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

by Harmony Knight

  “You’re soaked!” I say, between chuckles.

  “Thanks to you,” he accuses.

  His smile fades and he looms over me, looking down with the same intensity he had outside the diner. This time, there is no Sam to knock on the window and distract us. There is just him, and me, and the crackling, electrified air between us. He pushes a curl out of my face and suddenly, but not without welcome, his lips are on mine.

  I’m laying in the cold, wet mud, soaked through to the skin, but my body feels suddenly hot all over. His hand is on my cheek, his weight pressed against me but restrained, and his lips are surprisingly soft. I reach up, entangle my muddy fingers into his soaking wet hair and pull him deeper. He rumbles a groan into my mouth and I match it with a soft moan, as my hips involuntarily lift off the hard ground towards him.

  When he finally pulls back, I honestly don’t know how long it’s been. I press my teeth into my bottom lip and clear my throat. He pushes himself up and stands, then reaches down for my hand.

  I smile at him as he pulls me up, and the corners of his mouth tug upward a little. But once I’m on my feet, he lets go of my hand and reclaims some distance, yanking on the wrench to stop the flow of water. He looks back over to me, and his face is unreadable. He looks embarrassed, or maybe annoyed, and there is no smile in his eyes. My heart stops somersaulting and flops to a standstill.

  When the hissing of the tap subsides, I feel weirdly awkward in the silence. And it doesn’t seem like Greyson is inclined to break it.

  “We’d better change,” I say, desperate to fill the void. “Or we’ll get sick.”

  He drops the wrench into the toolbox with a clang and picks the box up by its handles.

  “I don’t get sick,” he says as he turns back towards the house. I trail behind, lost in confusion about what the hell just happened between us.

  Chapter 8

  Greyson

  I’m sick.

  It’s been three days since Allie was here, two days since the first sneeze, and about 20 hours since the last time I got up from the couch to do anything but pee or fetch more water. The grand old reception room is littered with used tissues and empty plastic bottles. One minute I’m burning up, the next there aren’t enough blankets in the world to keep me warm, and I keep dozing off. Every muscle in my body aches, my throat is full of thorns, and my laptop ran out of battery hours ago but I can’t muster the strength to go upstairs and fetch my charger. So I’m just lying here in the silence, listening to the way the old house creaks with the wind, waiting to feel less shitty.

  It wouldn’t be so bad, but every time I wake up I end up thinking back to the last time Allie was here, when, in a moment of abject stupidity, I kissed her. And then I groan. And then my throat hurts. It’s a vicious cycle.

  Why did I do it? I know why. And the fever I’m running has made it impossible to engage in the kind of mental gymnastics I’d ordinarily use to push the thought out of my brain.

  It’s because I like her. And because it bothered me that my efforts to keep her at arms’ length had made her think I was a less-charismatic version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. Sitting in my dark, oak-lined office, fingers steepled, cackling as I shredded the resumes of single mothers. It pissed me off. So I figured, what’s the harm in just being nice?

  Well, now we know. When you’re nice to beautiful, funny, kind, stubborn, slightly eccentric women named Allie, they do things like smile at you and laugh with you, and they swirl you up in the vortex of who they are until you find yourself laying in a puddle of mud, kissing them.

  Now don't get me wrong. It’s not the kiss that bothers me. It was the best kiss I’ve ever had, bar none. Her lips were soft and pliable, her breath was warm against my winter-chilled skin, and having her underneath me was just about the most perfect feeling I’ve ever known.

  No, what makes me cringe is the memory of what happened afterward, when I came back to the house, gave awkward, one-word replies to all her attempts at conversation, probably made her feel like crap, and then pretended I had meetings for the rest of the day so I could disappear into my bedroom like some sullen teenager.

  Well played, Greyson. Real mature.

  I groan out loud again at the memory of it, and then I cough so hard I’m surprised I don’t hack up half a lung right onto old Aunt Julia’s antique quilt.

