Chapter 8
EIGHT
Avery
It had been a day. A long, emotional, patience-testing day.
Now, let me make one thing crystal clear: I love my husband with every fiber of my being.
But he pisses me off. Like, really pisses me off.
And if anyone tries to tell me they’ve never wanted to strangle their spouse with a string of Christmas lights, they’re lying.
Yes, Jim works himself into the ground. Yes, I know he carries more weight on his shoulders than Santa’s sleigh.
But this year? Oh, this year, James Howard Mitchell decided to drop the Christmas ornament-ball, smash it to pieces, and then torch the remains in a dumpster fire fueled by his festive little excuse to screw over everyone he employs.
“Are you not speaking to me tonight?” he asked, strolling in while I was bent over the sink washing my face.
He looked relaxed. Casual. Like a man who wasn’t about to be exiled to the guest room.
I dried my face, gave him a smile sweet enough to rot teeth, and said, “I don’t think you want me speaking to you, James.”
“James?” he chuckled. “What, am I in trouble with the principal again? Last time you used my full name, I’d fired the head groundskeeper.”
“Exactly.” I stepped into my nightgown, the sheer one I knew would make him choke. His eyes immediately dropped because men are predictable. “That poor guy hadn’t done anything wrong, and you axed him over a few weeds. Came home cranky, played boss-hole, ruined a man’s night.”
Jim’s eyes dragged back up to mine, still hot. “He had done nothing. That was the problem. I needed someone who did something.”
God help me. He could look like the world’s hottest bastard while saying the world’s coldest shit.
“Thank God you hired him back,” I said, “but this little stunt with your company? Oh, honey. You didn’t just step in it; you jumped into a vat of shit wearing your best Ferragamo loafers.”
“You’re joking, right?” His hands flew out, pleading. “This has to be my brother messing with me again. And now you’re part of it?” He sighed, “Bringing in the wives again? That was last year’s game, and they lost.”
I ignored him and slid into bed. I tossed his pillow at him and tucked myself in with my favorite Christmas book, Little Women. “Be grateful I’m letting you keep your fancy cooling pillow. You’ll need it wherever you’re sleeping tonight.”
“Hold on.” He hovered, loosening his tie, watching me open my book. “What’s going on, Av?”
I ignored him, turned a page, and thought about how nice it would feel to smack him with this hardback. Men were so fucking clueless on their own, but give them the title of CEO billionaire, and Jesus H. Christ. It got even worse.
“Are you actually upset about the champagne and board?” he asked, completely disillusioned that I would be.
I glanced up. “When I walked into the center tonight, there was your board and one—one—bottle of champagne sitting there like some pity gift from a random volunteer. Even better? It was next to Titus’s fruit and salami tower, and the cases of champagne, the hams, and the turkeys he’d had flown in…
” I paused, watching him deflate. “Oh, and the private chef.”
He narrowed his eyes and exhaled…but this little rooster was only puffing up because Titus had kicked his ass on something.
I ignored the ego-driven CEO bullshit, “You see the difference? Titus sent a culinary army. You sent Costco’s best sampler platter.”
“That damn bottle of champagne is worth more than a Porsche,” Jim argued, puffing his chest. “And you love charcuterie boards. Problem solved.”
I set my book down, folded my hands, and gave him the kind of look that has killed men in battle.
“You truly don’t see it, do you? You saw on Thanksgiving that even our children understand that the galas and gifts aren’t for us, they’re for those who will actually benefit from them.
They’re for the people who can’t have or experience the things we easily can and do. ”
“I truly don’t see how any of that has anything to do with what our daughter did,” he said honestly, running a hand through his hair like he was the wounded party. “I think everyone’s making a bigger deal than it is.”
“That’s the problem, Jim. The Christmas gala always lifts everyone’s spirits and boosts company morale.
The bonuses matter even more. They pay employees’ bills, support charities, buy kids toys, and sometimes, they just keep the lights on.
