by Olivia Miles
“I think we should do the VIP Christmas party in Misty Point,” she said, in response to her own question.
Greg felt his jaw slack. “Here? But there must be at least two hundred guests on that list!”
“And the Burke family is at the very top. You know how important this deal is. I can’t think of a better atmosphere to highlight the essence of our company’s values. From one family-run business to another, what would impress them more than welcoming them into our family home, rather than some stuffy hotel ballroom?”
Family home. Since when had this been their home? Rita loathed the place. She had barely returned since her parents had passed, claiming it gave her the chills, and not just because of the draft. She was a city girl, through and through. But it seemed that small-town life suddenly had its advantages…
“This was never our family home,” he said gruffly. Not that he would have minded if it had been. He’d always had good times in this house, even if they had been infrequent and short-lived.
“Nonsense! It was your grandparents’ summer home, and you always liked it. Too drafty for me…” She sighed. “Honestly, let’s finally make the old thing useful for something.”
Greg had returned to Misty Point to be alone, to reflect on his life and his future, and truth to be told, to run away—not to host a frivolous party. “Christmas is a means to an end, Mother. You know that as well as I do.” Sometimes he thought the only reason his mother had even flown into Boston for Thanksgiving was so rumors wouldn’t spread in the office that she had skipped turkey day, that she wasn’t buying the lifestyle she was selling.
“Gregory,” Rita continued. “I think we should use this party as an opportunity to announce your engagement to, um, oh…Sorry, dear, I have a lot on my mind, and it’s not like I’ve had a chance to meet her yet.”
Greg froze.
“It will be perfect. Rumors of you taking over are already circulating, and your engagement will put the Burke’s people’s mind at ease and cement the image of the family values Frost prides itself on. The holidays are a time for family, or so we say. We’re in the business of selling Christmas, Gregory. Let’s drive it home this year. Literally!”
Home. It was true that Misty Point felt more like his home than the city brownstone he’d grown up in. When he thought of home, he thought of laughter and conversation and banter. He didn’t think of empty rooms and overwhelming quiet. Or silent meals for two with a giant turkey on the table and avoiding as much eye contact as humanly possible.
Greg felt his left eye begin to twitch. “I don’t—”
“With my retirement plan in place for the end of the year, I was beginning to worry I’d be forced to pass the reins to Drew instead of you.”
Well, now she’d gone too far! “Drew? But he’s your second cousin!”
“Technically he’s my first cousin once removed. And a relative with three children,” his mother pointed out pertly.
Gregory clenched his jaw. She wouldn’t…
Except she would. Well, what the hell was he going to do now? He could try to win back Rebecca, but the thought was so ludicrous and so unwanted, he realized, that it brought a bitter smile to his lips. He could make up an excuse, claim she was out of town for the holidays, but that would only lead to suspicion. And it certainly wouldn’t meet his mother’s goal. Or his, by extension.
“Well, good thing we don’t have to worry about hypothetical scenarios since you’re getting married,” his mother was saying, and Greg sat straighter, forcing himself to focus. “Do you have a date set yet by the way? You’ll want to have that figured out before the party.” Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “So you’ll host the event, and Burke’s will see what a long legacy our company has. It’s not just cards we’re selling. It’s an American tradition,” she said, quoting the company’s tagline.
He gripped the phone tighter in his fist, feeling the blood rush in his ears, wondering what he could say that would change his mother’s mind and knowing there was nothing that could. When Rita Frost latched on to an idea, she didn’t let go of it—at least not until a better one came along.
Greg stared out the window, as if searching for an answer in the rolling waves. He needed to win the Burke’s account. His mother couldn’t argue about passing the company to him then. But first, he needed a fiancée. And fast.
Chapter Five
At eleven thirty-seven—only seven minutes past the time she was supposed to arrive, she noted in satisfaction—Charlotte pulled to a stop at the end of the long, brick-paved driveway edged with boxwood and looked up at the Frost house—mansion, really.
When Kate asked her to take this last-minute meeting, Charlotte had assumed her sister was throwing her a bone by passing off something small, but looking up at the stone monstrosity set far back from the main road that hugged the shoreline, she hesitated. This was the real deal. And she wasn’t so sure she was fit for the role.
She reached for her handbag to see if she’d at least remembered to bring a notebook or scrap of paper, and frowned at the blinking light on her cell phone that was resting in the cup holder. She scrolled through the missed calls list, feeling her stomach tighten with dread. Three messages so far today. All from her landlord.
Charlotte quickly deleted the messages without listening to them, and then tossed the phone back into her bag. She checked her watch—shoot, another minute had gone by—climbed out of the car, and hurried over the stone walkway to the double front door. She pressed the bell and waited, shivering in her coat and knowing deep down that Kate would never have been eight minutes late for a meeting with a client like this, or with any client, for that matter. But what Kate didn’t understand was that being anywhere within fifteen minutes of when she was supposed to be was a victory in itself these days.
