The ranchers bride, p.6
Wrapped with a Beau, page 6
Just as Elisha begins to fret that it may be too early to drop in, the door swings open. Oh my.
A somewhat sleep-rumpled, frazzled-looking Ves stands there wearing gray sweats and a tee so white it battles with the color of his hair. He has faint pillow creases on his cheeks, like he just woke up, and his feet are bare. Seeing his toes, weirdly, makes him feel much more human, and she has to forcibly drag her gaze up his body to meet his eyes. Which are suspiciously narrowed at her.
“Good mor—” she begins to say.
“Yes? What do you want?”
Her mouth drops. Oof, already off to a bad start. She squares her shoulders. His impatience isn’t going to deter her. Clinging to her mantra, she hesitantly lifts the brown carryout bag. “I brought you breakfast.”
“You brought me—” He frowns.
“Breakfast,” Elisha supplies. “I thought we could eat together? I don’t know how you’re fixed for the most important meal of the day, but my family owns the Chocolate Mouse, you can’t have missed it, it’s that big brick building in the center of town—”
“You’re rambling,” he says, cutting her off. He rakes his hand through his platinum hair and sighs. “Just . . .” He looks like he’s about to regret what he’s about to say next. “Come in.”
She scrapes her feet on the mat first, and when she crosses the threshold, it’s abundantly clear what she’s walked into: sheer and undeniable chaos. Maeve’s romance novels have been pulled off shelves and heaped into piles, entire drawers have been emptied, and there are about five patches of visible carpet that he must have been using as a pathway from one end of the room to the other. In short, the living room looks ransacked, and the kitchen table isn’t much better, buried under papers and some of Doc Hollins’s old file boxes.
She gapes. “What have you been doing?”
His jaw takes on a defensive set. “Cleaning.”
“You call this cleaning? No, no, buddy. Whatever this is, it’s the opposite of that.”
“Didn’t ask for your opinion,” he grumbles, yet still chivalrously takes the bag from her.
“No, the first one is for free,” she quips, eyeing the candy cane ornament propped against the wall.
“And yet it’s still a bad deal,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads for the kitchen. But the grouchiness has mostly faded from his voice. “Oh my god, coffee.” Ves says the word with rapture. “Coffee that doesn’t smell like dead rat.” He shudders. “Coffee that hasn’t come from that contraption in there.”
“You actually used Maeve’s ancient coffee maker? She hasn’t touched that since her dad died.” A flicker of sympathy goes through her at his visible revulsion. “In that case, I forgive your bad mood.”
For a second, she thinks he’s going to gift her with another smart-alecky remark. But he surprises her.
“Sorry,” says Ves with a rueful almost-smile. “I do appreciate this. I’m just not a morning person.”
Elisha files that away under the other irrelevant things she knows about him, along with how cute he looks even when he’s grumpy and that his lips part just so, revealing lovely square teeth that look whitened a normal amount, not to a freaky fluorescence. She doesn’t want to notice these things, much less be flustered by them, but it’s inescapable when you’re a foot away from hotness.
“I’ve been up since five a.m.,” she says. “And please know I say that in a matter-of-fact way and not in a smug I’m-better-than-you way, which I’ve been told is how it comes across sometimes.”
He slides her coffee cup across the kitchen island in a silent invitation to join him. “Who said that?”
“My ex. The guy I mentioned last night.” She keeps it short. The less said about Bentley, the better.
Ves’s lips quirk. “Right. The one you were showing off to about scoring my house to film your movie.”
“I wasn’t—” She starts to contest, then sighs. “Okay, fine, yes. I talked a big game and now I’m in a jam. And not of the delicious, goes-great-on-toast variety, but the oh-my-god-I’m-so-fired sort.”
The cup stops halfway to Ves’s mouth. “Oh, I see. This is a guilt-trip breakfast.” He lofts one dark brow in a silent Busted.
