10 Ways to Survive Christmas with Your Ex: A 27 Ways Novella (27 Ways Series Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Also by Shari L. Tapscott

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Message from Shari

  Bonus Preview - Sugar & Spice

  Also by Shari L. Tapscott

  About the Author

  Also by Shari L. Tapscott

  CONTEMPORARY FICTION

  Glitter and Sparkle Series

  Glitter and Sparkle

  Shine and Shimmer

  Sugar and Spice

  27 Ways Series

  27 Ways to Find a Boyfriend

  27 Ways to Mend His Broken Heart

  10 Ways to Survive Christmas with Your Ex

  If the Summer Lasted Forever

  Just the Essentials

  FANTASY FICTION

  Silver & Orchids

  Moss Forest Orchid

  Greybrow Serpent

  Wildwood Larkwing

  Lily of the Desert

  Fire & Feathers: Novelette Prequel to Moss Forest Orchid

  Eldentimber Series

  Pippa of Lauramore

  Anwen of Primewood

  Seirsha of Errinton

  Rosie of Triblue

  Audette of Brookraven

  Elodie of the Sea

  Grace of Vernow: An Eldentimber Novelette

  Fairy Tale Kingdoms

  The Marquise and Her Cat: A Puss in Boots Retelling

  The Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling

  The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

  WRITING AS SHANNON LYNN COOK

  Obsidian Queen

  Guild of Secrets

  Princess of Shadows

  Knights of Obsidian

  10 Ways to Survive Christmas with Your Ex: A 27 Ways Novella

  27 Ways, Book 3

  Copyright © 2019 by Shari L. Tapscott

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Z.A. Sunday

  Cover Design by Shari L. Tapscott

  Special Thanks to Christine Freeman and Leah Feltner

  Merry Christmas, everyone!

  1

  In no more than a week, my life has turned into a country song. Either that, or it’s a really depressing Christmas movie—you know, if you’re feeling festive. Which I’m not.

  “Work, you stupid thing,” I growl at my car, begging it to start. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. The doesn’t is why I lost my job on Monday. You can’t afford to be late too many times when the company you work for has been recently bought out.

  Officially, I was laid off and assured I’d get a nice recommendation. Unofficially, my new boss was just ticked that the peppermint mocha she’d ordered was lukewarm when I finally made it back to the office, and she didn’t want to risk her caffeine served cold in the future.

  That same day, my landlord informed me I was being evicted. Not because I’d done anything wrong, mind you. No, his newly married daughter and son-in-law just need a place to live while they wait for their house to be built. I have two weeks to move out—two weeks at Christmas.

  On Tuesday, my mini poodle, a feisty little geriatric by the name of Rock, passed away.

  On Wednesday, well…nothing really happened, if you don’t count me lying in bed in the fetal position, wondering what the catalyst was to all this awfulness.

  But today just might be the worst day in the mess that is my life because I have a plane to catch, and if this awful car doesn't start, I won’t be spending the holidays at home—and right now, I desperately need home.

  The car wheezes over and over, the engine sounding like a chain-smoker near death, and then it makes an ominous noise of finality that I believe means it’s never leaving the drive again.

  I rest my head on the steering wheel and give in to the tears stinging my eyes. It’s because I’ve reached rock-bottom, because I’m at my very lowest point, that I pick up my phone and do the unthinkable.

  There are dozens of people I could call who would console me, dozens of people who I could cry to.

  But there’s only one I can’t.

  And, right now, for a plethora of reasons I refuse to dwell on, he’s the one I want.

  My finger hovers over Isaac’s name in my contact list. It’s been years since I broke up with him, years since I had the right to call him at all. His number has probably changed. If I call it, he won’t be the one who answers.

  Maybe that reason alone is why I work up the courage to press his name and bring the phone to my ear. It rings on the other end, and I wait for it to go to voicemail—knowing I’m going to hear an unfamiliar voice and will have to come to terms with the fact our connection was truly severed long ago.

  “Georgia?”

  I’m so surprised when Isaac answers, I almost drop the phone. Once I realize it’s really him, I freak out…and end the call.

  My heart beats so quickly, I wonder if it’s going to give out. I toss my phone on the passenger seat and press my glove-covered hands to my face.

  Why did I do that? What the heck was I thinking?

  Two seconds later, my phone rings. I changed the tone to “Deck the Halls” a few weeks ago, back when I was all happy and stupid. It’s an ominous sound now. Slowly, I turn my head to face the bright screen.

  Isaac.

  Acknowledging I don’t have a choice, I lean across the center console to retrieve the phone.

  “Hello?” I say, pretending I don’t know who’s on the other end.

