Holidate

by Monica Murphy

  Holidate

  Monica Murphy

  Contents

  Also by Monica Murphy

  Playlist

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  HATE TO DATE YOU Sneak Peek!

  Want to read more? Preorder HATE TO DATE YOU!

  Love Christmas romances?

  Grab CHRISTMAS IN LONE PINE by Karen Erickson now!

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Sign Up!

  Also by Monica Murphy

  Dating Series

  Save The Date

  Fake Date

  Holidate

  Forever Yours Series

  You Promised Me Forever

  Thinking About You

  Nothing Without You

  Damaged Hearts Series

  Her Defiant Heart

  His Wasted Heart

  Damaged Hearts

  Friends Series

  One Night

  Just Friends

  More Than Friends

  Forever

  The Never Duet

  Never Tear Us Apart

  Never Let You Go

  The Rules Series

  Fair Game

  In The Dark

  Slow Play

  Safe Bet

  The Fowler Sisters Series

  Owning Violet

  Stealing Rose

  Taming Lily

  Reverie Series

  His Reverie

  Her Destiny

  Billionaire Bachelors Club Series

  Crave

  Torn

  Savor

  Intoxicated

  One Week Girlfriend Series

  One Week Girlfriend

  Second Chance Boyfriend

  Three Broken Promises

  Drew + Fable Forever

  Four Years Later

  Five Days Until You

  Standalone YA Titles

  Daring The Bad Boy

  Saving It

  Pretty Dead Girls

  Playlist

  “Holiday” - Madonna

  “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” - Brenda Lee

  “Jingle Bell Rock” - Bobby Helms

  “All I Want For Christmas is You” - Mariah Carey

  “Last Christmas” - Wham!

  “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” - Andy Williams

  “This Christmas” - Donny Hathaway

  “Sleigh Ride” - The Ronettes

  “The Christmas Song” - Nat King Cole

  “Purple Snowflakes” - Marvin Gaye

  “Last Christmas” - Taylor Swift

  One

  Candice

  Holiday!

  I push open the door, Madonna blasting from the speakers as I enter the building. It’s early November. I’m at Starbucks, and this song always makes me think of Christmas, even though it’s not what I would consider a Christmas song.

  Celebrate!

  Be-bopping to the beat on my way to the counter, I place my order—a grande pumpkin spice latte, of course. Though a gingerbread latte is my true favorite, it’s not available yet—and then head over to the pick-up counter, checking my phone as I wait for my drink.

  If I’m being real right now, I have to confess I’m not a big Starbucks drinker. I prefer to support local businesses versus a giant corporation that’s slowly but surely taken over the world, but I’m in Monterey this afternoon and this is where we’re meeting.

  Who’s we, you ask? My little subcommittee of two—me and another woman who are in charge of the decorations for the annual holiday party hosted by the Monterey Peninsula Arts Council. Actually, I’m on a variety of fundraising committees, and the holiday season is when everything goes full throttle. Meaning I’m extra busy right now. Like, through most of November and all of December, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.

  Don’t worry about me, though. I love this sort of thing. Fundraising is my jam, which is a strange jam to have at my age (early twenties), I’m sure you’re thinking, but I don’t have to work and I need something to fill my time.

  My mother—rest in peace, Mama—took care of my financial security when she died when I was eight years old. She ensured my future and left me a lot of money, which left me feeling adrift after high school. I didn’t go to college because I didn’t know what I wanted to be. I traveled a little bit. Spent a month trying to hit up every country in Europe that I could, but doing it alone…sucked.

  I can’t believe my father let me go alone. I’m a daddy’s girl through and through. I bet you’re gagging a little right now, huh? But it’s true! I love my father so much, even if he can be kind of a bossy jerk sometimes. He loves me, he’s very overprotective, and I think it was my stepmother’s influence that let him agree to me traveling the world on my own.

  Once I returned home, and after a few months of doing absolutely nothing, I decided to throw myself into charity work. Why not use the money my mother left me—and only me, not my brothers—and help out those in need? Plus, it keeps me busy.

  And I like to be kept busy.

  “Hello, Candice.”

  I turn to see one of my fellow committee members—Joyce Rothschild—smiling kindly at me. She’s probably old enough to be my grandma, and I know when I first started showing up at the meetings for the arts council, I don’t think she believed I was sincere. None of them did. The rich society ladies humored me during their get-togethers and meetings, figuring I’d never appear again.

  Well, I showed them. And now I’m their holiday party chair. Nothing makes me happier than planning a party. Make it a Christmas party and I’m in absolute heaven.

  Heaven, I tell you.

