Christmas with My Grumpy Ex (Feuding Hearts Christmas #1)

1. The Return

MAXIM “MAX”WELLINGTON

Home is supposed to be a refuge, but for me, it was a bittersweet reminder of the ghosts of my past and the reckless choices that make me a bachelor for life.

I step into The Wellington hotel lobby, the familiar scent of pine and cinnamon washing over me. Christmas decorations adorn every surface, twinkling lights reflecting off polished marble floors.

It's been years since I've been here during the holidays, and the nostalgia hits me like a punch to the gut.

"Mr. Wellington!" A young bellhop rushes over, his eyes wide with recognition. "Welcome back, sir. Can I take your bags?"

I shake my head, gripping my leather duffel tighter. "I've got it, thanks."

The kid nods, looking a bit deflated, and scurries off. I can't blame him for his enthusiasm—it's not every day the prodigal son returns.

But I'm not here for a heartwarming family reunion. I'm here because Carson needs me, and family duty calls.

I make my way to the elevators, nodding at familiar faces as I pass. The staff's curious glances follow me, no doubt wondering why Max Wellington is back in New York just weeks before Christmas. Let them wonder.

I'm not here to explain myself.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the plush interior that screams old money and tradition. As I ascend to the top floor, I steel myself for what's to come. Overseeing the Wellington Charity Gala isn't exactly my idea of a good time, but with Carson stepping back to prepare for his first child, someone must do it.

And apparently, that someone is me.

The doors open to reveal the executive floor, all dark wood paneling and muted luxury. I make my way down the hall, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. At the end of the corridor, I pause outside the conference room, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open.

My younger brothers, Carson, and Andy, look up as I enter, their expressions a mix of relief and wariness. Carson rises first, crossing the room to clasp my shoulder.

"Max," he says, his voice warm. "Thanks for coming on such short notice."

I nod, setting my bag down. "Of course. How's Quanie doing?"

A smile breaks across Carson's face, softening the lines of stress around his eyes. "She's great. Excited, nervous—you know how it is."

For a moment, I'm transported back to when Laura was pregnant with Amelia. The joy, the fear, the overwhelming sense of responsibility. I push the memory away, focusing on the present.

"And you?" I ask, studying my brother's face. "How are you holding up?"

Carson’s strained chuckle says it all. "Honestly? I'm terrified. But in a good way."

"He's been a nervous wreck,” Andy forever and always behaving the kid brother looks at Carson with a shit-eating grin. “Quanie mentioned Braxton Hicks contractions and he almost passed out."

I smile, holding back my laughter. It's good to see my usually composed brother so rattled by something as normal as impending fatherhood.

"That's why we're glad you're here," Carson says, gesturing for me to take a seat. "She’s due in two weeks, but the doctor says it could be any day now.”

“Not if your wife has anything to do with it.”

We laugh.

“Yeah, she swears that baby’s not coming until Christmas.”

Quanesha Montgomery-Wellington is a force of nature. She’s changed my middle brother and this family for the better. And Christmas is like her superpower.

“I’m not a betting man, but if I was, I’d bet on Quanie.” I state without flinching.

“Me too.” Andy leans forward and I notice the documents in front of him.

“Force of nature or not, I plan to be there when my child enters the world, which leads to today’s meeting. Gentlemen, shall we?”

Carson takes the seat at the head of the conference table. I set on his left and Andy is on his right.

The Wellington is the epitome of luxury and elegance in the heart of New York City. Known for its impeccable service and grand accommodations, it's the go-to destination for elite guests looking for a lavish experience. Like our father, we have a commitment to exceptional service, and this hotel is the cornerstone that upholds the Wellington name.

“Merrilyn is abreast on the day-to-day operations but this time of year we’re at over ninety percent occupancy and the ballroom, 44th, and Skyline are book through the first quarter, and most of next year.”

“Impressive brother.” I remove my jacket and flip through the report.

“Dad would be proud,” Andy faces Carson, and so do I.

“We’ve done a great job carrying out his vision.”

That’s an understatement.

We are one of the few family-owned and operated hotels in New York City. We’re a multi-billion-dollar brand. We’ve had offers to sell, merge, and partner but we’ve held true to Harold Wellington’s wishes.

The Wellington is and will always be a family business. Father reasoned that he had three able-body, Ivy league educated sons to ensure that a Wellington always sits in the CEO seat, and at this time it’s Carson.

He stepped up when I lost Laura and I’ll be indebted to him for life.

“Mother has our social calendar full. The first matter is the gala?—"

"I'll handle it."

Relief washes over Carson's face. "Thanks, Max. I owe you one."

Andy leans back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Look at you, big brother. Back in the spotlight as the face of the Wellington family."

I shoot him a look. "Don't get used to it. This is temporary."

"Sure, sure," Andy says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Just don't forget us little people when you're schmoozing with New York's elite."

I roll my eyes at Andy, but there's no real heat behind it. Despite the years and distance between us, the easy banter with my brothers feels familiar, and comforting.

