Have Yourself a Merried Little Christmas

Chapter 1

Meirna

“You’ve been flirting with Sharon again, haven’t you?”

Richard, an eighty-two-year-old Vietnam vet who can still charm the cotton panties off the senior women at this assisted living home, glances up from his bingo card with innocent hazel eyes. “I didn’t tell her to come over here and look at my numbers.”

He huffs and gives me an ineffective look of exasperation. “Now, Meirna…how do you think it’ll look if you’re sittin’ here accusin’ an old man of cheatin’?”

Oh, please.

I’m not the only person who has had their suspicions. And, I sure as hell know that Richard gets special treatment here at Silver Pines Senior Assisted Living. He has these employees eating out of the palm of his hand, and half the women here with heart shapes stuck into their eyeballs.

“Like you’re cheating,” I deadpan flatly, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m not going to rat him out; we both know that.

I even have a soft spot for Richard, myself, because he’s sweet and kind, but he plays the game like one of the biggest players that’s ever played bingo. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Sharon calls out O-14, and what do you know, he stamps it. “Everyone can thank me for winning the prize because all it is is some stupid hat.”

“Is that why John is glaring at you from the other table?”

Richard steals a look over his shoulder, discovering said facial expression from John and tsks haughtily before returning his attention to his card. “John is just pissed off I stole the last piece of carrot cake last night.”

“So let him have the hat.”

“Noooo,” Richard exhorts with a cluck of his tongue. “He doesn’t deserve it. He called me a selfish bastard. I ain’t givin’ him nothin’.”

John isn’t far off the mark. Richard is the drama most of the time, and he likes it. Stirring the pot and causing a bit of chaos gets this senior facility some spice and something to talk about.

If it weren’t for Richard, this place would be boring as hell.

Not to get myself wrapped up in the bingo theatrics of senior citizens, I remain quiet as Sharon sweetly calls out N-3. Richard and I both stamp our cards, and he chuckles knowingly.

He’s still going to win.

And I’m still going to come here every Thursday to sit with him and play.

Silver Pines Senior Assisted Living is one of my passion projects. I run a non-profit for the facility so that the residents here can have the best of everything. My grandfather lived here for several years before passing away, and I’ve made friends with all his friends.

It wasn’t the best place at first. Papa came here without any inclination that he was, so it was a surprise when he gave the news.

I hated the place from day one. It smelled like body odor and cleaning products, the walls were yellow when they were supposed to be white.

The staff was lazy and unqualified. It was my family’s and my worst nightmare.

So, to make it better, I started running a non-profit for better care services.

That quickly turned into building a few others for other local senior facilities because I have a soft spot and a ton of love for generations before me.

They’re full of stories and solid advice, of old recipes and more dilemmas than a telenovela.

I get more gossip here than I do working at the public relations job.

Reaching for my lemonade, Richard’s hand quickly shoots out, “Don’t drink that. Margaret made it.”

Enough said.

That means zero sugar and way too much lemon.

I slowly pull my hand back. “I’d almost forgive you for cheating, and we weren’t getting all the suspicious looks we’ve been receiving over here.”

Richard waves a dismissive hand in the air. “They’ll be over it by dinner.”

“It’s Christmas time. Shouldn’t you be more kind and giving?”

He gives me a blank look. “Shouldn’t you be plannin’ a wedding, Missy? You’re overthinking again.”

I immediately don’t appreciate the change of subject and callout, even though he’s not totally off base.

This is my dream—sort of.

Like most women, I had dreams of my wedding. A Pinterest board. Ideas of the kind of food we’d have and the music. My biggest fantasy was having it around Christmas. The beautiful lights and trees, the holiday vibe, and joy circling one of the most important moments of my life.

But not with over four hundred guests in attendance.

My fiancé, Bobby, comes from a very public and prestigious family that spends money like they print it in their basement. It’s all about reputation, but also helping the community.

That’s where I first met Bobby.

It was a community day where we were planting trees and landscaping in one of the low-income cities of Stonehaven. Bobby was out digging. His muscles flexed underneath the Spring sun, and he looked like a Calvin Klein model showing off…well, everything.

Bobby is out of my league by a long shot. Dark hair, beautiful green eyes, and a jaw that I love outlining with my fingertips.

