Page 132 of The Holiday Clause
He reached for her, but caught himself. They stood in clear view of those occupying the front desk. “You said you had something for me?”
“Oh! Right.” She rushed to the bench under the awning and lifted a green wreath with a red bow. “They were selling them in town. I thought you might want it for your truck.”
He took the wreath in both hands and looked down at it as if it held a map to the Holy Grail. “You got me a wreath?”
His voice carried such genuine surprise, as if no one had ever bought him something just because they thought he’d like it. The wonder in his expression made her chest tight with emotion. For all his strength and capability, sometimes he seemed genuinely shocked when someone took care of him.
“I won’t be offended if you don’t hang it?—“
“No, I love it.” He dug through his tools and pulled out some wire and pliers. “I’m gonna hang it right now.”
She followed him to the front of the truck, where the big red plow hung elevated, and watched as he wired it to the grill.
“Straight?”
She nodded. “Now, it’s really a Christmas truck.”
He grinned at the wreath then turned to her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Just then, a BMW came whipping into the parking lot. Greyson grabbed Wren’s sleeve to tug her out of the way. “Who the hell is this?”
“I’m guessing that’s our new guest.”
The muffled sound of music pounding from inside the BMW cut off, and the door popped open with an audible air-tight seal. A male foot in a polished leather shoe crunched onto the pavement, then a long, naturally fit man with salt and pepper hair unfolded from the petite sports car.
Everything about him screamed expensive—from his perfectly tailored cashmere coat to his Italian leather shoes that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. He scanned the wilderness, his expression suggesting he’d rather be anywhere else.
Stunned and a little concerned, Wren approached him. “Hi, are you checking in?”
The man’s sharp gaze latched onto her intensely, as if just noticing she existed. “Unfortunately.” He scrunched his nose at the view that most guests gushed over. “You work here?”
“Yes, I’m actually?—“
“Great.” He reached into the car and pulled out a sleek, leather weekender bag, then shoved it into her arms. “I have to make a call before checking in. See that this gets to my cabin. Name’s Greg Drummond.” He pulled out his phone and turned away.
Greyson yanked the bag out of her hand. “Let me take care of that.”
Mr. Drummond turned away from them as he tried to get a cell signal.
Greyson walked the bag to the automatic double doors that led to the lobby and unceremoniously launched it inside.
Lilly jumped from behind the desk, startled that people were throwing luggage toward her. “What the hell, Greyson?” she snapped as the automatic doors closed.
Greyson returned to Wren and mumbled under his breath, “Hope there wasn’t anything expensive in there.”
“There better not have been,” she hissed. As much as she appreciated him jumping to her defense in the face of rude men, she scowled. Mr. Drummond was a guest.
“Great,” Mr. Drummond snapped. “I’m in the middle of nowhere with no fucking signal.”
“There’s a phone at the front desk—“ Wren’s words cut off when the man gave her a cold look that said that wasn’t the solution he wanted.
She sensed tension radiating off of Greyson in waves. He despised big city men like Mr. Drummond and had no patience for their lack of manners. He crossed the lot and shook the man’s hand with stiff dislike. “Greyson Hawthorne.” There was an unmistakable, deliberate firmness in his grip.
“And that means…?”
“Just an introduction. Here in Hideaway, we all watch out for each other.”
