The Christmas Pact Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Vi Keeland & Penelope Ward

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  THE CHRISTMAS PACT

  Proofreading by: Elaine York & Eda Price

  Cover Illustrator: Monika Roe

  Formatter: Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Vi Keeland & Penelope Ward

  About Vi Keeland

  About Penelope Ward

  Riley

  Ugh. Not again.

  A sense of dread washed over me as soon as Is saw his name pop up in my inbox. Well, actually, it was my name, only reversed—Kennedy Riley. The guy was a total jerk. He worked at our sister company across town. Every so often someone mixed up our email addresses and we’d get each other’s messages. [email protected] was pretty easy to mess up with [email protected]. Whenever I received an email that was obviously intended for him, I politely forwarded it along. No peeking. Backwards me, however, wasn’t quite so nice. The nosey son of a bitch had the nerve to not only read my emails, but dissect them and offer his unsolicited thoughts. Hopefully, whatever he had received of mine this time around was innocuous.

  I clicked.

  No.

  No! No! No!

  I closed my eyes, barely stifling a groan. Of all the emails for that man to receive, it had to be this one? I sank down into my chair and seriously considered hiding under my desk for the foreseeable future. I couldn’t even imagine what he’d have to say about my writing to Dear Ida. Dan Markel over in advertising kept a bottle of scotch in his bottom drawer, one he thought no one knew about, but we all did. Right about now, I really needed to go borrow it. I sighed and started to read Kennedy’s forwarding note:

  Riley, Riley, Riley.

  What am I going to do with you?

  First off, your mother…she sounds like a real peach. Why do you even give a shit what she thinks? Clearly, she’s a materialistic, self-absorbed narcissist. If you ask me, people who write those cheesy, bragging Christmas letters are usually lonely.

  My blood began to boil. I hadn’t asked him. And he had some nerve talking about my mother. What the hell did he know about her? Of course, my email had told a thing or two—but that was supposed to be private—definitely not for his reading or analysis. Plus, you know how things are with family…I could complain all I wanted about my mother or siblings, but no one else freaking could.

  I clenched my teeth so hard that I began to feel the early rumblings of a tension headache. Yet instead of deleting the email like any sane person would have, I continued reading.

  But let’s get to the heart of the problem, shall we? Why are you twenty-seven, single, and haven’t had a date in ten months? Tell me, Riley…there must be a reason? I asked around about you—rumor has it, you’re not too shabby looking, which makes this situation all the more baffling. Personally, I think you should skip writing to Ida from now on and tell me your problems. I’ll get to the bottom of things real fast.

  X

  Kennedy

  P.S. Is Olivia single? ;)

  I couldn’t even understand how this particular message had gotten to him. Who would reply to an email and retype the address of the person they’re responding to? Doesn’t everyone just hit reply? Then I remembered…I hadn’t emailed Dear Ida. I’d filled out a form on the advice columnist’s website. It was the first time I’d ever done such a crazy, impulsive thing. But it had been the day after Thanksgiving, the unofficial start of the holiday season, and I’d had a little bit of wine that night. Like clockwork, my mother had called that morning to make sure I knew that her annual Christmas Eve open house would start promptly at six. She’d also rattled off a list of neighbors and people from church she had invited who had sons that were fine husband material. And so…I celebrated the unofficial start to the time of year I hated most by drinking a bottle of wine by myself and pouring my lonely, tipsy heart out to a sixty-year-old advice columnist. Stupid…I know.

  I sighed and slumped deeper into my chair.

  Distracted by Kennedy’s rude email, I’d almost forgotten that he’d been forwarding an actual response from the columnist. I straightened and scrolled down and started to read from the bottom up. First, there was a copy of the submission form that I’d filled out on the Dear Ida website. Considering I’d had a little too much wine, I figured I should start with that and refresh my memory on what I’d actually said. Really, how bad could it have been?

  Dear Ida,

  My mother sends out one of those long-winded Christmas letters each year. It’s usually two to three pages long, mostly about my three siblings and me. Well, that’s not necessarily true—it’s mostly about my three siblings. Because I didn’t go on a volunteer medical mission trip to Uganda to fix cleft palates like my doctor brother Kyle did last year. Nor did I give birth to a set of perfectly adorable identical twins—without any pain medication whatsoever, of course—like my sister Abby, a member of the esteemed New York Philharmonic. And I definitely didn’t place third in the New York State Gymnastics Regionals like my youngest sibling, Olivia—not entirely surprising, considering the fact that a few months ago I twisted my ankle falling off my own high heel.

