My Smalltown C.E.O. Scrooge: A Festive Romantic Comedy

by Harmony Knight

  I hang up the phone and rub my temples.

  “JJ’s home?” asks Sadie. It’s more of a statement than a question.

  “Yup.”

  “Maybe it’s a sign...” she suggests, trailing off.

  “Maybe,” I concede, picking up my bag as I stand up from the counter. “The pay is better up at the mansion and it’s not late nights like the bar, so that’s something.”

  It’s only a temporary gig, but to my surprise, I realize I’m quite pleased that I won’t be able to quit my job with Mr. Blair after all.

  “That’s the spirit,” says Sadie, setting down her coffee and standing to hug me. “And you’ll give Cityboy McGrouchpants as good as you get. I know you will.”

  “Coming through!” calls Sam as he barges backward through the kitchen doors, carrying a tray full of dirty plates and glasses.

  It’s been a super busy breakfast shift and my feet are throbbing as I stand at the sink, still scrubbing bits of egg off the last lot of plates Sam delivered. I hope Mr. Blair brings his car because the passenger door of mine doesn’t open and the idea of traipsing all over town on sore feet does not fill me with joy.

  “This is the last of them,” says Sam, emptying the waste into the trash and stacking the plates up beside me. “Thank God. You’re off soon, right?”

  I nod, rubbing a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. “Yup. I have a few things to do this afternoon, but I guess there’s no bar shift tonight so I have some free time.”

  “I still can’t believe Jimmy fired you,” says Sam, slapping his hand on his hip and shaking his head.

  I shrug. I’ve gotten used to the idea now. And if I’m honest, the work up at Sunrise Valley House is more interesting and less taxing than herding drunks at the bar. Plus I won’t miss the girls’ bedtimes anymore.

  “It’s his son,” I say.

  “Well. Still,” says Sam, all sass. “Does he work as hard as you? No. Can he run a bar like you? No. Nepotism, that’s all it is!”

  “Sam, we’re in Sunrise Valley, not an episode of Law and Order.”

  “Well. Still!” he says again, heading back to the door. He stops.

  “Oh, hey. Isn’t that Hotbod McMansion?”

  I shake off my gloves in the sink and head over, laughing.

  “Is this a thing in your family? Your sister called him Cityboy McGrouchpants this morning.”

  “He can be as grouchy as he likes, looking like that,” he says, wistfully.

  “Behave yourself,” I say, giving him a good-natured dig in the ribs with my elbow. “You’re already spoken for.”

  I look out through the window and sure enough, there he is. Handsome as ever. All angles and height and moody dark eyes. He’s wearing stonewash jeans and the same brown brogues, with a chunky-knit grey sweater. I’m starting to think he has a relative who really, really loves to knit.

  “Well I’m sure as shit not calling him Mr. Blair,” says Sam. “So formal and stuffy. He is hot, though. Just look at him.”

  I do. And Sam is one thousand percent right, but I’m not going to tell him that.

  “Mmhmm,” I say, casually, turning away from the door.

  Sam immediately gasps and spins around to face me.

  “Alora Brooks, do you have a crush on your boss?”

  I roll my eyes at him, avoiding the question.

  “Bet!” he says, as she comes in from the pantry. He points an accusing finger at me. “She has a crush on Broodyface McStubble!”

  “I do not!” I object.

  “She does,” says Sam, delighted from his nose to his toes. “Look at her, blushing!”

  “Leave her alone,” says Bet, giving me a wink. “She’s only just finished her breakfast shift. If a red face is all it takes to have a crush then we’ve all got one!”

  “He’s here,” Sam says, beckoning Bet over to the window. “Look!”

  I take the opportunity to get away and change, and I hear them giggling away together as I head through to the back.

  I change quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans, knee-high black boots, and a bottle-green sweater. I loosen my bun, letting my hair fall around my face, then give my curls a quick squirt of perfume to get rid of the greasy smell that can linger after the end of a shift. That’s about as far as I’d usually go, but today I make sure to freshen up my makeup, smear on a thin slick of lip gloss, and brush on a quick coat of mascara.

