Together for Christmas (2 page)

What Casey
hadn’t
uncovered beforehand—what everyone at his agency had undoubtedly hidden from him (with good reason)—was that, in December, the whole damn place turned into Christmas Central. It was, Casey thought as he surveyed the scene anew, like a Norman Rockwell painting crossed with a Bing Crosby song dosed with a big handful of silvery tinsel and hung with candy canes, then broadcast in surround sound and Technicolor. It was idyllic and authentic and damnably jolly.

It smelled like gingerbread, too.
All over town
. He’d noticed that as he’d gotten out of his car on location to meet Heather Miller. The fragrance still lingered here, miles away. How was that even possible? Who ate gingerbread, anyway? Elves?

The upshot was, Kismet was everything Casey typically avoided. Times ten. Wrapped in a bow. With chaser lights on top and a garland of mistletoe on the side and
way
too much ho-ho-ho-ing going on in the background. Because, to put it bluntly, Casey was not a “Christmas” kind of guy. As a matter of principle, he dodged all things green and red and sparkly and heartwarming. As a matter of necessity, he didn’t “do” the holidays. As a matter of fact, he’d never even been tempted to.

Nothing short of a catastrophe on the scale of Heather Miller’s problem-plagued, currently in-production holiday special—and the lucrative bonus Casey stood to earn if he brought it in on budget and on time—could have made him spend more than an hour in a town like Kismet: a place that promised candlelit ice-skating sessions, an official Christmas parade, a fanciful holiday-light house tour, sleigh rides with genuine jingle bells, a Santa Claus-lookalike contest (in the town square, right next to the community’s fifty-foot decorated Noble fir tree),
and
a weekly cookie-decorating get-together and jamboree.

It was all so flipping wholesome. Casey thought he might be breaking out in freckles and naiveté already. It was possible he felt an “aw-shucks” coming on. He’d only been in town an hour—long enough to meet Heather Miller, hear her initial demands, and start laying the groundwork for the two of them to come to terms. At this rate, he’d morph into Gomer Pyle by lunchtime.

Muttering a swearword, Casey set his Subaru in motion again. He suddenly craved a cigarette, a shot of tequila, and a week’s worth of irresponsible behavior—not necessarily in that order.

Boundaries made him itchy. Coziness made him cranky. And the holidays . . . well, they sent him straight into Scrooge mode.

While Casey realized that that character quirk was part of what made him ideal for this job—because his antipathy toward the holidays gave him a necessary clarity about Heather Miller’s TV special and all its escalating complications—he still wasn’t ready for . . .
this
.

He hadn’t been ready for Heather Miller’s opening salvo in their negotiations, either. Probably because she’d caught him off guard.

The problem is my little sister,
the pop star had told Casey bluntly and confidentially, giving him an
almost
credible dose of blue-eyed solemnity in the process.
I haven’t been back home to Kismet for a while,
Heather had confided,
and frankly, I think she’s a little starstruck. I need someone to keep her
. . .
occupied for a while, so I can focus on performing
.

Casey had been dubious. He’d pushed Heather a little more, relying on his ability to establish an almost instant rapport.

But
People
magazine’s pick for “sexiest songstress” had remained adamant. However unlikely her story, she’d stuck to it.

If you can keep Kristen busy for a while, I’m sure I can make fabulous progress on my special!
Heather had insisted. She’d tossed back her long, famously blond hair (there was a shade of Garnier hair color named after her), offered him a professionally whitened smile, and added,
Kristen is a great girl. Just a little
. . .
unsophisticated. She’s never left Kismet. She doesn’t “get” show business the way you and I do
.

By the time the former
Rolling Stone
,
Vanity Fair
, and
Vogue
cover girl had quit describing her “tomboyish” younger sibling, Casey had formed a pretty clear picture of the braces-wearing, cell phone-toting, gawky girl with Bieber Fever and a wardrobe of Converse sneakers whom he was expected to babysit.

He’d decided to agree to do it, too. To babysit.
Him
.

Or at least, if not technically
babysit
—because Heather hadn’t actually used that particular word—then
entertain
the kid long enough to allow Heather to get down to work.

