Booked for Christmas Read online

  “I didn’t know it was your party. The invitation said Sophia Bartholomew-Kaur-Hughes.”

  “Yeah. That’s my legal name, Wolfe.”

  “Why don’t you use that on your books?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Try fitting Bartholomew-Kaur-Hughes on a book spine.”

  He appeared to process this information. “Right. Well, I didn’t know.” Looking behind him, he considered the car he’d driven up in—a beaten-up, rugged Jeep. “You know what? I’ll just drive back home, I think.” Turning back, he thrust the present at her. “I guess … this is for you, then.”

  Sophie studied the box with all the trust of an airport dog sniffing an abandoned suitcase. Not taking it from him, she asked, “What is it?”

  “Your latest novel, shredded into tiny pieces.” When she gasped, he held up a hand and rolled his eyes. “I’m kidding. It’s a hostess present. I brought a box of Belgian chocolates from Sweet Cute because I didn’t know what you might like.”

  She hesitated. Chocolates from Sweet Cute, a boutique chocolatier in Portland, were her weakness. A swell of laughter rose behind her and Sophie half turned. Her friends were in there, together, happy, enjoying themselves. And Wolfe was out here, alone, in the cold. “Wait. Where’s Will, if you’re his plus-one?”

  “Sick—food poisoning. He asked me to bring you his apologies.” Wolfe shrugged. “Obviously he didn’t know what a mistake that would be. Here.” He held the box out again. His hands and nose were red from the bitter cold, his hair glittering from where snowflakes had melted into it.

  “Why don’t you come in for a minute?” Sophie heard herself say, in spite of her instincts screaming at her to take the chocolates and run. But it was kind of mean to make him drive all the way back to spend the night alone, wasn’t it? This close to Christmas? “Get warmed up, get some food, and then you can drive back.”

  He studied her, his hazel eyes reflecting the lights around the cabin front. “Look, I don’t want to ruin your party.”

  As if on cue, two cars pulled up into the drive. Sophie gestured with her chin as she took the box. “There’ll be enough people here that we won’t have to speak to each other too much, Wolfe. Come on. It’s free food and free booze.”

  After the slightest hesitation, he nodded. “Thanks. That’s … sweet of you.”

  Sophie shot him a brilliant smile as she stepped aside to let him in. “I’m very sweet. Some might even call me … what was the exact line? … Oh, yes. ‘Tooth-achingly saccharine.’”

  He had the good grace to flush the tiniest bit.

  Once she’d greeted the rest of her newly arrived guests, who were now walking up the drive—Ivy, a literary agent, and her wife Quinn, a chef; and Damien, who ran Portland’s biggest book club—Sophie ushered them all inside the cabin, closed the front door, and took a deep breath.

  The cabin smelled faintly of pine, thanks to her little Christmas tree, but mostly of delicious food. Sophie’s stomach growled as she walked to the bedroom with her armful of presents. Ivy, Quinn, and Damien had all drifted to the kitchen to join her other friends. She could hear them in there now, laughing at Marco’s story about a bulldog with reindeer antlers on its head. All of them, that is, except for Wolfe.

  She came back out into the living room to find him frowning at her tree like he’d found a dripping deer carcass hanging on her wall. Sophie propped her fists on her hips and cleared her throat. He turned to her with his eyebrows raised, as if he were surprised to find her there.

  He’d taken off his peacoat and scarf and was dressed in a fitted forest-green sweater that hugged the planes of his torso, showcasing a broad chest and back that suggested he lumbered around chopping trees down in his spare time. Huh. Who’d have thought the Lone Wolfe could be so … well, the word she’d use if she was feeling generous was “hot.” But Sophie wasn’t feeling generous. So hot-ish it was. Evan Wolfe was hot-ish.

  To dispel that disturbing thought, she spoke. “Why are you staring at my tree like that? You’ll scare him.”

  His eyebrows went even higher. “Him?”

  “Yes. His name’s Bert and he’s a nervous type.” Walking over to Bert, Sophie adjusted his scraggly branches and moved around an ornament or two to highlight his best features. “Don’t judge.”

  “I wasn’t judging,” Wolfe said judgily from behind her. “You named your tree Bert and it’s wearing a scarf. You think it’s nervous. You’re puttering around it like an overprotective mother. This is all totally normal.”

