by Lila Monroe
I’ve been acting like he only wanted me for a casual hook up, but didn’t I treat him like exactly the same thing—a weekend fling? And I left in such a hurry, without even explain my stupid feelings…what if I’d stayed at the party instead, stuck it out and tried to mingle? What if I’d tried actually telling Ace how I felt?
But no matter how much I try to reimagine that whole scenario with a better outcome, I still can’t convince myself that we would have lived happily ever after. Ace Carmichael is…well, he’s Ace Carmichael. And I’m just Paige Bartlett.
The rest of the afternoon passes quickly. We’ve got all the traditions in full swing: Dad locking himself in his study with a pint of eggnog, Ally telling Mom that she’s all for higher taxes for the rich, the sound of shattering glass that comes after Ally tells Mom that she’s all for higher taxes for the rich. There are some new traditions, too: Hunter insisting we all try a flight of new bourbon-barrel beer, everyone getting drunk off the flight of bourbon-barrel beer, barging into Dad’s study with said bourbon-barrel beer and forcing him to switch it out with his eggnog.
This is what family is all about.
As the sun starts to go down outside, I light the candles and help Mom carry the gilt-edged platters of food to the table. I’m pretty sure there are enough potatoes to qualify as a metric ton. I’m not kidding, the table actually groans with it all. Hold on, buddy.
“You always make too much, Mom,” I say.
“Too much is never enough, baby. It’s the same for money, gimlets, and dieting.” She pats my cheek and calls everyone to the table.
That’s when there’s a knock at the door. Ally and Hunter are busy arguing with Mom about getting to sit next to each other (“Dinner table hand-holding comes after the marriage”) so it looks like I’m on duty. Probably the Prescotts coming by to carol and take advantage of our eggnog.
Again.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, opening the door. But it’s not the Prescotts.
It’s Ace. I almost don’t recognize him without the stubble. He’s shaved! And put on a suit! With a tie! And he doesn’t smell like man sweat!
I kind of miss the man sweat, but I don’t tell him that.
Instead, I stand frozen in the doorway, my hand on the knob, my jaw open. “What are you doing here?” I blurt.
“Wait,” he says, holding out one hand. He reaches into the pocket of his ski jacket and pulls out a Santa Claus hat, which he shakes out and sets on his head. “Is this too cheesy? I actually had the full body suit, but some of the neighbors were giving me weird looks. Like I was going to be on the next episode of To Catch a Predator.”
“Didn’t that show go off the air ten years ago?”
“Fine, like I was going to be on the next time-travel episode of To Catch a Predator. But listen,” he says, all joking aside. He draws me out onto the porch. The door closes. “I came because…because I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“Oh. Right.” I have no smart remarks. They’ve all gotten into the bourbon beer and are knocking around somewhere upstairs. “Okay. Merry Christmas to you, too, then.”
I turn back toward the door, still completely thrown by his random appearance and even more random explanation, but he reaches for my shoulder and spins me gently around. He takes a breath, shuffles his feet a little, and then looks at me. Intense. Focused. Just like the Ace I remember.
“Paige, I should’ve gone after you the night you left.” His voice is soft, completely sincere. “I can’t stop thinking about you. When you ran out, I was stunned. At first I thought I agreed with you about it being a fling. I got in the hot tub after the helicopter took off and Your Romance jumped in after me, completely naked.”
“Um. That must have been…fun?” My voice falters.
“No. It wasn’t.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I realized it wasn’t exciting for me anymore. It didn’t mean anything. I got out and went back inside and sat by the fire staring into my drink for the next four hours, trying to figure out why I felt so…alone.”
“Oh?” I say. “And did you figure it out?”
Ace pulls me closer, and I maybe let myself get lost in his eyes. Just a tiny little bit. “Like I said,” he continues, his voice low. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I still can’t. Paige, I miss you.”
“Me? Not just the sex?” I smile, but the question under the teasing is there.
He grins. “Oh, the sex is still there. It plays twice nightly in the late 80s HBO of my mind.” Ace wraps his arms around me, and I let him. “But mostly it’s you. Cooking breakfast, the snowball fight. Hell, I won’t get rid of the tree. I think that tree is going to be a year-long presence in the house. Great fire hazard.” He pulls back and cups my face in his hand. “Look, I know you said it was a fling, I know we both said it…but I think there’s something more here. Something real. I need to know if you feel the same way.”
I want to just leap into his arms, but I know it’s not that simple. “We’re very different people.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”
“We have different schedules, lifestyles. You jet around the world all the time. Long distance is hard.” I sigh. “There’s a lot that could go wrong.”
“I’m willing to take a chance.” He lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “What about you? I know we can make this work. Just say you’ll try.”
Mom would tell me that a lady should be coy with a gentleman caller who’s just professed his ardent admiration, or something like that. I don’t care. This isn’t a Tennessee Williams story: neither of us is gay or depressed. I smile; today, at least, I’m not going to worry about our differences.
“I feel the same way,” I say, breathless. I throw my arms around his neck.
Ace squeezes me tight and then pulls back, glancing up. “Check it out,” he says, inclining his head upward.