  “Go on and serve him then,” I can hear Bet telling Sam when I come out.

  “Yeah, Sam,” I say as I breeze past them and through the door. “Service please!”

  I can’t help but grin to myself, imagining the look on their faces in the little round window as they realize he’s here to have lunch with me.

  “Mr. Blair,” I greet him as I pull up to the table. He looks up at the mention of his name and immediately gets to his feet when he realizes that it’s me.

  “Greyson,” he says, his eyes almost smiling.

  I smile before I can stop myself. “Okay.”

  “All right if I call you Alora?” he asks.

  “Are you my mother?” I ask, sitting down in the seat opposite him. “And also angry at me? Because the only time I get called 'Alora' is when both of those things are true." I grin at him. “Allie is fine.”

  “Allie,” he says, and I enjoy him saying my name more than I expected—I might even prefer it to “Ms. Brooks.” I notice that he doesn’t sit back down until I’ve taken my seat, and though I’m sure I’m reading too much into it, this apparent display of old-fashioned chivalry sends a tingle of excitement up my spine.

  “I figured we’d just have a quick bite and then take my car to meet the tradesmen.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, picking up a menu and studying it. I know every single item by heart and I could whip any one of them up in a heartbeat, but I still feel the need to distract myself from staring across the table at Greyson while we wait.

  “So what’s good?” he asks. “You’re the expert.”

  “Bet’s Brunch,” I say, without hesitation. “Eggs and potato hash, salsa, sausage. And as much coffee as you can handle. It’s the best-seller, too.”

  I sound like I’m giving a sales pitch. It’s the exact same patter I give to customers when they ask me for a recommendation, but it also happens to be true. There’s a reason Bet’s stayed in business her whole life.

  “Good afternoon!” says Sam, his voice a sing-song welcome. “Welcome to Bet’s.”

  I glance up and he’s looking at me intently, obviously desperate to tease me for not telling him I’d be meeting Greyson here after work. But that would have made it more than it is. It’s work. A work thing. Nothing weird about that.

  “What can I get for you two?” He attacks Greyson with his most saccharine smile, and Greyson does that thing where he manages to somehow smile by moving only the bottom half of his eyelids. It’s really an extraordinary feat.

  “Two Bet’s Brunches, please,” says Greyson. “With coffee.”

  Wait. Did he… did he just… order for me? First names are one thing, but this is altogether too familiar of him. My jaw drops for a split second, and I look up to Sam with steel in my eyes.

  “And another one,” I say, stubbornly and a little too loudly.

  Sam lifts a brow and looks from me to Greyson and back again. When I glance at Greyson he, too, has one brow lifted.

  “A- another one?” asks Sam.

  “Yes,” I say, with an emphatic nod.

  “So… three brunches?” he says.

  “Yup!”

  For a second, Sam looks like he’s about to turn around and head back to the kitchen with the order. But as I watch, I can see the doubt creep back into his mind, like it simply cannot believe it really heard the insane thing it just heard.

  “Three brunches… for the two of you.”

  “YUP!” I say. I can feel a flush starting to seep up my neck, so I quickly grab the menu out of Greyson’s hand, pair it with mine,
shove them both at Sam, and say “Thank you!”

  “Ooookay!” says Sam, knowing better than to challenge me when I’m wearing the death stare.

  I look up at Greyson and give him a smile like that was completely normal, like people come in here and order double brunch every day. But inwardly, I’m groaning at myself. There’s going to be an extra brunch on the table all the way through lunch now, just sitting there, untouched, like a delicious monument to my stubbornness.

  Greyson is surprisingly good at small talk. Or at least… he’s good at listening to it. Before I know it I’ve run through the list of tradesmen we need to see, told him who they are, where they live, and how long they’ve been in Sunrise Valley. When our lunch arrives, Sam sets the coffee down and very pointedly places the third brunch in the middle of the table, right between myself and Greyson.

  “In case you decide you want to share it,” he says, clearly delighted at this unexpected chance to mortify me.

  “SO,” I say to Greyson, trying to ignore Sam’s mischievous grin as he turns to leave, “What color do you think you’ll paint it?”

