Page 6 of Miss Humbug
My youngest brother, back to folding his arms, turned up his chin. “I can work remotely. I’ve racked up thousands of frequent flier miles. If I have to leave, I’ll be back in time to show off my three-tiered German chocolate cake at the Tasty Bake.”
Okay, he was fighting dirty with the family cake recipe. Also, Tasty Bake?
“It’s the name of the Holly Days’ baking competition,” he added, despite my not having asked. I guess my clueless expression outed me.
I hadn’t thought ahead to what we’d have to do for the competition. The baking, the lights, the merry-everything. All of which I loathed. Why celebrate a time so terrible for all of us?
It hadn’t always been that way. But year after year, the whole month of December grew darker for me, until I wrote it all off and swore I’d never celebrate the bloated holiday again. It became my thing. Being anti-holiday in a town revolving around that very industry. My siblings didn’t carry the same baggage I did about the holidays. Or they’d gotten over it. Somehow.
“We’re not interested in the game,” Uncle Joe stated. “Or owning the house. Let it go to the next generation.”
Ashe broke away from his wife’s detailed and persuasive argument on land theft to tell us they wanted the house. Cara shook her head, her mouth in a firm line, and left the room. Ashe muttered, then followed.
Shawn clapped his hands together. “At least one down.”
I threw up my hands. “You guys have houses already. And the taxes alone…” Yeah, I’d get them on the taxes. Taxes had to be a lot for a house this size.
“Please tell me the total of the most recent tax bill for this house or one you’ve paid.” Shawn’s gaze nailed me to the wall. “I’ll wait.”
I glared at him again because I couldn’t answer and he knew it. “I’m the youngest. I spent the most time in this house.”
That shut him up. I’d been raised by our grandparents the longest. I’d spent nearly the entirety of my childhood here. Shawn was eight years older than me, Ashe ten years older. My memories of Ashe were a blur of him coming and going, playing high school football, and visiting when he returned for college breaks. I was younger than both cousins, who had spent most of their summers here, but had their own homes outside of town.
“But you hate it here,” Riley stated.
Until this moment, I’d vowed to never live in Crystal Cove again. The town always felt too small, too steeped in a tragic family story people refused to see past. The sad little girl whose parents died in a freak car accident on the icy interstate.And so close to Christmas, they’d always tag on. As if sudden loss of both parents was somehow worse when tied to a commercial holiday.
Three kids left with no parents. Though of course we’d had family. We’d had Grans and Gramps—may he RIP. We had their enchanted castle house with so many rooms to dream up new adventures. I loved the house, but the idea of living here forever and always had me feeling trapped.
Did I actually want this house?
Knowing the house would change hands, and having my career go down in flames all at once, it was too freaking much. I needed a second to think. My best practice had always been to never make big decisions while high on emotions.
Too bad my best practice resulted in a lay-off anyway. And besides, what did I have to lose if the determining inheritance factor wasn’t lineage—of which I was last—but holiday festivities?
Oh, right. I hated holiday festivities.
I was doomed.
Chapter 2
Ethan
This was my season to shine. Holiday time.
“You know, I run a Christmas tree lot,” I told the woman who’d squeezed into the space beside me at the bar. With glossy auburn hair and long eyelashes, she looked like a celebrity. Maybe an influencer or a model. Not a townie or I’d have recognized her. She called out her drink order to the bartender loud enough to be heard over the blaring music.
She finally noticed me. “Did you say something about a Christmas tree?”
I nodded. “Name’s Ethan. Sawyer. I run the tree lot over by the highway.” I cringed. My opening was rusty this early in the season. “I run a tree farm.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet.” Lights from above the bar sparkled in her mossy green eyes.
Yup. Still got it.
I played up a casual laugh. “I know, it sounds like one of those holiday movies on TV, but it’s real. I really do run a Christmas tree farm. Family business.”
Her obvious delight—smile, nodding with interest—fueled me further. “We’re big supporters of the Holly Days festival. We show up to most of the town events.” Ladies loved this stuff. The quaint small-town vibe, the sheer holiday-ness of all of it.
