Booked for Christmas

Sophie in a hug while simultaneously looking offended and holding onto a box of cookies. It was an art form. Her snake bracelet pressed into Sophie’s back. “I just didn’t want people to be hungry! Or thirsty! Or sober! Also, look!”
She opened the box she was holding. Nestled inside were a dozen sugar cookies with Sophie’s latest book’s cover printed on them.
Touched, Sophie gathered Peyton into a hug. “Oh my gosh, that’s so sweet. Thank you, P.”
“You can thank me by making sure we eat and drink every single morsel I brought, or Marco will never let me live this down,” Peyton whispered into her ear.
Laughing, Sophie squeezed Peyton once and then let go. Her best friend smelled like car freshener and mint gum and, as usual, was dressed in black: Tonight, she wore a glittery black oversize sweater tunic that amplified her pale, almost translucent skin.
“What the hell is that?” Peyton said, clearly looking at something over Sophie’s shoulder.
Letting go of her friend, Sophie turned to see the cause of Peyton’s agitation: her Christmas tree. Smiling fondly, Sophie walked over to the little thing, patting its bare top. “Oh, this is Bert.”
Jonah raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”
Marco frowned in the general direction of her tree. “I second that.”
“Nobody was picking him in the lot, you guys,” Sophie protested.
“Yeah.” Peyton looked at her like she had told them she was choosing celibacy for life. “That’s because that thing’s almost dead.”
“Shh,” Sophie said. “Plants can sense your energy, you know.”
Jonah snorted and threaded his arm through Sophie’s. “Okay, that’s enough of … Bert, was it? Yeah. We need to go see what the food and booze situation is in the kitchen, stat.”
Sophie laughed and let herself be led away. “Okay. But you guys didn’t need to bring anything. I told you I had it covered.”
They set the booze and desserts her trio of friends had brought in the kitchen. Sophie began to lay out crudités and other hors d’oeuvres on vintage, Christmas-themed platters she’d inherited from her grandmother.
Jonah popped a stuffed portobello mushroom into his mouth, chewed in record time, and swallowed before saying, “So. Have you gotten laid yet, Soph?”
Sophie coughed, even though she hadn’t eaten anything. “Excuse me?”
Peyton and Marco were helping themselves to the food and drinks, but had avid, entertained looks on their faces.
Jonah peeked into the slow-cooker, where the meatballs were almost finished simmering. “Mm. This smells amazing.” Then, looking at her, he added, “You know. Your dry spell. Have you broken it yet?”
Sophie cupped the back of her neck with a hand. “I don’t know if I want to talk about this before the party.” Walking over to the booze corner, she poured herself a healthy glass of sangria and took a sip, feeling the warmth of the drink traveling through her bloodstream. “Okay. Maybe I do.”
Jonah grabbed another portobello mushroom and hopped onto the kitchen counter next to her. “Excellent.”
Sophie gazed into her glass as Peyton and Marco sat at the kitchen table. “It hasn’t been … great. So, no, I haven’t broken the dry spell.”
Peyton let out a sad breath. “Damn. I was hoping you’d seal the deal with that electrician who came out to fix your heater.” She paused. “I have a full moon spell for that, if you want.”
Sophie frowned. “No, thanks. He’s, like, sixty. And I’m pretty sure he’s married.”
Peyton raised an eyebrow and took a gulp of her merlot. “Oh. I thought he was young and hot, for some reason.”
“You’re probably thinking of Luuk, the hot plumber in Dashing through the Snow.” Peyton was one of her early readers and biggest fans and frequently got real life confused for the fictional one she was currently lost in. Which was why she made an excellent book editor (but not Sophie’s editor; they’d made the decision a long time ago to keep work and friendship separate). “Alas, it doesn’t usually work that way in real life.” She paused, wondering if she should talk about this next thing. She’d worked so hard over the last forty-eight hours to put it out of her head. But chances were, her friends had already seen it. “Speaking of Dashing through the Snow, though … Did you guys see Wolfe’s latest?”
Marco made a face that was part thunder, part disdain. “You mean that smear campaign he calls the book review section of The Sun? Yeah, I caught it. And I left him a comment telling him what I thought, too.”
“Marco, you don’t have to do that.” Sophie sighed. “You know you’re not going to change his mind.”
“Yeah, but at least he can’t pretend to be oblivious in that echo chamber of his. If we all leave dissenting comments telling him why he’s a total shit, he can’t pretend everyone feels the same way as him.”
Peyton took an aggressive sip of her wine. “I left an anonymous comment about his reviewing skills being as shady as his aura.”
Jonah leaned over and squeezed Sophie’s shoulders. “I love ya, Soph. You didn’t let that review send you into a sad spiral that day, did you? I wanted to text you, but I didn’t want to draw attention to it in case you hadn’t seen it yet.”
“Same,” Marco and Peyton said together.
Her sweet, sweet, innocent friends. They didn’t know she had a scrapbook full of Wolfe’s reviews dating back four years. Or that she meticulously printed his reviews out and added it to the scrapbook every time he obliterated one of her books. Because the truth was, while Wolfe’s scathing criticism of her work infuriated her, she also grudgingly enjoyed reading his reviews: their clever turns of phrase, their sarcastic witticisms. If she wasn’t so mad at him, she’d kind of admire Wolfe’s skill with the pen.
No, her poor friends didn’t know the depths of her sick obsession.
“Did I let the fact that he described my Christmas romance as a ‘Jingle Hell for book critics’ send me into a sad spiral? No, absolutely not.” She paused, swirling her drink. “No more than ‘Dashing through