“Don’t give me that knowing look.” She crosses her arms. “I categorically deny trying to manipulate you with spiced crumb cake, lemon loaf, blueberry streusel muffins, and the almighty bebinca.”
His eyes light up, and for a second, he looks so elated and boyish that Elisha’s heart takes an involuntary tumble into her tummy. Has a smile ever been so transformative in the history of ever?
“The Old Stoat, the Chocolate Mouse . . . is every local business in this town named after a rodent?” he asks, sounding appalled.
“Technically, a stoat is a weasel,” she corrects absently, more than a little distracted about where his smile went and how she can get it back. “The emporium has been in my dad’s family for generations. Like, all the way back to the founding of the town. We’re sort of an unofficial landmark.”
He taps at the box where Elisha’s neat, rounded, all-caps handwriting identifies the bebinca. “I’ve never heard of this.”
“Something else we’re known for. Open it,” she says. “See those delicate layers? The lighter one is cake sweetened with coconut milk and the brown one is caramel. My mom grew up eating this during Christmastime in Goa, but it’s pretty popular here year-round.”
Ves turns to open a cabinet, returning with two of Maeve’s best china plates and matching forks.
The gold-rimmed buttercup-patterned china was a family heirloom passed from mother to daughter; Maeve tucked it away for safekeeping 364 days of the year, except for the anniversary of her mother’s passing, when she carefully removed the fine layer of dust. Elisha has never actually seen it in use before. She opens her mouth in faint horror before she realizes it doesn’t matter anymore. The house, like everything in it, is Ves’s now.
“Thanks,” she says instead, as he hands her a plate.
Ves studies the bebinca. “It seems a bit sacrilegious to cut into this after all that effort.”
“Mhm.” She grins. “Wait until the first bite hits your taste buds, though. Now that is an unholy experience.”
His lips twitch. “I hope you’re not all talk.”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
He makes the first cut and brings the fork to his mouth. When his lips close around the morsel, she leans in eagerly. “Well?”
Ves chews slowly, drawing her eye to the line of his jaw before she snaps out of it. He looks at her with those baby blues, which sends a whisper of a shiver down her spine. What’s going through his head? And why does she care so much? Agonizing seconds tick by before he says, “Heaven on earth.”
The tension in her shoulders relaxes. His answer matters more than she thought it would. “Really?”
“Would I lie to you?” He pauses before adding reproachfully, “You might come at me with a candy cane again.”
“You’re not letting that go anytime soon, are you?” Elisha laughs with a trace of embarrassment. Despite it being such a feeble weapon, she’d certainly managed to do some damage—both to her dignity and her own knee. “Keep it if it makes you feel safer.”
He scoffs. “Like I don’t see the other dozen on your driveway.”
“You’re really not a morning person, are you?”
He takes a sip of his gingerbread latte. “Not in the slightest. Although the restorative powers of this drink are doing wonders.”
“Feel free to come by the Chocolate Mouse if you get a craving.” She casts a dubious eye over the house. “Although I’m not sure there’s enough sugar in the world to power you through cleaning this mess up.”
He pops another piece of bebinca. “I think it calls more for rolling up sleeves and getting right down to it than it does for sugar. Just need to give it my all.”
Elisha blinks. The visual imagery of him rolling up his sleeves is . . .
She clears her throat and pretends to take another sip of her latte. Unfortunately, she gulps down rather more than she’d intended. She sputters and coughs, waving off his concerned eyes and wordless gesture to bring her water.
“Well, right now it kind of seems like you’re only giving it your some,” she says, her tone a little off.
“Are you offering to help?”
She gauges his offhanded reply for signs of snark. Finding none, she considers the question.
Who knows Maeve better than her? Who would give as much time and care to Maeve’s most priceless treasures? The more she thinks about it, the answer is obvious: she’s the best person for the job.
