RESTING GRINCH FACE

This novel was so hilarious!!! Between Noel’s bitter attitude and dry humor, Grandma’s “I don’t give a rip” attitude and Elsa’s wingman quirkiness it was a great rom-com. –Stacie, Goodreads

So much fun to read and really got me in the mood for Christmas. –Sara, Amazon

Alina has a talent for weaving serious topics within a lighthearted storyline mixed in with a perfect balance of comedy and spice. –Plus Size Bibliophile, Goodreads

This is a fun and funny happily ever after second chance rom com with some dizzying twists in the plot. Vengeance, vandalism, poor decisions and plenty of steam make this a must-read Christmas romance. I loved it. –Laure, Amazon

A delightful Christmas read that will leave you with a big smile on your face. –Melinda, Goodreads

Chapter 1

Noelle

“Toasted white chocolate peppermint mocha with chestnut praline whipped cream, an extra shot of espresso, and extra, extra Christmas cheer sprinkles!”

I took a deep breath of the cold winter air and let it out.

“So a number six with an extra shot of espresso?” I said slowly to Elsa, trying not to completely lose it and scare the tourists.

“Nooo,” she said, her eyes manic from the lack of sleep and all the caffeine. “It has extra, extra Christmas cheer sprinkles.”

It was the day after Thanksgiving and I already knew, in my shriveled black heart, that I would not survive this holiday season.

The espresso machine whirred while I mixed the sugary concoction like a Christmas witch.

Really more like a Christmas bitch, I thought nastily. I dumped two handfuls of the holiday sugar sparkles and crispy white pearls that made up the Christmas cheer sprinkles on top of the mountain of whipped cream.

I was getting a migraine from the nonstop Christmas carols the band played in the gazebo in the middle of the Harrogate town square. Sure, it added to the quaint small-town atmosphere in the picturesque Christmas market—until you’d been trapped in said market for the last ten hours, hearing the same five songs over and over and over again. Not to mention all the warring smells from the Christmas stalls—the Glühwein, the gingerbread, the roasted chestnuts—were nauseating me.

I glared out over the line of people waiting at the Naughty Claus coffee stand as I started on the next ridiculous order.

You need the money, I reminded myself. 

“Noelle!” My mom’s friend Deborah waved to me.

All I want for Christmas is for Santa to end this madness in a fiery explosion.

“I didn’t expect you to be here slinging coffee like you were still in high school.” She laughed like she was just making a joke. Mean girls never changed.

“I thought you had gone back to Harvard to give it another try,” she said, pretending to do a boxing move with her Chanel fur-lined leather gloves.

“I’m doing it remotely,” I replied as I made the peppermint mocha mechanically.

Deborah shook her head slowly. “It’s such a shame. We all thought you were going to go off and do great things. See, Stacey?” she said to her daughter, who was busy texting on her smartphone. “This is why you can’t just slack off when you get to college. You’ll flunk out and be a huge embarrassment.”

Deborah took her coffee and dropped two quarters into the tip jar.

“Buy your mom something nice for Christmas! Poor woman.”

“Don’t let Deborah get you down,” Elsa whispered to me as she reached around me for two reindeer cake pops. “She’s just jealous.”

“Of what?” I hissed. “Having a daughter who’s a failure and a college dropout?”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Your tits look very nice in your elf uniform!”

Just take it one day at a time. Everyone moves at their own pace. But repeating my father’s words did nothing to dampen the shame that was now exposed to everyone at the Christmas market.

“Do you work for Santa?” a little boy demanded.

I glanced down at him. “No. What’s your order?” I barked.

“Um...”

“Do you want the hot chocolate or—ooh, look!” His mom pointed. “They have reindeer cake pops.”

People standing in line behind the woman started grumbling.

“If you don’t know your order,” I said loudly, “please go to the back of the line.”

“Someone needs a little Christmas cheer in her life,” the woman huffed.

Elsa kicked me.

But I was done. Done with the holidays, done with this itchy uniform, and done with listening to the amateur jazz rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” for the tenth time that day.

“Lady,” I said, “you have been standing in line for the last thirty minutes. To facilitate the coffee-buying experience, I have, for your convenience, placed several menus along the queuing area. With photos. How do you not know your order?”

“This is not the type of customer service I expect at the Christmas market,” she complained. “I want to speak to your manager.”

“We’re called naughty for a reason.” I pointed up at the sign.

The little boy started to cry. “I’m telling Santa that you’re a mean elf.”

“Oh really?” I said, crossing my arms. Was I seriously about to get in an argument with a five-year-old? You betcha.

“Can you even read and write? How are you even going to lodge this complaint?”

“Santa’s on Twitter.” The kid stuck his tongue out at me.

St. Nick help me.

