Falling for the Grinchy Bad Boy

Chapter 1

JOY

Am I embarrassed?

Humiliated?

Mortified?

Check, check, and check.

I’m back. Yeah me. I couldn’t make it in the big city, so now I’m back in Carlton Hill, Utah. I flew too close to the sun and I got burned. Singed. Fried.

And I’m also taking charity from family. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Not that I was ever mighty, but it felt like I could be one day. Living in New York City had been my dream since forever. And I made it. I had my eyes on a sweet apartment on the Upper East Side and envisioned black tie parties and finding Mr. Right and Rich one day.

I eased my overstuffed Toyota Camry to a stop in the cracked driveway of the house I’d grown up in.

The car was about to burst at the seams. Boxes pressed against the rear window and tote bags bulged from the backseat.

I’d had to put all my weight against the trunk to get it closed, and I hadn’t riddled out how I would open it without all my things bursting out. A problem for later.

Aunt Victoria stepped onto the porch. She had obviously heard me pull up.

One thing about living in a small town, you knew when a stranger was in the area.

Every neighborhood dog barked and there was just a feeling of being invaded.

People didn’t lock their doors around town.

They didn’t have to because people like Aunt Victoria were always watching.

She was a welcome committee of one. Just like always.

I loved my aunt, and she’d been a safe place for me when I was orphaned as a child.

She’d saved me in more ways than one, showed me what family meant in the wake of grief I couldn’t comprehend, and now here I was, showing up yet again needing saving.

She had to be getting tired of me by now.

She had on a quilted vest that looked about three decades old and jeans that I just knew had an elastic waist. Aunt Victoria dressed for comfort, not style.

She waved like I was a soldier returning from war, which, in a way, I supposed I was. The losing side.

“Well, you made it,” she called, cheerful as a bell.

“Barely,” I muttered, climbing out of the driver’s seat. My legs ached from the four days of driving. I stretched and tried to shake off the road fatigue, but really, it wasn’t just the road. It was months—years, maybe—of dragging myself around like a half-deflated balloon.

Aunt Victoria clomped down the porch steps and enveloped me in a hug that smelled of peppermint. She was sturdier than I remembered. She always gave good hugs.

“You look thin,” she said, pulling back to inspect me.

I grimaced. “I think that’s called unemployment chic. Very in right now.”

“Mm. Well, it suits you. But we’ll fatten you up with some proper food. No more instant noodles.” She gave the side of my car a dubious glance. “Good Lord, Joy, how many boxes did you bring?”

“It’s my entire life. In my car. That’s it. That’s all I have to show for twenty-seven years on this planet.” I made half-hearted jazz hands and then pretended they were cheerleading pompoms. “Go Joy!”

She squinted at the mountain of belongings visible through the windows. “It’s not so bad.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Well, come on then. Let’s unload your car and get you settled in your old room. We might need to put some of this in the garage, though.”

We started with the trunk. It took both of us to wrangle out the first box, which had been wedged in like a Tetris piece from hell. It was apparently keeping everything in place, and as soon as it came free, everything else spilled out onto the driveway like sad confetti.

“Careful!” Aunt Victoria said with a cheerful laugh. “What’s in these heavy ones, bricks?”

“Books,” I grunted. “I should have given them away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

She carried one of the lighter boxes with ease, while I waddled like a penguin with mine.

By the time we stacked three boxes in the front hall, sweat prickled at my neck despite it being December in northern Utah.

“So. You going to tell me the whole sad tale while we do this, or do I have to wring it out of you?”

I groaned. “Do we have to start with the sad tale? Can’t we just focus on manual labor?”

“Manual labor doesn’t fill the silence, sweetheart. And I haven’t seen you in ages. Spill.”

We returned to the car, and I yanked a duffel bag from the back seat, but it was wedged in so tight the damn thing didn’t want to move.

“Fine,” I said. “The company went under.”

“Advertising, right?”

“Yeah.” The bag finally gave way, and I stumbled back, just barely avoiding falling on my ass. “Turns out nobody wants to pay humans to be clever anymore. AI can spit out a hundred ad campaigns in five seconds. Who needs Joy when you’ve got Joy 2.0, now with seventy percent less attitude?”

Aunt Victoria clicked her tongue. “Machines don’t have charm. Or wit.”

“Neither did I, apparently. They cut half the staff. Then the rest. By the time they locked the doors, it was either live under the overpass or come crawling back here like a massive loser.”

“You’re not a loser,” she said firmly, taking another box.

I followed her inside. “I’m twenty-seven, unemployed, broke, and single. That’s basically the definition of loser. If you looked it up in the dictionary, you’d see my driver’s license photo.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said, though her eyes twinkled with amusement. “You’ve got plenty of time.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” I muttered. “In New York, it was fine. Ladies my age were all about climbing the corporate ladder. They dated and networked. But now I don’t have a ladder to climb or a man to—”

I cut myself off, remembering I was talking to my aunt that lived in Utah. I didn’t think she would appreciate my colorful vocabulary and me describing my sexual needs. Aunt Victoria wasn’t a prude, but she was still my aunt. The woman that raised me.

We set another load of boxes down. She put her hands on her hips in that stance that said I was about to get some wisdom.

“Time isn’t something you feel, Joy. It’s something you use.

And you’ve been given a little stretch of it right now.

Doesn’t mean it’s the end. You know you’re always welcome here. It’s really not so bad.”

“Feels like the end. End of my career, end of… everything.”