Even though she already has one. Well, for now, anyway. With a demanding boss who already doesn’t like her, and is about to like her even less when he finds out the paperwork on Sleighbells under Starlight 2 isn’t tied up with a bow like she promised. Which means it’s really going to suck when she sees him at work on Monday.
Elisha tugs her lower lip into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. In the back of her mind, an idea is flickering to life like a spotty string light. What if she offers Ves some clearly much-needed help in exchange for the filming permission?
A slightly different scenario than the one Solana suggested, but the same concept applies: two turtledoves, one stone. Elisha can be nice and get what she wants, which is a present for both her and Ves.
But putting the trade-off into words . . . It would be wrong to take advantage of Maeve’s great-nephew. It wouldn’t be neighborly. And to her surprise, Elisha wants to be nice to this prickly boy who likes her mom’s bebinca and, in his way, makes her laugh. There’s no grace or gumption in making him give in—not like this.
“I apologize,” Ves grinds out. “I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot. I don’t truly need any help.” At her dubious look, he defensively adds, “It always looks worse before it gets better.” He shoves his hand through his straight hair, disheveling it rather marvelously. “The house isn’t your concern.”
At this, she frowns. “What if I want it to be?”
His frown is equally doubtful. “Why? Ah, this is about the permission again, isn’t it?”
Elisha stamps her foot. “No.”
“My charming personality, then?”
She huffs a short laugh. “Your attitude, personality, and ability to clean house are all atrocious. But I’m going to help you, anyway. For Maeve. For how much she meant to this town and to me. Call it your Christmas gift, if you want. No strings attached?”
Ves hums agreement under his breath, making Elisha wonder what other throaty noises he’s capable of. And promptly wants to perish, because he’s looking at her like he knows where her thoughts have wandered, and nope. Hard nope. Not happening.
She is not going to notice things about him. And even if she does, she is going to sweep them from her mind and into her mental trash bin. Swoosh, gone.
Because of all the insufferable things about him, the way he makes her feel isn’t one of them.
Chapter Nine
Elisha
It’s a Monday morning and it’s snowing.
Ordinarily, both things that Elisha loves. Today, however, the gray clouds have completely blotted out the sun outside her minuscule office at the Chamber of Commerce. Inside is just as bleak: her boss, Greg Pierce, bitched at her to make coffee even though it isn’t her job, and the office administrator was ambushed with the news that their holiday office party had to be canceled due to going a measly twenty dollars over budget last year.
It’s already a shitty eleven a.m. And it’s about to get worse.
The wheel on her ancient computer mouse bumps and creaks as she scrolls through a long email thread going back five months, all the way to the introductory email from JJ, the personal assistant of the famous director Damian Rhys.
That sticky summer day, shuttered away in her sweltering office with a fan that didn’t work and the thermostat set a solid ten degrees higher than it should have been in July, Elisha had no idea that her life was about to change. Not even the faintest inkling that the ping of a new email would drop such an exhilarating opportunity into her lap. Hair plastered to her scalp, blouse clinging to every nook and dip of skin, she’d checked her inbox with one hand while using the other to fan herself with a pad of paper. And there was JJ’s email, laid out in neat rows of text.
All those months ago, when she read that a big-time Hollywood director wanted to use the Christmas House to film the Sleighbells sequel, she had to muffle her scream into her fist. Then reread the email twice to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Then type her reply—and then delete it because it had too many exclamation points and a certain stench of desperation.
Now, after a morning spent clacking away at the keys, Elisha reads her latest message one last time, nutcracker nails resting lightly on the mouse, a familiar anxiety pinching her stomach.
To: June, Jessica
From: Rowe, Elisha
Hi JJ,
Thanks for your last email! We are incredibly excited to move forward, too!
You can count on our full support for next steps. We would love to feature an interview with Mr. Rhys in the next chamber newsletter. We also have a robust database of production support services and crew in the area, and are happy to refer you. The sheriff’s department is going to get back to us about traffic control for street filming—more on that soon!
