Wreck the Halls: A Novel

Melody hadn’t been to an event like this in a long time.

And she’d been more than happy to be left off the guest lists.

Celebrity-held charity galas were over-the-top displays of extravagance—and as soon as they pulled up to the benefit, it was obvious that this one would be no different. Lines of limousines paraded slowly along the curb, passengers alighting to an eruption of camera flashes. Garlands, heavy with blue lights and sparkly crystal icicles, were hung from the entrance of the building, fake snow fluttering down from an unseen source overhead. A frowning, long-haired musician in a tuxedo played a sexy version of “Silent Night” at the edge of the carpet.

“The theme can never be pajama party, can it?” she said, wryly, hoping to make Beat laugh.

The side of his mouth jumped subtly, but he continued to look down at his phone.

Melody wondered if it would make for great television if she hoisted up her dress and hauled ass down the avenue. Ratings spike, anyone? She’d be a meme by dessert.

It took serious restraint not to follow through on that impulse. This whole evening was scary enough, but the sudden lack of warmth coming from Beat made it terrifying.

Relax. He’s probably just nervous, too.

After all, they were preparing to propose a reunion to his mother with, apparently, a lot of people watching. He wasn’t obligated to hold her hand and rain down his golden energy on her every second of the day. Sometimes he probably turned that sunshine-level wattage off completely. What was he like in those moments?

Her chest ached with the need to know.

When a muscle leapt in Beat’s cheek, Melody realized she was staring at him and quickly looked ahead. They were the sole SUV in line and . . . they’d been noticed. At first, she assumed her mind was playing tricks on her, but no. Additional camerapeople were sprinting toward the red-carpet line, along with pedestrians, phones glowing in their hands. A group of very large men in black jackets and headsets stood at the curb, waiting on their arrival. And then it was Beat and Melody’s turn to step out of their vehicle and everything happened so fast, she could only put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.

Someone took her hand and helped her out of the SUV. Not Beat. This hand was thicker and all business. “It’s best if we get inside quickly, ma’am.”

“Just Melody is fine.”

“Melody,” the gruff voice said, not warming in the slightest. “Let’s move.”

Flashes blinded her, but she could see just enough to catch Beat’s tight expression. His eyes were trained on the security guard’s hand where it now gripped her elbow to hustle her forward. One of the cameramen called his name and he seemed to snap himself out of the daze, at least halfway, striding down the red carpet in front of her while frequently glancing back over his shoulder at Melody.

“Smile, Melody!” someone barked at her. “Smile over here!”

Where? She couldn’t see anything. Too many flashes going off. “Silent Night” was hitting its crescendo in a wild stampede of notes. Unfortunately, the combination of temporary blindness and attempting to keep her eyes open for pictures proved a hazard. A piece of artificial snow landed snack in the middle of her right eyeball and she flinched, stumbling to a stop. “The snow. It . . . it got me.” She clapped a palm over her eye, waving Beat forward with her opposite hand. “Save yourself.”

“Melody. Over here!”

“Sure, ignore my pain.” She squinted at the row of paps. “I have a two-part question. One, does artificial snow melt? And two, would I look dashing in an eye patch?”

She was surprised to hear them laugh.

In fact . . . were they laughing with her? Growing up, the laughter was directed at her.

Maybe the fact that she couldn’t see their faces was helping. But the snowflake in her eye was thankfully beginning to melt, restoring her vision, and the brief pause of flashbulbs brought the veritable sea of faces into view.

She almost tossed her cookies.

“Melody!” someone screamed, just as the security guards shuffled her forward again. “Are you single?” Two brass doors swung open, two trumpets heralded her arrival, and then she was inside, the cacophony of outdoors sounds cutting off.

“Yes,” she said. “Brutally.”

A low chuckle behind Melody reminded her that Joseph was hot on her trail.

She’d escaped the physical crowd, but an online crowd was still observing her every word and movement. She really needed to stop forgetting that.

Inside the lobby of the lavish hotel now, Melody couldn’t help but marvel at her surroundings. Whoever oversaw the task of decorating tonight had kept the blue Christmas theme, the entire space lit by a glowing azure ceiling of lights. LED snowflakes danced on the walls and across the faces of guests. A string quartet played in the center of the room, greeting everyone with a refined rendition of “Silver Bells.” Waiters in top hats passed through the space with trays of cranberry-colored champagne, bowing to those who took one.

