Page 1 of Mr. Merry Ex-Mas
1
SADIE
Ibelieve in three things: a well-structured Google Calendar, white twinkle lights over colored ones, and never going back to an ex. Especially not a charming-yet-infuriating man who can’t be serious for more than three minutes. And certainly not the one who was the best sex I ever had. But only when I was mad.
So naturally, the Starlight Bay’s Town Board has paired me with said ex to plan the biggest event of the season. The Christmas Gala is the event of all events, and I can’t believe they trust me to plan it. If all goes well, this could be a huge step forward in my event planning business. Not only would I get more jobs, but it would mean my sister's future husband, Matt Byrne, and his winery, Grape Expectations, would sponsor it. It would be an amazing push for our soon-to-be blended families.
I’m standing in the empty hallway of the school, kids long gone for the day, staring down at the neatly printed itinerary in my hands that I had given every board member this morning, color-coded, of course, and fight the very unprofessional urge to scream. Or throw something. Or call my therapist. Okay, call my sister, but that’s basically the same thing.
“Danny Love,” I mutter his name like it’s a curse word and grip my clipboard tighter.
“Miss me?”
I close my eyes at the sound of his voice. That voice that used to whisper sweet nothings and dirty words all at the same time. The tone hadn’t changed. It was still deep and smooth with just enough snark to remind me that his favorite pastime is getting under my skin.
Without looking at him, I reply, “I’m allergic to overgrown frat boys, so let’s keep this professional.”
He chuckles. Of course, he chuckled; there's not a serious bone in his body. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
When I finally turn and look at him, I wish I hadn’t. There he is, all six feet two of him. Dirty blond hair disheveled like his hands have been in it all day. Dark chocolate eyes that can see right through me. And that fucking smirk like he’s remembering every night we ever spent together. Every touch, every kiss,every thrust...
Stop it.
“Did you even read the meeting notes?” I ask, white-knuckling my clipboard so I don’t smack him upside the head with it.
“I skimmed them,” he says, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “You use the phrase ‘color palette cohesion’ seven times. I figured that covers the basics.”
I give him my beauty pageant smile, the fake one showing my teeth. “Good to know your reading comprehension skills are on level with the students you teach.”
“Good to know your personality still comes with footnotes.”
We stare at each other for a moment too long, the familiar tension settling in between us like always. Pick, fight, fuck. That's the sum of how our relationship went.
I clear my throat, stepping away from him, and nod toward the small auditorium we’re supposed to transform into a Magical Christmas Getaway. There will be songs performed by the kids in Danny’s class, an adult choir rendition of “All I Want for Christmas” and, of course, all the sweets and reindeer games you could ask for. But first? Planning, planning, and more planning before the decorations go up, the stage is built, and the food is ordered.
And I need to make sure he understands how important this is.
“Let’s get one thing straight. This event matters to me. It’s my business, my reputation, and since the winery in town is sponsoring this, it’s also your friend Matt’s reputation and, most of all, my sanity. I’m not letting you derail it with your usual,” I wave my hand in the air, “Danny-ness.”
He arches a brow. “My ‘Danny-ness’? Is that on your banned items list now?”
I turn away from him. “Only if I want to sleep at night.”
Behind me comes a low whistle that I swear I’ll never admit to liking. “Still got that fire, huh?”
Only for you. Fuck. Stop it, Sadie.
My heels tap across the wooden floor, and his sneakers squeak behind me. Danny never knew when to quit. He was always stupidly good at making chaos look charming, and he always knew what buttons to push to make me like it, too.
Until the pushing became too much, and I knew he would never mature past the age he taught: fourth grade.
“So,” he says, one hand in his pocket while he scans the room. “You’re really running this thing? Like, we’re talking full-on Christmas command center?”
With my hand on my hip and clipboard still tight in the other, I say, “Yes. I’m in charge. Which means no improvising and no last-minute changes. If you have an idea, run it by me.”
“Got it. So, no elf-on-elf action and probably no battery-powered candy canes, right?”
I roll my eyes. “How are you teaching our youth?”