  “Are you okay?” my ex-boyfriend asks immediately, somehow picking up on my mood from my short greeting. Or maybe he figured out something is wrong because I called and hung up on him after not talking to him for roughly ten years. That might have something to do with it too.

  “Yeah,” I say, waving my hand in the air, all nonchalant-like, even though he can’t see me. “I was just scrolling through my phone, and I saw your name. I thought, ‘Georgia, you haven’t talked to Isaac in forever. You should wish him Merry Christmas.’” I pause, wanting very much to bang my head on the steering wheel. “So…Merry Christmas, Isaac.”

  “You still talk about yourself like that when you’re nervous.”

  The words strike me to my core, making me feel—I don’t even know. Isaac and I dated all through high school, and though we argued half the time, we somehow made it work. He drove me nuts, but I loved him. After graduation, I left him to pursue bigger and better things. (Which is obviously going great for me.)

  “Old habits,” I murmur, not sure what else to say.

  “Listen,” he says on a sigh. “I know why you’re calling, and you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Oh?” I sit a little straighter, curious. “Why exactly am I calling?”

  He pauses as if confused. “Becau
se my parents are spending Christmas with your family this year...”

  What?

  This is something I should have been informed about, and believe me, I will be calling my mother as soon as I’m off the phone.

  “But don’t worry—I’m not going to be there.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Aw, crud. Emotions—lots of them. I’m like the Grinch, clutching my cold, too-small heart.

  “Okay,” I say after several seconds. “Well…that’s good.”

  I don’t know what else to say. Isaac is the very last person I want to spend the holidays with. Knowing us, we’d slip into our old pattern and bicker half the time. Or worse, I’d end up throwing myself at him.

  No.

  Just no.

  “I don’t think I’m going anyway,” I find myself blurting out. My throat tightens, and I blink several times to chase away stupid tears.

  “Why?” He sounds like he’s moving around. There’s a lot of noise in the background—guys talking, music playing, and the sound of drills and other tools.

  Mom mentioned that he became a mechanic, just like he planned. I’ve probably interrupted him at work.

  “I should let you go,” I say, ready to hang up again.

  “Georgia,” he says sternly, using a tone I know very well. It raises my hackles, instantly puts me on edge. “Why aren’t you going home for Christmas?”

  “My car won’t start.” I rest my head on the headrest. “I’m supposed to be on a plane in a few hours.”

  “What’s it doing?”

  “It’s making this awful wheezing noise. It does it sometimes.”

  “Are you still in Phoenix?”

  “Yeah…”

  He must have gotten my address from his mother just after I moved into the place because I get a Christmas card from the man every year—the kind you’d send to an acquaintance. Just a card wishing me the best, with his name quickly scratched at the bottom.

  There’s one pinned to my kitchen bulletin board now. Maybe that’s why I thought of him—in fact, that’s probably why, after a decade, I still think about him more than I should.

  “I have a friend over there now,” Isaac says. “Let me give him a call and see if he can drop by. If it’s not an easy fix, he can probably give you a ride to the airport.”

  “No, Isaac, wait—”

  “I’ll call you right back.” And then he hangs up.

  I stare at my phone, wondering what just happened.

  A sleek, dark blue classic car pulls in front of my house, and a man and woman step out. I open my front door, beyond embarrassed. What the heck was Isaac thinking?

  This is just like him. He’s always been too helpful, too friendly, too eager to be of service—and apparently too eager to offer his friends’ service as well.

  “I am so sorry…” I begin and then trail off because I’m at a loss for words. How do you properly apologize for this sort of thing?

  “You must be Georgia,” the woman says, smiling in the dusky light of evening. She appears to be in her mid-twenties, maybe a few years younger than I am. “I’m Addison. This is Carter, my husband.”

  Christmas lights are already flickering on around the neighborhood, and the Callahan’s snowman is just inflating across the street. It’s sixty-seven degrees, and there’s garland wrapped around a saguaro cactus in my front yard. I’ll never get used to Christmas in Arizona.

  “Is this the car?” Carter asks, motioning to my recently deceased vehicle.

  “Yeah, but…”

  He glances at his phone. “What time is your flight?”

  “Six-forty-five.”

  “I don’t think I have time to look at it, but we can drive you to the airport.”

  Because getting in a car with complete strangers is such a great idea.

  I fidget, trying to look at ease when I’m anything but. “That’s really nice of you, but I don’t want you to go to any trouble...”

  “It’s no trouble,” Addison assures me, and Carter nods. “We’re happy to help a friend of Isaac’s.”

