Page 55 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
Jim: Ok
Fuck.TheOkor a thumbs-up emoji. Those were the husband equivalent of a death sentence. I was officially screwed, and I knew it. Jim’s revenge wasn’t a matter ofif; it waswhen.
Could he at least pretend he didn’t already know I was behind it? A little plausible deniability never hurt a marriage.
Still, I wasn’t going to stew over it. Jim and I always had our little wars—sweet, stupid, ridiculous competitions that somehow made us better. The difference this time was that I’d accidentally weaponized his brothers and VP, and now the media was in on it.
I didn’tthinkanything bad could come of it, but in this day and age, you could rescue a dying kitten and still get crucified online by someone saying you were interfering with nature or something.
I needed a glass of wine to survive the evening broadcast. Hell, I was probably more worried about this than Jim could ever be.
I took a deep breath,grabbed my wine, and turned on the news just in time to catch the tail end of the weather. My heart was racing like I was about to watch my own execution…
“…and finally tonight,” the anchor said with that too-bright smile, “a story that proves even brown can be beautiful.”
“Oh, God. Here we go,” I said to myself, taking a sip.
The footage opened on the stunning lobby of Mitchell and Associates, spilling with gold light and holiday grandeur. The twin staircases were wrapped in garland and champagne ribbons, the marble floors glowing under chandeliers, and every inch screamed elegance.
Until the camera panned to the middle.This partwas my prank, theonlything I’d planned. I didn’t find out anything else until after Ash had called and told me to start scrolling through social media. That’s when I learned that Jake, Collin, and Spence had their own little prank hiding behind mine, which was to bring in the media.
I watched with humor when the camera panned right, where Mitchell and Associates’ usual fifty-foot masterpiece of a tree should’ve been. In its place was a sad, brittle seven-foot Christmas tree, brown from tip to trunk, leaning slightly to the left like it had lost the will to live long before Halloween.
The reporter’s voice floated over the shot: “Mitchell and Associates’ annual tree lighting took a surprising turn this morning when CEO Mr. James Mitchell unveiled what many are callingthe rescue tree.”
I covered my mouth to hide my laugh as the camera zoomed out. Jim’s immaculate and picture-perfect replica of Santa’s Village sat behind the tree. It was now complete with the jolliest Santa money could buy, a candy-striped sleigh, and rows of peppermint poles. The poor tree looked like it had wandered in from a drought and collapsed next to the steps leading into Santa’s house, never making it inside before officially giving up on having its last Christmas.
My eyes were filled with tears from laughing so damn hard that I could hardly fucking breathe.
“Oh, Jim,” I whispered, still laughing so hard I had to set my glass down.
Then the feed cut to the top floor.
His office looked straight out of a luxury magazine with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the L.A. skyline at sunset. But the glittering view only made what sat in front of it worse. A line of brown trees stood like mourners along the glass, their brittle branches drooping under strands of dusty tinsel.
And there he was. My husband. Every inch the billionaire CEO, standing behind his desk with that look of polite murder written all over his face.
“Sir,” said a reporter from Channel 6, “can you tell us what inspired you to take such a compassionate interest in trees that were cut too early and wouldn’t have been chosen for Christmas this year?”
Flashbulbs popped. Jim’s jaw flexed once. Twice. “Just a…fun charity thing,” he said, perfectly even.
Before the reporter could ask another question, a familiar voice rang out, “Oh, do go on!”
Of course, it was Jake.
He pushed through the crowd like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. “That’s right,” he said after someone recognized him and called his name. “And I have to confess that my brother has shaken me to the very foundation of my holiday spirit, all thanks to his charitable work with these trees.”
I was already choking on laughter, tears streaming down my cheeks, and now Jake was on camera to turn this into something I don’t think could ever become undone.
Jake turned solemn, hand on Jim’s shoulder like he was giving a eulogy. “You see, my brother’s heart has always been bigger than his wallet. While the rest of us think about beautiful trees to garnish our homes, he thinks about the forgotten ones…”
“Where do you imagine this conviction came from?” the reporter asked Jim.
“It all began at a tree lot,” Jake smoothly spoke as if the reporter had asked him the question.
Jim’s lips moved, but no sound came out. He appeared to be praying for divine intervention.
Then, Jake went misty-eyed. “I watched as my brother stopped singing, mid-carol, as he was blessing his family’s stunning and lush green tree.” Jake looked down at Jim, and Jim only stared blankly at the camera. Jake took that as his invitation to go on. “You know,” he said, looking at the camera as if selling this story could win him a medal, “it was as if the North Star itself shone down on a dying tree about to go into the chipper. I watched Jim become immediately uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t bear it. That’s when he halted his singing of—what was it, Jim?”
