Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal

Book 2: How My Neighbor Stole Christmas

by Meghan Quinn

Genres: Holiday Romance; Romantic Comedy; Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Meghan Quinn comes a brand new holiday rom-com with all the humor and heat her fans adore.

Nothing says I love you like trespassing, public humiliation, and a town-wide Christmas spectacle to win your crush back.

Atlas "Max" Maxheimer did not sign up for this. One minute, he's anxiously trying to keep his family's Christmas tree farm from imploding. The next? He's passed out in the snow after getting clocked by a suspiciously strong bottle of soda.

Enter Betty: new in town, full of holiday cheer, and helping her uncle open a rival tree farm next door. Max is convinced she's out to destroy everything Evergreen Farm stands for. Betty thinks Max might be one sleigh short of a winter parade.

Cue the holiday chaos.

Between blizzards, blown reputations, wildly misguided romantic plots, and one stolen ornament with a seriously tragic backstory, this small-town war turns into something far messier―and much more delicious―than either of them expected.

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Release date: October 14, 2025

Publisher: Meghan Quinn

Print pages: 475

Sample

PROLOGUE
Max

Narrator: Nestled in the trees, off to the left of the reindeer barn and yards away from the
commotion of holiday lovers in the year-round Christmas town of Kringle, is the quaint yet
grandiose log cabin that belongs to Otto and Ida Maxheimer.
With their family of five, Otto and Ida live on the pine-covered land of Evergreen Farm
with their three boys, Felix, Ansel, and Atlas.
Let me introduce them to you.
Felix Joseph Maxheimer, the oldest of the three, an avid weather observer known for his
vast knowledge of lagers, loves being right about everything and enjoys watching men in black
rain boots sans shirts, preferably wielding a snow shovel and dancing to the tune of “Run
Rudolph Run.” In town, he’s part owner of Toboggan Tours, a touring company that takes
visitors out on electric snowmobiles to Candy John Hill for sledding and through the mountains
just past the town of Kringle.
Then there’s Ansel Daniel Maxheimer, the middle child, known for instigating trouble
with everything and everyone who gets in his way. He is a fan of jam, wingless angels, and
chaotic pizza reviews on the internet, preferably cheese ones. Occasionally classified as
immature, he’s the other owner of Toboggan Tours. Being the talent of the operation, he brings
the entertainment to every patron on a snowmobile.
And finally the youngest of the brood is Atlas Peter Maxheimer, known around town as
simply Max. He has an enigmatic charm about him and the presence of a six-foot-four
lumberjack with a knack for making people smile. The complete opposite of his grumpy best
friend, Cole Black, over on Whistler Lane is full of life, slightly dramatic in the best way, and a
bit overripe . . . some around town might say.
Which makes him the perfect character to frame an entire story around.
Let me set the scene for you.
*Clears throat*
It’s a crisp Thanksgiving Day. A semidry turkey slathered in gravy has been consumed by
the bushel of men in the house, the famous Maxheimer sour cream apple pie has been devoured,

no crumbs left behind, and Grandpa M is asleep in front of the fire, resting his geriatric body on
the braided rug that was constructed of clothes from Grandma and Grandpa M’s early marriage.
Ida and Otto are engaging in an intense game of rummy at the dining room table, where
spiral-tapered green candles in gold angel candleholders light the room.
Felix and Ansel are perched on the couch, beers in hand, watching football while talking
about the party of fifteen from Illinois they’re hosting the next day.
The house is calm, quiet, and peaceful, and everything seems to be right in the world
until . . .

***

“Mom! Dad!” I fling the door open to the house, panic constricting my chest as I try to catch my
breath. “Invaders.” I press my hands to my knees, gasping for air. “In . . . vaders.”
The house falls silent, only the faint sound of a football game playing in the background
as my brothers both turn in my direction.
“Jesus, Atlas,” Ansel says from the couch, staring at me with a what the fuck is wrong
with you expression. “You startled Grandpa M.” Ansel gestures to Grandpa M, who’s still
sleeping on the braided rug in front of the fireplace.
Grandpa M grumbles and then latches on to one of those realistic cat pillows that my
mom insists is a charming decoration. Though the consensus among the men is that the cat
comes alive at night and scratches on the bedroom doors.
Felix has sworn he’s heard it.
Ansel has sworn he’s seen it.
“What is going on in here?” Dad asks, walking into the living room in his white cable-
knit sweater, hands on his hips.
I lift up and lean against the front door, still out of breath from the all-out sprint I just
made through the backwoods of our family property, barely avoiding a cracked skull from
tripping over a broken log. “Invaders on our land. There’re invaders.”
“Invaders?” Mom asks, joining us in her plaid dress, which she wears every
Thanksgiving in preparation for the start of Christmas. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Keeping his eyes on the TV in front of him, my oldest brother, Felix, says, “Apparently
there are invaders on the property. Alert the town crier.” He lifts his bottle of beer and takes a
drink.

