She glanced at the bed she didn’t sleep in last night, then wheeled her bag to the door. Time to check out. Time for the fairy tale to end. She released a slow breath as the whispers of that plan-for-everything sister edged its way back into her mind.
But she couldn’t get Soren out of her head.
Could there be a future for two people with such instant chemistry?
She could wait for him in the lobby, and…
No, she couldn’t go back. That was the whole point. For one night, she’d pretended to be someone different. She’d slapped a strip of duct tape over the mouth of that broken, betrayed girl. Silenced her fears of inadequacy and became the woman any man would want.
And she’d done it. She’d put on the vixen mask, and now that sweet ache between her thighs was the only reminder of being screwed six ways from Sunday. Well, seven. But who’s counting?
No matter the number, it had to be enough.
There was no other option.
She left the room and caught the elevator to the lobby. As if on autopilot, she checked out and headed toward the restaurant to grab a quick breakfast before the car arrived to take her to Kringle Mountain.
The dimly lit space where she’d had her first orgasm of the night looked nothing like what she’d remembered. The staff had rearranged the room for a breakfast buffet, and she stared at the booth she’d shared with her handsome stranger.
In her mind, it appeared darkened and secluded. But a frown pulled at the corners of her mouth when she saw it in the light of day. No longer shrouded in a dim, hazy glow, the same booth that had hosted their naughty sexcapades now held a family of four happily munching on omelets and cinnamon rolls.
Was her night with Soren just a beautiful fantasy? A perfect holiday escape?
She scanned the buffet line, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who’d kissed her with such intensity that her lips still tingled. But her Christmas hotel hottie wasn’t there.
“Gone, like it was a dream,” she whispered, dismissing the lonesome pang in her chest.
“Ms. Dasher?” came a curious voice.
She glanced up to see a man holding a sign with Kringle Mountain House printed in festive lettering. He had a beard as white as snow and sported a red flannel. Looking like Santa’s lumberjack cousin, he gave her a friendly nod.
“Yes, I’m Ms. Dasher.”
“I’m Dan. My wife, Delores, and I are the mountain house caretakers. I’m here to drive you up to Kringle Mountain.”
She nodded, then glanced at the buffet table and spied a fruit display. “Give me one second, Dan.”
While she and Soren had done some very interesting things with a bowl of strawberries and champagne they’d ordered late last night, she was famished from skipping dinner and needed some real nourishment. It was game time. From this point on, her top priority was to make sure that Lori’s wedding went off without a hitch.
Goodbye, not your average vixen. Hello, ball-busting maid of honor.
She grabbed a banana from the table. “I’m all set, Dan. Thanks for coming to pick me up.”
Rosy-cheeked, the man looked even more like Santa than she’d initially thought. She was about to tell him this when her phone buzzed. She reached into her purse to find that she’d missed five calls.
All of them from her sister.
Dan led her out to an older model Range Rover that looked more apt for the Serengeti than the Colorado slopes, but it had to do.
“I’ve got one more to take up to the mountain house,” he said as he loaded her luggage into the back of the vehicle.
She tried to smile, but a lump of worry hardened in her belly.
Five calls in one night was a lot.
She pressed play on the first message, but she could only hear sobbing. Finally, by the fifth and final call, her sister had calmed down.
“Birdie, Scooter sent strippers to the mountain house! Strippers! Tom promised me that he wouldn’t let Scooter turn our wedding into a bachelor party gone wild! But the guy didn’t listen to him!”
Bridget fumed, but now wasn’t the time to call Lori back—not with the driver only a few feet away and another passenger coming. Instead, she switched to text and hammered out a message.
I’m on my way, little sis. I’ll sort out everything when I get there. Don’t you worry!
She dropped her phone into her bag and peeled the banana with a ferocity that the poor piece of fruit didn’t deserve. She took an angry bite. Damn this Scooter! The bastard better be ready for a fight. He was about to incur the wrath of Bridget Dasher.