Beat materialized in front of her, his gaze running over her from head to toe. Why did his hands appear to be fists in his pockets? “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes, of course.” A blinding smile spread across his face, but never quite reached his eyes. “Although in all the excitement, I forgot that tonight was a masquerade.” He held up a slim, black velvet mask in between his middle and forefinger. “Good thing we offer spares at the door.”

Melody watched as the other guests in the lobby started donning their masks, obviously having waited until they’d been photographed to put them on.

“Ah yes, the classic holiday masquerade theme.” Melody took the mask he offered and slipped it over her head, arranging it in place across her eyes. “The season wouldn’t be complete without one.”

“If only there was a mask to keep me from being disinherited.”

Melody laughed. “On a scale of one to ten, how ready are you for this?”

One of his cheeks inflated with air while he considered the question. “Three point five,” he answered, cheek deflating.

“That’s higher than I expected.”

“I just shotgunned two glasses of cranberry champagne,” he explained, indicating one of the waiters nearby. “And then I turned around and you weren’t behind me anymore.”

“There was a drive-by snowing outside and I was the unfortunate victim. I hope your survivor’s guilt doesn’t keep you awake at night.”

That dazzling quality of his smile was beginning to spread back into his soulful eyes and she cheered it on with every bone in her body. Was she responsible for the shift? It . . . seemed so? Apart from bocce games and the occasional work interaction, Melody kept to herself. In the past, nothing she did in public was right. Every movement, every outfit, every word out of her mouth had apparently been cringe-inducing. Was it possible that was no longer the case?

Beat started to say something to her, but a man approached, also in a top hat. “Can I take your coat, miss?”

“Oh, sure.”

She popped out the buttons and shrugged off the garment, giving a cursory, downward glance to be certain her boobs were still strapped in correctly, then handed over the coat to the attendant with a murmured thank-you.

She caught the tail end of Beat looking at her breasts, before he cleared his throat hard and averted his gaze. Just not quick enough to quell the chain reaction that started at the top of her head, earlobes throbbing, mouth turning dry, before moving downward to her belly where a hot, liquid pool began churning in a circular current.

This was not the time or the place to be turned on.

Tell that to her Beat-specific hormones, though. They rose most dramatically to one occasion and he was standing in front of her in a tuxedo and now, a very rakish mask had been added to the mix. He’d checked out her boobs. Her libido was just expected to remain calm?

“H-how are we going to play this?”

Beat must have noticed the breathless quality of her voice, because he looked back at her sharply, that warmth fleeing from his eyes once again. Like it had in the SUV. Why?

“We’ll have to improvise to get Octavia alone and it won’t be easy. Everyone wants to speak to her at these things. It’ll have to be sometime after the wish ceremony.”

“What is a wish ceremony and how do I get one?”

A grin briefly parted his lips. “We hold this party every year and the wishes have become something of a ritual,” he explained. “There is a big table inside, beneath the fifteen-foot Christmas tree, and it’s loaded with wish cards. It’s tradition for everyone in attendance to write out a wish and hang it on the tree. I choose one halfway through the evening and Octavia makes it come true. Of course, I’m under strict instruction to pick one that begs my mother to entertain us with a song.” His lips twitched with fondness. “Then she says no and claims she’s had too much champagne, everyone begs harder and finally, finally, she gets up and sings the song she’s probably been practicing since August.”

“You don’t seem annoyed by this at all.”

“No.” He lifted a shoulder and seemed to search for the right words. “Everyone has a vice they need to satisfy, right? Hers is vanity. A need to be in the spotlight. And it’s harmless. It’s not hurting anybody. On the contrary. Everyone enjoys it.”

“God. I wish I understood my mother like you understand yours,” Melody said, resisting the constant need to step closer to Beat. Even the simple brush of her elbow against his tuxedo jacket would have sufficed. Was he avoiding eye contact with her? It seemed like it; something felt off, but what could it be? “What’s your vice, Beat?”

Well, that was one way to make eye contact.

His attention shot to hers like a bullet, tension bracketing his mouth.

The golden pallor of his skin lost its glow, leaving an ashen complexion behind.

“I . . . what?” He reached for another glass of champagne off a passing tray. “Clearly, it’s drinking.” But he made no move to sip the drink, merely staring into its fizzy depths. “My vice is not telling anyone about my vice. I guess that falls under the category of pride.”

Melody wasn’t expecting that answer. “Why don’t you tell anyone? How bad can it be?”

“It’s not bad. It’s just private.” His attention briefly fell to her lips. “What about you, Mel? What’s your vice?”

“Refusing to call my super to fix anything in my apartment because I want to be his favorite. I think that’s a cross between sloth and greed.”