Ah. We’re under the mistletoe. Oh, Mom.
“Is it too much?” he asks, winking at me.
“Maybe with the Santa hat, yeah.”
Ace grabs the hat off his head and flings it away, never taking his eyes from mine.
“That went into the Kilroys yard,” I say.
“I don’t care.” Then he kisses me, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that’s scorching hot and all encompassing, practically knocking me off my feet. I moan into his mouth, losing myself; it’s just like I remember. Then, the kiss softens. This time there’s tenderness and sweetness mixed in with the heat. When we finally break apart, snow is falling. The porch light flickers on.
Suddenly the front door swings open. Mom looks at the pair of us, a cross between outraged and bewildered.
“Paige, the medallions of beef will cool if we are not all present at the table!” She gasps when she sees Ace. “And who on Earth is this young man?”
“Uh, this is my…boss,” I say, cringing as the words leave my mouth. Way to go, Paige. Making out with your employer on the porch, in front of the entire neighborhood.
“Former boss,” Ace cuts in. “Current record executive. Titles are meaningless, you know?” He grins and shakes my mom’s hand. The word ‘executive’ instantly has stars in her eyes.
“Oh, look at you! Come in, come in, we’re just about to have dinner. We’ll just add another place setting.” She almost hauls Ace in through the door. I follow after, shaking snow out of my hair.
A few minutes later, Ally and Hunter are seated on one side of the table, with all their debauched hand-holding, and Ace and I are next to each other. Ally actually punched Ace in the shoulder when they first met. Punching people means Ally approves.
Dad raises his glass in a toast. “To family, and new beginnings,” he says. He specifically means Ally and Hunter, but Ace and I glance at each other and share a smile.
“To new beginnings,” Ace echoes.
We all clink glasses and drink, and then Ace’s warm, reassuring hand finds mine under the table. Merry Christmas to all, and let’s see what the new year brings.
I know I can’t wait.
THE END
Want to read more from Lila? You can sample her hilarious rom-com BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST right here. Just keep reading for more!
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BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST SERIES
Out now!
Billionaire Hunter Knox comes straight up – with a side of trouble.
Heir to a bourbon fortune, he’s hired my ad agency to save his family business. It’s my chance to win a star client and prove I can play with the big boys, until my one-night stand comes back to haunt me like the ultimate hangover.
Now I have to think up a killer campaign, and keep from falling into bed with Hunter again. Which is easier said than done when he’s the most handsome, arrogant, downright sexiest man
I’ve ever met.
I’m going to need another drink.
Keep reading for a sneak peek of chapter one..
Chapter One
So a girl walked into a bar.
It wasn’t a joke, it was my life.
Which, actually, now that I think about it, sometimes feels like the same thing. No comments, please.
Besides, tonight was the beginning of my new life. It was the first step in a direction I’d wanted to go for a long damn time. So where was I? Ah, yes. I walked into a bar.
It was a nice bar, at least. In fact, it was really a lot nicer than any bar at a mid-range hotel—the only one my supervisors were willing to spring for—in a mid-range part of Charleston had any right to be.
The lighting was soft, but not so much so that I couldn’t read the print on the bottles, glowing yellow and orange lamps bringing out the warmth of the polished walnut bar and booths, as well as the striking red brick of the walls and the paintings that adorned them. Some kind of mournful violin music was piping over the sound system, just loud enough to make itself felt and give the chatting patrons a bit of privacy.
A profile caught my eye, a man silhouetted by the soft golden light, facing away from me. I admired the strong lines of his shoulders and the way that his auburn hair caught slivers of light even in the semi-darkness, throwing out glints of gold like sparks in a low-burning fire. Perhaps feeling my eyes on him, he turned. Before I could look away, our eyes met, and a shock of electricity pierced through the distance between us.
Those eyes…deep and knowing, traveling across my face before wandering down my body and back up again, slow and leisurely as if he could feel every inch of me through his gaze alone. I felt my body heat up under his stare, my blood singing in anticipation at the offer his eyes were making. A smile began to stretch across his face, as if he could read the eager acceptance in mine.
I looked away quickly. Research, Ally! I reminded myself. Not banging hot guys. Research is why you’re here tonight.
I hurried away to the other side of the bar before I could give into temptation.
The bartender—a wizened old guy with kind brown eyes and a face that looked like it had been there to meet Mark Twain—didn’t bat an eye when I told him what I was after, and after a brief chat with the waitress he got me a corner booth, tucked away behind a stuffed cougar that looked like it had time-traveled directly from the print ads for a 1950s Boy’s Adventure magazine.
Camouflage was definitely necessary; I’d overheard the Douchebros—and I promise I’ll go into more later as to why I even have a group of people in my life worthy of that title—bragging about how tanked they were going to get, and my plans for the night did not include fending off drunken advances, trying to tune out comments about the size of my ass respective to my brain, and counting how many times they could fit the word ‘bro’ into a single sentence.
(So far, the record was seven.)
My plans for the night, however, did include the next thing the waitress brought me: six different shots of bourbon, and a glass of water.
