Shaking the Sleigh Read online

  Also by Delancey Stewart

  Mr. Match

  Scoring a Soulmate, a Mr. Match Novella

  Singletree

  Happily Ever His

  Happily Ever Hers

  Shaking the Sleigh

  Second Chance Spring

  Falling Into Forever

  Watch for more at Delancey Stewart’s site.

  Shaking the Sleigh

  Singletree Book 3

  Delancey Stewart

  1

  The Grinch’s Last Chance

  April

  "You should be grinning from ear to ear right now," my uncle told me, leaning across his mahogany desk and jabbing his finger into the brown paper blotter on its surface to make his point.

  I was definitely not grinning. I’m pretty sure I was frowning. And I’d been doing a lot of that lately, probably, but I hadn't had a lot to smile about since my life had imploded three months before. I’d lost my job and my self respect in one dramatic moment totally worthy of the reality television show that had inspired it.

  "You came to me desperate. With nothing. Begging, April. You begged." He raised his bushy gray eyebrows and sat back, letting that sink in.

  Ouch. The truth hurt.

  I shifted in the leather seat, my suit skirt threatening to burst at the seams, thanks to the stress eating I’d been doing since I’d ruined everything. But cookies still loved me. And cookies never looked at me like Uncle Rob was looking at me now. My uncle's office was intimidating, with its dark-paneled walls and Emmy awards and Golden Globes perched on the shelves around us. It hadn't been easy calling him. It had been downright humbling. He was the one who'd inspired me to get into television in the first place, and to come to him now was beyond embarrassing.

  "I know, Uncle Rob. It's just … I mean … Holiday Homes?" I cringed even saying the name of the show I most despised.

  Rob grinned. "Holidays. Homes. What's not to love?"

  When I didn't jump up and clap my hands, his smile dropped. I tried, "There's really nothing else? Something un-Christmassy? Maybe Fix it Up or Hating to Dating? I'm good with people, Uncle Rob. Not houses."

  "Look April, I'm gonna tell it like it is. You screwed up a good thing—with people—and there aren’t a lot of ways to come back from that. You had a top gig producing Run Away with the Bridegroom, but maybe someone should've pointed out to you that you were not actually supposed to be the one doing the running away with the bridegroom.”

  My stomach twisted at the painful reminder of the most humiliating moment of my life. "We didn't run away …" I began, realizing too late that bringing up the details of the scandal that had ended my high-profile position at my last show probably wouldn't help.

  "No, but you probably should have. Far, far away. To get caught on camera making out with that sleazy jerk …" My uncle's words were coming faster, and his eyes scathed the surface of my face before searching the room, probably seeking a less disappointing subject to observe. "Ape, you made a mistake. A big one. And you got caught. Though that little twist did give the ratings a pretty solid boost …" He sighed and his eyes returned to mine.

  "I'm really sorry, Uncle Rob."

  "I know you are, darling, and that's why I'm willing to pull these strings and get you another chance. You're sorry, and you're a damned good producer when you're focused on your job and not on the assets of the cast." He leaned back in his chair and watched me, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. His voice softened. "Did you love the guy?"

  I swallowed hard and dropped his gaze. It would almost have been better if I had loved Antonio, the bachelor from my last show. But I didn't love him any more than he loved me, or any of the fifteen women he was supposed to be courting on television. I was a conquest, and if I was honest, he was a conquest for me, too. "No," I said firmly. "I don't think I do love."

  "Well, that's the right attitude if you're sticking to television. A hell of a lot cleaner that way."

  I’d tried love in college, but I just wasn't very good at it. I got bored, distracted. I knew I got that from my father, another trait I wished I could cut from my personality somehow, but had long since accepted. "Right," I said, hoping my agreement could put an end to the rehashing of all the ways I’d screwed up my last job.

  Rob placed a contract in front of me. "So, four specials annually—takes a little of the pressure off, not having the weekly churn, right? Next one is the biggest one by far, the Christmas home tour."