He shook his head. “It’s neither. It’s . . . Melody.”

“I’m not a vice.”

“You could be.” Had his voice gotten deeper? “Easily.” Melody sincerely hoped he couldn’t see the pulse racing at the bottom of her neck, because she could definitely feel it thrumming dramatically. “They’re probably getting ready to open the doors to the ballroom,” Beat said, clearing his throat. “Should we—”

“Mel, can I grab you for a second?” Danielle said, coming up beside her.

By now, the lobby was full enough of guests waiting for the gala to begin that Danielle had no choice but to stand close. The producer sent a semianxious smile in Beat’s direction, leading Melody in an awkward sidestep through a few of the partygoers until they were standing approximately ten feet from Beat—who watched them curiously, still not drinking the champagne in his hand.

“What is it?” Melody asked Danielle.

“Turn your mic off.” With a swallow, Danielle looked down at her phone, thumb blurring as she scrolled. Melody stared for a moment, then reached back to do as instructed, compressing the tiny box between her thumb and index finger. “I just want to be honest with you, the broadcast is seeing a steep incline of viewers. It’s impossible to predict what will catch their interest, what they will latch onto . . .”

Melody’s stomach started to gurgle. “What have they latched onto?”

Danielle blew out a stiff breath. “We’re trending under the hashtag #MelodyIsABeatSimp.” She threw a concerned glance at Melody, went back to scrolling. “That’s only one of them, mind you! There are also, #DriveBySnowing and #EyepatchQueen.”

“Seriously? Based on something I said ten minutes ago?”

“This is moving at the speed of light. I cannot stress that enough.”

“I can’t . . . wow.” Melody was winded. She didn’t really care about how quickly the internet could turn something into an inside joke but was desperately trying to focus on the phenomenon of it all, because otherwise she would have to acknowledge . . . #MelodyIsABeatSimp. Oh no. Oh God. “So . . . the main draw is . . .”

“At this very moment? Your obvious crush on Beat,” Danielle finished, finally locking her phone. “There is a clip of you circulating from the dressing room. You’re talking about him and . . . it’s obvious there is something there.” Melody started to turn around to look at Beat through fresh eyes, now that she’d been dealt the blow of this humiliating information, but Danielle stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I’m telling you this off camera, because I truly don’t think you’re aware of how you look at him. Or speak about him. And while my job is to grab views, I like you. I’m giving you a heads-up, in case you want to . . . temper yourself.”

“Thank you,” Melody managed, her voice just above a whisper.

It was no longer a mystery why Beat had put up a wall between them. He had been looking at his phone on the ride to the gala, occasionally pressing the speaker to his ear. He’d clearly seen and heard her gushing about him, like a lovesick schoolgirl.

He didn’t feel the same. Obviously. Obviously.

Why would he? Not only was he leaps and bounds out of her league, but he also hadn’t spent the last fourteen years pining over a romanticized version of her. She was the anomaly here, just like she’d always been.

Danielle stepped closer, settling a hand on her arm. “Mel—”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Melody interrupted, stepping back and bumping into something. “Oh! I’m sorry.”

The blond man she’d collided with did a half turn. “It’s—” His gaze widened slightly beneath his mask. “It’s fine. Tight quarters in here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Mic back on, Mel,” Danielle called.

“Right.” Melody did as she was told, even though her fingers were numb. Was her face visibly boiling? Felt like it. Felt like she’d dipped it in a bowl of melted candle wax. She told herself not to look over at Beat, but she couldn’t help it. Eyebrows drawn, he stared at her over the heads of the milling crowd, as if to ask what Danielle had wanted. What was she going to tell him? Ugh, didn’t he already know?

“They’ve opened the doors,” said the blond man, offering her his arm. “May I escort you in? My date has gotten lost in the wilds of the women’s bathroom.” He winked at her. “Platonic date.”

Melody really didn’t want to link arms with this man. Not after he’d winked and emphasized the word “platonic.” Yuck. But she was also a balloon broken free of its bunch in that moment, and she needed something on which to tie her string. Moreover, she wanted to let Beat off the hook. He was probably dreading having to escort her in himself and she didn’t want to make him do that. Nor did she want to spawn any more hashtags with her embarrassing display of affection for someone she’d met for approximately six minutes as a teenager.

