Polar Prank (Pinch of Grinch #1)

Chapter 1

brINKER

Firmly seated behind my polished mahogany desk, the glow of my computer screen illuminates the stacks of spreadsheets that litter the shiny surface.

This is my fortress of numbers and calculations, a safe space, or at least it feels that way.

Outside the panoramic windows, the city skyline sparkles like a million little flares, twinkling bright against the slate-grey sky.

But I don’t see the beauty.

All I see is another December filled with the weight of end of year deadlines and the shrilling sound of ringing phones.

It's not festive to say the least.

Christmas, the season of joy and merriment, looms like a festering cloud over my head.

It’s a nuisance I’m forced to endure. My employees hum carols and decorate their cubicles with cheap garlands and blinking lights as though that might brighten all of our lives.

I roll my eyes at the office holiday party planning committee as they flutter around the office like excited puppies, suggesting eggnog tastings and “Secret Santa” exchanges.

I’ve participated out of obligation in the past, but I can’t think of anything more unproductive.

“Brinker! Hey, do you want to pitch in for the holiday party?” Jenna, from HR, pops her head into my office, her enthusiasm a sharp contrast to the gravity of the numbers still left to crunch.

“No, Jenna. I’m busy,” I reply, my tone clipped.

She looks taken aback, then shrugs and scurries away. I return my focus to the screen, but the sound of her laughter fades into the cacophony of my thoughts.

I truly hate the holidays.

I hate the forced cheer.

I hate the incessant jingles playing on repeat.

And I hate the pressure of obligatory gift-giving.

It’s all a sham.

My clients don’t care about the season, why should I? The stock market doesn’t pause for sugar cookies and hot chocolate and it sure as shit doesn’t care about holiday parties. If anything, those things are a distraction from what’s truly important in my life.

Success.

I want —no need— to be a success. It’s in my genes. We Carringtons eat, breathe, and live to be at the top of our game. I was taught that from a young age.

The shrill ring of my phone jolts me from my contemplations.

A video call from Grandma Victoria?

I hesitate, a flicker of guilt creeping in. It’s been a couple of months since I last talked to her. Busy with work and… well, work.

But Grandma Victoria has always been the one soft spot in the otherwise rigid structure of my life. She practically raised me after my mother died when I was eight and my father had “better things to do.”

His words, definitely not mine.

“Hello, Grandma.”

“Brinker! Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice and to see your stunningly handsome face.

” Her voice crackles through the line, warm and comforting even if she’s miles away and I feel like I’m being buttered up with her accolades of my appearance.

“I’m assuming you’re planning to come for Christmas this year. I can’t wait to see you.”

I lean back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I’ve got a lot going on with work, Grandma. I’ve landed two new clients and they expect—”

“Excuses mean nothing. Family means everything.” Her voice rises just a notch.

“This is your last chance, my grandson. I’ve been very patient.

I thought maybe when you matured you’d find some joy and something more than work to keep you company, but if you don’t find some holiday spirit and learn some balance in your life, you’ll miss out on lots of things…

” she clears her throat, “Like what’s in my will.

I won’t live forever and I’m implementing conditions here and now. ”

She sounds like the female version of my father and it’s clear where he got his ability to put forth a stern face and words. She’s normally not this direct, but I guess with age comes the need to be that way.

The unveiled threat lingers in the air like smoke from a doused candle, dense and suffocating.

My chest tightens at her words. She’s been hinting at this for months, the importance of family, learning what’s called “balance,” and the spirit of the season.

But now it’s clear. If I don’t play along, the consequences could be something that could affect my own financial future.

Grandma’s a spry hen, but I could do a lot of good with the money she’s allotted for my future. I have dreams outside of the four brick walls of my business.

I’m just not sure exactly what those dreams are.

I can hear her tapping her red nails on her own wood desk in her office at her home in the Blue Ridge Mountains waiting for me to respond.

“Grandma, this isn’t fair,” I sigh, my fingers drumming against the desk. A family trait, I guess. “I can’t just drop everything because it’s Christmas.”

“Exactly,” she counters, her tone softens but still firm.

“That’s just the point. This isn't just about festivities, Brinker, it’s about finding what’s truly important.

It’s about making something important in your life that doesn’t including burying yourself in numbers, shares of stock, and spreadsheets.

There’s more to life and I want you to find whatever it is that makes you happy.

Really happy, not just content. There’s a difference.

You can be content with work and your career, but happiness is something that settles into your soul, my grandson. My only grandson.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, resolute yet crackling with frustration. The guilt meter just hit extreme.

She’s —probably— right, in some twisted sense.

But I feel trapped, locked in my own self-made prison of busyness and ambition.

The will lingers in my mind as a strange kind of pressure.

I can’t lose what she’s trying to pass on.

Part of me knows it holds something dear to her and to the legacy of our family.

It’s like buried treasure just waiting to be admired and put to good use.

“Will you come home?” she presses gently now, the ultimatum hanging between us like a fragile ornament on a tree, ready to shatter at the slightest tremor.

“I…” I hesitate, my palms a little sweaty.

“I’ll give you until the twenty-third,” she says. “You better hope that spirit finds you before then.”

The screen blinks and the call ends, leaving me in silence, staring at the chaotic numbers scattered across my computer screen.

What does holiday spirit even look like?

It’s an alien concept to me.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. Perhaps I’m forced to take the plunge into this festive whirlpool, whether I want to or not. I stand and glance out at the city again, the festive lights seeming like mocking stars, illuminating a world I’ve detached myself from.

“Just find it,” I mutter to myself, a faint sense of dread settling deep in my gut. I turn back around and grip the edge of my desk.

Just when did I become the Grinch that I am? It wasn’t that long ago, was it? Why did I become this way is probably the better question?

That one’s awfully complicated and probably best left to the therapists office.

I slam my computer shut and pull my coat out of the closet.

I’m not going to fucking find the spirit of anything in here.

Just find it— her words ring in my head.

Like it’s a missing item or that one kitchen tool that’s missing from its place in the drawer.

It’s not a possession. It’s a feeling and I don’t deal well with those.

That’s definitely hereditary.

But if anyone can do it, I can.

Holiday spirit… here I come.