The admission might have hurt if she hadn’t heard it before.
A muscle ticked in her jaw. “I have a perfectly fine life. Well, I did until I walked in on my boyfriend cheating on me.”
“You know we’ve been over long before today. Every time I’ve seen you over the last few months, all you talk about is your sister’s wedding. I want a girlfriend, not some woman fixated on someone else’s life.”
How dare he?
She took a step forward. “This wedding is important. Lori and I are recreating the wedding our parents had thirty years ago. It’s not something you can hand off to an event planner. I need to be this involved. If you’d cared about me, you would have understood that.”
The guilt in Garrett’s eyes dissolved into pity. “It’s not your wedding, Bridget.”
A thread of longing twisted around her heart—a feeling she’d grown used to disregarding.
“I know that,” she answered, now the one looking away.
“Do you? Or have you been hiding behind this maternal guise of caring for your sister to shield yourself from anyone who might care for you or stop you from grasping at any opportunity that came your way? You’re the most stifled, stuck person I know. I feel sorry for you,” he said, looking at her as if she were the last puppy left at the pound.
The thread tightened its grip on her heart, twisting and tormenting. But she’d become a pro at dismissing its selfish pleas.
“Is this your way of blaming me for the lingerie-clad woman in your bed?” she asked, unwilling to let his words shake her resolve.
“Bridget, you’re a nice girl, but…”
You’re a nice girl, but…
She didn’t have to listen to what came after those five words because she’d heard them before, littered in the trail of her past relationships. And what did it matter anyway? Garrett, like all the rest, had no sense of duty. He’d never been tasked with ensuring another’s happiness. He’d never made a solemn promise to put another person before himself.
Grandma Dasher had entrusted her sister’s happiness and wellbeing to her. If someone couldn’t understand that, then that person didn’t understand her.
“I’m sorry, Bridget. I didn’t want it to end like this,” he said, his words floating in the air as she turned and headed for the bus stop.
No job. No boyfriend.
But she hadn’t lost everything. She stared down at her phone, then clicked the text icon.
Birdie: Hey, little sis. I caught Garrett in bed with another woman. But don’t worry about me. I’m okay. He was like all the rest. I’m relieved, actually. Now, I won’t have anyone to distract me from making sure the best man is on his best behavior.
Within seconds, three flashing dots appeared, signaling her sister’s reply.
Lori: I’m sorry about Garrett, Birdie. It’s his loss—you know that. I love you!
Bridget gathered her resolve. She’d figure out her life. She’d find another job—somewhere.
But now wasn’t the time to worry about that. No, she’d made a promise—a promise more important than a crummy job or a philandering boyfriend.
Only one thing mattered, and that was making sure Lori’s wedding went off without a hitch.
She thought back to the little girl with the pigtails and her sweet slip of the tongue.
Merry Christmas, Bridget Vixen!
There had to be a little vixen in her somewhere—a little badassery hidden beneath the surface. She lengthened her stride and added a little swing to her step.
For Lori, she’d be the vixen.
The dragon slayer.
A woman on a mission.
This Scooter better watch out. Birdie was on her way.
2
Soren
Soren Rudolph assessed the half-dozen men and women seated around the table in his spacious office overlooking the southern end of Central Park. Prime NYC real estate. Nothing less would do—not for the city’s top private equity firm.
“Report,” he ordered, leaning back in his chair.
Six four and built like a Greek god, he was used to having all eyes on him. But behind his chiseled features and appraising cat-like eyes was a mind that never stopped.
Sure, it was a quarter past seven in the evening the week before Christmas. The brake lights of rush hour traffic thirty stories below reflected off the towering skyscrapers, signaling the end of the workday. But not for him. Not for the real movers and shakers in this city.
Those with their eye on the prize were interested in one goal.
Making cold, hard cash.
Lots of it—and at any cost.
He’d started Rudolph Holdings seven years ago, and in that short amount of time, he’d become the king of asset stripping. Like a wolf searching out the weakest sheep in the flock, his corporation would purchase vulnerable companies. If they were able to turn a profit, adding to his bottom line, they were safe. But if they faltered, if they exhibited even a hint of weakness, it was off to the chopping block. He’d squeeze everything he could from the failed venture. There were wimps and whiners out there who labeled his business practices as callous and cruel, but he didn’t give a damn.
This endeavor required one to mute their feelings and cast away any inkling of sentiment.
If there were ever a person built for this life, it was him.
At thirty years old, even with a law degree and an MBA under his belt, he might be considered young and inexperienced in some circles. But what he lacked in age, he more than made up for with his sharp business acumen and acute intelligence.
Some said he had a sixth sense. He didn’t. He relied on the facts. The data.
Suckers trusted their gut. Losers put their faith in feelings and intuition. Winners pushed that mushy bullshit aside and trusted the numbers.
“Sir, in the past six months, Rudolph Holdings has acquired several factories and a chain of boutique bakeries. Despite the bakery closing locations in smaller cities and resort towns, it’s operating at a loss and has been bleeding cash for the last nine months. We sent out a final notice last week, alerting the owners to the situation,” a young man said with a nervous twitch.