“Will he have me sent off to elf reeducation camp?” I demanded. “Am I going to be tied down on a gingerbread table and waterboarded with royal icing until I sing Christmas carols?”

Several people had their phones out.

“What are you even filming? Do you want me to flash my tits?” I shrieked at the crowd.

Did I mention I had been under a lot of stress lately?

“Don’t let the mean elf ruin your holiday spirits.”

I froze as the deep voice washed over me.

A tall man in an expensive wool coat stepped out of the crowd, leather shoes crunching lightly on the freshly fallen snow. His ice-blue eyes swept over me. He nodded to the little boy’s mother then gracefully knelt in front of the kid.

He smiled a familiar, easy smile, and the boy stopped crying.

“Why don’t I help you order?” the tall man offered.

The kid hiccupped and nodded.

“I’m partial to the snowman cookie. And to drink?” He glanced up at the menu, his eyes sliding over me again while I stood there pinned like a stocking on a mantel.

“Let’s do a Blue Christmas hot chocolate. For Mom, maybe an eggnog latte.” He stood up. “I’ll just have the drip coffee, black.”

“No cookie?” the little boy asked, grabbing the hem of the man’s coat.

Snowflakes rested softly on the man’s platinum white hair—hair that had washed like moonlight over my hands when I had run my fingers through it.

“You know what?” he said with that same easy smile. “It’s Christmas. Why not?” He pulled out his wallet.

My stomach flip-flopped, and I tried not to lose my own Christmas cookies.

“How much do I owe you?” the boy’s mom asked me.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it,” the man practically purred. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.” The little boy’s mom practically drooled as the handsome man handed me his credit card. The heavy metal card was cold in my hand as I swiped it. 

He signed his name with the signature of a man used to signing his name on the line of billion-dollar contracts. Then he slid the receipt over to me.

His eyes met mine. I waited for him to say something, to ask me what I was doing there—anything to show he recognized me, that he remembered me, remembered the night we spent together, the day after he’d ruined my life.

But all he said was, “Could I have a copy of that receipt?”

Like a puppet, I pressed the button on the cash register. I handed him his coffee, feeling numb. 

He gave me a bland smile then waved to the little boy.

“Wait,” I croaked out.

He turned.

“You forgot...”

Me.

“You forgot your cookie.” I handed him the little paper sack with the frosted snowman shortbread cookie I had baked with my mom into the wee hours of the morning.

“It’s homemade.”

“Thanks,” he said, saluting me with his steaming paper cup. “Happy holidays.”

I stared after him, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the crowd.

I felt like crying.

“Was that...” Elsa trailed off.

“Yep.”

“And he didn’t...”

“Nope.”

“Maybe he was just feeling awkward after what he did to you,” Elsa chattered.

“He wasn’t feeling awkward.” The sadness turned into rage. “He literally had no idea who I was.” My voice was taking on a screeching tone. “He looked right at me and didn’t even remember me.”

“You have, er, changed a little bit.”

“I didn’t gain that much weight.”

“I just meant you went back to your natural hair color and aren’t wearing your fake glasses,” Elsa said delicately.

“Yeah, sue me. I wanted to look the part of a Harvard girl. In truth, I will always be a messy small-town girl at heart. Probably why I meant nothing to Oliver. I’m just the help. An elf in a sea of worker elves.”

“We’re getting philosophical, and it’s not even lunchtime yet.”

“How dare Oliver not even remember me? How dare he ruin my life and just walk off with barely a ‘happy holidays’?” I was breathing hard, my breath clouding around me like I was an angry, cookie-addicted, Christmas-hating dragon. “How dare he enjoy the Christmas market? Oliver doesn’t deserve to have a nice Christmas. He doesn’t deserve to have a nice life. He ruined mine. He deserves the same treatment.”

“Oliver Frost is a billionaire,” Elsa hissed, shoving two more cups of coffee across the counter. “You live with your parents and share a bedroom with your niece and your grandmother. You will never get revenge. Sometimes life’s not fair.”

“It should be.” Anger settled deep in my chest. “Men like him shouldn’t just get to wander around the Christmas market in my small town, paying for people’s coffee like they’re Christmas superheroes.” I wiped at my eyes, smearing the heavy makeup. “Someone has to right the scales.”

I picked up the large metal tanks of Snowman Surprise, a nasty concoction of leftover hot chocolate and extra syrups that blended until it was frothy then was topped with whipped cream and glittery red and blue sprinkles. It was served on ice. 

People who’d been around the Christmas market block called it elf vomit. Tourists, and especially their kids, loved it.

I picked up a stack of cups for plausible deniability.

“So, this is your Christmas villain origin story,” Elsa remarked.

“Damn right.”

Chapter 2

Oliver

My older sister didn’t smile when I stepped up beside her.