  I tried to keep my face neutral as I imagined the sheer quantity of holiday cheer I’d have to withstand to make this work. "But I just handle initial setup and pick targets, right? Take care of contracts … you've got the location producer for the actual show?"

  "Kind of. No picking homes. For this first one, Juliann will handle the details of actual production. She's done the Christmas show for years. You just get the homeowners finalized—like I said, most have been on board for months. Just get them to sign on final details and behave, and then throw the reins to Jules."

  I relaxed a little bit. I could do this. I wouldn't have to decorate, or set up any fake snowmen. Maybe I wouldn't even have to enter any artificial-snow-encrusted, pine-tree smelling, twinkling houses. That part was Juliann's gig. I would just be getting things ready for Juliann, who could waltz in wearing striped tights and a felt elf costume, for all I cared. I, myself, would be far away by Christmas, enjoying a tropical drink on a hot beach somewhere, pretending it was any other day.

  Uncle Rob’s phone rang on his desk and he raised a finger to me as he picked it up—the universal symbol for 'you're not as important as this potential telemarketer.' "Rob here."

  Uncle Rob's eyes found mine as he listened, and his eyebrows shot up comically as I watched. "Oh," he said, little lines appearing around his mouth. "Two casts, huh?" He paused, his lips pressing into a firm line. "Traction?" He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Well I'm glad you're okay, Jules."

  My attention riveted to the phone in his hand. Jules? Was that Juliann? What was that about casts and traction? My stomach tightened and I sat up straighter.

  "Well you don't need to worry about anything here. You just focus on healing," Uncle Rob said. "The network will send along a fruit basket."

  "A fruit basket?" I yelped, and then slapped a hand over my mouth as Uncle Rob's eyes narrowed at me.

  "Bye now." Uncle Rob chuckled as he put down the phone. He looked up at me. "All that stuff I just said? Scratch it. You're it. Juliann's out."

  "What?" I heard myself ask, my voice higher than usual.

  "Broke both legs skiing at Whistler, poor thing. She's gonna be out for months."

  "Oh no," I said, picturing how difficult two broken legs would make the wearing of an elf costume. Then something else occurred to me. "Wait, you said, 'I'm it'? For the Christmas show?"

  "The whole shebang. Trial by fire. Go get Jingle-y, April. They need you on location this week. Little town in Maryland, evidently they really go all out for Christmas. Need everything wrapped up by the middle of the month to get the footage all set for the hosts to do their review show on the 23rd."

  The turnaround was crazy. I knew the Christmas show operated on the tightest timeframe of the Homes episodes, since I’d heard Uncle Rob talk about it before. From what he said, the home footage was edited almost daily as they gathered it. The hosts stayed in Los Angeles and filmed their segments, reviewing the décor just before airing on Christmas Eve.

  "You can do this, right April? It's not gonna be too much for you?" My uncle had begun to look skeptical. The last thing I needed was for him to second guess my last chance. I needed this to be a home run if I wanted to stay in television and not end up back in my college job at Tacos Loco
, where the manager said I had been the best taco assembler he’d ever had. I hoped my tombstone might bear something more illustrious than “Master of beef and cheese in a crunchy shell.”

  "I can do it," I said, stress pulling my shoulders tight as visions of reindeer and candy canes drifted through my head. and I wondered if I really could.

  "Singletree," I repeated for the third time to my best friend, raising my voice and shouting into the rental car's overhead microphone.

  "What kind of name is that for a town?"

  "I don't know, Lynn, but the name of the place was not really the point of this story." I let out a slow breath as I guided the car down a curving two-lane road lined with huge trees dropping leaves that ranged in color from dark green to blazing gold. It was like every postcard I’d ever seen of what fall was supposed to look like. A far cry from the screaming freeways and swaying palm trees in Los Angeles. "I think the bigger picture here is that I'm in Maryland. To produce the Christmas show." I hissed the word Christmas as if it burned my tongue.