She took another angry bite, furious with this moron. Agitation prickled down her spine. They needed to get on the road. It was a good ninety-minute drive to Kringle, and if this Scooter was up to no good, she needed to be there to defuse whatever wedding bombshells he had up his sleeves.
Dan tapped the opened door. “I’ll be right back after I find the other guest, Ms. Dasher. It turns out, the best man got snowed in, too.”
“The best man is here? At this hotel?” she asked, her voice rising an octave. She knew he was coming early, but she hadn’t even thought they’d be stuck at the same hotel.
“He sure is—a Mr. Rudolph. I’ll be right back. Sit tight,” the jovial man replied.
Now, like her Santa-double driver, her cheeks were as red as roses, but not because she was feeling anything close to jolly.
In fact, she was the epitome of the exact opposite of jolly.
Tom’s best man was no best man. No, he was the worst man, and this stripper-sending creep was about to get an earful.
But her mouth fell open when Mr. Smarmy Salsa sauntered out of the hotel, trailing a few steps behind Dan.
She gritted her teeth. Of course, this salsa-eating freakazoid was the infamous Scooter. She narrowed her gaze, ready to tear this guy a new one. But Mr. Smarmy Salsa veered right, then slid into a waiting cab a few cars ahead of them.
She glanced at Dan. “Where’s the best man?”
But she spoke too soon.
“I’m the best man,” came the sexy voice that had whispered sweet nothings—and some very dirty nothings—into her ear last night.
Holy vixen catastrophe!
Wide-eyed, the man stopped a few paces from the car and stared at her.
“You’re Birdie?”
Her gaze dropped to his satchel, and the black leather personalized luggage tag with the initials S, C, T, and R emblazoned in silver lettering.
“S, C, T, R?” she read, unable to look away.
“Soren Christopher Traeger Rudolph,” he parroted back robotically.
She gasped. “Scooter?”
It was true!
Her handsome stranger was the playboy asshat with the stupidest nickname in the world!
“Let me take your bag, Mr. Rudolph,” Dan said with a warm grin.
Soren handed over his suitcase and satchel but kept his gaze locked on her.
“We better get going,” Dan added, oblivious to the fact that she had the worst luck in the entire universe and that the devil incarnate just handed him his suitcase.
Soren blinked as if opening and closing his eyes would make her disappear. And if she possessed a disappearing superpower, she would have gladly granted him his wish. Unfortunately, even a real vixen couldn’t do that.
Dan got behind the wheel, and Soren, Scooter, whatever the hell his name was, slid into the back seat with her.
Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. What was she supposed to say? Remember that fun girl from last night? You know, the one that rode you like a cowgirl on the hotel’s bearskin rug? Well, she’s me, but I’m not her. I’m no vixen. I’m Lori’s older sister, her greatest protector, and you, Scooter, are in a world of shit!
But one thing was crystal clear. She had to suppress any feelings of tenderness toward this man.
Starting now, he was public enemy number one.
“I can’t believe that you’re Birdie, Lori’s uptight sister,” Soren
said under his breath, breaking into her thoughts.
She harnessed her resolve. “I can’t believe you’re the playboy stripper-sending schmuck, Scooter. Suck on that, creep!” she whisper-shouted, keeping her voice low so Dan couldn’t hear them.
But when it came to sucking, all she could imagine were her lips wrapped around his glorious cock.
He laughed under his breath.
Oh, my God! Was he thinking the same thing?
The perfect-cocked creep!
She faced him head-on. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Scooter!”
He held her gaze, and for a fraction of a second, he was there. The man who’d made her body purr. The man whose eyes flashed with such broken yearning that she’d wanted to gather up all his broken pieces and put him back together.
And then, it was gone—he was gone.
His eyes went flat, and the emotion drained from his expression. “I’d say the same for you, Birdie.”
Dan turned on the car, and holiday music flooded the cab.