It wouldn’t be so bad, Casey figured. He’d probably trail little Kristen Miller to the mall, listen to her squee over the latest
Twilight
movie with her bubblegum-chewing friends, and watch her check in to Facebook a zillion times a day. Maybe he’d help her with her homework or something. Maybe he’d take her to the zoo. If the zoo was open in December. Whatever it took to keep her out of her older sister’s way until the TV special was in the can, that’s what Casey was prepared to do.

Frankly, he’d agreed to do worse a few times in his life.

As a gambit meant to earn some goodwill with Heather while encouraging her to fulfill her contractual obligations to the network, it wasn’t ideal. It was time consuming and inefficient and oblique. He didn’t like the idea of keeping the younger Miller sister “out of the way,” either. It seemed heartless. As far as Casey was concerned, Heather should have worked out her differences with her kid sister herself, straightforwardly and reasonably, the way a regular person would have done.

But in this scenario, as in all others, Heather was “the talent.” That meant she was exempt from normal human behavior and normal human expectations. Casey had logged plenty of hours pacifying performers like her. He knew the score by now. More than likely, Heather’s little sister did, too.

If Kristen Miller was wreaking havoc on the TV special, causing delays for America’s sweetheart, she’d have to be dealt with. Casey would have to be the one to do it. The sooner, the better. Once he’d assessed the situation more closely, he’d reevaluate things, he promised himself. For now, he planned to meet Kristen, figure out her angle, and see what happened from there. It wasn’t a perfect beginning, but it was a start. And Casey believed, above all else, in moving forward.

Because nothing ever lasted forever.

Except maybe fruitcake.

And
that persistent gingerbread aroma all over town.

It was actually starting to smell good to him. Spicy and sweet and full of down-home goodness, with just a
hint
of—

Ugh. Screw this,
Casey decided as he noticed the unbelievably sappy direction his thoughts had just taken. He was jonesing for old-timey gingerbread, daydreaming about its flavor profile like a wine aficionado anticipating a limited-run Napa Valley merlot,
craving
its Christmassy qualities most of all.
I need a detour from Christmasville before I do something stupid
.

So he wrenched his steering wheel sideways, floored the gas, and pulled into his destination fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. He might not find the Teenaged Terror of TV Specials in the first place Heather had suggested he look, but anything was better than giving in to Christmas . . . and all the syrupy, sentimental,
deceitful
promises that came right along with it.

Chapter 2

Galaxy Diner, Kismet, Michigan
Christmas Takeover: Day 8

When her sister had called her in a panic, warning her about some L.A.-based “hatchet man” who’d come to Kismet to shut down her part-live, part-taped holiday TV special, Kristen Miller hadn’t thought much about it. She was used to Heather acting like a drama queen. The whole world was used to Heather acting like a drama queen. After all, Heather had earned multiple accolades, bucketsful of cash, and three People’s Choice Awards for her ability to “entertain” people . . . by acting like a drama queen.

Whether the situation called for it or not, Heather was always up for a bravura performance. She’d become famous for singing, but she’d never been limited to that. These days, more often than not, her antics involved fashion shows, dating, or just “being seen” at a fabulous party or gala red carpet.

People
loved
Heather. They loved buying the things she bought, going the places she went, and saying the catchphrases she said. They loved seeing her, hearing about her, and thinking about her. They loved reading about her. They loved . . . her.

At least most people did. On the phone, Heather was insisting that the “hatchet man” had come to Kismet to destroy her career. So
he
probably did not love her. Very much.

As far as Kristen could tell, he was a minority of one.

“The production company must have hired him,” Heather said with an Oscar-worthy tremor in her voice. “He’s here to
ruin
me! He’s here to torpedo my chances with the network! Forever! If
he’s
here, it can’t be good. It can’t be. Casey Jackson is the industry’s hit man! He’s a contract killer! You should hear the stories they tell about him! This one time, they say, he—”

“Hold on. Take a deep breath,” Kristen interrupted. She ducked into the tiny office space she kept at the back of her diner. It was quieter there, away from the clamor of the kitchen and the din of the front of the house. “I doubt anyone is out to get you
or
to ruin your career. There’s probably a reasonable explanation for all of this,” she said, because nothing ever went wrong for her famous sibling. “But I’ll be on the lookout anyway. Okay? Thanks for the warning. Now, the breakfast rush is still going on and this place is packed, so I’ve really got to—”

“You’ve got to do
more
than just be on the lookout!” her sister shrieked. “You’ve got to
stop
him for me!”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Keep him busy. Distract him. Keep him
away
from me, no matter what!” Heather begged. “If Casey Jackson gets his way, I’ll
never
get my own reality show. And you know how much I really,
really
want my own reality show.”

