Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

Richard never had any interest in meeting my sister or the people I call family back home. That is, not until I told him my sister was marrying the outdoor entertainment tycoon Hunter Hutchins. Then he magically had an interest in my family and who I could link him with.

When Hunter and Hannah came to the city, we made plans for an entire day of fun—I remember it was the first time since I had settled in Long Island where I invited Hannah to hang with me in the city, and I couldn’t wait to spend the day with her and her fiancé.

I’d planned a day of sightseeing, chaos, and lots of good junk food—I remember telling Richard this the night before, giving him the itinerary, and he said something along the lines of, “This is Hunter Hutchins, Abbie, not some tourist from your hometown. We should do something big, impress him.”

That should have been the seventeen-hundredth red flag. I actually remember for a split second thinking maybe I was wrong—that he wasn’t the one, that we were just too different.

But that split second didn’t last longer than a breath.

What a shame.

That day, we ran around the city, my sister and I giggling and laughing and enjoying life the way we do when we’re together, and I watched from afar as Richard tried to schmooze Hunter.

It didn’t work.

The thing is, there is not a single thing on this planet that Hunter loves more than my sister. It’s been that way since they met, no matter how rocky their beginning was. That man would sell his company and move to a tiny cabin in the woods if he thought it would make Hannah happy.

What he won’t do is let some arrogant asshole try to downplay the happiness and fun we were having, which is exactly what Richard had tried to do.

By 2 pm, Richard had realized Hunter was not his biggest fan, and after that, he lost any and all interest in what ties my family might be able to give him.

And he never ever went to Springbrook Hills with me for a holiday, always leaving for his family’s house in Aspen or the Hamptons and sending me a measly “Merry Christmas” text on the 25th.

God, how had I been so fucking stupid?

“Okay, so we’re heading there tomorrow?” Damien asks over the phone on Tuesday night, breaking me out of memories that hold a bitter taste.

He’s coming home with me to Springbrook Hills.

To meet my family.

The mix of panic and excitement every time I think about that is . . . confusing, at best. Exciting because Damien is good. And my family is great. And no one should be alone for Thanksgiving.

Except, maybe Richard.

I might find a fraction of joy in the idea of him being alone for Thanksgiving. He definitely deserves to be alone on each and every holiday.

But I’m also drenched in panic because this is supposed to be about getting revenge on Richard. The final nail in the proverbial coffin that is my path to closure. This relationship is supposed to be easy, nothing serious. Damien said that from the get-go. He was clear with that single expectation.

And now he’s coming home with me.

And everything between us is feeling less and less simple and easygoing with each day.

Fuck.

“Yup! We can meet at Grand Central at four if that works for you. I get out at two, and should be able to get there—”

“What?” he asks, cutting me off. I pause, confused.

“I’m sorry, I thought I told you. I have work tomorrow morning, so I’m not headed home until the afternoon. I have to set up for Black Friday. Retail and all.” I’m working early tomorrow, mostly in the stockroom, setting up Black Friday displays that will be wheeled out by the afternoon crew right after close, so on Friday, when we get there at an ungodly hour, everything is ready for the chaos.

“I’m not meeting you at the train station,” he states firmly.

I am so stupid.

Of course. A high-powered man like Damien wouldn’t take a train, much less on someone else’s schedule. I should have thought of that.

“Oh. I can give you the address if you want. You can even come over Thursday morning if you have something to do—”

“I’ll drive.”

“Okay, cool,” I say, a small rock tumbling in my belly. I’m not sure why this bothers me or, even more, why it surprises me. The first and only time I took Richard home, he did the same. I took the train, and he drove over the next day for Rosie’s birthday party, stayed for a few hours, and headed out on his own time.

The reality is when you’re dating busy, high-profile men, you should be happy when they take any portion of their time out to be with you. It’s something I had taught myself to understand, and the few times I had conversations with the wives of Richard’s equally important and wealthy friends, they echoed the sentiment.

When time is money, any spent on you should be an honor.

Except . . . that’s not how it is with Hunter.

Hunter has never once treated Hannah like she comes second to anything.

But I guess they’re the outlier.

Regardless, I’m happy that this is a phone conversation and not face-to-face. This man can read my body language in a way no one ever has been able to.

I guess that’s why he’s a successful lawyer.

Richard couldn’t read my face to save his life, if that doesn’t tell you about his skills as a lawyer.

“What time should I pick you up?”

“What?”

“From your place. You get out at two? Should I be at your place by three, or do you need extra time?” Now he’s lost me.

“I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

“I’m driving.”

“Yes . . . ,” I say, my words slow.

“I’ll pick you up.”

“What?”

“I’m driving you to your sister’s after you get out of work.” My world spins on its axis for a single moment as his words circle my brain like stars around a cartoon character who just had a brick dropped on their head. “When should I pick you up?” I’m still silent on the other end, still confused. “Abigail?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, my voice low.

“Do what?”

“Pick me up. Drive me. I can take the train.”

“We’re going to the same place, rubia.”

“Or, you know, we can both take the train,” I suggest.

“Why would I do that?”

“So you can . . . work? Get work done?”

“I’m not going to be working on the way there.”

This is a shock.

“I’m not working on a holiday, Abigail,” he says, his voice low, like he’s reassuring a child.

I can’t remember a time when Richard wasn’t telling me he didn’t have time for something because of work. How many nights did we spend together, me watching The Bachelorette or some other silly show alone while he worked in another room?

Richard ignoring me while I told him a story because he was staring at his phone, answering work emails.

Or maybe just ignoring me.

“You don’t . . . have work to do?”

“I’m a lawyer. I always have work to do. But I’m still driving.”

“But . . .”

“Rubia, we’re going away for a holiday. I’m not working on Thanksgiving. I don’t work on holidays.” There’s a pause, and then he corrects himself. “And I sure as hell don’t work when I’m with you.”

“Oh.” I don’t know how to respond, but Damien stays quiet like he’s waiting for me to answer, to say more. To explain, maybe.

Silence. I don’t speak.

I don’t know what to say.

“Is this more shit with your ex?” he asks.

More silence, not wanting to confirm his assumption.

“Fuck, this guy was a piece of work, wasn’t he?”

“He was a busy man.”

“Busy man or not, you drive your woman places. You don’t meet her there.”

I don’t touch on the your woman part because I don’t think I would want to know the answer to that question I have.

If I’m his woman, deceiving him is wrong.

If we’re fun and simple and just spending time together, deceiving him is fine.

That’s the line I’ve drawn in my mind.

My eyes meet the jar sitting on my counter with all the shitty things Richard did and said, the moments in time I’m using to keep myself strong.

Maybe I should pack it and bring it to Hannah’s, just in case.

“You good, babe?” he asks, and the words are too casual, so simple, so normal they take me off guard.

I forget that we’re easy.

I forget that we’re not serious.

I forget that I’m not serious.

“Yeah, honey,” I say. “Means a lot, you driving me, is all.”

“You’re starting to mean a lot to me, Abigail,” he says, and because I’ve shelved the smart part of me temporarily, I just smile to myself.

“Yeah, Damien.”