Soren suppressed a grin. He reveled in his power—in his ability to make men and women alike quiver in his presence.
He leaned forward. “I want a full assessment of the bakery chain: property information and an estimate of key assets. Let’s do what we do best. Take them apart and get top dollar for every sellable component.”
“And the staff, sir?” the man added, running his index finger under the collar of his dress shirt.
Soren stared at the man. A new hire.
“The staff?” he repeated, his voice low.
“Yes, how should we proceed with the employees,” the newbie asked as beads of sweat lined the guy’s upper lip.
Soren rose to his feet and paced the length of the office. “You’re new here.”
“Yes, sir, I’m Cory. I was hired a month ago.”
“Let me give you a tip, Cory.”
The young man wiped his wrist across his sweaty lip. “I’d appreciate that, sir.”
Soren stared out the window at the park he’d visited a million times, but never with his parents. No, they had no interest in him. Petty affairs and private jets headed to Monte Carlo or the Italian Riviera took priority for his aloof mother and playboy of a father.
He turned and pinned the man with his piercing green gaze. “We don’t concern ourselves with the employees.”
The new hire opened a folder and glanced at a piece of paper. “We don’t? I figured they had families, and it’s so close to Christmas. I thought we could be charitable and give them some more time.”
Jesus Christ!
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Time to do what? Cost us more money?”
Cory swallowed hard. “I didn’t think of it that way, sir.”
“If you want to be successful in this business, you need to start thinking of it that way. Charity doesn
’t pay the bills. It simply draws out the inevitable. We go in for the fast kill—precise and lethal. We don’t fuck around. Do you understand?”
The man nodded emphatically. “Yes, Mr. Rudolph, I do.”
“You all know what you need to do. Get to work,” he said, addressing the group as his phone buzzed an incoming call.
He slipped it from his pocket and nearly cracked a smile, but he maintained a neutral expression as he dismissed the employees. Once they were down the hall and out of eyesight, he glanced at the only framed photo he kept on a shelf near his desk. The corners of his lips tipped into the ghost of a grin as he took in the image of two gangly fourteen-year-old boys with their arms slung over each other.
He tapped the phone icon and answered the call.
“Is the funeral still on?” he asked in lieu of a greeting and was met with the easy laughter of his best friend, Tom Abbott.
“Scooter! You’ve got to stop referring to my wedding as a funeral. I’m grateful as hell that you finally agreed to be my best man this morning, but…”
“But what?” he threw back playfully.
“But flying in the night before the wedding then leaving right after won’t give you any time to enjoy the mountain. Come and stay for the week. We can hit the slopes. Eat delicious food. Drink good beer.”
“All this with your fiancée present, right?”
Fiancée.
He hated the sound of the word.
He and Tom were a twosome. Two men on a mission to live their lives to the fullest. That is, until Tom—in what he could only describe as a crushing lapse of judgment—added a fiancée to the mix, throwing off the delicate balance of their friendship. How were they supposed to pick up women and drop everything to go cliff diving in Australia with a fiancée in tow?
“Tell me you’ve come to your senses, and we can catch a flight to Ibiza. Think of it, Tommy. Sand, sun, and more pussy than you’d know what to do with,” he answered but was met with a heavy silence.
Tom had been his best friend and partner in crime since they’d met at boarding school in Boston when they were freshmen in high school. They’d even gone to college and law school together. For the better part of the last sixteen years, there were inseparable.
And when it came to women, they were unstoppable. With his all-American, boy next door blond hair and blue-eyed vibe, Tom contrasted with his dark and brooding personality to create the perfect chick magnet.
But they’d never had more than a fling. Neither had ever dated anyone seriously. Who wanted the old ball and chain?
It was the perfect setup. Nothing tied them down.
They’d traveled the world. They’d run with the bulls in Pamplona, summited Everest, and had spent every Christmas together since they were fourteen. Before his first Christmas with the Abbotts, he’d planned on staying in his dorm room at boarding school for the entire winter break.
The beauty of having divorced parents who detested each other and couldn’t give a shit about their kid meant that he could tell his mom he was going to stay with his dad, then tell his dad that he was going to be with his mom.
By fourteen, he’d had his fill of waking up on Christmas morning to a housekeeper.
Upon hearing his plan, Tom had dragged his moody ass to the Boston suburbs to spend the holiday with his family.
And from that moment on, he’d found the one place where he could be himself.
The Abbott’s had welcomed him with open arms and were the closest thing to family he’d ever known.
He wasn’t about to have some fiancée shifting the dynamic or changing the rhythm that had meant everything to him.
“Scooter, buddy, I told you. Lori’s the one for me. When you know you know,” Tom replied with a dreamy quality to his voice that made him want to hurl.
Soren frowned. “Don’t give me that love at first sight bullshit,” he shot back.
“It’s not bullshit. And you know that means something coming from me. I wouldn’t lie to you, Scooter.”
Soren huffed. “And the prenup? Has she signed it?”
“You know I don’t want one.”
Soren shook his head. “You’re a damn lawyer, Tom. You should know better.”
