A Scot for Christmas - Victoria Pinder
Chapter 1
Sophia
I breathed in the scent of fresh snow, which reminded me of Christmas. As I walked down the London street, I passed the aroma of cinnamon rolls. Pedestrians stared at me like I was strange, because I grinned like an American, without a care about my crooked teeth.
Soon I would see my friends and celebrate the holidays, and no one should be miserable at Christmastime—at least in my world. Life was better somehow when a fresh pine tree smell filled the air, including the lobby of the marketing building where I worked.
For a moment, I could have sworn I saw Harris, my friend Charlotte’s neighbor in Scotland, whom I’d met weeks ago and who starred in my fantasy life, get on an elevator across the hall. But I blinked, and he was gone. Clearly, my brain was playing a bit of a trick on me as I waited for my elevator.
I had a bounce in my step as I slid into my office on that Friday morning.
No one was in their offices as I passed, though, so I must have been early. I reached my office and took my seat.
Soon I would be in Bath with my friends at Jane Austen’s tearoom, and we would have our annual holiday tradition.
The utter silence that filled the office was as distracting as a hurricane. I had no idea where anyone was or if I’d missed a memo about a day off. I jumped up to get myself a morning tea, took my cup to the electric kettle, and opened the cabinet for one of the tea bags.
The sound of someone clearing their throat came from behind me, and I turned to face my boss at the door. His face was completely white. I tilted my head and started to say hello, but he asked, “What are you doing here, Sophia?”
I narrowed my gaze as the water boiled behind me. “I work here.”
His face turned bright red when he said, “You should have read your email last night or this morning.”
Maybe the staff was all supposed to be somewhere else. My skin prickled. I’d spent half the night sewing my Jane Austen reenactment dress for the tea.
I nodded and said, “Right…”
Without another word, he stormed away. The halls were cold, and the lack of white noise was eerie. I took my teacup and returned to my office.
I opened my work email, and when I read my new messages, I almost spilled my tea. My hands started to shake as I reread the words. “We no longer require your services. Please report to human resources for your severance.”
I covered my lips and said, “Are you serious? Christmas is coming.” I gulped the last tea I would ever have there and grabbed my bag. At the last second, I decided to pack my teacup and rummage through my desk for my personal effects.
Being fired at Christmas was one of those movie scenes that always seemed unbelievable.
My entire body was cold and trembling as I left the office and headed downstairs.
That wasn’t how I’d expected the day to go. My coworkers, who all seemed to be headed in the same direction, were mostly silent, but I received a few nods as I took my place in line. I supposed I wasn’t the only one being fired.
Everyone else was British, so no one else had my immigration issues. My throat tightened as I imagined having to return to Denver.
I would be stuck in a broken home with my alcoholic father until I figured out how to get a place to stay and start over. Or I would have to see my sister and my ex again. The night I’d discovered their betrayal, I bought a plane ticket to be even closer to Jane Austen’s world and forget my family.
Before my mother had died, she’d trained me to follow my dreams and go after what I wanted, but that hadn’t included how to handle being let go.
A week ago, I’d turned down a job back in America because I had envisioned some fantasy life in which I would see Harris again. That was gone, too, as romance took a back seat to reality, like it always did.
Finally, I made it to the front of the line, and the HR representative handed me a form letter as she said, “The company is offering you a one-month severance package, and your retirement benefits will kick in automatically when you reach the age limit.”
The letter said nothing about my immigration or