  I start to doze off again, the memories still swirling in my fevered brain. My eyes jolt open like I’ve been hit with a surge of adrenaline, and I find myself standing in some kind of dark, frost-laden hedge maze. The freezing air burns my throat as I breathe, and Allie is here. Her little girls are, too. They’re running away from her, their laughter echoing through the night. They think they’re playing hide-and-seek, but Allie is chasing after them, frantic. I’m trying to catch up to her, but every time I round a corner I only catch a glimpse of her as she rounds the next one. No matter how fast I run, no matter how hard my heart pumps or how much my thighs burn, I can’t reach her.

  “Allie!” I shout, desperately. She turns around and smiles at me, and the hedges all around us suddenly burst into flame. I run to her through the scorching hot corridor of burning trees, wrapping my arms around her and squeezing her tight.

  “You’re sick!” she hisses beside my ear.

  “Allie…” I say, but I don’t know how to reply. She looks so disgusted with me, so angry.

  “You’re sick!” she spits again, and when I try to hold her a little tighter, she begins to crumble. Her face cracks—literally—and she begins to turn into dust. I desperately try to hold onto her, but the harder I try the more I break her, and the hot wind whips the dust up and away, and the girls are suddenly there beside me, screaming for their mommy.

  “ALLIE!” I scream, and the dream breaks.

  I’m sitting on the couch with cold sweat clinging to my forehead and my heart stampeding around my chest like a bull at a rodeo. My lungs are forcing great, gulping breaths in and out of me in an effort to calm it down. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the room’s dim light before I notice a silhouette on the other side of the coffee table.

  There’s a long pause as I try to work out whether this is still part of the dream or a trick of the light. But then the silhouette shifts slightly and speaks to me in a familiar voice.

  “Yes?”

  It’s Allie. Not a cloud of dust in a burning maze, but standing in the reception room of Sunrise Valley House.

  Shit. I must have shouted her name out loud. And now I’m sitting here rapidly mouth-breathing at her like a complete lunatic.

  “Er—nothing,” I say quickly and lay back down, trying to get my breathing under control.

  A coughing fit takes me, and before I even realize she’s moved around the coffee table, Allie’s cool fingers rest gently on my forehead.

  “You’re sick,” she says.

  She’s looking down at me with her brows drawn in concern, and it creases a small, vertical line just above the bridge of her nose. She looks like an angel. A frowny angel.

  “I tried to call but there was no answer.”

  “I was sleeping,” I tell her.

  She removes her fingers, and I immediately miss her touch. A moment later there’s a loud SHHH sound as she pulls the curtains open and the bright sunlight of a crisp winter’s afternoon floods in to burn my eyes out of their sockets.

  “AARGH! What the f…”

  I blink and squint, and once my eyes have adjusted to the light I see her looking around the room at all the tissues and bottles I’ve accumulated. It seems like my being sick is a distraction from whatever awkwardness there was the other day. Maybe I can just stay sick forever.

  “Have you eaten?” she asks, bending to pick up a bottle from the floor.

  “Not hungry,” I croak. “Leave it. I’ll do it lat—”

  I cut off as a cough overtakes me, and she comes to my side and slaps me on the back.

  “You need to eat,” she says. “Got any soup?”

&nbs
p; I shake my head no.

  She places her hand on my back again and frowns at me.

  “You’re soaked, Greyson. And the fire is out.”

  I hadn’t realized the fire had gone out. And I like the way she says my name.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “It’s not fine,” she insists. “You need to shower or you’ll end up with pneumonia or something. Go do that and I’ll make the fire again.”

  I don’t want to. I really, really don’t want to. But I am sort of damp and it is sort of cold, so I accept her hand and let out a groan as she pulls me up to my feet.

  The shower actually does make me feel considerably better. I’m still sick, everything still sucks, but at least it sucks while I’m wearing dry, comfortable clothes that don’t have the stench of two days of fever-induced body odor clinging to them.

