Page 52 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell

“He’s right in here—the man himself, Father Christmas for everyone and everything!”

Spencer.

I was officially going to kill him.

“Sir,” said a reporter from Channel 6 as they pushed their way into my office, cameras rolling, “can you tell us what inspired you to take such a compassionate interest in trees that were cut too early and wouldn’t have been chosen for Christmas this year?”

Flashbulbs popped. Microphones thrust forward.

“What led to this movement?” another asked, eager.

My gaze slid to Spencer, whose face was already turning red as he fought back laughter.

This was something out of a fucking Christmas cartoon.

“Just a…fun charity thing,” I managed.

“Oh, do go on,” another voice called out.

Jake. Because, of course.

Jake pushed through the crowd, clapping me on the back with fake brotherly pride.

“It’s Dr. Mitchell!” one of the reporters said, recognizing him immediately from his infamous playboy days.

“That’s right,” Jake said, grinning. “And I have to confess that my brother has shaken me to the very foundation of my holiday spirit, all thanks to his charitable work with these trees.” He paused, pretending to compose himself, even blinking hard for effect.

I said nothing. Spencer’s face was now a dangerous shade of crimson from holding in his laughter, and I was seconds from losing mine—but not from amusement.

“Dr. Mitchell,” a reporter said, turning to Jake, “do you also feel convicted to rescue trees this year?”

“This is something completely outside of what anyone’s ever done for the holidays,” another chimed in.

“And to think,” a third added dramatically, “you’re a billionaire CEO, and you thought of this first!”

Jake smiled solemnly and turned toward me like he was about to deliver a sermon.

“Allow me to settle all of you down with this impossibly wonderful stand my brother has taken,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “You see, my brother’s heart has always been bigger than his wallet. While the rest of us think about beautiful trees to garnish our homes, he thinks about the forgotten ones.”

“Where do you imagine this conviction came from?” the reporter asked.

“In fact, this all began at a tree lot…” Jake continued.

I wanted to throttle him.

“I watched as my brother stopped singing, mid-carol, as he was blessing his family’s stunning and lush green tree,” Jake went on, looking misty-eyed. “It was as if the North Star itself shone down on a dying tree about to go into the chipper. I watched Jim become immediately uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t bear it. That’s when he halted his singing of—what was it, Jim?”

“I can’t remember,” I said, deadpan.

“Oh, that’s right. It wasI’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Jake nodded gravely. “And it was at that moment my brother realized that brown trees deserved a home, too.”

He turned to the cameras, his voice growing emotional. “It’s not just people who are less fortunate this year, it’s nature as well. It’s the things we overlook. My brother’s vision reminds us that everything deserves a home for Christmas. So, folks, go to his new website—The Rescue Tree—and save a brown tree this holiday season.”

I blinked. “I have a website?”

Jake ignored me. “And kids,” he added, turning straight to the camera, “if you want Santa to visit you this year, make sure you rescue a tree for your home, and thank Mr. Mitchell for reminding us of what Christmas is about.”

Thirty minutes. That’s how long I had to stand there, answering nonsense questions and pretending this circus was part of some well-planned philanthropic campaign.