  I think you get my point. My life just isn’t as exceptional as my sisters’ and brother’s. In fact, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I haven’t had a date in ten months. My morkapoo, Sister Mary Alice, gets more action at the dog park than me. Last year, this was the entirety of my section in Mom’s three-page annual brag letter:

  Riley is still a junior editor at one of the largest publishing houses in the country. She’s edited two books that made the New York Times bestseller list. We’re thinking she’ll be promoted out of the romance division soon.

  My question to you, Ida, is… How do I get my mother to stop including me in her letter without making her feel bad?

  Signed, Boring in New York,

  Riley Kennedy

  Above my sorry excuse for a letter was Ida’s response.

  Dear Boring,

  It sounds to me like your problem isn’t your mom’s Christmas letter—though I do find those to be obnoxious myself. I think if you dig a little deeper, you’ll find that the source of your problem is actually your own life—and the fact that you don’t have one. Sometimes difficult things need to be said, and our friends and family are too polite to say them. That’s what I’m here for and, if you’re honest with yourself, maybe that’s the real reason you wrote to me in the first place…so here’s my advice to you:

  Go out and live a little. Give your mother something to write about. Life is too short to be so dull.

  Sincerely,

  Soraya Morgan

  Assistant Advice Columnist—Dear Ida

  Seriously? That’s my freakin’ advice?! And from so
me assistant?

  Fuming, it took me all morning and three donuts to calm down enough to respond to both messages.

  First, I needed to knock out my response to that idiot, Kennedy. That one was irking me the most.

  I hit reply on his email and started typing, my fingers pounding on the keyboard.

  Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy.

  (It’s so annoying when you do that with my name, by the way.) Your opinion on my private matters is unsolicited and unappreciated.

  In answer to your question: “Riley, Riley, Riley, what am I going to do with you?” How about pretend I don’t exist? How about nothing? My emails are none of your business. You don’t need to say a damn thing in order to forward me my messages. Press the forward button and mind your beeswax! Try it sometime.

  But since you asked, there IS a reason I’m twenty-seven and single. It’s called having standards.

  Also, you have some nerve referring to my mother as a narcissist. You don’t even know my mother. The definition of a narcissist is a person who has an excessive interest in or admiration of themselves. You seem to think quite highly of yourself and your opinions. YOU are the narcissist here.

  A few pieces of advice from me to you:

  Please don’t “ask around” about what I look like.

  Don’t read my messages anymore if they happen to come to you.

  And do NOT offer me your opinion when I don’t ask for it.

  P.S. I wouldn’t let my sister Olivia, or Sister Mary Alice, for that matter, near you if you were the last man on Earth.

  Riley Kennedy

  I pressed send and leaned back in my chair, taking a deep breath to compose myself before opening up a new email window. I was on a roll. One down, one to go.

  Dear Soraya,

  First off…who are you? I wrote to Ida, not some assistant. Therefore, I’m not entirely sure why your opinion should matter to me. In any case, calling someone dull is rude. Yes, I referred to myself as “Boring” in my letter, but that was meant to be self-deprecating. Coming from you, “dull” is an insult. Telling someone to get a life IS AN INSULT. You’re supposed to be doling out advice. All you did was insult me without providing any solution to the problem that I detailed. Not to mention, you’re incompetent. You reversed the names in my email address and sent your response instead to my co-worker, Kennedy Riley, who happens to be very annoying. I am Riley Kennedy. Not Kennedy Riley. This was a breach of confidentiality. And I’m sure Ida would be none too pleased to learn about it.

  As a result of your error, my co-worker—like you—seems to think he has the right to dish out advice with zero expertise to back it up. If I wanted advice from people who were not suitable to give it, I would ask a random person on the street—or maybe my morkapoo.

  Thanks for nothing.

  Riley Kennedy

  I pressed send and shut my laptop. Boy, that felt good.

  Later that afternoon, I ran into my co-worker and friend, Liliana Lipman, in the lunchroom and filled her in on what had happened. She could hardly believe the balls on that Kennedy guy, either.

  She steeped her tea and said, “Well, the holiday party is going to be very interesting this year.”

  I frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?” I picked up my sandwich and bit into it.

  She leaned in and whispered, “They’re doing a combined Christmas party this year for the two Manhattan offices..”

  Due to space issues, our company housed the fiction and non-fiction departments across town from each other.

  I stopped chewing when it hit me. “Um…that’s not good.”

  “Looks like you’ll finally get to meet Kennedy Riley face to face.”

  My stomach sank. “Shit. I don’t want that at all.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to have a choice if he decides to go.”

  “Maybe I’ll skip the party. Problem solved.”

  “You really think Ames is going to let you get away with that? It’s pretty much mandatory, Riley.”

  My boss, Edward Ames, was always intent on his employees participating in all company events. If you didn’t show, he’d actually call you from the party, put you on speakerphone, and shame you into coming. Rookies always tried to skip out on events like this. The experienced employees knew better.