But she had managed it, she reminded herself, forcing her shoulders back. Thankfully she had remembered to get gas for her car yesterday, even if that did max out her second credit card. And she would have actually been early, if she hadn’t gotten stuck in that long line at the post office and then remembered she had better pick up some more baby food as she was passing the grocery store, just in case she didn’t have time to do so before relieving the sitter tonight. She was all but on time, really, considering different clocks ran on different settings. Gregory Frost wanted to plan a party? Well, she was the girl for the job!
Yes, she thought, grinning to herself. She could do this. She had to do this. Kate was finally giving her a chance, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. In fact, it couldn’t have waited even two more days…
She raised her hand to press the bell again, wondering if it could be heard through this ridiculously large house, but the door flung open before her finger could reach it. She stepped back, startled. “Hello.”
Deep brown eyes bore through her, strong brows pinched to a point, and the frown on the man’s otherwise handsome face told her she was already in trouble. “You’re late.”
“Oh.” She inhaled sharply, quickly flitting through a mental Rolodex of truly plausible excuses she could give for her tardiness, like the fact that when her sister had called and told her to prepare for a meeting rather than come into the office, she had tried on five pairs of prebaby pants before she finally found a pair that fit without cutting off circulation or breaking the zipper, and that by then she had cried off her mascara and had just begun to reapply it, only to realize her seven-month-old had taken control of the lipstick that in her rush Charlotte had left on the edge of the nightstand, and drawn all over herself with it. Then Audrey had to be given a bath before going to the sitter’s because, really, was leaving her like that an option? Yes, she had many reasons to be truly celebrated for arriving only eight minutes late—if you could even call that late—but she would swallow her own feelings and instead try to channel what her sister would do. Kate, the ever unflappable, cool, and professional Kate. “I apologize. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
He st
udied her for a long moment, his features slowly relaxing into a broad grin.
Uh-oh. This was how it always began, every time. A look, then a smile, then a little flutter…
“Charlotte Daniels,” she said crisply, forcing out her arm and giving the man’s perfectly smooth, perfectly strong and warm hand a good hard shake.
“Gregory Frost. Greg, if you’d like.” He stepped back to let her pass into the house.
“Gregory,” she said, determined to keep things professional, “you mentioned that you wanted to have the party here, in the house?” She was standing in an entrance hall that could easily house her entire apartment, complete with a grandfather clock and center table bearing an oversized floral arrangement. A sweeping staircase was set far back, and every which way her eyes darted, there seemed to be wide hallways opening to even bigger rooms.
Well. Crap.
She turned to look him square in the eye, but instead of giving her a response, he just stared at her, a shadow passing over his features. Finally, he shook his head, his grin turning bashful. “Sorry, you’ll have to repeat that. I’m afraid my mind’s all over the place right now.”
Her smile came easier. Something in common, then. “The party? You want it here in the house?”
He nodded and Charlotte reached into her bag for her notebook and pen and began jotting notes. “How many guests are you expected to have?”
Greg—make that Gregory, or better yet, Mr. Frost—frowned. “Oh, I think the final list was about two hundred.”
“Two hundred!” Charlotte exclaimed, and then, catching the panic in her voice, said a little quieter, “Two hundred. Excellent round number.” Oh no. He was looking at her a little oddly now. “And the party is—”
“On Saturday, the thirteenth,” Greg finished for her.
Less than two weeks. She wrote down the date, noting the shakiness of her letters. She angled the book a little closer to her chest, lest she be judged on the quality of her penmanship. One task she’d never be put in charge of was calligraphing place cards or invitations. Speaking of…“Have invitations been sent?”
“Yes, but we’ve decided to change the venue,” Greg explained. “Frost Greeting Cards is in the business of holidays, you could say, so the annual Christmas party is a big deal. People don’t tend to miss it, especially when this is the VIP list only. It was originally set for a hotel in Boston, but we, uh, had a change of plans.” His frown returned.
Frost Greeting Cards? Her lips parted in realization. Frost. Of course. Misty Point was home to many big-name families who fled to the rocky shores and sandy beaches for their summers.
Charlotte feigned a blasé smile even though her heart had started to pound. She suddenly felt hot and flushed, and she unwrapped her wool scarf from her neck, wishing she could shed her coat. A corporate Christmas party for Frost Greeting Cards. In twelve days.
She stared at the notebook, pretending to write something important when all she was really writing was “two hundred guests, Frost Greeting Cards,” over and over. Her handwriting had grown illegible, even to her.
“So tell me, Gregory,” she said in her most assertive tone. She’d heard Kate use it many times when she tagged along for meetings with brides or business owners; it was the first time she was adopting it as her own, though, and it didn’t come naturally. “What do you envision?”
He smiled. “Please call me Greg. Gregory is what my mother calls me. It makes me feel like I’m in trouble or something.”
“Oh? Do you find yourself in trouble often, Greg?” She stiffened, catching the flirtatious insinuation of her question, wondering if he’d caught it, too.
To her relief, he just gave a good-natured shrug. “I’ve been known for my share, I suppose.” He paused, his eyes falling flat. “Lately, though, I think trouble has found me.”
Interesting. She pushed back the flicker of curiosity and tapped her pen against her notebook. “Well, Greg, normally a party of this size requires a bit more planning, if I’m being honest.”