Her bare arms were crossed and not from the cold. Across the Christmas market, her ex was on the phone while his little sisters raced around him, chasing the snow flurries.

“I got you a coffee, Belle.” I shoved it in her hand. “And a cookie.”

She turned to me. “A cookie?”

“It’s a happy snowman. See?”

I handed her the bag. My oldest brother, Owen, glared at me.

“Belle, he’s being mean to me,” I said automatically.

“You can’t be out here trying to get people to invest in your company if you’re just going to run and hide behind your sister whenever anyone looks at you funny,” my next oldest brother, Jack, scoffed.

“He can’t help it,” Matt, who was one Frost brother too many, ruffled my hair. “He’s the runt of the litter.”

“Now, Belle.” Jonathan, the classic middle child, rubbed her shoulders. “We’re all here to cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering up,” Belle said slowly, still staring at her ex. She bit the head off the snowman. Crunch.

“Yikes.” Jonathan stepped back from her.

“Guess this isn’t going to be a merry Christmas,” Jack muttered.

I needed it to be.

Last year was miserable. I had barely managed to graduate from Harvard because I was so concerned about my sister. I had always loved Christmas, mainly because my sister had always made it special. She would always have the house decorated, presents under the tree, and a nice meal cooked, even when my parents couldn’t be bothered. We would all have a merry Christmas this year, even if it killed us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman in an elf costume creeping around through the crowd.

It’s a Christmas market. Who cares?

I’d had a stressful few months, working on building my company, running my hedge fund, and trying to keep my family from falling apart. I just needed to keep it together through the holidays.

I wanted this Christmas to be nice for my sister. She had given up so much for me to be able to go to school. I had to show her that her struggles had been worth it.

If I didn’t, I was afraid she would leave again.

The elf girl was closer to us.

I felt twitchy with paranoia. I recognized her from somewhere. Maybe she was a corporate spy?

She’s probably just making a delivery.

“I can punch Greg in the face for you,” Owen offered.

“I’m not bailing any of you out of jail this Christmas,” Belle warned, glaring at each of us in the eye. All my siblings had the same coloring—silvery white hair and ice-blue eyes. Backdropped against the falling snow, my sister resembled a Game of Thrones character.

I shifted my weight on my feet.

You’re about to make a huge capital outlay for your new company, I reminded myself. Your investments just peaked over a billion. Act like it.

But my older sister was terrifying.

Her ex looked over at us. His little sisters waved.

After a moment, I suggested, “Maybe we should go say hello?”

Belle’s eyes narrowed.

“Or not.”

The elf girl, lugging a large silver canister on wheels, slipped and slid through the snow toward us.

“Snowman Surprise,” she called. “Five dollars!”

“Yes! My favorite,” Jonathan whooped. “I have a ten.” He waved the bill at my siblings and me. “Who wants a cup?”

“That stuff is toxic.” Owen scowled.

“It’s a Christmas tradition,” Jonathan replied cheerfully.

I trailed Jonathan over to where Greg’s little sisters were lining up for a cup.

“You are not each buying one,” Greg scolded them. “You can split one amongst yourselves.”

“Hey,” I said as the elf ladled out the frothy liquid that smelled sickly sweet, “I know you, don’t I?”

She froze and looked up at me with big brown eyes. Her lips parted.

“Wait,” I said, eyes narrowing, “You’re the Christmas-hating elf from the café. Are you seriously stalking me?”

“Stalking you?” she screeched. “How dare you? I’m trying to make an honest living.”

“Selling toxic waste?”

I was met with protests from Jonathan and the gaggle of little girls.

“This is a small-town tradition. I’m sorry that you and your Manhattan ego can’t appreciate Snowman Surprise,” the young woman snapped.

“Isn’t this that elf vomit stuff?” I asked Jonathan. He’d tried to convince me to drink it last year.

“The one and only.” He handed his ten-dollar bill to the elf. “Load me up.”

She gave me a dark look then hefted the stainless-steel container.

“Bottoms up!”

“Why don’t you just use the—fuck!” I yelled as her arms jerked and the sticky sweet drink splashed all over my bespoke suit and expensive coat.

“You did that on purpose!” I roared at her.

She stood her ground, looking defiant.

“It was an accident,” she said, blinking up at me innocently.

“Are you insane?” I sputtered. The frothy drink dripped from my hair, soaking my suit. My wool coat was covered in clouds of whipped cream and slowly dissolving red and green sprinkles. “I have a meeting.”

“Guess you better go change, then.” She spun on her elf boot and started to head back to her stall.

I rushed after her and grabbed her arm, my feet squelching in my shoes.

“So that’s it? You’re just going to run off after you ruined my suit and probably my meeting?”

“It sure does suck when someone ruins your life, doesn’t it,” she muttered, jerking her arm out of my grasp.

“What?” I demanded.

