Once Upon a Holiday

by Claudia Burgoa

  “You canceled,” I interrupt. “You fucking asshole. I wanted to see the house and you … you’re unprofessional.”

  “I gave you a free month.” He smirks and I hate that it’s so charming I can’t keep the anger at bay. “Listen, I thought it’d be best not to see each other. I wanted to keep things simple and … obviously I couldn’t. That’s why I sent you the email saying see you tomorrow. As soon as I was done with work, I went to meet you, and on my way to the house, I got your voicemail.”

  He walks toward the kitchen which is big and too equipped for a single guy. What if he’s … I look at the socks I’m wearing. They’re clearly women’s socks. I should leave, I have a feeling that staying here any longer is going to end up in disaster.

  “Here,” he says, marching back to the bottom of the staircase and offering me a mug. “It’s Earl Grey tea. I only drink coffee but have some bags in case my brother and sister-in-law visit.”

  I look at the socks and lift one foot. “Hers?”

  “Part of her Christmas present. They’re new and now yours,” he clarifies.

  Okay, so he’s not married.

  June, don’t get any ideas. He’s hot but stay away from him.

  With a sigh, I go all the way downstairs and grab the mug. I take a sip of the tea. It’s not too hot or too cold. It’s bitter but not as much as black coffee.

  When I look up at him, I wonder what I should do and most of all, how did I get myself into this mess? I’m not going to stay at his house. Not after finding out he owns it. I’ll demand my money back. But then what am I supposed to do?

  “This is a disaster,” I confess. “Nothing has gone as planned, you know.”

  “Planning is overrated,” he says casually.

  “What are you talking about? The only way to make sure everything works properly is by planning. If not, look at what happens.”

  He laughs. Even when his laugh is throaty, rich, and so hot that my body becomes too aware of him, I frown.

  Control your urges, Juniper!

  “You’re one of those,” he declares, and he sounds somehow disappointed. “How many journals do you have? I bet you use different calendars and color code every item on your list. Just like your clothes, meals, and activities. Well, planning didn’t work, did it? You almost froze.”

  My ears heat up and I glare at him. “You don’t know me,” I protest.

  He doesn’t understand that if I didn’t orchestrate my life, everything would be a string of disasters. Didn’t he listen to my airport story a couple of weeks ago?

  “Tell me I’m wrong,” he challenges me.

  “It’s so not the point,” I argue because he won’t know why I do what I do. “We just met. So, what if I plan every minute of my day? Having a routine and knowing what to expect is helpful.”

  He laughs again. “That’s not living.”

  “Says you, because you’re what, an expert on life? The Dalai Lama of Colorado so to speak?”

  He smirks. “No, but I know him. D and I are on the same level.” He winks at me. “He’s cool, you know. Not uptight. He’d tell you to chill and learn to experience life, not to structure it.”

  “In those words? Ha!” I roll my eyes.

  He shakes his head. “He doesn’t speak much, but I learned from him to enjoy the moment and learn to appreciate what I have.”

  It’s not possible, is it? To know the Dalai Lama. I mean. He … who is this guy?

  I look around his penthouse. The place is different from any apartment I’ve ever visited. Seriously, where am I? It’s not a bachelor pad, more like the museum of modern art. There’s no leather couch, big screen, pool table, or wine fridge filled with beers.

  Nope, this one has a long upholstered couch facing a gorgeous fireplace. Oils hanging on the walls, sculptures on stands or just standing because they’re big. There’s a dog bed, dog toys, and clothes all over the floor. This looks like a mix between a gallery, a bachelor pad, a doghouse, and a teenager’s room.

  He needs a cleaning crew. Where’s the dog?

  I get closer to the art on the wall and I discover something interesting. “Sterling,” I say out loud and turn around.

  Okay, so this guy is loaded if he has at least three paintings from the famous artist Sterling. His art is expensive. I’ve had a couple of clients asking me to get them some specific pieces from this guy and it’s almost impossible to get through to his assistant and even when you do, the answer is always the same, “Check the website. Only those pieces are for sale.”

  “You know him?”

  I shrug. “Kind of. Not in person. I figure he’s some sixty-year-old guy who’s swimming in money because his pieces are expensive.”

  “Never googled him?”

  I shake my head. “I have enough with my clients to be dealing with others.”

  “Others?” he asks, and I look at him.

  He’s holding a bowl and his left brow is arched. “What does that mean by others?”

  I wave my hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Instead of talking shit about a pompous guy who thinks he’s Auguste Rodin or Michelangelo, I decide to change the subject.

  “So, when can I occupy the house?” I ask.

  He lifts the bowl and says, “Here, have some soup.”

  “Soup at this time?” I ask, a little confused by his offer. “It’s …”

  “Almost noon,” he answers. “Lunchtime. Look, I understand this isn’t part of your life plan, however, there’s not much we can do. Everything is closed.”

  “Maybe I should just call my brothers, one of them is bound to live close by,” I say, not knowing where I am.

  “Where do they live?”

  I start looking for my phone. “Where is my phone?”

  “Beck took it, it was dead and soaking wet,” he answers.