Apparently football is more important to him than the possible chance of his family farm
being taken over.
“There are invaders,” I say, my breath more even now. “On the property. I heard them
when I was on my after-turkey-consumption walk. They were talking, and I heard them—”
“Talking, ooo, scary,” Ansel says as he picks up my mom’s coffee table book of
Christmas markets around the world and flips to the chapter on France. “People talking calls for
battening down the hatches and calling in the National Guard. Felix, grab the blowtorch. If the
talkers come close, we’ll roast their heads off.”
“Roasting heads off? Seems like a pretty harsh punishment for just talking,” Felix adds.
Ansel lifts his fist to the air. “The talkers must pay.”
And this is my family. Not a single one of them takes me seriously.
Expression flat—and somewhat annoyed—I say, “This is not a joking matter. They were
talking about the property behind ours. You know the empty lot.”
Grandpa M coughs, his whole body convulsing until he rolls to his back and snores into
the air.
Dad rubs his forehead. “Atlas, you can’t come charging into the house like that, startling
us all just to say there are people talking on the other end of the property.”
“Really, dear,” Mom says. “We love you, but ever since you won the Christmas Kringle
competition last year, it seems like your dramatic ways have kicked up a notch.”
I beg your pardon, Mother?
Standing taller, I ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gently, Mom places her hand on my shoulder. “You seem to have a flair for . . .
embellishing. And this started when you entered the competition last year, addressing everyone
in town as sir and madam, wearing a top hat and tipping it to every passerby . . . strutting up on
stage as a dog again, panting in shorts far too short for you.” Whispering, she says, “Sherry and
Tanya are still talking about your jiggly bits.”
Narrator: Just to step in for a moment, our matriarch of the story is talking about the
town’s Christmas competition to see who is the most Christmassy of all. It’s an annual
competition between five competitors who are put through several mini-contests to earn points.
The year before last, Cole, the best friend, battled it out against his now wife, Storee. Last year,
Max took on the treasured contest and won. His ego has yet to deflate since winning, especially

since Cole didn’t take the crown when he entered.
“There is nothing jiggly on my body,” I say, insulted.
“I have video that proves otherwise,” Ansel says while examining a page in the book,
using his finger to trace the edges of the Eiffel Tower.
Letting out a frustrated breath, I say, “Listen, I’m not embellishing, and I’m not being
dramatic. There were people talking out in the woods, discussing the development of the land.
Development,” I enunciate. “Don’t you care?”
Stepping up, Dad says, “Atlas, I appreciate the concern, but there’s no reason for you to
be barging into our peaceful home like you did to let us know that people are talking about the
land next to ours. You have no idea if they’re just chatting or if they’re really interested, nor will
it have any effect on us.”
“Uh, I think barging is necessary when they could possibly try to copy our idea. You
know the acreage on that land? Thirty, Dad. There are thirty acres of prime space ready to just
take over what we have created.”
“Jesus, Atlas,” Felix says, his eyes fixated on the TV in front of him. “First of all, that
land has been vacant for years. No one even knows who owns it. Second of all, there are strict
regulations within Kringle that prevent businesses from replicating another business in town, so
even if the people who are supposedly talking on the other side of the property are thinking about
purchasing the land, they have no ability or right to replicate Evergreen Farm.”
“He’s right,” Ansel adds. “Which in return makes you wrong, Atlas.” He clears his throat
and then turns the book toward me. “Atlas, you’re what the French call les imbéciles.”
What a douche. Just say imbecile, you nimrod.
Ignoring my brothers, I raise my voice. “I’m not fucking around. I heard them say farm.
They’re starting a farm.”
“Atlas—”
“Dad, I’m serious, okay? They’re going to take over Evergreen Farm!”
Grandpa M startles awake and nearly chokes on his own saliva as he sits up and sputters
out a cough.
Ansel is quick to the ground, patting on Grandpa M’s back, coddling the old man. “Hand
me my beer,” Ansel says to Felix, who hands him the beer. Helping Grandpa M take a sip, Ansel
looks over his shoulder at me. “Look what you did, you jerk. Grandpa M is now awake from his