She whirled around, expression angry.

Something about her fury felt familiar, but I brushed it off. I hadn’t been sleeping well. Besides, I would, of course, remember someone like this woman. She was a holy terror.

“You need to at least pay for my stuff that you ruined.”

“Pay for your stuff?” she snapped, the ribbons on the elf hat bobbing. “Screw you. This isn’t the North Pole. You don’t get to just demand that people give you free stuff.”

“No, but I can have you replace the items you ruined.”

“You were standing in the danger zone. You should have moved,” she argued, stabbing me in the chest with one slightly chipped red and green nail.

The townspeople, ready for holiday drama, had gathered around us, recording with their phones and hoping for the next viral video.

I slowly stepped back from the elf. The last thing my company needed was for its CEO to be the target of an online witch hunt.

“Not only did you ruin my afternoon with my family at the Christmas market, but you tried to ruin that poor little boy’s Christmas. Something tells me that you’re not a cheerful, Christmas-loving elf.”

“Got that right, buddy,” she muttered, rubbing her arm where I’d left a sticky handprint.

Before I could get in one more parting shot, an irate middle-aged woman stomped over.

“Noelle Wynter,” she raged, “I’m not paying you to abandon your post during the lunch rush. This is coming out of your tips.”

“Worth it,” Noelle said under her breath.

The older woman paused and looked at me, the Snowman Surprise having started to freeze and congeal on my clothes. Then she turned her gaze to the empty stainless-steel canister.

“Did you waste Snowman Surprise?” She was horrified, like Noelle had just flushed holy water down the toilet.

Noelle flicked her eyes back to me then to her boss. “Oops. I can make some more. It’s just—”

“It’s a secret family recipe,” her boss harrumphed. “Now get back to your post; there is a line.”

Noelle, dragging the canister behind her as she followed her boss, looked over her shoulder and blew me a kiss.

The wind blew, and I caught a whiff of how I smelled. “I’m just going to burn this suit.”

“Elf vomit indeed,” Belle said dryly as she shoved her way through the milling onlookers.

At least she was smiling. That was worth getting doused.

“Should be illegal to sell that,” Owen said gruffly. “He smells flammable.”

That earned us a small laugh from Belle. Normally I would be elated, and I was.

But a mystery consumed part of me.

I stared back through the crowd in the direction Noelle had disappeared.

Why was she so obsessed with me?

Chapter 3

Noelle

“I literally cannot believe you did that!” Elsa crowed as I drove down the long winding road that led through the woods to my family’s Christmas tree farm.

“Gosh, Oliver must have been so pissed.”

“He was furious!” I whooped over the Christmas carols that Elsa insisted on blaring.

Sure, for the rest of the shifts, Olga had kept a watchful eye and snapped at me whenever she thought I was going too slow or not displaying enough Christmas cheer, but it had been worth it to finally have the upper hand on Oliver for once.

“You’re my spirit animal,” Elsa sighed. She was my best friend and cousin and had been with me every torturous step of the way since I’d met Oliver.

“You did what every girl dreams of—get revenge on the walking penis who wronged her.” Elsa rolled down the window of the old Chevy truck and screamed, “Girl power!”

“It barely counts as revenge,” I complained.

“You ruined his expensive suit and gorgeous hair,” Elsa said reverently.

I clenched my hands on the steering wheel. I was not going to think about how it felt to run my fingers through said hair.

“Wealthy guys like him don’t care about ruined clothes.”

“When he eventually remembers you,” Elsa said as I pulled up and parked by the wood pile, “then he’ll put two and two together and see that his own actions led to his public humiliation.”

“If he does remember me—which, honestly, he probably never will because he’s a sociopath and a player—he’ll just play it off like, ‘Oh, my dick’s so magical that it drives women crazy,’” I snapped, turning off the car.

“To be fair, it did make you a little bit crazy,” Elsa said, kicking the passenger door open with her boot.

“No, that was the aftermath of...” I blew out a breath. “Never mind.”

I needed to go into the holiday war zone with a clear head, not with eighty percent of my brain occupied by Oliver Frost.

“Maybe your mom will be in a good mood today,” Elsa said, wincing.

I paused, my hand on the wobbly front door handle.

“And maybe my sister finally got some emotional maturity and is acting like an adult.”

I opened the door and ducked as my mom’s calico cat, Gingersnap, flew past me, chased by Max, a chunky, still untrained corgi who was last year’s Christmas present. 

“Someone stop that dog!” my mother hollered, waving a rolling pin, apron strings flying as she ran out of the kitchen. “He tipped over my last bottle of wine.”

Elsa raced after the animals.

My mom wavered on her feet. “It was my last bottle.”

“I’ll make you some tea instead,” I said delicately, taking the rolling pin.

