Deck My Halls (Everdale Falls #1)

Chapter 1

One

HOLLY

The Fall from Grace

The cardboard box containing my professional life weighed approximately nothing, which was fitting since my career had just been reduced to exactly that—nothing.

"We're really sorry, Holly, but with the budget cuts.

.." Patricia from HR was still talking, but I'd stopped listening after effective immediately.

The rest was just noise, like elevator music for corporate executions.

I focused instead on the framed photo of my parents that I was wrapping in tissue paper, my hands steady despite the surreal nature of dismantling my desk while my coworkers pretended not to watch.

Mom's proud smile from my college graduation seemed to mock me now. Look how that turned out, Mom. All that potential, all those scholarships and internships and strategic career moves, and here I was getting walked out of Pinnacle Marketing like some kind of corporate criminal.

The irony wasn't lost on me that I was having the worst professional moment of my life while looking absolutely fantastic.

My navy blue blazer fit like it had been custom-tailored for my fuller figure, emphasizing my waist and creating the kind of image that usually made me feel like I could conquer the world.

The cut was specifically designed to flatter curvier women, and I'd paid extra for quality tailoring that accentuated my hourglass shape.

My dark hair was styled in waves that had taken exactly the right amount of effort this morning, and my makeup was flawless despite the fact that I was currently experiencing what career counselors probably called involuntary employment transition.

If I was going down, at least I was going down looking like I could run this place better than the suits who were tanking it. Which, honestly, I probably could have.

"Your performance reviews have been consistently excellent," Patricia continued, shuffling through paperwork with the kind of practiced efficiency that suggested she'd done this before. "This really is just a matter of restructuring and budget constraints."

Budget constraints. Right. The same budget constraints that had apparently allowed them to hire Don's frat brother as a marketing consultant three months ago, despite his portfolio consisting entirely of Instagram stories about protein powder. But sure, Patricia. Budget constraints.

I glanced around the open-concept office one last time, the place bedecked with years-old tinsel and sad-looking decorations, noting how my former coworkers had suddenly become very interested in their computer screens.

Classic. Nothing quite cleared a room faster than a firing in progress.

Jenny from graphic design was pretending to be completely absorbed in whatever she was working on, even though I could see her computer screen reflected in the window and she was definitely online shopping for shoes.

"The Hughes campaign you developed really was innovative," Patricia added, probably trying to soften the blow. "We'll definitely be implementing those strategies going forward."

My strategies. Which they were apparently keeping while eliminating the person who'd created them.

The Hughes campaign had been three months of my life, including weekend research sessions and late-night brainstorming that had resulted in a 40% increase in client engagement.

But why pay the person who'd actually done the work when you could just steal her ideas and call it restructuring?

"That's great," I said, standing up from my desk. The movement felt decisive, confident, like someone who was choosing to leave rather than being escorted out with her personal belongings in a box that used to hold copy paper. "I'm sure you'll do wonderful things with those strategies."

The sarcasm was subtle enough to maintain professional dignity while making it clear that I wasn't buying the corporate bullshit Patricia was selling. Some situations called for grace under pressure, and getting fired was apparently one of them.

The walk to the elevator felt like a perp walk, if perp walks were conducted in really good shoes and with this much righteous indignation.

I stabbed the down button with more force than necessary, noting my reflection in the polished elevator doors.

Even in crisis mode, I was the picture of composure, my posture was straight, and my expression suggested someone who was processing disappointment rather than devastation.

But the truth was starting to sink in. Twenty-eight years old.

Degree in Marketing Communications. Three years of experience at a respected firm.

Stellar portfolio that apparently wasn't stellar enough to prevent budget-cut elimination.

And approximately fourteen dollars in my checking account, thanks to my lying, cheating ex-boyfriend Derek, who'd cleaned out my account before disappearing with his bullshit cryptocurrency investment opportunity that had turned out to be financing his new girlfriend's lifestyle.

The elevator dinged cheerfully, apparently unaware it was soundtracking my professional apocalypse.

The elevator ride gave me exactly forty-three seconds to process the full scope of my situation before the doors opened and deposited me into the marble lobby where I'd walked confidently every morning for the past eighteen months.

The security guard, Jed, gave me a sympathetic nod that suggested my hometown of Everdale Falls, Vermont gossip network had nothing on corporate building staff when it came to information distribution.

"Take care of yourself, Miss Winters," he said quietly as I walked past, and the kindness in his voice almost broke through my carefully maintained composure.

"You too, Jed," I managed, because even in the middle of professional disaster, courtesy mattered.

The Chicago December wind hit me like a physical assault as I stepped outside, cutting through my blazer like it was tissue paper.

Fuck!

I'd forgotten my coat in my rush to maintain dignity during the firing process, and now I was standing on Michigan Avenue in thirty-degree weather, holding a box of my former life while wearing business attire designed for heated buildings rather than Midwest winter survival.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

But there was no way in hell I was returning to collect it. It was abandoned to the lost and found box.

The walk to the parking garage was a special kind of torture that involved navigating icy sidewalks in heels while Christmas decorations mocked me from every storefront.

Cheerful holiday displays advertising joy and celebration when my world was currently imploding seemed particularly cruel.

Even the Salvation Army bellringer looked at me with pity as I hurried past, clutching my pathetic box of personal belongings.

I made it exactly thirty feet from the office building before the full reality of my situation hit me like a freight train.

No job. No money. Rent was due in three days—rent I couldn't pay because Derek had systematically drained my accounts over the past three months while I'd been trusting enough to believe his stories about temporary cash flow issues with his consulting business.

The eviction notice was already taped to my apartment door, giving me until Friday to come up with $1,847 or find somewhere else to live.

In December. Two weeks before Christmas. While unemployed.

I ducked into my car in the parking garage and completely lost my composure.

The meltdown started as angry tears and escalated into full-body sobs that made my carefully applied makeup run in dramatic streaks down my cheeks. I sat in my old Honda Civic and let myself fall apart completely.

"Fuck," I said to my steering wheel, which was about as eloquent as I could manage while processing the comprehensive disaster my life had become. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

If ever I needed a Christmas miracle, now was the time.

The crying episode lasted approximately fifteen minutes and included several choice observations about Derek's character, Patricia's corporate cruelty, and my own stupidity for trusting someone who'd turned out to be a lying, stealing piece of shit who'd left me broke and homeless right before Christmas.

But here's the thing about being a curvy woman who'd spent her entire life learning to advocate for herself: even in complete crisis mode, I still looked good crying. I’d perfected it.

Not that looking good while crying was particularly useful when you were facing homelessness and unemployment, but at least I had that going for me.

Right?

When the tears finally stopped, I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror and made a decision that was equal parts desperation and strategy.

My apartment was already packed—I'd been preparing for the eviction all week, hoping against hope that some miracle—that would be to say a Christmas bonus from work which was the rumor floating around—would materialize to save me from having to admit complete life failure to my parents.

Time to call in the miracle myself.

I scrolled to Mom's contact and hit call before I could lose my nerve or start crying again.

"Holly! What a lovely surprise. I was just telling your father that we haven't heard from you this week, and you know how he worries—"

"Mom, I got fired today." The words tumbled out before I could soften them with euphemisms or corporate-speak explanations. "And I'm getting evicted. And I need to come home."

The silence on the other end of the line lasted approximately five seconds, which felt like five hours when you were sitting in a parking garage having just blurted out complete life failure to your mother.

"Oh, honey. What happened?"