I know you’d expressed interest in the house from the original film, but I wanted to make sure you also saw the attached JPEGs from the photo library I’ve already shared with you. We have so many beautiful locations around town that I would hate for you to miss these! If any of these gorgeous period homes stands out to you, just shout. We have strong relationships with the property owners and can facilitate whatever you need.
Best,
Elisha Rowe (she/her)
Film & Digital Media Liaison
Piney Peaks Chamber of Commerce
She clicks send.
With a whoosh and a flash of panic, the email flies to JJ’s inbox. Even though it’s too late to take it back, she still goes over her words in her mind. Will it read as glaringly transparent as it does in hindsight? Why didn’t she just tell the truth that there was a holdout on the house?
Okay, she knows why. It doesn’t matter how many gorgeous homes are in their location database—Damian Rhys wants the Christmas House, no ifs, ands, or buts. While the exact plot of the sequel is tightly under wraps, JJ did reveal that a young Damian got his foot in the door of the industry with Sleighbells, working his way up from lowly assistant, and he now wanted nothing more than to honor his start by directing the anniversary sequel. Who knew that a Hollywood hotshot could be so sentimental?
Well, frankly, as far as Elisha’s concerned, warm fuzzies and Sleighbells go hand in hand. The movie plays nonstop on TV every year, iconic as beloved oldies It’s a Wonderful Life and A Charlie Brown Christmas. One of Elisha’s favorite memories is celebrating a snow day by being squished between her parents on the couch to watch it for the first time, sneaking her fourth cookie and, at every kissing scene, scrunching her cold toes in the new socks that Grandma Lou knitted.
Even though Elisha is three hours ahead of California and is unlikely to get a reply anytime soon, she watches her inbox, waiting for that familiar ping. Maybe if she stares at it long enough, she can will a response to appear. Thank you for these alternate suggestions that are just as good as the Christmas House, Elisha! Damian has selected Rosebud Cottage and would like to personally thank you for your initiative!
“Elisha!” Greg hammers on her open door hard enough that the wall shakes. He casts a disgruntled look at her many signed posters. They’re a reminder that Elisha worked on several flagship Netflix streamers while his career stagnated, leaving the man to stew in bitterness, take zero initiative, and accomplish very little of note. Without preamble, he snaps, “That coffee tasted disgusting. When was the last time you cleaned the pot?”
“Hmm, not sure. If you noticed any gunk, though . . .” She smiles sweetly. “Feel free to take that on.”
“That’s not my job,” he says dismissively, but in a tone that’s meant to imply that it’s hers. He runs his palm over his gelled hair and makes aggressive eye contact. “Where are we on the Damian Rhys project?”
Elisha’s smile grows wider and more wooden. Unraveling like a bad Christmas sweater. Crumbling like a sugar cookie. Fizzling out like cheap string lights. Take your pick. “Right on track,” she says blithely.
She can tell her answer disappoints him by the way his lips twitch halfway to a frown before he smooths his expression. “Ah,” says Greg. “Well. Good. Your friend the mayor will be happy.”
She keeps a bland smile on her face, refusing to rise to his bait. If she’d been a man, he would have told her to keep up the good work, maybe even added a hearty “champ” at the end or a congratulatory pat on the back. Offered to give her a hand on such a prestigious project. But he doesn’t like her. Never has.
Not even when she interned here as a teen that summer in high school, making the coffee and answering the phones and doing all the grunt work he only asked her to do, never Riley, the other intern. Who happened to be a guy. A decent guy, incidentally, who’s now their trade specialist, but more importantly? His friend’s son. Clearly, Greg doesn’t have a problem with nepotism as long as it comes from him.
“Seeing as you’re not doing anything important right now,” he says, “why don’t you go check on Mia? She’s still sulking about the party being canceled. I told her not to make any plans after she went over budget last year, but did she listen? No. And now she acts like I’m the bad guy here? I will never understand women.”
