Well, well, well. Good Girl’s here. This party just got a hell of a lot more interesting. Normally, I hate the holidays. Christmas is a curse. Every year, all the food tastes sour and I can’t shake my bad mood until the last holiday jingle fades.

No matter what I do, it sucks.

I duck into my room, ripping the towel from my waist. I dress quickly, wincing from the pain throbbing my ankle. Heat from the shower helps, but it won’t heal. My Achilles tendon has been bothering me since March. I’ve seen too many physical therapists, tried steroid injections, kinesio tape, and all sorts of woo-woo witchcraft.

Nothing works.

If this keeps up, I won’t have a football career. I set the anxiety aside. Worrying about it isn’t going to fix the problem. Besides, things are looking up. Gigi is home.

The last time I saw her, I was a teenager. Lord, she’s changed. Gone are the oversized glasses and her frizzy, untamed mane. She’s more womanly. Still petite, but curvy everywhere.

When she walked into the bathroom, I thought I was caught in a highly realistic wet dream. She wore a knit dress, the hem riding a pair of thick thighs which I visualized riding my waist. She has it all—mouth-watering tits, a bee-stung pout, cute freckles dotting her cheeks and nose.

That was Gigi. I couldn’t believe it. Who would’ve thought the world’s biggest priss would turn into such a gorgeous babe?

I grab a button-down shirt from the closet and a pair of slacks, giving myself a quick once-over. I wipe a streak of shaving cream from my jaw and dash into the kitchen.

Flour dusts every surface as Mom prepares for guests to arrive in a few hours. Wedges of cheese and seared sausage sit on a platter covered in Saran wrap. Jordan almonds, pastries, and gingerbread cookies fill white ceramic bowls. There’s more food here than we could eat in a week.

Mom always goes all out during the holidays. When Dad left, the pile under the Christmas tree was massive, as though more presents could take the sting out of losing our father.

"Look who finally decided to join us!" Mom looks up from a boiling pot of water, her face rosy from all the steam.

A sallow-faced woman wearing a muted green sweater smiles. "Ronan, nice to see you."

I give her a one-armed hug, eyes scanning for her daughter, who moodily stares at me from across the room.

"Ronan, would you be a dear and help Gigi with the chestnuts?"

"Oh," Gigi’s head perks up. "I don’t need—"

"Of course."

I make a beeline for Gigi, who fumbles with the nutcracker. Two pink patches rise to her cheeks as I approach. Paired with that full pout, she’s irresistible. She pretends I don’t exist as I crouch beside her, marveling at the confidence rolling off her shoulders. She tosses me a glare that is totally at odds with the bookish, shy girl I taunted throughout high school. It tells me she’s in no mood for my bullshit.

She makes a fist, and the nut shoots out of her hands. "Damn!"

"Can’t do it?" I laugh, retrieving it from under the tree. "I’m surprised. You always were a nutbuster."

"I wish." Gigi fits another shell within the metal jaws and squeezes.

"Ouch. That made my balls twinge."

"I don’t want to hear about your dick."

"Really? You sure enjoyed getting an eyeful."

Her skin burns a shade of magenta.

"Shut up, Ronan. I’m trying to—" The nut slips within her clenched fist. "Goddamn it!"

"You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain during such a sacred celebration."

"Do the Santa Clauses hanging over the fireplace make it holy?"

"For shit’s sake. Let me do it." I seize the nutcracker, splitting a chestnut with hardly any effort. "It’s all in the wrist, Good Girl."

Harassed, her amber gaze crashes into mine. "There must be plenty of other chores. Pick another corner and stay away from me."

I grin in the face of her acid glare. "Have you missed me?"

"Yeah, like people miss cancer.” Gigi misses, crushing her finger within the nutcracker. She pops the digit into her mouth. “Ouch!”

God, I’d love to do that for her.

A sharp tug of arousal hits me as she sucks on her finger. "So what have you been up to?"

"Besides getting dumped by my fiancé, not much."

His loss. My gain. "Sorry. That’s a bummer."

Gigi frowns, merely irritated. "I’m not that fussed, to be honest."

"I’m sure you’ll find another guy’s nuts to crack."

"Funny." She rolls her eyes at me. "Ugh, not this song."

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer blares from the speakers.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Mom has a thing for holiday music. There’s no talking her out of it. Believe me, I’ve tried."

Over the years, Liam and I stood back from Mom’s mania over Christmas. I’m no psychiatrist, but it doesn’t take a shrink to realize she pours her energy into the holidays to make up for us not having a father figure.

"It’s okay," she sighs. "I’m just in a mood and I’ve never been a fan of the holidays."

"Me neither."

"I don’t know how you do it." Sighing, Gigi gives up, laying the nutcracker on the table. "Can’t figure it out."

"I’ll show you. Wait a second. I’ll get us drinks."

Her eyebrows fly into her hair as she pretends to consider the offer. "Er—thanks but I need to help my mom."

With a twirl of her cocktail dress, she returns to the kitchen. Annoyance stabs my chest as she flits around my house in that curve-hugging outfit. I’d love to lift her onto a counter and grab a handful of her ass.

But Gigi won’t give me the time of day, and why should she? I was an asshole to her. My status as a football player gave me a ridiculous amount of power in high school, and I threw it around like an idiot. I regret it now—just like I regret the spontaneous tattoo on my thigh.

Gigi was a permanent fixture while growing up. She was the girl next door—shy, mousy, and quiet. The perfect target for my rambunctious ass. Five years later, she comes back, confidence rolling from her in an intoxicating cloud. I wonder why her ex ended their relationship.

I watch her while these thoughts stew, well aware of my pulse rocketing when our paths cross, and my sharp frustration when she doesn’t show an iota of interest.

Before long, the house becomes a hive of activity. Mom gets more and more frantic as the hour approaches. A focused Gigi stands in the hallway on short ladder, reaching for wine glasses. She’s not wearing a bra and my jaw might drop to the floor.

"Here. I’ll take them." I offer an outstretched hand, and she frowns at it as if expecting a trick.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

She climbs down. "Look, I’d appreciate it if you left me alone tonight."

"Does my presence make you hot and bothered?"

Flames lick her cheeks. "No, it doesn’t. I just want a nice, quiet evening without assholes from my past badgering me. Is that too much to ask?"

"Gigi, I’m not the same guy I was in high school."

"Yeah, yeah. Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots. I’m not interested in your redemption story." Gigi palms my chest, pushing me aside. "Excuse me."

Which leaves me gaping after her like a fucking trout.

I need another chance to talk to her. She might be done with me, but I’m not done with her.