slumber.”
I rub my fingers on my temple, feeling like I’ve walked into an alternate universe where
what I say has no validity. Uh, hello, it’s me, Atlas. Doesn’t anyone care? Isn’t anyone worried?
Evergreen Farm has been passed down from Grandpa M to my parents, soon to be passed down
to me. The last thing I want to do is be the one who fucks up the family business by not exposing
any potential enemies coming our way.
“Atlas,” Dad says softly. “I think you should go upstairs and just . . . cool off. It’s been a
long day, and the busy holiday season starts tomorrow. Perhaps you should get some rest.”
“Dad,” I say in a pleading tone. “I’m not lying. There were people.”
“I know.” He pats my shoulder passively. “I know. But best you get some sleep.”
“But I’m supposed to take Grandpa M home.”
“The boys will take care of that. You just . . . you just go upstairs.”
When I glance around at my family, noticing all eyes on me, a mixture of annoyed and
humored, I take that as a sign that maybe I really should just disappear . . . for the night.
Head held high, I move toward the stairs. “Mark my words, when someone starts
developing that land and starts their very own tree farm, I’ll sit back and say, You should have
listened to me.”
With that, I head up to the attic, where I’m temporarily living while I save enough money
to build my very own log cabin on the family property.
They’ll feel like such fools when this ends. Just watch. I’ll sourly laugh in their faces and
point.
Taking my phone out, I text Cole, because if anyone will believe me, it’s my best friend.
He placates me.
He supports me.
He is the sounding board I need right now.
Max: There were invaders on the land today! Fucking scallywags thinking they can take over
Evergreen Farm. Can you believe that? Not very Thanksgiving-y if you ask me.
I stretch out on my four-poster bed and let the rich red comforter suck me into its warmth
as I stare up at the attic ceiling. They will regret not listening to me.
Regret it!
My phone dings with a response.

Smiling, I open up the text, ready to be welcomed with sympathy and understanding.
Cole: You’re such a fucking disease, man.
Nostrils flared, I set my phone down and shut my eyes.
Jerks. All of them.

CHAPTER ONE
Max

Narrator: The house is quiet.
Not a soul in sight while Max lies half hanging off the bed, still in his shoes from his walk
the night before. The sun is peeking in through the porthole window off to the right.
His mouth feels like cotton.
His muscles have been stretched in the most uncomfortable way.
And he’s not nearly close to being ready for the Christmas tree season to begin. Because
despite being told he was crazy, he could not stop thinking about the invaders from the night
before, leading to night terrors and thoughts of Evergreen Farm going out of business.
Remember when I said he leans toward the dramatic? Well, here we go.

***

“Do you really think that?”
Narrator: Um, you’re not supposed to be interacting with me.
“I respect that, but just out of curiosity, will you be here the entire time?”
Narrator: Yes.
“Good to know. Then if that’s the case, can I ask one thing?”
Narrator: Sure.
“The whole invader situation, did that really happen, or are you siding with my family on
the he’s crazy thing?”
Narrator: It happened.
“I fucking knew it!”
Narrator: Now, please, on with the story.
***

I rub my eye as the sun nearly blinds me through the porthole window as I slowly sit up in bed.
“Motherfucker,” I say as I grip my lower back. “Jesus. Why did I sleep like that?”
I lower my feet to the ground, realizing I wore my boots and coat to bed. Did my family
somehow shoot me with a tranquilizer, and I didn’t notice?

I shed my coat and boots, and head to the makeshift bathroom my dad and I built when I
moved back into my childhood home.
At the age of thirty, the last thing you want to do is start a new chapter by shacking up
with your parents again, but when my dad presented me with the idea of taking over the farm at
some point and building my own home on the property, I knew I had one option: move back in
so I could save the money to build my own place.
So here I am.
Living in my parents’ attic because my childhood room is now my mom’s craft room, and
I prefer the privacy of the third-floor attic with low ceilings, even if I’m a six-four man and fear
there’s a spider in my bed every night. Not to mention the makeshift shower that consists of just
a tub with a showerhead and a curtain circling around it. It all screams I’m moving up in
life—definitely not nearing rock bottom in the slightest.
Also, fun fact: I use the shower as a sink and a place to bathe. Really high-end over here.
Don’t worry, there’s a toilet too. I refused to use the bucket Ansel jokingly gave me when
he heard I was moving into the attic.
I turn on the shower and start taking care of business, making sure to do an extra special
clean of the teeth, flossing and using two rounds of mouthwash. Once dried off, I slip on a pair of
boxer briefs and a green robe. My morning routine usually consists of sitting at the kitchen island
in my robe with a protein drink while watching what Grandpa M refers to as rubbish on my
phone.
I stick my feet into my slippers and then head down the creaky wood stairs to the second
floor where I catch my parents’ bedroom door wide open. Odd. Mom is usually getting ready at
this time.
Maybe she had an early start.
Heading back down the stairs to the main level, I pause at the entryway where the
newspaper has been sent through the mail slot in the door but not picked up by my father.
That’s strange.
I pick up the paper, tuck it under my arm, and head to the kitchen, where not a single soul
is present. Not a dish out of place, not a warmed toaster in sight.
I scratch the side of my head and do a tight 360, taking in the entire kitchen.
“Uh, Dad?” I call out as I set the paper on the counter. I peek around the corner to the

