Page 1 of Merry with a Grumpy Boss

PROLOGUE

“Haywood, go change. Immediately.” Barbara Holloway glared at her youngest son, careful not to frown too severely for fear of creasing her glossy lips. The red color had been carefully matched against the ribbons and ornaments adorning the twelve-foot tree in their front room, as had the fabric selected for her custom designed silk pantsuit. “Our guests will be arriving shortly, and I expect you to be on hand to greet them.”

Of course she did.

It was Christmas Eve, and, like every holiday celebration starting with Thanksgiving, each event was deftly crafted and calibrated to send one specific message: The Charleston Holloways were still one of the most prominent families in the city, despite their dwindling fortune and the debauchery gene passed down from eldest son to eldest son.

For a fleeting second, Haywood wondered where the rest of his siblings were, but then realized he didn’t really care. Johnston, the eldest of the four Holloway offspring, was a carbon copy of their father, down to his boyish charm, executive position with the family real estate firm, and his chain of failedmarriages. He was probably in the study with their father, chugging expensive bourbon to get them through the evening. Samantha, the second oldest in the line-up, always arrived late, a harried look on her narrow face from herding unruly twins and a husband more interested in the betting apps on his phone than in his family. Her drug of choice was exercise, but she chased it with the same zeal Johnston applied to womanizing and drinking. Patrice–the most tolerable of his siblings–limited her addiction to shopping, which meant her husband worked a lot of overtime, but their marriage looked happy enough and their two daughters were only slightly spoiled.

“I expected you home hours ago,” his mother chided, as if he was fifteen and late returning from football practice. “Margo took to bed with one of those horrid migraines right after lunch, and I haven’t heard a peep from her since. You’d think she would express a bit more interest in our family affairs now that you’re engaged, but she left me to deal with the caterers and the florists.”

“As if you’d let anyone else make a decision about the most important night of the year,” he drawled. “After forty years of hosting the premiere Christmas Eve gathering in Charleston, you have it down to a science. Margo would only have been in the way, and then I’d have to deal with a temper tantrum on top of her migraine.”

“You right, dear.” Mollified by her son’s comment–which he’d not intended as a compliment–Barbara carefully smoothed a single wayward strand of hair into place. “Go. Benita picked up your tuxedo from the dry cleaners this morning, and Burton polished your Dior Oxfords. Send Margo down. She can fill in for you while you shower and dress.”

Ignoring his mother’s concerns, he wandered up the grand staircase, wondering why none of the Christmas classics featured a family in formalwear, greeting guests who’d onlybeen invited because of their pedigree and/or net worth. His receptionist liked to watch something called the Hallmark Channel on her phone while she ate lunch at her desk, and once, when she’d stepped out to accept a delivery, he’d become fascinated by a scene about a woman from the big city forced to return to her small town where she reunited with her old flame, now a smiling lumberjack who sold Christmas trees to raise money for a local bakery about to be foreclosed on by the bank.

Embarrassed to have been caught watching such campy holiday drivel, he mumbled something about needing a report updated, but the image of the bright-eyed heroine in a red knit cap and the flannel-clad hero staring up at a sprig of conveniently place mistletoe stuck with him.

Real people didn’t celebrate Christmas like that. At least, not the real people he knew. Certainly not Margo Abernathy, soon to be Margo Abernathy Holloway. She’d actually handed him a list of demands–er, gifts–and suggested he hire the personal shopper at Hampden to make sure the sizes were correct and none of the handbags duplicated those she already owned. It was the easiest Christmas shopping he ever did. Just hand over the credit card, and twelve hours later, a palette of exquisitely wrapped boxes was delivered and arranged beneath the ten-foot fake flocked Alaskan pine in the living room of Margo’s condo in The People’s Building, Charleston’s most exclusive residential building.

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck to relieve the tension knotting his shoulders, Haywood passed several carved mahogany doors until he reached the last one on the left. He entered the suite, calling out to announce his arrival.

“Babe, I hope you’re dressed…” His words trailed off as he came to a sudden halt, blinking as if to clear his vision.

Not only was his fiancée not dressed, she was not alone. She straddled Johnston, who was also naked, his big hands gripping her tits as if honking two huge plastic horns.

Which they technically were, a random voice in his brain mused.

“Oh, hey. Babe! Wait, it’s not what it looks like.” Margo grabbed the sheet at the same time Johnston sat up, knocking her off the side of the bed. His brother just grinned at him.

Well, that was something he’d never expected to receive for Christmas. A warm wash of relief–not the cold fury one would expect when a man found the woman he loved screwing someone else–signaled this might be the best gift he’d ever received.

“Guess I’m on Santa’s naughty list,” Johnston crowed, his soft white belly quivering like, well, jelly.

“Babe, let me explain.” Margo popped up, still on her knees, hair disheveled, face blotchy red.

“Merry Christmas.” Haywood turned on his heel, not sure where he was going, just certain he wasn’t staying here one more second. “And Happy fucking New Year.”

1

Eleven months later

Love Beach, South Carolina

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Haywood muttered the philosophical idiom as he exited his SUV and gave an appraising look to the low-slung building in front of him. It was the showroom for Calhoun Designs where he was stepping in as a turnaround specialist. His college pal, Dayton Calhoun, an architect in Charleston, had inherited the company when his uncle died, only to learn the hundred-year-old business was going under. Dayton didn’t want to manage operations himself, but it was part of his family’s legacy and one of the biggest employers in Love Beach.

“Give it three months,” Dayton had argued. “I need an objective report from someone I trust to determine if the business can be saved.”

“Salvaging a firm on the brink of bankruptcy isn’t my area of expertise,” Haywood countered. “I have a degree in business, but not a lot of practical experience.”

“Man, you’ve walked away from three lucrative deals in the last year. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m only asking for three months. Besides, if you’re having a mid-life crisis, Love Beach is a good place to get your head together. It’s quiet so you can hear yourself think.” Sensing his friend’s capitulation, Dayton patted his shoulder and threw in a final enticement. “We have a place on the beach. You can stay there.”

It had been almost a year since Haywood walked in to find his fiancée boffing his brother. He left the house with nothing except his car keys, wallet, and a gym bag. He left his job at the family firm with no notice, only a brief text to his mother that he was fine and would be away for a while. Predictably, she was more concerned about his unexplained absence from the Christmas Eve party than anything else. Patrice had tried to call a few times but eventually gave up when he refused to answer.

He'd driven up to DC and crashed for a week at one of the downtown hotels, drowning his sorrows in bourbon while binge watching the Hallmark Channel, alternately scoffing at the ridiculous plots and wondering if any part of the holiday movies were based on fact. Two days after New Year’s, he started making calls. He was done with the Charleston Holloways, and that meant providing for himself by himself.

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