  Liliana sighed. “Maybe you can find a way to avoid him. Does he know what you look like?”

  “He’s apparently been asking around, fishing for information about me. I’m sure someone will point me out to him.”

  “Have you ever seen a photo of him?”

  “No. I’ve never looked him up. I couldn’t care less.”

  “You sure about that?” Liliana smirked. “I’m surprised at that, given all of your heated interactions.” She chuckled. “C’mon, aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  “Not really. I’ve pretty much always just assumed he was as ugly as his personality, which would mean he looks like a goat’s ass.”

  She took out her phone. “Well, let’s find out.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Searching for him on Facebook.” She scrolled down and muttered his name, “Kennedy Riley…Kennedy Riley. There are a few of them, actually.” She jumped in her seat. “Ah-ha! Here we go. Lives in Soho. Works at Star Publishing. Oh, and he’s single. This is him!” Her eyes widened as she focused on his profile photo. “Oh. Oh my.”

  I had to admit. Now she had me curious.

  “What?” I asked, noticing that she was smiling from ear to ear now.

  Her jaw dropped as she slowly looked up at me but said nothing.

  Then she started laughing.

  I was getting impatient. “Show it to me,” I said with my hand held out.

  “You might want to start being a little nicer to him,” she said before turning the phone screen toward me.

  I took in the image in front of me.

  Nearly translucent light blue eyes. Chiseled face with bronze skin. Broad shoulders. Confident smile that hinted at the smug arrogance I’d come to expect from him.

  I zoomed in.

  Kennedy Effing Riley.

  Kennedy Effing Riley…was hot as hell.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Riley

  When I was a kid, I loved Christmas. I loved everything about it…decorating the tree, Christmas caroling through our neighborhood, going to see Santa Claus at the mall. But over the last few years, this time of year had become my least favorite. Even the music got on my nerves.

  Apparently, the same wasn’t true for Liliana. I’d gone to her place before the party tonight, since she was keeping my morkapoo while I went home for the Holidays. Liliana had a half dozen wrapped presents and a collar with bells waiting for Sister Mary Alice when I walked in. She was all about Christmas, and it made me feel a bit like the Grinch tonight.

  As we entered the lobby of the hotel where our party was being held, she handed her coat to the coat check attendant and started to bop around and sing along to Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas is You, which was blaring overhead.

  “So what should we do first?” she said. “Get a drink or scope out Mr. Hottie?”

  I took my claim ticket from the coat check lady and shook my head. “I think we’re definitely going to need a drink if I’m going to have to face Mr. Hottie…I mean Mr. Noseybody.”

  “Are we sure he’s here tonight?”

  “I have no idea. I never heard back from him.” Or from that rude assistant to Dear Ida either, for that matter.

  Liliana and I walked to the Grand Ballroom where Star Publishing’s expanded holiday party was in full swing. The double doors were wide open, and we took a minute to look inside. There were a heck of a lot more people than usual. When it was just our division, we were usually holed up in a small ballroom. And the small dance floor was generally half empty. But this year, it was twice as big and bodies were packed onto it. There was e
ven a guy dressed up as Santa Claus in the middle of the room handing out those light-up necklaces that flashed in red and green. The vibe was already totally different than usual.

  “God, how many people work at the other office? It looks like the bizarro version of our dull Christmas party.” Liliana hooked her arm with mine.

  “I don’t know. But maybe that’s a good thing, and I won’t run into you-know-who.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. It’s gonna be the highlight of my month. You better run into him.”

  Liliana and I walked in and went straight to the nearest bar. Normally, I’d get a glass of white wine, but when it was our turn to order, I pointed to a woman holding a delicious-looking cocktail with crushed red and white candy cane bits rimming the glass, and asked the bartender, “What are those?”

  “That’s tonight’s specialty drink. A White Christmas martini. Vanilla vodka, white chocolate liqueur, and crème de cocoa with crushed peppermint candy cane lining the rim. They’re making them in the back. It’ll be a few minutes until they bring me a new batch.”

  I licked my lips. “Mmmm. I’ll have one of those, please.”

  “Me, too! Tell them to hurry,” Liliana said.

  While we waited, I looked around. My eyes scanned the room for Kennedy, but luckily there was no sign of him. Maybe he wasn’t even here. From what little I knew about him, he did seem more Scrooge than spirited. After a thorough search of the faces in the crowd and coming up empty, the tension in my neck started to ease and my shoulders relaxed a bit. I dug a few bucks out of my purse and tipped the bartender as I took my White Christmas martini. I sipped and continued to stare out at the people on the dance floor as Liliana waited for her drink.