  "I know how you feel about the holidays, April. But maybe this will help you get past all that." Lynn was an eternal optimist. We’d been friends since kindergarten, and Lynn had always been the bright shiny yin to my skeptical darker yang. "Maybe a season in Littletree is exactly what you need."

  "Singletree."

  "You said the name of the town wasn't the main point, remember? The point is that your hatred for all things red and green needs to die. You're missing out."

  I sighed again as I maneuvered through yet another traffic circle that felt like it had me literally driving spirals into the heart of nowhere. I looked down at the phone to check the directions, but the screen had switched to my call, and I had no idea if I was going the right way. "Damn," I said. "Lynn, I need to go, I think I chose the wrong exit from the last circle of death."

  "Circle of death?"

  "They have all these crazy traffic circles here. I have no idea how I'm supposed to do those ... just give me an eight-lane freeway any day!"

  "Adventure, Apes. Remember, it's an adventure."

  "I miss Los Angeles. And it's not an adventure, it's a Christmas show."

  "There's a reason why most people like Christmas."

  "Right. Well."

  "Love you," Lynn's sweet voice said. "Go now so you don't get lost and end up in Doubletree instead of Singletree."

  "Love you too." I ended the call and swiped my phone's screen back to my directions. Miraculously, I was still going the right way. Nothing outside the little car's windows looked anything like Los Angeles. The roads were narrow and winding, the vegetation was thick and green, and dense gray moisture hung in low clouds that hugged the sprawling fields around me. I wondered for a moment if I’d driven into some picturesque no-man’s land, where there were no towns, no people … only this never-ending farmland draped in fog. I shivered. Fifteen twisting green miles later, I saw signs for Singletree and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Singletree wasn't big, and despite my trepidation, it was hard not to be just a teensy bit charmed as I made my way to the center of town. I drove slowly down the main street feeling like I’d been transported to another world—one that existed in some earlier, simpler time. There was a town square surrounded by quaint shops with storefronts lovingly maintained and painted in yellow, white, and light blue, and buildings of brick and stone that looked like they'd stood for hundreds of years. They probably had. The central area was a grassy square that stretched several blocks between the buildings, featuring manicured lawns and neatly trimmed bushes, low-hanging trees and a central gazebo. There was one huge tree in the middle of the square, and I shook my head as I drove by the impressive group of people gathered beneath it with ladders and strings of holiday lights ready to drape the tree, which I guessed was pretty normal even though it was technically still November. They'd probably barely had time to put away the gravy boats after their Thanksgiving feasts, and they were already here, tossing around shiny bulbs. I sighed in dismay.

  I drove slowly down the long street that stretched behind the central square, turning in when I saw the sign for the Candlelight Inn, the hotel where Juliann had booked the crew. Despite Juliann's absence from the day-to-day production of the episode of Holiday Homes she was supposed to handle, she'd done most of the legwork and had passed her extensive notes and plans on to me. From here it should be simple—check in to this hotel (which looked like it could have been constructed of gingerbread and spun sugar, thanks to some seriously overeager Victorian styling), and begin visiting the homes Jules had identified to finalize contracts. Jules had assured me there would be no issues because Holiday Homes was a well-known franchise at this point, and homeowners practically bent over backwards to have their homes featured. It increased their resale value, and if they were looking to sell after the episode aired, it usually resulted in multiple offers and sometimes in a bidding war. And if they weren't looking to sell, I knew that having their homes identified as "special" gave folks something to feel good about, and something to lord over their neighbors if their personalities leaned that way. As for the decorating, the homes that were selected generally went over and above for the holidays.

  "You're just there to keep things running smoothly, that's all," Jules had assured me from her hospital room when we’d spoken on the phone.

  I parked and took a deep breath, and stepped out of the car.

  "Hello there," a young man in a dark red uniform greeted me as I approached the front entrance of the hotel with my roller bag. "Welcome to the Candlelight Inn."

