Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,132
of Christmas Past!” my cousin Keeley screamed as she joined the fray. “You’re a has-been, and Jonathan doesn’t want spoiled leftovers that have been in the fridge since last Christmas!”
There were leaves in her hair, and she was wearing the same fur-lined dress she had been wearing at the bake-off.
“I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present,” Keeley said, tugging on Jonathan’s arm. “I’m all fun and joy, and I’ll suck your dick.” She knelt down.
Jonathan jumped back with a curse.
“Leave him alone,” Sarah hollered, kicking her sister.
“Screw you!” Keeley screeched. “Mom and Dad always liked you more! You pretended to be a Goody Two-shoes, but you’re over here cheating on your husband.”
“You slept with him first,” Sarah howled back.
“You said you were coming here for closure,” Trevor bellowed. “I knew I should have left you sooner!”
“Well, you can leave me now, because I’m getting an annulment,” Sarah hissed.
“You’ve been married for eight months,” Keeley complained. “The priest won’t allow it.”
“He will because they haven’t had sex.”
“Stop telling everyone my private business,” Sarah snapped at me.
“It is my business now if you’re over here trying to manipulate my boyfriend,” I shot back.
“Wait, I’m your boyfriend again?” Jonathan asked hopefully.
“You clearly need me. Your cat is out here in a red Santa outfit with a fur-lined hood and a diamond belt buckle, while you don’t even have on a coat,” I told him flatly. “You’re a mess.”
“But I didn’t get to make my grand gesture,” he said.
“It’s shocking and shameful,” I said above all the noise, “how much more appealing a man seems when other women are fighting over him. There’s some sort of economic theory.” I made a disgusted sound but then shrugged. “But yeah, I guess we’re back together. So sue me; I like to win. And I’m petty.”
“It’s the scarcity theory,” Jonathan’s sister said, appearing out of the snow in a sleeveless black dress and flats.
I shivered just looking at her. Next to her was Dorothy in her multicolored patchwork-quilt coat.
“It makes low-value items seem like high-value items when there is high demand.”
“I’m not a low-value item,” Jonathan protested.
Yet another high-end sports car pulled up alongside the SUV, which had started to belch black smoke.
The door swung up like one on the Batmobile, and a blond Svensson jumped out, clearly pleased with himself.
“See, Greg!” he said, gesturing grandly.
Greg Svensson unfolded himself from the car, looked around at the bedlam, and cursed. “Wilder, what the hell is wrong with you? I can’t believe you wasted my time.”
“No,” Wilder said happily, “I ruined the spin-off Belle was planning. I banged Keeley last night, and now it’s all over the news. We sullied the sanctity of The Great Christmas Bake-Off.”
Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.
“That was you who slept with my cousin?” I asked. “You better check him for STDs.”
“I plan to,” Greg said.
“But it was a great revenge plan,” Wilder insisted. “This was my Christmas present to you, Greg, to cheer you up after Belle stole another development from you.”
“You own Hamilton Yards now?” I asked her, flabbergasted.
Dorothy beamed. “Girl power! Belle’s got vision, and she’s not a Scammy McScammerson.”
“I need a drink,” Greg muttered.
“I have whiskey in my purse,” Dorothy offered, pulling a mostly empty bottle from the humongous bag. “You can have it.”
Wilder jogged over to take it from her. He opened it and sniffed it. “Is this yours, Jonathan?”
“Nicely done!” Wilder flashed Jonathan a thumbs-up.
Greg grabbed the bottle from him, annoyed.
“No hard feelings?” Belle purred to Greg. “It wasn’t personal. Just business.”
He shook his head slowly. “And on Christmas, Belle? Have you no shame?”
“You’re still invited to the Christmas party,” she said, grinning.
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Is Jonathan cooking?”
Another silver sports car pulled up; this one was almost dead silent.
The window was down, and Owen Frost peered out at us. “Of course he’s not cooking. In fact, I bet he only serves alcohol and potato chips.”
“I’m ordering Waffle House,” Jonathan said defensively. “They’re open on Christmas Eve. They have hash browns and gravy. Speaking of, I’m not sure if they deliver, so I need to borrow your truck, Owen.”
“No. Buy your own damn car. I don’t need another car ruined this holiday season.”
“Why do all of you have such nice cars?” I demanded.
“It’s like all the reindeer showed up—you know, like in those cheesy Christmas car commercials,” Jonathan said, nudging me.
“I’m here because my car was reported stolen,” Owen interjected. “I was going to call the police, but imagine