Chapter One

Ivy

There isn’t an idiom, song lyric, or movie quote that says the forty-second time is the charm, but I’m about ready to declare it my lucky number because the deal that I almost didn’t sign keeps getting better and better. 

Yes, I’m having to cram my furniture and belongings into spaces they don’t fit into, and yes, my schedule is going to be completely destroyed, and yes, the timeline for the project cuts dangerously close to the very immovable arrival of my family. But my bank account is loving how the production company is paying almost four times my usual fee so they can inconvenience me and use three interior spaces in addition to the large lot around the outside of my charming log cabin. 

And if that weren’t enough, it would seem the one and only Spencer Dean is going to be starring in the movie because he’s currently standing in my house. 

Granted, he’s just barged his way into one of the rooms I declared completely off limits to all cast and crew, but this is the guy who spoke some of the most iconic lines in Christmas movie history and plays the hero in most of my favorite made-for-TV holiday specials. I’m willing to extend a little preemptive forgiveness. 

I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve imagined standing in the same room as him. None of those fantasies included being surrounded by the chaotic jumble that has been created by cramming all of my parlor furniture as well as my Christmas decorations into my normally meticulously laid out and organized work room, but reality rarely looks like our dreams even when it’s granting our craziest wishes. 

Reality certainly could have provided the happy version of Spencer Dean, though. The frown on his face as he looks at my Christmas tree is not the expression my imagination usually spins. I know I shouldn’t have put up the tree since it’s designed to fit in the living room that’s twice the size of my work room and office, but I just couldn’t stand the idea of going without it for the weeks the crew would be using that larger room. 

Is he mad because it’s fake? I know my land is bordered by one of the country’s oldest Christmas tree farms on two sides, but it’s hard enough to keep a real Christmas tree alive in December. Trying to maintain one in June is practically impossible. 

I start to greet him, but remember I’ve got an almost-filled snowman mold and container of perfectly prepped resin that won’t wait for me to have my fan-girl moment. Fortunately, this is a small and quick pour and I’ve only got two layers left. 

Gage Mercer, the director of the movie, follows Spencer Dean into the room. His shaggy waves of hair are even more disheveled than usual, and there is a distinct wince on his face as he enters the room. I’m not sure if he’s uncomfortable because his star just ambled in where he’s not allowed or because the room is far from aesthetically pleasing in its current condition.  

I leave him to deal with the situation as I force myself not to rush the thin steady stream of epoxy filling the rest of the silicone mold. Once it’s full, I set the mixing cup aside and give Gage and Spencer another glance as I reach for a needle to remove the three tiny air bubbles remaining on the surface. 

Gage’s gaze meets mine and his wince deepens before sliding into that flat sheepish smile people give when they are trying to apologize even as they are in the midst of doing the thing they are apologizing for. 

I’ve worked with Gage numerous times before and I trust this was an honest mistake. If he hadn’t been the man in charge of this movie, I’m not certain I’d have risked the agreement. I shrug one shoulder to tell him I’m not worried about it—I mean, it’s Spencer Dean—and drop my attention to removing the tiny flaws in the pour and then setting the mold aside to cure. 

“You said this one was going to be different, Gage,” Spencer Dean grumbles in a tone that carries an edge of bitterness I have definitely never heard in his movies. “I assumed you meant different in a better way, not a worse one.” 

My eyebrows fly up as I put my tools away and prepare to crawl under my work table. Because of all the extra furniture in the room, I’ve had to cram my crafting station into the corner and the only way in or out is on my hands and knees. 

“A genuine high quality production were your words, I believe.” Oh yes, Spencer Dean is definitely an unhappy man. I’m just not sure why he’s picked my work room to have this discussion and why my personal Christmas tree seems to be bearing the brunt of his ire. 

Gage turns away from me and gives his attention to Spencer. “You read the script didn’t you? It wasn’t churned out by the writers’ room. It’s based on an actual book.” 

My shoulders give a little shimmy of excitement as I drop to the floor. The working title on the contract and the yellow signs at the end of my driveway say “Fir Tree” so I don’t know which book Gage is referring to, but I intend to find out and read it before this movie airs in December. 

“We’ve got twice the normal budget,” Gage continues, “and an extra week of filming time.” 

“It won’t matter how much we’re spending if this is what people are looking at.” 

I stand to see Spencer Dean gesturing at my tree like an irritated model on The Price is Right. Ornaments from my childhood dangle from the limbs, with the very first clay teddy bear I made by myself residing in the most prominent and eye-catching position. 

One of Spencer Dean’s long, elegant fingers reaches out to poke gently at the grinning, lopsided bear. “While I applaud the fact that the set designer understands that Thomas Miller wouldn’t have a color coordinated tree curated by a New York decorator, did we really have to go this… pedestrian?” 

“Uh, Spence…” Gage shifts his weight as his gaze cuts uncomfortably from Spencer Dean to me and then back to my precious tree that is apparently the Zonk in this particular movie deal. 

Yes, I watch a lot of midday television while I’m working. Game shows make for excellent company. 

“And this room?” Spencer Dean turns away from me to gesture broadly across the cluttered room. “I know you can work some serious miracles in post, but this is all cheesy at best. And why such a childish tree?” 

The teddy bear I proudly presented to my parents at the age of nine gets another dark glare. 

“Thomas doesn’t have any children, so who supposedly made all these ornaments?” 

I open my mouth to inform the man who is quickly destroying the glittery giddiness I was wrapped in only moments earlier that I also don’t have any children and yet this is what my tree looks like, but he doesn’t stop talking long enough for me to even finish taking in a breath to start speaking with. 

“The biggest whack of movie magic you possess couldn’t make this look like somebody’s ideal Christmas scene.” He points to a sign on my wall that reads Some gifts just know who they’re for. “I mean, come on.” 

“Spencer.” Gage gives me a wary look as he takes the actor’s arm and tries to pull him toward the door. 

I press my hand to my mouth to hold in the laughter. The word art was made by a woodworking friend of mine in exchange for a resin Christmas tree. The quote is one Spencer Dean uttered as a child in the movie A Long Way by Christmas which catapulted his career and became an iconic piece of many families’ Thanksgiving day launches into the Christmas season. 

The quote isn’t inspiring fond memories in the man today, though. “Even if you can find a way to get a decent camera angle in here, it looks like a Christmas clearance section blew up everywhere.” 

I tilt my head in acknowledgement. I do adore a good after-Christmas clearance section. 

The man allows himself to be drug two steps from the tree and then stops as another piece of decor catches his eye. “I mean, look at this.” 

Any trace of remaining gracious amusement flees as I see what he’s preparing to disparage next.