Page 87 of Not Your Average Vixen
All these retired St. Nicks in one place was getting to be a bit much.
“All right, snow warriors, here are the rules. Each team gets five minutes to hide their flag. It must be visible from all directions,” the man continued.
“No hiding it under the snow?” Cole asked.
“That’s right. You’ve got to be able to see it. Now, after the five minutes have passed, you’ll hear me ring the bell, and then, the competition begins. The first team to steal the opposing team’s flag and carry it over to their side of the course wins. I’ll ring the bell again to let you know when the game is over.”
Soren glanced at Bridget as she stood with the women, carefully inspecting her snowball maker like a James Bond weapons specialist.
No matter.
He could roll with this. Fresh air and some fun with snowballs would be an excellent reset to get everyone’s minds off the wholecold-hearted corporate raider fleecing the nice bakers’ businessbusiness.
He stole another look at Bridget, who threw a fresh batch of eye daggers at him.
So much for a little fresh air changing anything with that vixen.
Russ handed him a green snowball maker. “Birdie’s got some spunk to her—a real take-charge woman,” the man said, lowering his voice.
“I guess,” he mumbled.
“Do you think she’d go for me? I know I’m a few years older.”
Soren pegged the guy with his gaze. “A few?”
“You should have seen the ladies that I was talking to yesterday. They were around the same age as Birdie, and they were really into me,” Russ replied with a triumphant glint in his clueless eyes.
“Yep, I’m sure they were,” he answered.
He’d heard all the bullshitRuss is smooth with the ladiesstories. They never bothered him. In fact, he’d gotten a kick out of them until the lady in question was Bridget.
“Stay away from her, Russ.”
The man frowned. “Why? Do you like her, Scooter?”
“I—”
Dammit! Did he like her?
“Let’s focus on the snowball competition,” he said, hoping Russ got the message.
“Right, right! Always out for the kill, huh, Scooter,” Russ replied with a slap to his shoulder.
Was he always out for the kill? Is that all he’d become? And did that make him as myopic as his parents?
No, he ran a business, and there was no room for pussyfooting around when it came to managing hundreds of millions of dollars in assets and hundreds of people on the payroll. His parents lived off their trusts and only thought of themselves. But was he any different? Without the Abbotts, maybe not.
Nine times out of ten, he didn’t give his mother and father a second thought. But with Christmas, even with the good times he’d had with the Abbotts, he couldn’t erase what had happened when he was thirteen. The last Christmas he’d spent in Manhattan.
The attendant held up a bell, attracting everyone’s attention and, blessedly, pulling him from the past.
“Here we go! On your mark, get set, go!” the man cried as the clang of the bell rang out.
The women were off like a shot, clustered together as they ran into the wooded area, and he watched Bridget disappear behind a veil of evergreens.
“Come on, men!” Scott called, waving for them to follow as Cole rushed ahead.
Tom and Russ jogged to catch up with the boy, and he was about to join them when he felt a tap to his shoulder and glanced over to find Tom’s grandfather.
