Page 128 of Holidating
He’s lived in this area all his life and never has to look at a map, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the address he’d scribbled down in his date book would bring him tothishouse—the one you can’t see from the road. The one with the sleek metal gate flanked by stone pillars and old-growth trees. Like something out of a James Bond flick.
He’s been passing this spot his whole life, wondering what was hidden beyond the gated entrance. And now he’s about to find out.
Maybe. If he can actually get in.
He gets out of his Jeep Grand Cherokee and contemplates the gate, which is striking in its simplicity. It’s bracketed by pillars that are part of a larger stone wall that encircles the property, exuding a sense of time-tested strength and privacy. The gate itself is made of heavy, dark metal with clean lines and a no-nonsense design.
It takes him a minute to find the keypad camouflaged in the black metal. He doesn’t know the code, but beneath the number pad is a single red button. He presses it.
“Yes?” says an older woman’s voice almost immediately.
“I’m the taxi driver,” Damien says, clearing his throat. “Picking up Mr. Michael Overland.”
There’s no response. But a moment later, he hears the sound of a bolt retracting, and the gates begin to smoothly glide inward.
He hops back into the Jeep and eases it between the pillars. Ahead lies a steep, curving gravel road, swallowed up by looming maple trees. As he begins his ascent, he notices in the rearview mirror that the gates are slowly closing.
Okay, that’s a little creepy. Hopefully The Overlands aren’t hiding a meth lab up here. Damien is a fan ofBreaking Bad, but he doesn’t want to live it.
Following the drive around a curve, he isn’t quite prepared for the way the treeline falls away, revealing a vast, grassy hilltop and a sprawling contemporary home, all impressive timbers and stone angles.
“Holy crap,” he whispers under his breath. Maybe he should have washed the car this morning. He’s hoping the Overlands will become repeat customers.
He slows to a crawl, taking in the property, which is arguably even more impressive than the house. He can see half of Vermont from up here. It’s a good thing it’s not his job to mow this place. Even on a tractor, it would take all day. Weeding the garden must be another massive project. Lavender and daylilies bloom from some of the longest flower beds he’s ever seen.
The house—or is it a mansion?—sits at the crest of a circular drive, so he pulls right up to the front door. He cuts the engine and hops out, wondering if Mr. Overland has a lot of luggage, and whether he’s supposed to ring the bell beside those imposing oaken doors and offer to help.
Before he can decide what to do, the front door swings open to reveal a middle-aged white woman in a maid’s uniform—like the kind you see on Masterpiece Theatre. She hefts a huge, wheeled suitcase out the door.
Damien hurries over to take it from her. “I can get that, ma’am,” he says.
“Margie!” cries a female voice from inside the house. “You don’t have to lift that. I got it.”
Damien looks up when a young woman steps outside, and then he almost trips over his own feet. She’s tall, with long, sun-kissed hair that falls just right, framing her face like she's stepped out of asummer love song. Her eyes are a striking shade of blue—pale with a darker ring around the iris.
She’s just…perfect. Like, movie star flawless, except for a spray of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The freckles give her beauty a down-to-earth quality. They make her seem real.
And now she’s staring at him, too, while he grips the suitcase and forgets why he’s here at all.
Eventually, the woman in the uniform clears her throat. “I want apropergoodbye,” she says.
The girl turns with a laugh and holds out her arms. “Bye, Margie. Thank you foreverything.”
“Be well, my precious. I want pics of that dorm room, or I’m not sending cookies.”
“Okay!” She laughs again.
Damien recovers himself, opens the back of the Jeep, and hefts her suitcase inside. It probably weighs more than Ms. Overland, but he doesn’t care. Maybe she’ll notice how strong he is.
He closes the back hatch and waits patiently while the two women finish their goodbyes. When the house’s door finally closes, the beautiful blonde approaches the Jeep.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m Damien. You don’t look like Michael Overland.”
It’s a struggle not to inspect her cleavage. In a tank top and a cardigan, she’s not even trying, and she's stunning.
“Everyone says that,” she announces. “But my parents named me Michael to toughen me up.”
Oh shit. “They…wow,” he stammers. “Um, I’m sorry.”
