“For any of you who don’t know me, I’m Sylvia Baxter—at least, I’ve been Sylvia Baxter for the last fifteen years. And Sylvia Baxter is classy. Sylvia Baxter takes the high road. Sylvia Baxter behaves.” I paused. “Sylvia Baxter is on the Nice List.”

A disapproving murmur rippled through the room.

“But there are some people in this room who are not on the Nice List. In fact, there are some people here at the top of the Naughty List.”

A child in line to see Santa burst into tears.

“Philandering husbands who cheat and lie about it—they’re on the Naughty List.” I glared at Brett and then at Kimmy. “Naive salesgirls from J.Crew who spread nasty gossip—they’re on the Naughty List.” I stared down Tippy and the rest of my former confidantes. “Disloyal social climbers who call themselves friends even as they stick knives in your back—they’re on the Naughty List.”

At that point, Brett left his table and was starting to walk toward the dance floor.

Oh, hell no. I would not let that man silence me.

But I knew I should probably wrap this up.

“The rest of you are probably on the Nice List,” I said, talking more quickly now that Brett was headed my way. “And if you want to make sure you stay there, it’s actually really easy.” I shrugged. “Don’t be an asshole. Merry Christmas, everybody. Peace out.”

Then I held out my arm and dropped the mic.

It sounded terrible. It looked ridiculous. Santa was going to switch me to the Naughty List, and people around here were going to talk shit about me for years to come.

But it felt really badass.

And that was worth it.

2. Henry

Two

Henry

“Hey. You still here?”

I looked up from the oak barrel I was working on, surprised to see Declan MacAllister walking across the stone floor of the cavernous winery cellar. As the CFO of Cloverleigh Farms, he didn’t poke his head back here too often. “Hey, Mack. What’s up?”

“I saw your car in the lot. It’s Saturday night, DeSantis. You’re a swinging single dude now. You’re supposed to be out hooking up with chicks, not here in this bunker giving your wine a massage.”

I laughed. “Bâtonnage, not massage.”

“Whatever,” he said, watching me insert a long metal baton into the hole in the barrel’s side. “God, I really want to make a sexual joke right now. Would that be considered workplace harassment?”

“Listen, this is about as sexual as my Saturday night is gonna get, so no jokes, please.” I worked the baton back and forth, scraping its curved metal foot along the bottom of the barrel.

Mack shook his head. “That is depressing as fuck. I can’t even bring myself to make fun of you for it.”

“Thanks, asshole.”