “It’s just a few hours on Saturday.” He gives a sinister look to his sister before turning to me. “I was going to tell you. It was a surprise.” His dimples flex. “Surprise.” He dots my lips with a kiss.

  “All right you love birds,” Liam grumps. “Skyla is next.”

  “Open the one from Santa!” Giselle shrieks it out like a threat.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I hold the softly wrapped gift in my hands. It’s a far cry from a Tiffany’s bag. It’s Emma’s signature plaid wrapping paper that I’ve seen her use both in and out of the holidays. She has a roll in the guestroom large enough to wrap the entire house with two times over.

  “What can it be?” I wave it at Giselle before slipping my finger through the paper.

  “I bet it’s not from Tiffany’s,” she shoots back so innocently I almost want to cry.

  I really did want something from Tiffany’s. Hey? Maybe Emma will realize the mix-up and snatch my true gift from Kresley?

  I peel back the wrapping paper rather unceremoniously and reveal a pair of size ten men’s ski socks. They’re soft, and the package has a picture of a smoking hot chili pepper on the front, promising my feet the heat of ten hell fires.

  “Socks.” I wave them at Emma and Barron. “How thoughtful. Thank you.”

  Emma gives a single nod. “Gage is always telling us how cold your feet are.”

  My elbow flexes into his ribs as the attention moves to Logan. Gift after gift is unwrapped, and I get the pleasure of watching Kresley offer to serve pie with my Tiffany’s bracelet on. She hobbles behind Emma as they trot off to the kitchen. No sooner do they leave the room than a series of hair-raising screams ensue. Every single one of us rushes to the scene.

  There, lying on the floor, with his head cocked, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, tongue out, is Charlie. Dead as a doornail.

  “Oh, my God!” I spin into Gage and bury my head in his chest.

  “Do something, Barron!” Emma starts pounding on the poor lab’s chest, and his eyes open wider than they already are.

  Barron pries open Charlie’s mouth, and dear God is he—can he—do mouth to mouth? Instead he does a finger sweep.

  “There’s an obstruction.” He grunts as he struggles to free something from the poor dog’s throat.

  “Come on, buddy.” Logan lays his ear to Charlie’s chest before shaking his head with the grim prognosis. “I’m sorry, Emma. We lost him.”

  Barron excavates a broken piece of a turkey leg. “It looks like he got a hold of a bone.”

  “Shit!” I hiss so low that Liam blesses my imitation of a sneeze.

  Ellis and I exchange dire looks. Emma is a going to make sure we pay for the rest of our lives. We are so going to fry in hell for this.

  “Who would be foolish enough to give him a bone?” Emma shakes her hands to heaven in frustration. Her voice shrills through the house long after she’s through.

  “He probably helped himself.” Ellis is quick to relegate guilt to the poor dead dog.

  Barron shakes his head. “Emma is staunch on making sure all table scraps are hermetically sealed before throwing them out. This isn’t an accident.” He looks up from over his glasses.

  Holy shit. Why do I get the feeling Emma and Barron are going to conduct a full scale CSI investigation?

  “Skyla made me do it.” Ellis points hard with one hand while burying his face in his palm with the other. “I loved you, man.” He drops to his knees and weeps like a baby.

  Dear God. Every person in the room is staring at me blankly. Should I drop to my knees? I swear on all that is holy, no one loved that dog more than me. I’ve even contemplated breaking him out of the Oliver prison a time or two.

  “I…”

  Emma gasps in horror at my barely there admission. Something tells me I don’t need to utter another word. I’ve already been convicted.

  “Do something,” I whisper to Giselle. Truthfully, only she can defuse this volatile and potentially criminal situation. And shouldn’t we all be in mourning?

  “Like what?” She does her very worst impression of a ventriloquist as Emma’s rage continues to fester. God, it looks like she’s going to hang me by the tinsel, only Emma is too uptight to have any around, thankfully for me. For a moment I imagine myself strung from the chandelier with that pricey fresh garland she has imported from the mainland because God knows we don’t have a single evergreen for miles. There’s going to be a Christmas hanging, and I’m going to provide the body.

  “Just change the subject,” I blurt to her in frustration. God, it’s like we’re all in a trance, and every single person here wants me to admit my guilt and get on with it.