den, looking for any signs of him at his desk, possibly looking through the books for the farm.
But nothing.
Straightening up, I move toward the dining room table, calling out, “Mom?”
Nothing but the hum of the furnace fills the house.
Scratching my cheek, I cinch my robe tighter and walk out to the back porch, where my
parents sometimes drink their coffee in the morning, taking in the expanse of our tree lot.
When I open the door, the cold mountain air makes my entire body break out into goose
bumps, causing everything to . . . shrink.
Yeah, shrink. Okay, I’m not scared to say it. I’m living in a town that’s over ten thousand
feet in elevation in the middle of the Colorado Rockies, and the only thing protecting my nether
regions from windburn is a pair of cotton boxer briefs and a ten-year-old bathrobe.
I peek around the corner and call out, “Mom? Dad? You out here?”
When I’m only met with the sound of the wind blowing through the tall spruce trees, I
quickly check the garage, where both cars are parked, and then tiptoe back into the house as the
cold continues to seep into my body.
“Well, fuck. Where the hell are they?”
Needing my phone, I walk back up to my room and sit on the bed, where I shoot them a
text.
Max: Hey, where are you guys?
I watch the text go through, waiting for the receipt that says delivered, but after a couple
of seconds of it not appearing, the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand.
Okay, that’s weird.
The text message should say delivered.
“Let’s not overreact,” I say to myself. “Because this is exactly what they’d expect, for me
to fly off the deep end and start assuming the worst, especially after what we talked about last
night. Stay calm.”
I let out a deep breath and then head back down to the first floor.
I pull up my text thread with my brothers.
Max: Hey, do you happen to know where Mom and Dad went this morning? Woke up and
couldn’t find them.

I set my phone down and head to the fridge, where I grab a gallon of milk and then reach
for my protein powder and shaker bottle.
Pausing for a moment, I pick up my phone, but once again, my text has gone undelivered
to my brothers.
What the fuck?
I decide to send a text to someone else to see if maybe it’s my phone.
Max: Can you read this?
I pop open my shaker bottle and start to pour the gallon of milk just as there’s a knock at
the front door, startling the fuck out of me. I drop the milk and spill it all over the kitchen
counter.
“Fuck.” I right the milk jug and start for the door.
I open it and take a step back when Cole moves forward, holding up his phone to me.
“Why did you text this?”
I study his screen and then make eye contact with my less-than-charming best friend.
Nearly a mirror image of me with his messy brown hair and brown scruff lining his jaw. The
difference is I’m taller, far more attractive, with impeccable bone structure, and much more liked
because of my stunning smile and cheery disposition.
“I wanted to make sure my phone was working.”
“Why wouldn’t it be working?” He scans me up and down. “And why are you in your
robe? Dude, it’s almost ten.”
“Wait? Really?”
“Yeah. What the fuck have you been doing all morning?”
“Uh, freaking out,” I say as Cole enters the house. “Now, I don’t want you to think I’m
acting crazy, because I’m not, but dude, I think—” God, he’ll think I’m such a fucking idiot, but
I swallow my pride and say, “I think my family disappeared.”
“Jesus . . . Christ,” he mutters as he grips the bridge of his nose. “Actually, I think I’ll just
head to the reindeer barn and start on my chores for the day. I can’t deal with this.”
He turns toward the door, but I grab him by the shoulder and turn him back toward me.
“Dude, I’m not fucking around. They’re nowhere—”
“Probably because they’re out on the farm, helping everyone open up for one of the

