The Plight Before Christmas_Kate Stewart, page 1
The Plight Before Christmas
Copyright © 2021 by Kate Stewart
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
About This Book
Dedication
Playlist
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
Recipe for Snowman Soup
Preview of The Guy on the Right
About the Author
Thank You
Clark Griswold was onto something, at least with his annual holiday meltdown. And since the last three weeks of my life have been riddled with humbug—another breakup, a broken toe, an office promotion I deserved and didn’t get—I’m not at all in the mood to celebrate nor have the happ, happ, happiest Christmas EVER.
When Mom insisted that we all gather at my Grandparent’s ancient cabin for an old school family Christmas, I fully intended to get into the holiday spirit with the help of the three wise men, Johnnie Walker, Jack Daniels, and Jim Beam. But those boys did absolutely nothing to offset the shock or temper the sting of seeing my EX on our doorstep the first day of our holiday soiree.
Apparently, Santa missed the memo, and this elf is pissed.
Stuck for a week with the man who obliterated my heart nearly two decades ago, I did the only thing I could do and put on my game face, thankful for the home advantage.
I knew better than to drink that last cup of eggnog.
I knew better than to get tongue tangled beneath the mistletoe with the only man to ever break my heart.
I knew better than to sleep with Satan’s wingman on the eve of the Lord’s birthday.
I could blame the nog. I could blame the deceitful light blue eyes, thick, angelic hair, and panty evaporating smirk…but mostly, I blame Eli because he always knew exactly which of my buttons to push.
I foolishly thought a family Christmas filled with nostalgia was going to turn my inner Scrooge around, but this year’s festivities went up in flames. Leave it to the ghost of my Christmas past to be the one to light the match.
Fa la la la la, la, FML.
For my family, who keeps me grounded. I love you dearly.
.
.
.
.
And…after twenty-five books, I think it is finally time to acknowledge the asshats that broke my heart. Thanks for the ammo.
LISTEN TO THE PLIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS PLAYLIST AS YOU READ
Fa la la la la, la FUCK MY LIFE.
“Congratulations, Stuart,” I grit out, tapping my jingle-bell-covered plastic wine glass against his.
“That sounded really sincere,” amusement drips from his timbre as he shoots me a sideways glance, “but thanks, Whitney.” Side by side, we scan the escalating spectacle of our overindulging co-workers. Internally, I begin to place bets on those most likely to do some shame walking in the morning. My lips lift when my eyes land on Sophie, who appears to be in the midst of an intimate conversation with Jonathan, a man she’s pined for since he joined the firm a year and a half ago. They’re tucked into a corner, their posture suggestive—his more than hers—and though I can tell she’s trying to keep her cool, she’s glowing, her expression a mix of elation, shock, and desire. Despite the slight lift of my lips and my inner ‘you go girl’ chant, I can’t help but address the animosity for the man standing next to me, which takes precedence as my blood continues to simmer. Taking a sip of my wine, I let it rest on my tongue a full ten seconds in an effort to stop myself while the high road is still within reach. It’s the hard swallow of more than the wine that has me exiting to basic bitch street.
“We both know I deserved it. I worked the overtime. I landed the biggest account and ran the most successful campaign of the year.”
“There’s no I in team, Collins,” he smirks into his cup.
“Ah, but there is one in ass-kisser.”
“Whitney, Stuart, are you two playing nice?” Our boss, Rich, saunters up to us, looking every bit the business Santa with his snow-white hair, prominent bulging belly hanging over his suit slacks, and beet red cheeks due to his holiday party indulgence. Forcing a smile, I flash all of my teeth as if Rich didn’t drive an axe through my future when he announced Stuart would be the new Senior VP of marketing.
“I was just congratulating him,” I retort evenly.
“She did,” Stuart assures Rich as he speeds down the high road while pushing his glasses up his sleek brown-tinted nose. Well, maybe his nose isn’t brown, but his personality repulses me. Okay, he’s mostly a nice guy, some might say saintly, but he is an ass-kisser—I stand firm on that. Stuart is also an avid golfer, which gave him an advantage over me because Rich is his preferred golfing buddy, and the two have been gracing the office with twin shit-eating grins and matching sunburns since early spring. Their long ‘lunches’ and ‘Stepbrother’ karate in the basement bonding have made me the odd woman out. As much as I would like to believe sexism has become less frequent in the workplace, Rich is a prime example of why it still exists. Rich is old enough to have been wet behind the ears during the ‘Mad Men’ era, which means I was screwed before I ever earned my spot in the running for VP.