Um, maybe because he is the bad guy? If it were humanly possible, there would be actual steam coming out of Elisha’s ears right now.
A somewhat sleep-rumpled, frazzled-looking Ves stands there wearing gray sweats and a tee so white it battles with the color of his hair. He has faint pillow creases on his cheeks, like he just woke up, and his feet are bare. Seeing his toes, weirdly, makes him feel much more human, and she has to forcibly drag her gaze up his body to meet his eyes. Which are suspiciously narrowed at her.
“Good mor—” she begins to say.
“Yes? What do you want?”
Her mouth drops. Oof, already off to a bad start. She squares her shoulders. His impatience isn’t going to deter her. Clinging to her mantra, she hesitantly lifts the brown carryout bag. “I brought you breakfast.”
“You brought me—” He frowns.
“Breakfast,” Elisha supplies. “I thought we could eat together? I don’t know how you’re fixed for the most important meal of the day, but my family owns the Chocolate Mouse, you can’t have missed it, it’s that big brick building in the center of town—”
“You’re rambling,” he says, cutting her off. He rakes his hand through his platinum hair and sighs. “Just . . .” He looks like he’s about to regret what he’s about to say next. “Come in.”
She scrapes her feet on the mat first, and when she crosses the threshold, it’s abundantly clear what she’s walked into: sheer and undeniable chaos. Maeve’s romance novels have been pulled off shelves and heaped into piles, entire drawers have been emptied, and there are about five patches of visible carpet that he must have been using as a pathway from one end of the room to the other. In short, the living room looks ransacked, and the kitchen table isn’t much better, buried under papers and some of Doc Hollins’s old file boxes.
She gapes. “What have you been doing?”
His jaw takes on a defensive set. “Cleaning.”
“You call this cleaning? No, no, buddy. Whatever this is, it’s the opposite of that.”
“Didn’t ask for your opinion,” he grumbles, yet still chivalrously takes the bag from her.
“No, the first one is for free,” she quips, eyeing the candy cane ornament propped against the wall.
“And yet it’s still a bad deal,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads for the kitchen. But the grouchiness has mostly faded from his voice. “Oh my god, coffee.” Ves says the word with rapture. “Coffee that doesn’t smell like dead rat.” He shudders. “Coffee that hasn’t come from that contraption in there.”
“You actually used Maeve’s ancient coffee maker? She hasn’t touched that since her dad died.” A flicker of sympathy goes through her at his visible revulsion. “In that case, I forgive your bad mood.”
For a second, she thinks he’s going to gift her with another smart-alecky remark. But he surprises her.
“Sorry,” says Ves with a rueful almost-smile. “I do appreciate this. I’m just not a morning person.”
Elisha files that away under the other irrelevant things she knows about him, along with how cute he looks even when he’s grumpy and that his lips part just so, revealing lovely square teeth that look whitened a normal amount, not to a freaky fluorescence. She doesn’t want to notice these things, much less be flustered by them, but it’s inescapable when you’re a foot away from hotness.
“I’ve been up since five a.m.,” she says. “And please know I say that in a matter-of-fact way and not in a smug I’m-better-than-you way, which I’ve been told is how it comes across sometimes.”
He slides her coffee cup across the kitchen island in a silent invitation to join him. “Who said that?”
“My ex. The guy I mentioned last night.” She keeps it short. The less said about Bentley, the better.
Ves’s lips quirk. “Right. The one you were showing off to about scoring my house to film your movie.”
“I wasn’t—” She starts to contest, then sighs. “Okay, fine, yes. I talked a big game and now I’m in a jam. And not of the delicious, goes-great-on-toast variety, but the oh-my-god-I’m-so-fired sort.”
The cup stops halfway to Ves’s mouth. “Oh, I see. This is a guilt-trip breakfast.” He lofts one dark brow in a silent Busted.
“Don’t give me that knowing look.” She crosses her arms. “I categorically deny trying to manipulate you with spiced crumb cake, lemon loaf, blueberry streusel muffins, and the almighty bebinca.”
