Chapter 20
TWENTY
Jim
I walked into the skyscraper of Mitchell and Associates, proud that I’d not only wasted away the entire weekend, stalling both mine and Avery’s planning, but that we’d also managed to have a lovely and overly festive weekend as a family.
It was funny that just a few short weeks ago, I’d been dreading the holidays, knowing they’d come and go in a blur, another season to get through.
But now? Somehow, I was doing stupid shit with my brother and Collin, like rescuing brown Christmas trees that had already died on their lots and would’ve never seen Christmas in a home.
Stupidest idea ever. But when had Jake and Collin ever done anything normal? The difference this time was that the joke wasn’t on me—it was on my scheming wife. And I’ll admit that made rescuing a half-dead tree feel a little more worthwhile.
As I moved through the grand foyer of my building, the sheer scale of it still managed to hit me like the first time I’d walked through those glass doors years ago.
Polished Italian marble stretched from wall to wall, reflecting the warm golden light spilling down from a chandelier the size of a small car.
Two sweeping staircases curved upward like something out of an old Hollywood film, their black iron railings wrapped in evergreen garland and twinkling white lights.
And every December, right here in the heart of it all—where the building’s energy seemed to converge—stood our crown jewel: a Christmas tree so massive it nearly grazed the third-story balcony.
Fifty feet of perfect symmetry. The kind of tree that made grown adults stop to take photos as if they’d stumbled upon Rockefeller Center.
Every branch glimmered under soft amber lights, draped with velvet ribbons in the company’s signature gold and champagne palette.
Hand-blown glass ornaments caught the light and threw it back like shards of champagne bubbles, and the air carried that unmistakable mix of pine, cinnamon, and power.
It wasn’t just decoration. It was the annual statement of this building—a declaration of elegance, excess, and the kind of holiday grandeur that made every employee proud to work here.
So, when I stepped inside this morning and saw what had replaced it, I froze.
“What the fuck?” I muttered, shifting my briefcase as I walked toward the space that was always transformed into Santa’s Village for the employees’ kids.
“Ho, ho, ho!” came a voice.
Our real-life Santa—honestly, the best money could buy—was already in full character, spreading cheer like a pro.
“Morning, Santa,” I said, giving him a nod as I scanned the area. Everything looked perfect. Except for one glaring problem.
The centerpiece of the lavish setup wasn’t our spectacular tree—it was a five-foot, crispy brown disaster.
I pointed. “What the hell is that?”
The security guard hesitated. “It’s a rescue tree, Mr. Mitchell.”
“A rescue tree,” I repeated flatly. “And who brought this in?”
The guard’s shoulders lifted. “I’m not sure, sir. I was just given a pamphlet explaining the importance of replacing the usual tree with this one.”
A pamphlet? I smirked. Damn, my wife was good.
I had two choices: throw a full CEO tantrum or play along. A dead, depressing tree now sat in the middle of my luxury tower.
“That’s…interesting,” I said, calculating my next move.
My first priority was to make sure Santa was okay with this tragic scenery next to his perfect North Pole display.
“Mr. Claus,” I said, keeping in character in case any kids were around, “forgive the brown tree. It seems I’m the victim of a bizarre family prank this year.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, young man,” he replied warmly. “This poor tree is seeing a better Christmas than it ever dreamed. Mrs. Claus and I love that you’ve made it your mission to rescue these trees that went brown too soon.”
Santa is in on this fuckery, too?
“I see,” I said with a dry laugh. “Well, you know me—always charitable.”
“It reminds me of the year I almost left Rudolph behind,” he said, reading from a tiny script hidden in his white glove. “If I had cast off that misfit reindeer, I’d have never made it through that foggy Christmas Eve.”
“Right,” I said, deadpan. “Let’s just hope everyone else sees it that way.”
He gave me a nod, proud of whatever lesson he thought he’d taught me.
I didn’t have time for this circus. Complaints from employees would start any minute, but first, I needed to sign off on Avery’s new permits and check in with Karen on how my event was progressing.
Ignoring the curious looks from staff, I strode toward the elevators, determined to find a way to get even with Avery for this newest prank.
When I reached the top floor, my attention didn’t go to Brooke at her desk—it went straight to the two life-sized nutcrackers flanking my office doors.
“Good morning, Mr. Mitchell,” Brooke said sweetly.
I nodded once.
The nutcracker thing had Collin and Jake written all over it—some lame attempt to show “holiday spirit” while busting each other’s balls.
