The citizens of Romancelandia, for your lively debates on Love Actually. I hope you don’t excommunicate me.
About the Author
JENNY HOLIDAY is a USA Today bestselling and RITA Award–nominated author whose work has been featured in the New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, the Washington Post, and BuzzFeed. A member of the House of Slytherin, Jenny lives in London, Ontario, Canada.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Announcement
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Jenny Holiday’s next wonderfully romantic story of Christmas in Eldovia, where Mr. Benz finally meets his match.
Coming Fall 2022
Excerpt
As usual, the last thing that went in the suitcase was the Post-It.
Change, or die.
Cara plucked it off the mirror in her bedroom and set it on top of her final packing cube. She wasn’t sure why she always just laid it on top of everything when the rest of her stuff was so meticulously packed, clothing and shoes and notebooks nestled together as snugly as a game of Tetris. She supposed it was because she liked opening her suitcase at the other end of her trip, at a hotel room in Miami or Madrid or Milwaukee, and having it be the first thing she saw. But one of these days, an overly aggressive TSA agent was going to select her for a random screening and the Post-It would get lost in the shuffle.
Which would be fine. It was just a thing. A visual representation of a sentiment that existed independently of its depiction. She could write those words on a new Post-It any time. It wasn’t even sticky anymore—it had to be inserted into the mirror’s frame to stay up—and the ink was faded. She’d thought, over the years, about going over it with a Sharpie, but she kind of liked the way the emerald-green ink she’d used as an eighteen-year-old had faded to a dental-office mint. It reminded her how far she had come. How much she had changed, and therefore by definition that she was still here, not only not dead but thriving. Doing better every year than the last, getting closer and closer to her goals.
A glance at her phone informed her that her Uber was five minutes away. Time to get the big goodbye over with. She checked her last-minute essentials list against the contents of her shoulder bag: passport, phone, computer, chargers, briefing binder, sudoku book, Mr. Spock.
“You haven’t had to travel over Thanksgiving for years,” her mom said as Cara clattered down the rickety stairs from her attic bedroom to the kitchen. Cara had half hoped her parents would not be up. It was four in the morning.
But no, they were up to see her off. They did that. Her mother was wearing her sad face. Because her mother loved her, Cara reminded herself, and was disappointed that she’d be away for Thanksgiving. It grated on Cara, though, the cognitive dissonance required to be upset that Cara was traveling over the holiday and to simultaneously be looking forward to a big Thanksgiving dinner in the house Cara paid for. Not that she begrudged them the house or the dinner—or anything. Never that. Just that for someone who had struggled a lot in life, her mother sure had selective memory. What about all those years her mom had encouraged her dad to pick up shifts on Thanksgiving, or even Christmas, because he got time-and-a-half for them?
“The person who was supposed to go has shingles,” Cara said for the tenth time.
“I know. I just don’t understand why you have to be the one who takes his place. You’ve given so much to that company for so many years.”
“And ‘that company’ has given so much to me.” To us. She tried to say it without any censure in her tone, in a way that wouldn’t offend her mother’s robust sense of pride.
It didn’t work. “I know. I know,” her mom said quickly, turning away and aggressively stirring the pot of oats she cooked every morning, though not usually at four a.m., and Cara felt like shit. As usual, her mother could read her mind. Being so close to one’s parents was a double-edged sword.
Cara started over. “I have to go because this is a big, important project, and I’m the one who knows it best, after the guy who’s sick.” She was his boss, and that’s what you did when you were the boss. At least that’s what you did when you were a senior associate who was someone’s boss. She reminded herself that she loved her job. She loved the travel that came with it, too. At least historically, she had. But she’d been on the road so much lately; she’d only just gotten back two days ago from a monthlong stint in San Diego. She was tired—like, in-her-bones tired.
“Honestly, I’d never even heard of Eldovia before last week,” her dad said, setting down his copy of the Daily News. As was his endearing way, he was oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around Cara and her mother.
“I don’t think a lot of people have.” And that included the partners at CZT, aka “that company,” before they’d been invited to bid on the job. Cara had heard of Eldovia, but only because she had memorized every country and its capital when she was in eighth grade, back when she was in a particularly aggressive education-is-the-way-out-of-poverty phase. “It’s tiny. It doesn’t do much.” Except make luxury watches, and her parents were not luxury-watch people. The Alpine micronation didn’t even make that many watches anymore. Hence the big, lucrative contract. And the Thanksgiving trip.
Her mom turned back from her oatmeal, her eyes shiny. Dammit. Cara was being bitchy because being bitchy was easier than being disappointed. She had a tendency to lash out when she was feeling vulnerable. She didn’t want to miss Thanksgiving with her family any more than her mother wanted her to. She didn’t want to spend her red-eye flight awake and cramming—though she knew this file, she hadn’t been heavily involved in the day-to-day details of the project.
At least her parents would have each other. She was going to be alone on the other side of the ocean. Ugh. She resolved to try to get at least some sleep on the plane. Being so tired was making her uncharacteristically emotional.
She steeled herself. She’d missed holidays before. She could do it again. And even though she didn’t get paid for working over a holiday like her dad used to, her annual performance reviews always made mention of her reliability. She was a team player. A respected leader. Those adjectives accreted. She had worked hard for those adjectives.
“I’m gonna miss you, lassie,” her dad said, and as he stood and wrapped her in his arms, which had always been her safe place, she said her daily prayer of thanks that Patrick Delaney had chosen to claim her as his own.
She let him hug her for longer than she normally would have because she needed time to get her shit together, to make sure the lump in her throat was well and fully swallowed.
“We’ll light a candle for you in church on Thanksgiving,” her mom said, her voice back to its usual lilting warmth.
“I’ll be back in time for Christmas,” she said into her dad’s shoulder. Barely, but she would make it. She was scheduled to land the morning of Christmas Eve day. “And we’ll FaceTime constantly.” She broke the hug with her dad and avoided eye contact with both parents. “And I’ll make partner soon.” The brass ring. The goal she’d had since her first day of work at CZT as a twenty-one-year-old intern. Once that happened, she would stop having to do Thanksgiving duty when Brad from Manufacturing Operations came down with shingles. She would be able to be more selective about which projects she got personally involved in, and choose where, when, and how much she traveled. You paid enough dues, you stopped having to prove yourself.