  When I get back into the sitting room it looks completely different. The pile of blankets I’ve been wallowing under for the last couple of days is gone and there are some fresh blankets neatly folded on the edge of the couch. The bottles and tissues have all disappeared, the couch cushions are fluffed and arranged where they should be, and there’s a steaming mug of coffee on the table, with a plate of pop tarts beside it.

  “Feeling better?” asks Allie, coming in from the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” I croak. “Hey, you didn’t have to do all this.”

  She’s waving her hand to dismiss me before I’ve even finished.

  “You don’t have any food,” she says and nods to the plate. “I found those in my bag. They’re Lottie’s favorite.”

  “Thanks,” I say, managing to lift a smile for her. I sit down and grab the coffee, taking a sip that burns and then soothes my scratched-up throat as it passes. “I was going to get groceries yesterday, but I really didn’t feel like going out.”

  “I hear man flu is the worst kind of flu,” she says.

  I lift a brow at her. I don’t quite manage to pull it off because a cough overtakes me and I have to set the coffee down so I don’t spill it.

  “I’ve put the blankets in the machine,” says Allie. “And I changed the bedding in the master bedroom. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I shake my head. She’s some sort of angel, I’m sure of it, and the more I watch her speak and notice her lips move, the more I’m transported back to the muddy puddle where I tasted them. It was reckless and stupid, but I wish I’d found out where it might have led instead of stalking away like a petulant child.

  “Thank you,” I say. “For all this. I should have called to cancel today but I forgot you were coming.”

  She’s silent for a moment, and when I look up she glances away.

  “No worries,” she says, doing up her coat. “I’d better head off to pick up the girls.”

  I have to fight with myself to resist asking her to stay. It’s a good thing I’m in a weakened state or I’d have lost.

  “Okay,” I say, nodding.

  “Okay,” she says. She picks up her bag and stands there for a moment, looking a little awkward. Looking like she wants to say something. As desperately as I want to know what it is, I’m terrified of finding out. Because I know that if she’d come to my room that afternoon instead of keeping her distance, I would have taken her to bed. And no amount of mental gymnastics would have saved me. Or her.

  “I lit the fire,” she says suddenly, and takes off before I can say another word. The fire is roaring and the room is cozy, but it somehow feels colder the second she’s gone.

  “Greyson? It’s me!”

  I am roused suddenly from my sleep by the sound of a voice at the front door, and, moments later, the sound of it slamming shut.

  “Allie?” I call.

  I haven’t closed the curtains and I can see that the sky outside is dark. Black and grey with rolling clouds. I pick up my phone with a frown, squint at the brightness of it, and see that it’s just after 7 pm.

  She appears in the doorway with a smile, and I feel my heart take flight.

  “Hey,” I say, tilting my head to the side and smiling at her.

  “Hey,” she says, stepping inside. “How are you feeling?”

  “Awake,” I answer. I can’t wipe the sleepy smile off my face and I see hers grow a little when she notices.

  “Sorry. Serves you right for sleeping on the couch all the time,” she says. “Beds are for sleeping.”

  “Sorry, mom.”

  She snorts a laugh as she peels off her coat and drapes it over a chair.

  “The girls begged to have a sleepover with Sadie’s kids. They’re doing princess movie night. So I decided to bring you some groceries and make you some soup.” She smiles, holding up a plastic grocery bag.

  “That’s… really kind,” I tell her.

  “I’ll stay the night on the couch,” she says. “Since that’s the only way you’ll get off it and go to bed.”

  If only she knew, I think to myself as I watch her trot out to the kitchen, how much more appealing the couch would be with her sleeping on it.

  As I lie there, listening to her clank about with pots and pans, looking at the remains of the molten-lava flavor pop tarts that I managed to cram down earlier, a feeling of satisfaction washes over me like a warm blanket. My brain is still on guard, but my heart, or my dick, or maybe both, are very, very happy that Alora Brooks is going to be spending the night at Sunrise Valley House.

  “Here we go!” she says, appearing in the doorway twenty minutes later carrying two deep bowls.

