Page 50 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell

“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’snew 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, beltingO Christmas Treelike 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?