“Don’t judge me,” my mom insisted as I herded her back to the kitchen and past my brother. He was sitting in the living room, playing a fantasy video game on his laptop while my grandmother yelled obscenities at the rerun of last year’s Great Christmas Bake Off that blared on the small TV.

My mom picked up the empty wine bottle and shook the last few drops into her glass.

“Don’t judge me.” She pursed her lips. “It’s the holidays. I’m allowed to drink during Christmas.”

“No judgments,” I promised. I turned on the kettle and pulled the latest batch of snowmen cookies out of the 1950s oven.

“All your baked goods sold out,” I told her, tugging a mug out of the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and washing it. “The reindeer cake pops are a huge hit.”

My mother slumped down at the kitchen table and buried her head in her hands.

When you get preggo at fourteen and marry a Christmas tree farmer, everyone says the silver lining is that you get to be kid-free in your thirties and enjoy your life. That is, unless your children follow in your footsteps and make you a grandma when you’re thirty. 

My two littlest nieces raced screaming into the kitchen, melted candy smeared all over their faces. “Gramma!” they shrieked.

“Let’s give Granny some alone time,” I said to the little girls.

They wailed as I wiped at the candy cane-flavored drool on their faces.

 “God, where is your sister? Where is your brother? Why will no one raise their own children? Dove. Dove!” my mother yelled at the top of her voice.

My eldest niece slumped into the ancient galley kitchen.

“What?” she snapped with all the ire of an eleven-year-old being asked to do anything.

“Would you mind,” I asked Dove as I picked up the two wailing little girls, “taking them outside, maybe? I need to help your grandmother get the rest of the baked goods ready for delivery tomorrow. The Christmas market never sleeps.”

“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ll just take care of other people’s children.”

“Yes you will,” my mom barked, “because we’re family, and that’s what we do.”

I winced. “Thanks, Dove,” I said, making a heart with my hands. “Elsa’s probably still out there with the dog. I bet she’d help you all build a snow fort.” 

Dove stomped out of the kitchen.

“Don’t tip that cheesecake over!” Gran hollered from the living room.

“What are today’s numbers, Mom? Were you able to make extra M&M holiday sugar cookies? I don’t know why people don’t want to just make them at home. They’re so easy to do,” I chattered, trying to lift her mood.

“What am I doing with my life?” my mother groaned.

“You’re baking,” I reminded her as I took inventory of all the cookies, cakes, and miniature pies. “And you and I will have an existential crisis on January second when the Christmas market closes.”

The side door opened, and my father filled the doorway. He grinned at me as he unwound his scarf.

“There’s my retirement plan,” Dad crowed.

When you were born to a sixteen-year-old dad, you became used to him always being an energetic young man. But lately he seemed tired and worn down, even though he wasn’t even forty. 

My dad hugged me, some of the snow from his clothes sliding down my collar.

I felt horribly guilty. My parents had sacrificed so much so I could go to Harvard and earn a fancy degree. I was supposed to land a good job so I could finally buy my mom the house she had always wanted and let my dad finally put his feet up instead of working eighteen hours a day in the elements.

I had failed.

I was supposed to be the one who broke the cycle and let my mom prove to Deborah and the other mean girls she had gone to high school with that teen moms could be good parents.

But I failed that too.

Now I was back in my small town, trying to tread water as fast as possible so that I wouldn’t be a burden on my parents.

And it was all Oliver’s fault, I fumed as I stacked the boxes up so they’d be ready to take to the truck early the next morning.

Screw him. Dumping elf vomit all over him didn’t come close to making him repay his debt to me. But Elsa was right. What could I even do about it?

“Hey, Jimmy,” my dad called into the living room. “Why don’t you come out and help me cut down a few more Christmas trees to sell tonight?”

My brother yelled obscenities into his headset.

“Jimmy?” my dad called again.

“I’m busy, Dad,” he said, still staring at his game. “I have to babysit. Krystal dropped off Destiny. Her mom has to work double shifts the next few weeks.”

“I could really use your help...” Dad trailed off.

“I’ll help, Dad,” I offered, grabbing my mittens. “We’ll pick some really nice trees.”

Elsa was playing with the little girls and had even coaxed Dove into pretending to be an ice princess.

“Bless her for coming for the Christmas season,” my dad said. “I don’t know what we would have done. I just wish I could get your brother interested in the Christmas-tree business.”

“Speaking of,” I told him, pulling out my phone, “can we please go over the numbers for the business soon? I’ve inputted the expenses and revenue and made a few projections.” I showed him on the app I had coded to ideally, finally, get my parents to be conscientious about the states of their various businesses. It had bright colors and little icons to make finance fun.

It didn’t seem to work on my dad.

“Don’t worry about the money, Candy Cane,” my dad assured me. “It’s Christmas. It will all work out.”