“Sure,” she said quickly, hooking her arm through the stranger’s.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

Up ahead, the entrance to the ballroom beckoned, the graceful swell of more stringed instruments reaching out from within. Once again, she tried to avoid making eye contact with Beat, but he was standing in their path and despite the crowd surging around him, he remained still, watching her approach on the man’s arm. Vaguely, she was aware of the camera that was fastened on the proceedings and wondered what the actual hell she’d been thinking saying yes to a live streamed reality show in the first place. Half a day into the process and she’d already exposed herself. Reverted straight back into an awkward teenager.

They drew even with Beat, and Melody craned her neck, as if admiring the shimmering garland framing the ballroom entrance. Just keep walking. Just keep walking—

“Mel,” Beat said, his laugh humorless, his focus far too intent on her face, which had to be the color of a plum tomato. “You ditching me or what?”

Before she could answer, the blond man stuck out his left hand to Beat. “Beat Dawkins. I thought that was you. How have you been, buddy?”

Mel watched in fascination as Beat straightened his shoulders and executed the handshake, his mouth arranging itself into a winning smile. “Can’t complain, Rick. How about you? How is that drive coming along?”

“Mastered it, thanks to my golf pro.” He shook his finger at Beat. “I’ll get you back out on the green one of these days. Come to the club as my guest.”

“You mean, your victim? Not if I can help it.”

Rick threw back his head and laughed, briefly removing his attention from Beat. In that tiny sliver of time, Beat’s smile dropped like a boulder into a pond. He flicked a glance down at Melody’s arm, still entwined with Rick’s, then at her face.

Finally, his smile engaged itself again.

“Listen, Rick, thanks for finding my date for me.” He extended a hand toward Melody. “Do you need some help finding yours . . . ?”

Oh. Rick was shook. He lurched slightly, opened his mouth and closed it.

Apparently, they’d stepped outside the circle of social niceties.

Was interrupting a man midescort simply not done?

Mel really didn’t care about the unspoken rules; she was more intent on saving a scrap of self-respect. Beat shouldn’t have to suffer through her unwanted adoration. “Beat, it’s fine. I’m not your date.”

“Since when, Mel? We came here together.” He shot a narrow look over her shoulder. “What did Danielle need to tell you?”

“Nothing important.”

He studied her. “I think you’re fibbing.”

“Why?”

“Your right foot is digging into your left ankle.”

“I’m . . .” Melody looked down, seeing that she did, indeed, have all her weight balanced on her left foot, her right toe smashing into her opposite ankle. “I had no idea I did this when I lie.”

“Aha. I knew it.” Under his breath, she thought he said, “I’m fucked.”

But she couldn’t be sure.

Melody placed both feet firmly on the ground, growing increasingly desperate for that scrap of pride. If she couldn’t come by it through avoidance, she could at least tell the truth. “Fine. She let me know that . . . the internet has decided I have an . . . affinity for you. A crush, for lack of a better term. They have focused in on it, what with their hashtags and things. She wanted to let me know that . . .”

Beat had rocked back on his heels. “Let you know what?”

She glanced anxiously at the camera, its red light flashing, and dropped her voice to a pained whisper. “That I was being obvious about it.”

Oh, good Lord.

She’d done that. She’d just admitted her crush to her crush. Out loud.

For the whole internet to see.

Surprisingly, Melody didn’t immediately want to find a dark corner to wrap herself in the fetal position and shame-spiral until the sun came up. The admission was almost . . . freeing. Like she’d been running with a parachute strapped to her back, but someone—no, she herself—had finally reached back and snipped the strings.

“Uhhh,” Rick said. “I think I see my date.”

Rick was still there?

Yes. Not only that, she had his arm in a death grip.

Loosen. Loosen.

“Sorry,” Melody murmured, setting the blond golfer loose.

Beat still hadn’t moved, his jaw bunched as he looked down at her. Eyes unreadable.

She forced herself not to look away, but the fetal position was becoming more inviting.

“I’ll just see you in there—”

“We should talk,” Beat interrupted.

“We really don’t have to talk about it. The . . .”

“Your crush on me.”

She gulped. “Yes.”

“We do need to talk about it.” He wet his lips. “You . . . it’s complicated, Mel.”

“I super don’t want the ‘it’s complicated’ talk.”

“This isn’t the typical ‘it’s complicated’ talk. We’re not typical.”

“You mean, I’m not,” she blurted.

His eyebrows slashed together. “What?”

The camera was two feet away. They both seemed to realize it at the same moment, her brain engaging just in time to snap her mouth shut, Beat visibly shaking himself. “Come on. We have some time before my mother makes her grand entrance.” He gave Joseph a pointed look. “No cameras allowed on the dance floor.”