And you? You decided, because I like charcuterie, that the entire company would, too? ”
“Yeah,” he said, confident but still confused.
“Well, congratulations. You’re officially the Martha Stewart of terrible Christmas decisions. You’re the chef’s kiss of canceling the one holiday most people look forward to, and for everything you’re not giving them.”
His jaw clenched. “Are you finished lecturing me on how to run my company?”
“Oh, you did not just say that shit to me.” I flung the covers off and stomped toward him. “Don’t you dare CEO-voice me in this bedroom. Not when you just gave out the Jelly of the Month Club disguised as Christmas cheer.”
“My God, why is everyone treating me like I’m Clark Griswold’s boss?” He rubbed his temple. “That guy handed out jelly subscriptions to his people. My people got champagne and cheese.”
“Correction,” I jabbed a finger into his chest. “Your people got less than jelly. At least Frank Shirley gave his employees something that lasted for the whole year, and he wasn’t even a damn billionaire.
You gave everyone indigestion and one bottle of champagne to fight over or, at best, sell if they needed the money instead. ”
“Right. Because Mr. Shirley gave the gift that keeps on giving?” he muttered, dry as a desert. “You don’t need to say it. Jacob informed me already tonight.”
“And Jake’s right,” I answered. “And lucky you, Mr. Scrooge CEO, you sent your insult out five weeks early. Which means you have time to fix it. Mr. Shirley screwed his employees on Christmas Eve.”
“I honestly don’t have time for this shit, Av. I have no planners in place, no patience, and zero bandwidth for Christmas drama.”
“Perfect. Because I’ve already hired Cat Velez.”
His head shot up. “You what? Who?”
“Yep.” I shoved the pillow into his chest. “She’s the Luxury Event Architect extraordinaire, and she’s about to plan the most beautiful, extravagant Christmas celebration in company history. Now, you, my loving husband, will smile and look grateful while she salvages your reputation.”
“Where am I sleeping?”
“Tonight? Not in this bed. Go warm up the guest room. Maybe the couch. Maybe the doghouse.”
He smirked, leaning in. “I love you.”
I slid back into bed, lifted my book, and muttered, “I love you too, James, but I don’t like your Scrooge-ass right now.
And, you know what, if I were still a single-mom employee, I’d have marched straight into your office and chewed your ass out for this slap in the face.
Money means nothing to a man who has everything, but it means everything to almost everyone else.
” I stopped and shook my head. “I mean, come on, man. In this economy, are you kidding me? A charcuterie board can go fuck itself.”
He sighed, deflated. “Fine, okay. I get it. Bonuses are back. And the gala.”
I peeked over my book. “Perhaps I’ll tell Cat that I want to call this the Winter Extravaganza.
I don’t want those who don’t celebrate Christmas to feel excluded.
This is about employee appreciation, and I want everyone in attendance to understand that this company depends on their efforts throughout the year. ”
“That’s fine, but she doesn’t need to go all out, though—”
“Oh, don’t even try to put restrictions on this,” I arched my eyebrow at him.
“Besides, Cat Veléz doesn’t know the meaning of halfway.
She’s already planning light shows, imported snow, and a gospel choir that will make angels jealous.
Trees flown in from Aspen, and Santa and his gifts for the kids will be at a separate celebratory location for them.
” I smiled sweetly, “Oh, and another thing. I told her to use the company’s private jets to bring over folks from the London office if they’re able to close down their offices and attend.
They’ll love celebrating with the CEO who almost canceled Christmas. ”
“The jets? Those are booked up for paying passengers who want to fly privately when we aren’t using them. The Christmas season is when outside clients use them most. Avery—”
“Good night.” I flipped the page. “Pray you don’t get a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past. God knows, he doesn’t play.”
Jim groaned, dragged himself out of the room, and I tucked back into my book, watching him go. Pathetic, deflated, and very much the husband I adored…even if his Scrooge-ass needed a Christmas miracle.