I ground my teeth. “I can’t make accurate projections or even finish a business plan unless I see the full financial picture. I need all the paperwork related to the Christmas tree farm. Just because I didn’t graduate from Harvard doesn’t mean I don’t know the basics of accounting and how to run a business.”

“You haven’t graduated yet,” my dad said kindly. “You’re working on it. Everyone moves at their own pace.”

I was afraid my pace would be too slow to ensure financial stability for my parents for the next two decades while I ideally got my life together enough to take care of them in their old age.

“Oh, this is such a lovely tree,” my dad said as we stopped in front of a Frasier fir. The bushy dark green branches were dusted with a light powdering of snow. “Some family will be very happy to have that tree in their living room.”

It was a big tree. When I was a little girl, I had dreamed of having a big house with twelve-foot-tall ceilings that could fit a tree like this one.

“It’s almost too pretty to cut,” my father said wistfully. He was a Christmas romantic.

And I was the Krampus.

“Lots of new residents have bought up all those old Victorian houses and renovated them,” I reminded him. “They’re from Manhattan, and they would totally shell out a hundred bucks for a tree like this.”

“We are not charging anyone that much.” My father was horrified.

“Yes we are, Dad,” I said, hating how mean I sounded. “We run a Christmas tree farm. That means we have been operating in the red the entire year and need to make it up. Christmastime is money-making time, so let’s go.”

“Don’t be such a grinch,” my dad coaxed, wrapping his arm around me. “You used to love Christmas when you were a little girl.”

Past tense. Had loved Christmas. But someone had to be the adult in this father-daughter relationship, and it certainly wasn’t going to be my dad.

I revved up my chain saw, carefully cutting the tree as close to the base as possible, perpendicular to the trunk. My father caught the tree gently to not damage any of the branches.

Then I chose several more trees, and we cut them down too.

After we had them all lined up in the trailer attached to my father’s rickety pickup truck, he crowed, “Fran’s not going to have trees as nice as these.”

Inside the house, my mom was mixing up frosting, working on a catering order for a holiday party.

“Santa Baby” blared from the radio, listing out all the things my father and his Christmas tree farm had never been able to give her. Things I had never been able to give her.

“We’re leaving,” I called as Elsa and I picked up the boxes of cookies earmarked to be sold at the Christmas tree lot.

My dad picked up the container of hot chocolate. “Noelle, you’ve been working since five this morning. You can’t go back to work.”

“It’s fine, Dad,” I said firmly as my mom stacked another box on my pile.

“Totally, Uncle James,” Elsa said. “We’ve been sucking coffee all day. We are totally pumped to sell Christmas trees.”

“Your siblings could—”

“I highly doubt that,” I said, shoving my dad out the door while my brother yelled at the computer screen. “Have you even seen Azalea today?”

“She woke up around two,” my dad said defensively as we all crowded into the cab of the truck. “She just had a baby, so it’s been hard for her.”

“She had that baby fourteen months ago but sure.”

“Don’t leave without me,” Gran hollered.

I jumped out of the cab and ran and grabbed her before she could slide on the snowy driveway.

“I’ve been running naked through the snow longer than you’ve been alive,” Gran yelled, throwing me off. “Here. If you want to help, put that in the back.” She shoved a large sports thermos at me. “It’s a Holly Jolly Christmas citrus cocktail. Trust me,” she said, squishing into the back of the cab with Elsa, “once word gets around that Jolly Elf Christmas Trees has booze, we’ll be selling out in no time!”

Chapter 4

Oliver

“Why is your hair green and red?”

I forced my expression to remain neutral.

Had none of them listened to my pitch?

Tristan’s brother Beck didn’t look up from where he was making notes on the slide printout in front of him.

His brother, Walker, who ran Quantum Cyber with my brother Owen, was the one who asked the off-topic question.

“He had a mishap with an elf,” Tristan explained.

“An elf? Was she cute?” A grin spread over Walker’s face. “Did she slip something into your hot chocolate?”

“Tristan, you need to watch out for your friend.” Greg frowned. “People are insane during the holidays.”

“Don’t you dare sit there and act like you give a shit about my little brother,” Belle exploded at Greg.

Yes, they did in fact both work at the same investment firm now. Hence, I had barely graduated from Harvard—it was the stress of the situation. Also because I was in the middle of trying to get my company off the ground.

“My hair color isn’t important,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. I was also forcing my hands to stay down by my side and not reach up to pull at my hair, which was streaked with green and red dye.

“I just don’t know if we in good conscience can invest in a company run by someone with multicolored hair,” Hunter Svensson stated.

“Fine,” I said, about to lose it. “We’ll have Evan Harrington, Chris Winchester, or one of the Richmond brothers invest.”

Hunter just laughed. “Sure you will.”

His daughter toddled past me.

