Page 20 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
Come to think of it, I’d typically have heard from Avery three times by now—even the girls—but not a single missed call or text had come through while I was buried in margins, meetings, and numbers all day.
“Mm,” Jake hummed. “Well, you’ve heard from us, and now, you honestly need to think about this shit, dude. This is bad PR if it gets out.”
“But it’ll be even worse when your firecracker of a wife busts your balls for short-changing her women’s center,” Jace said.
“They’ve all been taken care of,” I said, feeling slightly panicked but still certain that I did nothing wrong. “Her center just had the festival, raised double in its funds, and I made all of that happen while busting balls on new acquisitions.”
“Damn, you really have turned into the man that serves the business,” Jake said. “Oh well, we’ll see what Avery thinks.”
“Indeed,” Alex said. “I’m sure the wives are not even discussing it tonight. You know how much they allhatethe holidays.”
I was still fairly sure Avery wouldn’t be pissed off, although Alex’s last sarcastic comment had cast a shadow of doubt on things.
You know what? No. These guys were all known for starting shit in the dumbest ways. Avery was crying happy tears for everything I did to make her vision come alive with that damn fall festival.AndAvery loves fucking charcuterie boards and champagne, so Iknowfor sure she would love my idea for this year’s Christmas season.
It had been too long a day for me to get caught up in these guys trying to cast me as the thoughtless boss from my favorite Christmas movie. Nice try, though. What I did for Christmas this year was a welcome change, even if it took a few clicks to come up with the idea. But hey, I was efficient like that.
EIGHT
Avery
It had been a day.A long, emotional, patience-testing day. Now, let me make one thing crystal clear: I love my husband with every fiber of my being. But he pisses me off. Like,reallypisses me off. And if anyone tries to tell me they’ve never wanted to strangle their spouse with a string of Christmas lights, they’re lying.
Yes, Jim works himself into the ground. Yes, I know he carries more weight on his shoulders than Santa’s sleigh. But this year? Oh, this year, James Howard Mitchell decided to drop the Christmas ornament-ball, smash it to pieces, and then torch the remains in a dumpster fire fueled by his festive little excuse to screw over everyone he employs.
“Are you not speaking to me tonight?” he asked, strolling in while I was bent over the sink washing my face.
He looked relaxed. Casual. Like a man who wasn’t about to be exiled to the guest room.
I dried my face, gave him a smile sweet enough to rot teeth, and said, “I don’t think you want me speaking to you, James.”
“James?” he chuckled. “What, am I in trouble with the principal again? Last time you used my full name, I’d fired the head groundskeeper.”
“Exactly.” I stepped into my nightgown, the sheer one I knew would make him choke. His eyes immediately dropped because men are predictable. “That poor guy hadn’t done anything wrong, and you axed him over a few weeds. Came home cranky, played boss-hole, ruined a man’s night.”
Jim’s eyes dragged back up to mine, still hot. “He had done nothing. That was the problem. I needed someone who did something.”
God help me. He could look like the world’s hottest bastard while saying the world’s coldest shit.
“Thank God you hired him back,” I said, “but this little stunt with your company? Oh, honey. You didn’t just step in it; you jumped into a vat of shit wearing your best Ferragamo loafers.”
“You’re joking, right?” His hands flew out, pleading. “This has to be my brother messing with me again. And now you’re part of it?” He sighed, “Bringing in the wives again? That was last year’s game, andthey lost.”
I ignored him and slid into bed. I tossed his pillow at him and tucked myself in with my favorite Christmas book,Little Women. “Be grateful I’m letting you keep your fancy cooling pillow. You’ll need it wherever you’re sleeping tonight.”
“Hold on.” He hovered, loosening his tie, watching me open my book. “What’s going on, Av?”
I ignored him, turned a page, and thought about how nice it would feel to smack him with this hardback. Men were so fucking clueless on their own, but give them the title of CEO billionaire, and Jesus H. Christ. It got even worse.
“Are you actually upset about the champagne and board?” he asked, completely disillusioned that I would be.
I glanced up. “When I walked into the center tonight, there wasyourboard and one—one—bottle of champagne sitting there like some pity gift from a random volunteer. Even better? It was next to Titus’s fruit and salami tower, and the cases of champagne, the hams, and the turkeys he’d had flown in…” I paused, watching him deflate. “Oh,andthe private chef.”
He narrowed his eyes and exhaled…but this little rooster was only puffing up because Titus had kicked his ass on something.
I ignored the ego-driven CEO bullshit, “You see the difference? Titus sent a culinary army. You sent Costco’s best sampler platter.”
“That damn bottle of champagne is worth more than a Porsche,” Jim argued, puffing his chest. “And youlovecharcuterie boards. Problem solved.”
