by Devney Perry
With a sigh, I trudged inside. The hotel lobby was warm and inviting, but with every step, I felt more and more like I was in the wrong place. The right thing to do for Austin would be to pack my things and get him home for Christmas Eve.
I walked to one of the couches, plopping down in front of the fireplace, and took the phone from my purse to search for flights. There was one. The last flight from Quincy to Los Angeles was scheduled to leave in ten minutes. We’d never make it.
But what if we drove to a bigger town? I checked flight options from Missoula. The last left at eight this evening. It was a two-hour drive and the flight would get us home after midnight, but he’d be home for Christmas Day. If we left within the next hour, we could make it.
I surged off the couch and gathered my things, jogging toward the elevator. It took forever for the car to return to the lobby. Hurry up. Hurry up. Finally, it chimed and I stepped inside, hitting the button for floor four. The doors had never closed slower. The ride up was agonizing.
Squeezing through the doors, I raced for the room, fumbling with the key card to get inside. Then I dropped my purse and shopping haul, tearing off my coat as I sprinted for the closet and my empty suitcase. The drawers were empty in a flash. My toiletries were thrown into their travel bag. I was sitting on the case, sandwiching it closed to get the zipper shut, when the room door opened and Austin stepped inside, carrying a plastic sack.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Packing. If we leave now and drive to Missoula, we can get on the last flight—”
“Cleo, no.”
“What do you mean, no? We need to hurry.” I snapped my fingers and pointed to my suitcase. “Would you help me zip this, please?”
Austin shook his head. “I’ve already booked my flight for the day after Christmas to match yours. We’re staying.”
“But—”
“We’re staying. It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late.” My shoulders fell. “I don’t want you to have to stay here and spend Christmas with someone you don’t even like.”
He tossed his plastic sack aside and crossed the room. “I like you.”
Oh, how I wished that were true. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend.”
“I like you, Cleo.” He stepped even closer, his hands coming to my shoulders.
My heart stopped. Actually stopped. Austin didn’t touch me. Ever. Unless it was by mistake. But the weight of his wide hands and the warmth of his palms seeped through my sweater and into my skin.
“We’ll stay.”
I barely registered his words. He smelled so good, like spicy cologne and fresh air and a scent that was wholly Austin. Why did he have to smell so good? I resisted the urge to drop my nose into his chest and take a long pull. “Are you sure?”
There I was, double-checking again.
Austin didn’t answer.
Except instead of annoyance on his face, he wore a different expression, one I couldn’t make sense of. His forehead was furrowed, almost like he was in pain. His lips were pursed in a thin line. But his eyes. They told a completely different story. They were intense and dark, the brown a deeper shade than normal and utterly mesmerizing.
Maybe he didn’t like me.
Or maybe . . .
Before I could indulge in the fantasy that he might like me, just a little, Austin tore his hands away from my shoulders, turned to swipe up the plastic bag from the floor and strode into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and flipping the lock.
Two seconds later, the sound of the shower’s spray drifted into the room.
I flopped off my suitcase and onto the bed, groaning to the ceiling.
Why couldn’t we be friends? Life would be easier if we were friends. Why couldn’t I get rid of this stupid crush?
“I want to go home,” I grumbled. Montana had been a huge mistake.
But I was here. Austin was resigned to the idea of staying and as every minute passed, our chances of getting home to LA by Christmas dwindled.
It was time to make the best of an awkward situation. I shoved myself up off the bed and quickly unpacked my suitcase. Then as the shower turned off, I scribbled a note to Austin that I’d gone to the lobby. He was naked on the other side of the bathroom door. There was no way I’d be able to hide the blush in my cheeks when he came out.
So I slipped from the room and went to the lobby. There was a new clerk at the desk when I approached. “Hello. I was just wondering if I could reserve a place in the dining room for dinner tonight.”
“Of course.” The clerk smiled and took down my reservation.
“Thanks.”
If Christmas Eve was Austin’s time to celebrate, then I’d do my best to make this trip enjoyable. Starting with dinner.
Chapter 7
Austin
“Hey,” I answered Channing’s call. “How’s it going?”
“Good. Just wanted to call and make sure you haven’t frozen your balls off yet.”
I chuckled. “Not quite. Sorry I’m not there today.”
Instead, I was back at the farm supply store with two long-sleeved thermals draped over one arm while I stared at the packages of boxer briefs and crew socks. I’d taken a shower but wearing yesterday’s clothes was getting old. I could survive in the same jeans for the rest of the trip, but I wasn’t going to wear the same damn underwear.
I probably should have stopped at the store after my trip to the gas station for toiletries, but at this point, I didn’t mind making multiple trips. There wasn’t much else to do today.
“I’ll make it up to you at New Year’s,” I told Channing.
“It’s cool,” he said. “Mom and I are good. She’s cooking all my favorite stuff today because she feels guilty for not being home on Christmas.”
That was how Mom was every year. She’d spend all of Christmas Eve in the kitchen, making more food than Channing and I could eat all week, let alone in one day, just so that on Christmas Day we weren’t fending for ourselves.
