Page 17 of Bad Boy Bachelor Christmas
“If I was back in Portland, I’d be getting ready for the Winter Formal tonight,” I said. “Everyone gets really dressed up. Well, as dressed up as college students can afford, I should say, and we eat lots of mediocre cafeteria food on compostable paper plates and drink Sprite and cranberry juice out of Solo cups. It’s great fun.” I shot him a side-eyed look. “Did you go to college?”
“No.”
“Really? You run a huge empire like Waylon Farms, and you didn’t have to get secondary education?”
“Generational businesses usually come with the perk of skipping school and jumping right into the fray.” He put his blinker on and palmed the wheel. We turned right, and the country fields gave way to a small town decked out in twinkling Christmas lights strung throughout trees sprouting from the sidewalk. Their branches were bare, reaching to the sky like skeletal fingers. A Salvation Army Santa stood on a corner outside a grocery store, jingling a set of bells and smiling at pedestrians through a thick, fake, curly white beard.
I’d never heard of the small town in upstate New York before, but Maple Hill had the kind of charm that should have put it on a map. Local boutique windows glimmered with Christmas displays. Peppered between them, coffee shops, restaurants, and beauty businesses invited people inside with winter holiday sale signs.
We pulled off the main road and into the underground parking beneath a four-story brick building that had to be about sixty years old. North parked in a “Reserved for CEO” spot, killed the ignition, and got out of the car all before I had the time to grab my purse from the floor and tighten my scarf around my neck.
He led me across the lot to a stairwell, and we climbed up to the lobby, where I discovered we were in a business building. Above the reception desk was a glimmering sign that read “WAYLON’S” in capital letters. A young woman worked the desk with a Christmas pin in her red turtleneck. Her lipstick matched the sweater, and she looked up and smiled when she saw us coming.
“Good morning, Mr. Waylon,” she said, all business and class. “Your eleven o’clock meeting is prepped in the conference room. Shall I send them in when they arrive, or would you like to come collect them yourself?”
“Feel free to send them in, Tracy. They’ve been here before.”
“Of course.”
I gave her a small wave. “Hi.”
She rose from her seat and leaned over the reception desk to extend her hand. Her nails were red too, and every second one was sparkly. “Hi, you must be Marge’s replacement. Winter, is it?”
“That’s me,” I said.
“I’m Tracy. Nice to meet you. If you need anything at all while you’re here, let me know. I’m the queen of resources and contact numbers.”
North cleared his throat.
I hurried after him, my heels clicking on the polished concrete floors of the office.
The place was large—much bigger than I expected—with an almost industrial feel to it. The ceiling was two stories over our heads, which gave it a grand, cavernous sort of feel. For some reason I instantly pictured it filled with fifteen-foot Christmas trees and pillar candles hanging from the exposed pipes overhead on fishing wire. I could have thrown together a very romantic event in a place like this, I was sure of it.
The floor was a maze of desks and people. Everyone made way for us as we headed to the conference room, a glass enclosure right smack in the middle of the office itself. North got there first, opened the door, and held it open for me. Pitch packages sat on the table, presumably prepared by Tracy, and a fresh pot of coffee sat beside a collection of ceramic mugs and a tiered platter of pastries.
“Pulling out all the stops,” I said.
North sat down at the head of the table and unbuttoned his suit jacket. It had been strange to see him in something other than plaid or his Carhart jacket when we first left the house earlier this morning. I’d found myself wondering where a man of his sheer size could buy such a suit, and concluded it had probably been custom made for him.
He still wore his Blundstone boots even though they sort of ruined the sleek, polished look. Well, they didn’truinit. They were very him.
He nodded to the empty chair on his left. “Help yourself to coffee or snacks, or sit.”
I poured myself a coffee. It was piping hot. There were fixings like cinnamon, creamer, milk, sugar, and nutmeg. “Would you like one?”
He shook his head.
I sat down and crossed my ankles under the table. “So… who are these clients we’re meeting with today, exactly?”
“Lawyers.”
“Lawyers?” I asked skeptically.
He nodded. “They own a massive firm in Chicago that puts on a Christmas event every year to fundraise for a Christmas Eve Dinner for those who are alone during the holidays, or who don’t have money or a safe place to stay. It’s a haven of sorts. They serve a hot dinner, have a Santa Claus to hand out gifts for the kids, live music and entertainment, treats, hot coffee, that sort of thing. It runs all night long and well into Christmas morning and afternoon.”
“That’s beautiful. It’s all run by volunteers?”
“Yep, the firm does some fundraising but foots the rest of the bill. The bulk of the volunteers are their employees, but they’ve grown over the years and cast a wide net to invite students and others in need of volunteer hours to help out. They serve something like seven thousand people every year.”
