Not Your Grinch (Arcadian Falls Christmas #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Jenna

Aaron Farrell straightens up from where he crouched to examine the cluster of potted fir trees lining the entrance to the ChristmasFest. One of the vendors let me know that they seem to be losing more needles than they should be, and I called Aaron to check them out.

He crosses his arms over his flannel-clad chest—the red and green check perfect for the time of year—and looks down at me. It’s a little disconcerting. While I’m not especially tall, I’m not really short either—a little above average for a woman.

But Aaron is tall. So I’m forced to tilt my head up, about eye level with his jaw, which sports a stubble that glints with red and gold, more varied in color than the medium brown on his head.

He’s an attractive man—or he would be if he weren’t currently glowering at me.

“I told you that these needed to be watered regularly. And kept away from mischief.”

I press my lips together, my nostrils flaring unintentionally as I suck in a breath so I don’t shout my self defense in front of the entire public of Arcadian Falls and the surrounding area here for ChristmasFest. It’s Tuesday morning the week after Thanksgiving, so we’re only a few days in.

“I have been watering them,” I say as quietly as I can while still being heard.

Jerking my chin, I indicate that he should follow me, heading toward the side door that leads to the back hallway of the space that houses ChristmasFest. It’s officially called the Town Square, though I usually think of a town square as being outdoors.

Still, I guess it fits. There are store fronts on the outside of the building, including the Christmas Emporium, which is the anchor of ChristmasFest. As I’ve been told by nearly everyone since I moved here this summer and took over the event coordinator position for the Arcadian Falls Downtown Association, ChristmasFest wouldn’t exist without Jake and Mara Daniels and the Christmas Emporium.

Of course, Jake and Mara are retired now and their daughters Sarah and Nora run the place.

Jake and Mara are still Santa and Mrs. Claus every year, though.

According to Sarah, they’ll do that until they literally can’t anymore.

She’s convinced only death will stop them.

I glance behind me as I wind my way through vendor booths selling all manner of Christmas goodies, decorations, ornaments, and one-of-a-kind gifts to make sure Aaron’s following me. He is, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

Well, that’s just too bad. This man has been nothing but surly and scowly since I moved here.

And the only reason I can see why is because …

I moved here. From somewhere else. I’m not sure if he was hoping he would get the events coordinator job or what, but since he runs the Christmas tree farm just outside of town as well as working full time as an accountant, I somehow doubt that.

He’s a local, though, born and raised from what I can tell. And for some people, that seems to be enough of a reason to mistrust me.

Well, it didn’t help that I recommended to the ChristmasFest planning committee, a subset of people who belong to the Downtown Association, that we reach out to the other tree farm nearby—it’s a little farther away, closer to Inglewood, but we have tons of people who come from Inglewood so I don’t think including someone else would hurt anything—to provide trees and greenery as well.

As well, mind you, not instead of Aaron’s family’s farm.

If the Daniels family can see the value of bringing in other vendors, even ones who sell products that directly compete with their store, why can’t Aaron see that diversifying our greenery vendors will only help?

If we’re a one-stop shop for the entire area, that will only draw in more customers, meaning he’ll ultimately get more business.

And based on his fancy truck and expensive—if traditional—Pacific Northwest hipster-lumberjack style, he does well for himself.

No Costco or Walmart brand flannels for this guy.

Nope, they’re all Pendleton or L.L.Bean, and while his jeans are all Levi’s, those aren’t exactly bargain basement either.

How do you know what brand of jeans he wears? I hear you ask. And, look. I’m only human. When an attractive man in my age range bends over in front of me multiple times, how am I not supposed to notice his ass? Even if he seems like he’d rather my grandma checked him out instead.

Though, I suppose, he probably wouldn’t want her to either. She’s not from Arcadian Falls, after all.

Nope, my grandparents, like my parents, and my brother and I, are all from Stratford Bay, Oregon.

It’s small, though not as small as Arcadian Falls.

When I interviewed for this job, Cynthia Jones, my predecessor, Mara Daniels, and Brit Bennet, the owner of Bitty B’s Treasures were the interview board, and they all seemed to think my small town background was an asset.

That doesn’t seem to absolve me of being not from here, though.

