Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Avery
It was the morning of Jim’s party, and I couldn’t wait to see what he had cooked up. All I knew was that he had moved the venue to the San Bernardino Mountains.
“So, you’re not even giving me a hint?” I asked the girls, who were dead set on making cinnamon waffles for me and their father.
Addy stirred the batter while Izzy sprinkled in cinnamon and sugar. “No hints, Mom,” she said. “Izzy, that’s enough. It’s going to taste like a cinnamon donut if you’re not careful.”
“Add some brown sugar,” Jim said, walking into the kitchen behind me. “Trust me. Those waffles will have maple-donut vibes, and everybody knows that’s Dad’s favorite.”
“Good morning, handsome.” I smiled at him, sharp in a suit for his executive meeting with Titus.
“Oh, it’s definitely been a good morning,” he said, emerald eyes glinting as he bent to kiss my cheek.
“Gross,” Addy groaned.
“I hope that was aimed at Izzy believing in your dad’s made-up maple-donut waffle recipe,” I teased.
“It wasn’t,” Izzy said, fully aligned with her sister’s drama.
“Let me ask you two little elves something.” Jim sat on a barstool beside me, across from the waffle station.
“You already know our answer, Dad,” Addy said, one brow raised.
Jim chuckled. “You don’t even know the question. Suppose your mother and I never kissed, barely spoke, and spent all our time arguing. Or worse, suppose we never had mornings like this together. Is that what you prefer?”
“See? A kiss isn’t so bad,” I told them while they pretended to think it over. “It could be so much worse.”
“Worse, like when you both didn’t talk for a week?” Izzy asked.
“Just like that,” Jim said. “And you had to hear us bicker.”
“So, you girls can choose," I offered. “Back to the days when we hid out at the beach house to avoid Dad. Or your dad and I being back to normal, just in time for Christmas?”
Addy ladled batter into the waffle iron. “That’s a tough one,” she said, glancing at Izzy.
“How is that tough?” Jim laughed. “I grew up wishing my parents would choose a hug over a shouting match.”
“I know,” Addy said, softening. “It’s just…you two can be so cringey.”
“We are not cringey,” I insisted, trying not to laugh.
“I don’t want the fighting,” Izzy said. “But I’d be okay with the silence again.” She giggled, and we all cracked up.
“Oh, lord.” I rolled my eyes. “A little affection never hurt anyone. Dad’s right, it could be worse.” I rubbed Jim’s hand and smiled at him. “And if we ever go back to that fake-fighting mess, I’ll kick your ass.”
Jim arched an eyebrow. “If we continue our fire-and-ice therapy, we’ll never go silent again.”
“Fire-and-ice therapy?” Addy asked, hovering over the steam emanating from the waffle maker. “What even is that?”
“Something for your Uncle Jake to explain,” I said, as cinnamon and caramel began wafting through the air. “Wait, did you put the brown sugar in? It smells amazing.”
“Yeah,” Izzy said. “While Dad was talking about why it’s okay to gross us out.”
“New topic,” Jim advised. “Are you girls excited for tonight?”
“Yes,” Izzy squealed. “But Mom won’t let us change until we’re there.”
“I don’t want the dresses wrinkled,” I said, taking the first waffles. “We’ve been over this.”
“But John said all the other kids get to arrive already dressed,” Addy said.
“Why is this even an issue?” I asked, taking a bite. “Holy—” I stopped, eyes wide. “Best waffles I’ve ever had. Is there peppermint?”
“Yes,” Izzy said. “It was a gamble.”
“You two never cease to amaze me.” I forked a bite and offered it to Jim. “You’re going to melt.”
We watched the man, who routinely inspired the Michelin-star standard of cooking in our house, savor his bite.
“I have to agree with your mother,” he said, pleased. “They’re light and practically melt in your mouth. Where’d you get the recipe?”
“TikTok,” Izzy said, like she’d just won the Great British Bake Off.
“Yeah,” Addy added. “Once my feed stopped being about Dad saving brown trees, all the Christmas baking showed up. A lady said it was her great-grandma’s recipe.”
“Even the maple-donut twist?” I asked.
“No, that was Dad,” Izzy said, handing him a plated waffle while Addy poured more batter.
“So perhaps we get me trending with this recipe,” Jim said, amused.
“Do you really want to trend again, Dad?” Addy rolled her eyes.
“Meh.” He shrugged. “Maybe we keep our Christmas-waffle recipe a family secret and only share it with friends who’ll truly appreciate it.”