“I know.” Her sister was fanatical about getting her own TV show (“Like the Kardashians, only classier!”). She saw her
Live! from the Heartland
TV special as a crucial first step—as a real-time audition and showcase. She’d talked about little else since blowing back into town. Because despite all her success and popularity, inexplicably, Heather still wasn’t satisfied.

“I know you want that,” Kristen said gently. “I do. I hope you get it. I really do. But I don’t know how I can possibly help with this situation, except to say ‘calm down’”—here, she mimed breathing in deeply—“and try to get some perspective.”

There was a pause. The sounds of hammering and chattering filtered over the line in the background. Heather was on set, then. Just when Kristen started thinking she’d made a dent . . .

“I know! Feed him some of your pie!” Heather suggested brightly. “Once The Terminator has had some of your pie, he’ll—”

“Wait. ‘The Terminator’?”

“That’s Casey Jackson’s nickname in L.A.”

Kristen scoffed. “It is not.”

“Would I lie to you?”

Hmm. Better not answer that one. Instead, in her most soothing tone, Kristen said, “My pie isn’t magical.” It
was
her diner’s most popular item, though. Hands down. “I can’t just feed your Terminator some pie and then have my way with him.”

“Yes, you can!” Heather blurted. “Feed him pie! You never know until you try. That stuff is addictive. Once you give The Terminator a few bites, he’ll be putty in your hands.”

“You are seriously overstating my culinary charms.”

“I am not. Just don’t be fooled! He’ll
seem
nice. He’ll
seem
charming,” Heather cautioned. “But underneath it all, The Terminator has all the heart and soul of a calculator.”

“He can’t be that bad.”

“Oh yes, he can.” Another clatter-filled pause. Then, ominously, Heather added, “He doesn’t even like Christmas.”

“He doesn’t like Christmas?” Kristen froze. The idea didn’t compute. “What kind of person
doesn’t
like Christmas?”

“The kind of person who comes to shut down another person’s Christmas special! That’s what I’ve been telling you!”

“Okay. So you might have a point.”

“I know! That’s what I’ve been saying. That’s why you have to keep him away from me.”

“Right,” Kristen said sarcastically. “With magical pie.”

“Yes,” Heather agreed, completely oblivious to her sarcasm. She could be very single-minded when she wanted something. “Or with . . . whatever else you have available. Sure!”

Kristen sighed. “I’m not going to let you pimp me out to some uptight, permatanned CPA type from La-La Land, Heather.”

“Well . . . he’s not
quite
a CPA type,” her sister hedged, sounding vaguely pensive. “I told you, he’s a hit man. But a hit man with charisma. A killer. But with a smile.” Possibly sensing that her hyperbolic descriptions weren’t helping, Heather tried again. “I guess he’s kind of a . . . necromancer. Yeah, that’s it. A necromancer! It
sounds
cool, sure, but—”

“A person who communicates with the dead?”

“Oh. No. Is that what that means? Not that, then.” The sound of someone else chuckling came over the line. Then a swat. Blithely, Heather regrouped by offering, “He’s a magician. A sorcerer. A charmer for hire. The Terminator is like George Clooney in that movie where he goes around and fires people for a living. He’s dangerous
and
charismatic. He’s—”

“George Clooney, huh? That doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe you’re overreacting. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“—like one of those snakes that hypnotizes you and then bites you.
Poisonously bites you,
” her sister said with blatant melodramatic flair. “He’s sneaky. He’s smart. You never see him coming. You just see him leaving. I’m lucky I got out alive! Someone tipped me off this morning, otherwise I would have—”