Page 51 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell

“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 aone per householdlimit 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 questionablespecial 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.”

“I willnot,” I said evenly, “be doing interviews about rescuing dead trees. Send them away.”

Before Karen could respond, a familiar voice echoed through the doorway.