Not So Merry: An Enemies to Lovers Christmas Romance: Cutler Family Christmas, #2

By Lark Anderson

When a disgruntled department store elf wages war against a too sexy for the suit Santa, sparks fly.

Going into the holiday season, I thought my life couldn't get much worse. My mom is sick, I had to ditch college, my boyfriend wants an open relationship, and my only job option is Winston's Wonderland—or rather, Satan's vacation home.

I was wrong. Bossman decided to go cheap this year, and now I'm donning too-tight leggings and a pair of pointed elf ears.

As if that wasn't enough, I get to spend the season with our newest hire, Nick, our department store Santa. With his sultry smirk and washboard abs, he has no business donning the big red suit, not that anyone will listen to me. Luckily, with a little and padding, he actually manages a passable transformation. Too bad his attitude needs adjusting.

He's arrogant, has no work ethic, and is quite possibly drunk. At best, he'll make my job harder than it has to be. At worst, he'll ruin Christmas for the town's children. So excuse me for saying bah-bah-freakin'-humbug.

But all isn't as it appears, and when a few unexplainable acts of kindness happen throughout my tiny town, I find out there's more to Jolly Old Saint Nick than what meets the eye.

Drinks turn into a date and kisses are exchanged on my doorstep, but when I discover the real reason for his holiday gig, I realize his heart is made of coal.

But when a Christmas miracle shakes the town, I have to wonder if maybe he isn't a total Scrooge after all.

 

Now the only question is: do I give him another chance, or is he doomed to stay on my naughty list?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lark Anderson
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201306984

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

GWEN

Day One

Deck the damn halls! Church Winston belts out, gesturing wildly to the nearby displays.

Oh, the joys of being overworked, underpaid, and treated like shit. Not that I have much of a choice. Winston’s Home Goods was the only place hiring when I was applying for jobs, and there hasn’t been a single position open up in town since.

Frustrated by my slow response, Church adds, What are you waiting for?

I throw my arms in the air in true dramatic fashion. What the hell else am I supposed to be decking? I’ve decked the tree display, the kid’s section, the kitchen wares, and every dull corner.

This place is supposed to transform into Winston’s Wonderland for the Christmas season. Not Winston’s Sludge Puddle.

The only thing we haven’t decorated is the dinnerware, and that’s because if kids get too comfortable around it, they’ll knock over the fine china.

Church’s lip curls upward as he folds his arms over his narrow chest. As far as authority figures go, he’s the worst. And this is coming from someone who’s rotated through seven different fast-food chains and four years of college. That’s right, he’s worse than the nineteen-year-old pimple-faced totalitarian night manager at Fry Guys.

The kids are going to get their Wonderland, Church says, spittle slinging from his mouth. Now get to work.

I snicker. Since when do you care about children?

His eyes grow round and a purple vein stands out from his neck. All it would take is a few defiant words to shoot his blood pressure up into the kill zone, but even with how much I hate this man, and I do loathe him, I don’t think I’m capable of murder.

Not yet, anyway.

I swear to God, Pumpernickel, if I don’t see a Christmas miracle when I get back—you’re gone!

He storms away, back into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Why must you talk back to him? my coworker Evan says. He’s just going to make our lives hell.

Because he’s a little man on a power trip.

Except he’s not a little man. He owns half of Saddlewood Creek.

You just don’t get it. Out there, in the real world, away from Saddlewood Creek, people don’t treat their employees like he does.

If it was so great living out in the real world, why aren’t you still there? he says before he can catch himself. His face grows sympathetic. Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.

I force a tight smile. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.

The truth is, it’s no one’s fault, and that almost makes it more difficult. There’s no one to blame for my family’s misfortune. For my mother’s cancer.

She was the perfect mom. She woke us each morning with a kiss and put us to sleep each night with a lullaby. Dinner was always homemade, and she wouldn’t dignify a microwave in our home. She never touched cigarettes, and only had a drink on special occasions, or when papa wanted her to let loose a little.

Nothing put her at high risk, which is why when the diagnosis came down, it took us all by surprise.

I was about to start grad school, but there was no way I was going to stay in the city when my mom was preparing for war. My law degree can wait. She can’t.