His eyes light up, and for a second, he looks so elated and boyish that Elisha’s heart takes an involuntary tumble into her tummy. Has a smile ever been so transformative in the history of ever?
“The Old Stoat, the Chocolate Mouse . . . is every local business in this town named after a rodent?” he asks, sounding appalled.
“Technically, a stoat is a weasel,” she corrects absently, more than a little distracted about where his smile went and how she can get it back. “The emporium has been in my dad’s family for generations. Like, all the way back to the founding of the town. We’re sort of an unofficial landmark.”
He taps at the box where Elisha’s neat, rounded, all-caps handwriting identifies the bebinca. “I’ve never heard of this.”
“Something else we’re known for. Open it,” she says. “See those delicate layers? The lighter one is cake sweetened with coconut milk and the brown one is caramel. My mom grew up eating this during Christmastime in Goa, but it’s pretty popular here year-round.”
Ves turns to open a cabinet, returning with two of Maeve’s best china plates and matching forks.
The gold-rimmed buttercup-patterned china was a family heirloom passed from mother to daughter; Maeve tucked it away for safekeeping 364 days of the year, except for the anniversary of her mother’s passing, when she carefully removed the fine layer of dust. Elisha has never actually seen it in use before. She opens her mouth in faint horror before she realizes it doesn’t matter anymore. The house, like everything in it, is Ves’s now.
“Thanks,” she says instead, as he hands her a plate.
Ves studies the bebinca. “It seems a bit sacrilegious to cut into this after all that effort.”
“Mhm.” She grins. “Wait until the first bite hits your taste buds, though. Now that is an unholy experience.”
His lips twitch. “I hope you’re not all talk.”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
He makes the first cut and brings the fork to his mouth. When his lips close around the morsel, she leans in eagerly. “Well?”
Ves chews slowly, drawing her eye to the line of his jaw before she snaps out of it. He looks at her with those baby blues, which sends a whisper of a shiver down her spine. What’s going through his head? And why does she care so much? Agonizing seconds tick by before he says, “Heaven on earth.”
The tension in her shoulders relaxes. His answer matters more than she thought it would. “Really?”
“Would I lie to you?” He pauses before adding reproachfully, “You might come at me with a candy cane again.”
“You’re not letting that go anytime soon, are you?” Elisha laughs with a trace of embarrassment. Despite it being such a feeble weapon, she’d certainly managed to do some damage—both to her dignity and her own knee. “Keep it if it makes you feel safer.”
He scoffs. “Like I don’t see the other dozen on your driveway.”
“You’re really not a morning person, are you?”
He takes a sip of his gingerbread latte. “Not in the slightest. Although the restorative powers of this drink are doing wonders.”
“Feel free to come by the Chocolate Mouse if you get a craving.” She casts a dubious eye over the house. “Although I’m not sure there’s enough sugar in the world to power you through cleaning this mess up.”
He pops another piece of bebinca. “I think it calls more for rolling up sleeves and getting right down to it than it does for sugar. Just need to give it my all.”
Elisha blinks. The visual imagery of him rolling up his sleeves is . . .
She clears her throat and pretends to take another sip of her latte. Unfortunately, she gulps down rather more than she’d intended. She sputters and coughs, waving off his concerned eyes and wordless gesture to bring her water.
“Well, right now it kind of seems like you’re only giving it your some,” she says, her tone a little off.
“Are you offering to help?”
She gauges his offhanded reply for signs of snark. Finding none, she considers the question.
Who knows Maeve better than her? Who would give as much time and care to Maeve’s most priceless treasures? The more she thinks about it, the answer is obvious: she’s the best person for the job.
Even though she already has one. Well, for now, anyway. With a demanding boss who already doesn’t like her, and is about to like her even less when he finds out the paperwork on Sleighbells under Starlight 2 isn’t tied up with a bow like she promised. Which means it’s really going to suck when she sees him at work on Monday.