It was a hundred percent a boy’s club move that he got the position due to their bromance and Rich’s belief that the cock wielding man standing next to me is a better choice for the position. While I worked endless hours wooing the clients and spearheading the campaigns, Stuart took off at precisely six pm every night—even during crunch time—pulling the family first card.
As if that’s an excuse.
Okay, maybe the fact that he’s a youth minister and coaches in an inner-city program is an excuse to leave early a few days a week, but there are other days of the week he could have been at the office, working the hours I work.
Even if he insists he has to get home every night to his pregnant wife—a psychiatrist who specializes in helping army veterans integrate back into society after deployment—there’s no excuse.
Fuck Stuart.
Just because I’m on regular birth control, and don’t have a golf swing, doesn’t mean I’m not worthy.
I’m just…independent.
I don’t need a family or a selfless purpose outside of work to be a staple in my community. In addition to my ridiculous work ethic, I do, on occasion, bring coffee into the office. And I’m a believer of sorts. I just don’t believe that waking up at 7 a.m. on Sunday cements my commitment to the man upstairs.
Besides, I need my sleep to be able to work the hours Stuart doesn’t.
Trying my best to maintain my smile and nod when it’s appropriate, it dawns on me that I may be going to hell for this line of thinking.
I’m resentful at the moment because the last three weeks have been hell on earth. More recently, due to the announcement that Mr. Perfect, golf playing, #lifegoals, family man, and upstanding citizen has just snagged my promotion and reason for living. This news only confirmed that my losing streak wouldn’t end anytime soon.
Anyone who’s had my recent run of luck would be feeling a bit acrimonious and stabby, especially after the last few minutes of hearing how deserving Stuart was of the position. It was the bitter freaking maraschino cherry on top of the shit sundae I’ve been shoveling down for the last three weeks.
More resentment seeps in as I eye the spacious vacant office behind the two men congratulati
ng each other for being able to spell their names when they urinate. An office I’ve pined and busted my ass for since I started at the firm. For years, I’ve strived to be at the top of my field, to be recognized. But as of late, life has pulled all the punches, the most recent to the throat.
It all started with my broken toe exactly three weeks ago, an accident I acquired dodging dog shit on my morning run. In a sick twist of irony, I leapt toe first into a fire hydrant coated in fresh piss, no doubt a gift from the same pooch. From then on, it’s been a slow-moving train wreck in every aspect of my life.
Exactly one week after I broke my toe, Kyle’s condom broke. This led to hysteria, my hysteria. My reasoning? The man I was canoodling with was easy on the eyes, but by a landslide, the most clueless man I’ve ever dated. Even with my prehistoric uterus and the odds of never conceiving in my favor, I wasn’t taking any chances.
Harsh? Definitely.
But our breakup went a little something like this.
“I don’t think this is going to work.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in different places.”
“I don’t understand, Whitney. We’re both in my apartment.”
Game over.
I’d only been playing it because dodging him when I wasn’t in need was far too easy. He believed any excuse I gave him. At one point, it became a sport to see what excuses I could get away with. I had a very good reason to play with Kyle temporarily because, by guestimate, he has the most perfect eight-inch penis, and he was excellent at using it. Staying with him for that length of time, again, eight inches, I consider justified at this stage in my life.
While I pride myself on being a resourceful, capable gal, I was not about to give that dynamic up due to our complete and utter failure to communicate. With Kyle, I did not require romance or stimulating conversation. I needed release after a twelve-hour day at the office. The good thing about Kyle? He was always in a good mood. Good mood meant no nights I was in the mood were off the table. He was my human scratching post. But when the condom broke, and the fear that I might have procreated with the dumbed-down FRIENDS version of Joey set in, I had to end it.
I’ll take the guilt over objectifying him and discarding him over pregnancy with a walking dildo. In truth, some nights, the guilt wins. As I ignore the Rich and Stuart love fest, I send up a quick prayer that Kyle finds someone who deserves him because I did not warrant a second of his devotion. He might not have been my intellectual equal, but he was warm, caring, and present, which is the most I’ve gotten out of a relationship in years.
The next blow came when my car broke down on the way home—post-breakup—and the only mechanic I had on speed dial was, in fact, eight-inch Kyle. A car I planned on replacing the second I got my pay increase with the VP announcement.
Circling the drain, I again glance into Stuart’s new office and mourn over my now worthless redecorating plans when my assistant, Zoe, sidles up to me as Stuart and Rich inch their way toward the party, away from me.
Zoe follows my line of sight to see Rich place his hand on Stuart’s shoulder, and I feel the sting in my throat as I swallow down another sip of wine.
