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  “And the only woman I want to get serious about right now,” he murmured, “is you.”

  He straightened and walked out.

  Julia watched him go, her knees weakening.

  What if she set all her feelings for him free? What would happen to them?

  She pushed the question aside, not daring to go to a place she’d tried not to imagine over the years. Rebecca had been the only wife Warren would ever have, the paragon against which he measured all other women. Julia never wanted to step into that role—first because it had belonged to her sister, and second because she didn’t want to come up short in comparison.

  And most of all because she was scared to death at the thought of losing what she and Warren had spent thirteen years building.

  Chapter

  NINE

  “ZYXWVUTSRQPON­MLKJIHGFEDCBA.”

  Hah. Take that, Rubik’s Cube.

  Julia strode to her office desk, grabbed a blue pen, and put a checkmark beside #27: Learn to say the alphabet backwards.

  Of course, this was an utterly useless skill—if one could even call it a skill—but she couldn’t deny there was a strong satisfaction in checking even one more item off her Before Fifty list. And finding another way to keep constant thoughts of Warren at bay.

  She started to fold the list when her gaze caught #43: Memorize all the verses of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.”

  Had that once been her favorite Christmas carol?

  Had she once had a favorite Christmas carol?

  She turned to her computer and typed the song title into a web browser. After playing a few vocal recordings, she found an acoustic version with a video play of the lyrics.

  Well, this was silly. She hadn’t sung in years. She used to enjoy singing, way back when she was with Sam. He’d play the guitar and she would sing old classics—“The Sound of Silence,” “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Hallelujah.”

  The strains of his guitar drifting on the smoky air from the campfire, the press of his thigh against hers. Lying together in the back of his van, fingers entwined, feet dangling through the open door as they looked at the stars.

  The pain of his abandonment had exceeded the bliss of those moments, but she was still grateful for having known, deep in her heart, what it felt like to be happy and in love. Even if it had been thirty years ago.

  She studied the Christmas lyrics again and restarted the music.

  “It came…” She cleared her throat. Started, stopped, started again. “It came upon a midnight clear, that glorious song of old.”

  Her voice was rusty, her pitch off, but something lit inside her, the same glow she’d felt when she’d listened to the Jingle Belles and their perfect harmony. Like her heart was lifting.

  “From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold…”

  And what poetic lyrics—peaceful wings unfurled, cloven skies, ever-circling years…

  “To hear the angels sing.”

  “Ahem.”

  Julia jerked her head up, her voice stopping in her throat. Marco stood at the door, staring at her. Heat flooded her face. She fumbled to close the website.

  “I was just—”

  “Damn, lady,” he interrupted with a cluck of his tongue. “I had no idea you were hiding an inner Mariah Carey.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Julia snapped. “What do you want?”

  “Jingle Belles all the way,” Marco said. “They’re in the dressing room.”

  “I’ll head over there now. Send in Enzo, Isabella, and Anisa.”

  Her assistants were working on a Saturday to style several personal clients for a swanky Christmas ball that night, but those high-society clients wouldn’t arrive until later in the afternoon. Which meant Julia intended to put her assistants to work on the Jingle Belles.

  She rose from her desk and slipped into her suede YSL blazer before walking to the large, airy room where she styled her clients. Her assistants hurried out of their offices to join her when they heard the sharp click of her heels. The four Jingle Belles clustered in the middle of the room, looking as if they weren’t sure whether this had been a good idea or not.

  “Hello, ladies,” Julia said. “May we offer you a cappuccino or vitamin water?”

  “No, we’re fine,” Sharon said. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “Nonsense. We’ve discussed your… issue already, and my assistants have chosen several options. Let’s get your measurements and see what we can do.”

  She skimmed her gaze over Sharon’s untucked, overlong shirt, Beverly’s floral print blouse and belted jeans, Connie’s cable-knit reindeer sweater.

  Time to wave her Christmas fairy wand. Vigorously.

  She nodded at her assistants. Enzo hauled out clothing racks filled with designer suits, skirts, blouses, and dresses. Anisa and Isabella took the women’s measurements. Julia examined the cuts, styles, and fabrics of the clothes while studying the women’s figures and determining how the lines of the clothes might suit them.

  A flurry of fitting and assessments followed—cap-sleeve dresses, sateen mini-skirts, off-the-shoulder jumpsuits. As Julia worked with the four women, she unwittingly learned more about them. Beverly was a retired teacher with two college-aged children (Nick, an education major, and Donna, a physics major); Sharon was in her twenty-first year as Indigo Bay Library’s head librarian and had a beloved husband who snored terribly; and Connie volunteered for a nonprofit nature conservancy. Gail had a two-year-old grandson who was the next Einstein, and her daughter was due any minute now with another baby. The Jingle Belles had been singing together for six years and got together regularly for lunch and movie-going.

  Though Julia had never been one of the girls, she found herself rather enjoying their chatter about their lives. Not that she could relate to grandchildren or husbands, but she appreciated their references to the ’80s and their somewhat bemused approach to technology.

