“Sorry I bitched about the seats,” Marissa said, sipping the foam from her beer. I shook my head. “Totally fine, they were expensive tickets.” “It’s just, I wanted the full experience, you know? Front row, being sung to, eyes locking. The whole rock and roll fantasy.” “Oh, I get it—more than you know.” Again, she raised an eyebrow. “Do you, now? Please elaborate.” I smiled wickedly. I wasn’t embarrassed of my days following this band, so why had I acted like I was? I opened my mouth to share the story, but then the drum solo started winding into a guitar solo, and I turned back towards our seats. It was calling to me, like a siren song. I glanced back at the bouncer who stood guarding the floor area, his nose buried in his phone. This was our one chance. I reached back to grab hold of Marissa’s hand and stepped down towards the stage, one foot in front of the other, fully expecting to be stopped at some point…but nothing. Not when we reached the back of the crowd, not when we approached the velvet rope of the floor seats, and not even when we reached the opening…

The corridor that led to the cellar came alive with memories as she crossed it. The door was propped open. Emmitt must’ve forgotten to shut it when he left. Careful to leave it open, she stepped into the chill of the limestone floored room. The scent of cork and wine hung in the air. Stocked wooden racks and steel and glass coolers lined the walls. At the center of the room, under an abalone chandelier, stood a tasting table. Her eyes landed on the lacquered mahogany surface, knots and nicks marking the single piece of wood. The height had been just right for— “Ayesha?” She stumbled back, hand pushing against the door as she caught her balance. The click of the lock filled the silence that followed the sound of her name in his voice. No, no, no! She spun around and rattled the handle. It didn’t budge. He came up behind her, their hands meeting on the cool metal, the impact making her so lightheaded she pressed her head into the door. His hand trembled over hers, his body looming beside her, his presence wrapping around her. They were locked inside. She pulled away. From the door, from him,…

Discomfort was the first thing Sebastian became aware of, his mouth parched and his head pounding. He ignored both, struggling to recall what had happened. Mercier—the ring of fire— Lord Fine. Sebastian’s eyes flew open and he sat up. Or tried to. He swore as metal bit into his wrists. His arms were stretched up and out to either side, cuffed to—he craned his neck with difficulty, following the line of his right arm—cuffed to— Bedposts? Tall mahogany bedposts, exquisitely carved, and above them stretched a deep green canopy, embroidered with gold. His head rested on something soft, and the fabric against his cheek was like silk. A twitch of his legs confirmed they were free, and there was no bite of lead against his skin. So someone with significant money had cuffed him to a bed, but they hadn’t taken his magic into account— “Finally awake, are you?” Sebastian turned his head to the left, toward the sound of Lord Fine’s voice. The viscount was only a few feet away, sitting in a chair of dark wood and green velvet. He had removed his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows above bandaged forearms, and on his lap…

Cade Callahan stood in the hospital gift shop staring at the colorful display of get-well tokens. A fluffy white unicorn with a purple horn and a glittery pink-and-purple mane caught his eye. Allie had loved unicorns as a little kid—she’d called them “Princess Ponies.” But he was wrestling with the notion that now she might be too old for a stuffed animal. If she was, she could always toss it. At least he was trying, he thought as he snagged the unicorn from the shelf. He considered a card but figured that might be a little too much. Besides, he doubted he’d find a card that read, ‘Sorry I was a shitty dad. Get well soon’. For now, the unicorn would have to do. He grabbed two bottles of water and threw a couple of Reese’s peanut butter cups onto the counter, thinking they might want them on the drive up the mountain. He was already dreading the trip. His back hurt from sleeping in the chair next to her hospital bed, and between the two of them, they were grumpier than a grizzly who’d stepped in a hornet’s nest. I’m the grown-up, he reminded himself. Which meant he needed…

Another family dinner. This one on a random Thursday evening in mid-September. Same kitchen. Same table with the wobbly leg. Same people. One husband. One seven-year-old boy who hated anything that wasn’t a chicken nugget. One brother-in-law who might be a killer. Not a that was a horrible accident type of killer either. No. A person who killed over and over, targeting and wiping out the women closest to him. Elisa Wright looked across the table, over the pile of mashed potatoes and stack of homemade dinner rolls, at Josh. She couldn’t shake the now familiar anxious churning. With every forkful of food, every joke, every smile he gifted them, the word murderer flashed in her mind. She closed her eyes but the bright kitchen lights wouldn’t blink out. The truth gnawed and pricked at her. Exploded in her head and shot through her while she assessed and dissected every word he said, looking for clues. The big problem? She was the only one who questioned him. Everyone loved Josh. He was attractive, but not too much. Successful, but not too much. With brown eyes and brown hair that curled at the ends, he looked like an older version of…