  Sophie turned and looked up at him, unable to keep the irritation off her face. “You need a little bit of imagination.”

  Wolfe looked unimpressed. “And I think you need way less.”

  They stood close together in silence for a long moment, Sophie calculating how much tinsel it might take to strangle a full-grown man. Wolfe, of course, continued to gaze infuriatingly impassively at her as if nothing could unsettle him.

  But then, the next moment, something shifted. He blinked and his eyes roved her face—over her eyes, her cheeks, her lips—his eyebrows lifting just slightly, as if something had surprised him. “You look … different than your author photo.”

  The way he was looking at her—something fluttered low in Sophie’s stomach. Ridiculous, considering he was making fun of her. “Thanks a lot. I was five years younger then,” she snapped.

  Wolfe opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Peyton, who had poked her head into the living room. “Hey, Soph? We were wondering where the—Oh.” She stopped short and took in Wolfe and Sophie, the way they were standing close together. Immediately, a gleaming smile sprouted on her face. “Hi,” she said, walking forward, her hand outstretched. Sophie widened her eyes and stepped away from Wolfe, trying to send Peyton a telepathic message that this wasn’t a candidate to break Sophie’s dry spell, but Peyton was oblivious. “I’m Peyton, Sophie’s bestie.”

  He took her hand. “Evan Wolfe, but call me Wolfe.”

  Sophie saw the name processing through Peyton’s brain; saw the instant it clicked for her. Her hand dropped from his like a stone and she took a step back, the smile nowhere in sight anymore. “The guy with the newspaper column?”

  “Book critic,” Wolfe said without flinching.

  “Oh yeah, I know,” Peyton said, her voice saturated with her ire. She shot a look at Sophie. “Why is he here?”

  “He was Will’s plus-one,” Sophie explained with a sigh. “Will’s sick, so I said he could stay for a bit.”

  Peyton’s mouth quirked in distaste. “You’re way too nice, Soph.”

  Wolfe gave them what he undoubtedly thought was a dashing smile. “Well, well, well. It looks like my reputation precedes me. And here I thought I wouldn’t have anything to talk about tonight.” And then he nodded at the two of them and disappeared into the kitchen area.

  Peyton turned to Sophie. “What the hell? Why didn’t you just turn him away?”

  Sophie pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know. He was here, and it was cold out there, and he brought chocolates from Sweet Cute. The thought of sending him back made me feel bad.”

  Peyton groaned and slung an arm around Sophie. “Your nice streak is incorrigible. But let’s go back there and mingle, shall we?”

  Sophie sighed. “We shall.”

  3

  After a quick sidebar with Sophie, Peyton, Marco, and Jonah rejoined the group. Sophie kept an eye on them even as she talked with Ivy about her and Quinn’s latest vacation to Bora Bora. She’d told her friends who the dark-haired stranger was and had given them explicit instructions to not say anything inappropriate (Jonah), throw him out on his ass (Marco), or poison his drink with nightshade (Peyton).

  Meanwhile, Sophie noticed, Quinn and Wolfe seemed to be deep into a conversation by the entryway about kitchen herb gardens. Good. Quinn was easy to get along with, even for someone like Wolfe.

  As if he could hear her thoughts, Wolfe looked at her. Then, very deliberately, he pick
ed up a book cover cookie from his plate, held it just so to make sure Sophie saw it, and devoured it whole. It was clearly a message for her, given the cheeky half smile on his face. Glaring at him for a long moment, Sophie pointedly looked away, her nose in the air. She hoped her message was clear, too: I refuse to be brought down to your level at my Christmas party.

  “Ivy, honey?” Quinn called, her full cheeks pink in the warmth of the cabin. “What’s that herb I can never remember the name of but that I love? The one you say makes my breath smell like pot but that definitely does not have that effect?”

  Ivy grinned at Sophie. “Excuse me. This is going to take a while.”

  Sophie laughed and threw out her arm, gesturing for Ivy to go to her wife’s aid. Then, she wandered over to where Marco and Jonah were talking seriously, heads bent together. “Hello, friends. You look rather nefarious. What are you plotting?”

  They both looked up at her, eyes wide in identical expressions of faux-innocence. “Whatever do you mean?” Jonah said. “We were just talking about … property prices.”

  Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Property prices. You guys both rent.”

  “But we might buy someday!” Marco, all indignant, clutched his glass of sangria. “You don’t know!”

  Sipping her own drink, Sophie regarded him seriously. “You’re talking about Wolfe, aren’t you?” She made sure to say his name quietly, so as to not attract any unwanted attention. He seemed to still be deep in conversation with Ivy and Quinn, but you never knew.

  Jonah sighed dramatically. “Why do we even bother?” he asked Marco. “She’s onto us.”

  “It’s that feminine intuition.” Marco nodded sagely at him before turning to Sophie. “Do you want me to quietly, you know…” He cocked his head and waggled his eyebrows.

  “I have no idea what that means,” Sophie replied, “but no. I don’t want you to do anything. Just leave him be. Once he’s warmed up a bit and had some food, I’m sure he’ll want to leave anyway.” She glanced at Wolfe over her shoulder. He was tall, over six feet, and he loomed over both Ivy and Quinn, who were tall women themselves.

  “Uh oh! What do we have here?” Peyton called, over from the slow-cooker where she’d been loading up on grape jelly meatballs (which sounded gross, but were a much-loved family recipe passed down from Sophie’s grandma). She was looking over at Ivy and Quinn, a wide grin on her face. Her cheeks were rosy, and Sophie guessed she’d had more than one glass of whatever she was drinking. Peyton got silly fast. “I spy two ladies under the mistletoe!”

  Ivy and Quinn both tipped their heads back, spotted the mistletoe hanging from the archway, and laughed. “I think she’s right.” Quinn wrapped her arms around Ivy’s slender waist as Wolfe, smiling, stepped aside. “I guess you have to kiss me now.”

  Ivy’s eyes shone with so much love and tenderness, Sophie felt a pang in her heart. “You mean I get to.” She pressed her lips to her wife’s. Quinn immediately pulled her closer, deepening the kiss.

  The party broke out in spontaneous applause, everyone hooting and hollering. Peyton wolf-whistled. Sophie joined along in the cheering, even though a voice inside her asked quietly when it would be her turn. When would she find love like that? And what was wrong with her that it hadn’t happened for her yet—not even once?

  Sophie sighed. Maybe it was best not to open that can of worms.

  “You guys do the mistletoe thing?” Wolfe had joined her small group of Marco and Jonah.

  “We do,” Sophie allowed. “Don’t you?”

  He shrugged, his shoulders moving easily in his just-form-fitting-enough sweater. “Not really. Mistletoe is just decoration.”

  Jonah scoffed loudly from Sophie’s other side, and both she and Wolfe turned to look at him. “Typical,” Jonah said, while pretending to sip his port as cover.

  “Excuse me?” Wolfe frowned slightly. “What’s typical?”

  “Hmm?” Jonah gave him an overly innocent look and pretended he couldn’t see Sophie mouthing “Stop” at him.

  “Read any good books lately?” Marco asked, glowering at Wolfe. Marco was an inch shorter, but he made up for it with presence. “Because I really enjoyed Dashing through the Snow by Sophia Hart. I gave it five stars. I’d give it six if I could.”

  Oh, God. Sophie wanted to melt through the floor as Wolfe turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised like, Really? You’re siccing your friends on me? But in the next moment, she straightened her shoulders and shook out her brown hair. Why should she feel embarrassed? Her friends were supportive. This was her party. Wolfe was on her territory, so if he didn’t like her friends sticking up for her, he could leave anytime.

  He studied her changing expressions with a hint of amusement. Looking back at her friends, he said, “So I suppose you all know what I do, then.”

  Jonah leaned in toward him. At five foot seven, he was considerably shorter than Wolfe, but that didn’t seem to bother him. “Yeah. You drink tea made of authors’ tears. I hope that makes you feel like a big man.”

  Wolfe frowned, looking from Jonah to Sophie, searching her face for something. “I’m honest and I have a little bit of fun with my work, sure. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

  Sophie laughed mirthlessly, the words she’d stuffed inside for so long shooting out of her. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with shitting all over someone else’s hard work? With being sarcastic and mean about something they poured their heart and soul into?” Sophie took a breath, on a roll now. “And you know what? Everyone knows at least a half dozen writers they like. Name me one book critic.”