  “Guess what?” Giselle gives a contrived clap right over her dead dog’s body. “Skyla is going to take me to the free clinic next week and put me on the damn pill!”

  I close my eyes and moan.

  I knew this evening wouldn’t end well.

  The rest of the night was lost to the tragedy. I offered to take poor Charlie to Ezrina. I even offered to give him my Celestra blood. But both of my ideas were effectively shot down by a single glare from Emma.

  Christmas morning at the Landon house is much more civil and absolutely not one person pretends to love our cookies. In fact, I think Drake said the words you suck. And that is far more heartfelt than any thank you we received at the Olivers—with the exception of Ellis who may have mumbled something about regifting to Dudley. Last night Logan generously gave Gage and me a gift certificate to Admiral Rusty’s, a pricey surf and turf restaurant on the east side of the island, so at least we have that to look forward to.

  “Tad and I have one more present!” Mom wades through the sea of wrapping paper with Misty in tow. I give Gage a knowing look. I came home the night Misty clawed her father’s initials into my chest and told him the whole thing. He said he’d look into it, but he’s just as convinced as I am that it’s true. “It’s for Skyla and Gage, and it just so happens to be upstairs.” Mom’s eyes fill with tears. Most likely from relief that this entire festive ordeal is over with. Unlike the Oliver house, everyone sort of opens their gifts as soon as they can run down the stairs. Mom makes scrambled eggs and bacon, usually accompanied with very strong coffee. This morning it was a hit.

  “Oh, God!” Emily bellows, and I’m stunned because I’ve never seen her so animated before. “Somewhere in all this crap I lost Ember.” She swan dives into the wrapping paper.

  “Whoa.” Gage reaches down and pulls up a cute chubby foot no bigger than an apple. “I think I found her.” Baby Ember coos and giggles before curling around Gage’s leg like a cute little Koala bear.

  “Come here, you.” Emily scoops her up and presses Ember to her chest. Her eyes close, and she actually smiles with relief. Wow, who knew Emily Morgan would be mother of the year?

  “You’re a great mom, Emily.” I try to hitch her hair behind her ear, but that Brillo pad of hers isn’t having any o
f it.

  “Thanks, Messenger.” She bounces her baby over her hip. “You’ll be okay at it yourself.”

  Before I can correct her, Mom and Tad hustle Gage and me upstairs. The smell of Drake’s stale, unaired bedroom, the scent of Melissa’s not-too-subtle perfume reminds me of home, and, sadly, I want nothing more than to be right back here at the Landon house.

  “Now, don’t get any ideas,” Tad barks as he grips the doorknob to my room. “In no way does this mean we need to add another coffin to the nursery.” Tad and Mom have a mini burial ground in their bedroom, or at least they used to. It’s all Brielle’s fault for ditching the traditional cradle for a tiny white casket. From what I hear, the trend has really taken off. She’s forever showing me tons of Pinterest photos of tiny newborns cooing away in their very own death boxes, sans the lid, of course. She and Drake are looking into starting a line of their own alternative nighttime accruements for edgy parents to be. Dr. Oliver has wisely agreed to be their supplier. By the time Drake and Brielle figure out they don’t need a middleman, Dr. O will be swimming in green.

  “Don’t worry. No babies here. That will never happen.” I give Gage’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

  “On three!” Mom sings.

  “One.” Tad swings the door open, and I gasp.

  “What’s this?” I give the room a quick visual sweep. Gone is my twin-sized bed with its cheery pink gingham canopy, and in its place is a much larger bed with a dark cherry wood stain. A warm brown jacquard comforter fluffs out over the top. And is that carpet on the wall?

  I step inside to get the full effect. Gone is the infamous dresser replaced with a fatter, pregnant looking version. My old rickety desk has been exchanged for a side-by-side office suite with cushioned pin boards at the helm.

  “This”—Mom waves her hands around the makeshift showroom—“is what I’m hoping will be your new bedroom.” She gives her lip a nervous nibble. “Your father, along with Tad and myself, pitched in to gift this to you. We sincerely hope you’ll stay as long as you like, and should you move away, you are more than welcome to take the set with you.”