Then, in true Pumpernickel fashion, a series of unfortunate events befell us, digging us deeper and deeper into trouble. In the month following my mother’s diagnosis, my father’s car died, the water heater broke, and my grandmother passed away.

It’s almost too much.

My father calls it the Pumpernickel curse, and that’s exactly what it feels like, but it’s never slapped this hard before.

We’ll just put more fake snow around the tables. Evan grabs a handful of the fake white foam and begins scattering it around the table haphazardly so that some falls to the floor.

Yeah, so people can trip and fall and bring down the porcelain display.

He cocks a brow at me. Do you have a better idea?

Not really. I guess we better deck the freakin’ halls.

As a child, Saddlewood Creek had been a magical place for me, with holidays filled with sleigh rides, beautiful decorations, and a true, tight-knit community. Winston’s Home Goods transformed into the magical Winston’s Wonderland, where Santa would come to meet all the children. People would travel in from much bigger cities for the small-town feel, helping keep our town afloat.

To a child, Saddlewood Creek is a dream come true. To me and a thousand other souls, it’s our true home.

Um…I’m here for the Santa gig.

I exhale an exhausted breath and look over to see a tall, dark-haired man standing with a red suit slung over his shoulder. If I had to guess, I’d put him at thirty, about twenty years too young to play jolly old Saint Nick. Sure, he has a beard, but it’s black, the opposite of the stark white mane children expect to see on Santa.

And his body…it’s not plump and round as told in the stories. It looks like he could be a special forces Navy SEAL. Or maybe a Viking.

Who would ever hire you to play Santa? I chuckle out, because obviously, it’s a joke.

I don’t know, Pumpernickel, Evan says. He can jingle my bells anytime.

Evan! I snap, my eyes darting to his. You can’t just go around sexually harassing people!

Evan rolls his eyes. Well, I’m sorry, but not all of us have sexy city boyfriends waiting for us.

I turn back to the wall of muscle that’s looking on at us with a level of disdain I’m not at all comfortable with. Who is this man, anyway? I’ve never seen him before, and I know every single person in this town. It’s possible he’s from the next town over, but I’m sure I would remember a face like his. Perfect and symmetrical and all kinds of hot.

Look, I need to meet with some guy named Winston. I’m playing Santa this year.

Is this some kind of joke? I place my hands on my hips, irritated that he’s wasting my time. He can’t be serious. Anyone seeing him dressed as Santa would know it’s all a sham. There’s no way, no freaking way he can play Santa.

He looks from me to Evan, then back to me. Does that look like a funny joke to you? Because to me, it’s kind of lame.

The way he’s looking at me, like I’m beneath him, sets me on edge. I’ve had to deal with it my whole life. People coming into town, acting like they’re better than us. I’ve lived in the city, and I sure as hell know that their grass isn’t greener. In fact, they don’t have grass. Not much, anyway.

I’m not going to let him play me for a fool.

If you really think you’re cut out to play Santa, you’re stupider than you look.

At least my comment was meant to be a compliment, Evan mutters under his breath.

Too-fit-for-Santa furrows his brow. Do I look stupid to you?

Uh, I hope you don’t take this personally, but the first word that came to mind when I looked at you was himbo, I say mockingly.

What’s a himbo?

Evan snorts out a laugh. Kind of like a male bimbo. But don’t worry, you’re in good company. He-Man is the original himbo with his bulky muscles, tanned skin, and bright-eyed optimism. Magic Mike is full of himbos. Thor—himbo.

You really think I’m stupid! he barks at me, and I have to laugh because the surprise in his voice only confirms my initial impression of him.

The door to Church’s office flings open.

Lord help me…

He storms toward us. As much as I can’t stand my ill-tempered boss, I’m pretty sure I’m going to enjoy his reaction to the wannabe Santa.

For once, the himbo has me smiling.

What is this? Church says, gesturing to the Santa wannabe.

He says the agency sent him, I say, excited to watch his blood pressure rise further.

I was not sent by any agency, the himbo scoffs.

I cock my head to the side in confusion, trying to puzzle our conversation back together. He said he was here to play Santa, and sure enough, he’s carrying a Santa suit.

You’re the person they sent? Church says, not at all as angry as I’d hoped he’d