A MISTLEOTE KISS by Eloisa James It was humiliating to admit, even to herself, but Cressie knew precisely when they had met, at least, as adults. It was her debut ball, and her cousin had walked over to her and said, “Here, Cuz, dance with Elias; he’ll be a marquess someday so he’s good to practice conversation that’s not about that infernal Revelry.” She had looked up into the eyes of the most beautiful man in the ballroom and managed a wavering smile. Elias hadn’t said more than a few words to her and ignored her the rest of the evening. “Other than passing encounters as children, we met when I debuted,” Cressie said now. “Years before that,” Elias said impatiently. “In that case, I have no idea what you are referring to,” she said, managing to make it sound as if she was uninterested. “You were five years old,” he said, rather surprisingly. He took a long stride and caught her right hand. “Show me the last structure? I already missed the other grottoes. I don’t want to miss anything of this one.” Cressie didn’t roll her eyes, but it was a near thing. “Right.” She tugged her hand…

But it’s August!” said Carmen into the phone, putting down her book. “August! It’s almost sunny outside! I have sandals on! Ice- cream vans patrol the land! I put sunblock on last week and almost needed it! How can I possibly get my head round what you’re asking me?” “I’m just saying,” her mother’s soft voice came again, and Car-men sighed. They had the same tussle every year. “It’s just useful to know early, that’s all. And of course Sofia . . .” Carmen screwed up her face. “Yes, she’s popping out yet an-other sprog and overpopulating the world, blah blah blah, I know.” “Carmen June Hogan. Be nice.” “Come on, Mum. She’s already got three. She’s just being greedy. Anyway, I don’t know what I might be doing at Christmas. I might be going away.” Who with?” Her mother sounded skeptical. “I could meet someone between now and Christmas! And he could whisk me off to Barbados! Or LA!” Her mother smiled. “So you’re not coming home for Christmas because you’ll be in LA.” “I could be in LA.” Carmen couldn’t, she thought, be the only person in the world who was both nearly thirty and who still turned into a stroppy…

She leaned over to grab one side of the eight-foot-long banner that was supposed to say Merry Christmas, Twilight giving him a straight-shot view down the front of her sweater. She waited for him to pick up the other half. His eyes bugged. Joel stopped in his tracks, gaze fixed on Jana’s cleavage. His pulse jumped right off a cliff. Last night, this gorgeous creature was in my bed. “Joel?” “Huh?” “You gonna stand there all day with your mouth hanging open?” He shut his jaw, picked up the other end of the banner and followed her outside to drape it from the railing of the upper deck. “Before we anchor the banner securely, let’s make sure it’s even,” she said and hit the stairs for the lower deck so they could stand back and examine their handiwork. He followed her, hunching his shoulders against the cold air blowing off the water. Jana cleared the stairs ahead of him, turned and stared owl-eyed at the message on the unfurled banner above them. She gasped. “What’s this?” He stared up. The banner read Will You Marry Me? Seeing the words spelled out in red letters across the boat yanked the breath…

“You can’t leave me,” my best friend whispers into the phone, her voice urgent and filled with abject terror. In the background, I hear Lillianna Cox, the world’s worst boss, having one of her legendary temper tantrums. “Yikes. That’s at least one good thing about this whole situation. I’ll never have to hear that again.” It’s not the answer Cassie wants to hear. “Meghan Ann Julliard. Get right back onto that plane and fly back to New York. I can’t do this alone. I heard she’s making us work late on Christmas Eve, and anyone who doesn’t show up to her party on New Year’s is getting written up. Then—” She cuts off, and the phone goes dead. I can only imagine that Lillianna caught her on the phone. Personal calls are prohibited at Stitch, and since it’s the top fashion magazine at the moment, everyone will put up with any rule and the world’s worst boss to work there. I personally tried for four years to get on staff . . . and a scant six months later, here I am. Leaving it behind. So, as I sit on the El and watch Chicago’s skyscape blur past, I don’t…

Christmas Eve had the nerve to show up just like it did every year: way too quickly and with ridiculous fanfare. The nerve. Rory Andrews stood in the courtyard of the Pacific Pier Building in San Francisco, surrounded by sparkly holiday lights and enough garlands to give the place its own ozone, and told herself things could be worse. She just wasn’t sure how. It was the unknown, she decided. Because this year, unlike the past six, she’d be spending Christmas with her family, a thought that caused a swarm of butterflies to take flight in her belly. Not an uncommon feeling since she’d turned twenty-three a few months back and decided it was time to become a person she could be proud of if it killed her. And given the guy leaning against one of the lamp poles clearly waiting for her, arms crossed, frown in place, it just might. Max Stranton. At his side sat Carl, his huge, eternally hungry, adorable Doberman. “No,” she said, not to Carl but to Carl’s owner. Who was not lovable. “No way.” As always when their gazes locked, Max’s was a disconcerting mix of heat and . . . something else that…