He looked her up and down. “You look like you could handle it.”
“I do?” Charlotte exclaimed joyfully, and then stopped herself, feeling a horrifying heat wash over her cheeks at the startled surprise in Greg’s expression. “I mean, I do. I can, I mean. I can certainly handle this.”
She glanced down at her outfit, from the wide-leg trousers, which she supposed were fashionable when she’d purchased them two years ago, to the patent leather ballet flats that were completely inappropriate for this weather. She’d tossed on a black sweater, which fit a little snugger than it used to, but it was chicly covered in a charcoal wool trench coat that grazed her knees. Yes, she supposed she did look the part, even if she didn’t feel it.
She bit down on her lip, trying to temper the joyful grin that was widening with newfound confidence, and suddenly caught herself. It was a typical tactic, one she’d seen so many times before, and fool that she was, she managed to fall right into the trap yet again. Greg was just another one of them—a rich bachelor, too handsome for his own good, who had mastered the art of flirtation. A typical cad who knew how to get what he wanted with a slow grin and a few meaningless compliments.
She narrowed her gaze. In many ways, he was really no different than Audrey’s father. And look how that had turned out.
“If you’ll follow me into my study, we can go over the details,” Greg said.
More determined than ever to keep this strictly professional, she followed him down a long hallway, past dim rooms with drawn curtains and furniture covered in tarps. She kept her eye on her surroundings, trying her best to ignore how perfectly his shoulders filled that navy cashmere sweater, the way his dark hair curled ever so slightly at the neck. He walked with confidence, a man assured in his position in life. A man who didn’t have to worry about anything more than securing a table at the newest five-star restaurant on opening night, she presumed. She knew the type. She knew it all too well. They were all the same, these rich city guys who grew up with a silver spoon, vacationing in summer homes in Misty Point. Nothing was permanent to them—they flitted from city house to beach house, from woman to woman. You couldn’t tie them down. Even if you tried.
And oh, she had tried.
“Please, sit,” Greg said once they entered a small study with cherrywood wainscoting and built-in bookshelves containing coffee table books and vases of various shapes and sizes. A faded picture of an older man and a young boy hung on the wall between the two sconces that lit the room. Greg indicated a leather chair across from a large antique-looking desk, and she sat down, unbuttoning her coat and shrugging it from her shoulders.
Greg watched her impassively and then, catching her eye, looked away and adjusted himself in his seat. On his desk was a framed photo—the only other personal touch in the room from what she could tell. From the difficult angle, Charlotte could barely make out the face of a smiling woman holding on to Greg’s arm. She tugged her coat free of her arm and leaned forward, deflation sinking in when she realized he was probably taken—not that it mattered, of course—until Greg casually reached over and turned the frame facedown on the desk.
He cleared his throat. “I just drove in from Boston late last night, so you’ll have to forgive the state of the house. It’s been locked up since I was here in September.”
Charlotte waved a hand through the air, dismissing his concerns with a friendly smile. If he thought this place was a mess, she couldn’t imagine what he would think of her apartment. Or Bree’s house.
She smiled and calmly folded her hands in her lap. This was another trick Kate had taught her. Always put your clients’ worries at ease. Show them their concerns are valid, but manageable. Show them you can handle things they feel they cannot. Show them nothing overwhelms you, not even the most daunting of tasks. Like a party for two hundred guests. In twelve days.
Charlotte pressed her lips together. Perhaps she should try the same tactic on herself. God knew she could use someone to
ease her ever-growing anxiety—someone who would smile benignly as she fretted and who would tell her hey, it was no problem, they’d organize her disaster of a life and tie it up with a pretty little ribbon to boot.
“Are you planning on staying in town for a while?” she inquired.
“I’m not sure yet,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m in a bit of flux at the moment. I can’t really plan much beyond this party, honestly.”
Charlotte nodded and glanced down to skim the email Greg had set on the desk. Two hundred guests, cases of the finest Champagne, heavy passed hors d’oeurves, a dessert buffet, a pianist…“Do you have a piano?” she asked, and then realized that of course he would. It was probably a Steinway.
“Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t play.” He paused. “Do you?”
“Only if you count ‘Chopsticks.’” They shared a smile as the room went silent. She cleared her throat. Right. Back to business. “What about the decorations?” She glanced down at the paper, pretending to find it more interesting than terrifying. “Did you, um, have any preference?”
Greg tossed his hands in the air. “I suppose the usual Christmas garb.”
She dipped her chin as her eyes held his. “Christmas garb?”
“Do whatever it takes. Trees, wreaths. Lights, I suppose.” He scowled.
She wrote this down quickly in her notebook. “Not feeling the Christmas spirit this year?” She arched a brow, and he gave her a wry grin.
“That noticeable?”
She smiled. “Just a bit.”
“Let’s just say it’s been a rough couple of months, and it looks like it’s not going to get easier any time soon.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It is what it is.” He smiled tightly, but his eyes seemed sad. “Besides, Christmas is just a commercial holiday anyway.”