  However, they were difficult to fit. Aside from Gail, who was strikingly toned, nothing flattered the other women’s rounded figures. Sleeveless dresses displayed too much of their upper arms, and none of them were comfortable in anything too tight or low-cut.

  “This is why I hate shopping for clothes.” Sharon groaned, trying to force the button closed on a suit jacket. “Nothing ever fits.”

  “Or things are made for twenty-year-olds,” Gail agreed. “I’m sorry, but a fifty-five-year-old woman in a graphic tee and mesh leggings is not a good look.”

  “Preach it, sister,” Isabella remarked.

  “Everything is either too young, too tight, or too frumpy,” Connie said.

  “I still say we should wear pajamas,” Beverly mused, picking at the metallic fabric of a skirt meant for a woman thirty years younger.

  Julia tried not to groan. “Pajamas should only be worn at night in bed, if that. I’d suggest a nice chemise or babydoll instead.”

  The women looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  Julia snapped her fingers at Enzo. “Bring out the gowns.”

  Anisa’s eyes widened. Enzo hurried to wheel out a rack of high-end gowns that likely cost more than Sharon’s family sedan. Julia had the women try on several of the gowns—split-sleeved, ruched, asymmetric, V-necked. Even if the fit could be tailored, the color didn’t work, or it didn’t coordinate well with the style of one of the other women’s gowns.

  By the time they were finished, the women looked harried and tired, and Julia’s frustration had started an ache in the middle of her forehead.

  However, she never—never—failed a styling challenge.

  “Anisa, Isabella,” she ordered sharply. “Take all their measurements again and input them into a spreadsheet. Enzo, bring me some fabric samples. Jersey and cotton blends with good structure. Nothing shiny.”

  “What are we doing now?” Beverly took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

  “Jingle Belles.” Julia took out her pencil and sketchp
ad. “I’m going to design your dresses myself.”

  “It’s crooked.”

  “It is not.”

  “Tilt it to the left.”

  “It’ll be lopsided.”

  “Turn it ninety degrees clockwise. There’s a big hole right in the front.”

  “It’s crooked.”

  “Would you stop being such a douche?”

  Julia set a box of tree ornaments on the coffee table as the boys continued their bickering and their girlfriends rummaged through the ornaments. The usual good-natured arguing had gone on all afternoon as they tramped through the Christmas tree farm to pick out a tree. Normally she’d have enjoyed being out on the mountainside with her family, the air fresh and crisp, but her hollow feeling from the previous night had remained.

  Because normally Warren was there. Instead he’d texted them all that he was running late and would see them back at the house.

  When had he ever missed the tradition of cutting down and decorating the Christmas tree, even this late in the month? Everyone was here except for him. Apparently Amelie was more important.

  Irritation clawed at her. If she and Warren hadn’t gone suddenly stratospheric with their physical relationship, would she be so irked? Was it just the sex making her jealous and possessive? If so, what did that mean?

  The questions and lack of answers made her head ache.

  All afternoon she’d tried not to let her thoughts get away from her. She tried not to look at the spot on the floor where they’d first fucked. She tried not to feel his hands on her skin, his shaft pulsing inside her. She tried not to want it yet again.

  And now that it was almost five, her bones felt as if they were about to crack with all the self-control and resistance she’d been mustering up.

  “Dinner call.”

  Warren’s deep voice boomed through the entryway. Schooling her expression into one of composure, Julia straightened from picking through a box of decorations. The boys all perked up at the smell of hot sub sandwiches and hurried to grab the paper bags from their father. Warren stomped into the great room, shedding his jacket. His thick hair was disheveled, his face ruddy from exertion, his eyes bright.

  “Sorry I missed the afternoon,” he said. “But the tree looks great.”

  A flurry of activity ensued as everyone dove into the food he’d brought.

  “Julia, where’s the pickle?” Tyler rummaged through a box of ornaments.

  “At home. I’m not putting it on until Christmas Eve because I know you’ll try to find it before you’re supposed to.”

  “What’s the pickle?” Kate asked.

  “Old German tradition,” Spencer explained. “Julia hides the pickle ornament and whoever finds it first on Christmas morning gets an extra present.”

  “Oh, Julia, I forgot to tell you that I had to change your slot for the soup kitchen.” Kate stood on a stepstool to hang an ornament near the top of the tree. “Did you get the donations for the giving tree?”

  “Yes. I’ll bring them by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What about the family dinner over at the foundation?” Carson asked.

  “The invitations have been sent out.” Julia picked up crumpled wrappers to throw into the trash.

  “Can you give us a list of where we need to be and when?” Tyler asked. “I get confused with all that’s going on.”

  “You’re making cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning, aren’t you?” Spencer asked.

  Crap. Cinnamon rolls. She’d forgotten to add that to her list.

  The Stones were very generous with their community giving throughout the holiday season, but Christmas Day was always spent with their family at Warren’s house. The brothers had developed a number of inviolable Christmas Day traditions over the years, including cinnamon rolls, board games, backyard and TV football, family photos with silly Christmas props, charades, the Charlie Brown Christmas special, a baked ham dinner with all the trimmings, and a massive amount of boisterous ribbing.

