Page 3 of Falling for the Grinchy Bad Boy

Her smile spread. “I was thinking you could take over.”

I stared. Then I laughed. “Me? Organize the Yuletide Festival? Have you met me?”

“Many times,” she said dryly. “And I think you’d be perfect.”

“Perfectly unqualified.”

“You’re organized, creative⁠—”

“I just told you I got fired because a robot out-organized and out-created me.”

“You’ve got time on your hands.”

“Because no one else wants them.”

“There’s some pay.”

My ears perked up at that. “How much?”

“Not enough for you to buy a yacht, but enough to keep gas in your car and food in your stomach.”

I sighed, grabbing the pillow again. “I don’t know. I can’t even keep a houseplant alive. You want me to run a festival?”

“It’s not just you. I’ll help you get started. There’s a committee. You’d just be the head of the committee.”

“Which sounds worse.”

“It’s not. It’s fun. You get to boss people around, make decisions, bring joy to the whole town—pun intended.”

I groaned louder. “If I take this on, it’ll be the least joyful festival in history.”

“That’s impossible. You’ve always had spark.”

“Spark doesn’t plan parades. Spark doesn’t rent port-a-potties.”

“Then you’ll learn,” she said simply.

“I’m not exactly in a learning mood.”

“Then maybe this will put you in one. Consider it process of elimination. We’re going to find out what you can and can’t do. What you like and don’t like. Your future is a blank canvas. Maybe you’re supposed to be here. Maybe you’re supposed to be organizer extraordinaire.”

“Aunt Victoria, creating advertising copy and pitching cute, catchy ideas is not the same as organizing anything.”

She waved a hand like the details didn’t matter. “The creativity is the important part. Other people will help with the organizing.”

We locked eyes for a moment, me sulking, her smiling with maddening patience. Finally, I exhaled. “Fine. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Good girl.” She patted her chair arm like that settled it.

“I said maybe!”

“Maybe means yes, once you eat something and get a good night’s sleep.”

I threw a cushion at her. She caught it effortlessly and tossed it back.

After a moment of silence, I muttered, “So when would this alleged festival planning work start?”

“Oh.” She smoothed out her sweater, deliberately casual. “Tomorrow.”