“So, you’re Bridget Dasher, the maid of honor. And you’re Soren Rudolph, the best man. How fitting!” Dan remarked as he maneuvered the car into traffic.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Soren asked with a sharp edge.
But his New York jackassery didn’t seem to bother Dan one bit.
“Dasher and Rudolph! You’ll fit in perfectly at Kringle Mountain. We have many retirees in town who have dedicated themselves to the Christmas season. It’s a great place, and it really comes to life this time of year. It is a shame that the local bakery closed a few weeks back, but I know the folks at Kringle Acres are mighty appreciative that you’ve agreed to supply them with homemade Christmas cookies, Ms. Dasher. And they’re all looking forward to the spaghetti dinner tonight, too.”
“What are you talking about? A spaghetti dinner at Kringle Acres? What the hell is Kringle Acres?” Soren questioned with that city slicker chip still on his shoulder.
She plastered on a smile, then pinned the worst best man with her gaze. “We’re talking about community service. The entire wedding party is putting on a spaghetti dinner for the Kringle Acres Retirement Community residents. Volunteering and community service were important to my parents. And it’s on the wedding schedule. The schedule for the people who care about this wedding and are dead set on making sure that it’s executed with military precision,” she replied, all syrupy sweet.
Dan glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve got to say, Ms. Dasher, Delores was quite impressed with the emails you’ve sent. She said that you’ve got quite an eye for detail. You don’t see that much in Kringle, these days. It’s a pretty easy-going, go with the flow type of town. But don’t you worry! That doesn’t mean that Delores and I are slacking off. The chapel on top of Mount Kringle will be ready Christmas Eve for the wedding ceremony, and we were able to have all the baking supplies you requested delivered this morning.”
“Is the gondola that will take the wedding party up to the chapel working? Last I checked, Delores said it was a little touch and go,” she asked, ignoring the wedding crasher and focusing on what needed to get done.
While they were staying at the mountain house, the wedding was set to take place in the same tiny mountain chapel where her mother and father were married thirty years ago. The very same chapel that was only accessible by gondola.
“With enough Christmas spirit, I’m sure everything will be fine,” Dan answered as if Christmas spirit had anything to do with the mechanical functioning of the transportation that provided the only way to get to the cozy chapel.
She started to ask the jolly man to extrapolate on this when Soren cut her off.
“You’re baking?” he asked with a sour edge.
She sat back. “Yes, in addition to baking cookies for the residents of the retirement community, I’m making Lori and Tom’s wedding cake.”
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, and her blood boiled.
He was there to disrupt the wedding! Lori’s gut-feeling was right!
“I love this song. I’d bet that it’s one of your favorites, too, Mr. Rudolph,” Dan remarked, turning up the volume on a big band rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as they left the city and headed west toward a vast expanse of snow-covered mountains.
She glanced over at her scowling back seat companion. The man gave Dan a polite nod, but the guy was clearly not a fan of the song—which made sense. Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer was a benevolent, save-the-day kind of reindeer. The man seated next to her was more of a Grinch than a hero—no matter what his last name was.
Soren cleared his throat. “You killed your banana.”
“What?” she shot back, giving him her best screw-you look, then glanced down to see that, yes, she’d strangled what was left of the poor fruit.
She’d forgotten she’d even been holding the half-eaten thing.
Before the banana mush could fall onto her lap, she popped what was left of it into her mouth. Dabbing at the corners of her lips with her fingers, she caught her former hotel hottie watching her.
If her mouth wasn’t filled with the potassium-packed sweetness, she’d tell the banana peeper to peep somewhere else. But in his gaze, she didn’t see the worst best man. Sadness flashed in his eyes before he looked away.
She swallowed the giant bite as Dan held up a little trash can, and she disposed of the peel.
Perhaps Soren wasn’t so bad. Maybe there was something inside of him that she could appeal to? She’d swear she’d glimpsed a good man last night. She turned to him, then parted her lips, but before she could speak, he winced.
“Now, you’ve got banana in your teeth.”