busiest days of the season while you traipse around the house in your robe.” He plucks at it.
“This thing is disgusting. You need a new one. It’s pelting.”
“It’s fine,” I say, pulling away from him. “It does what it needs to do.”
“Really, because your left nut is hanging out.”
“What?” I glance down only for Cole to chuckle to himself. When I look back up, I can
feel the fire in my eyes. “Not fucking funny. And no, they’re not on the farm, because if they
were, then my text messages would have been delivered to them, and they weren’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
I take my friend by the arm and lead him through the family room and to the kitchen,
where milk is now dripping down the face of the cabinets.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Cole looks me in the eyes. “Your mom will kill
you if she sees this mess.”
I grab a bunch of red napkins that are left over from yesterday and toss them at him.
“Help me.”
Begrudgingly, he starts soaking up the milk, or at least attempts to. “These napkins are
trash. Hand me paper towels.”
While grabbing the multipurpose cleaner, I also snag paper towels and toss them to him.
We both set out on cleaning up the milk while Cole says, “Now tell me what the hell
you’re freaking out about.”
“My parents aren’t here,” I say, knowing in my brain that it sounds crazy, but seriously,
why wouldn’t they have at least left a note or something? “Do you think . . . do you think they
were kidnapped?”
Cole lets out a deep breath and then tears a few more squares of paper towel off the roll to
start helping me again. “Maybe they’re busy and they can’t respond.”
“The messages are going undelivered, man. That means they’re not even getting them.
And they always have their phones on. And I tried texting my brothers, but they haven’t
responded, and the text says undelivered too. I really think something happened.”
Cole picks up the half-soaked newspaper that was on the counter and sets it to the side,
only to pick up an envelope and say, “What’s this?”
I glance at it with a shrug. “I don’t know.”
“It has your name on it.”

“Really?” I snag the envelope. “It’s in my dad’s handwriting.”
“Hmm, maybe it’s a clue to the mystery you’re trying to solve,” Cole says with an eye
roll.
“Maybe it is,” I reply, head held high. I will not let his sour attitude tear me down. I open
up the envelope while Cole finishes cleaning the counter. I read it out loud. “Atlas, as you read
this, we’re currently on an airplane headed for Europe.” I look up from the letter and say,
“Europe? Why are they headed to Europe?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you keep reading and find out?”
Clearing my throat, I continue. “I surprised your mom with a trip to Europe to check out
all the Christmas markets.” I pause. “Ah, she’s always wanted to do that. What a nice thing for
my dad to do.”
“Yeah, imagine that. They didn’t disappear, just took a trip.” Cole shakes his head.
“You know, I can do without the sarcasm.”
“I could do without the idiocy, and yet here we are.”
Ignoring him, I continue. “I didn’t tell you because even though I trust you with the farm,
I don’t trust you with keeping a secret.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Cole mutters.
I side-eye my best friend. “We will be gone until Christmas.” I look up. “Christmas?!” I
shout. “What the fuck? They’re gone until Christmas?”
Annoyed, Cole snatches the note from me and continues reading. “Everyone has been
briefed about their responsibilities this season. Mitch will be watching over the day-to-day, while
Kate will be taking over Mom’s responsibilities with the vendors. They’re in training and will be
looking to you for any questions they might have. This is your chance to prove to us that you can
really take over the farm. I’m trusting you to do a good job . . . I know you will. We’ll be in
touch. Love you. Dad.” Cole tosses the letter to the side and takes a seat at the island. “There you
go, the chance you’ve been waiting for. The farm is yours to watch over.”
I pull on my hair. “Yeah, but . . . I mean, a little warning would have been nice. Everyone
was briefed but me? He didn’t think I could keep a secret.”
“I wasn’t briefed, so maybe he didn’t think either of us could keep a secret. But with me,
it’s because your mom always knows when I’m lying. You just can’t keep your mouth shut.”
I hate that he’s right about that.

“I just . . . I feel so unprepared.”
“Unprepared? You’ve been working on the farm nearly your whole life. If Mr.
Maxheimer gave me the role, I’d be able to do it in my sleep just from watching you.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or an insult.”
“Who cares?” Cole says. “Just take this opportunity and run with it. You’ve been wanting
your dad to retire for a while, so now is the time to show him that he can leave the farm with you
and he can finally retire.”
I nod. “You know, I think you might be right.” I puff my chest, letting the lapels of my
robe fall slightly more open to show off my pecs. “I think I’m going to take charge, make this
farm mine.”
“Great,” Cole deadpans. “But can you do it with some clothes on? Because”—he gestures
toward me—“woof, man.” ...