Stuck in Christmas (Holiday Magic #1)

Chapter 11

Eleven

The bustling streets of Christmas, Mississippi, were alive with the holiday spirit, a cacophony of laughter, music, and twinkling lights illuminating every corner. If you were looking at it from the outside, you’d be charmed by the whole scene.

But if you were stuck in it, you’d think differently.

At first, I thought I was stuck in a dream or a holiday movie time loop.

Now, I know.

This is hell.

I’m in hell.

A holiday hell.

Hell. Hell. Hell.

I was surprised I could even think hell, much less say it.

“Hell.”

Yep. Hell. I’m in hell.

This was getting freaking old. At 35, I couldn’t take much more of this falling on my face in the snow. And the holiday lights and Christmas carol music were beginning to get on my last good nerve. I had half a mind to write a different story for Positively New Orleans that was a warning to all visitors to the town.

The headline would read: Stay away from holiday hellhole.

The article would detail how this was like one of those movies where everyone was in on the plot to brainwash the newcomer into thinking they were crazy. Zero stars. Do not recommend.

The only saving grace to this whole thing was the hottie former Marine waiting for me on the town square. In this day's iteration, we went straight to the Gingerbread Competition after I saw Bonnie’s pin with six geese.

Eli stood outside the diner, his breath visible in the crisp air. The thick blue sweater under his jacket made his eyes pop against the snowy backdrop. The two cups of steaming goodness in his hands promised to warm me from the inside out, and my money was on hot chocolate.

Because I’m in holiday hell.

It’s always hot chocolate.

Not a drop of whiskey to be found.

“Hot chocolate?” Eli offered me a cup.

I sighed and shook my head, taking the hot chocolate offered. How can you say no when a smexy former Marine offers you sweetened hot beverages?

Smexy?

Dang it. I can’t even think the right word.

“I can’t help thinking I’ve met you before,” Eli began, a playful smile creeping onto his face.

I smirked. “Like five different times?”

“It’s not that,” Eli replied, leaning against the café’s wooden railing. “It’s your name. Renee Douglas. Have you only ever written for Positively New Orleans ?”

I sighed. “Before I was a features writer, I was a TV news reporter.”

We turned to walk toward the town square where the Gingerbread Competition was set up. Eli opened and shut his mouth a few times before asking, “You didn’t like working in the news?”

“I did for a time,” I said, my gaze drifting to the bustling square. “I was good at it too. Always first on the scene of breaking news. But after a while, I got tired of telling the stories about the terrible things people do to each other. I wanted to talk about things that were going right.”

“That seems admirable,” Eli offered, then frowned. “But, did you ever do stories about restaurant health grades?”

I covered my eyes with my free hand. “Ugh. What an embarrassment. A former boss thought it would be good television to pull the health inspector reports every week. The Restaurant Report was so embarrassing. How many times did we need to report that a buffet had a ‘B’ grade because of room temperature coleslaw on the salad bar?”

“Or what about a brand-new restaurant with a mixup with its coolers?”

My stomach dropped as the realization set in. “Wait. Eli. Is that short for Eliot?”

Eli threw his full hot chocolate into a nearby trash can. “Yes.”

I gasped. “Oh, no.”

He paced away from me angrily, then turned back, a fire in his eyes. “That report meant a one-week delay for my restaurant opening.”

“Eli. I’m so sorry.” My stomach twisted as I thought about the repercussions of that kind of delay.

“Do you have any idea how much that cost me?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t.”

His lips pressed together, and the jovial Head Chef from the previous baking montage disappeared. In his place was the suspicious adopted son of Bonnie and Joe from the first day. The man whose career I nearly ruined when he opened Eliot’s in New Orleans.

“What can I do?” I stepped closer toward him.

He raised his hand and stepped back. “Nothing—just leave me alone.”

He strode away from me, and my heart sank. I couldn’t do anything right in this freaking holiday hell. “Eli, wait.” I ran after him, and just as I caught up to his retreating back, I tripped over a set of loose Christmas lights and went down.

Right into a snowbank.

I pounded the ground with my fist. “Mother of Pearl!”