  Wolfe rubbed his jaw. “Okay. Maria Bustillos, Daniel Mendelsohn, James Wood—”

  Sophie’s cheeks burned. He was probably just making those up. “Stop that.”

  He smirked. “Oh, right. I forgot evidence of any kind isn’t really your thing.” Before she could think of a retort, he raised an eyebrow. “Besides, you’re a writer. Isn’t being open to criticism part of the deal?”

  Sophie set her sangria down and thrust a hand through her hair. She was ruining her careful hot-iron curls, but in the moment, she didn’t care. “Of course it is! But what you do isn’t thoughtful criticism! It’s spiteful and derogatory just for the sake of getting a readership.”

  Wolfe stared at her. “That’s … quite an accusation.”

  “Well, she’s right,” Jonah piped up, stepping closer to Sophie. Marco followed suit. “Your column is basically a libelous, awful, soul-sucking vortex of doom.”

  Wolfe raised his hands. “Wow. Sorry you feel that way. But I can assure you, a lot of people really enjoy what I write.”

  “Same,” Sophie said, narrowing her eyes. “Except I spread happiness with my words.”

  “Sophie!” Damien walked up, a big grin on his face. He was closely followed by Peyton, who looked similarly dopey. Completely oblivious to the tense energy of Sophie’s little group, Damien continued, “Peyton’s been telling me about your superior tarot reading skills. Can you do a reading for all of us? Please?”

  Peyton pressed her hands together and sort of danced from foot to foot. Sophie muffled a laugh, her irritation at Wolfe melting away at the look on her best friend’s face. Peyton was drunk, and drunk Peyton always seemed to regress age-wise a decade or so.

  “Sure. Let me get my deck.” Sophie gave Wolfe the coldest look she could manage. “Excuse me.”

  * * *

  In her small bedroom, Sophie pressed her hands against the top of her dresser and took a deep breath, trying to collect herself. She’d been determined to be a good hostess to Wolfe while he was here, but man, that was getting more and more difficult by the minute. A quick look at the clock told her it had been less than forty-five minutes since he’d walked in the door, and already, they’d butted heads at least twice. Why was he still here? Surely he didn’t want to be near her any more than she did him.

  Sophie looked at herself in the mirror. The corners of her eyes were tight with
stress, and her jaw was clenched. She took another deep breath, working to unclench her jaw and relax her shoulders. This was her party, dammit. She wasn’t going to let Wolfe ruin it for her. With a determined nod, she reached into the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out her favorite tarot deck, The Artist’s Seer. Then, sliding the drawer shut, she straightened her shoulders and walked back out to join her guests.

  4

  Peyton had corralled everyone into the tiny living room. They sat huddled together on the couches and armchairs, holding their drinks and little plates of food, talking and laughing amongst themselves. As soon as Sophie walked into the room, though, seven heads turned to look at her, their eyes wide and shiny.

  She laughed. “You guys ready for some magic?”

  There were cheers all around, though Wolfe—who was sitting in her favorite teal velvet armchair by the brick fireplace, one big hand cupped loosely around his glass of rum—remained stoic. Sophie put her hands on her hips, one closed fist still clutching the tarot deck. “I’m surprised you’re game for this.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m an open-minded guy. Let’s see what you got.”

  “Really?” Sophie tilted her head. “It’s not too ‘imaginative’ for you?” Ugh. Too petty. Too Wolfe-ish. Some of the other guests, innocent of the long-standing feud between Sophie and Wolfe, looked quizzical but didn’t say anything.

  He grinned as if he enjoyed watching her act childish, but remained quiet.

  Shrugging, Sophie walked to the middle of the room to the coffee table and sat cross-legged before it. Taking a deep breath, she placed the tarot deck on the table, and placed a hand over them, her shimmery red manicure catching the light. Looking around at everyone in the flickering firelight and the glow of the twinkling lights wrapped around Bert, she said, in a calm voice, “I want you all to reflect on what you’d like answers about. For those who are new to tarot, it’s important to remember that tarot isn’t meant to predict the future but rather just provide guidance on possible paths forward. The interpretation of the card will be up to you. Try to think of open-ended queries rather than yes or no questions. If you’re ready, go ahead and focus your question in your mind’s eye now and take a few deep breaths.”