  A friend of Isaac’s. What do you want to bet he didn’t tell them I’m less a friend and more an ex-girlfriend? One who isn’t terribly comfortable with his or his friends’ generosity.

  “Oh, okay. Thank you.” I point toward the house. “Let me just…uh…I’ll be right back.”

  I scurry inside. After I shut the door, I feel bad for not inviting the couple in—but I literally have no clue who they are. Quickly, I text Isaac.

  Georgia: Prove you know these people, so I won’t worry I’m getting in a car with ax murderers.

  Thirty seconds later, Isaac sends a picture. He’s in a tux, standing with a microphone right next to Addison and Carter. Addison is in a long white gown, so it’s obviously her and Carter’s wedding.

  My eyes move back to Isaac. He looks exactly as I remember him and yet completely different at the same time. A man and not a boy.

  But his smile is the same—genuine. Charming, too. Maybe too charming.

  I’ve kissed that man, I think to myself.

  I cheered for him from the stands of every high school football game. He went to all my swim meets, even when they were hours away. He took me to the school dances and gave me my first kiss our freshman year at Homecoming. And now here we are, ten years later, practically strangers, and he’s here for me again.

  It would be insane to go with these people…but I really want to go home. I’d call a driver, but I have this major phobia that I’ll get in a car with some random person and never be seen again. At least I have some idea who these two are, and Isaac wouldn’t send just anyone…

  Plus, a girl must watch her pennies when she’s currently jobless and about to be booted out of her house.

  Isaac: Convinced?

  Georgia: Good enough.

  I grab my suitcase and head out the front door.

  2

  “Who’s Georgia?” Tad asks when I get off the phone.

  I shake my head, still reeling from the shock of seeing Georgia’s name pop up on my phone. “The Ghost of Christmas Past.”

  Tad stares at me, confused—which is nothing new for the youngest member of Kentford’s restoration team.

  “Carter,” I say when my friend answers his phone. He and Addison are in the city, doing the last of their Christmas shopping. “I need a favor.”

  As I expected, Carter and Addison pull through. About thirty minutes later, I get a text from Georgia, asking me to prove I know them.

  Which is so like Georgia.

  I browse through my phone, looking through the shared photo album Carter’s sister set up after the wedding. I find the one where I was giving my best-man toast and send it.

  Isaac: Convinced?

  Georgia: Good enough.

  I smile as memories—some good, some not so good—invade my thoughts. I fell for Georgia in middle school. We’d been in the same class since kindergarten, but I didn’t notice her until eighth grade. We were partnered together for a science project during a unit on circuits. She was one of the smartest girls in the class, but the electronic stuff frustrated her.

  It felt good knowing something she didn’t, to be the one with the answers for once. I might have rubbed it in more than I should have, but, come on, I was thirteen.

  I teased her mercilessly the rest of the year, about anything and everything, just begging her to pay attention to me. And pay attention she did. She didn’t necessarily like me, but she knew I existed.

  During the summer break between middle and high school, I didn’t see her at all, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. I went to the local pool, the movies, and even the mall, knowing she had to show up somewhere eventually. If I had known her then like I do now, I would have tried the library or the bookstore. Those weren’t locations my teenage self—or my adult self for that matter—frequented.

  We’d been apart for three solid months when she walked into my homeroom the first day o
f high school. Her blonde hair was a little longer, and she wore it down. She sat a few rows down from me and talked to the girl next to her.

  She didn’t look at me once.

  So I did the only thing I could think of—as soon as the bell rang, I snatched her backpack on the way out of class and made her walk with me.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, her cheeks flushing deep pink.

  “Hi to you too.” I shouldered the thick strap so it rested next to mine. Her backpack was heavy. “What the heck do you put in this thing?”

  “Books, Isaac. You know, those things some of us bring to class.” She rolled her eyes and shoved some of her hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t aware that we’re friendly.”

  I flashed her a crooked smile, one most of the girls couldn’t resist. “Come on. You know you thought about me all summer.”

  Flustered, she looked away. “Someone’s full of himself.”

  My grin grew. “I have a game on Friday.”

  “Uh, okay,” she said. “Good for you? You want a cookie?”

  I turned to face her, playing it cool even though nerves ate at my stomach. “I want you to come to it.”

  She blinked at me, her pretty grayish-blue eyes confused. “Why?”

  “Why not?” I asked, trying to mask my frustration.

  Georgia had to make it difficult. She couldn’t just beam at me like other girls, batting her eyes and stroking my ego. No, not Georgia. We flirted on a whole different level. At least I hoped it was flirting.

  “Fine, I’ll go to the game,” she finally answered, acting as though she were doing me a favor.