We finished bringing in the last of my things. Now the foyer was a mess.

I dropped onto the couch, leaning my head back and staring at the popcorn ceiling. The house was built sometime in the seventies. Aunt Victoria had probably painted the inside no less than twenty times, but the popcorn ceiling stayed.

“I thought by twenty-seven I would at least have direction. A job I didn’t hate. Maybe someone to share rent with who wasn’t a psychotic roommate. Instead I’m here. Starting from zero. Or maybe negative five.”

Aunt Victoria sat in her recliner, facing me with that maddening calmness she always had. “You know, when I was your age, I was working three jobs and dating a man who thought ‘romance’ meant letting me pick the toppings on the pizza. Life straightens out, eventually.”

“Yeah, but you straightened it out. You have this house. Friends. A purpose.”

“And you have possibilities. What can be better than that?”

I grabbed one of the throw pillows and pressed it to my face, groaning my frustration. “You make it sound like a motivational poster.”

“Actually, it’s funny you mentioned having a purpose.”

“Oh no.” I dropped the pillow and gave her a suspicious look. I loved my aunt but she was always trying to cajole me into something. And that was the look. The one that said she had something up her sleeve. “What’s funny about it?”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word in a way that made me nervous, “I was going to tell you anyway, but now seems like a good time. You know the Yuletide Festival?”

I blinked. “The Christmas thing? With the parade and the craft booths and carolers in old Dickens outfits?”

“That’s the one. I’ve been organizing it for years.”

“Yeah, I remember. You basically run the town for all of December.”

“Not this year,” she said with a faint smile. “I was hoping to step back a little. Too many meetings, too many details. I’d like to enjoy the holiday without running around like a maniac. I’m too old for that business and it’s about time I passed the torch to someone else.”

“Uh-huh. And this affects me how?”

Her smile spread. “I was thinking you could take over.”

I stared. Then I laughed. “Me? Organize the Yuletide Festival? Have you met me?”

“Many times,” she said dryly. “And I think you’d be perfect.”

“Perfectly unqualified.”

“You’re organized, creative—”

“I just told you I got fired because a robot out-organized and out-created me.”

“You’ve got time on your hands.”

“Because no one else wants them.”

“There’s some pay.”

My ears perked up at that. “How much?”

“Not enough for you to buy a yacht, but enough to keep gas in your car and food in your stomach.”

I sighed, grabbing the pillow again. “I don’t know. I can’t even keep a houseplant alive. You want me to run a festival?”

“It’s not just you. I’ll help you get started. There’s a committee. You’d just be the head of the committee.”

“Which sounds worse.”

“It’s not. It’s fun. You get to boss people around, make decisions, bring joy to the whole town—pun intended.”

I groaned louder. “If I take this on, it’ll be the least joyful festival in history.”

“That’s impossible. You’ve always had spark.”

“Spark doesn’t plan parades. Spark doesn’t rent port-a-potties.”

“Then you’ll learn,” she said simply.

“I’m not exactly in a learning mood.”

“Then maybe this will put you in one. Consider it process of elimination. We’re going to find out what you can and can’t do. What you like and don’t like. Your future is a blank canvas. Maybe you’re supposed to be here. Maybe you’re supposed to be organizer extraordinaire.”

“Aunt Victoria, creating advertising copy and pitching cute, catchy ideas is not the same as organizing anything.”

She waved a hand like the details didn’t matter. “The creativity is the important part. Other people will help with the organizing.”

We locked eyes for a moment, me sulking, her smiling with maddening patience. Finally, I exhaled. “Fine. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Good girl.” She patted her chair arm like that settled it.

“I said maybe!”

“Maybe means yes, once you eat something and get a good night’s sleep.”

I threw a cushion at her. She caught it effortlessly and tossed it back.

After a moment of silence, I muttered, “So when would this alleged festival planning work start?”

“Oh.” She smoothed out her sweater, deliberately casual. “Tomorrow.”

I sat bolt upright. “Tomorrow?!”

“Just a little event. Do you know how to make cocoa?”

“I know how to pour powder into hot water.”

She laughed. “You’ve got a lot to learn.” She grinned. “Good thing I’m here to teach you.”

I got up and grabbed two of the suitcases in the foyer filled with clothes and shoes.

I’d realized there were different levels of rock bottom.

I had thought I hit rock bottom when I gave away the last of my furniture.

Selling it quickly would have required me to meet someone from the internet in the real world, and there was no way I was risking my life for a few bucks.

I dragged the suitcases down the hall to my old room and groaned when I saw the posters of Harry Styles still up on the walls. That felt like a lifetime ago, not a mere decade.

Ten years ago, I sat in this room and planned my great escape to New York.

I busted my ass to get a scholarship to Syracuse University.

People took pity on the orphan girl. And I had the grades.

I kicked ass in college. Got a great job with a small firm.

I was certain that small firm was just a stepping stone.

I was going to use it to get me a coveted position on Madison Avenue.

I’d gotten so close, but right when I was about to close my fist around the life I wanted and worked hard for, poof. It evaporated. Like a snowflake hitting the windshield of a warm car. Gone.

While I appreciated my aunt’s optimism and support, I couldn’t fathom being back here, in my old bedroom, with nothing to show for my time away but a three-line severance letter from a company that was supposed to “care about its people.”

Care my ass.

Sighing, I moved to my bedroom window to look out at the cold night settling in around my aunt’s cozy home. At least I had a safe place to land. That had to be worth something, right?