Verwandte Artikel zu Faking Christmas

Faking Christmas - Softcover

Winfrey, Kerry

 
9780593638361: Faking Christmas
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593638360 ISBN 13: 9780593638361
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

Laurel Grant is playing house for the holidays—complete with a fake husband and kids—in this delightful, charming rom-com by Kerry Winfrey.

Laurel Grant works as the social media manager for Buckeye State of Mind, an Ohio tourism magazine and website. She most definitely does not run a farm . . . but one tiny misunderstanding leads her boss, Gilbert, to think she owns her twin sister Holly’s farm just outside of Columbus. Laurel only handles the social media for the farm, but she’s happy to keep her little white lie going if it means not getting fired—she cannot be jobless again.

And keep it going she must when Gilbert, recently dumped by his wife, invites himself over for the farm’s big Christmas Eve Eve dinner (as advertised on Meadow Rise Farm’s Instagram, thanks to Laurel herself). Laurel immediately goes into panic mode to figure out how she can trick Gilbert into thinking she’s basically the Martha Stewart of rural Ohio and keep her job in the process.

Laurel and Holly come up with the perfect plan—all Laurel has to do is pretend to own the farm for one dinner. But Laurel shows up at the farm to find an unwelcome guest is waiting: Max Beckett, her nemesis since Holly’s wedding. The annoyingly attractive man she hates will be posing as Laurel’s husband just for the evening, but when a snowstorm traps them all for the entire weekend, Laurel is going to have to figure out how to survive with her job and dignity intact. Whatever the case, this promises to be the most eventful Christmas in ages. . . .

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kerry Winfrey writes romantic comedies for adults and teens. She is the author of Waiting for Tom Hanks, Not Like the Movies, Very Sincerely Yours, and Just Another Love Song, as well as two young adult novels. She lives with her family in the middle of Ohio.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One

Michael Bublé croons about Santa Claus coming to town as I cruise down I-70, my eyes ping-ponging between the road and the clock. It's not that I'm late . . . in fact, a mere seven months ago, I would've considered this early. But that was back when I was Old Laurel, the one who was the conductor of her own personal Hot Mess Express, the one who never met a situation she couldn't screw up, the one who, as my best friend, Jamilah, put it, ran on "Laurel Time" (which is to say, always at least fifteen minutes late).

But that's not who I am anymore, I remind myself. Now I'm New Laurel, the one who arrives on time and doesn't implode her life with her own poor decisions.

My downfall this morning was stopping at Starbucks. I intended to grab peppermint mochas for my boss and myself, but then I got wrapped up in a conversation with the Starbucks drive-through employee when she complimented my Christmas tree earrings and I said I loved her Santa earrings, and then we talked about our Christmas plans and . . .

Well, long story short, now I'm going to get to the office for my pre-holiday meeting right on time.

I get off the highway as Michael Bublé fades out and the radio DJ tells everyone that a white Christmas is in the forecast. Personally, I'll believe it when I see it. As someone who came out of the womb loving Christmas-my twin sister and I were born on December 25-I literally dream of a white Christmas, but I'm used to gray ones. I don't know if we really had more snow in Ohio when I was a kid or if my memories are fudged by the blurry lens of nostalgia, but I've been burned too many times to put much stock in the meteorologist's promise of snow.

It's three days before Christmas, and although I typically work remotely, my boss scheduled a meeting before my official holiday vacation starts. I started working at Buckeye State of Mind, a magazine and website whose slogan is "Everything great in the Buckeye State," a little over six months ago. Our main purpose is to highlight restaurants, tourist attractions, parks, businesses, and anything that's special in Ohio. I run our social media, write a monthly online column, and soon I'll be writing other stories, too (well, fingers crossed, anyway).

I pull into our strangely empty parking lot-only Gilbert's Subaru is here-and turn off the car. I close my eyes, picturing myself in my Mind Oasis, as outlined in the book Creating Your Mind Oasis and Finding Inner Peace. New Laurel has a Mind Oasis that's a calm, clean, all-white room. The Mind Oasis even has a white sofa, because in my mind I can't get red wine or brownies or Cheeto dust on it. The Mind Oasis is a place of perfect peace, and it's where I go when I need to center myself. No longer am I sitting in my Toyota Camry, surrounded by the empty Starbucks cups littering the floor, reminding me of peppermint mochas long since gone. Now I'm on my pristine Mind Sofa, listening to the sound of the ocean waves on the shore (the Mind Oasis is on a beach, naturally), simply being.

