Then how, pray tell, is she still selling 50-100 copies a day??? I add a lady shrugging emoji.
Magnus: Sales beget sales, Miss Bristol. Marketing 101. Let your dear old mom be a lesson.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe.
But I’m still not sold on her freaky hot Marine-prize pig-serial killer clown thing screaming success.
Sabrina: Yeah, okay. Funny how I always bought her books, and that never got her sustained sales.
Magnus: You never put her on a list. Visibility is king with these online retailers. Books are the same as every other product. Research the algorithms yourself and leave me to enjoy my scotch.
Sabrina: Your poor liver, snarlypants. I add a smiley face with its tongue hanging out.
Magnus: Don’t worry about my liver. You’re just my EA, remember?
I don’t point out that only one of us got a choice in that.
Dear God.
No one infuriates me like this walking trope of a man.
In the morning, Mom piles the table high with all my favorites: cinnamon apple pancakes, sizzling bacon, and homemade hot chocolate.
My favorite part of being home might be the company, but the food’s a close second, and so is the nostalgia.
She used to do this every day of Christmas break when I was a kid. And just like then, Dad sits next to me, the newspaper open with a heaping gas station cup of black coffee at his side.
I keep the comments about caffeine and his heart to myself, filling my belly up and planning on being rolled out of here when my phone goes off.
Heron flashes across my screen.
Mom clears her throat. She hates me having my phone at the table.
“It’s my boss,” I whisper, smiling sheepishly.
“He bothers you over the holidays too?” Dad grumbles, looking up from the news. “Jackass.”
“Nolan, no.” Mom’s voice is warm and excited. “He’s not bothering her. He’s just keeping in touch.”
I haven’t even gotten the message open yet. I glance at Mom over my phone.
What the hell does she mean?
“Honey, you call me at least three times a week and mention him by name every time. I know he’s not just your boss.” She takes a bite of her pancake. “You can be honest with us.”
“He’s what?” I echo back, distracted by a photo in my messenger. It’s Mag’s hand, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and it fills my screen.
Magnus: It’s no Heron blend, but it’s good.
I smile helplessly.
“Seeee?” Mom whispers.
Dad chuckles, hiding behind his paper.
I groan. I’ll set them straight in a minute. But for now...
Better than your scotch? I type back, breaking into a blush.
Magnus: No. But it’ll do since it’s the wrong time of day for scotch. Thank you, and Merry Christmas again.
I giggle, my heart doing this wibbly swing.
I power the phone off and look at Mom. “He’s my boss. Nothing more. I promise.”
“Sweetheart, you smiled bigger than I do over my books when you saw his text.”
I sigh. “Mom, you live for love stories. This isn’t a romance. I work for this guy and he’s kind of a demanding ass...I just need to keep my job. Staying on good terms is part of it. Besides, he’s a shameless workaholic. He isn’t interested in anything else.”
“Oh?” Mom asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Oh, what?”
She shrugs and purses her lips. “How do you know he’s not interested in anything else unless you’ve talked about it?”
Oh my God. That red sunburst on my cheeks burns hotter.
I shake my head. “Drop it, Mom. Please?”
Her forehead creases. “I’m sorry.”
Thankfully, she goes back to her pancakes, and I’m left alone with my thoughts of the sexiest and most insufferable billionaire mogul in the universe.
Christmas morning comes and we all gather around my parents’ tree.
Dad hands me a heavy box to unwrap.
I tear the paper off and lift the lid.
“Wow, nice!” I pull out a leather briefcase. “Thank you so much, guys. I love the retro look.”
“It’s even got a built-in pocket for your laptop or your art,” Dad tells me with a smile. “Looks like you’re ready for Wall Street.”
“There’s one more this year.” Mom hands me a gift the size of a shoebox.
When I open it, I scream.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. How did you afford these?” I take out one of the red-soled shoes and stare. Even Paige doesn’t own a pair like this.
“The books have been selling so well,” Mom says quietly. “We couldn’t help you as much as we wanted to in college, so—”
“And I hate that you have all those goddamn loans,” Dad adds.
“But we’re so proud of you, Brina. You landed this