Page 6 of Bad Boy Bachelor Christmas
“Is that relevant?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” I said.
Marge sighed dryly. “Early twenties, I believe. Twenty-four maybe?”
“Good God.”
“Give her the benefit of the doubt. Age is no indication of skill or capability. I was twenty when I started working for your grandfather and look how well that turned out.” Her voice took on a cocky note. “I was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
I chuckled despite myself. “Fair enough. I’ll behave.”
“Good. I have to let you go. Cami is giving me the evil eye waiting for me to put in my order.”
I should have known Marge would be at the diner visiting with Cami. She went there basically every Sunday afternoon for coffee and some sort of sweet treat—pecan pie, gingerbread swirl loaf, or bakery-style cookies were her top picks.
We said goodbye and ended the call.
Justin eyed me over the rim of his coffee mug. “So you’ve never even seen this chick before? Marge’s replacement?”
“Nope.”
He grimaced. “And she’s going to live here all of December?”
“Apparently.”
Justin leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “What if she’s dumb? Or worse, ugly?”
“I trust Marge’s judgment. I just need someone to help with the designing of the trees who can keep clients happy. I can’t manage the people part of things as well as the work on the farm. The back and forth would kill me.”
“If I had more time on my hands I’d help out.”
“Spare me.” I scoffed. “You’re not interested in physical labor. Stick to selling your houses. I’ll stick to my trees.”
Outside, a car horn honked. Justin scrambled like a dog running to greet his master to go to the front door and peer out the window out to the driveway. “She’s here,” he said.
I followed behind, almost lazily, and stood behind him, looking clear over his head out the same window as a young woman exited the backseat of a black sedan. She dragged a large leather bag out with her and slung it over her shoulder while the driver popped the trunk and helped her with a larger suitcase.
Justin whistled. “Well, she’s certainly not ugly, that’s for damn sure.”
My friend was right.
The girl wasnotugly.
She was, however, totally impractically dressed for the shit storm she was about to walk into.
She had on a pair of high heels that had to be five or six inches. She wore black nylons and a black skirt, over which she had on what appeared to be a white cashmere sweater, a red scarf, and an oversized jacket with a furry hood. She was a mishmash of different styles and personalities all poured into one slender body. She struggled with her suitcase up the drive, the wheels getting stuck in the grooves of the paving stones.
“Shouldn’t you go out and help her?” Justin suggested.
“Shouldis subjective. I want to see how she does.”
“You’re a cruel bastard.”
The girl dragged her suitcase about twenty feet from the car before pausing to blow loose strands of long brown hair out of her eyes. The driver of the car had already begun to pull away, and she looked back at him as if wishing he hadn’t left her to this fate. Then she turned back and craned her neck to gaze up at my house.
I wondered what she was thinking.
Did she think I was going to let her stay in the mansion on the property?