His friend chuckled. “You sound like Lori. She drew one up the other day at work, but I threw it in the trash. I’m the one saying no to a prenup. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it. I love Lori and—”
“And what, Mr. Pussy Whipped?” he grumped.
Tom paused, not taking the bait. “Not all marriages are like your parents. Think of my mom and dad.”
That’s exactly what he was thinking about. Tom’s parents, Grace and Scott, treated him like another son. Tom’s grandfather, Franklin Goodwin Abbott, who they affectionately called Judge because the man had served in the family courts for over fifty years, taught him how to fish alongside Tom. He even enjoyed spending time with Tom’s Uncle Russell, who could be best described as a balding, leisure suit Larry wannabe Casanova. The guy might have had game once upon a time, but he and Tom always got a kick out of taking him out to the bars over the holidays to watch him get shot down by women half his age.
Then there was Tom’s ballbuster of an older sister, Denise, who gave him shit like an older sister should. And Denise’s wife Nancy wasn’t one to be left out either when it came to the playful ribbing. Their kids, Cole and Carly, called him Uncle Scooter, for Christ’s sake! Soren Christopher Traeger Rudolph, the hard-nosed, money-making womanizer, allowed two children to call him Uncle Scooter.
Why? Because they loved him.
He opened his desk drawer and peered at a picture that five-year-old Cole and eight-year-old Carly had drawn for him. A picture of a stupid Vespa scooter, and it was a damned treasure.
Denise and Nancy had gotten married ten years ago, which, along with having the kids, had altered the holidays. But he and Tom had taken on the role of uncles together.
It was always him and Tom.
And he sure as hell wasn’t about to allow a shake-up to the status quo. More than that, he had to think of Tom. Marriage was nothing to take lightly. He was moving too fast. He wasn’t in his right mind.
“Come on, Scooter. If I can’t lure you out for the week, promise me that you’ll be on good behavior when you do get here,” Tom said, exasperation coating his words.
His fiancée must have put him up to this call.
Soren closed the drawer containing Cole and Carly’s picture as a sly expression graced his features.
“Hey, if this love of yours is as strong as you say, it can survive anything, right?”
Throwing Tom’s love logic back at him was a jackass lawyer move. But he was starting to feel something deep within him.
His past, percolating in his chest.
Before he spent the holidays with the Abbotts, he’d been utterly alone.
“Scooter?” Tom pressed.
Soren tapped his fingers on the desk. “I agreed to be your best man. Isn’t that enough?”
“And I’d like my best man with me for the week. You’ve celebrated every Christmas with us since we were fourteen. You’d be here right now if there wasn’t a wedding.”
“I prefer your parents’ place in Massachusetts,” he shot back.
“Well, tough guy, this year, the Abbotts are in Colorado.”
“For an entire damned week,” Soren mumbled.
Tom groaned. “Again, Scooter, you’ve always spent a week with us. Plus, Birdie’s got the whole week planned with activities, dinners, and all sorts of good stuff. It’s going to be a blast.”
Soren bristled. The thought of prearranged plans left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d lost count of the camps and daycares his parents had enrolled him in when he was a boy to get him out of their hair. Nannies who were charged with his well-being dragged him all over the city. Neither of his parents ever asked about his day, his likes, his dislikes. They’d breeze in and out of his life like leaves in the wind.
“I ma
ke my own schedule,” he replied, shaking off the memories.
“Scooter! Dude! It’s my wedding,” Tom pleaded.
“You’re not married yet, and who the hell is this Birdie. And what the fuck kind of name is that?”
“Birdie is Lori’s sister. I told you about her.”
Soren frowned. He’d become accustomed to zoning out of the conversation when it turned to Lori. In fact, he was damned ready to have his friend back and talk about something other than this woman.
“Scooter, you need to get on board with the wedding. My whole family loves Lori. Even Denise. And you know what she’s like.”
Soren stared out into the city, twinkling with holiday lights. “S, C, T, R,” he said softly.
“Scooter,” his friend replied. “I was sure you were going to hate me after Denise saw your initials on your luggage and started calling you Scooter.”
“Stupid fucking name,” he replied with a grin.
“It’s been your nickname for sixteen years. You know you love it,” Tom teased.
His best friend wasn’t wrong.
He did love the silly moniker. He might not be an Abbott, but when Tom’s sister anointed him Scooter, a twisted childhood logic took over. In his heart, this naming, this connection bound them together. It made him a part of them. Tom’s entire family called him Scooter. They used the nickname with such love, in his darkest moments, all he’d have to do was whisper the word, and instantly, he was home.
Soren Christopher Traeger Rudolph was a calculating businessman who regularly stripped companies of their livelihood. He dismantled and demolished.
His life as Scooter was the only redeeming part of him.
“Why the rush to get married, Tommy?” he asked, changing tack. “We’re thirty. We’re young. We’ve still got places to go and people to meet. Beautiful women in need of having their brains screwed out. This is the time in our lives to indulge.”
“We’ve been indulging for over a decade. Aren’t you ready for more? And I’ve got to tell you, I have quite a bit of more on the horizon with her,” Tom said, back to sounding like a whipped schoolboy.
Not Your Average Vixen: A Christmas Romance Page 3