  Well, how am I supposed to get out of here?

  Sterling

  “At least eat your soup.” I point at the bowl. “When was the last time you ate?”

  She takes a seat and her head falls slightly as she slumps her shoulders.

  “Umm … my brother Jason lives close to the mountains and Jack owns a house located in one of the ritzy neighborhoods. Actually, it’s not too far away from the rental. Like a ten, fifteen-minute drive? It’s in what I call Pretty Lane Street.”

  I can’t help but laugh at the description of where her brother lives. She might be uptight but she’s still funny.

  The cute pout and glare she’s giving me make me want to kiss her. Her voice between amusement and anger is just delicious. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Not exactly, but it’s kind of funny the way you describe your brother’s house. There’s no such thing as Pretty Lane Street.”

  “Well, I call it that because all the houses in the area are beautiful.”

  Who the hell is this chick?

  “The storm is coming down hard. You’re safe here and your brothers are better off staying at home. Once the storm is over, my bodyguard will get your car and you can call your family,” I suggest.

  She yawns and closes her eyes. “Thank you, this … I just—”

  “Drove in the middle of the storm and you weren’t sure what to do when you arrived at the property. It was cold, you were alone and frightened,” I finish her sentence. “I’m glad you’re here, and that I was able to reach you in time.”

  She rubs one arm and looks at the table. “That’s not what I was going to say but yeah. How do you know I was scared?”

  “Because listening to your voice mail terrified the fuck out of me,” I answer. “When I found you, I wasn’t sure what to do, but I was thankful to have Beck. He knows what to do in case of emergencies. I bet you were a thousand times more.”

  She twists her lips and asks, “Why would you be scared?”

  “Well, you were too cold and unresponsive. For a moment, I thought I might lose you.” I take a deep breath because it wasn’t a pleasant moment. “It was fucking frigh
tening. I’m guessing when you found yourself alone in the middle of the storm it was bad. I wish I had been there sooner.”

  “You confuse me,” she whispers.

  “Welcome to my world,” I counteract. “It’s been like this since … we met. So, what do you say? Stay with me for a few days. At least until the weather calms.”

  Maybe I can get her out of my system by then. Not sure what she’s thinking but I need to know that I might have a chance to have her one last time.

  June

  “You think too much,” he says.

  Pressing my lips together, I glare at him. He has no idea who I am and he shouldn’t assume anything. But he’s right, I think too much.

  He pushes the bowl closer to me. “At least eat your soup.”

  My brain says no but my stomach growls so loud the hot guy smirks when he hears it. Can I hate his good-looking face? That charming gaze and those friendly eyes are telling me, relax, we’ll have a good time.

  Never again. It was a once in a lifetime, mister.

  I’m pretty sure he offers those happy times to beautiful, sophisticated women often and no one ever sees him again. It was supposed to be that way. Then why am I here? I frown when I remember what he said; he was worried about me—scared.

  That’s so sweet.

  Forget it, June. You don’t engage with charming, friendly, smart, rich, and uncommitting men.

  “It’s just soup,” he says. “Not a marriage proposal.”

  I laugh. He has no idea that soup is the last thing on my mind. I wish I could tell him I’m fine, but I’m starving, I take the spoon and look up at him. “Thank you, I appreciate what you’ve done for me. Even when you could’ve arrived a little sooner.”

  “You never told me when you’d arrive.”

  I sigh. “Maybe it’s in part my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed. I had a lot to do before the flight and then the drive from the airport. The only thing that kept me sane was thinking about the cozy fireplace in the master bedroom. Here it’s nice but …”

  Finally, I take a spoonful of the chicken noodle soup. It’s tasty. Better than canned soup. Did he cook it?

  I want to ask if he made it when he asks, “Well, when does the furniture arrive?”

  “What?” I ask, not understanding his question.

  “When did you schedule the moving company? I assume you were waiting for me and the movers when I found you.”

  “Movers? No, only the prick …” I stare at him. “Or you, I guess. Those phone calls weren’t pleasant.”

  “Sorry,” he apologizes, “I was in the middle of a project and you kept interrupting me but for some fucking reason, I wanted to hear your voice.”

  He shrugs and I frown because either I misunderstood him or he thinks I have furniture. “The house is furnished, right?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, it is,” I insist.

  “No, if you read the contract thoroughly there’s no mention of furniture. You don’t have …”

  I open my mouth wide because that’s not what he showed me. “What about the pictures?”

  “Staging,” he explains. “Once I finished remodeling the place, I hired a staging company, we took the pictures and well, here we are.”

  My lungs collapse because what am I supposed to do now? I’m not going to furnish a house where I’m only going to live for a month. There’s a plan and he’s fucking with it.

  “Look, we can try to work things out,” he says, sitting next to me. “You can stay here.”

  “I don’t know you,” I tell him, moving my chair away from him. “So what, now I stay with you for a month?”

  Is he insane?

  “Well, I was going to suggest that you stay here until the storm is over and we can get you some furniture,” he suggests.

  “One night, we go on our separate ways,” I remind him. “No names, no regrets.”