Before Melody knew what was happening, Beat took her hand and pulled her through the entrance into the ballroom—and she couldn’t help but marvel at her surroundings for a second. The room had been transformed into a veritable winter palace, cast in silver and gold hues, several large sculptures in the shapes of snowflakes hanging from the ceiling, lights twinkling, champagne glasses clinking. The tables were garnished with lush holly wreaths and hurricane candleholders that flickered and glowed. Tasteful, elegant perfection.

Her mother would have hated it.

It took Melody several beats to realize she was being pulled into the center of the dance floor—where no one else was dancing. Like, zero.

“Oh. No. I don’t think so. I don’t need all these witnesses when I accidentally kill you. The coroner will determine you died from a freak accident. ‘The high heel went straight through the sole of his foot, John. Death by stiletto.’”

Beat sent her an amused glance over his shoulder. “Who is John?”

“The coroner’s plucky assistant.”

“Obviously.” Beat turned on a dime and trapped her with an arm around her waist, his public smile tilting his lips beneath the black velvet mask. “We need to talk off camera. This is the best way to do it, okay? Do you know how to turn off your mic?”

“Do you think Danielle wants us to turn them off right now?”

“I don’t care.”

“Right.” She reached back and pressed the button on the battery pack for the third time in under ten minutes. “It’s off.”

“Mine too.” He shook her a little, his attention straying to her breasts, before returning to her face resolutely, though . . . were his eyes slightly glazed? “Loosen up, Melody. I’ve got you.”

“Oh. Full name. He means business.” The raw kick of his cologne invaded her nose. She gave into the urge to memorize it. The masculine notes of charcoal and sage and black licorice. Darker than she would have imagined for Beat. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. I swear, I’m not suffering from some delusion that you’re going to be my boyfriend. It’s just a holdover from my youth, I guess you could say?”

No. She was selling the whole thing short.

You’ve come this far, why not let the whole truth out?

And it wasn’t merely that being honest released the pressure she’d been housing in her chest for a decade and a half, but she trusted Beat. Trusting Beat was like a built-in mechanism she couldn’t remember being installed. For some reason, that faith in him had always been there. Maybe she’d been born with it.

“Okay, here’s the truth. I don’t date very often. Lately, not at all. You understand what it’s like to grow up with a famous parent, you never know if someone is in it for you. Or if they just want a good story. ‘I dated Trina Gallard’s daughter.’ You know?” They were moving, but not really. Swaying to the swelling of strings, without bothering to turn in a circle. Beat was staring at her mouth, as if concentrating hard on the words that were coming out—and she couldn’t have imagined a better reaction to what she was saying. Listening. He was listening. “When I met you a million years ago, I was right in the middle of a hard time. I was just this awkward presence bumbling around, being nothing like my badass mother. I was a disappointment. But you treated me like . . . a person. A real person who was going through the same thing as you. Or have I overblown the whole thing in my head?”

“No,” he said, voice rusted. “You haven’t.”

Relief grew like branches in her veins, straight into her fingertips where they rested on his broad shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Jesus, Mel. You have nothing to thank me for.”

“Okay.” They were being careful to keep their bodies a centimeter apart, but her nipples were slowly drawing into tight points, as if attempting to reach out and brush his chest. His firm hands gripped her waist, thumbs resting on the points of her hips. She had to bite her tongue to keep from requesting that he dig them in. Just once. Just so she could know what it felt like. But that wouldn’t be right. “Beat, my attraction to you isn’t your responsibility.”

When he made a frustrated sound and leaned down to speak against her ear, Mel could only hold her breath, the room pausing around her. “I’m grateful for the way you feel about me, Mel. It’s a beautiful thing. But . . . ah . . .” He seemed to search for the right words. “Now it’s my turn to point out how we were raised. To keep things quiet. Private. I was taught that trusting people, even friends, could ultimately hurt my family, so I’ve probably taken my privacy too far. My romantic life . . . my sex life, I should say . . .” He exhaled hard. “It’s something I keep separate from everything. Everyone.”

Melody’s world shrunk down into that moment, like she’d gone from his big, noisy ballroom to huddling under a blanket fort with him in the dark. What exactly did he mean? How did he keep his romantic life separate? “Beat—”

Trumpets.

So many trumpets blared at once.

They went off in every corner of the ballroom, making it impossible to talk. To hear.

Beat’s lips twisted wryly, mouthing a single word.

Octavia.

Mel quarter turned just in time to watch her mother’s former bandmate enter the ballroom to thunderous applause.

On a throne.

Being carried by four large men dressed as swans.