Then she’d come home from her shift at the hospital and we’d eat leftovers. Mom didn’t make the traditional Christmas roast or ham or turkey. She went straight to our favorites: homemade lasagna and green chili enchiladas. They reheated well in the microwave too.
“I wish I was there,” I said.
“Gotta deal with the diva.”
“She’s not a diva.” I frowned, grabbing a four-pack of boxers and a bundle of black socks.
“Dude, any chicks that you have to protect are total divas.”
“Not Cleo.”
“Then why’d she take off to Montana for some bougie vacation?”
“She just came to be alone.”
“Diva.”
“Would you stop calling her a diva?” I snapped. “She isn’t like that.”
“Whoa. Sorry,” he muttered.
“No, it’s not you.” I sighed. “I’m on edge.”
Being on this trip, being this close to Cleo, was making me an exceptionally grumpy bastard.
There was a clicking in the background, like Channing was pressing buttons. My guess was that while Mom was in the kitchen, he was playing video games. I’d never really been into the things myself, but on holidays like this, I’d make an exception and let him school me at a game.
“Wish I was there,” I repeated. Though it was only partially the truth. Cleo was magnetic and enchanting. Time with her was never a waste, no matter how painful it was to maintain my restraints.
“Yeah,” Channing said. “At least you don’t have to go to some rich-dude party.”
“True.” The Hillcrests threw an outlandish Christmas Eve celebration and Ray liked to have security inside and outside the house. My team would be there tonight, like they were every year. My second-in-command, Blake, would be there himself and no matter what came up, he’d handle it.
When I’d first started Garrison, I’d both managed the business and taken on client tasks. But as we’d grown, I’d
cut my time with clients. I focused on risk assessments and pairing team members with jobs. I built relationships with my customers and trained my team, most of whom were ex-military, to our protocols.
I trusted each and every one of them while they were in the field, so attending events and parties personally hadn’t been something I’d done for years.
Especially when it came to the Hillcrests. It was too much to see Cleo decked out in a shimmering gown, the fabric skimming over her curves, and her smile bright—fake, but beautiful nonetheless.
I passed a rack of sweatpants and swiped up a pair in light gray. They’d be better to sleep in tonight than my jeans when I camped out on the floor.
“Anything else happening?” I asked Channing.
“Nah.” His attention had clearly turned back to his game, not that he was all that talkative on the phone anyway. Getting any idea how his classes were going was like pulling teeth.
The two of us did better in person. I’d find some time next week to take him out for lunch or dinner and make sure he was good. “Okay, I’ll let you go. Give Mom a hug for me. And don’t eat everything. I’ll be back the day after Christmas and there better be enchiladas.”
He laughed. “No promises.”
I ended the call and took another look around the store for anything else I needed. There wasn’t. Everything I’d bought would fit in my backpack. Tonight, I’d work on my laptop, answering emails and reading reports. Hopefully that would be enough of a distraction from Cleo in the bed wearing those skimpy pajamas. Though it would be harder to mask my attraction in sweats.
“Back again?” the clerk asked as I approached the register and set my things down. “I thought you’d come back to get a last-minute gift for your girlfriend. That’s pretty much what everyone shopping is doing today.”
“She’s not, uh . . . no. This is just for me.”
Damn it. Should I buy Cleo a gift? I hadn’t even thought about that. Why would I? If I got her something, that would make it weird, right? But it was Christmas.
Maybe I could grab her something from that kitchen store. Cleo had more kitchen utensils than any person on earth but she’d been eyeing some sort of spatula. Would she see through the gift? Would she know that I’d been watching her every move in that store, not because I was concerned with her safety, but because I could barely keep my eyes off her?
Fuck my life. When had a spatula become so complicated?
“Cash or card?” While I’d been debating the merits of a goddamn spatula, the clerk had rung up my purchases and bagged them to go.
“Oh, sorry.” I dug out my wallet and swiped my card through the machine. Then I took my things and left. I forced myself across the street so I wouldn’t be tempted to go inside the kitchen goods shop.
If Cleo were mine, I’d buy her all the kitchen trinkets her drawers could hold. I’d get her tasteful gifts, ones that she’d appreciate, as opposed to the too-fancy jewels her father bought her every Christmas that she never wore.
She’d appreciate a pair of simple earrings and a new rolling pin better than the Tesla he’d bought her last year. The Tesla that she’d sold two weeks later, donating the proceeds to charity.
Blake had been with her that day. He’d laughed and rolled his eyes at Ray, then he’d praised Cleo for being the breath of fresh air that she was.
She didn’t need a new car. What she needed was a weekend in Montana to unwind.
That could be my gift to her. These couple of days.
When I got back to the hotel, I walked through the doors and looked toward the fireplace. Cleo was on one of the couches, her eyes glued to her phone. She’d been in the same place when I’d left earlier.
I crossed the lobby, standing beside her couch. “Hey.”
“Hey.” A natural smile spread across her face as she looked up. She smiled at everyone and it was always genuine. Those smiles, combined with her baked goods, were the reason people flocked to her bakery. Cleo was magnetic. “Where’d you go?”
