mirror. He fervently vowed never to return.
“About that,” Carson said. “I won’t be there to greet you. You can let yourself in. Door’s unlocked.”
“I can wait outside for you,” Ryan insisted, trying to keep the impatience out of his tone. He wasn’t the kind of person who just barged into someone else’s house.
Carson’s cackle echoed inside the pumpkin orange Micro Machine. “You’ll be waiting a long time, boyo! My sister had an emergency. I’m on my way to help.”
Ryan’s frown deepened.
“Turn left immediately,” the French GPS robot announced briskly.
He slammed on the brakes and barely made the turn onto what was apparently some sort of unplowed, rutted path to nowhere.
“You don’t have a sister,” he reminded Carson. It was a big family, but the mandatory attendance of the Annual Shufflebottom Reunion ensured that all of the generations were reasonably familiar with each other.
Now he was going to have to report to his mother that her third favorite uncle was showing signs of mental decline. Fucking great.
“Did I say sister? I meant second cousin on my mother’s side. She’s like a sister me,” Carson said. “Anyway, that’s why I’m on a plane to Boca.”
Ryan came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the lane. “You’re what?” he asked.
“On a plane.”
“I thought you were the one with the emergency,” Ryan reminded him.
He’d flown across the country and rented the world’s stupidest clown car on zero sleep for nothing. He could have been home in sweatpants, halfway through that expensive bottle of whiskey he’d been saving for the special occasion that had never arrived.
“I do have an emergency,” Carson insisted. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help others. It’s the Blue Moon way. My sister’s emergency—” His uncle’s voice cut off, and Ryan thought he heard someone else murmuring on the other end. “I mean my cousin just broke her… fetlock joint. She’s having surgery.”
Fetlock joint? Ryan was an accountant, not a surgeon. Even so, he was ninety-seven percent certain that the human body was devoid of fetlock joints.
“Okay,” he said, blowing out a breath and counting backward from ten. It wasn’t Carson’s fault he’d gone batshit delusional. “Why did I fly across the country if you’re not even here?”
“Because while I’m helping my cousin, you’ll be helping me,” Carson shouted from the speakers. “I need you to save my farm by Christmas Eve.”
Christmas Eve was four days away.
“That’s not an emergency, Carson,” Ryan said, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering if this was what an aneurysm felt like. “That’s a damn Christmas movie.”
He’d made the mistake of dating Marsha, a TV Christmas movie enthusiast. It had taken a valiant effort to overlook her obscene love of the campy, predictable entertainment. But her pluses should have evened out that annoying quirk. She was a smart, practical, well-dressed actuary with an impressive retirement account.
On paper, they made sense. However, in real life they just didn’t add up. The entire relationship had been a misstep, putting him a full year behind on his plan to add a partner to his life before he made partner at the firm.
They’d broken up three days before last Christmas Eve when he found her planning the perfect outfit for the surprise Christmas morning proposal she was expecting. Apparently Marsha’s practicality only extended to her career and wardrobe, not her love life.
A ridiculous, romantic proposal after only six months of dating was not in his life plan.
Ryan’s Life Plan
1. Make partner at the firm.
2. Buy a bigger condo with solid resale potential.
3. Find a suitable girlfriend to date for 18-24 months before proposing. Maybe an attorney or a financial advisor. No Christmas movie enthusiasts allowed.
“Christmas movie? You always were a joker,” Carson wheezed.
Ryan had never once in his life been accused of being a joker.
“I’m counting on you, kiddo,” his uncle continued. “I’m in a bit of a financial bind.”
With gritted teeth, Ryan eased the car farther down the lane. Low banks of snow piled up on either side made it difficult to see what was beyond the driveway. He despised not knowing where he was going.
“What kind of trouble? Is some evil real estate developer going to take over your farm and build a bunch of environmentally unfriendly condos?” Sarcasm was Ryan’s second language. He’d seen that movie four times. Or maybe it had been four movies with the same plot line. Either way, they’d all starred one of the actresses from Full House.
“Huh. Yeah. That!” his uncle said cheerfully. “Everything you need is in the