Page 49 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
“Mom,” Izzy pleaded. “Just wait till Dad’s back at work.”
“You’re all working together,” I muttered. “How am I supposed to trust any of you?”
Jim chuckled. “Same way we trust you, my love. Don’t.”
Their smiles told me if I pushed for one more second, I’d hand them the win. Whatever. Cat would handle it. We’d hit our deadline.
The best part was right here—being with my family. And the even better part was the reason we were building the set at all: to march Jim out in his pajamas like Clark Griswold’s boss, then change him into Scrooge’s wardrobe so he could ‘fully immerse’ himself with the employees he almost short-changed this year. Eyes on the grand finale, not the games getting us there.
In the end, the joke would be on Jim. That’s what mattered, reminding him what this war was about and making sure he didn’t take the cheap way out next year. Honestly, today’scheating challengeshad dragged him to a tree lot, away from the office, and into spending more holiday time with us than he ever had.
Maybe the rescue tree wasn’t the only thing saved today.
TWENTY
Jim
I walkedinto the skyscraper of Mitchell and Associates, proud that I’d not only wasted away the entire weekend, stalling both mine and Avery’s planning, but that we’d also managed to have a lovely and overly festive weekend as a family.
It was funny that just a few short weeks ago, I’d been dreading the holidays, knowing they’d come and go in a blur, another season to get through. But now? Somehow, I was doing stupid shit with my brother and Collin, like rescuing brown Christmas trees that had already died on their lots and would’ve never seen Christmas in a home.
Stupidest idea ever. But when had Jake and Collin ever done anything normal? The difference this time was that the joke wasn’t on me—it was on my scheming wife. And I’ll admit that made rescuing a half-dead tree feel a little more worthwhile.
As I moved through the grand foyer of my building, the sheer scale of it still managed to hit me like the first time I’d walked through those glass doors years ago. Polished Italianmarble stretched from wall to wall, reflecting the warm golden light spilling down from a chandelier the size of a small car. Two sweeping staircases curved upward like something out of an old Hollywood film, their black iron railings wrapped in evergreen garland and twinkling white lights.
And every December, right here in the heart of it all—where the building’s energy seemed to converge—stood our crown jewel: a Christmas tree so massive it nearly grazed the third-story balcony.
Fifty feet of perfect symmetry. The kind of tree that made grown adults stop to take photos as if they’d stumbled upon Rockefeller Center. Every branch glimmered under soft amber lights, draped with velvet ribbons in the company’s signature gold and champagne palette. Hand-blown glass ornaments caught the light and threw it back like shards of champagne bubbles, and the air carried that unmistakable mix of pine, cinnamon, and power.
It wasn’t just decoration. It was the annual statement of this building—a declaration of elegance, excess, and the kind of holiday grandeur that made every employee proud to work here.
So, when I stepped inside this morning and saw what hadreplacedit, I froze.
“What the fuck?” I muttered, shifting my briefcase as I walked toward the space that was always transformed into Santa’s Village for the employees’ kids.
“Ho, ho, ho!” came a voice.
Our real-life Santa—honestly, the best money could buy—was already in full character, spreading cheer like a pro.
“Morning, Santa,” I said, giving him a nod as I scanned the area. Everything looked perfect. Except for one glaring problem.
The centerpiece of the lavish setup wasn’t our spectacular tree—it was a five-foot, crispy brown disaster.
I pointed. “What the hell is that?”
The security guard hesitated. “It’s a rescue tree, Mr. Mitchell.”
“A rescue tree,” I repeated flatly. “And who brought this in?”
The guard’s shoulders lifted. “I’m not sure, sir. I was just given a pamphlet explaining the importance of replacing the usual tree with this one.”
A pamphlet?I smirked. Damn, my wife was good.
I had two choices: throw a full CEO tantrum or play along. A dead, depressing tree now sat in the middle of my luxury tower.
“That’s…interesting,” I said, calculating my next move.
My first priority was to make sure Santa was okay with this tragic scenery next to his perfect North Pole display.
