Christmas Sugar ~ Melanie Moreland

by Moreland, Melanie

  Christmas Sugar by Melanie Moreland

  Copyright © 2018 Moreland Books Inc.

  Registration # 7165237

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-988610-17-7

  Edited and Proofed by:

  D. Beck

  Lisa Hollett—Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Cover design by:

  Melissa Ringuette, Monark Design Services

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author's imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Christmas has always been my favorite time of year.

  There is a magic that weaves itself into my heart,

  filling it with the wonder of possibilities.

  It is a time of love, dreams, and family,

  and I wanted to write a book that contained them all.

  This book is for you, my readers.

  Thank you for your belief, your support, and your love.

  I wish you a season filled with peace.

  And to my Matthew—my greatest gift.

  All my love.

  Contents

  CHRISTMAS SUGAR

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  The Future

  Thank You

  Books by Melanie Moreland

  About the Author

  I LIFTED MY MUG, TOOK a deep swallow of coffee, and grimaced. Slamming down the cup on my desk and ignoring the mess it made as the liquid splashed onto the dark wood, I hit the button on my phone.

  “Amy! Get in here!”

  My door opened, and she peeked around the corner.

  “Yes, Mr. Maxwell?”

  I drew in a calming breath, fighting to keep my voice neutral and even. “How long have you worked here?”

  “Um, about two weeks.”

  I nodded. “How often have you brought me coffee?”

  She stepped closer, no doubt encouraged by my mild tone.

  “Every day, sir.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Do you have a mental problem I’m unaware of?”

  Her smile faltered. “Um, no, sir.”

  “Then why”—my voice began escalating—“is there fucking sugar in my coffee? I like a splash of cream—just cream. Is that such a difficult thing to remember?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry! I must have mixed up the mugs!” She lunged forward, grabbing the mug and spilling more coffee over my desktop. “I’m sorry!” she repeated. “I’ll clean that up.” She turned, practically running out of my office. “I’ll get you a fresh mug,” she called over her shoulder, passing Mrs. Carson as she ran, babbling about different colored mugs.

  I rolled my eyes and huffed at Arlene as she stood in front of my desk.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually going to retire and leave me with the likes of her. She can’t even get a fucking cup of coffee right.”

  Her brown eyes danced with mirth as she grinned at me. “I can’t believe she’s lasted two weeks. That has to be a record. I don’t think either of the other two lasted a week. She’s got some backbone.”

  I started to laugh. Nothing I ever said to Mrs. C fazed her. I leaned back in my chair. “Seriously, you’re going to hate retirement. Rambling around in that big house of yours, playing bridge, and talking to your cats. You’ll be a drunk in a month. Two, tops.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr. Maxwell. You have a better plan?”

  “Stay here with me.”

  “And listen to your demands and bitching all the time? No thanks. I’ll take my chances with the alcohol.”

  I smirked at her. “Simon is going to drive you nuts.”

  She shrugged. “Him or you. At least at home, I can wear my fuzzy slippers.”

  “I’ll add that to your contract. Fuzzy slippers acceptable.”

  She shook her head, the white waves remaining firmly in place. Even her hair knew better than to disobey Mrs. C. “You’ll be fine, Dylan. Just try to find a little patience. Stop yelling at everyone.”

  “I don’t yell at everyone.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Okay, so I do. It’s my thing. Keeps the staff on their toes.”

  “Your thing is going to lose you perfectly good staff.”

  I snorted. “I don’t think you can consider Amy ‘perfectly good staff.’”

  “You’ll never know unless you stop being such a hard-nosed ass. A little sugar isn’t going to kill you—in fact, it might help sweeten you up a bit.”

  I waved my hand dismissively. “All right. Enough bad-mouthing the boss—I’ve changed my mind. You’re fired.”

  “Good.”

  We grinned at each other, completely comfortable with our banter.

  Arlene had been with me since I started my company, Maxwell Corp., and had watched it grow from a small, struggling business to the huge, multimillion-dollar land development conglomerate it was today. When my father had turned his back on me, telling me I would fail, she stood right by my side and supported me all the way. It was with her I celebrated my victories, and her I turned to for counsel. She was my right-hand, but the bottom line, it was still simply a job to her—part of her life, unlike me, who made it my entire life.

  When her husband Simon retired earlier in the year, I knew it was merely a matter of time before she wanted to spend her days with him instead of me.

  I was going to miss her like crazy.

  And she knew it.

  The door opened, and Amy walked in, a steaming cup in her shaking hand. I accepted it silently and watched as she mopped up the spill and stood back, waiting for approval. I sipped the brew and nodded at the lack of sugar. It was perfect. Mrs. C was glaring at me, and I set down the mug, knowing what they were waiting for.

  “Excellent. Thank you, Amy.”