“My wife is the mayor in this town, so good luck building a microprocessor factory here without Svensson Investment to help grease the wheels.”

I rubbed my jaw. “I’ll put it somewhere else.”

“We don’t want to get into threats and ruining business relationships,” Tristan said, jumping into the fray. “Harrogate is perfect for the micro-processing factory. It’s going to create high-skilled jobs. As you can see on this presentation, the microprocessor factory needs to be located somewhere cold and on the train line. Harrogate is an ideal location. Not to mention, it’s close enough to Manhattan that if we go to war with Russia, they won’t dare bomb the city because it would ruin the processing plant.”

I flipped to the next slide, which showed a site inventory map.

“All of the potential locations are far out from town. Option A is the old county expo site. It’s a brownfield, but we can get tax credits to clean it up. It’s on the train line and on a state highway. Option B is by the bridge over the river. It’s not a brownfield but does need a bit of site work. One plus is that it’s by water.”

I clicked to the next slide. 

“Option C is an old Christmas tree farm that’s failing. The good thing about the Christmas tree farm site is that it’s a little closer to town and on an old rail line that’s mostly intact,” Tristan explained.

“I have the capital to purchase the land,” I said, “and I will leverage my hedge fund to secure a loan for the construction of the factory. We’re going to get some Defense Department money, since they’re trying to invest in American infrastructure to develop microprocessors and we anticipate a steady client for the next hundred years, but we’re probably going to be operating at a big loss the first five years, and we need Svensson Investment to cover some of that.”

“It is an intriguing investment,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair. “Belle, why don’t you and I go discuss—”

“I’m not going anywhere to discuss anything with you,” she snapped. “Svensson Investment will give you the money.”

“Score! Love having your sister at the company,” Tristan said, elbowing me.

“But I’ll have to think about the terms,” Belle added. “I need better projections of how much loss we’re talking about.”

“I have a chart.” I pointed at the presentation.

“This chart is bullshit,” Belle said. “Crunch better numbers. Also, we need to know exactly which property you’re going to purchase. Depending on the parcel, we may be able to couple the factory with additional manufacturing, research and development, or high-security office space to offset the loss. I need to think about it.”

Belle stood up and grabbed her briefcase.

Greg jumped up too.

“Alone. I am thinking about it alone, Greg.” My sister was built like a Norse goddess and in her heels was almost as tall as her ex.

“Man, you’re not having any kind of Christmas,” Walker said cheerfully.

“Thanks for the productive meeting, everyone,” Tristan said, scooping up his niece.

“Belle,” I said, catching up to my sister before she left. “Why don’t we do something fun, you know, get in the Christmas spirit.” I lightly punched her in the arm.

“I can tell Owen to throw him in a river if he’s bothering you, Belle,” Walker called to her.

I scowled at him.

“We just had a lot of Christmas cheer this morning,” she reminded me. “In fact, you were covered head to toe in it.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of getting a Christmas tree for my new house. You haven’t even seen it yet. It’s an old Victorian. I know how much you like a historic house.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I gave her a pained smile. “Nothing says home like a Christmas tree.”

Chapter 5

Noelle

“Do you think her firs are bigger than ours?” my dad whispered to me as we unloaded the last of the Christmas trees.

I stepped out of Jolly Elf Christmas Trees and peered down the street at Fran’s Christmas tree lot.

“Who the fuck cares how big her trees are?” Gran said loudly. “It’s all in how you use ’em.”

“Mom,” my dad begged, “this is a family-friendly enterprise. Please, let’s use child-friendly language.”

Elsa and I shared a glance.

My dad didn’t know it yet, but Elsa and I had something decidedly family unfriendly planned to sell Christmas trees.

Elsa reached into my bag, pulled out the custom price tags she and I had letterpressed by hand, and started tagging the trees.

“No, no,” my dad said to Elsa, picking the tag off the tree. “This is the priciest tag. It needs to go on the ten-foot trees.”

“Dad,” I said firmly, grabbing the tag back and retying it onto the tree, “we are raising prices.”

My dad’s mouth dropped open. “We haven’t raised prices in... in... since ever.”

“Carpe le Christmas season.” I whipped out my app. It was customizable. I had made one account for my mom’s baking business and one for my dad’s Christmas tree business. The dashboard for the Jolly Elf even had a little dancing tree emoji. My mom had been passing the app around the Christmas tree market like a regifted craft set, and it actually had a fair number of users.

“See?” I said, showing him the chart with the cost projections. “This is what you get on December twenty-fifth if you keep the current prices, and this”—I hit the compare button—“is what you earn if you raise the prices to what I set.”

My dad’s eyes bugged out. “I’ve never made that much money.” He lowered his voice. “Are you sure we can sell trees for this much? That’s a lot of money for a Christmas tree. I don’t think Fran is charging that much.”