Old Laurel didn't even have a Mind Oasis. She had a Mind Junkyard. But now, with the guidance of every self-help book the Columbus Metropolitan Library system had on the shelf, New Laurel is ready to conquer this meeting, this day, and my entire life.

I check my hair in the rearview mirror. My shaggy, long bob hangs in blond waves. I brush them out of my face, then use a finger to flick away an errant mascara flake and dab at my Starbucks-smudged seasonally appropriate cranberry red lipstick. I give New Laurel a wink. She's got this.

I use my hip to slam the door of the Camry, since I'm currently double-fisting peppermint mochas, and walk into the building. It would be great if magazine life were glamorous, like in The Devil Wears Prada, and I could run through city streets as I hurried to make it to my downtown high-rise office before my stylish but cold boss realized I was late. I'd spill coffee on myself, and she'd look down her nose at me, and I'd spend the next hour and forty-five minutes of screen time attempting to win her approval before finally realizing that there's more to life than work.

Jamilah also says I have a tendency to turn everything into a story. That's why she encouraged me to apply to this job at the magazine, actually-she thought I'd love writing other peoples' stories. And I would, but that's only sort of what my job entails.

Of course, my real life is nothing like that fantasy sequence, mostly because our office is out in the Columbus suburbs where the rent is cheaper, and Gilbert isn't a stylish older woman with a severe bob and a tendency to judge people. He's a middle-aged man with a kindly orange mustache, and I've never heard him yell at anyone. The most upset I've ever seen him was when he got mildly annoyed that Jimmy John's left the turkey off the turkey sub he ordered for an office lunch meeting, and even then he pretty much immediately pivoted to positivity and ate his bread, lettuce, and cheese sandwich without complaining. ("You know, I've been trying to eat less meat, anyway.") He doesn't critique my fashion choices, probably because his button-down shirts have seemingly permanent mustard stains on them from dropping his lunchtime hot dogs on himself.

But that doesn't mean I'm not a little uneasy as I step into the office to find it empty and dark, aside from the light coming from Gilbert's office in the back corner. It's a typically gloomy Ohio December day, so even with the window blinds open, it's almost pitch black. The tinsel on the office Christmas tree dances silently in the warm air pumping from the heating vent. It's like Die Hard in here, but without Bruce Willis around to rescue me (unless he's crawling through the air ducts, as he's wont to do).

I tiptoe toward Gilbert's office and the golden light peeking out from his partially open door. Should I turn around and run? Am I an idiot for walking in here? This certainly feels like a situation in which I'm either going to get murdered or propositioned, and I can't think of which one of those is less likely coming from Gilbert.

"I am capable," I whisper to myself, repeating a mantra I learned from Manifesting the Badass Within: How to Use Mantras to Supersize Your Life. "I am strong. I can defeat any intruders with my brute strength."

Okay, so that last one wasn't in the book, but it seemed like a good one to add right now.

I hold my two coffees up like a shield and shout, "I have a black belt in karate!" as I kick open Gilbert's door. This isn't strictly true, given that I took one karate class in fifth grade before giving up, but I need to project a strong image.

Gilbert, slumped over his desk, looks up at me. "That's really great, Laurel." He sniffles. "That must've taken a lot of work, but I'm not surprised. You're one of my most dedicated employees."

That's when I realize that Gilbert is crying, and not the kind of eye-leaking you can disguise as allergies. This is full-on sobbing, the kind I never expected to see from my boss, a man who unironically listens to "Never Gonna Give You Up" as his morning pump-up jam.

"Gilbert," I say, putting his coffee down in front of him. "Is everything okay?"

He shakes his head, and I hand him a tissue.

"Some things are okay," he says. "I'm alive. That's good."

I nod slowly. "So we're starting with the basics here."

He sighs. "Just trying to have an attitude of gratitude."

"I know that's important to you." I point to the poster behind his desk: a waterfall with the words "The best attitude is gratitude" written on it. Honestly, it's a wonder that Gilbert became a regional magazine/website editor instead of a middle school guidance counselor.

He blows his nose with a honk, then lets his head fall to his desk. "Charlene left."

I pause,...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2023
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593638360
ISBN 13 
9780593638361
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
289
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