Page 20 of Not Home Alone

“At The Moody Group Christmas party at the winery?”

“At the very least, yes. And believe it or not, this would benefit you too.”

I have so many thoughts and feelings right now, I can’t decide which one to zone in on. First of all—Grant Moody needs my help? Me? Him? My help? And he actually thinks I’ll help him? In what world?

Second—the look on Quinn Whitmore’s face when Grant told her I was his girlfriend was, admittedly, ten years’ worth of Christmas presents piled into one horrified expression.

But third, how is it possible that I got a little lightheaded and my stomach dipped when he attempted to put his arm around my upper triangular tree area and then when he took my hand?

Fourth, I would not hate it if everyone in town believed Grant regretted what he’d done ten years ago. While I deserve and would prefer a genuine apology—I know better than to expect one from him. And at least this way we could pretend things are hunky dory, and I wouldn’t have to deal with people feeling sorry for me anymore.

And I hate to say it, but I really wish I wasn’t wearing a polyester Christmas tree costume right now.

But more importantly—he can go screw himself. “Wow, Moody. Like it’s not heinous enough that you won’t let me enjoy my dream house—the one I legally rented—in Christmas peace. You actually think I would pretend to be your girlfriend to help you out after the way you behaved ten years ago? Unbelievable! I wanted to spend the holidays home alone—not alone with you. And definitely not at a Moody Group Christmas party.”

“Like I said, it will benefit you too.”

I really wish I was wearing an outfit that made it easier for me to cross my arms in front of my chest and roll my eyes.

“And by you, I mean your dad.”

Well, that’s unexpected. I burst out laughing. “Is that right? Say more!”

“This is serious, Merrily,” he says. And I don’t like the tone of his voice, because it really does sound serious. He looks concerned. “Can we go to the living room? Can you sit down in that thing?”

“No.” So much for the high of making fun of Grant Moody for asking me for help. Now panic is taking over. “What about my dad? Just tell me. Tell me now.”

He holds his hands up to calm me down again, and he needs to stop doing that because it’s having the opposite effect. “It’s not a health issue or anything; it’s his business.”

“The store?”

“Yes.” He drags his fingers through his hair, sighing. There was a time when I found it hot when he did that. This is not one of those times. “You know my dad’s company owns the building The Christmas Barn is situated in, right?”

“Of course,” I say, willing my eyeballs not to roll. Robert Moody owns half the town. “I know a lot about my dad’s business, actually.”

“Oh yeah? Did you know that your dad was late on rent five months in a row this year? Did you know he had to take out a small business loan, and it doesn’t seem to be enough to cover his overhead?” He shifts his weight from side to side and then leans in and I brace myself, because I can sense that he’s about to tell me something so much worse, and I can hardly believe any of what he just told me. “Did you know that your dad’s lease is up in January? The lease has been the same rate for over a decade, but my father wants to raise the rate significantly—tripling it—for all his commercial tenants on Main Street. Including The Christmas Barn. Starting in January.”

“January? This coming January? Like right after this month? Can he do that?”

“Yes, the January that comes after this month. Legally, he can do that, yes. He wants to drive out the old businesses and bring in more upscale chains like Williams Sonoma and Anthropologie. He’s held off on doing that for a long time, but now that he’s about to retire, he’s getting more ruthless. Probably because he wants me to stop him by taking over as CEO. I just found out he’s setting up an alternative to me taking over the business and it would be… very bad for Holly Grove. For your dad’s store for sure, but for most of the local businesses and eventually the quality of this town as a whole. But I can stop it from happening,” he says, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt sleeves. It would be a sexy, baller move if he didn’t have little Santa faces hot-glued to the wrists of his coat. “If you pretend to be my girlfriend for two weeks, acting as a buffer between myself and Quinn, and help get the good people of this town to trust me, I will ensure that my father does not raise your father’s rent. Do we have a deal?”

“No, we do not have a deal. I don’t believe you. My dad tells me everything. He’s never mentioned being late on rent or taking out a loan or the rent being raised.”

“Well, I guess he doesn’t tell you everything anymore, then.”

Well, that stings.

Because it seems to be true.

God, I hope it isn’t true.

My poor dad.

Suddenly, it dawns on me: “Wait, were you ever going to tell me about this if it weren’t for this scheme of yours?”

He looks down and busies himself by attempting and failing to remove a felt Santa face from one of his coat buttons. “I’m sure I would have, but we’ve been so busy arguing ever since you got here, there wasn’t exactly time.”

“I don’t believe you would have. Because my father’s livelihood—the business that’s been in his family for three generations—it’s just an afterthought to you and your father. People like you and your family, you don’t do anything for anyone unless there’s a tit for your tat.” I wave my hand in front of his face, trying to erase his memory like a Jedi Master. “You didn’t hear me say that.”