  “Joyce! It’s so good to see you.” I give her a brief hug right as the barista calls my name. I grab my drink, wishing the barista a good day before I follow Joyce over to a table, where there’s one other woman already sitting. I don’t recognize her at all. In fact, this meeting was just supposed to be Joyce and me. Having too many people discuss the logistics of holiday decorating always turns into chaos, trust me.

  So who is this woman I don’t know?

  Hmmm.

  She’s definitely older than me, and doesn’t look like the usual high-society women I associate with fundraising. Not that I’m a judgey person, but I think you know what I mean. For instance, Joyce is dressed in designer clothing from head to toe, completely put together, like she’s on her way to work at her corporate job.

  I happen to know for a fact that Joyce hasn’t worked in thirty years, and she definitely never worked a corporate job.

  This unfamiliar woman is wearing jeans and a dark blue and white flannel shirt. It’s a really nice flannel shirt, I can tell it’s high quality, and she has on expensive boots. But she doesn’t have a lick of makeup on her pretty face and her long brown hair is pulled back in a single braid, a few wisps of dark hair framing her oval face. Her full lips naturally curve up, like she’s perpetually smiling, and I can’t help but smile back.

  I immediately like her. She’s probably around my stepmom’s age, and I love Mitzi, though they’re nothing ali
ke. For some reason, I peg this woman as a nature type. And I love nature.

  Who am I kidding? I love everything.

  Except snakes. Oh, and grasshoppers. They freak me out.

  “Candice, this is Isabel Sullivan.” Joyce nods toward the friendly looking woman. “Isabel, this is Candice Gaines. She’s the decorating chairperson for this year’s event.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Isabel rises to her feet and extends her hand, that warm smile still on her face. “And please, call me Bel.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bel.” I smile up at her—she’s super tall—feeling stumped. Huh. I think I recognize her name, but can’t quite place her.

  “I know it’s last minute, but when Bel offered to help us with the party by providing live trees for the event, I absolutely couldn’t say no,” Joyce says after we sit down, her voice, her entire body practically trembling with excitement.

  A-ha. That’s why I recognize her name. The Sullivan Family Christmas Tree Farm has been around since I can remember. They pretty much have a complete lock on all the Christmas tree lots in the Monterey Peninsula. As in, every tree lot you see around here during the holiday season usually has that familiar red and green Sullivan sign in front of it. And if you want to have the experience of cutting a live Christmas tree for your house, you can do that too, with the farm they have in the Carmel Valley, which isn’t too terribly far from here. Most families I know who’ve done it, usually turn the journey to the tree farm into an afternoon trip.

  We didn’t do that sort of thing when I was growing up, especially after my mother died. Fake trees reigned in our house. Real ones were dubbed too messy. I always missed the scent, and no candle can replicate it. I’ve spent big money over the years trying to make it happen.

  “That sounds amazing,” I say, excitement bubbling inside of me. I could already envision a row of tall, thick trees flanking either side of the entrance to the building we’ve rented for the event, every tree lit with tiny white fairy lights. The fragrant scent of pine would greet everyone as they entered, plus the lights? They’ll all be enchanted from the moment they walk in. “We could make the entrance look like a forest.”

  “A fairy forest,” Joyce adds. “With twinkling lights everywhere.”

  “That’s exactly what I saw in my mind too!” This is why Joyce and I work so well together. We think alike.

  My excitement immediately withers and I grow solemn. Is that a good thing, that I share similar thoughts with a woman who’s well into her sixties? I’m not sure.

  And right now, I don’t have the time to look too deeply into it either.

  “Whatever you ladies want, I’m sure we can provide,” Isabel says with a soft laugh.

  It’s like this for the next half hour, the three of us with our heads bent together, plotting and planning last minute decorating details. Joyce writing everything down in her spiral notebook with that elegant handwriting of hers while I’m tapping away in the notes section of my phone. I’d come into this meeting with a clear, planned vision in mind, but the addition of the Sullivan Tree Farm donation changed it up a bit.

  Not enough to throw me off, though. I live for this kind of last minute stuff.

  By the time I’m finished with my PSL, our meeting is through, and Joyce is packing up her notebook into her large Louis Vuitton tote.

  I chance a glance at Isabel, who’s slinging her nondescript black purse over her shoulder as she stands. I bet she doesn’t care about brand name stuff. I already like that about her, though I have no clue if my assumption is correct.

  You see, that’s a problem of mine. I assume a lot of things. My brother Kevin tells me it’s a bad habit. My oldest brother Jared calls it honing my instincts.

  I’m siding with Jared on this one.

  Isabel aims those curved lips right at me, and I glance up at her, noting just how tall she really is. She towers over me, but I’m kind of a shrimp, so it feels like everyone towers over me.