And no, I’m not an alcoholic. This was research.
Fun, delicious research, but research.
Maybe I should back up a little bit. My name? It’s Ally. Allison Bartlett. I’m five foot four, have grey eyes, tolerate the straight brown hair that slides out of every ponytail I put it into, and frequently wear an anxious smile that I’m working hard to make not broadcast my ambition, desperation, and general worrywart nature. It’s an uphill battle.
Anyway, I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been working at Geisel & Son Advertising in Washington, D.C. for two years now. I was an intern my senior year, and I lucked into an entry-level position opening up a month after I graduated. It’s full-time, benefits, the whole package. So I should be thanking my lucky stars, right?
I sure would, if anyone at Geisel & Son ever managed to remember that I wasn’t the intern anymore.
Time and again over the last two years, I’d heard my ideas shot down, only to turn around and see them accepted as brilliant when suggested by whichever man did the least possible amount of rephrasing. I’d been talked over in meetings, told to fetch coffee, and confused with the receptionist. And I think I might have been able to handle all that, if it had been coming solely from the old guard within the establishment. But no, more than half of it was coming from people barely older than me, who seemed to have watched too many episodes of Mad Men and taken all the worst bits to heart.
So this was it. My possibly last big job, where I was going to try my hardest, stand up for myself and fight for my ideas, and give this advertising job one last chance before it ground me down into dust and I packed my bags and waved the sad white flag of surrender on my career dreams.
In case you’re wondering how all of this has anything to do with my solo bourbon sampler party, our latest client was Knox bourbon.
I decided to start and end with said bourbon, in order to better compare it to the others. I leaned over the first glass, parting my lips as I inhaled, both smelling and tasting the aroma of burnt caramel, old wood, and cinnamon. A promising start…I took a sip of the amber liquid, letting it roll slowly across my tongue as I memorized and savored the taste. It had a bold, spicy flavor thanks to the high rye content, with a hint of charred oak and honey, and a strong bite.
I breathed out through my nose and mouth at the same time, and the flavor intensified until I swallowed. I smacked my lips in satisfaction as I set the glass back down. I generally drank a wheated bourbon rather than a rye, and I did miss that slight hint of sweet vanilla, but this wasn’t bad at all.
Glass number two was a rye after my own heart, vanilla like the first lick of ice cream on a hot summer day, cool and refreshing, with a bit of biting heat like a miniature sun right after it washed down my throat. I took another sip of that one, in the interest of more fully appreciating that fine flavor. Maybe I was playing favorites a little, but who was going to tell?
And here came number three. That distinctive flavor that said Kentucky, Bourbon County, that long tradition of Scots-Irish immigration. All the old ways carefully preserved and kept going: a hint of cedar, a touch of honey. A little rough around the edges, but in a way that soothed with its familiarity. I sighed, letting my eyes fall shut, the taste of the bourbon becoming my entire universe.
“Ah, a lady who knows how to savor the good things in life.”
I started, blushing, my eyes popping open and my hand nearly dropping the glass in dismay. Dammit, I’d wanted to be discreet! I hadn’t wanted anyone seeing me geek out like this, and now—
I looked up, and my annoyance at being interrupted died on my lips as I let my bourbon take a rest, and drank in the sight of the interloper instead. It was the same man who’d caught my eye just minutes earlier. Of course. And here I was sighing and drooling shamelessly over an entire smorgasbord of booze. Damn but he was even tastier up close.
Had he said something about the good things in life? Well, he would know, since he was definitely one of the
m. Golden-brown eyes like the sun shining through a tumbler of bourbon, freckles sun-kissing the bridge of his nose, and a chiseled jaw you could cut diamonds on. His auburn-gold hair was swept back from his forehead and his navy polo shirt clung to all the right places of his shoulders and chest. I bit my lip and resisted asking him to do a spin so I could check and see if those khaki pants clung in all the right places, too.
Barely resisted.
And that accent he spoke in, oh, it made me regret all the work I’d done to lose my own. A warm honey-slow drawl that drew attention to his lips and the way they quirked up at the corner.
“I didn’t think it was good enough to stun you into silence,” he teased.
I blushed and shot back, “I’m just trying to figure out what criteria led you to hone in on the girl with the highest alcohol content in the room. Your self-esteem that low?”
I regretted the sarcastic remark the second it left my mouth. In high-stress situations, I tended to blurt out exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time; it was an adrenaline-fueled, involuntary, and very unfortunate defense mechanism of mine. One that got me into trouble more often than not.
He only grinned, and sauntered closer. “As a matter of fact, I have extremely robust…self-esteem. Show you mine if you’ll show me yours?”
“The hell kind of pick-up line is that?” I said, flummoxed by both his nonchalant demeanor and the sweet scent of masculinity radiating off his delicious body. Stop it Ally, I mentally scolded myself. You’re indignant. Be indignant!
“I’ve got all kinds,” he promised. “Want something more traditional? I’ll give it a go: let me buy you a drink?”
I gestured at the drinks already in front of me.
“I think I’m covered,” I said wryly.