  "Thank you," I said, distracted momentarily by the intricate scrolling woodwork that seemed to garnish every free surface of the building. The Inn looked a lot like a castle, except that it was a soft yellow color. The turrets and wide-open front porch were like nothing I had ever seen up close.

  The attendant took my bag from me and escorted me up the stairs to the front door, pulling it open with a flourish and a smile.

  I thanked him and gaped at the army of workers busily wrapping railings in evergreen boughs and erecting an enormous tree in the middle of the front lobby. The interior was probably normally dim compared to the daylight outside, but this had been solved by the hundreds of strands of holiday lights a woman was holding at the far side of the space. Two other workers were arguing loudly about how best to erect the small cottage they were working on—a cottage that was made to look like gingerbread but could hold life-sized actual humans. My stomach turned as the sheer Christmasness of it all engulfed me. I stepped around the ladders and tools, tinsel, and a standing army of nutcrackers, and approached the desk.

  "Welcome!" The woman at the desk called. "Forgive our mess, won't you? We're a little behind in getting our holiday decorations up this year, and I don't know if you heard, but Holiday Homes is being filmed in Singletree," the woman paused, leaning over the front desk and looking around conspiratorially, "and we want to impress those folks."

  "Okay, well," I said. "I'm just checking in." I slid my ID and credit card over the smooth polished wood and managed a smile for the rosy-cheeked woman. "April Hall." The woman who accepted my cards with a wide cheerful smile was wearing a sweater that was woven to make her look like a Christmas present. It had actual ribbon stitched against a ridiculously busy pattern of snowmen and skiers. The bow sat on her shoulder and the ends of it kept popping into her face, where she had to repeatedly push them away. I wondered how many times a day she had to push that ribbon out of her face.

  The woman punched a few keys on the computer behind the desk, and made a few noises of concern. She raised a finger to me and then ducked beneath the desk, shuffling around in a drawer. "Just a second, so sorry," she squeaked, popping up again and punching a few more keys as she batted the shiny green ribbon from her mouth. "Would your reservation be under a different name, maybe?"

  The cross-country flight and confusing drive began to weigh on me, and I leaned an elbow on the desk. "Oh, right. Yes, look up Juliann
Stevens. I took her spot."

  "Aha, here she is! Oh, but ..." the woman's eyes widened and she glanced quickly from the screen to me and back down again. "Ms. Stevens was part of the show," she said, her voice breathy. "Does that mean you're ...?"

  I cringed. I would have liked to maintain my anonymity, at least at the hotel where I would be coming to escape all the Christmas craziness every night, but I didn't see how that would be possible, given that the whole crew was also staying here. "Yes, I'm the producer of Holiday Homes," I confirmed, my voice ragged with exhaustion.

  "Ah!" The woman chirped. "Wonderful! I'll be right back!" She disappeared into a room behind the check-in area and I slumped farther over the counter, wishing for nothing more than a quiet room and maybe a warm bath. "Here it is!"

  I couldn't see the woman's face because she returned carrying an enormous basket wrapped in cellophane. It was hard to tell what was inside, but I could see a variety of items decorated with crabs and the Maryland state flag, and plenty of Christmas mugs and candy canes and glittery ornaments. The entire thing was tied with a huge ribbon that shone in metallic and glittery red and green and seemed to be vomiting silver glitter. "A little something from the Inn," the woman said, hoisting the basket to the counter and into my face. Tiny showers of sparkly glitter cascaded to the counter.

  "Oh," I said, leaning to the side to see around the massive basket. "That's so ... well, wow. That's lovely. Thank you."

  "We're tickled to have you," the woman told her, her face pink with excitement under the close-cropped gray curls, which were now dusted with red and green sparkles. "I'm Annabelle Adams. I own the inn, and don't you hesitate to come to me for just anything at all, okay?"

  "Thanks so much." I considered asking for a dust buster and lint roller to combat the glitter I was now certain would be attached to me for the remainder of my stay in Singletree.