By late afternoon, the house buzzed with holiday chaos. Curling irons hissed, glittery shoes flew through the air, and the faint scent of peppermint lotion and pine drifted through the halls.
Jim had been gone since morning for his meeting with Titus, and I hadn’t heard a word from him except a single text that said: Don’t be late, Mrs. Mitchell. Santa waits for no one.
That alone was suspicious enough.
“Mom, which earrings?” Addy called from the bathroom doorway, holding up a pair of silver hoops and another shaped like tiny snowflakes.
“Snowflakes,” I said. “They match your dress.”
Izzy appeared behind her, hair half-curled and dress shoes in hand. “Dad texted us, too. He said to be ready by four and pack something warm.”
“Warm?” I frowned. “We’re going to a Christmas party, not an arctic expedition.”
“Maybe he’s doing it outside?” Addy said.
I laughed under my breath. “Knowing your father, he’s probably building an ice rink on the driveway just to prove a point.”
“Or he’s moving the party again,” Izzy said.
“That would be the third time this week.” I zipped up my coat, still half convinced he was bluffing about the mountain venue. I didn’t trust the girls, either. They were in on his party anyway.
By four o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang.
The girls froze mid-run down the hall, squealing, “It’s starting!”
When I opened the door, Alastair stood on the porch like something straight out of a Christmas advertisement—black coat, red scarf, and a smile that said he knew far more than he was going to tell me.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mitchell,” he greeted. “Mr. Mitchell asked me to escort you and the young ladies.”
“Escort?” I repeated. “As in…follow you?”
“Not exactly.” His expression didn’t move, but I swore I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “If you’ll gather your coats, I’ll explain on the way.”
“Explain what, exactly? Where’s Jim?”
“I’ve been instructed not to say a peep,” he said delicately.
“Oh, of course.” I crossed my arms. “Alastair, is this one of Jim’s pranks?”
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he said with practiced calm, “Mr. Mitchell prefers the term surprise.”
Addy and Izzy came barreling down the stairs, laughing. “We’re ready! Where are we going?”
Alastair stepped aside, gesturing toward the driveway. “If you’ll follow me, young ladies.”
I hesitated at the doorway, glancing past him. Parked at the curb wasn’t Jim’s usual Rolls. Instead, it was a black luxury coach with tinted windows and a faint hum of an engine already running.
“Oh, cute,” I said. “He’s sending us to the mountains in the fancy Christmas bus?”
Alastair opened the door for me. “Not quite.”
“Alastair, how the hell do you know how to drive one of these hoopties?” I chuckled.
“You’d be surprised, Avery,” he answered with a smile.
Well, this was comedy at least. I never in a million years imagined being chauffeured in a damn limousine bus by Jim’s driver. I smiled at the thought, then joined the girls up in the lavish holiday entertainment bus.
Inside, the cabin was cozy—plush seats, a tray of cocoa waiting, soft instrumental Christmas music playing through hidden speakers.
Izzy pressed her face to the window as we started moving. “Mom! We’re not going toward the freeway.”
I looked and saw that she was right. We weren’t heading in the direction that led to the San Bernardino mountains. “Alastair,” I said carefully, “where exactly are we going?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “You’ll see soon enough, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’m permitted to give.”
Addy giggled. “He’s totally hiding something!”
“Of course he is,” I said, sinking back into the seat. “Your father must be loving this.”
“Rest assured, you all will profoundly love this as well,” Alastair said with a giddy smile.
“Well, let’s just hope we’ll get to the party in time after this short detour, or the girls and I will be arriving just in time to party with all the guests in sweat pants,” I teased.
“I’d find time to change,” Addy said.
“You’d be fashionably late, sister,” I said. “And with all cell phone videos of you in your ratty sweats, don’t think your cousin John won’t be the first to get you trending next to Dad on social media.”
“I’d kick his butt, and he knows it,” Izzy boldly proclaimed in protecting her sister.
“Let’s just let this music keep us in our holiday vibes for now,” I said. “We don’t need anyone kicking anyone’s butt at Dad’s company Christmas celebration,” I chuckled.
Whatever Jim was up to, I was a little worried, and it was only because of the silly pranks we’d started doing after we got into this party planning war. So, knowing James Mitchell well, I knew he had to at least start the intro to his party with one last tiny prank on me and the girls.
However, I was completely wrong when the bus turned onto Jim’s private helipad.
We pulled in, and when I saw the sleek black helicopter with the Mitchell and Associates crest on the side, I realized that my husband was actually taking us to his party in an exciting way, and that should’ve made me want to immediately stop the prank planned for him at his party.
But it didn’t.