I didn’t get his name when we first met. I was too busy in awe that he even spoke and helped me after I had gracelessly spilled a bag of mulch all over the concrete.

In my defense, the bag was more than likely ripped. He flirted a bit, asked if I’d go to dinner with him, then he disappeared.

And by disappeared, I mean I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

So, of course, I stalked him on social media after asking around about who he was, because why would I leave it alone? It took days of my best friend, Nettie, harassing me to message him.

So, I did.

And we’ve been dating for two years ever since.

He popped the question six months ago, and now I’m marrying the man who supports and loves me with everything I do.

I shouldn’t be second-guessing anything.

But things have changed since Bobby’s father told him he was going to take over their family’s hedge fund company. He’s been super stressed, and the pressure has been falling on him in bucketloads. It’s been nothing but late nights and meetings, business trips and reports.

However, I’ll stick by him like he stuck by me when I got my non-profit up and running and even helped with it. Bobby and I may not have spent a lot of time together lately, but I love him.

And he still wants to marry me.

“I’m not overthinking it,” I retort with pinned and defensive brows. “It’s just…a big step.”

“I’ve been married three times,” Richard reminds me. “The man knows what he’s got, and he’ll take good care of you. I’ve met him.”

“You have.”

“He needs a bit more grit under his ass, but, hey…who am I to judge the guy?”

“Says the guy cheating in Bingo.”

“You didn’t get on Bobby when he flirted with Claire.”

“Because she was having a bad day, and I highly doubt Bobby is going to leave me for an eighty-one-year-old woman who is obsessed with sewing patterns.”

Richard laughs. “You’d be surprised. She makes a mean biscuits and gravy.”

I roll my eyes at that.

If it were avocado toast with burrata and truffle oil, maybe.

Bobby is a bit of a food snob, not that I’m complaining.

Some of the best dinners I’ve had in my life are because he introduced me to fine dining.

But the man will not eat a hamburger to save his life, and I have made it my life’s mission to shove one down his throat before I die.

Hence, the provocative lingerie I bought for our honeymoon to help sway him.

As his future wife, I would be doing this man a disservice if he’s been deprived of such a food.

He was raised on the best of everything, but since we’ve been dating, Bobby has really allowed me to take the reins on dates, new restaurants that aren’t a five-star restaurant with a Michelin-starred chef, except the damn man still refuses the hamburger.

I don’t get it.

“Miss Stetson.” Looking over my shoulder, I find Bonnie, the receptionist, smiling brightly at me. Not sure how she does it…it’s like plastered there because I never see her not smiling. “Bobby’s here for you.”

Excitement coils through me as if I just summoned him out of thin air.

I’ve barely seen him this week and, with the wedding in four days, I’ve been overwhelmed with last-minute details and his mother’s constant phone calls.

The only time we’re within the same vicinity is when we’re sleeping next to each other for a few hours.

Shoving my chair away from the table, I push my Bingo card in Richard’s direction. “Here. Play mine.”

“Why?” he presses, boring disgust into my barely stamped card. “You’re not gonna win.”

Jerk.

I give him a withering glare that barely registers as anything, and follow Bonnie to the lobby.

I’m about to step inside when Miss Aniston stops me by one of the Christmas trees.

“Meirna, darling,” she coos, fiddling with a circular gold ornament between long red fingernails. “I thought we were doing silver this year.”

No.

The people voted, and they voted gold.

She knows that, but she didn’t participate in the voting process because she took a nap.

Then a shower.

Then ate dinner.

Then read a book.

Then talked to Mrs. Monty for two hours and, before you know it, it was the next day and voting was closed.

“Gold won the vote, Miss Aniston,” I remind her. “Maybe next year.”

I make a move for the front again when she holds me captive with, “We’ve done gold two years in a row.”

So?

Be nice, Meirna. She’s particular about decor. She was an interior designer after all.

“I think we should add some more trees in the dining room,” I suggest. “Would you like to do silver there?” She makes a face at that, wrinkles crunched up together when I don’t hear her offering any solutions. “I’ll be back in just a minute. We can talk more about it then?”

She nods, still not looking happy about the holiday decor, but I have a six-foot-one fiancé out here waiting for me, and I’m not going to stand here for the next hour and waste time.