“Anything.”
His mind raced. If Tom needed to make a quick getaway, they’d need a vehicle. He spied an old pickup truck parked on the side of the mountain house. There! Knowing places like these, the keys were probably tucked above the sun visor.
Tom reached into his pocket, removed a small black velvet bag, then shook the contents into his palm.
Oh shit! The rings!
“Best man duties. I’m trusting you with these,” he said, handing them over carefully.
Soren held his friend’s gaze and remembered back to the day Tom dragged him onto the train to spend his first Christmas with the Abbotts.
“You’re trusting me with the wedding rings?” he asked, trying not to sound like a fox who’d been given the keys to the henhouse.
Tom chuckled. “Yeah, of course, I am. You’re my best friend, Scooter,” the man finished with a pat to his shoulder before hurrying to join Lori at the ski rack.
He pulled his gaze from his best friend and stared at the gleaming bands.
This was not what he was expecting, not by a longshot.
“You better put them someplace safe,” Bridget warned.
He nodded, hardly able to believe he held an essential piece to Tom’s wedding in his hand. Without thinking, he put the rings back in the pouch, unzipped his coat’s interior pocket, and tucked the bands inside.
“Hey, Birdie! Don’t let Scooter slack off,” Denise teased, throwing him a little wink as she helped Cole and Carly put on their skis.
“Don’t you worry. I plan to make him work for it,” Bridget answered.
Thrown off by Tom’s request, he met her gaze. A man could get drunk off the confidence brimming in her eyes. She thought she had the upper hand—thought she was holding all the cards. He parted his lips, ready to knock her down a peg when a pat to his back caught his attention. He turned to see the judge, eyeing him closely.
Soren shifted his weight from foot to foot. The rings in his pocket weighed nothing, but a strange heaviness had set in.
“Have fun cleaning up in poker,” he said, aiming for easy-going, but Tom’s grandfather didn’t move.
“There’s something about you two,” he said, wagging a finger at them.
Bridget blushed. She had to work on her poker face. Luckily, he was the king of suppressing his emotions.
“You’re right, Judge. We both care about Tom and Lori and want them to live their best lives,” he answered, leaning on his law degree with that statement. It wasn’t a lie. He wanted Lori Dasher to have a nice life—far the fuck away from his best friend.
“Hmm,” Judge replied, sharing a look with Dan.
When did these two become thick as thieves? Maybe it was an old guy thing.
The judge was a fascinating man. He’d spent his career in the family courts, which sounded like a goddamn nightmare. But the man’s office was littered with thank you cards and photographs of people he’d married, adoptions he’d overseen, even divorcees, who couldn’t stand each other but maintained a soft place in their hearts for the man.
There typically wasn’t a jury in family court, and the judge alone is tasked with ensuring justice—something that Franklin Abbott took seriously. The man was unequivocally fair and unwavering in his deployment of justice, but he did it with compassion. When he’d taught him how to fish, the judge’s steady demeanor, so different from what he’d experienced with his parents, had made him the man’s biggest fan. He’d never met the judge’s wife. The two had been high school sweethearts, and she’d passed away years before he’d met Tom. But the man still carried her high school photo in his wallet.
A sappy as hell move for most, but with the judge, it was the real deal. True love.
“I’ll see you both at dinner. Thank you for planning such a festive week for us, Birdie. I can tell that you’ve put quite a bit of thought into our time here in Kringle,” the judge added, then nodded to Dan as the men headed toward the old Rover.
Soren breathed a sigh of relief. If he could fool the judge, he could fool anyone.
He and Bridget waved as the pair made their way down the snowy drive, headed for Kringle Village, and thought of that crinkled photograph. He couldn’t imagine keeping any woman’s picture with him all the time.
Or could he?
An icy breeze picked up, and a lock of Bridget’s hair brushed against his arm.
And then it was just the two of them.
“Shall we,” he said, gesturing to the mountain house.
The massive one-story structure looked like something kids would dream up with multiple boxes of Lincoln Logs at their disposal. Tucked into the side of the mountain with smoke coming out of the stone chimney, this place was the epitome of rustic chic and had a certain charm he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
No matter. This would soon be the location where Tom came to his senses. He should look into flights to Bali or Australia. After his friend ended things with Lori, he’d need an adventure to get her out of his head.
“That was interesting,” Bridget said with a surreptitious twist to her lips as they crunched through the snow toward the house.
He pasted on his cocksure smirk. “See, I can be nice.”
She barked out a laugh. “No, you can’t.”
“I can’t?”
His pulse quickened. Why did he like going back and forth with her?
He reached to open the door, but she pressed her back against it before he could pull it open.
“I know what you’re doing, and I’m not falling for it, Scooter,” she said with a determined edge.
He took a step closer and tipped her chin to meet his gaze. Barely an inch apart, it would take no effort for him to lift her into his arms and kiss her into oblivion.
“What is it that you think I’m doing, Birdie?” he asked instead, his fingers twitching at the thought of gripping the globes of her perfect ass.
Sweet Jesus, this was hot!
She lowered her voice. “I see you playing the nice guy, and we both know that you’re not a nice guy.”