  “The house?” he asks. “Grey, most likely.”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  “What? What’s wrong with grey?”

  I shrug, fast-chewing a mouthful of egg until I can swallow it. “Well it’s not the most… you know…” I trail off, looking at his grey sweater.

  He stares at me, chewing slowly and looking expectant.

  “Interesting,” I say, and take a sip of coffee. He does that thing again, where his eyes look amused without the rest of his face moving.

  “Here,” he says, turning his phone to face me. “This is the color I was thinking of.”

  I give him a so-so shrug as I lift my cup to take a sip of coffee. “I thought the yellow was nice. Vibrant. More… human.”

  He frowns, turning the phone back around so he can look at it again himself, and just as he opens his mouth to respond, all hell breaks loose.

  “MOMMY!”

  Lottie slams into my side and wraps her arms around my waist, Emma slams into the back of her, and the shock of the impact sends the coffee that was in my mouth spraying outward, all over Greyson’s face and grey sweater.

  “Oh, shhhh...” I say, mortified.

  “Shit!” says Emma, helpfully.

  “EMMA SAID A BAD WORD!” says Lottie.

  I vaguely see Sadie approaching with a horrified look on her face, but the shock of having just spit coffee onto my boss—together with my acute awareness that the girls just referred to me as “Mommy” in front of Greyson, who I very explicitly told I did not have kids—seems to have caused my brain to reboot into autopilot mode. I fly out of my seat, grabbing a napkin on the way, and maneuver around Lottie and Emma until I’m standing right beside Greyson. Mumbling an unintelligible apology, I start dabbing at the coffee dripping from his chin, and then—without even thinking about it, and because I’ve spent the last three years looking after small children every day—I lift the napkin to my mouth and wet it.

  Greyson looks momentarily horrified as the spit-wetted napkin moves toward his five-o-clock shadow, but—mercifully—he’s saved at the very last second by the hand of my sister-in-law closing firmly around my wrist. Thank God for Sadie.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says when I turn to look at her. The expression on her face looks like she’s pleading for forgiveness. She knows I told Greyson I don’t have kids, and that I was worried he wouldn’t hire me otherwise. “I thought you finished at noon.”

  “I did,” I say. I want to scream. And cry. And laugh. I didn’t tell Sadie I was going to have lunch with Greyson. I don’t know why. It just felt nice to keep it just for myself. “But we were staying for—”

  “The girls—we just came in for cookies—”

  “COOKIES?!”

  The voice sounds familiar, but it’s higher and more animated than I’m used to. I look down, and what I see almost makes me do another spit-take. Greyson is talking to the girls, a comically exaggerated, wide-eyed look of surprise on his face, and both of them are giggling delightedly at him.

  “Cookies for me?” he says, pointing at himself as though the prospect of cookies is almost too much to bear. “Deeelicious!”

  “No, silly!” Lottie laughs. “For us! Bet makes the best cookies in the whole world!”

  Greyson nods solemnly. “I bet she does. She makes the best brunch, too. It’s so good we even got an extra one!” he says, pointing to the forlorn third plate on the table.

  Sadie’s grip relaxes on my wrist, but she gives it a gentle tug to get my attention. When I glance at her she shoots me a questioning look and nods towards Greyson.

  “Oh, Sadie,” I say, somehow recovering a semblance of composure. “This is Greyson Blair, the owner of the mansion up on Old Green Road. Greyson, this is Sadie. My sister-in-law.”

  Greyson gets to his feet, and Sadie releases my hand to take his.

  “A pleasure,” he says, giving her a polite nod.

  “Likewise,” says Sadie, grinning. I can already tell that the Greyson she is meeting, this man who can happily make conversation with small children about cookies, does not mesh with the image she’s drawn in her own mind. Frankly, I’m right there with her.

  “We’d better get our cookies, girls,” says Sadie.

  “Bye mister!” says Lottie.

  “Bye mister!” copies Emma.

  “Bye, little cookie monsters,” says Greyson. “Don’t forget to ask for extra chocolate chips!”

