It's a Wonderful Tangled Christmas Carol (Tangled, #4.5) (8)

She’s twelve years old now, with her mother’s build—tall and lithe. Her blond hair is pulled back in a long ponytail, and she’s wearing a red coatdress with pearl buttons, black leggings, and flat black boots.

I have no frigging idea how she got here or why, but you can bet your ass I’m going to find out.

She talks into a glitter-covered cell phone. “Tell them if we don’t have those numbers by tomorrow, their balls are going to be sitting in a glass case on my desk, goddamn it.”

It’s safe to say the whole bad-word jar thing didn’t work out like my sister had hoped.

“Mackenzie?”

She ends her call and flops down into the chair across from my desk. “Hi, Uncle Drew.”

“Did you come here by yourself? Do your parents know where you are? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, come on—you know why I’m here.” Mischief dances in her big green eyes.

Which is frigging strange, because Mackenzie’s eyes are blue.

I don’t have time to comment, because in a flurry of red fabric, she’s on her feet holding her hand out to me. “Let’s get going. Places to go, people to see. Time is money.”

I take her hand and we walk out of my office, down the hall to my father’s closed office door. Mackenzie opens the door and we step over the threshold.

And I feel the color drain from my face.

Because this isn’t my father’s office. Not even close.

I stumble backward, making contact with the yellow living room wall.

“What the f*ck . . .” I whisper. Confused. A little horrified.

“You don’t look so good, Uncle Drew,” Mackenzie comments.

Losing your mind will do that to you.

I turn in a circle, taking in beige couches and an oak entertainment center housing a television that is definitely not a flat screen. Miracle on 34th Street is on, and the air smells like fresh baked cookies. A modest Christmas tree sits decorated in the corner and dark red poinsettias are scattered between multiple framed family photos on the shelves. Family photos of my parents, my sister, and me—until I’m about five years old.

And then I finally f*cking realize what’s going on.

“This is a dream,” I say, in a voice that can’t decide if it’s a question or a declaration. “I fell asleep at my desk and I’m dreaming right now.”

Funny. Usually my dreams are the more X-rated variety. Involving me and Kate in multiple porn-toned scenarios. Sometimes I’m a Roman emperor and she’s my toga-less slave girl who feeds me grapes and happily caters to my every whim. Sometimes I’m Han Solo and she’s Princess Leia, screwing our way across the galaxy. Other times she’s the powerful, ambitious businesswoman who lands a major client with me, then we f*ck on the conference table until neither of us can walk.

Oh, wait—that last one actually happened.

The point is—out of all the dreams I remember having, my sweet niece sure as shit hasn’t featured in any of them. And not a single one took place in this place—an apartment I barely remember living in.

Mackenzie shrugs. “If it keeps you from wussing out on me, we’ll call it a dream. Do you know where we are?”

“This is the apartment we lived in when I was a kid, before we moved uptown.”

“That’s right. Do you know why we’re here?”

I try really hard. “Um . . . the sushi I ate for lunch was bad and the toxins have spread to my brain, causing some strange-ass hallucinations?”

Giggling, Mackenzie drags me forward. “Come on.”

We enter the kitchen. Sitting at a small round table is the preteen version of my sister, Alexandra. Around this time, she hadn’t yet grown into her nickname, “The Bitch,” but the early signs were there. She’s chewing gum and flipping through a Tiger Beat magazine with the New Kids on the Block on the cover. And her hair—Jesus Christ, she must’ve used a whole can of hair spray, because her bangs form a poof on top of her head, stiff and unnaturally high.

Sitting beside her, looking dapper in a long-sleeved Back to the Future T-shirt, is me. Five-year-old me. I’m kind of small for my age; the growth spurt won’t hit for another few years. But with my thick black hair brushed to the side, my deep blue eyes shining with youthful exuberance, I’m nothing short of f*cking adorable.

There’s a plate of cookies in the middle of the table, with still-warm gooey chocolate chips. My mom’s homemade cookies. They’re indescribably awesome. But when young Drew reaches for one, Alexandra smacks his hand. “No more cookies, Drew. You’re going to give yourself a stomachache.”

“But they’re so good,” I whine. And I give her the puppy dog eyes. “Just one more? Please?”

At first Lexi’s expression is stern. But under the power of young Drew’s cuteness, she melts. “Okay. One more.”

Are you feeling the foreshadowing here?

He smiles his thanks and talks with a mouthful of cookie. “You’re the best sister ever, Lexi.”

She ruffles his hair.

I chuckle and tell Mackenzie, “How irresistible am I? Didn’t even have to work at it.”

Mackenzie laughs. “You were really cute. Watch—this part is important.”

My mother breezes into the kitchen, smooth skinned, blond, and beautiful—despite the atrocious Christmas tree sweater she’s sporting. In her hand she holds a cordless telephone.