His fingertips grazed hers as electricity crackled between them. “You thought I was nice enough last night after I gave you, what was it, five orgasms?”
She looked away and murmured something under her breath.
He wove his fingers with hers, and the contact had him rock-hard.
“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you, Bridget?” he continued, loving the sound of her name.
Her chest heaved with each punctuated breath. She felt it, too—this crazy charge between them.
She schooled her features. “Seven, I said seven! I had seven orgasms last night. Are you happy now? You shouldn’t be. That whole orgasm business is over. From this moment on, I won’t have any time for orgasms because I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”
“Is that right?” he purred.
She sucked in a sharp breath. “You bet your life, Scooter.”
They were back to the Scooter and Birdie game.
He cupped her cheek in his hand and licked his lips. His one-night vixen looked good enough to eat.
“What if I plan on not letting you out of my sight, Birdie?”
Her bottom lip trembled, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The cold air paired with the inferno blazing between them sent a delicious buzz through his body. Her eyes fluttered closed, and he leaned in, unable to stop himself when a sharp knock on the mountain house window broke the kissing spell. Bridget shrieked, then shoved him with the force of an NFL linebacker. Surprised at his vixen’s upper body strength, he lost his footing, hit the side of the steps, then fell into a mound of snow with a frosty thud.
“Are you two coming in, or do you plan on standing in front of my door all afternoon?”
He raised his hand to block the sun and got a glimpse of a smiling older woman with round wire-rimmed glasses and a coat covered in candy canes.
“Mrs. Claus?” he sputtered.
“No, dear, it’s Mrs. Donner. I’m Dan�
��s wife. You can call me Delores.”
Jesus! More damn reindeer names. And, in his defense, the Claus remark was a knee-jerk reaction to a woman who looked like she’d been deployed from Christmas central casting.
“Are you okay?” Bridget exclaimed, hurrying to his side.
Worry creased her brow as she extended her hand to help him up. He knew she was sweet. He’d seen through her vixen facade, but it turned out that she was also genuinely kind—another reason he could never be with someone like her. Still, he hated how easily she could awaken that lost, lonely part of him that longed for more.
“You must be Birdie and Scooter! Come in. I’ve got the oven all preheated for you,” the woman said warmly.
“You do?” Bridget asked as he came to his feet and stood beside her.
“It’s on your schedule. I figured since you got delayed in Denver and lost a day, you’d want to get started baking right away.”
Dammit! That’s right! His one-night vixen had a schedule.
Delores gestured for them to follow her inside. He dusted the snow off his ass and trailed a few steps behind the women, then stopped in his tracks and couldn’t hold back a grin.
This place was fantastic!
Antler chandeliers strung with white lights hung from exposed timber beams built into the pitched roof as the scent of evergreens and fresh-baked cookies wafted through the room. The main gathering space was part living room with plush seating and part dining room with a long rustic table running down the center. A decorated Christmas tree sat in each corner of the room, while stockings hung along the hearth. Everyone had a stocking with their name written in gold or silver glitter, and his Scooter stocking hung next to the one with Birdie written in swooping silver letters.
“It’s…” he began, but Bridget cut him off.
“It’s exactly how I remembered it,” she said, her voice full of wonder.
Delores straightened one of the stockings. “Your sister had the same reaction when she’d arrived. She said your family loved coming here for the holidays.”
Bridget nodded. “We did.”
“And your parents were married at the Kringle Chapel?” Mrs. Claus’s doppelgänger continued.
“Yes, they met when they were English professors at the University of Colorado. They’d invited my grandmother to spend their first Christmas here and chose to come to the Kringle Mountain House instead of staying in their cramped apartment in the city. They fell in love with this place and got married here a year later. But I haven’t been back since I was a teenager.”
“That’s a lovely story, dear, and we’re so happy to have you here celebrating not only Christmas but your sister’s wedding. The town of Kringle may be a bit different now than what you remember.”
Bridget walked down the center of the room, grazing her fingertips along the length of the rustic table as she stared at the mountains framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the back of the mountain house, and he couldn’t help remembering her doing the same thing last night when they’d entered his suite.
Was that only last night? It felt like the two of them had been tangled together for eons—not hours.
“It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Delores as her eyes shined with emotion.
“Is this them, Mrs. D? Robin and Vespa?”
He turned to see a young man saunter in from the kitchen. In sunglasses, a red and white slouching Santa beanie sitting cockeyed on his head and zipped into an oversized hoodie covered in poinsettias, or some other green pointy plant, he was the poster kid for grunge Christmas. The guy lowered his shades to get a better look at them, then quickly slid his glasses back in place.
“It’s Birdie and Scooter, dear,” Delores corrected.
The young man nodded slowly. “But robins are birds, and Vespas are scooters.”
Delores grinned at the guy as if he didn’t seem totally out of his mind. “This is Tanner Baker. He works part-time doing odd jobs at the Kringle Mountain House and in the kitchen at Kringle Acres.”
“Right on! And I also dabble in agricultural pursuits,” the kid answered, sounding as if he’d spent the last decade locked in a room watching Point Break and mastering the tone and cadence of pseudo-surf speak.