Every time I make a suggestion, it’s met with, “That’s not how we do things.”

And when I ask why, that statement is just repeated.

I guess I should be grateful that Aaron allowed me to use potted trees. “We typically prefer to place cut trees,” he said when I made that suggestion in the planning phase a couple months ago.

“I understand, but you offer potted live trees as well, don’t you?”

Pressing his lips together, he’d nodded.

“This will help advertise those, don’t you think?”

And that was that. Begrudgingly, he agreed.

But now …

“This is why I didn’t think this was a good idea,” he says as soon as the door closes behind us, muffling the Christmas music and the murmur of the crowd on the other side.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to care for them properly.

ChristmasFest has barely started, and already the trees are suffering.

” He runs a hand through his hair, his bicep flexing with the gesture, and I close my eyes to block it out.

His grunt makes me open my eyes again. “Am I boring you?”

“Not at all,” I answer, shaking my head decisively. “The opposite, in fact.”

His eyebrows jump, his arms back in their usual crossed position. “Oh? I’m entertaining you?”

I let out a bark of laughter before I can stop myself. “You wish.” I point at the door with my pen. “I have followed your instructions to a T. Could those trees have a fungus? Or is there something else that could be causing this?”

He bristles. “I would not place diseased trees at the festival. I’m insulted—”

I cut him off with a slash of my hand. “This isn’t an accusation or an indictment of your character, though you seem to think the problem with the trees is a reflection of mine.

Frankly, I think that says more about you than it does me.

I’m trying to find a solution to a problem.

Which means getting to the root of the problem. ”

His nostrils flare as he huffs out a breath.

Good. I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s frustrated here.

Holding up a hand, he starts ticking off possibilities.

“It’s too close to a heat source. Is it near vendors who are using hot lamps or too close to the heating vents?

Or it’s just too warm inside in general. ”

“Isn’t the purpose of potted Christmas trees to be able to survive indoors?” I try not to sound peevish, but I’m not sure I can help it. What’s even the point if they just die anyway?

“In a normal home environment, they tend to do fine. At least long enough for people to celebrate the holidays—provided they don’t buy them too early—and then they can set them outside and plant them in their yard in the spring.

That’s their intended purpose. Not to assuage some ridiculous sense of greenwashed sustainability and environmentalism. ”

Narrowing my eyes, I force myself to take a deep breath so I don’t snap at him.

“My apologies. I was under the impression that live trees would be less likely to lose their needles during the long stretch between Thanksgiving and post-Christmas when we take everything down, plus would be more robust than cut trees.”

“And I tried repeatedly to disabuse you of that notion. We’ve been using cut trees for years. There’s no reason to change things.”

I barely manage to stop myself from mouthing the words along with him. Instead, I mimic his posture, crossing my arms and lifting my chin. “Fine. You’ve made your point. What do you propose we do now?”

Glancing behind me, he rubs his scruff as he thinks, the rasp of his stubble under his fingernails almost loud in the relative quiet of the back hallway. “Let me check the trees again. I’ll see if I can figure out what they need. We might need to move them.”

It’s my turn to bristle. “So I’m just supposed to have a dead space there?” I throw my hands in the air. “That’ll be hideous!”

His lips twitch, and I’m not sure if it’s the beginnings of a smile or a sneer. “That, Miss Event Planner, is your problem.”

I open my mouth to respond, though I don’t know what I’m going to say, when the door bursts open behind him. A young woman in an elf costume stops in her tracks, the door held open as she takes us in, letting in a cacophony of sound from ChristmasFest and making Aaron turn.

“Sorry!” she squeaks, still standing frozen.

“Well?” he growls. “In or out?”

“Huh?”

Rolling my eyes, I step past him. “Don’t worry. We’re just leaving. Do you need the break room?”

She nods, dragging her wide eyes to me. When I step to the door, she slips past me, casting glances over her shoulder before she disappears into the locker room for the elves to use just past where we were standing.

“This isn’t finished,” Aaron growls so close to my ear that goosebumps rise on the back of my neck.

“Check the trees,” I shoot back. “Let me know what needs to be done. I’ll come up with contingency plans.” And with that, I stride away.