I should’ve known that everyone would know before lunch. Hell, everyone probably knew before the ink dried from my fingerprinting at the station.
“Haven’t I already suffered enough?” I ask, my brows rising in question.
“Nah. I think the suffering has only just begun. But I mean, I guess that depends on who you ask because I, for one, think that Emma Worthington is hot as fuck, and you’re an idiot for disliking her.”
My gaze narrows. “Yeah, well, she irks my nerves with her holier-than-thou attitude.”
I feel my phone going off in my pocket, so I reach down and fish it out of my jeans, glancing at the unknown number on the screen.
A text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Can we please meet to discuss this unfortunate arrangement?
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter, raising my gaze to Oliver, who’s back to grinning. “Don’t say a fucking word.”
Me: Sorry, this number is currently disconnected and unavailable to ice princesses. Please try again… never.
Emmie: It honestly surprises me how much you continue to prove your immaturity. How does it feel to be over thirty and still a man-child?
Me: Did you text me just to insult me or is there something else I can help you with?
Lifting the glass to my lips, I drain the whiskey, savoring the bite of the liquid as it slides down my throat. Just enough to make it possible to deal with the ice princess on the other side of the phone.
Emmie: We have only three weeks to make this disaster of a party happen, and I happen to not like to wait until the last minute to do anything.
Me: What’s there to plan? It’s a Christmas party. Red, green, a tree, some lights, lots of alcohol.
Emmie: I’m not even going to dignify that with an actual response. Tomorrow, 8 am. Hollow Brewhouse. Don’t be late.
Me: I’m never late.
Emmie: Something tells me that is not true. Bye, Pearce.
I huff as I set my phone down on the bar and lean back in the barstool.
It’s almost Christmas, and even Oliver’s bar is decorated for the occasion. There are strings of multicolored Christmas lights draped along the wooden beams above our heads, tinsel lining the bar, and a sad-looking, skinny Christmas tree in the corner by the karaoke stage with Rusty Rooster coasters as ornaments, along with candy canes.
It’s about as festive as a bar can get, and while I’m generally excited for the holidays, this year, I haven’t felt as much in the spirit. It’s always a big deal for our family, so I’ve been trying not to be a total Scrooge for Ma.
It’s just, I’m fucking swamped at work, and though I’m thankful as hell to have my business, I haven’t had much time to do anything else before I pass out the moment my head hits the pillow.
“How’s things at the house coming?” Oliver asks from the other side of the bar.
I shrug. “Slow. Haven’t had much time to work on it when I’m constantly working on everyone else’s. But I’ve got a solid crew, and I think I’ll be able to delegate a bit more once the holidays have passed.”
“Cool. You headin’ out?”
“Yeah. Haven’t really slept. You know… spent the night in jail,” I pull a twenty out of my wallet and put it on the counter. “See you at poker night?”
“Nah, I’m coming to your family dinner this week. I can’t wait to hear what your parents have to say about this, and man, I cannot fucking wait to see how this plays out. You two working together and putting this feud to rest? I gotta see it to believe it.”
Of course, he can’t wait. Dick.
I arrive at the small coffee shop in Town Square approximately five minutes early just to prove a point. Which is almost pointless when I see Emma sitting at a table in the far back, head bent over a spiral-bound notebook.
She lifts her head, a tight smile on her face when she sees me approaching. Her gaze flits to her watch, then back at me as her brow arches. “Wow, four whole minutes early. I guess you proved me wrong.”
“Guess I did.” I smirk. “I’m going to grab a coffee.”
I glance down and see the steaming mug of coffee that’s got what looks like whipped cream, cinnamon, and caramel drizzled over the top.
Of course, she’d drink something… ridiculously frilly when it comes to coffee. Shouldn’t expect anything less.
The barista quickly takes my order, and after I’ve paid, she slides the steaming black coffee across the counter.
Simple. Just the way I like it.
After paying, I walk back to Emma, pulling out the chair and sitting across from her.
“So…” I start.
She rolls her plump lips together before sighing exasperatedly. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal, but it’s unfortunately what we’re working with, and we’ve got to get along just long enough to get this done. I need you to not be a dick for the next three weeks so we can actually pull this off.”
I nod. “Fine. You’re right. The quicker we can get this over with, the better. What do you need from me?”
As I’m speaking, it feels like I’m being watched, and when I glance around the coffee shop, I see nearly every single pair of eyes on us.
I guess the people in town aren’t used to seeing a Worthington having an amicable conversation with a Pearce. Which is fair, seeing as how this is the first time in history anyone from our families has sat down and had coffee together.
Even though this technically isn’t by choice.
“Let me guess, literally everyone is staring at us?” Emma sighs, refusing to take her eyes off mine.
“Yup.”
Only then does she break our stare and drag her gaze out around her, shrinking slightly, as if making herself smaller is somehow going to change the fact that we’re the only thing this town has to talk about for the foreseeable future.
“Ignore them. Tell me what you need from me,” I say brusquely.
I don’t like being the center of attention for any goddamn reason, so the quicker I can get out of this chair, out of this damn building, away from her and the prying eyes of this town, the better.
She nods quickly, reaching behind her to begin pulling things out of her bag.
Pens, highlighters, note cards, a thing of gingerbread-shaped sticky notes, a ruler. And is that a… poster board?
What the fuck is happening?
“Are we going to class or talking about a Christmas party?” I ask, my brow furrowed.
Emma rolls her eyes and sets out each of the items in a neat row, taking her sweet time.
I can practically hear the whispers of everyone around us getting louder.
Christ.
“Well, unlike you, Pearce, I am extremely detail-oriented and organized. Type A.”
“Clearly.” Setting my coffee down in front of me, I cross my arms over my chest. “I expected nothing less from you, Emmie.”
“Emma.”
“Emmie.”
She huffs. “Every time I think we might actually have a chance at making this work, you remind me that it’s impossible.”
I shrug. “A special talent I possess.”
Emma rolls her eyes for the second time in two minutes and glances around her at the couple next to us, who are not attempting to hide their gawking and whispering.