Page 53 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
When the last reporter finally shuffled out, my office looked like the aftermath of a press junket and a funeral home had collided.
I turned to Jake. “What the fuck was that?”
He grinned, smug as hell. “A moment of holiday magic, big brother.”
“I need to get my legal department on this,” I said, already reaching for the phone. “That footage is not airing tonight.”
Jake raised a hand. “Too late. It was live.”
I froze mid-dial. “You’re joking.”
“I wouldneverjoke about live TV. It was streamed to every local network and probably half the internet. You’re officially Father Christmas, savior of all the rejected trees.”
“And you?” I turned to Spencer, who looked seconds from laughing himself into a coma. “How the hell did you even allow this?”
Spencer coughed into his fist, eyes bright. “Let’s just say I didn’t have much of a choice. Jake had…leverage.”
Jake shrugged, completely unapologetic. “Also, I might still be holding a grudge from last Christmas.”
“Of course you are,” I muttered. “And I’m sure this makes you feel healed.”
Jake smiled like a man who’d just won a bet. “Imagine all the trees that’ll be saved from the chipper now. You’re basically the patron saint of forestry. You’re like a wood nymph.”
“Get out of my office,” I said evenly.
He clapped me on the back again, all holiday cheer and mock sincerity. “You’re welcome, Father Christmas.”
Then he coasted out, hummingI’ll Be Home for Christmasunder his breath.
Spencer lingered, still half-laughing. “You’ve got to admit, it’s genius.”
“Genius,” I repeated. “That’s one word for it.”
When the door finally shut behind him, I stood there, staring at the graveyard of brown trees still lining the windows. The faint glitter of the old tinsel caught in the light, the scent of dry pine and humiliation filling the air.
And then it hit me.
This wasn’t just Jake. Or Spencer.
This had Avery written all over it.
She’d used the guys as cover, turned my own joke about rescuing trees into a full-blown PR stunt, and managed to make me look like the poster boy for sentimental charity—all while laughing her beautiful ass off at home.
I wasn’t even mad.
I was impressed.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to get her back.
She wouldn’t see it coming. She never did.
I straightened my tie, grabbed my briefcase, and headed for the door, already plotting my next move.
If Avery Mitchell wanted a full-blown Christmasprank war, she’d just made it official.
TWENTY-ONE
Avery
