Snow Place Like Home: A Sweet Fake Dating Christmas Romcom

First Two Chapters

Chapter One
Finley

“Barb, I need to go,” I tell my seventy-eight-year-old neighbor on my phone screen, cursing the day she learned how to make video calls. I’m hiding in the backroom of the coffee shop where I work, because Barb has called me five times in less than two minutes and I was sure that this time it’s an emergency.

It is not.

“But you didn’t tell me if your hospital gives out free condoms,” she pouts. “Shirley insists they do.”

“I’ve never seen free condoms lying around,” I say with a tight smile, “but I can ask around tonight at work, if you want.” I have no intention of doing so, but what she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her. Most nights I’m too busy running around the hospital drawing blood, and even if I had time to look, I wouldn’t. But if push comes to shove, I’ll buy a ginormous box and bring it home, telling her they were free.

“Shirley says I need to use condoms because senior citizens have a high rate of getting the clap.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing. Now I’m definitely picking up the box. While I know Barb has an active sex life, it’s never occurred to me to ask if she was using condoms. Then again, safe-sex talks with my neighbor old enough to be my grandmother wasn’t exactly on my bingo card. Now I realize I need to rethink that. “Shirley’s right. I’ll make sure you get some.”

She frowns, her face filling the screen. “What if—”

“Finley!” my boss, Maggie, shouts from the front. “We’ve got a rush comin’ in.”

“Barb,” I say, already walking to the door, “I really have to go. I’ll find out about the condoms and let you know.” Then I hang up before she can find another reason to keep me on the call.

I shove my phone into the pocket of my red apron, take a deep breath, and push through the swinging door.

Maggie’s right. At least fifteen people are in line, and my coworker, Bethany, already looks haggard trying to keep up.

I flash Bethany an apologetic smile and slide into my position behind the espresso machine.

Most Beans to Go customers work on one of the forty-two floors above us, and right now they all look desperate for caffeine. We’re always busy in the mornings, but the past couple of weeks have been next-level since it’s the holiday season and Christmas is less than two weeks away. Between shopping, decorating, parties, and everything else, our customers need IV drips of energy. Since we’re not qualified to offer those, we sell them caffeinated beverages instead.

“What did Barb want this time?” Bethany asks with a laugh.

She’s heating up a pastry, so I lean closer and lower my voice. “She wanted to know if the hospital gives out free condoms. One of our neighbors told her that seniors have a higher incidence of STDs.”

Bethany’s eyes go wide. “You’re kidding!”

“Kiddin’ about what?” Maggie asks, as she scribbles a name on a cup and sets it on the counter beside me.

I take a quick glance at the name and confirm that Constance from the twenty-fourth floor hasn’t gotten a wild hair up her butt and changed her usual order. It’s the same caramel latte with skim milk she gets every day. I know most of the regular’s names and drinks, and while some switch it up, most stick to their usual.

“That old people get a lot of STDs,” Bethany says.

Constance pays and moves along the counter toward the espresso machine. “It’s true,” she says with a prim nod. “My aunt caught syphilis when she moved into a retirement community.”

Bethany gets a wicked gleam in her eye. “Don’t you live in a retirement community, Finley?”

I laugh as I steam Constance’s milk. “I live in an apartment complex for seniors, which is very different than a retirement community.” The rent is about three times cheaper, and the only amenity is a laundry room that sometimes has all five washing machines in working order. “But I have to admit that some of my neighbors have very active love lives.”

“Unlike you,” Maggie pipes up, jotting the next name on a cup.

Mike from the sixteenth floor—recently divorced and has two teenage boys who play baseball. His usual drink is a medium Americano.

I grin. “I’m not into men three times my age.”

Mike taps his phone to pay, shooting me a sidelong glance.

I quickly add, “And even if I was, I don’t have time for a love life.” It’s not a lie, even though I said it loud enough for Mike to hear. I’ve seen the interest in his eyes lately. The last thing I want is to risk offending him when I inevitably turn him down.

“You need to live a little, Fin,” Maggie says. “Life is more than work and school. You need to have fun.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for fun once I graduate.”

