Page 77 of Holiday Hopefuls
The man chuckles, getting those narrow shoulders involved and everything. “No, dear. I think my grandmother would roll over in her grave, if that were the case.”
John takes the opportunity to grab Cici and check in, leaving us alone with Mr. Carson, the good news sharer.
I can’t decide if I want the man to spit out whatever it is, or keep us here long enough that Oliver forgets the lovely information Mr. Carson decided to impart on my fake boyfriend and his friend only moments ago. But the longer I keep my gaze away from Oliver, the warmer my face gets under his blatant stare.
“Then I’m sure I’ll survive whatever it may be.” Let’s get this over with.
“Well,” Carson adjusts his already perfect tie, “your mother mentioned you were bringing a guest with romantic intent.”
Only in my dreams. “Okay.”
“But then we received your phone call earlier this week with the specific accommodation requests.” The phone call. The one I made on Monday afternoon, when I was last-minute Christmas shopping with Ian and Aaron.
They were teasing me mercilessly about this trip. Talking about how romantic it would be in the mountains. How the magic of Christmas would be all around us.
And Ian mentioned how we’d have to share a bed to keep up the pretense.
During the panicked phone call, I was assured my room in our residence would have two twin beds in place of the absurdly large king that normally stands in its place.
Because I don’t want Oliver to feel any more awkward. Or pressured.
Or tempt myself into believing any of this is real.
“Yes … ” Gritting my teeth, I brace myself for what I already know is coming. And work twice as hard to ignore Oliver burning a hole into the side of my head.
“The mattresses that would have served the purpose for separate beds in your room were destroyed because theyhad biohazardous material that simply could not be extracted appropriately.”
Throat closing off, I barely choke out, “So kids peed on them?”
Mr. Carson nods. “Among other things, yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday, Ms. Rutherford.”
“Yesterday,” I repeat with a defeated laugh. Sighing, I press my lips together. “So, it’s the regular accommodations, then?”
“Yes, miss.” Mr. Carson leans in conspiratorially. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re my favorite of the Rutherford children.”
Brows raised, I nod.At least there’s that.
“That has its … privileges. For instance,” Carson reaches into his breast pocket, producing two pristine madeleines in a clear baggie, “more sweet treats than your siblings receive.”
Despite the desire to never set eyes on Oliver again, purely out of total and utter embarrassment, a small smile breaks through my dread-filled mask. “Carson, you honey-fingered devil. You’re too good to me.” Opening the bag, the lemony aroma that fills my dreams consumes my senses.
Carson chuckles. “Why don’t you save those for when you need a little pick-me-up? I know spending time with your family isn’t always the easiest.”
Too bad it’s not spending time with my family that has me wound so tight I could produce a diamond at this exact moment. In fact, that sounds like a freaking cake walk right about now.
Nerves have me swallowing anything intelligent I have to say, so I stick with nodding.
Mr. Carson snaps his fingers, summoning two bellhops. “Now, let’s get you to the residence, yes?”
A tight smile forces its way onto my face as Oliver hands over our bags. “Sounds great.” Walking out to the enclosed golf cartcomplete with snow tires, I take a chance. Not much space is between us to begin with, but I tentatively cross the remainder of the void and take his hand.
The side of his cheek lifts from a hidden smile, his fingers intertwining with mine.
Our ride to the residences only takes a few minutes—the path is one I could drive with my eyes closed. To my shock, disbelief and gratitude, Oliver doesn’t let go of my hand once.
