Page 1 of Wild Christmas
1
FREYA
My foot hits the break and my jaw drops as Mr. Martell’s so-called cabin comes into view. I lean forward, peering through the windshield until I can see all three stories of what can only be described as a mansion made of wood.
Mr. Martell told me to meet him at his cabin for the interview and I was expecting something small and cozy nestled in the woods, not the multi-story mansion with a turret poking out on top surrounded by trees on three sides and sitting on a cliff’s edge with a view of the valley and the mountains beyond.
A delicious shiver creeps down my spine. It’s like something out of a fairytale only made of slatted wood.
Strains of “Last Christmas” blast out of my car speakers as I creep forward and park next to a Tesla, which seems far too white compared to my mud-splattered SUV. No one can keep a car that white in themountains, and I wonder if he’s got a garage full of cars hidden away somewhere and the Tesla is just for show.
I cut the engine, cutting off George Michael, and am plunged into silence broken only by the rustle of the wind from the surrounding trees.
My younger self might have been intimidated by the sight of wealth, but two years working as an au pair in France have numbed me to it. I never saw a place like this in France or in any of the European countries I accompanied the family to on their many vacations though.
There’s something about the cabin, despite its size, that’s distinctly North Carolinian, and that makes it feel like home.
A late November chill has me pulling my coat tight around my chest as I walk over to the covered entrance. I love this time of year when the weather starts to bite, and I’m smiling as I head over to the huge pillars that hold up the second level balcony and lead to the entrance.
I’m halfway to the door when the roar of an engine coming up the gravel drive gets my attention.
I turn around as a motor bike roars into sight. It’s approaching too fast, and gravel kicks up under its wheels. I jump out of the way just in time as it slows down and parks next to my SUV.
The man on the bike is clad in black leather that hugs his taut frame. He pulls the helmet off and runs a hand over his dark hair, smoothing the short cut back into place. A set of thick eyebrows frown at me, and his mouth is set in a scowl that emphasizes his smooth jaw.
“You’re early.”
The smile slips off my face as it dawns on me that the hottie with the scowl is my potential new employer. As he slides off the bike I’m struck by his size, broad-shouldered and tall, not at all what I expected from a computer geek. He pulls himself up to his full height, which is at least a foot taller than me. But I won’t be intimidated by a man wearing a scowl. My time in France taught me that too.
I check my watch, taking my time to respond. “Only by five minutes.”
He grunts and unbuckles the saddle bag on the back of his bike. From it he pulls a laptop bag and a backpack and a bunch of cables, surprising me by how much he can fit in there.
He strides over to the door, and I follow even though he hasn’t said anything else to me.
Aunt Maxine warned me that Mr. Martell was taciturn, which is a polite way of saying a grumpy ass.
“I’m Freya,” I say to his retreating back, figuring it’s best I start talking rather than follow him in silence. “My Aunt Maxine said you were in need of a temporary nanny.”
He props his knee against the door and rests the laptop bag there while he punches in a code on the key panel. The door unlocks with a click, and he turns the handle, then retrieves his bag. I think about offering to help, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who accepts help.
“I know who you are,” he says. “Judge told me you were turning up.”
“Judge?” I wrack my brain trying to think of who Judge might be.
Mr. Martell puts the laptop and cables down on a bench in the hallway and carries the backpack with him down the corridor.
I hesitate on the threshold. He hasn’t invited me in, but Aunt Maxine assured me that the interview was set up. I learned boldness from the French too, so without waiting for an invitation, I follow him down the hall.
“Judge is Will’s road name, the man your aunt works for,” Mr. Martell explains.
Aunt Maxine told me Will was part of a motorcycle club for veterans and that Mr. Martell is in the club too. Which means he’s a veteran and has a road name too, probably Grumpy, or Rude, or Nice Ass, because I can’t keep my eyes off the way he moves in those tight leathers.
Pulling my gaze away from his perfectly formed butt, I follow Mr. Martell into the kitchen. He dumps his laptop on the marble kitchen island which takes up almost the entire length of the room. Four black wooden stools are tucked in on one side, and beyond is a dinner table and living room set consisting of two enormous couches, with the biggest flat screen TV I’ve ever seen mounted above a brick fireplace.
The cushions on the couches are neatly in place. There’s nothing on the dining room table, and the only ornaments are a couple of matching photo frames in the same black metal as the light fixtures. It looks like a show home, not a home where two little girls live.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve got the right place.