But her words scrape an open wound. The anniversary of my mother’s death is coming in a few weeks, and I’ve been thinking about the promises she dragged out of me on her deathbed. I haven’t lived up to them, and I can’t help thinking she’d be disappointed. Every year I tell myself that I’ll keep my promise once I’m more financially stable. Get a little farther in school. When my life’s more stable. But I can hear her voice in my head—the one from when she was strong and cancer free—telling me I’m making excuses and letting her down.

Again.

But I don’t have time to dwell on sad things. Lord knows I’ll have plenty of time over Christmas. Alone in my one-bedroom apartment, splurging on a steak and baked potato and watching While You Were Sleeping with my grumpy, long-haired cat Maybelle.

The next half hour flies by. Maggie, Bethany, and I work like a well-oiled machine until the line dwindles down to just a few customers.

I’m wiping down the espresso machine when Lauren, a legal assistant from the twenty-ninth floor says, “Oh, my word, Maggie! The Christmas decorations are even better than last year!”

“That’s all Finley,” Maggie brags. “She’s chock-full of Christmas spirit!”

“Finley decorated all this?” Lauren asks, glancing around the store.

“She sure did!” Bethany pipes up. “She’s decorated the place for the past three Christmases and adds to it every year. Isn’t it something?”

“The owner gives me money each year to add to it,” I admit, blushing.

“She loves Christmas,” Maggie says. “Like looooves it.”

“It’s true.” My face heats even more. “It’s my favorite holiday.”

“Understatement of the year,” Bethany says.

I shrug as I take Lauren’s cup from Maggie. I’m surprised my coworkers don’t expand on why I love Christmas, but I’m grateful. My heart feels more tender than usual today.

“She makes a lot of this stuff,” Maggie says. “Isn’t she talented?”

“I also thrift a lot of it,” I add, starting Lauren’s peppermint mocha.

Thrifting helps stretch the meager budget I’m given each year. When I first started working here, the decorations were sad—tired tinsel and cheap stockings with our names in glue and glitter. I asked for a couple hundred dollars to fix it up, convincing the owner it would be good for business. She’d been so pleased that she’s given me a few hundred dollars every year since. The past two years, the decorations have drawn foot traffic. Passersby spot them through the street windows and come in to admire the display, usually purchasing a drink and sometimes a pastry.

Now the dining room has two full-sized artificial trees, chock full of ornaments in different themes, several smaller trees scattered around, snowmen and Santa figurines, a working train, multiple reindeer, and a whole host of other decorations. I even paint holly and snowmen on the windows. I do it all on my own time—which Maggie thinks is unfair—but I don’t mind.

From early November to mid-January, it makes me feel a little closer to my mother.

But now I’m thinking about Mom again. Our Christmases were always meager, but we still decorated, even if it was just homemade ornaments. It was our favorite holiday, and her most fervent wish was to go north for a real white Christmas with all the trimmings.

But money is always tight for a single mother, so we never made it happen. We kept putting it off to “someday.” Then Mom was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer at the start of my senior year. The treatments and hospital visits whittled what little we had and left me with a debt so enormous it’s taken me six years to crawl out.

Promise me you’ll live, Finley. Promise me you’ll take chances and have fun.

Taking chances has been impossible while holding down two jobs and community college part time. And having fun? My sweet neighbors count, but I know that’s not what she meant. Still, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. In a few more months I’ll have the debt paid off, and maybe I can finally breathe.

Then I can have fun.

Who am I kidding? I still have two years of college, and after years of juggling credit payments, I swore I’d never be in debt again. I’ve only taken the community classes I could afford to pay outright, but most community colleges don’t offer bachelor’s degrees in nursing. Tuition will take a leap, and since I refuse to get student loans, unless I get the Freeman Scholarship, I might not even go.

I hand Lauren her drink and glance up to check the line. And that’s when I see him.

Alex from the twenty-eighth floor.

He’s with his business partner, Roland. They rarely come in together, and both are usually in earlier, so they must be on their way back from a meeting. Roland’s a huge flirt, and Alex…

Alex is a conundrum.

I’m immune to most men’s charms, but he gives me butterflies. Tall, dark, and handsome, sure—but there’s something else about him. Something I can’t figure out.

