Rent Yourself an Elf by Savannah Scott

She’s not feeling the holiday spirit. Maybe all she needs is to rent herself an elf.

It’s Christmas, and I should be full of cheer, but I’m having a hard time mustering the holiday spirit. That was always Grams’ role. She loved Christmas so much she talked my parents into naming me Noelle. Yeah, Noelle Furst. Picture the boys in elementary school having a heyday with my name. But I didn’t care. I knew Gram picked it for me, and I wore it proudly.
When Grams passed two years ago, she left me this house. I’m a lot of things, but a handywoman isn’t one of them. And there’s a ton of work to be done.
My big plan? Ignore Christmas this year. In only one month I can move into a new year and put my painful memories back in a box along with all the decorations. But my friends have other ideas.

When I open my front door and look up, there’s a very muscular, very not-an-elf looking man in a Santa hat smiling a stocking-curling smile at me. He’s holding a toolbox.
He says, “Hi, I’m your elf,” and with those four short words, I’m rethinking my whole stance on this holiday.