I held up the bag. “Bought a couple things so I could change.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders fell. “Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. I’m going to head on up and change, then do some work. I’ll be out of your hair so you can chill in the room.”
“Actually, I made us a dinner reservation.”
“Oh.” I grimaced. An intimate Christmas Eve dinner with this beautiful woman would be torture.
Cleo’s smile disappeared. “I can cancel.”
“No, don’t.” If dinner was what she wanted, then I’d eat with her.
For so long, I’d pretended to be a professional. I’d maintained a professional distance. I’d kept our interactions professional. I’d stayed away from her to maintain professionalism.
If professional actually meant acting like a rude, motherfucking asshole, I had professional nailed.
Cleo hadn’t deserved my attitude. For the last day, for the last four years, I’d been acting like an ass. Keeping up the act was exhausting.
Today, I would attempt being a true professional.
“Dinner sounds great. Thank you.” I gestured to my shirt. “But I don’t have anything nice to wear.”
“Neither do I. And I checked with the dining room. It’s not fancy. We can come as we are.”
“Okay, then. What time?”
Her face lit up into a beaming smile. “Seven thirty.”
That gave me four hours to get my shit together, stop pouting and quit ruining her vacation. “I’ll be there.”
“This is so good.” Cleo closed her eyes and hummed. The look of rapture on her face was more mouthwatering than the chocolate cake on my fork. She opened her eyes and smiled. “How’s yours?”
I dropped my gaze to my plate and cleared my throat. “Good.”
“Want to try some cheesecake?”
“No, thanks.” I shoved a bite in my mouth and looked anywhere but at her.
We were the only two left in the dining room. There’d been two large parties here tonight, but both had disbanded and left an hour ago.
Cleo and I had eaten at a leisurely pace. There hadn’t been much conversation, but thanks to the others in the room, we’d spent the time people watching. The other guests had graciously let us stare while they’d eaten, laughed and opened gifts. Cleo and I had both ordered steaks. Not an ounce had been left behind on either of our plates. They’d been that good.
“More?” Cleo lifted the bottle of red wine between us.
“Sure.” I held the stem of my glass as she poured.
“I like this version of Austin.”
“The one who drinks?”
She giggled, topping off her own glass. “Yes. He’s chill.”
“You’re the first person to ever call me chill.” I took another bite of my cake followed by a sip of wine, and the last shred of tension over this meal melted away.
I let myself chill and enjoy her company.
“Did you always want to own a bakery?” I asked.
“Yes. My mom used to let me help her in the kitchen. She’d let me mash bananas for banana bread and she’d measure out ingredients so I could dump them in the mixing bowl. I was so little when she died, but I never forgot those days in the kitchen. When I got older, it was something I could do to feel connected to her.”
There was nothing but adoration and love in her eyes whenever she spoke of her mother. It wasn’t often, but enough to see that Cleo carried Janet in her heart. Maybe that was why her food was out of this world. It was infused with love.
“What about you?” she asked. “Did you always want to be in private security?”
“I don’t know if anyone in this business plans on being in this business.” At least, that was how it was for all of my guys. “I just fell into it. I always wanted to be a fireman, like my dad. My mom wanted me to get my degree first, but I’d planned on applying to a station as soon as I had one. Then a month before graduation, I met this guy who owned a security firm. He w
as looking for some muscle to work at a few events.”
Most of the other twenty-something-year-old guys he’d hired had been bored as hell. They’d hated standing against the wall, observing a party instead of participating in it. But I’d liked the work. It was interesting to watch people when they didn’t realize they were being watched.
I’d seen men check out women other than their dates. I’d heard women talk about other women. And I’d learned how it felt when the tension in a crowd spiked before a fight broke out.
“I was working this concert. It was a private deal in a hotel for a twenty-first birthday party. The birthday boy was a spoiled rich kid. His dad was an actor—and no, I can’t tell you who.”
“Bummer.” She pouted.
“I’d just turned twenty-two and was weeks away from graduating. My class load was light so whatever jobs he gave me, I took because I wanted the cash. So I’m at this concert and these two hothead assholes are about to get in a fight over a girl. I broke it up without breaking any bones or making a scene. No big deal, but my boss was there that night. He watched the whole thing. Before we left that night, he offered to train me and give me a job that paid three times what I would have made in one year as a firefighter. I couldn’t pass it up.”
“How long did you work for him?” Cleo asked.
“About five years. He retired, moved to Hawaii, and I decided to start Garrison.” I’d built my company slowly and deliberately, only hiring crew members when I could guarantee their income for a year. I’d been working Garrison for two years before Ray had become a client, and since, we’d grown considerably.
It was still a small company in terms of the private security firms in LA. I intended to keep it that way, choosing quality services over a massive team. Still, Garrison was bigger than I’d ever dreamed it would be after less than a decade in business.
“Do you ever wish you had become a fireman instead?” Cleo asked.
“Occasionally,” I admitted. “When I see catastrophes and those in uniform banding together, I have regrets. But mostly, I consider myself fortunate to have a good job. And I like calling the shots.”