Not that anything will ever come from it. For one, I refuse to date customers—too messy if things don’t work out. And two, I don’t have time. I’ve tried dating over the past few years, but most men want more—more than I’m willing or even capable of giving. So, I’ve decided to stay single until I get my life together.

Which means I might spend the rest of my life alone.

But I’m strangely okay with that. I have my neighbors. I have my cat. I have my memories of my mother.

That’s enough. Right?

Chapter Two
Alex

Eloise is coming for Christmas! Suck it, bro!

“Grant, you damn bastard,” I mutter under my breath.

I’m in line at the Beans to Go, the coffee shop on the ground floor of my Atlanta office building, with my business partner Roland Greer at my side. He’s scrolling through his phone as are most of the people in the line in front and behind me.

Festive holiday music is playing on the overhead speakers. The shop has floor-to-ceiling windows on two of the walls. One faces the street, and through the painted glass I see people hurrying to wherever they seem to be heading. The other glass wall looks into the three-story lobby. A giant fifteen-foot glass bobble chandelier hangs in the lobby, making the dark marble floor gleam.

The coffee shop is always bright and cheerful, with live plants and comfortable furniture. But from November to January, when it’s decorated for the holidays, the place transforms into a holiday wonderland. It reminds me of Christmas at home, so some days I’m down here twice, even if lately it makes me more homesick than usual.

But I’m going home in five days—a trip I’m equally excited for and dreading. And now that Eloise is coming, dread is winning out.

The woman in front of me must have heard me swear, because she glances over her shoulder, giving me a dead-eyed stare.

Clearly, someone needs her caffeine fix.

I’m about to ignore her, but she looks so much like my Aunt Sylvia—from her widow’s peak hairline, the bump at the bridge of her nose, and the way her eyebrows seem sunken over her eyelids—that it’s damn spooky, and there’s no way I’d blow off my aunt. So, I cringe and say, “Sorry, ma’am. I just got some bad news.”

She turns to face me, her irritation replaced by concern. “And at Christmas time too, you poor thing.” She shakes her head. “What happened? Did you lose your house? Your job?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did Grant run over your dog?”

I’m taken back that she knows my brother’s name, then remember I used it when I swore. “What? No, nothing like that.” I take a breath, trying to figure out the shortest way to explain it. “Grant stole my bed.”

Her eyes widen, and she eyes me up and down, clearly appraising me. I’m used to it from women of all ages, but they’re usually more sly about it. Finally, she tilts her head and narrows her eyes with a venom I don’t expect. “Grant could do worse, so you must be a downright bastard yourself if he left you.” Then she turns around and begins whispering to the older woman next to her.

Roland bursts out laughing. “She thinks you’re gay.”

“No shit,” I grumble. “I got that.”

I’m not irritated that she thinks I’m gay. Curtis, one of my best friends from high school, is gay, and if I swung that way, he’d be the first man I’d hit on. But I’m still pissed at Grant, and becoming more so by the second.

“So, Eloise is coming to Christmas after all?” Roland asks, still chuckling.

Given his narcissism, I’m surprised he figured that out without me spelling it out.

“I’m so glad you find this amusing.” I give him a dark look. “You’re not the one who’s going to end up sleeping on a sofa bed for eleven days. And on top of that, my mother said my Aunt Jean is coming this year and bringing her three grandchildren.” I narrow my eyes. “Who are sleeping in the rec room.” I level my gaze. “Where the sofa bed resides.”

The line moves forward, and Roland breaks out into another fit of laughter. My Aunt Sylvia doppelganger has reached the register, and she and her friend are placing their order, some complicated mash up of syrups.

Roland can’t seem to let this go. “You’re bunking with three little kids? Dude, that’s insane. Just get a room at a hotel or rent an Airbnb.”

“Have you ever been to Hollybrook, Vermont, at Christmastime?” I ask. “It’s like a Christmas Hallmark movie. Hotels and Airbnbs sell out by February for the next year. And even if I wanted to stay somewhere else, my mother would have a fit. She insists we all stay in the same house, especially since it’s the only time she can see some of us.” Last time she said it, she’d looked me dead in the eye.

