The Christmas Contract

Kissing Derek Marshall was not part of the plan. The plan had been simple: survive my brother Marcus’s annual holiday rooftop party, make polite conversation for exactly two hours, and escape before the eggnog ran out and people started asking about my love life. Or, more specifically, about my ex-fiancé who’d left me three weeks before our wedding last Christmas for a socialite named Celeste with perfect highlights and a bloodline that traced back to the Mayflower. I’d built my career as a luxury event planner on creating perfect moments for other people. My own life, however, was a masterclass in romantic imperfection. And tonight, standing on Marcus’s SoHo rooftop wrapped in a cashmere coat I couldn’t really afford, I felt the familiar ache of not being enough. Not glamorous enough, not connected enough, not perfect enough. That’s when I saw him. Evan Cross stood by the fire pit, looking like he’d stepped out of a Town & Country spread. Charcoal suit, artfully tousled blond hair, that easy, old-money smile that had once made my knees weak. My heart didn’t flutter. It plummeted, straight through the rooftop deck and into the icy Manhattan streets below. He wasn’t alone. Celeste clung to his arm, her laugh a sharp, glittering sound that cut through the festive jazz. A wave of humiliation, hot and sour, washed over me. He’d brought her here. To my brother’s party. To my city. “Breathe, Maya.” The voice came from my left, low and laced with familiar, infuriating amusement. I didn’t need to turn. I’d know that voice anywhere. Derek Marshall, my brother’s best friend and my personal nemesis for the better part of a decade. He leaned against the railing, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers, his green eyes tracking my face with unnerving perception. “I’m breathing,” I snapped, tightening my grip on my champagne flute. “Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’re planning his murder.” He took a slow sip. “For the record, I’d be an excellent alibi. I’ve seen all the crime shows.” Eight years. Eight years of this. Of his lazy smirks and barbed comments, ever since that night in college when he’d loudly declared my “obsession with fake perfection” was a sad attempt to mask deep-seated insecurity. He’d said it in a crowded room, drunk and arrogant, and I’d never forgiven him. He was the human embodiment of a splash of cold water—always there to douse any spark of warmth I might mistakenly feel. “I don’t need your help,” I muttered, my eyes glued to Evan, who had now spotted me. His smile widened, and he began weaving through the crowd toward me. Panic, pure and electric, shot up my spine. “He’s coming over,” Derek observed, not moving. “Looking determined. And slightly repentant. How very Hallmark of him.” “Shut up, Derek.” “You could always throw your drink in his face. I’ll get you a refill.” Evan was ten feet away. Celeste was watching with predatory interest. The entire party’s attention seemed to telescope toward the impending train wreck. My career, my carefully rebuilt dignity—it was all about to shatter again on this damned rooftop. I did the only thing my panic-fogged brain could conjure. I turned, grabbed the front of Derek Marshall’s leather jacket, and kissed him. It was supposed to be a brief, hard, desperate press of lips. A statement. See? I’ve moved on. But the moment my lips touched his, something shifted. He went completely still for a heartbeat, then his free hand came up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. The kiss stopped being a performance. It deepened, turning slow, searching, and devastatingly real. His mouth was warm, tasted of whiskey and winter mint, and for a dizzying second, the world vanished—the party, Evan, my humiliation, all of it. There was only the shocking heat of his lips on mine and the solid wall of his chest against me. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the cold air. His green eyes were dark, intense, and utterly focused on me. He whispered two words, so low only I could hear them. “Trust me.” Then he slid his arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his side, and turned to face a stunned Evan and a gaping party crowd. “Evan,” Derek said, his voice a smooth, possessive rumble. “Didn’t see you there. You remember Maya, right?”