“Mother stepped down but most of the tasks are complete. We need to hire someone to support you, but otherwise, it’s locked and loaded.”

I nod, not looking forward to the schmoozing . But Patricia Wellington keeps our social calendar booked because networking is at the heart of everything we do. That and the Wellingtons are one of the most affluent families in the city, and we’ve done it within a two-generation span.

"Alright, let's go over the division of duties. Max, you'll be overseeing the gala and any related social events. Plan to clear your calendar until the gala the week before Christmas.” Carson clears his throat, turning the page. “Andy, you'll be on call to help Merrilyn with managing the day-to-day hotel operations since you're on sight."

We spend the next hour going over logistics, guest lists, and potential issues that might arise. I listen attentively, making mental notes and asking questions when necessary. But a part of me remains detached, viewing this as just another job to be done.

As the meeting winds down, Carson mentions one last thing. "Oh, and Max? We've got a few potential event planners coming in for interviews. The first is in about twenty minutes. I was hoping you could sit in, get a feel for how they might handle supporting you with the gala."

I nod, already reaching for my phone to check emails. "Sure, no problem."

Andy stands, stretching. "Well, I'll leave you two to it. Some of us have actual work to do."

Carson throws a pen at him, which Andy deftly dodges as he heads for the door. "Try not to break anything while I'm gone!" he calls over his shoulder.

The CFO has left the building. In all his joking, Andrew “Andy” Wellington is a financial wizard. He was courted by the most prominent financial houses, but he resumed his role as Chief Financial Officer according to plan.

I guess I was the curveball no one seen coming.

"Max, I really appreciate you doing this. I know it's not your favorite thing, being back here, dealing with all the social stuff."

I shrug, trying to keep my tone light. "It's fine, Carson. That's what family's for, right?"

He studies me for a moment, and I can see the concern in his eyes. "You know, if you ever want to talk about?—"

"I don't," I cut him off. Softening my tone, I add, "But thanks."

Carson nods, knowing better than to push. "Alright. Well, I've got a few calls to make before the interview. Why don't you take a few minutes to yourself? The candidate should be here soon."

I nod, grateful for the reprieve. As Carson leaves the room, I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment. The weight of being back in New York City, of stepping into this role, settles over me like a heavy cloak.

I pull out my phone, scrolling through photos of Amelia. Her gap-toothed smile and bright eyes center me, reminding me why I'm here.

For family. For duty. For the legacy we're all tasked with upholding.

A soft knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see Merrilyn, our long-time executive assistant, poking her head in.

"Mr. Wellington? The candidate for the event planner position is here."

I nod, straightening my tie as I stand putting my jacket on. "Send them in, please."

Merrilyn disappears, and I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I expect to be a routine interview. I hear the rustle of fabric as someone enters the room.

And then I look up.

Time stops.

My carefully constructed composure crumbles in an instant as I find myself staring into a pair of familiar dreamy brown eyes, framed by thick dark lashes.

My Ellie.

Ella Hawthorne stands before me, looking as shocked as I feel.

My eyes trace the familiar curve of her neck, her soft brown skin, and the gentle rise and fall of her breath, every detail pulling me back in time.

Her scent—subtle, haunting, unmistakably hers—fills my senses, stirring something deep within, a desire I’d long convinced myself was forgotten. Like us.

The room seems to close in around us.. Neither of us speaks.

I struggle to find my voice, to say something—anything—that might break this surreal moment. But before I can, Carson re-enters the room, oblivious to the tension.

"Ah, Ms. Hawthorne," he says warmly, extending his hand. "Thank you for coming in. I see you've met my brother, Maxim Wellington."

Ellie's eyes flick to Carson, then back to me. A small, professional smile curves her lips, but I can see the storm of emotions behind it—the same storm I'm fighting to contain.

"Yes," she says, her voice steady despite the circumstances. "It's nice to see you again, Max."

Again. The word hangs between us, loaded with a history neither of us expected to confront today.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to nod. "Likewise."

“You’ve met before?” Carson gestures for us all to sit, and I lower myself into my chair, my movements mechanical.

“Yes.” We say in unison. His assessing gaze swings between us.

“Ellie and I?—”

“Ellie?” The corner of Carson’s mouth twitches and I hold his gaze willing him to change the subject. He looks back at Ellie as if seeing her different, but he continues.

Carson begins the interview, asking about Ellie's experience and vision for the gala, I find myself barely listening.

Instead, I'm lost in a whirlwind of memories of my Ellie .

Ellie, laughing in the quad on a crisp autumn day. The way her hand fit perfectly in mine as we walked across campus. The pain in her eyes the last time I saw her, when I chose my ego over loving her.

I study her now, noting the changes time has wrought. Her hair is shorter, styled in a sleek bob that frames her face. She carries herself with a confidence that wasn't there in college—a poise that speaks of success and self-assurance.

But her eyes... God, her eyes are the same. Deep, expressive, with that spark of intelligence and warmth that first drew me in all those years ago.