Elisha tugs her lower lip into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. In the back of her mind, an idea is flickering to life like a spotty string light. What if she offers Ves some clearly much-needed help in exchange for the filming permission?
A slightly different scenario than the one Solana suggested, but the same concept applies: two turtledoves, one stone. Elisha can be nice and get what she wants, which is a present for both her and Ves.
But putting the trade-off into words . . . It would be wrong to take advantage of Maeve’s great-nephew. It wouldn’t be neighborly. And to her surprise, Elisha wants to be nice to this prickly boy who likes her mom’s bebinca and, in his way, makes her laugh. There’s no grace or gumption in making him give in—not like this.
“I apologize,” Ves grinds out. “I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot. I don’t truly need any help.” At her dubious look, he defensively adds, “It always looks worse before it gets better.” He shoves his hand through his straight hair, disheveling it rather marvelously. “The house isn’t your concern.”
At this, she frowns. “What if I want it to be?”
His frown is equally doubtful. “Why? Ah, this is about the permission again, isn’t it?”
Elisha stamps her foot. “No.”
“My charming personality, then?”
She huffs a short laugh. “Your attitude, personality, and ability to clean house are all atrocious. But I’m going to help you, anyway. For Maeve. For how much she meant to this town and to me. Call it your Christmas gift, if you want. No strings attached?”
Ves hums agreement under his breath, making Elisha wonder what other throaty noises he’s capable of. And promptly wants to perish, because he’s looking at her like he knows where her thoughts have wandered, and nope. Hard nope. Not happening.
She is not going to notice things about him. And even if she does, she is going to sweep them from her mind and into her mental trash bin. Swoosh, gone.
Because of all the insufferable things about him, the way he makes her feel isn’t one of them.
Chapter Nine
Elisha
It’s a Monday morning and it’s snowing.
Ordinarily, both things that Elisha loves. Today, however, the gray clouds have completely blotted out the sun outside her minuscule office at the Chamber of Commerce. Inside is just as bleak: her boss, Greg Pierce, bitched at her to make coffee even though it isn’t her job, and the office administrator was ambushed with the news that their holiday office party had to be canceled due to going a measly twenty dollars over budget last year.
It’s already a shitty eleven a.m. And it’s about to get worse.
The wheel on her ancient computer mouse bumps and creaks as she scrolls through a long email thread going back five months, all the way to the introductory email from JJ, the personal assistant of the famous director Damian Rhys.
That sticky summer day, shuttered away in her sweltering office with a fan that didn’t work and the thermostat set a solid ten degrees higher than it should have been in July, Elisha had no idea that her life was about to change. Not even the faintest inkling that the ping of a new email would drop such an exhilarating opportunity into her lap. Hair plastered to her scalp, blouse clinging to every nook and dip of skin, she’d checked her inbox with one hand while using the other to fan herself with a pad of paper. And there was JJ’s email, laid out in neat rows of text.
All those months ago, when she read that a big-time Hollywood director wanted to use the Christmas House to film the Sleighbells sequel, she had to muffle her scream into her fist. Then reread the email twice to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Then type her reply—and then delete it because it had too many exclamation points and a certain stench of desperation.
Now, after a morning spent clacking away at the keys, Elisha reads her latest message one last time, nutcracker nails resting lightly on the mouse, a familiar anxiety pinching her stomach.
To: June, Jessica
From: Rowe, Elisha
Hi JJ,
Thanks for your last email! We are incredibly excited to move forward, too!
You can count on our full support for next steps. We would love to feature an interview with Mr. Rhys in the next chamber newsletter. We also have a robust database of production support services and crew in the area, and are happy to refer you. The sheriff’s department is going to get back to us about traffic control for street filming—more on that soon!
