With my country music career spiraling down the drain and a nasty public breakup to boot, I’m just looking to hide away at a rustic ski resort over Christmas, pretend the festive season doesn’t exist, and rethink my whole life. Is that so much to ask?
Aksel Lund is a modern-day Viking who should be gracing magazine covers with his smoldery frown, not running the Havenkirk Ski Lodge like a tyrant. Unbeknownst to me, this map-dot town in Idaho doesn’t have a spa or know how to be chill about Christmas. Aksel’s eight-year-old daughter drags me to every single Snowmass celebration because I don’t have the heart to tell her no.
Her father, on the other hand, has no heart. When he’s not criticizing my music, or saving me from hurtling down the slopes, or arguing with me over my excessive luggage—it’s only five suitcases, calm down—he’s dodging my questions about why he’s a single dad and why he keeps getting phone calls from creditors.
I may be a celebrity—which is akin to the grinch to him—but I know a thing or two about hard times. And Havenkirk looks like it’s about to be sold off to the highest bidder the second the decorations come down. If only Aksel would let me help save the lodge.
And if only Aksel didn’t make my heart twist painfully in my chest and leave me panting whenever he turns that glower on me. If only I truly loved the season and could pull a Christmas miracle out of my guitar.
Turns out a miracle is what I need to get Aksel out of my heart, too.