  A big smile broke out on her face. “You’re welcome, Mr. Maxwell.”

  “Try to remember how I take it next time, all right? No sugar in my coffee or my food.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “I put an X on the bottom of your cup. I won’t mix them up again.”

  I stifled a groan, not wanting to hear if she planned to check she had the right mug before it was full. I was certain I didn’t want to hear the answer. Even Mrs. C was smirking. Instead, I decided to check on the details of the next project I was working on.

  “Do you have the travel arrangements I asked you to make?”

  She nodded and thrust a file folder at me. “All done, sir. I’ll be at my desk.” She scampered off, shutting the door behind her. I arched an eyebrow at Mrs. C, who was watching me with an amused expression on her face. I flipped open the file and scanned the contents.

  First-class flight to Halifax. A car would be waiting. A suite at the . . .

  I blinked. Then I read tha
t line again.

  An all-inclusive room at the . . . Sleepy Moose Inn?

  What the fuck?

  I slammed the file on my desk, roaring out in my anger.

  “Amy!”

  Mrs. C stood, shaking her head. “She’s not at her desk.”

  “Why the fuck not? She needs to fix this, and then she’s fired!”

  “No, she’s not. She simply did what I instructed her to do. The same way I told her to give you the file and go to lunch.” She sighed. “I knew there’d be more yelling. You’re always yelling, Dylan.”

  Ignoring her rebuke, I shook the file. “The Sleepy Moose Inn? What the fuck is that?”

  “That”—she smirked—“is where you’re staying.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s part of the Ocean Bluff Resort you’re planning to buy.”

  I vaguely recalled that detail. I remembered snickering over the name, thinking that would be the first thing I changed.

  “Are you telling me there isn’t a Ritz within driving distance? Or a fucking Hilton? I’ll stay in Halifax if I have to!”

  Mrs. Carson’s voice was stern. “Dylan.”

  “What?” I muttered.

  “You’re flying to the East Coast to meet with Mr. Walsh.”

  “I know that.”

  She held up her hand. “He’s agreeing to listen to your proposal on the condition you meet with him personally and spend some time there, at the resort.”

  I snorted. “He’s not in any position to make demands. He’s going to lose it all.”

  “Not quite yet, Dylan. He wants to meet you face-to-face, and you agreed to it.”

  “I did?”

  “I did on your behalf.”

  I shot her a look that would have had Amy on the floor. Arlene barely blinked.

  “Why, exactly?” I asked from between gritted teeth.

  “I have a feeling.”

  “A feeling?”

  “You have to go to the East Coast and meet with Mr. Walsh. Tell him your plans. He wants to know the real person he’s selling his property to. Those are his demands. Otherwise, he’ll sell to someone else.” She studied me seriously. “You have to do this, Dylan.”

  I looked out the window at the gray, overcast sky. Winter was thick in the air, Christmas a mere few weeks away. The East Coast would be cold and snowy—far more than here. But I wouldn’t be outside much. I had no reason not to go, other than not being comfortable with his demands. I was private and didn’t understand his desire to know me before he sold the land. It was just land.

  As much as I didn’t want to go, I had no family to keep me here, no commitments, no big plans to prepare for—it wasn’t as if Christmas was a big deal to me. Usually, I spent it wandering my condo, wishing the day were over so I could get back to work. Plus, thanks to Mrs. Carson’s scheduling, I had the time. So, I had no excuse.

  My head fell back against the plush leather of my chair. “I want that land. The plans I have for developing it will make me a very rich man.”

  “You’re already a ‘very rich man,’ Dylan.”

  “Richer, then. I want this deal. I need this deal.”

  “Then I guess you’re staying at the Sleepy Moose Inn and spending some of that time with Mr. Walsh.”

  Fuck.

  “Make sure there’s a bottle or two of Courvoisier in my room. The good stuff. I think I might need it.”

  She was laughing as she walked to the door. “Yeah, I’ll get Amy on that right away.” She paused, her hand on the handle. “Dylan . . .” she called.

  I looked up, curious.

  “There are many ways to be rich in this world. Not all of them involve money. Remember that.” She smiled and walked out the door.

  I stared after her retreating figure, wondering what crazy thoughts she was rambling on about.

  I GLANCED AROUND, INTRIGUED AND amused. I’d never been to an airport as minute as the one I was standing in. The plane was much smaller than what I normally traveled on as well; even the first-class section didn’t meet my standards. Wearily, I rubbed my hand over my face. It had been a long, trying day, one meeting after another, and a delayed flight to top it all off. Instead of arriving midafternoon, it was early evening and darkness had settled. I hadn’t eaten on the plane, and I hoped the inn had a decent restaurant—or preferably, room service.

  That bottle of Courvoisier had better be waiting. I needed it.

