Page 1 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

Matchmaking a Scrooge

CHAPTER ONE

KENNEDY

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s not that bad.”

“Harry!” I snap, horrified by my reflection in the vanity mirror of my temporary bedroom. “This self-tanner’s turning me orange! How is thisnot that bad?”

“People like oranges. Oranges are popular. They have a lot of Vitamin C.” After saying it all in a rush, he sighs and lifts a hand to his head, scrubbing his buzzed hair. “I don’t even know what I’m saying right now. I hate oranges. Some are too sweet, some are too sour, and you can never find one that’s just right.”

He’s as pale as a sailor with scurvy, so maybe he should rethink his stance on the whole Vitamin C thing. Then again, maybe he’s pale because he’s as panicked as I am.

Okay, don’t freak out, Kennedy. You can solve problems. You’re good at solving problems.You’re here, aren’t you?

The non-profit I work for needs to keep its doors open, and although I have a trust fund, the money won’t be mine, really mine, until I’m thirty. That’s more than a year away, and I’m afraid we won’t make it a year unless a miracle happens. It’s less than a month before Christmas, so it’s the time of year for miracles.

The thing is, sometimes you need tomakethe miracle happen.

I’m a Littlefield “of the Littlefield Bank fortune,” or so my parents always put it. My father would give me an advance on my trust fund to pay for any material things I might want—dresses, an apartment, a lavish lifestyle—but I’m not allowed to give the money away. I’m particularly not allowed to give it to my boss.

I know what you’re thinking.Poor little rich girl.But I don’twantto be a rich girl, poor or otherwise. I’ve never wanted my parents’ money. They’re despicable people—something I realized at age six when my mother threw away my old winter coat rather than give it to my nanny, Rose, whose daughter was my age and also my friend.

“We don’t want to give her ideas, Kennedy,” my mother said, tsking. “Then she’ll be stealing all your dolls and nice things the second your back is turned, won’t she?”

So I started giving my things away to other kids in secret. Nanny Rose wouldn’t accept my gifts, but others did. Kids at school. People I saw out on the street. I gave away anything I could get my hands on. Of course, my little kid logic didn’t understand that other people would be blamed for my largesse, and the instant my mother accused Nanny Rose and our housekeeper of stealing, I let the truth tumble out. After that, my parents always kept a careful eye on me.

They still do.

In their minds, I’m the weak link—the one who might just let the revolutionaries in the back door.

You might be wondering why someone who doesn’t want to be a rich girl would agree to be the star of a reality dating show calledMatchmaking the Rich. I wouldn’t blame you for wondering if I’m a hypocrite. But consider this: millions of people will be watching me on TV—millions of people who’llhave to listen to me mention my non-profit in every episode. Despite what my father thinks, I’ve inherited something from him besides his money and the Littlefield blue eyes, because I made the producers put that into the contract. I get at least one reference to Leto’s Hands per episode. Signed, sealed, and delivered.

This is the best fundraising coup I could have engineered, and my boss was happy to give me a month off work—no email contact, no phone calls, no anything—to film the show.

“Maybe you’ll come back with a husband,” she’d said with a wink.

I’m not opposed to it. That’s the purpose of the show, after all, to see me engaged.

If being rich isn’t important to me, then maybe it won’t be important to one of the men whom Nana Mayberry, the matchmaker behind the show, has picked for me. Maybe these guys would just prefer to be with someone else who has money so they don’t always have to wonder if that’s the only thing the other person sees in them.

It’s not pretty, being used.

It’s the ugliest thing there is, maybe.

My gaze lands on the mirror and lingers, taking in the distinctly orange hue of my cheeks, which clashes with my dark hair and blue eyes.

Okay, so maybe being orange is worse. Especially in a peach-colored dress.

I lift a hand to my cheek. “How could this happen? She’s a professional makeup artist. Everything looked fine before she left.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says with plenty of agitation. “A lot of free makeup samples were sent in, though.” He loses more color, if that’s possible. “I don’t want to alarm you, but are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?”

“Harry, no one poisoned me,” I say, holding back a laugh. It’s adorable how concerned he is on my behalf.

Harry’s the co-host of the show, but he also happens to be the best friend of my future sister-in-law, Tina.

Tina and my brother Zach live in Highland Hills, where we’re shooting the show, and Tina’s the one who got Harry to audition for this job. Of course, she didn’t realize at the time that I was going to be the first contestant. She didn’t realize because I didn’t tell her, or Zach, or anyone other than my best friend, Olive, that I was applying.

---