I realize Carson has asked me a question, and I blink, forcing myself back to the present. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Carson gives me an odd look but repeats himself. "I was asking if you had any questions for Ms. Hawthorne about her experience with large-scale events."

I turn to Ellie, our eyes meeting across the table. For a moment, I'm tempted to ask her everything. How she's been. If she ever thinks of me. If she hates me for being a young, cocky jerk.

Instead, I ask, "Have you ever managed an event of this scale before?"

Ellie holds my gaze, and I see a flicker of... something in her eyes.

"Yes," she replies, her voice steady. "I've overseen several high-profile charity galas in Los Angeles, including the annual Hollywood Heart Foundation event. It draws over a thousand guests and raises millions for children's hospitals."

I nod, impressed despite myself. "And how do you handle last-minute crises?"

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. The same mouth I could spent hours kissing and never tire of the feel or taste of her.

"I excel under pressure, Mr. Wellington. In fact, I once had to reroute an entire event when a water main burst an hour before guests were set to arrive. We ended up hosting it on the rooftop of a nearby hotel, and it was hailed as one of the most memorable galas of the season."

I smile. It's so quintessentially Ellie—turning disaster into triumph through sheer force of will.

The interview continues, with Carson asking most of the questions. I chime in occasionally, but mostly, I observe. I watch the way Ellie's hands move as she speaks, the passion in her voice when she discusses her proposed contributions for the gala. And all the while, I'm fighting a losing battle against the emotions her presence has stirred up.

As the interview draws to a close, Carson stands, shaking Ellie's hand. "Thank you for coming in, Ms. Hawthorne. We'll be in touch soon with our decision."

Ellie nods, gathering her portfolio. "Thank you for the opportunity. I look forward to hearing from you."

Her eyes meet mine once more, and for a moment, I see a crack in her professional facade. A hint of the girl I once knew, the one who wore her heart on her sleeve and dared me to love her.

And then it's gone, replaced by a polite smile as she turns to leave.

As the door closes behind her, Carson turns to me, his brow furrowed. "Well? What did you think?"

I take a deep breath, trying to sort through the tumult of emotions coursing through me.

"Give her the contract."

Carson raises a questioning brow.

"You need a reason. She's perfect for this. Her experience, her ideas—she could take the gala to the next level."

"You picked up on all that from this brief encounter?"

I shrug, burying the truth that my connection with Ellie runs far deeper than anyone knows. I never told my family about the woman who didn’t just find my heart—she claimed it, leaving me forever changed.

"For the next three weeks, you'll need to collaborate closely with her." His tone holds a hint of warning. "Without fucking her."

I shrug, leaving to my brother, who’s squeamish about contractions, but talks about fucking an employee like he’s asking how I like my coffee.

Ellie would be an asset to the event, there's no denying that. But the thought of working closely with her, of being forced to confront our shared past...

"It's your call," I say finally.

Carson studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Alright," he says slowly. "I'll let Merrilyn know we want to offer her the position."

As he leaves the room, I sink back into my chair, my mind reeling. Ellie Hawthorne, back in my life after all these years. The universe, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor.

I close my eyes, memories washing over me like waves.

The night we met at an off-campus jazz club. Our first kiss, stolen in the stacks of the library. The way she looked at me like I was her whole world, and how, for a time, she was mine.

And then the end. The tears, the anger, the heartbreak as I issued an ultimatum, and she told me to “fuck off.”

And there went the future we'd dreamed of together.

Opening my eyes, I stare at the place where Ellie sat just moments ago. I can still smell her perfume—a hint of jasmine that takes me right back to those college days.

Working with Ellie on the gala means weeks of close contact, of pretending our history doesn't exist. Of ignoring the spark that, even after all these years, still exists.

But more than that, it means facing the choices I made. The path I chose, and the one I left behind.

As I sit here, surrounded by the trappings of the life I inherited, I can't help but wonder: Did I make the right choice all those years ago? And now that Ellie's back in my life, even temporarily, can I trust myself to make the right choice again?

The Wellington name weighs heavy on my shoulders, a constant reminder of duty and expectation. But as I think of Ellie—of the life we might have had—I feel something else stirring. A longing I thought I'd buried long ago, awakening like a dormant ember touched by a fresh breeze.

I stand, moving to the window that overlooks the bustling New York street below. People rush by, wrapped up in their own lives, their own stories. And here I am, standing above it all, feeling more lost than I have in years.

The Wellington Christmas Charity Gala, our most talked about event of the year looms ahead. That guarantees to put the Wellington name in the spotlight once again. And now, with Ellie and I at the helm, it promises to be more than just another social obligation.

It's become a minefield of emotions, of what-ifs and might-have-beens.

The city lights ignite against the darkening sky. I glance at my wedding band, weighing my choice.

I'll work with Ellie, maintain a professional distance, and get through this gala without reopening old wounds. It's the sensible thing to do, the responsible choice.

But even as I resolve to keep my emotions in check, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers a dangerous truth: When it comes to Ellie Hawthorne, I've never been very good at being sensible.