  I walked over to the luggage carousel, irritated I had to carry my own bags, and went toward the front, expecting to find my limo driver waiting. Instead, I encountered an almost deserted terminal, with only a few people milling around. There was one young man sitting, texting furiously on his phone, glancing up on occasion. He was tall and thin with messy, light-brown hair and blue eyes. A heavy parka was tossed on the seat beside him. When he met my gaze, a wide grin split across his face, and he jumped to his feet, grabbed his parka, and hurried toward me.

  “Mr. Maxwell?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m your ride,” he exclaimed, wide grin still in place.

  “P-Pardon?” I sputtered.

  My ride?

  “Yeah, I’m Seth. Alex sent me to pick you up. Flight delayed, eh?”

  “Yes, there was a mechanical issue.”

  “Well, better you than me, man. Alex would tan my hide if I was the late one.”

  I arched my eyebrow at him. I had no idea who the “Alex” person was or exactly what “tan my hide,” meant, although I had an inkling.

  “Is the car out front?” I asked pointedly.

  “Nah.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “I had to park it since you were late.”

  I sucked in a long, calming breath, reminding myself I wasn’t in Toronto anymore. Obviously, they did things differently in Nova Scotia.

  “Shall we go, then?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, sure. Hope your coat’s warm. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there!”

  I had no response to that cheerful announcement. He walked through the door, letting it shut in my face.

  My coat billowed behind me, my eyes blinking instantly in rapid succession at the freezing temperature. I followed Seth’s quick pace to the garage, almost groaning with relief when we walked into the cement structure. He looked at me askance.

  “You should have done up your coat, man.”

  I glared at him, my patience thin. “You should have offered to take my bags, so I could button up my fucking coat. In fact, you should have had the car warm and waiting for me.”

  His cheerful expression fell. “Shit,” he whispered. “Alex is gonna kill me.” He lunged forward, almost ripping my case from my hand and dropping my garment bag. “Don’t tell her, please? She trusted me to do this! I’ll make it up to you!” He dropped my case as well, both of them sitting on the dirty, cold cement. He moved closer, trying to grab at my coat to fasten the buttons as he begged me.

  Impatiently, I slapped his hands away. He looked so upset and young I didn’t have the heart to keep yelling the way I usually would.

  “Pick up my things, Seth.”

  Leaning down, he grabbed them.

  “Can we go to the car? I’m damn well freezing,” I grumbled.

  “Right this way, Mr. Maxwell!”

  I followed him, somehow not shocked when we stopped at a large minivan.

  Why would I expect a limo or even a Town Car?

  Seth threw my luggage in the back and grabbed my briefcase from my hands. He opened the passenger door, indicating I should get inside.

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. It appeared I was riding up front.

  He rounded the van quickly, started the engine, and grinned nervously when cold air blew out of the vents. “It’ll take a minute to warm up, but the heater works pretty good,” he assured me.

  A long shiver racked my spine. “How long to the inn?”

  “About forty-five minutes to Pinegrove.” He regarded me anxiously. “Can I get you
something?”

  “I don’t suppose you have any brandy?” I asked jokingly.

  He shook his head. “I’m not old enough to drink.”

  “Are you old enough to drive?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. That I can do. How about some coffee? It’ll warm you up.”

  “Sure.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were speeding through the darkness, and I had a cup of coffee and a donut, courtesy of an insistent Seth. Tim Horton’s was the one name I recognized as we drove into the town, and I was hungry enough to eat the donut, even though I rarely ate sweets. I was as rigid with my diet as I was with my business.

  Snapping on the overhead light, I checked my phone, shaking my head at the number of emails and texts waiting. One was from Mrs. C inquiring if I had arrived safely. She always checked up on me—it was another thing I would miss about her. I answered her, adding in a humorous rendition of my arrival, including the “witch’s tit” comment. I knew she’d like that one. A couple of minutes later, she texted me back.

  ROTFLMAO

  I glared at the screen. I had no idea what that meant. I never used abbreviations in texts or email, and I hated it when others did. People butchered the English language enough without adding in silly expressions. I glanced over at Seth, remembering he had been texting when I arrived.

  I cleared my throat. “Ah, do you by chance know what R-O-T-F-L-M-A-O means?”

  His eyes flicked to me, then he returned his attention to the road. “Yes.”

  I tamped down my impatience. “Can you enlighten me, please?”

  “Rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off. It means they found whatever you said funny.”

  I blinked at him, then returned my gaze to the screen.

  Obviously, your brain has already slipped into retirement mode. So glad I amused you. I hope you didn’t break a hip when you fell, old woman.

  Her reply was swift.

  If I had, it would have been worth it. I can imagine the look on your snooty face.

  I had no clever comeback. I rarely used texting for personal reasons. I used the one word I knew drove her as crazy as abbreviations did me.

  My face is not snooty. But . . . whatever.