“You were robbed. You deserved it, and everyone here knows it. Even if Stuart is the nicest man on the planet.”
I turn to Zoe, an intern I recruited this past May, just after she graduated. From her expression, she’s genuinely upset for me, and it brings me some comfort. Shoulders easing back from two glasses of cheap wine—because Rich’s namesake is a farce, and the man is, ironically, the cheapest bastard I know—I turn to her and share my disappointment.
“Do you ever think, ‘what’s the point?’ When you get what you want, you only end up wanting more. I mean, you work hard your whole life and go after something, and then you get it, and then what? Maybe you realize it’s not worth it. I mean, it happens that way with everything anyway. You meet the perfect guy, you’re completely in sync, and the first time he kisses you, you discover he has halitosis. Or you finally buy and wear that pair of shoes you worshipped and saved for months to buy only to find they’re the most uncomfortable heels on the planet. I mean, for what? In the end, no one gives a shit you wore those heels. We should just save ourselves the back pain and buy flats and a vibrator because—at the end of the day—all we’re left with is the credit card bill for uncomfortable shoes we can’t afford and inevitable heartache. It’s like…no matter what we do, or what we want, we’re going to get disappointed, and then we age, wrinkle, and then you know…” I slide my finger across my throat.
My twenty-three-year-old assistant pales considerably as she gapes at me in pure terror while I tumble ass first into rock bottom.
Too far, Whit. Way too far!
Odd looks get shot my way when I belt out a Disney villain cackle that sounds foreign even to me. I clamp a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Kidding. I’m kidding.”
She graces me with an uncomfortable laugh and accompanying lie. “I know.”
It’s apparent she’s now terrified of me, or for me. I’m not sure which is worse. Though we’ve grown closer in the last six months, I’m too embarrassed to decipher which.
“Don’t worry, Zoe. I’m afraid of heights, so I won’t be headed for the roof tonight. Are you taking off?” She stalls, the picture of youth, beauty, and a bright future. One I hope I haven’t tainted with my rancorous tongue.
“Yeah, I’m going to meet up with my boyfriend. We’re driving to his parents tonight.”
“So, it’s getting serious? We’re meeting the parents?”
“Yeah, it sort of happened this week.”
The fact that she seems to be apologetic about it only worsens my guilt. My own assistant can see the depths of my despair.
“That’s wonderful.” I give her my most genuine smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
It’s hard not to spot the relief in her eyes. “Thank you. I’m excited and nervous.”
“No need to be. They’ll adore you. He’s the lucky one, and don’t you dare forget it.”
Another dazzling flash of teeth. “Thanks, boss.”
“Zoe, for the millionth time, call me Whitney.” I turn back to the party as the deafening sound of feedback from the karaoke microphone blasts through the floor, announcing that most everyone will be calling an Uber.
“That’s my cue,” I jest. “I’m right behind you.”
Zoe nods and briefly lifts the iPhone she forever has plastered to her hand. “I’ll have my phone on, just in case.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say sternly. “I won’t. Take the time off. You’re going to need it. We may be down, but we’re not out.” Even I can hear the false bravado in that statement. My get up and go has fucking left the building, and I make the decision to follow it.
“Merry Christmas, Zoe.”
“You, too. And thanks so much for the bonus.”
“You earned it.” It’s all I can manage around the now consistent burn in my throat due to the unwelcome emotion threatening to overtake me.
Zoe does me a solid by playing immune to my rapidly glossing eyes and, with one last wave, walks toward the elevator.
Tiptoeing around the arrival of my mid-life crisis, I bid farewell to those closest to me as I grab my coat from my office. Ambling down the hall to make my overdue exit, I wince as the onslaught of the worse imaginable rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is belted out by our graphics guru, Paula.
Sophie appears by my side as I scan the party one last time, trying to muster the ability to match the same confidence I had in my step this morning.
“Oh, my God, Whitney, you’re not going to believe this!” Sophie belts in an intended whisper that ends up more like a scream, only matched by the donkey-sounding wails erupting from Paula. I pray to God no one is recording her because surely tomorrow she would deem it blackmail worthy with sober ears.
Turning to Sophie, I give her a grin. “I saw. Walk me to the elevator. I can’t handle this.”
Sophie giggles, giddy, a rare sound from the cynical friend I adore so much. But the cynic seems to have been swallowed up briefly by the six-foot shot of dopamine just injected by her crush. Love does that to people.
I knew what that felt like once.
“I know. She sounds like a donkey on crack.”