Guilty as charged, though. I don’t see them enough. The start-up takes nearly all my time and attention. But that’s an excuse, and I know it.

“So don’t go home,” Roland says.

Don’t go home. Part of me leaps at the thought. Another part panics. As much as I’ve hated going home the past six years, I’m somehow even more homesick than ever. Still, fear they’ll discover my secret outweighs everything else—even my longing to be there.

Fake Aunt Sylvia hands her credit card to Maggie, the woman who’s working the register. Sometimes Maggie makes drinks, but during the morning rush, Finley or Bethany usually work the espresso machine.

Yeah, I know all the employees by name and where they usually work. That doesn’t make me a stalker—it makes me observant. At least, that’s what I tell myself when really, I’m looking for one employee in particular. Watching everyone else makes it less creepy.

Today, Finley’s making drinks. Her mouth is twisted to the side as she concentrates on making Fake Aunt Sylvia’s complicated diabetes in a cup. Her long dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail that she’s doubled up into a messy bun with a red and white scrunchie. All week she’s been wearing a vintage-looking gold reindeer pin which has a red stone for the nose. The reindeer pin’s clipped to her red apron, the one with a snowman over her chest and her name tag above it. Maggie and Bethany wear the standard brown aprons with the Beans to Go logo, so she must’ve brought hers from home. Her cheeks are flushed from the cranked-up heat to fight Atlanta’s so-called cold spell—mid-thirties. Please. That’s light jacket weather in Vermont. Finley’s layered in a black, long-sleeve shirt under a kelly green, short-sleeve shirt.

“Tell your mom you’re too busy with work.” Roland barely glances up from his phone. “Which is true. It’s a critical time and we need all hands on deck to get this project ready to launch at the end of January.”

He has a point. It’s a bad time to disappear, but I’ve skipped the last two years. My mother had been understandably upset when I’d cancelled a week before Christmas last year. We’d hit a snag that demanded my full attention, but the disappointment in her voice nearly broke me, so I’d promised I’d stay at least a week, maybe longer, this year. Roland had agreed to it at the time, but now that the trip is looming, he’s been trying to convince me to cancel.

If I’m looking for a reason, this is a good one.

But I can’t disappoint my mom again. I hate when I make her unhappy—which has unfortunately become something of a habit. Still, why had I told her I’d come for eleven days? A year ago, this Christmas had seemed so far away.

Now I want to strangle Past Alex.

The truth is, I love my family. Despite my reluctance to go home, I miss them. Even my damn bastard brother Grant. Roland, on the other hand, can’t stand his brother and sister and barely tolerates his parents. His idea of skipping a family Christmas is equivalent to a reprieve from a prison sentence. He doesn’t understand why I want to see my family, and after three years together as business partners, it’s a waste of time and breath to try to explain it to him.

My seesaw of dread and excitement had finally found a balance, but now dread is winning by a landslide. Ten nights of sleepless nights on a saggy, two-inch mattress, springs poking my back and ass, kids screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep.

It’s almost enough to risk my mother’s disappointment and my brothers’ guaranteed texts calling me an asshole for disappointing her again. Which, I’m sure, is exactly what Roland wants.

“We had a deal, Roland,” I mutter, but the intensity of my voice leaves no room for doubt. Part of me can’t believe after putting so much effort into staying away, that I’m now fighting to go.

He gives me a long look, one that makes me nervous before he says, “Okay, so you want to see your family and have your Hallmark Christmas. Tell me again why Grant bringing his girlfriend means you have to sleep on the sofa bed.”

“It’s simple. When we go home, we stay in our childhood bedrooms. Grant and I shared a room, but if one of us has a girlfriend, the other gets banished to the rec room.”

“And if you both bring a girlfriend?”

“The oldest gets the room. I’m eleven months older, so it’s mine.”

“That’s diabolical,” Roland says with a wicked gleam. “I love it.” Not a surprise. But I’ve seen that look before, usually right before one of his big ideas. Which means I should be terrified, because clearly this one involves me. “Sounds like you need a girlfriend.”

And there it is.

I laugh. “You realize I’m leaving in five days.”