  “I have a dinner date with my husband that I need to go home and get ready for, so I have to go. Goodbye, ladies! Thank you for your help!” Joyce says with an enthusiastic wave as she heads for the doors. “I’ll be in touch!”

  Isabel and I watch Joyce go, turning to look at each other when the door closes behind her. Seems that Starbucks is on an ’80s kick, because currently Cyndi Lauper is blasting from the speakers. “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” is a personal anthem of mine, for sure.

  “Thank you again for offering to help us out,” I tell Isabel as I push in the chair I was just using. “Your trees will look beautiful at our party.”

  “It’s not a problem. My family is trying to become more involved with community activities anyway, especially with the holidays drawing near.”

  “Doesn’t your farm already provide the trees for just about every lighting event in the area?” There are five tree lighting ceremonies I can think of that start happening the day after Thanksgiving going into early December. And I’m fairly certain every one of those trees comes from Sullivan’s.

  “Yes, we do.” She smiles. “But we want to do so much more. Have an even bigger, more personal presence in the community during the holiday season.” She hesitates for the slightest moment before she continues, “I was wondering, Candice, if I could ask you a—personal question.”

  Tilting my head to the side, I contemplate her. This is a confident, self-assured woman, and right now she appears terribly uneasy. Which makes me feel terribly uneasy. “Please. Go ahead,” I say, unable to hide the caution in my tone.

  Curiosity overrides caution for me every single time.

  “Well, this is kind of a strange request, but…I know how well connected and beloved you are in the local social circles.”

  I can feel my cheeks heat at her compliment. “Aw, thank you.”

  Her smile is friendly. As in, her eyes are smiling too, so I know she’s being genuine. Kevin would say I’m assuming again, but really, it’s just my natural instincts. I’m really good at reading people.

  “And I know how much you love the holidays,” Isabel continues. “For the past few years, I’ve seen endless photos of you at every holiday-themed event in the area, always wearing something festive.”

  This is one hundred percent true. I have so many sparkly dresses in my closet that gathered all together, they might blind a person. I am a huge and unashamed fan of sequins and glitter. “I do love Christmas.”

  “I know. I can tell.” She laughs. Shakes her head. Bites her bottom lip as if she’s reluctant to say the next thing. I wait in anticipation, my curiosity growing stronger the longer she takes to continue.

  “I feel silly asking you this,” she finally says on a burst of breath. “But my son…he’s the oldest of my four children, and he’ll be taking over the family business one day. While he knows exactly what he’s doing, business-wise, I’m afraid he doesn’t have the best, um, social skills.”

  Weird… “What’s his name?”

  “Charles Sullivan. But we all call him Charlie.”

  I mull over the name, racking my mind to see if I can come up with a mental image of a certain Charles “Charlie” Sullivan. But no image appears. I’ve met a lot of men over the years at various social functions, but I don’t think I’ve ever met—

  “Oh, I’m sure you haven’t encountered Charlie.” Isabel’s laughter turns nervous. “You would’ve remembered him, I’m sure. He always seems to make a lasting impression.”

  I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

  “How exactly do you want me to help your son?” I ask her, remaining polite. And how old is this guy anyway? Why doesn’t he have strong social skills? Is he a complete heathen who never ventures out of the forest?

  Hmm, that might be kind of fun. Taking a Neanderthal and converting him into a polished, sophisticated gentleman. Sort of a reverse My Fair Lady. I love that movie!

  “It’s not that I want you to be his date, per se, but maybe you could possibly…accompany hi
m to some of the bigger holiday events? We’re trying our best to get the Sullivan name out there. Our goal for the next five years is to take on more philanthropic endeavors, and my husband wants Charlie to become the face of the Sullivan Family Tree Farm, if you will.”

  A horrified expression suddenly crosses Isabel’s face and she reaches for me, resting her hand on my arm. “But if you’re already involved with someone, please disregard my request. Goodness, I didn’t even think you might have a boyfriend. Not that you aren’t perfectly delightful and lovely, but I’ve seen so many photos of you and you never seem to be attached to any—”

  I cut off her babbling mid-sentence, a little embarrassed for her. I know what it’s like, to make a faux pas and feel like you’re insulting someone when that’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m currently unattached,” I say breezily.

  “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping my family—Charlie—out?” The hopeful expression on her face makes me feel bad for even considering telling her no.

  But I might need to tell her no. I don’t know this Charles Sullivan from a hole in the wall (and where does that phrase come from anyway? My father used to always say it), and if he’s as, ahem, memorable as she makes him out to be, then he might not be a guy I want to associate with?