I pushed through the doors, already expecting trouble. What I didn’t expect was a goddamn choir in my office, dressed like they’d time-traveled from Dickens’ London, belting O Christmas Tree like it was opening night.
I stopped cold.
When they finally finished their song, I managed a single, “Lovely.”
“We only hope it brought true dedication to the brown trees you’ve so kindheartedly rescued this year,” one woman said earnestly.
I studied her face. She was serious. Completely.
“I’m sure it did,” I said, trying to stay composed while scanning my office—now a mausoleum of brown trees lined across the floor-to-ceiling windows, their brittle branches draped in dusty tinsel that must’ve been in storage somewhere since 1989.
“Fascinating,” an older man said. “What a remarkable idea.”
“Do you all appreciate my…conviction?” I asked dryly.
“It’s kind of strange,” a younger singer admitted, “but I guess, cool?”
“I like how you wanted them blessed with song,” an elderly woman said sweetly. “If that wasn’t enough, we can sing another?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said with a polite smile. “In fact, to show my gratitude, please, take a rescue tree home. Each of you can have one.”
“We were told not to touch the trees, sir,” one man said nervously.
“Really?” I slipped my hands into my pockets. “And who gave you that rule?”
“Our instructions came from your event planner, sir,” another chimed in. “She gave us all pamphlets and told us the trees must stay exactly where they are. Only to be blessed.”
“My event planner?” I said slowly. “Would that happen to be Catalina Vélez?”
“No, sir,” the older man replied. “It was Karen Caldwell.”
What the fuck?
“Excellent,” I said with forced calm. “You’re all dismissed. The bakery downstairs should have something sweet for your efforts. Help yourselves.”
“It was wonderful to be part of this, Mr. Mitchell,” another said as they filed out.
I turned, taking in the hideous sight of my once pristine office, then grabbed my phone.
“Hey, babe,” Avery answered on the first ring, her voice cheerful and oblivious. “Thanks again for last night. I’ll never think of pumpkin spice and peppermint the same unless I’m licking it off your—”
“You wouldn’t happen to have called my planner and had her replace the grand lobby tree with a brown one, deliver a shitload more to my office, and then organize a Victorian-era choir to bless them all, would you?”
Avery burst into laughter before I could finish.
“Oh, my sweet, sweet love,” I said flatly, pacing in front of my desk. “Not only are you playing the kind of games Collin pulls when he’s bored, but you’re using my personal planner to screw with me, which means she’s doing your work instead of mine. Am I right?”
“I never called her,” Avery managed through her laughter. “But I can only imagine what the lobby and your office look like right now.”
“Let’s just say,” I said dryly, “there should be a one per household limit on rescuing brown trees for Christmas. Too many in one place creates what can only be described as a forest of death.”
That only made her laugh harder.
“I’ll let you enjoy your hysterics,” I said. “I need to find out how Jake and Collin managed to rope Karen into this. I didn’t even think those two idiots knew her name.”
“I love you,” she said, still laughing, and hung up before I could respond.
I hit the intercom. “Brooke, get Karen in my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ten minutes later, after I finished signing a ridiculous stack of permits for Avery’s upcoming event—half of which involved livestock and questionable special effects—Karen walked in, clipboard in hand and a barely concealed smile.
“I must say,” she started, glancing around the room, “it does look better than I imagined. Even if it’s…hideous.”
“How the hell did my brother and Collin rope you into this?” I asked. “And apparently have pamphlets printed for every person involved?”
Karen pressed her lips together, suppressing a laugh. “It wasn’t them, sir.”
“Really?” I gestured toward the door. “Because those two nutcrackers outside say otherwise.”
She shook her head, amused. “I know, sir. But when Mr. Monroe informed me that this needed to be done overnight—because you are now publicly in favor of trees that won’t see a Christmas—he said that, in honor of your newfound holiday spirit, Dr. Mitchell and Dr. Brooks would be donating their nutcrackers. For authenticity.”
I blinked. “Spencer?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling. “He said it was urgent to have all this ready by ten this morning.”
“Why ten?”
Just as I glanced at my watch—9:55—Brooke’s voice came over the intercom.
“Sir, three local news stations are here and waiting to interview you in the lobby next to the tree.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“The media?” I looked at Karen in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. They’re here to run a story on the most charitable and unique thing a CEO has ever done for Christmas trees.”