Page 67 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
“Thanks,” I said.
I gave Addy a kiss goodbye, left the ladies to lock up the Malibu house, and moved with purpose to get to my husband. Hopefully, we could smooth this shit over—after I kicked out every man who’d been giving Jim hell for this entire mess.
The Newport Beach relaxation retreat did sound lovely. After a week of this tense bullshit, I was the one who needed the damn masseuse.
TWENTY-SIX
Jim
My phone hadn’t stopped vibratingsince five-thirty that morning.
I’d ignored it for the first ten minutes, assuming it was just work. Then, fifteen minutes in, it wouldn’t stop lighting up my nightstand like a Vegas slot machine. That’s when I reluctantly checked the fucking thing.
Maybe it was Avery, and this whole damn nightmare could just be put behind us. God, remind me toneverthink of having a fake fight with my wife again. Nothing could be worse than dealing with the fallout of it turning into a real one.
When I glanced at my phone, the fight with Avery faded instantly—because what I was staring at was, without question, worse.
Far worse.
Twelve missed calls from my head of PR, and multiple texts. Three messages from my assistant were marked “URGENT.”And one text from Spencer that simply read:Bro, don’t freak out.
Which, naturally, meant that’sexactlywhat I should do.
The headlines hit me next:
“From Sapling to Single: CEO Jim Mitchell Goes Viral Again.”
“She Took the Tree, the Mansion, and the Man’s Sanity — Internet Declares #BachelorJim Official.”
“Can’t Save His Marriage but He’ll Rescue a Brown Tree.”
I exhaled through my teeth and rubbed my temples. The first text from PR said:
Sir, please refrain from posting or commenting. We’re handling messaging internally.
The second said:
Also, sir, the Titanic edit has over 1.3 million views.
TheTitanicedit?Jesus Christ.
I dragged a hand over my face and rolled out of bed. The smell of coffee and bacon drifted up from downstairs, which was already suspicious. None of those bastards cooked unless they’d done something stupid.
I tugged on a T-shirt, shoved my phone into my pocket, and headed down to face the execution squad.
Sure enough, Jake, Collin, Spencer, and Alex were huddled around my kitchen island like four grown-ass men trying to look innocent while flipping pancakes.
“Morning, sunshine,” Spencer said, overly chipper. “Hungry?”
I stopped at the base of the stairs and folded my arms. “I believe I should be the one asking questions. Which one of you jackasses posted poker night?”
They all froze.
Jake coughed into his coffee. Collin pretended to check the bacon. Alex, my closest friend and newest conspiring traitor, offered me a plate as if I were a dangerous zoo animal.
“Technically,” Jake said, “it was just aphoto.”
“Andtechnically,” I said evenly, “so was the Zapruder film.”
