I wheeled the cart smoothly toward the supply closet, then practically floated back to my desk. Nothing could burst this moment. Not even Simon’s lousy memory when it came to my name. He'd gifted me with his holiday plant. The gorgeous red leaves brightened my postage stamp-sized cube—without a window or any semblance of a view.
Agatha pulled an earbud from her ear. “Where did you get those? I hope you didn’t steal them from the cart. They’re for the agents.”
I rubbed a velvety leaf between my thumb and forefinger and shrugged. “Simon gave them to me. He’s so thoughtful.”
Agatha snorted and tapped out a few words on her laptop. “I think you mean he’s so allergic. He chucks them in the bin every year.”
My shoulders slumped. Would he have thrown them away? I flipped open my laptop, shaking off my disappointment, and opened my email. I located one from Sage containing the details of my case. Things were different now, and I refused to let Agatha get to me. Maybe Simon threw out his poinsettia every year, but not this year. This year, he gave it to me.
It was symbolic.
A sign.
An early Christmas gift from the universe, and I wasn’t one to turn away a gift.
Ignoring Agatha’s negativity, I double-clicked on the email from Sage and opened the case file. My eyes widened at the target’s profile photo. A buzzing in my ears drowned out the office noise.
“Well, hello, Jack Bradley,” I murmured under my breath.
The photo was candid and taken while he stood among an overgrown patch of pine trees. Wearing a blue checkered flannel shirt, dark jeans, and black work boots, he appeared at home in his surroundings. The wind tousled his raven-black hair, and his sturdy hands gripped an axe, resting it against one of his broad shoulders.
There wasn’t a casualness in his stance, and his face seemed set in stone. His stubble-covered jaw was clenched in a frown, lips flat as if the pine trees had done him wrong and were about to meet their maker. But his eyes told a different story. There was a vulnerability there. Some raw emotion bound tightly beneath his rugged frame.
He looked like he needed to laugh, but also as if any hint of a joke might send his axe swinging.
My gaze dropped from Jack’s photo to his detailed brief. He lived in the small town of Wood Pine and owned an inn and a derelict Christmas tree farm that had both seen better days.
The case file disclosed the task. Apparently, Jack had a Scrooge complex, and the town avoided him like the plague, especially during the holiday season. He was anti-love and hadn’t dated in years. Which was the real tragedy in this file considering the way he looked in flannel.
Unfortunately, the Scrooge complex would be tricky. I could see why solving this case might earn me a promotion. Changing a grumpy attitude like that usually took ghosts. But I didn’t have ghosts. I had a bunch of magic spells, an urgent desire to finally prove myself career-wise, and the hope of becoming Simon’s girlfriend by the new year.
Totally doable, even without the spooky spirits.
There was a timeframe listed on the case, and Sage had circled the date in red, writing “critical” beneath the deadline.
As his case agent, I needed to help Jack find love and heal his emotional wounds surrounding the holiday before midnight on Christmas Eve.
By the looks of it, he needed a miracle. Lucky for both of us, I was in the business of granting them.
Chapter 2
Jack
The hand saw bit into the tree trunk, shuddering as I dragged it through the bark. Needing a better angle, I hunkered low to the ground, gritting my teeth as an icy slush soaked through my pants. One of these days, I'd remember to grab the tarp lying in the shed. But wet clothes and freezing weather weren’t my only problem. Prickly pine needles jabbed me in the face, and I sucked in a frozen breath, hoping a few more cuts would send the tree crashing into the snow.
How many trees did I have to sell to make a profit this year?Way too many.To make matters worse, business was slow. No, make that almost non-existent. My only customer today was a man who’d waved away the saw, along with the alleged charm of cutting his own tree, and told me to just get one and bring it out. He was texting on his phone before I even turned around.
Fine. Miss out on the memories. What do I care? It's your overblown holiday.
With a creak and a whoosh, the tree collapsed in defeat, deflating into a pile of bristled branches. Sweat cooled against my neck, and I wiped the sleeve of my jacket over my brow. The tree in question was gangly, and not fit to grace a living room, but I needed it sold, or I'd be living under one like it soon enough.
I wrapped the uneven branches in twine and hauled the tree through the thin layer of snow back to the man's vehicle.
“That'll be a hundred bucks,” I said, dropping the trunk at the customer's feet.
The man eyed the sorry excuse for a Christmas tree and shook his head. “For that shabby tree? I'll give you fifteen dollars, and you can tie it to the roof of my car for free. Take it or leave it.”
I ground my molars. I wasn't in the position to leave it, and he knew it. The whole town knew it. You didn't drive out to my farm to find a gem. There were no diamonds in this rough, just a town outcast trying to unload a bunch of wretched trees before they nailed a foreclosed sign into the gate.