“Look at you,” he says, gesturing at my … everything. “You could have a girlfriend by tonight if you wanted.”

I’m not sure about getting a girlfriend, but yeah, I could probably find a woman to sleep with me. Finding a woman willing to fly to Vermont over the holidays would take more effort, but I might be able to pull it off. I can’t help that I’ve been blessed with great genetics; I hit the gym to burn off my stress; and I know how to say things women like to hear. So yeah, there’s a chance I could find a woman who’d go along with a crazy scheme.

But just because I can do it doesn’t mean I will.

No way am I bringing a stranger home to my family—and any woman who’d say yes to that kind of a crazy scheme probably isn’t the kind of woman I’d ever introduce to my mother.

Fake Aunt Sylvia finally moves to the side, opening up the register.

Roland and I step up to the counter. Maggie flashes me a mischievous grin. “Lookin’ for a girlfriend, Alex? Because I can set you up with someone amazing.” Her eyebrows dance over her eyes.

Roland stares, fascinated. “I didn’t know eyebrows could do that.”

While I’m also impressed with her eyebrow skills, I’m dumbfounded at her question. Maggie’s an attractive woman, but I’d put her in her mid-forties. Nearly twenty years older than me. Never once in the year and a half that I’ve known her have I gotten the impression she’s interested in me. “Uh…”

She laughs. “Calm down, lover boy. Not with me. As if you could handle this.” She sweeps her hand up and down her body, then holds up her left hand, wiggling her fingers to show off the small diamond on her wedding band set. “Besides, I’m very happily married and my husband’s quite good at handling me.” She winks. “If you catch my drift.”

Imagining Maggie’s husband handling her wasn’t on today’s to-do list. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Okay, then.” She nods to her right. “I’m talkin’ about Finley.”

Finley.

I swallow hard. Never in a million years would I date her.

Sure, I’m fascinated—but only because she’s nothing like the women I usually date. Sweet. Kind. Always cheerful. She’s sunshine in a bottle. She knows all the regulars by name, their drinks, even their kids, their pets. She has a way of making my shitty days just a little bit better.

She can spot when someone’s struggling, and she goes out of her way to lift them up. Last year when my girlfriend Shawna had broken up with me, she noticed I was off. I hadn’t told Roland, let alone the staff at the coffee shop, but Finley picked up on it. For weeks, she asked if I was okay. I said I was fine, but she knew better, so she’d slip a muffin in with my Danish and scrawl encouragements on my cup like. “Today’s a new day!” and “One day at a time!”

What had been routine became something I looked forward to. She was something I looked forward to. And before I knew it, I was out of my funk.

Sure, I’ve thought about asking her out. But she’s not my type. I date women who run companies, who live and breathe million-dollar deals. Finley? She makes lattes. Yeah, I hear how that sounds—pretentious asshole, right? Maybe I am. But I stick to women who speak the same language I do.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed her laugh, or the way she’s genuinely interested in people. Or the way her smile hits me square in the chest. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I weren’t Alex King, cofounder of Zebra Tech, chasing seven million in venture capital. If I’d chosen something simpler, then I’d be someone who could date someone like Finley.

But that’s a fantasy, and a stupid one. Even if I wanted to ask her out, I swore off dating after Shawna. I’m a workaholic with zero work-life balance—which she made abundantly clear. And when things go to hell at the office, I’m an asshole to live with. As Roland likes to remind me, we’re married to Zebra Tech. For better or worse, richer or poorer. We were banking on richer, but poorer’s always lurking. I don’t have the luxury of splitting my focus.

“Hey, Finley,” Roland says, oblivious to my existential crisis. He leans over the counter. “Do you like Christmas?”

She looks up from making Fake Aunt Sylvia’s drink and smiles—when she does, it’s not just with her mouth and eyes. Her whole body radiates with it. “Of course, I do, Roland. Only a scrooge wouldn’t like Christmas.”

“Have you heard of Hollybrook, Vermont?” he asks. “It’s the Christmas capital of the world.”

I watch in horror as I realize what he’s doing. I need to shut him down, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. The thought of bringing Finley to Hollybrook has short circuited my brain.

