Chapter 1 Jaylynn #2
“No, I mean.” I point to the floor. “I have a room here. At the inn. The peppermint-themed honeymoon suite.” I clear my throat. “It’s got a heart-shaped hot tub. Peppermint floaties. Mints on the pillows. A terrifying elf doll in the corner that definitely watches you sleep.”
He stares at me, brow furrowed. “And you’re telling me this because… you want a medal or something?”
“A medal would be nice. Maybe a parade. Later, though. Tonight, I’m too tired for that, but I’m willing to share.”
Something shifts in his expression. Surprise. Softness. Like no one’s offered him kindness in a while and he’s not sure how to take it.
“You’d do that for me?” His voice is quieter now, edged with disbelief. Like he doesn’t fully trust it.
I hold up a finger. “One condition.”
His gaze sharpens. “Of course, there’s a catch,” he mutters. “There’s always a catch.”
“You pretend to be my boyfriend. Just while I run the town’s Christmas festival. Maybe we could go so far as to say you’re my fiancé,” I add with a shrug. “We’ll gauge the level of desperation as we go.”
His eyes narrow, suspicion giving way to curiosity. “Why?”
I hesitate. Then I say it all in one breath.
“My high school humiliation, Dylan Hayes, is back in town with a sparkly ring and a gorgeous fiancée. I’ll be damned if I let him think I’m still that awkward girl who wore light-up snowflake tights to the winter formal and was never going anywhere in life, or ever getting out of Snowberry Falls.
” I thought Dylan and I were a solid team until the mayor’s daughter came along.
A girl, he assumed, that would be a better fit for him going into politics. That didn’t work out so well for him.
Penn blinks once. Then his lips twitch. “You wore light-up tights?”
“They were festive.”
He laughs. Not mockingly. It’s the surprised kind of laugh—rough, a little reluctant—like he didn’t expect me to amuse him. Or catch him off guard.
“They had bulbs?”
I shake my head. Of course, he wouldn’t remember anything about my light up pants. Guys like him—and like my ex—rarely notice anyone unless there's a mirror involved. He was probably too busy admiring his reflection in a Christmas bulb to clock my illuminated fashion choices.
“Focus,” I snap.
He smirks. “So let me get this straight. You’re offering me a place to sleep, in a bed shaped like a candy cane, probably, if I pretend to date you? Like we’re characters in a bad holiday rom-com?”
“Technically, it’s shaped like a sleigh,” I correct, lifting my chin. “But yes. That’s the deal.”
“Do I get a script, or is this improv?”
“Oh, it’s improv.” I smile sweetly. “Just follow my lead. Smile a lot. And maybe the only thing you ‘deck’ over the next two weeks is the halls.”
He gives a low chuckle. “I… I guess I can do that.”
“No guessing, Penn. Besides, this isn’t just about me.” I poke his chest for emphasis—big mistake. He’s solid and warm and right there, for a second, I completely forget what this conversation is about.
His eyes flick down to where my finger lingers. “Not just about you?” he repeats, brow raised, waiting for me to enlighten him.
I pull my hand back like I’ve touched a live wire. “Right. It’s not just about me. I’m helping you too.”
“Oh, sure.” He nods, playing along. “Helping me get a good night’s sleep in a room without a possessed cat, but a terrifying elf doll. Very generous of you.”
“No,” I explain, voice firmer. “I’m helping you clean up your image.”
That gets his attention. His eyes sharpen, light up in that way people’s eyes do when they see something they didn’t expect. “You think you can do that?”
“You want to stay on the Bucks, don’t you? Secure your position. I mean, it wasn’t all that long ago that you got called up, right?”
He rubs a hand across his face, suddenly looking every bit the exhausted man behind the jersey. “Right. I almost forgot your dad was my AHL coach.”
“Okay, so a fiancée will look good on you. Make you seem stable.”
“I’m stable,” he defends and I arch a brow that has Santa written all over it. “I mean, sort of.”
“We’re doing this, then?”
“I…guess. So, it’s our secret. We tell no one it’s fake?”
“No one.”
“I should probably tell Elaine. She’s trustworthy. I just don’t want her getting excited, you know.” A pained look comes over him. “It’s not like anyone really takes anything she says seriously, anyway.”
That sadness on his face hurts my soul. He used to get teased terribly about his crazy aunt, until he grew three sizes in two months. The bullying stopped then and there.
“Okay,” I agree and extend my hand like we’re sealing a dubious business deal. “Welcome to probably the worst idea I’ve had since tequila on New Year’s, 2019.”
He slides his palm against mine, rough and warm. “Are you sure it wasn’t the turkey disaster of 2024?”
“Oh my god,” I practically shriek. “You know about that?”
The second that question is out of my mouth, I cringe. Of course, he knows about it. Everyone knows. It was on every major news network, followed by a week of memes, GIFs, and late-night comedy segments titled #GobbleGate.
“Like you said,” he answers softly, “You too know a little something about going viral.” He pauses, voice dipping lower.
