Homeschooled for the Holidays: A Sweet Southern Romantic Comedy, E-Book

Doc Hollywood meets Pure Country when a country music star on the run breaks down in rural Alabama and spends Christmas at a homeschool family's chicken farm. 

The last thing I expected to find after midnight was a stranger with a half-shaved head on my porch. Good thing I answered the door armed with a cast-iron skillet — and by use it, I don't just mean to make cornbread. 

Turns out he's Tuff Avery, Nashville's biggest star, hiding from his own fame behind the worst DIY haircut in country music history.

He wants to disappear into small-town Alabama for Christmas. I want someone to help polish my original songs for the church concert. 

What's in it for me? Plenty — if he can survive my chicken farm, my overprotective brothers, and a small town where everybody knows everybody's business but nobody knows his name. 

I've kept bigger secrets than this. Probably.

Chapter One

Tuff

“Here goes nothing.”

I take a deep breath and run the razor down the center of my beard, then stare at the bare strip on my chin. My face looks like one of those monkeys with a bald butt and fur everywhere else.

To say I’m too far to quit now would be a gross understatement. 

My phone vibrates on the bathroom counter as I run the razor over the sides of what’s left of my beard. I ignore it and continue skinning myself. 

More hair falls to the floor, tickling my bare feet. Between chopping off my signature beard that would put the Duck Dynasty guys to shame and now shaving the rest, I have quite a mess on my hands. 

The phone cuts out while I finish shaving for the first time in a decade. It goes to voicemail, and the voice on the other end reminds me that I have an even bigger mess waiting for me. I try and keep my hands from shaking as I listen to the verbal scolding. 

“Tuff, I know you’ve seen my calls. You should be awake by now. Call me back. This is urgent.”

A long beep sends a shiver up my spine. I silence my phone and commit to ghosting the very person who put the settings on my phone to read his voicemails aloud—my manager.

For once in my life, I will have Christmas on my terms. 

Not his terms, a studio’s terms, or anyone else’s. I’ve put this off far too long because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone—mainly the fans who made it possible for me to make a living singing and playing. 

But Peter will have to hold his horses for a bit. No amount of him calling is going to stop me now. 

I rub my baby-faced chin, halfway wishing I’d left a little scruff. It’s probably for the best. I plan to be planted on a map dot by the time my five o’clock shadow kicks in. 

Hmm . . . that might make a good song lyric. 

I jot it down in the notes section of my phone and run a hand through my haphazard hair. I took some scissors to
the back of it as well, leaving only a little length. Afraid of getting recognized, I close my eyes and cut it as close as possible to my head. I peek one eye open and wince. I look like a dog with the mange. 

That didn’t turn out how I planned.

I rummage through a bottom drawer and pull out some old clippers I use to occasionally shape up my jawline or neck. It’s been a while, since I adapted to the mountain-man look with fame, and now have a hairstylist trim me up. 

Luckily, the clippers still work. I set the guard to a normal length and start the process. Seeing all that hair fall makes me want to vomit, but I’m all in now. So all in that I change the guard to military-like length. Now nobody will recognize me. 

I’ve made it halfway over my head when the razor cuts out. I beat it on the counter, blow in it, take it halfway apart, and unplug then replug it. Nothing works. 

I frown at the mirror. One half shaved and one half with short hair. I look like a freak. But there’s no time to order a new razor, and I can’t risk going in a store in Nashville or getting someone to shape me up. Everyone here knows my face and my voice. 

It’s leave now or never.

My Roomba swivels across the threshold and makes a funny sound. I guess the Sasquatch amount of hair was too much to handle. I reach down and manually turn it off, then go to the closet for a broom. Maybe it’s my raising, or lack thereof, but I can’t leave a mess before I leave town. 

For once, walking the halls of my oversized condo and seeing my pathetic two-foot tree with no gifts aside from
envelopes filled with bonuses for my crew and staff makes me happy. Not having a family or obligations to someone on a personal level means I can finally strike out on a little holiday road trip. 

After sweeping my hair and disposing of the evidence in my kitchen trash can, I turn off all the lights and appliances, then gather my bags. 

I’m on the road so often, this is a mindless routine I’ve done a million times. The monotony breaks when I enter the garage and uncover my old beat-up Chevy. It’s the first thing I ever bought myself, which is why I can’t bring myself get her fixed up. 

Something about all the rust, dents, and dings reminds me of my own journey. It humbles me to remember a time when I
counted coins to eat all I wanted at Taco Bell or traded janitorial hours at a studio to use their writing room. She’s my most prized possession.

And today, she’s my getaway car. 

The new Jeep Wrangler beside it will get left behind this week. Same as my long hair and well-known image. Only my closest friends know Old Chevy, as I refer to her. Most importantly, nobody expects me to take her more than a few miles. Trips across the state line are reserved for my tour bus and sometimes the Jeep. 

Not today. 

I shove my bags in the passenger side of the single cab and climb behind the oversized steering wheel. Then I pull up my maps app and plug in the small town in Alabama that Colt bragged about so much when we were on tour. 

Having no real hometown myself, I’ve daydreamed about what it would be like to grow up in the same spot and play ball for a high school and find a girl from the same area. I’ve silently lived vicariously through his stories and gotten a little jealous, even though he’s my opening act. 

But all the gold records and hit songs can’t buy me what I’ve always wanted: a normal, big, crazy family Christmas.