Maggie takes the credit card from my hand and taps the screen.

That jars me out of my stupor. “Uh, Maggie? We didn’t give our order yet.”

“Please…” She rolls her eyes so hard I see nothing by whites. “You order the same thing every day. A large flat white and a cheese Danish. Mister Matchmaker over there orders a medium caramel latte.” She hands back my card. “Besides, you could do worse than Finley.”

There’s no doubt my mother would love her.

When my mother met my first serious girlfriend after college, Patricia had called my parents provincial, which I didn’t think sounded so bad. Mom told me that she hadn’t meant it as a compliment. Mom was right, of course. Days later, I asked Patricia about it, and she’d admitted it—unapologetically—that she thought my parents didn’t have enough class, and that once we were married, I’d need to distance myself from them.

We broke up seconds later.

I might not spend as much time with my family as they would like, but I’m not going to let anyone trash talk them either.

Then, when my mother met Shawna two years ago, she told me my girlfriend was only interested in the big payoff I’d get when Roland and I eventually sold our start-up. I was pissed and told my mother she was wrong. But months later, I was eating a huge slice of humble pie. Roland and I had hit a low point. We needed more funding, and we were struggling to find new investors. I poured my heart out to Shawna, and instead of offering encouragement, she dumped me, claiming she’d written a paper about sunk cost fallacy, and that she’d wasted enough time on something that was almost guaranteed to lose.

It was only after she left that I realized she hadn’t misspoken when she’d said something instead of someone.

I haven’t dated since.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t been with a woman. I’ve slept with several, but relationships? Not until we see Zebra Tech to fruition.

But right now, Roland is still chatting with Finley while she makes our drinks.

“You’ve really never seen a white Christmas?” he asks in amazement. I can spot Salesman Roland a mile away. He’s really pushing this.

“Nope, never.” Finley has a wistful look on her face. “I’ve always wanted to, but…” She shrugs and to my surprise, something flickers in her eyes, a hint of sadness, but then just as quickly it’s gone. “Who knows?” she says a little too brightly. “If all this crazy weather keeps up, maybe Atlanta’ll start havin’ blizzards.”

Roland props his arm on the back of the espresso machine partition. “Why wait twenty years to see one when you can go to Hollybrook? Did I mention it’s the Christmas capital of the world?” He turns to look at me with an encouraging look. I recognize it from when we tag team potential investors. “What do they have up in Hollybrook, Alex? Candy cane eating contests?”

“No,” I said with a laugh, but it feels a little forced. I should walk away and leave this woman alone, but I can’t seem to stop myself from saying, “But they have just about everything else. The town’s kind of Bavarian-themed and there’s always snow at Christmas, so they capitalize on it. They have a gingerbread house decorating contest. Sleigh rides. Outdoor ice skating.”

She has a hesitant look, but I see the interest in her eyes, and I can’t seem to stop myself from adding, “Hollybrook even has live reindeer, and a Santa with a genuine belly and full white beard.” I give her a conspiratorial grin. “His name’s Tom Henson. He sells insurance in the off season.”

A gleam fills Roland’s eyes. I’ve seen that look whenever he snags a new investor in our start-up. He thinks we’ve set the hook, now we just need to reel her in.

“Finley, I know you don’t have plans for Christmas,” Roland says. “A couple of days ago, I heard you tell a customer you were spending the day at home with your cat. Wouldn’t you rather have a real Christmas?”

Her smile fades. Roland’s an ass. Who reminds someone they’ll be alone for the holidays? I don’t know why she won’t be with her family, but it’s obviously a sore spot.

Roland turns to me. “What are the dates you’ll be gone?”

I resist the urge to cringe, only because I don’t want Finley to think I’m rejecting her, even if I kind of am. “December twenty-second until January first.”

“Eleven whole days in a Christmas paradise.” Roland sighs, then swings his attention back to her. “You’ll stay in a cozy family home complete with a fireplace and a real Christmas tree, experiencing all the things middle-class families in Hollybrook do at Christmas.”

Her eyes narrow. “Wait—you two are serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Roland said solemnly, pressing a hand to his chest.