  He grins at them. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile, and it’s just the most spellbinding thing I’ve seen in a long, long time. He has a knockout smile. The kind of smile that makes nuns rethink their vows.

  “Bye, Mommy,” says Lottie, grabbing around me. Emma joins in, and all my concern about what Greyson might think melts away as I lean down and pull them both into a tight hug.

  “Bye, you two. Be good for your Aunt Sadie and I’ll see you later,” I say.

  Sadie gives me one last apologetic smile, then turns away to herd the girls towards the counter.

  I take my seat again, my heart thundering in my chest as the reality of what just happened sinks in. When I glance across at Greyson, he’s looking at me with his head slightly tilted and his arms folded across his chest… and a droplet of coffee still clinging to his cheek.

  “Uh… you have a little…” I say, pointing to my own cheek.

  Greyson picks up a napkin from the table and dabs at his face.

  “So,” he says, his expression completely straight as he moves his hand down and starts dabbing at the dark spots of coffee on his sweater. “Mommy, huh?”

  Chapter 6

  Greyson

  “Yeah, uh…” says Allie, stuttering into silence as she drops her gaze to the table and fiddles nervously with her cup.

  I sit across from her, a coffee-stained napkin in my hand, watching her cheeks grow redder and redder. I can’t help but notice that she looks good with a flush on her face.

  “Thing is...” she says, taking a deep breath and sighing it out.

  “BYE, MOMMY!”

  Allie spins around in her seat at the sound of the smaller girl’s voice. She’s by the door with her big sister and their minder, cookies in hand, and they’re all waving madly. Allie forces the awkwardness of our conversation off her face as she waves back.

  “Bye girls, bye Sadie!”

  “Bye Mister!” the bigger girl calls to me.

  “Bye, little cookie monsters! Enjoy your feast!”

  Their aunt pushes open the door and herds them out. As soon as they’re gone, the smile fades from Allie’s face as she turns back towards me. I hate the way she’s avoiding my gaze. I hate how embarrassed she’s clearly feeling. But I’m also more annoyed than I expected to be—more annoyed than I have any right to be.

  “Allie,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Why did you tell me you don’t have kids?”

  “Well I don�
��t,” she says.

  I raise a brow at her and watch as she takes a deep breath. Some spirit of determination seems to possess her, and she squares her shoulders and looks up, finally meeting my eye.

  “I mean, obviously I do. They’re my sister’s. Were my sister’s. I adopted them a few years ago.”

  The littlest one can’t be much older than three, and all manner of possibilities run through my head. Is her sister a drug addict? Did she run away? Did she die? How the hell does Allie cope? It belatedly occurs to me that it’s none of my business, so I maintain an impassive expression and nod.

  “Okay, but why didn’t you tell me about them?” I ask. “When I asked.”

  I can feel a bubbling irritation in my gut and I have no idea where it’s coming from.

  “Because I thought you wouldn‘t give me the job,” she says, in a tone that suggests that it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “And I need it.”

  And there it is. The source of my irritation. I have somehow managed to convince this beautiful, funny, generous woman that I’m the sort of asshole who wouldn’t give a job to a single mother. And I fucking hate it.

  And then I realize that I don't actually know if she’s single at all.

  “So when I asked about you having a husband…” I trail off. I’m pushing it and I know I am. I’m taking advantage of how bad she obviously feels, and I hate myself for it. But I have to know.

  “I don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s just me and the girls.”

  My jaw is tightly clenched. I don’t have a clue how to convince her that I’m not the asshole she thinks I am without pulling down the carefully-constructed walls I’ve been building since I realized that I like her. A lot.

  So I drain what’s left of my coffee, set it down, and stand up.

  “Come on,” I say, dropping a few bills on the table and pulling on my coat. “Let’s get started.”

  When she looks up at me, her green eyes are wide with shock.

  “You’re not firing me?” she asks, her voice wavering.

  The question, and the tremble in her voice, hit me like a punch in the gut. I told myself I’d keep her at a distance, that I’d just have to let her think whatever she wants about me, but this… this is too much.