“I only saw the highlight clips. What exactly happened, and are you…okay?” His tone is so sincere, so unexpectedly gentle, it disarms me.
There's no mockery in his eyes, no smugness. Just quiet understanding.
I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping. “I used to work at a boutique PR firm in Boston. Brightside Creative. We did big campaigns. I was on the rise—smart, ambitious, and trusted with a big holiday campaign for a high-profile client. A gourmet grocery chain launching their new farm-to-table product line. I wore actual heels to work.”
He smirks and glances down. “I like your reindeer slippers.”
I lift one foot. “I must say, I am rocking them. But seriously, the Thanksgiving event. A stunt, really. I pitched a ‘celebrity turkey trot’. Influencers racing in turkey costumes to raise awareness for a gourmet grocery brand’s holiday line. It was supposed to be festive. Wholesome. Shareable.”
Penn raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. One of the turkeys turned on the others.”
I groan. “Worse. One tripped on a fake wishbone centerpiece and crashed into a cranberry sauce display. Took out a ring light, two cameras, and an elderly blogger named SpicyGranny74. The video hit two million views in an hour. #TurkeyTrotFail. #GobbleGate. I was on BuzzFeed. BuzzFeed, Penn.”
Penn’s lips twitch. “Was SpicyGranny74 okay?”
“She started her own podcast, so yeah she’s the winner here. As for me, the grocery chain pulled their campaign, Brightside fired me, and no one in Boston PR will touch me with a ten-foot selfie stick.” I try to laugh it off, but my voice cracks on the last word.
Penn squares his shoulders. “And this festival gig you got here is your redemption arc?”
“It’s my Hail Mary. If I don’t pull this off, I’m done. Not just in PR. In, like…life.”
“Banished from the real world,” he murmurs quietly. The words sting, but not because they’re cruel. Because they’re true. For both of us. I nod, slowly.
“So yeah, and I guess #Turkey Gate or #GobbleGate or whatever you want to call it probably was my biggest mistake.”
That… and believing my ex and I were going to take on the world together. He had his sights set on law school, mayor and then governor. I had mine on a PR degree and plans to run his campaign, craft the image, shape the story. We were going to be a power couple—glossy and invincible.
Until I—and every local news crew in Snowberry Falls—caught him with his tongue down the mayor’s daughter’s throat behind the gingerbread float during the tree lighting ceremony.
God, I was such a fool.
When I don’t answer right away, still lost in the murky tide of what-ifs and used-to-bes, his hand brushes mine. Light, almost hesitant.
“I’m sorry, Jaylynn,” he says softly.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “If I can pull off the Christmas festival without a hitch, maybe a real firm will look at me again. Maybe the world will stop seeing me as the girl who crashed a parade and lost everything in front of a news van.”
He nods, quiet for a beat. Then, “So… you’re seriously okay sharing a bed with a guy who’s practically a stranger?”
I arch a brow. “Not really. But I trust you’re smart enough not to try anything stupid.”
He lifts a hand in mock surrender. “I’m just trying to survive the cat-ocalypse. I don’t have the energy to seduce anyone tonight.”
I almost laugh. “Cat-ocalypse, huh? That’s child’s play compared to the room I’m about to show you.”
He grabs his bag with mild suspicion. “Should I be afraid?”
“Yes,” I say, and I mean it. “Deeply.”
We make our way down the hall, passing garland-draped banisters and twinkling lights. I wave to Belinda at the front desk, who gives me a long, curious look.
“Why are you staying at the inn anyway?” he asks. “Isn’t your house just down the hill?”
I sigh. “It’s overrun with relatives. Kids. And…” I lower my voice. “God forbid… cats.”
As if summoned by the word itself, Penn sneezes violently. I stifle a laugh as he casts a suspicious glance behind him, like he half-expects to see Muffin creeping out of a shadow in flannel pajamas.
“I’m kidding. There are no cats. But the biggest reason is I’m in charge of the festival and I want to be close to the action, so I can, you know, make sure nothing explodes.” That earns me a tiny grin.
Finally, we reach the end of the hallway. From my back pocket, I pull out the oversized peppermint-striped key and slide it into the lock. “You ready?” I ask.
“It can’t be worse than the cat sanctuary,” he mutters.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I push the door open and step aside, watching his reaction as he walks into the full force of peppermint madness.
His eyes go wide. He actually stumbles back a step. “Ho…ho…holy… shit.”
“Exactly,” I say, lips twitching.
We both take in the scene—candy-cane-striped wallpaper, red and white heart-shaped pillows, a sleigh bed draped in peppermint swirl sheets, a heart-shaped hot tub, with marshmallow bath bombs, and peppermint floaties. And yes, in the corner, an elf doll with eyes that seem to follow you. I shiver.
“This,” Penn says slowly, “This…this is peppermint-ageddon.”
I bite my lip. “Nightmare Before Christmas has nothing on us.”