I wonder what Roland told her before I started paying attention, because she seems to know she’d be going with me.

Her gaze lands on me, full of questions.

This idea’s insane. But idiot that I am, I don’t hate it. There would be a lot of upsides to someone like Finley coming. First and foremost, I’d get my own room. Second, my mother will adore her and stop lecturing me for picking “materialistic women.” Third, Finley’s chatty enough to be a good buffer between me and my family. It doesn’t hurt that I sort of know her, so it wouldn’t be as awkward as dragging home a total stranger.

Am I seriously considering this? It’s completely ridiculous, yet I find myself leaning closer and lowering my voice. “It’s a long story, but unless I bring a girlfriend home for Christmas, I have to sleep on a sofa bed and the brattiest three kids you ever met will be sharing the room with me.”

She makes a face. “It’s December seventeenth, Alex. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, let alone experienced it. So, becoming your girlfriend in five days? Not happening.”

I held up my hands. “I know, but I have a solution.”

The man next to me loudly clears his throat and says in an angry tone, “Are you gonna to make my gingerbread latte or chat it up with Mr. Good-lookin’ all day?” His eyes narrowed. “Because some of us have to get to work.”

Finley cringes, and I resist the urge to grab the man by his yellow-ringed white collar and shove him against the wall for talking to her like that.

Wait. Where the hell did that come from?

“Sorry. Roger,” she says. “You’re up next.” She holds up his cup to show him, then gives me an apologetic look. “I’m not gonna lie, Alex, it’s kind of tempting, but—”

“Hold off on that no and but.” Roland holds up his hand. “Don’t make a decision until you get more information. How about Alex comes down when you get off work and he can give you more details?”

She shakes her head and hands him his caramel latte. “I have to leave right after work.”

“Then how about during your break?” he pushes. When she hesitates, he shoots a glance over to Maggie. “Hey, Maggie. Does Finley get a break?”

“Sure thing,” she says with a smug look. “Right about 1:30.”

Roland nods, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Okay, Alex’ll be down at 1:30. He’ll explain the whole situation and then you can decide.” When she doesn’t answer, he adds, “What can it hurt to listen to what the man has to say?”

Finley hands me my drink. “Okay, I’ll listen, but don’t expect me to say yes.”

“Deal.” Roland looks triumphant. “You won’t regret it, Finley. Hollybrook snow is the finest snow you’ve ever experienced and the mountain air…” He shakes his head with a far-off look. “You’ve never smelled anything so fresh.”

Roland’s full of shit. He’s never stepped foot in Hollybrook, let alone anywhere in the entire state of Vermont.

A doubtful look covers Finley’s face, but then she focuses on making Roger’s drink. I can’t help notice that she’s not smiling and something pinches painfully in my chest.

Pissed—and not sure why—I shove Roland to the end of the counter. Bethany, one of the other baristas, hands me my Danish. “Have a good day, Alex.” She gives me a wink before she heads off to warm up another pastry.

I head for the exit, fuming. Why am I angry? While it’s impulsive, bringing Finley isn’t the worst idea. She’s a sweet, thoughtful girl. She’d fit in perfectly with my family. So why do I feel like pond scum?

Maybe because you’re using her.

Bottom line: Finley doesn’t deserve to be a pawn in my messed-up need to keep my distance from my family.

Once we’re in the lobby, Roland shoulder checks me. “I’ve got the line set, King. It’s up to you to reel her in.” He winks. “And if you play your cards right, you’ll get laid out of the deal.”

I shoot him a dark look, but he doesn’t notice, likely because he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head. He’s already headed for the elevator bank.

If Finley actually agrees to Hollybrook, there will be no sex. Convincing her to come is bad enough. Sleeping with her would be diabolical.

But I’m already burying my self-disgust and convincing myself that this can work. If I’m going to spend eleven days with my family, I should be able to do so without emergency trips to the chiropractor. My family will love Finley, and she’ll love them. It’ll be nothing but sunshine and candy canes.

If she agrees.

Like any good salesman, I just need to figure out what Finley wants.

A shadow crosses over my heart as I realize: convincing her makes me a stone-cold asshole.

And yet… I’m going to do it anyway.