Chapter 38 #2
“And don’t you go falling in love with it, either, big guy,” Collin said.
I ignored the dumbasses in the front and glanced out the cracked window. I felt my stomach drop when we eventually merged onto the freeway, straight to the 101—the route from the Hollywood Hills to downtown and toward Paramount Studios.
I exhaled a laugh, shaking my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You two dipshits are taking me to Avery’s party that was supposed to be canceled, aren’t you?”
Neither of them answered, just smiled wider.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, settling back into the seat. “If anyone can fake a cancellation and recruit two idiots with a replica RV, it’s my wife.”
Jake laughed. “Hey, at least she knows how to follow our lead with pranking spouses, unlike your sorry ass.”
“The best part?” Collin grinned. “You’re about to make the best speech of your life, Frank Shirley.”
I leaned back, finally laughing. The ridiculousness of it all—the RV, the ropes, the kidnapping on Christmas Eve, my Christmas Eve pajamas—all of it was so absurd I couldn’t even be mad. I was actually impressed that Avery pulled this off.
My wife was the only one who would keep things moving since the moment she called me out for trying to get away with giving cheese boards and champagne as company Christmas cheer this year. She must have had her response ready from day one.
I couldn’t help but love her for it. At least it was a fun reminder of what a greedy and selfish dick I’d been at the start of the holidays this year.
Of course, I didn’t see it that way then.
But after last night’s party, seeing how happy and joyful everyone was?
Hell, I deserved to walk into my company party looking like the ass I’d been.
The freeway lights streaked across the cracked windshield, catching in the tinsel garland duct-taped to the rearview mirror. Every bump made the RV rattle, as if it were held together by prayer and duct tape.
I had no clue how they’d even gotten this thing past security, but I’d stopped asking questions from the moment it hit fifty on the freeway and didn’t explode into pieces.
We hit downtown, and the skyline shimmered ahead. I viewed Paramount’s arches glowing gold against the night sky.
“Tell me this thing has seatbelts,” I muttered.
Jake laughed. “Seatbelts? You think Cousin Eddie’s RV has seatbelts?”
“I think this entire trip qualifies as reckless endangerment,” I shot back.
Collin just grinned in the mirror. “Relax, Jimmy boy. You’re about to have the night of your life. This is only the beginning of what your lovely wife has planned for you while you redeem yourself with everyone in your company.”
I glanced out the window. The studio gates were getting closer, and then I saw it.
A massive banner stretched across the archway, lit in soft white bulbs:
Welcome to A Christmas Redemption — Hosted by Avery Mitchell.
My mouth curved. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
A guard at the gate waved us through, as if this kind of chaos happened every day. The RV rattled into the lot, and as we turned the corner, the sight hit me square in the chest.
The entire backlot had been transformed into Victorian London.
Snow dusted cobblestone streets, shop windows glowed amber through frosted glass, and carolers sang near lampposts wrapped in garland. The air shimmered with stage fog and laughter.
And there, in the middle of it all, stood Avery—my brilliant, impossible, show-stopping wife.
Her crimson gown glittered beneath the lights, the fabric catching gold every time she moved. How she managed to look regal and composed when I knew she was coming apart with laughter on the inside was beyond me.
Jake clapped me on the shoulder, pulling my eyes off her and back to the shithole I was still sitting in. “Showtime, Jimmy.”
The RV door swung open, and an assistant with a headset appeared. “We’ve got him! Bring Mr. Mitchell to wardrobe!”
“Wardrobe?” I repeated.
“Yup,” Jake said, grinning. “This was just the introduction. The next scene is the part you’ll be playing for the rest of the evening.”
“Now that you’re on video and pictures have been taken,” Collin said, “you’re due on set in fifteen minutes, Ebenezer.”
“Huh?”
Before I could even question my wife—who was currently doubled over with laughter—I was whisked away again.
This time, two assistants flanked me, guiding me through a maze of back corridors strung with lights and garland.
Every corner smelled of pine and stage powder, and every extra we passed looked as if they’d just stepped out of A Christmas Carol.
“Where exactly are you taking me?” I asked.
“To wardrobe,” one of the assistants said sweetly. “You’re our Scrooge for tonight’s event.”
Of course. These were the two characters my wife had mocked me with since November. Well, fuck it. I wasn’t about to resist the Scrooge costume—it was far better than showing up to a company party in pajamas, at least.
Minutes later, I was surrounded by stylists in blazers, one yanking off my robe, another fitting a waistcoat over my shoulders, a third adjusting a cravat that felt like a noose.
“Easy,” I warned. “I’d like not to be completely choked out.”
They laughed, unbothered, while the head stylist smirked. “Ms. Veléz said you’d say that. Now hold still, Mr. Mitchell. This must be perfect.”
I stared at my reflection once they finished: black wool coat, silk waistcoat, silver pocket watch, and a top hat that looked older than my company.
I looked like the ghost of tax seasons past.
Jake stuck his head through the doorway, grin wide and already dressed in his Victorian era clothing. “You ready, Scrooge?”
“No,” I said flatly, grabbing the cane they handed me. “But I’m assuming that doesn’t matter.”
“Not even a little,” Collin said, tugging his waistcoat, and barely containing his laughter.
They led me toward the double doors opening onto the soundstage. The noise hit first—a swell of applause and laughter, the brass band playing a medley of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.
And then the lights hit me.
A thousand twinkling bulbs, fake snow drifting from the rafters, a sea of familiar faces. Employees, families, investors, friends. All gathered beneath a giant sign that read:
“The Spirit of Christmas Lives Here.”
Avery stood at the center of it all, glowing. When her eyes met mine, her smile deepened, pure mischief and pride wrapped into one look.
I walked toward her, cane tapping against the cobblestones, every step echoing through the hush that fell over the crowd.
“Welcome to your redemption, Mr. Scrooge,” she said softly when I reached her.
I leaned closer, just enough for her to hear. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Immensely,” she whispered back, eyes gleaming. “Now, go show them that the Grinch in Gucci actually has a heart.”
“For the record, I’m craving the Chinese food that your cute little ass lied about,” I arched an eyebrow at her.
“Enjoy your evening, baby,” she smiled. “We’ll do Chinese tomorrow. It’ll be like in the movie, A Christmas Story,” she laughed.
“By tomorrow, I’ll be done with re-enacting Christmas movies,” I laughed and then straightened, exhaled, and tipped my hat. “Where do they need me, Mrs. Scrooge?” I winked at her.
“Right over there. Cameras are rolling, and all the employees are waiting for their bonuses, and your formal Christmas wishes of gratitude for them this year.”
One thing was certain: I was going to have to wing this shit.
Still, I figured there was no better time than now to be honest about how I almost screwed the entire company over this Christmas, the fun planning war my wife and I had gotten ourselves into, and then to announce their bonuses so everyone knew this was all for them.
I saw smiles radiating through the fog on the London streets, as a massive crowd of guests gathered to hear me virtually confess that I was this close to becoming both Clark’s boss and a Scrooge this season—until my gorgeous, thoughtful wife stopped me in my tracks and was now literally forcing me to live out those roles.
Fuck it. If the world wanted a show, I was going to give them the best damn redeemed Scrooge they’d ever seen.