She gasped and pulled her sunglasses out of her bag to use their reflection as a mirror.
“Like that salsa guy last night. Only banana,” he added with one jerktastic smirk.
She stared at her mirrored reflection, smiling like a game show hostess and shifting her jaw to check every tooth.
“No, I don’t!” she shot back.
He shrugged—a cocky little movement. It made her want to slug him right in his beautiful face.
“My bad. I guess I was wrong.”
She slid the glasses on and scooted as far away from this Scooter as possible.
What was the penalty for punching a smug worst best man in the presence of a Santa lookalike? It was the holidays. A time for kindness, leniency, and goodwill toward women and men who weren’t giant wedding crashers. And her sister was a lawyer—a Harvard educated lawyer. She could get her out of jail.
Bridget huffed a frustrated breath.
No, no, no!
She was not about to take his bait and add any drama to this week. She was a steamroller—there to smooth out any rough patches—including a best man with the worst intentions.
She’d ignore him. She’d formulate a battle plan. But just as the thought materialized, so did one hell of a yawn.
“It appears you didn’t get much sleep last night?” he said, all cool tone and detached sexiness.
“I slept fine,” she replied as her treacherous body yawned again.
“I know you did. I watched you.”
Her head whipped toward him, and she caught a glimpse of the witty, affectionate man who’d made her body hum all night. What was going on with this Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde routine?
“You did?” she whispered, throwing a furtive glance toward Dan, who was fa, la, la, la, la-ing away to the Christmas music.
But just as quickly as Soren looked ready to offer her the world, his expression hardened.
“Yeah, you drool.”
Her jaw dropped, and so did another yawn.
So, this was how it was going to be!
She wedged herself into the door and rested her head on the window.
Think of Lori. Think of Lori. Think of Lori.
She closed her eyes, but instead of her sister’s face, she saw her grandmother. Yes, she’d channel Grandma Dasher. Sh
e’d dig deep and stand her ground. Her grandma Dasher was kind and soft-spoken, but she also had a steel spine and probably a touch of vixen.
Be the vixen.
The low rumble of the engine and the soothing hum of the road soon had her on the brink of sleep. She’d rest her eyes for a few minutes. She’d allow herself this tiny respite before the epic holiday wedding battle between Rudolph and Dasher commenced.
6
Bridget
“Frosty the Snowman.”
She hummed a happy little sigh as the song, good old “Frosty the Snowman,” one of her childhood holiday favorites, played in the background. She snuggled in as warmth radiated around her body. This is what she needed. She patted the blanket, then twisted her fingers into the comforter. The music stopped and a peaceful sigh vibrated through her body. Only, she wasn’t the one doing the sighing this time.
“Just look at you two! Like two chestnuts, cozied up and roasting on an open fire. Take your time. I’ll bring your bags in.”
“Thanks, Dan,” she answered on a dreamy exhale at the same time as a voice, much lower than hers, offered the same reply.
She opened her eyes a sliver, but all she could see was black. She shifted a fraction as her sleep haze cleared and one very warm, very familiar hand rested on her shoulder. She held her breath and experienced the gentle rise and fall of her hotel hottie and now, mortal enemy, Soren, the worst best man, Rudolph’s, chest as he slept peacefully.
She wiggled, trying to break free of his iron grip.
“Let go of me!” she shrieked.
The man startled, but instead of letting go, he tightened his grip.
“If you squeeze any harder, there’s a good chance you’ll end up with banana all over your fancy coat!” she warned, hating that it wasn’t the fruit she was thinking about while wrapped in his strong embrace.
Immediately, his arms flew open, and she tumbled back, but not before grabbing onto his elbow and pulling him over to the other side of the car. He landed, sandwiched in next to her, and in a frantic tangle of limbs, she extricated herself from beneath Soren’s large frame.
Not that he was crushing her. She’d spent a good deal of time under his toned, muscled body last night.
Not Your Average Vixen: A Christmas Romance Page 8
