Page 60 of Bad Boy Bachelor Christmas
“Yeah, maybe so,” I muttered, knowing full well Winter’s spirit and potential were far too big for a town like this.
* * *
Winter shifted her weight from side to side as we rode the elevator up to the top floor where the mall director’s office was. I could sense her nervousness, and I reached out and put a hand in the small of her back.
“You’re going to do great. You always do. And I’ll be in there with you. We’re a team.”
She gave me an uneasy smile. “You just made it sound like this client is kind of a big deal. Like this contract could be game-changing for your business.”
“It is.”
She gulped. “That’s not helping. You were supposed to say they’d be nice to have in your pocket, but it’s not a big deal if we lose them.”
I smiled. “It would be nice to have them in our pocket, but it’s not a big deal if we lose them.”
She gave me a deadpan stare.
Chuckling, I leaned in and gave her a sweet kiss. “Relax, baby. I’ll be right there with you. The guy might be a bit severe, but treat him like you’ve treated everyone else, and it will be just fine.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“We leave and go grab dinner somewhere.”
She perked up. “Can we grab dinner regardless?”
I chuckled. I should have known. The way to Winter’s heart was through her stomach. Besides, it might be the last chance we had to have a meal together for some time. As of tomorrow morning, the farm would officially open to the public to come and purchase their Christmas trees.
I’d spent several evenings over the past two weeks cutting down trees and setting them up in a fenced area for people to pick from, but there was also a section of field where people could use one of our axes and cut down their own tree. It almost always resulted in a fun, spirited match between several men who wanted to see who could cut down their tree the fastest, impressing their women and children alike.
Truth be told, the women didn’t care. Sometimes the kids did, but they’d grow bored and start asking for something from the donut and hot chocolate truck parked nearby.
Over the years, the event had grown. This year we had a local farmer bringing his horses by. They’d pull some sleds through the fields, where some of my staff had decorated the trees on the path with lights. The sleds were full of thick, fleece blankets for people to stay warm for the ride, and jingle bells had been affixed to the horses’ reins. If all went well, I intended to invite the farmer back and keep the new tradition alive.
We also had a donation drive running. Volunteers like Cami, who would be dressed as elves, would collect toys and invite kids into a pop-up heated wooden structure I’d rented from one of the local home improvement warehouses. It was heated and comfortable, and Cami and the other elves would work with the kids to sort through the donations by children’s ages before enjoying a gingerbread man and making their own wrapping paper with stamps and markers.
It was still a modest operation, but I had plans to improve upon it every year. I’d make sure all the ticket-purchasers received a survey afterward to find out what worked and what didn’t, and what they hoped to see next year.
Winter was excited to check it out, too. She’d been talking about it nonstop this morning over breakfast—I’d brought her coffee and some of Maurice’s fresh baked croissants and homemade jam before we headed to Justin’s heritage house. Naturally, she had some suggestions of her own for the event, including having a visit from Santa or adding a lighting ceremony of sorts, where all the Christmas lights on the house, cabin, and surrounding trees for the sleigh ride went on at once accompanied by Christmas music.
It wasn’t a half-bad idea.
I wished she would be here next year to see it all come to fruition.
The elevator doors opened and Winter gave me a wary look.
I stepped out first and she followed, gaining—or feigning—confidence as we were greeted by the receptionist and led to a nicely appointed meeting room, complete with an artificial tree with glittery branches and fading white lights that played in a sequence. We were offered hot coffee and biscotti, which we accepted, and left to wait for the director, who was apparently running late.
Winter dipped her biscotti in her coffee and took a bite. She nodded appreciatively.
“Good?” I mused.
“Delicious.”
Her lips sealed over the hard cookie, and I had a sudden flash of her lips pursing over something else. Clearing my throat, I shifted in my seat. Now was not the time for a hard-on or dirty thoughts about my intern.
Now was the time to keep our eye on the prize.
CHAPTER28