Delores grinned at the guy. “Our young Tanner is a Colorado renaissance man. Are your brownies and gummy bears ready, dear?”
“Bears are done, and three more minutes on the Baker’s delight brownies, Mrs. D,” he answered, procuring a plastic bag teeming with gummy bears and popping one into his mouth.
“Very good, and please leave the oven on, dear. Our guests are baking cookies for the residents at Kringle Acres.”
Tanner popped another gummy into his mouth. “Sweet, let me know if you need me to hook you up with any special ingredients.”
Bridget glanced between the peculiar pair, then looked up at him. Her questioning expression seemed to ask if they’d entered into an alternate universe.
He was wondering the same thing.
He gave her a little shrug. They were miles away from the closest major ski resort, and these out of the way towns were often packed with interesting characters.
Bridget turned to the holiday odd couple and pasted on a grin. “I think we should be fine, but thank you for offering. Dan said everything I’d asked for had been delivered. Did my baking equipment make it to you? I shipped it last week. I’ll need it to make the wedding cake.”
Delores nodded. “It did, but we don’t have the refrigerator space here for you to make and store the wedding cake.”
He bit back a grin. There it was—the first sign this wedding was doomed!
Bridget gasped. “But I have an email from you confirming the exact measurements of your freezer.”
He crossed his arms, feeling pretty damn good.
Rudolph one. Dasher zero.
“Don’t worry, dear. There is freezer space, just not here.”
That adorable crinkle between her eyebrows made an appearance. “I don’t understand.”
Delores adjusted her Mrs. Claus glasses. “About a month ago, the little bakery in our town closed. But the power is still on, and everything works. You’re welcome to use the facility to prepare the wedding cake. It’s down the street from the Kringle Acres Retirement Community.”
Dammit! A whole bakery at her disposal? God only knows what she could do with an entire shop!
“But how will I get there?” she asked.
He stepped forward and nodded as if he cared. Well, he did, just not for the same reason she did.
“Take the truck. It’s the red one parked outside. It’s for guest use, and you’re welcome to take it out whenever you need it,” the woman answered, dashing his hopes to dash his Dasher’s agenda.
Bridget glanced up at him, grinning like she’d won the lottery. But just as quickly as her victorious expression appeared, a somber countenance took its place.
“And you’re sure it’s okay for me to use the bakery? I don’t want anyone to get in trouble,” she pressed—the Goody Two-shoes.
Still, it was a good question. Who was Delores Donner to allow anyone the use of a closed down business? He shifted his weight nervously. There was still a chance her cake dreams would be crushed, but his gut seemed to think otherwise.
Delores chuckled. “I’m not only the caretaker of Kringle Mountain House. I’m also the mayor of the town. I’ve got a little pull,” she said, removing a set of keys from her pocket and handing them to Bridget.
Shit.
“And you don’t want to forget this. Here’s the key to room five,” Delores added, handing him a long antique key dangling from a Santa Claus key chain.
He placed the key into his pocket. “You guys are pretty serious about Christmas around here.”
Delores glanced at him over her glasses. “Oh yes! Christmas took over Kringle a decade ago.”
He gave the woman a curt nod, not knowing what the hell that meant. Sur
e, Kringle was synonymous with all things Christmas, but his last name was Rudolph, and that didn’t mean he was a fan of the red-nosed reindeer. He started to tell her this when a rhythmic beep from the kitchen cut him off. He glanced over at Tanner Baker, who popped another gummy into his mouth, oblivious to the sound.
Did anyone get annoyed in this town?
“Dear, I think your brownies are done,” Delores remarked.
“You do?” the kid asked.
“Yes, the timer’s going off,” Bridget added with a touch of irritation to her tone.
He could tell that his wedding planning, schedule-making, one-night vixen was itching to turn it off.
A little Type A?
Well, he couldn’t fault her on that. He was a workaholic himself. The only time he ever took off was when he was with Tom and the Abbotts.
Tanner cocked his head to the side. “I thought it was aliens sending me a message.”
What the hell?
He stared at the guy who definitely didn’t seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer and was blown away to think that he could hold down two jobs as well as dabble in farming.
“No, dear, it’s the oven,” Delores answered, sweet as pie, or fruitcake, or whatever Christmas crap people ate around here.
“Right on,” the kid replied, still not moving as the timer continued to beep.
What would this guy do if the fire alarm went off? He’d be toast or a glop of smoldering gummy bears. He certainly could put away the sugary snack.
“Tanner, could you show our guests around the kitchen and offer them a sandwich? I need to run into town,” Delores said, removing her purse from a hook on the wall.
“Sure thing, Mrs. D. But could you wait a few minutes? I could use a ride into the village.”
“I’ll wait for you in the car, dear,” Delores said. She started for the door, then turned. “I almost forgot. Breakfast is served from seven to nine. Lunchtime is twelve to one, and we keep the condoms inside Frosty,” she added, gesturing to a ceramic snowman.
“The what?” Bridget stuttered.
“Condoms, you know, for sex,” Delores answered before walking out the door as if she didn’t drop a Frosty the Snowman condom bomb. What the hell kind of place was this?
Not Your Average Vixen: A Christmas Romance Page 11