  He blinks twice and exhales harshly. “You have a pretty good memory and we’re going to have to forget about those words. And fuck if Beck isn’t going to kill me.”

  “Your bodyguard?”

  He nods.

  “Let’s start from the beginning.” He extends his hand. “Sterling Ahern, it’s nice to meet you.”

  I open my eyes wide and my mouth falls open too. “Seriously, Sterling fucking Ahern.” I don’t know much but I know he charges millions for just a piece of art. Well, that explains why he has his own art around.

  “Just Sterling, I keep the fucking out of the name for obvious reasons.”

  “That’s a terrible joke,” I say and shake his hand. “June, but I guess you know that.”

  As we touch, the warmth that seared my skin the night we were together is back. I release him immediately because I shouldn’t be feeling that way but … I do. And what does it mean?

  “Juniper Spearman,” he corrects me, taking my hand back, his voice melting me just a little. Enough to make me want to get closer to him.

  He looks at me intensely as if trying not only to read my mind but speak to my soul. Hypnotized by his stare, I begin to talk. “What’s bothering you?”

  “So far, this trip has been a disaster.” I pause, snatch my hand out of his grasp, and finish my soup.

  “My future is up in the air and my life doesn’t seem to be as easy as usual. It used to be so simple to think ahead, create a plan, and just make it happen.”

  “You seem like a successful woman, what’s not working out for you?”

  “My personal life. That’s why I took a detour and during this month I’m concentrating on myself. I have a thirty-day plan to reset and restart.”

  He looks at me amused and I wait for him to release a loud laugh, just the way my brothers would do it. He doesn’t.

  We stare at each other for a few minutes. Neither one says a word. I wish I knew what he was thinking. This is, after all, a famous man whose success is known throughout the entire world. I’m just a woman who manages people like him. Jeannette says I’m the mediator between the deities and their fans.

  “Life isn’t what you plan,” he says, “but what you live, June.”

  “Dalai Lama?” I ask.

  “Snarky, I like you—a lot. No. That’s an Ahern original. Same with never color inside the lines and life is what you make with what you have.”

  “If I don’t have it?”

  “Work for it, but enjoy what you have,” he counteracts. “Always cherish what you’re given or what you’ve done. Never ignore it trying to pursue what you don’t have.”

  “Quotes of the day calendar?”

  He laughs. “Wisdom I’ve collected while I traveled.”

  “If I ask for my money back?”

  “Why are you here?”

  I smirk and as I’m about to answer because you brought me here, he interrupts. “In Colorado, not at my house. You’re running away from a problem. What’s happening?”

  “You’re assuming again.”

  He shakes his head. “Juniper, I’m an artist. An observer. I understand human behavior. I also listen.” He taps his chin and narrows his gaze.

  “It’s more like changing my life and rethinking what I’m doing. I hate dating but I want a family. The last guy I went out with … you know I get the typical it’s not you it’s me but—”

  “Possibly,” he confirms.

  “Ouch, don’t sugarcoat it.”

  “You have the power to choose who you date. If you choose a bunch of losers …”

  I smile. “That’s a good theory.”

  Then, I look around and sigh. Staying with him is impossible. I have to leave. There’s an attraction between us. We could act on it again

  … but what’s the point?

  “How much do you think it’ll cost to buy the furniture?”

  “It’s seven thousand square feet … a lot of money. We could furnish it, but I don’t think you’ll get the furniture delivered soon. It’s the weekend and there’s the blizzard.”

  He makes it sound impo
ssible. I’m not familiar with blizzards. The only times they’ve affected me is when I travel. They either delay or cancel my flights, but days…

  “How long will it last?”

  “Who knows?” he answers. “The weather stations and some websites predicted a three-day blizzard. However, our weather is unforeseeable. The storm can stop right now and that’s the end of it—or last longer.”

  “Where am I supposed to stay?”

  “Stay here,” Sterling offers again.

  I stare at him. Stay? and … do what?

  Sterling

  There’s something wrong with me. On second thought, she is what’s wrong with me. I’m almost begging her to stay—at least until the storm tapers off.

  Never have I ever begged a woman for anything, not even a kiss. So why am I doing this? Because I want to understand my obsession with her. The time I’ve spent trying to bring her to life in my art.

  I doubt it.

  Staying close to her isn’t what I need. She’s who I need. There has to be something I can do for her that’ll keep her interested in me.

  Stop it, asshole. The next step will be wooing her and trying to convince her to stay. But stay for what?

  It’s only a month. She leaves in thirty days. There’s a longer expiration date than just one night and I’d like to take the extension. Is it possible to get her out of my system after those thirty days?

  As I observe her, I know there’s something bugging her. A problem she needs to solve soon, but she’s not sure if it’s possible. Could I offer my help? Will she accept it?

  She seems like the kind of woman who wants to show the world she can do everything on her own, but deep down wants someone to hold her hand. Independent, and scared to accept that she needs others.

  I could be him. The one who she can count on while she’s going through this change.

  “You’re a stranger,” she speaks.

  “But we know enough that you can accept my offer. The guest room is comfortable,” I lie because I want her in my bed.

  “Tomorrow I’ll just take a cab to pick up my car—”