  I slide over for her to sit down beside me, and lean over the bowl as she places it down in front of me, taking a large sniff of the steam that’s coming off it.

  “Mmmm,” I say.

  “You can’t smell a damn thing, you rotten liar,” she chides with a smile, and I manage a little laugh before the coughing kicks in again.

  “I’m sure it smells delicious, anyway,” I say.

  “It does,” she nods. “It’s Bet’s recipe. And it’s good for colds.”

  “Flu,” I correct. “MAN flu.”

  “If you insist,” she says, smiling. “Find something we can watch.”

  It strikes me as strange that, as I sit on the couch in the throes of possibly the worst virus I’ve ever had, flicking through a streaming site to find something to watch with the woman I hired to clean and paint, I feel more content than I can remember being in a long, long time.

  “Oooh, that one,” says Allie, jabbing her spoon toward my screen so enthusiastically I’m forced to lay a protective hand over my keyboard for fear of soup flicks getting between the keys.

  “Die Hard?” I say, giving her a skeptical look. She nods enthusiastically.

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet,” I say, trying to suppress a smile.

  “One,” she says, holding up a finger. “Good call. Die Hard is definitely a Christmas movie.”

  I grin.

  “And two,” she says, flicking up another finger, “if I have to wear antlers to serve brunch it’s not too early for Christmas movies.”

  I let out a burst of laughter.

  “Fair point,” I say, and hit play. I settle back on the couch, unable to taste the best soup I’ve ever had, and feel a wash of happiness settle over me as we watch Bruce Willis touch down in L.A.

  Chapter 9

  Allie

  I wake up slowly, rousing from a deep slumber and stretching my arms up over my head. When I finally open my eyes it takes me a second to remember where I am. It’s such a strange feeling, having had a full night’s sleep without my bed being invaded in the middle of the night by sweet but very determined little kick-monsters.

  “Penelope Wrinklebottom Foxtrot,” I say, because if you can change the audio cue that your phone’s AI assistant responds to, I can’t think of a single reason you wouldn’t. “What time is it?”

  The robotic voice informs me that it’s 8:30 am—an hour later than I’ve woken up in three years—and I grin to myself as I pull the blanket back up to my chin.


  I must have fallen asleep watching the movie last night with Greyson, and he must have draped the blanket over me before going to bed himself. Which is pretty sweet, really. I woke up at about 3 am, changed into my pajamas, stoked the fire back to life, and went back to sleep.

  I haven’t mentioned the kiss to Greyson since it happened, and he hasn’t mentioned it to me. He’s either still as mortified as he was that day, when he basically disappeared from sight for the whole afternoon, or he’s too sick to tackle the conversation. In which case, I wish man flu upon him forevermore. Frankly, it’s pretty rude to kiss a girl like that, shift the whole world underneath her, make her hips thrust themselves towards you so she can’t deny where she wanted this to go, and then… disappear.

  I grab my phone, have a leisurely browse around my social media feeds just for the novelty of doing anything at a leisurely pace, and then hit dial to call Sadie and check on the kids.

  “Ugh! Can you believe it?” she says as soon as she answers the call. There’s a clanking noise like she’s tidying up the pots and pans in the kitchen, and I can hear the chatter and giggles of the kids distantly in the background.

  “I mean, the timing just could not be better,” she continues, her voice thick with sarcasm. “I was supposed to take Grace to the orthodontist today.”

  I frown. I knew Sadie’s eldest had an appointment this afternoon, but…

  “You can’t go?” I ask.

  The clanking stops abruptly and Sadie levels her voice.

  “Allie… haven’t you looked outside yet?”

  “No,” I say, and reluctantly pull the warm blankets off myself. The fire is still glowing, but the wooden floor is cold on my bare feet and my pajama shorts are doing little to ward off the chill.

  I pull the curtains open and immediately screw up my eyes as I’m assaulted by a blinding light. I open one eye just a slit, and then both of them, wide.