My Christmas list did not include a broken heart, freezing temperatures, or my tree stuck in the door to my apartment building, but that’s what I got. Just when I thought Santa had failed me, I got something I never thought to ask for …
Copyright © 2019 by Melanie Harlow and Corinne Michaels.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: Nancy Smay, Evident Ink
1
Harlow
“Ugh!” I scream as I try to pull the damn tree through the glass doorway of my new apartment building—unsuccessfully. I’ve been at it for ten minutes and even in the freezing cold December-in-Chicago weather, I have sweat beading on my forehead. What the hell was I thinking trying to move a six-foot-tall live tree by myself?
Oh, I know, I was listening to Willow talk about how a tree with lights would be magically jolly for my psyche, and necessary to get out of the foul mood and bad luck I’m enduring. Pfft. I should’ve known better. Willow may be the best boss and top matchmaker in Chicago, but she was wrong on this.
I don’t feel jolly. I don’t feel festive. I feel sweaty and frustrated, and I would like to shove this tree right up Santa’s …
I give it another yank and my hand scrapes against the bark, ripping a hole in my glove.
That’s it. I’m over it all.
“Stupid Christmas and all its stupid holiday crap. Santa … blah! Who needs him and his jolly elves when life sucks? Stupid tree, stupid holiday, and stupid joy!” I kick the stump, then wince because it hurt.
“Well, that’s not very festive,” a deep voice says from behind me. “I don’t think the tree did anything to deserve your hatred.”
Of course someone is standing here, watching me like a freaking idiot. What a sight I must be too. I’m holding the cut end of a tree, trying to drag it through the heavy door that keeps closing, ripping off branches as I pull harder. I’m not sure whether I should laugh or cry.
I huff, my hair falling into my face, obstructing my view of my current life crisis. “Sorry, I’ll apologize to it later.” I don’t even turn to look at the stranger because whatever with it all anyway. “Once I get it in the stupid door.”
I’m a damn mess, but what else is new?
Two weeks ago, I got dumped. Merry-fucking-Christmas to me. Instead of the gorgeous ring I was hoping for, I got the gift of finding out my boyfriend of six years wanted to ride someone else’s sleigh. So I packed my shit and left. Thankfully, my boss had just moved in with her fiancé, so she gave me the keys to her fully furnished apartment and told me to add plants because plants cure everything.
I should’ve gotten a bunch of fake ones—that way I wouldn’t kill them—but Willow insisted I get a real Christmas tree to push myself into the holiday spirit.
And even in the absolute craptastic state I’m in, I wanted to fake it till I made it. I’m vying for partner of My Heart’s Desire and every little thing helps, right? I should’ve known better. Now I’m going to have a big half-alive, half-naked tree to look at, one more reminder of how I’m failing at life.
Well, if I can get it upstairs.
I pull on the tree again, tug-of-war style, needles flying everywhere. I debate just leaving it here. There’s no tree in the lobby, so I can just call it a contribution, right? If it was my name on the lease, and not Willow’s, I might do it. Or maybe if I didn’t care about my job or had another place to live, but alas, I don’t. So the tree must go to its final resting place where it will undoubtedly die before the big fat guy makes his way on the 25th.
“Are you planning to put that in your apartment?”
“Yup,” I say as I yank again. It doesn’t budge. “Well, maybe.”
He lets out a chuckle. “Need help?”
“Nope,” I say through gritted teeth. “I got it.” I wipe my brow where the sweat is now dripping and groan aloud. “I’m fine. It’s fine. I got this.”
“You know I can’t leave until you get this tree inside.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. At least I’m amusing him.
“I’m happy to help since you’re struggling.”
This is the worst week of my life.