Page 4 of Snow Much Trouble
Her adorable little nose is wrinkled up and it’s probable she’s debating telling me to jump off the side of the mountain.
I fight the urge to grin. Now this is the kind of woman that would be fun as hell to poke at. The kind who eye rolls on the regular, has a sharp wit, and knows her own mind. She’s also freaking gorgeous, with curves that won’t quit.
That ridiculous sweater she’s wearing is straining over two perfect breasts, and her waist nips in before flaring out in full hips that are perfect for holding onto. I haven’t seen her ass yet, but I have high hopes it’s very generous.
Not my normal type of woman I date, but then again, I haven’t been dating. What I’ve been doing is stumbling in and out of strange women’s bedrooms that I meet on dating apps for several years, and it’s getting old. I’ve had hookups that have ranged from fun to mildly unsatisfying to awkward to what-the-actual-fuck-was-that.
It’s getting old.
Or I’m getting old.
Maybe both.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about sex. I’m here to clear my head and focus on getting ready for our new rye launch.
And yet…
I like Lauren’s vibe already.
She doesn’t answer my question.
Instead she says, "What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be at your distillery marketing bourbon? This feels like prime booze season with holiday gatherings and gift giving and people desperate to get drunk when forced to do both of those things."
She’s right. It is a busy season. Holiday sales plus planning for Q2. Q1 is already on lockdown planning wise. But I’ve been going nonstop for three years. It was either this or go to Vegas with some friends or message a woman in town for a hookup. Neither sounded appealing. I’m a social guy but even I might be officially in need of a break from people.
"Taking a few days off from selling bourbon, actually." I lean against the counter. "It's been a long year, and I needed somewhere quiet to decompress. Chance offered me this place for the weekend."
"Well, Jolene offered it to me first."
Now I do grin. She has a stubborn streak. “We’re back to where we started.”
“So what do you suggest?”
"I'm suggesting that maybe there's been a communication breakdown in the Hart-Rivers household and we should just accept that." I pour myself a drink. "Want some? This is a thirty-year bottle."
She bites her plump bottom lip and clearly fights through an internal struggle before saying, "Make it a small one. I'm more of a hot chocolate girl."
I splash some bourbon into the second glass. "There's nothing wrong with hot chocolate. If you’re seven."
Lauren rolls her eyes.
Score one point for me. I knew she was an eye roller.
“You shouldn’t even be drinking that because you’re going to have to drive back down the mountain and find yourself a hotel,” she says.
Handing her the glass, our fingers brush. There's definitely a spark there—the kind that has nothing to do with the flames in the gas fireplace and everything to do with the way Lauren sucks in a breath and yanks her arm back, the bourbon sloshing in the glass.
"So," I say. “Why exactly would I do that?"
Outside, I can hear the wind picking up, and the first fat snowflakes are starting to drift past the windows. I have no desire to go back out in the cold or relinquish my relaxing weekend in a cabin for a boxy hotel.
“Because I was here first.”
“But who got the all-clear to stay here first?” I pick up my phone and scroll through my texts. “Here. November thirtieth, Chance said I could stay this weekend.” I’m bluffing. The text is actually dated December fourth.
So I fudged a few days. Given her expression, she can’t compete.
“Hmm. I’m almost positive Jolene told me I could stay this particular weekendwaaayback in October.”