  “I’ll make the cinnamon rolls,” she assured Spencer.

  “You’re the best.”

  “We also have to get the props together for the photos,” Adam said.

  “Julia is upping the game for the pickle,” Tyler said. “I told her no gift certificate for a wax job like last year. Maybe we should get another tree for the family room, make it more of a challenge to find the pickle.”

  “Can I invite a couple of friends over for the game on Christmas Day?” Adam asked.

  “Boys.” Warren’s voice cut through the chatter like a steel blade.

  Silence fell. Everyone looked at him.

  “Your aunt Julia is not in charge of giving you whatever you want for the holidays,” Warren said pointedly, his expression stern. “Nor is she in charge of planning your personal parties. If you want certain things done, then do them yourself.”

  Julia turned, her insides tightening. “I’m happy to do it, Warren.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I don’t mind.” Her tone was clipped.

  “Tyler will be in charge of the infamous pickle this year.” Warren eyed his youngest son. “Since he’s so eager to carry on the tradition.”

  “Does that mean I need to come up with a present?” he asked.

  “Warren.” Julia crossed the room, her leather boots clicking sharply. “I am delighted to plan family events and traditions. There is no need for you to delegate.”

  His mouth compressed. “The boys are adults, last time I checked. They are more than capable of doing their fair share.”

  “Or is it that you can’t stand not giving orders?” Julia snapped, unable to stop herself. “Now you’re going to fire me from planning the family holidays?”

  “I’m not firing you from anything.”

  “You fired me from the Sugar Rush party.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You remember that, don’t you? The most important party of the last fifteen years when you’re going to announce your retirement to the whole company? Maybe even a successor? And yet you decided I couldn’t handle planning it.”

  “I never thought you couldn’t handle it.” Warren’s eyes flashed. “I just didn’t want you to have to.”

  “Like you don’t want me to handle the fucking pickle?”

  “If Tyler wants the fucking pickle, he can deal with it himself.”

  Julia opened her mouth to snap back at him, then stopped when she realized that the silence had thickened. Everyone was staring at her and Warren as if watching a spectacle—which she supposed they were. She and Warren occasionally disagreed over little things, but they never fought in front of others. Certainly not the boys, their significant others, and Hailey.

  She closed her mouth and stepped back, her heart racing. Warren stalked toward his office.

  As soon as the door slammed, Julia marched out to the terrace, welcoming the cool evening air on her hot skin.

  She wished she could erase the past week, rewind to long before Warren had kissed her and she’d responded as if she were a dried-up plant drinking a stream of cool, fresh water. If she’d agreed to meet him at Lotus for dinner the other night, none of this mess would have happened. She’d have confessed all the disparaging things Vincent Peck had said about her designs, and Warren—after threatening to kick the Evermore president’s ass—would have helped her figure out what to do next. He’d have given her advice about Deck the Halls, made suggestions that would ease her schedule.

  A sudden loneliness hit her. No matter what happened, she and Warren could never go back to the way things had been before. No one could.

  Chapter

  TEN

  “You fired her from planning the Sugar Rush party?”

  Hailey stood with her hands on her hips, radiating indignity on her aunt’s behalf. Warren hadn’t expected to battle both Julia and his daughter on this issue, but last night’s argument had placed Hailey firmly on Julia’s side.

  “I didn’t fire her.” Warren poured coffee into a t
ravel mug and handed it to his daughter. “I excused her.”

  “Oh, please. Dad, she’s been planning that party for ten years. She loves doing it. Why would you take it away from her?”

  “Because she’s doing way too much. It’s not good for her.” He didn’t tell Hailey he was concerned about Julia’s migraines—no one else knew she even had them. “And she has enough on her plate with Deck the Halls.”

  “Well, she didn’t seem any too happy about being excused.” Hailey lifted her backpack onto one shoulder. “I’m going to stop by her office on the way out and say goodbye.”

  Warren nodded, deflecting the usual stab of fear at the thought of his daughter driving back to San Francisco. He’d had to work hard over the years to let Hailey do… well, anything, and still he was plagued by worry that something could happen to her. He’d managed to work through his grief over Rebecca’s death—though it would shadow the rest of his life—but if anything happened to his daughter…

  “Hey, I hear you might be dating someone new,” Hailey remarked as they walked to the front door. “Is that gossip or the truth?”

  “A little of both.” Hardly a lie. He wasn’t dating Julia, but she wasn’t someone new either.

  “Well, I hope it works out.” She moved closer to hug him. “It’s nice to see you doing something else besides working on your models.”

  “When are you coming back?” He wrapped his arms around her. As usual, he didn’t want to let go.

  “The night before the party.” She reached up to kiss his cheek. “I’ll call you as soon as I arrive, I promise.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to drive you?”

  “Yes, Dad.” She rolled her eyes and opened the door. “I love you.”

  “I love you, Hailey’s Comet.” Warren watched her leave, sending up a silent prayer to the universe to keep her safe.

  He headed back upstairs to get ready for work, and was pulling into the Sugar Rush parking lot within the hour. Luke was in his office with a list of potential presidents for Warren to review.