Page 2 of Merry with a Grumpy Boss

Landing a corporate job wasn’t the problem, he discovered. As Dayton had reminded him, staying was the hard part. After the initial challenge, Haywood discovered the C-suite wasn’t enough. Since his brother’s betrayal, Margo’s engagement manipulations, and his family’s dysfunctionality, he’d found himself searching for…something. Meaning? Purpose? Fulfillment?

The only thing he knew for sure was something was missing in his life and he didn’t have a clue what it was or how to find it. He expected this assignment for Dayton would be just another diversion until he came up with a better option.

A heavyset woman in blue jeans and a blue-striped shirt came out from inside the showroom, her face etched with concern.

“Hello, young man. Is there something I can help you with? You’ve been standing out here staring at the place like you’re not sure you’re at the right address.”

“I’m Haywood Hollow—” He shifted into executive mode.

“Mr. Holloway!” She interrupted him, breaking into a wide smile. “We’ve been expecting you. Mr. Calhoun’s attorney called and told us you’d be arriving today. We can’t wait to show you around! Oh goodness, I’m rambling. I’m Marietta Runyon. I handle sales and displays in the showroom. My husband, Walt, manages the workshop. We started working here forty-three years ago, just seven months short of how long we’ve been married. Come on in, Haywood. May I call you Haywood or do you prefer Hay? We’re not big on formalities around here.”

Marietta had to be in her mid-sixties, at least, yet her energy was that of a college student fueled up with a boost of caffeine. Just listening to her chatter left him breathless, as if he’d been climbing stairs to the tenth floor. How in the heck had Walt lasted forty-plus years?

“Haywood is fine.” He followed her into the showroom, the scent of lemon-scented furniture polish and fresh sawdust assailing his senses. A quick scan of the interior gave the impression of an extensive and well-organized inventory, wide aisles, and zero customers. At noon on a weekday, he expected to see at least one or two people browsing the handcrafted furniture.

“You probably have your own agenda, but how about introductions at least? We tidied things up in Arthur’s office…such as shame. He was like family to most of us.” She laid her hand over her heart. “Poor man never married; he was devoted to the business. Walt says no one could turn a leg likeArthur Calhoun. He spent hours with the best low country and coastal artisans so the furniture crafted by our woodworkers was authentic. Same for the upholstery.”

That, Haywood mused, might account for the drop in earnings. Many shoppers preferred the convenience and affordability of household goods from places like IKEA and Wayfair.

“This is the administrative area.” Marietta guided him past rows of chairs, tables, benches, dressers, and hutches to a small suite consisting of a conference room that could accommodate about twelve, a workroom with a copier and other basic office equipment, a glass-enclosed office with Arthur’s name and title—President—in gold lettering on the door, and, at the end of the space, a second glassed-in office announcing Ginger Folly, Office Manager.

A pop version ofSanta Babydrifted through the open door as Haywood reared back slightly, overwhelmed by the Christmas-ness crammed into the workspace. A three-foot tree, with blinking colored lights and garlands of silver tinsel occupied one corner of the employee’s desk. A two-foot animated Santa perched on the opposite corner, the old man’s white beard moving up and down each time he nodded and patted his rotund belly, an electronic “Ho, ho, ho!” punctuating the gesture. Evergreen swags were draped over built-in bookcases, and fake frost had been applied to the windows, suggesting somewhere much colder and a lot farther north than Love Beach. Thankfully, the scent of cinnamon and pine, while detectable, was not overpowering.

In the middle of the red and green implosion sat a striking young woman, engrossed in a stack of papers on her desk. Lush coppery-red hair that glinted with bronze highlights was pulled back in a thick ponytail tied with a red and white striped ribbon. Shapely curves filled out a matching sweater.

“Knock, knock.” Marietta cheerfully tapped on the open door.

She looked up, momentarily startled. Her face relaxed when she recognized her coworker, brows lifting when she caught sight of him.

“This”—Marietta swept her hand toward him—"is Haywood Holloway.”

“Oh! Of course.” She popped out of her chair and scurried around the desk, narrowly missing the Christmas tree with her elbow. She came to a stop and reached out a hand. “Ginger Folly.”

A surge of something hot and potent hit him when her palm slid across his, momentarily unsettling him. “Um, I thought I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up at the North Pole.”

Ginger tilted her head, the grimace easing into a good-natured smile. “I get that a lot.”

“No one loves Christmas more than our Ginger,” Marietta said. “No shortage of the holiday spirit in Love Beach, thanks to our ambassador of all things holly jolly.”

Last Christmas had charred Haywood’s remaining spirit into a pile of cold, black ashes. From the look of Ginger’s enthusiastic decorating scheme and sweater, which he now saw had a goofy reindeer superimposed over the candy-cane pattern, it would take a fire big enough to be seen from outer space to burn off her stash of holiday joy.

For some reason, that annoyed him. The office manager was a beautiful woman, but she had to be dense as a wooden beam to believe in Santa, homey celebrations, and the selfless good will implied by invoking the spirit of the season.

“You’ll have to do Christmas on your own time,” he said brusquely. “I have three months to find a way to turn this company around or you’ll be celebrating next year in the unemployment line.”

Both women reacted as if he’d struck them. Ginger was the first to recover, green eyes sparking a warning before narrowing. Her chin lifted, and her fists went to her hips, drawing his attention to a narrow waist and long legs encased in blue jeans embroidered with snowflakes.

“Bah humbug,” she jeered. “Calhoun Designs is an integral part of the holiday festivities here in Love Beach. Arthur is the one who started the office decorating competition, but this year I’m the only one?—”

She pushed past Haywood, slapping away tears. He felt his face heat.

“Oh dear.” Marietta folded her hands together, wringing them anxiously. “We’re not off to a very good start, are we?”

“I’ll apologize.” Haywood stiffened. He hadn’t meant to belittle either employee, but he was starting to regret taking on this assignment. He’d anticipated a corporate restructuring, but instead had walked into small regional business that operated on warm fuzzies.

“Ginger is our unofficial Miss Claus. Christmas is very important to her, and Arthur fully supported that. We all did. Do.”

He slid a sideways glance at Marietta, thoughts connecting like a red and green paper chain. “You mean there’s more than just…” He nodded toward Ginger’s heavily decorated office.

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