Jenny Lopez Saves Christmas by Lindsey Kelk Page A

that level of sentiment usually made me want to puke in my own mouth, it was kinda nice to see everyone laughing and smiling and singing at each other.
    My phone rattled across the counter, my Beyoncé ringtone drowned out by the holiday party mix blasting out of James’ iPod, but it didn’t matter − I recognized the number. Grabbing the phone and running out of the back door, I hit answer and pretended I wasn’t shaking in my incredibly unstylish boots.
    â€˜Jenny Lopez,’ I answered in a voice a thousand times more confident and a million times more composed than I actually felt.
    â€˜You are a smart woman, you know that?’ A man’s voice came crisply down the line. ‘You’re really, really good.’
    â€˜I know,’ I said, smiling. ‘I just can’t believe it took you this long to realize.’
    â€˜And that really is my bad,’ Stephen Hall replied. ‘Your presentation was stellar.’
    â€˜Well, that’s good news.’ I hopped back and forth from foot to foot and punched the air. ‘Then we’re going forward to pitch?’
    A pause. ‘No.’
    I froze, not from the sub-zero temperatures but because my heart had actually stopped pumping and all the blood had stopped moving through my veins.
    â€˜We’re not doing pitches,’ Stephen continued. ‘I liked your pitch, Bertie Bennett
loved
it. He liked the personal touches, he liked the event strategy and he liked the media hook-up strategy with
Gloss
magazine. You know he’s Delia Spencer’s godfather, right?’
    â€˜No?’ I screeched. No one loved a little nepotism like the fashion industry. If I’d known Bertie Bennett was Delia’s godfather, I would have pulled every last string in the goddamn book. I would have made new strings just to pull them.
    â€˜Doesn’t matter − icing on the cake. He loved the work.’ Stephen raised his voice to make himself heard over an airport loudspeaker. ‘Anyway, I gotta go, but I wanted to give you the good news before everyone disappeared. Let’s touch base next week. Happy holidays, Lopez.’
    â€˜Happy holidays,’ I echoed, ending the call and resuming my mad dance of joy. For such a shitty day, this really was turning out okay. Before I could take my freezing ass back inside, my phone buzzed again, but this time it was a message. From Mason.
    â€˜Merry Christmas!’ I read out loud. ‘FYI, this is my first ever dick pic.’
    Face frozen in fear, I scrolled down to reveal a photo of Dick Van Dyke in
Mary Poppins
. I had never, ever been happier to receive a text.
    â€˜Oh look, it’s Father Christmas,’ Jeremy bellowed over the music as I slipped back into the house. ‘Shut the door, love, you’re letting the cold in.’
    â€˜Father Christmas wishes he could pull this off,’ I said, flicking my hand in his general direction, altogether too pleased with myself to be bothered with him. ‘Who wants to open a gift?’
    There were so many brightly packaged boxes and bags, it was kind of shameful that they were all for four fully-grown, childless adults. We were kind of disgusting and kind of wonderful.
    â€˜But it’s not midnight,’ Angela shouted as everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and ran over to the tree, rifling through the gifts to find a tag with their name on. ‘We can’t open presents until midnight!’
    â€˜Really?’ I ran from the kitchen to the front door as a pair of headlamps shone through the window. ‘You want to wait another two hours for your gift?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she whined, her entire body shaking like an overtired, over-sugared toddler. ‘It’s not Christmas yet.’
    â€˜Fine.’ I opened the door, smiling so wide that I thought I might swallow my own damn fine face. I was so freaking good. ‘Alex, you can get back in the car, Angela