I know you’d expressed interest in the house from the original film, but I wanted to make sure you also saw the attached JPEGs from the photo library I’ve already shared with you. We have so many beautiful locations around town that I would hate for you to miss these! If any of these gorgeous period homes stands out to you, just shout. We have strong relationships with the property owners and can facilitate whatever you need.
Best,
Elisha Rowe (she/her)
Film & Digital Media Liaison
Piney Peaks Chamber of Commerce
She clicks send.
With a whoosh and a flash of panic, the email flies to JJ’s inbox. Even though it’s too late to take it back, she still goes over her words in her mind. Will it read as glaringly transparent as it does in hindsight? Why didn’t she just tell the truth that there was a holdout on the house?
Okay, she knows why. It doesn’t matter how many gorgeous homes are in their location database—Damian Rhys wants the Christmas House, no ifs, ands, or buts. While the exact plot of the sequel is tightly under wraps, JJ did reveal that a young Damian got his foot in the door of the industry with Sleighbells, working his way up from lowly assistant, and he now wanted nothing more than to honor his start by directing the anniversary sequel. Who knew that a Hollywood hotshot could be so sentimental?
Well, frankly, as far as Elisha’s concerned, warm fuzzies and Sleighbells go hand in hand. The movie plays nonstop on TV every year, iconic as beloved oldies It’s a Wonderful Life and A Charlie Brown Christmas. One of Elisha’s favorite memories is celebrating a snow day by being squished between her parents on the couch to watch it for the first time, sneaking her fourth cookie and, at every kissing scene, scrunching her cold toes in the new socks that Grandma Lou knitted.
Even though Elisha is three hours ahead of California and is unlikely to get a reply anytime soon, she watches her inbox, waiting for that familiar ping. Maybe if she stares at it long enough, she can will a response to appear. Thank you for these alternate suggestions that are just as good as the Christmas House, Elisha! Damian has selected Rosebud Cottage and would like to personally thank you for your initiative!
“Elisha!” Greg hammers on her open door hard enough that the wall shakes. He casts a disgruntled look at her many signed posters. They’re a reminder that Elisha worked on several flagship Netflix streamers while his career stagnated, leaving the man to stew in bitterness, take zero initiative, and accomplish very little of note. Without preamble, he snaps, “That coffee tasted disgusting. When was the last time you cleaned the pot?”
“Hmm, not sure. If you noticed any gunk, though . . .” She smiles sweetly. “Feel free to take that on.”
“That’s not my job,” he says dismissively, but in a tone that’s meant to imply that it’s hers. He runs his palm over his gelled hair and makes aggressive eye contact. “Where are we on the Damian Rhys project?”
Elisha’s smile grows wider and more wooden. Unraveling like a bad Christmas sweater. Crumbling like a sugar cookie. Fizzling out like cheap string lights. Take your pick. “Right on track,” she says blithely.
She can tell her answer disappoints him by the way his lips twitch halfway to a frown before he smooths his expression. “Ah,” says Greg. “Well. Good. Your friend the mayor will be happy.”
She keeps a bland smile on her face, refusing to rise to his bait. If she’d been a man, he would have told her to keep up the good work, maybe even added a hearty “champ” at the end or a congratulatory pat on the back. Offered to give her a hand on such a prestigious project. But he doesn’t like her. Never has.
Not even when she interned here as a teen that summer in high school, making the coffee and answering the phones and doing all the grunt work he only asked her to do, never Riley, the other intern. Who happened to be a guy. A decent guy, incidentally, who’s now their trade specialist, but more importantly? His friend’s son. Clearly, Greg doesn’t have a problem with nepotism as long as it comes from him.
“Seeing as you’re not doing anything important right now,” he says, “why don’t you go check on Mia? She’s still sulking about the party being canceled. I told her not to make any plans after she went over budget last year, but did she listen? No. And now she acts like I’m the bad guy here? I will never understand women.”
Um, maybe because he is the bad guy? If it were humanly possible, there would be actual steam coming out of Elisha’s ears right now.
