The Billionaire's Holiday Hoax

The phone buzzed against my ear like an angry wasp, and I already knew this wasn't going to end well.

"Harper Elizabeth Morrison, you tell me right now that you're bringing someone home for Thanksgiving."

Mom's voice carried that particular pitch that meant she'd already worked herself into a full-scale panic. I could practically see her pacing around the kitchen, probably reorganizing the spice rack for the third time today.

"Mom, I—"

"Because your cousin Jessica called, and apparently Chad is bringing his new girlfriend. Your cousin. Your own flesh and blood, Harper. The girl who used to follow you around like a lost puppy when we were kids, and now she's dating your ex-boyfriend."

The words hit me like a slap. Chad. My ex of two years, the one who'd told me I was "too ambitious" and "not family-oriented enough." The same Chad who was now apparently family-oriented enough to date my twenty-two-year-old cousin Jessica, with her perfect blonde curls and her Instagram-worthy life.

"Are you still there? Harper?"

"Yeah, Mom. I'm here." I pressed my fingers against my temple, feeling a headache building. "Look, I'm really busy with work right now, and—"

"Don't you dare use work as an excuse. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is going to be? The whole family asking where your boyfriend is while Chad parades around with Jessica like some kind of conquering hero?"

The phone buzzed again. Another call coming in. Then another.

"Mom, I have to—"

"Promise me, Harper. Promise me you'll bring someone. Anyone. I don't care if you have to hire an actor."

The line went dead, and immediately the phone started ringing again. Mom. Then Aunt Linda. Then my sister. The Morrison family phone tree was in full swing, and I was apparently the main topic of discussion.

I turned off my phone and stared at the ceiling of my tiny Manhattan apartment. The water stain in the corner seemed to mock me, shaped vaguely like a heart with an arrow through it.

Two hours later, I found myself in O'Malley's, a dimly lit bar tucked between a dry cleaner and a bodega. The kind of place where the bartender didn't ask questions and the whiskey was cheap enough that I could afford to drink away my problems.

"Another?" The bartender, a gruff man with arms like tree trunks, gestured to my empty glass.

"Make it a double."

The amber liquid burned going down, but it was a good burn. A cleansing burn. Maybe if I drank enough, I could forget that my ex-boyfriend was now dating my cousin. Maybe I could forget that I'd be walking into Thanksgiving dinner solo while they played happy couple.

The bar door chimed, and I glanced up to see a man slip inside, pulling a baseball cap low over his face. He moved with the kind of careful precision that screamed "trying not to be noticed." Designer jeans, expensive watch, the kind of shoes that cost more than