How My Brother's Best Friend Stole Christmas - Molly O'Keefe Page 0,58

made everything better.

Even cheese, which I honestly didn’t think could be better.

The moon was swollen and low in the endless indigo sky and the air smelled like the grills behind the long screened-in porch—hickory smoke and twilight. The stables in the distance looked like a mansion, with turrets and bright, sparkling windows. All the horses, the stable cats, and Sally the collie lived pretty damn well here on The King’s Land.

I pulled open the wide door and the cats came out to greet me. Sally, in the corner, lifted her head, thumped her tail once, and then sighed, tucking her nose under her leg. I heard the party in the far stall and rolled my eyes.

“Bea!” I shouted and there was a sudden silence from the back. The sound of guilt.

“Guys,” my sister said. “Relax. She’s not, like, my mom.”

“I’m the closest thing you’ve got.” I turned the corner and found my sister in her dark blue Versace gown with the hem pulled up around her knees, sitting on top of a bale of hay, the chalkboard from the office behind her.

A bottle of bourbon was tucked between her thighs.

Of course. Of-fucking-course.

The stall next door was full of a mare in the first stages of giving birth. Oscar, Tony, and a bunch of the other guys were milling between the two stalls.

My sister looked like me but scaled to a different size. She was small. Short and slight. Her eyes—and her attitude—were the biggest things about her.

Bea was eighty percent attitude, ten percent eyes, and the rest of her was fun.

The combination was catnip for a certain kind of man.

The dress she wore made her catnip to the rest of them.

“Bea.” I propped my hand against the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Well, Cosmic is having a baby.” Bea pointed over the stall. “And I’m just taking a few bets.”

This shouldn’t be a surprise. Drinking bourbon during my engagement party and playing bookie was completely par for Bea’s course.

“Has the party started?” she asked and took a swig of bourbon. The hay was stuck all over her dress and her super-expensive shoes with the red soles had been kicked into the corner.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Oops.” Bea winced and hopped off the hay bale. Once we were face-to-face she only came up to my shoulders, but she hugged me, smiling at me all the while.

“You look hot, sis,” she said.

“Thanks, Bea.” It was impossible to stay mad at her. My sister sparkled like midnight. Like the fun and possibility of a night, just as it was getting interesting.

She turned to Oscar and Tony. “No playing with the board. If that baby is a boy and born before midnight you owe me a shit ton of money.”

The guys laughed and she handed Tony her bottle of bourbon so she could put on her shoes and stand another three inches taller.

“Let’s go celebrate.” She smelled like hay and horse, bourbon and perfume. Eau de Bea. “Pretty necklace,” she said, smiling at me.

“You think?” I put my palm over it.

“You think, and that’s all that matters.” Bea pulled us to a stop just outside the back door. “You deserve this.”

“A big awful party?”

“A big beautiful man. A big beautiful love.”

My chest felt too small to hold my heart. “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

My sister—dangerous, impetuous, and reckless, but also wise—cupped my face in her hands. “Better than all right,” she said. “It’s going to be perfect.”

We walked back into the kitchen and down the hallway to the sounds of the party. We turned a corner and nearly ran into Jennifer.

“There you are.” Jennifer’s smile barely made a dent in her face. “Veronica, your father would like to see you in his study.”

“How about me?” Bea asked, sarcastic and smiling. “What should I do?”

“Clean yourself up and try not to embarrass your father.”

Bea wrinkled her nose. “Boring. I’ll go with Ronnie.”

We plucked the last two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray and turned left down the hallway, away from the party, to my father’s study. The door was on the other end of the hallway, and Bea and I were sipping our drinks and whispering about Jennifer’s Botox addiction, but still we were able to hear Clayton’s voice.

“That was the deal, Hank,” he said.

He sounded mad and I picked up my pace. Clayton rarely got angry, but when he did, it took him a while to cool off and I didn’t want him angry tonight. I wanted him smiling. His hand on the