“Fran looks like a horse, and she’s in her fifties,” Gran said. “We’ve got two hot twenty-somethings.”

Gran picked up a cowbell, stood in the middle of the closed-off Main Street, and began ringing it and yelling loudly, “If you want to get sold a Christmas tree by a hot girl, stop on by!”

Elsa and I removed our overcoats to reveal extremely skimpy Mrs. Claus outfits.

I adjusted the belt under my boobs, which felt like they were about to fall out of the low-cut jacket.

My horrified dad covered his face with his hands.

“Hot girls!” Gran yelled.

“I know this is a nasty surprise, Dad,” I said, patting his hand, “but I have to do something to keep us in the black. Sex sells.” I knew enough about accounting to see that business wasn’t good. I had failed to get my big break at Harvard, so we were going to resort to the time-honored traditions to keep my dad afloat.

“Trust her, Uncle James,” Elsa trilled. “Noelle went to Harvard!”

“Dad, go sit in the truck. I have hot chocolate and bourbon for you.”

I snapped pictures of Elsa and me making duck faces at the camera while we reached and stretched to place the tags on the Christmas trees.

“My Christmas trees bring all the boys to the yard!” I captioned the photo, added hashtags, then let the algorithm do its work.

Gran continued to ring the big bell.

I tried not to breathe in too deeply as we waited at the front for customers.

“What if this doesn’t work?” I chewed on my lip. “What if there was a reason I flamed out of Harvard? Maybe I just suck at business.”

Though I had wanted to study English, I had majored in business with a minor in computer science, thinking it would be the ticket to big money on easy street.

How wrong I was.

A business degree was useless unless you came from a wealthy family with the right connections. Like Oliver did.

“It’s a very merry Christmas after all!” Elsa crowed, shoving her phone in my face. “We have so many likes!”

Gran had switched her pitch to “Booze! Buy a Christmas tree and get drunk.”

People wandering through the Christmas market were excited about that. I started pouring cups of the strong-smelling holiday cocktails while Elsa swiped credit cards.

“Guess we didn’t need to freeze our tits off after all.”

“Or not,” I said, pointing.

Svenssons PharmaTech’s workers were just now leaving the office, and all the young men with tons of disposable income were flocking to the Christmas tree lot.

“Hey, Mrs. Claus,” one of them hooted at me, “why don’t you give us a little Christmas cheer?”

“Looking is free if you buy a tree,” Elsa called out.

“Yes, ma’am,” one pimply-faced guy said in a cracking voice. He must have just graduated.

The guys all crushed into the lot.

“Just give me your most expensive tree,” one of them said.

“I don’t know if you can handle it.” I blew him a kiss.

“I have a big house!” another one of them hollered.

Of course he did. Probably had one of those old Victorian mansions that he totally did not appreciate.

“I want to take my Tinder picture in front of a decorated tree,” another young guy was saying to his friend. “Andy just adopted a corgi, and he said we could borrow it.”

Elsa and I did a little jig while Christmas carols played over the loudspeaker.

My dad finally had enough bourbon in him that he could carry the Christmas trees to the bagger then help load them onto customers’ cars.

“You need a wreath to go with that tree,” Gran insisted to one man as he was trying to make his purchase.

I picked up the wreath and did a shimmy with it.

The guy’s eyes about fell out of his head.

The things I do for money.

“I’ll take two,” he said.

“Good boy!”

“I added an extra zero on the wreaths,” Gran whispered to me. “Best thing to do while drinking is make a wreath. I have enough to buy a body.” She gave me a shot of whiskey.

Then Elsa and I jumped up on a table while customers sang along as we lip-synced Christmas carols.

Through the crowd floated a deep voice. “The markup on these wreaths is insane.”

“Ho ho ho fuck no,” I said, almost crashing into Elsa as she spun around and I didn’t.

“Oliver.”

I felt a nasty bit of glee that his hair had a faint green and red tie-dye effect.

“Is he seriously here buying a tree?” Elsa hissed as Oliver’s mesmerizing blue eyes swept over the drunken holiday party vibe at our Christmas tree stand.

“Bet they’re going to buy a ton of trees and put them in the manor house they stole from our family.” Elsa’s cat-winged eyes narrowed. If anyone hated the Frost brothers more than me, Elsa did.

Matt Frost had bought the old Wynter estate out from under the nose of Elsa’s brothers.

To be fair, Elsa’s brothers had money that was all tied up in their businesses that they thought would make it big one day. Maybe. Not to mention the house had been in an extreme state of disrepair. And as we had seen with the state of my parent’s finances and mine, we had a snowman’s chance in hell of purchasing it.

“He doesn’t deserve one of our trees,” I fumed. “And he definitely doesn’t deserve to stare at my tits again.”