They decide on a color scheme or a look one day, and the next, they’re browsing Country Living magazine and changing their ever-loving minds.
I pull out my tablet, search for the contract she signed three weeks ago, and find the signed and initialed blueprint where she agreed on the colors.
“Mrs. Riley, when you finalized your choices, you selected these specific cabinets,” I say firmly.
She gives me a pinched expression and shakes her head.
“Roland,” she calls out. “Roland, come to the kitchen. We have a problem.”
Roland Riley, a man who might be in his sixties and currently wearing a suit coat but only boxers, glares at her. “I’m in a videoconference. What do you need?”
“The cabinets are incorrect. They claim we signed for this color, but I’m sure we changed our mind, and you called to fix the problem.”
He looks at her, then at me, and sighs. “I don’t have time for this—”
This isn’t my first rodeo in this neighborhood. These people like to renovate and change their minds weekly. It helps my business but not my mental health. I’d rather be in Lower Manhattan sipping coffee while my partners and I have the weekly meeting with our team.
I spent almost ten years building the firm from the ground up, and this is where I’m at. The Riley’s kitchen, watching them fight over a renovation they didn’t need to begin with. This isn’t about the house. They can change the whole place, demolish it, and build a castle, but that won’t fix their problems. Their struggle is their lack of communication.
Been there, done that, and got the divorce papers as a souvenir.
Remi, my ex-wife, and I fought about different silly things. Our problems were never about not squeezing the toothpaste properly, not picking up the toys, or not remembering her favorite drink. But at least we had the dignity—the respect for each other—to avoid airing our dirty laundry in public.
The same certainly couldn’t be said for the pretentious couple in front of me. The Rileys might come to some agreement. Either they pay the fee to change the cabinets, or they have to live with something they hate. My suggestion is couples counseling or a good divorce lawyer.
I wait a few more minutes. More like I witness how poorly they treat each other before I have to remind them they aren’t alone. “Mr. and Mrs. Riley, we need to be at another site by noon. We could amend the contract and change the colors. I’ll order the new cabinets as soon as you pay for the change charges—”
“I’m not paying one more cent for this,” Mr. Riley growls. “You’re going to make the changes without asking for another penny, or we’ll cancel this job.”
These people make my brain hurt. “I understand your frustration, Mr. Riley. If you want me to make changes, you have to pay. If you want to cancel the job, we leave the site as it is, and we won’t return the fifty percent down payment you gave us.”
He huffs and shakes his head. “You can’t make any other changes after this, Sandra.”
In the end, Sandra cancels the job and threatens to write a bad review. I’m sure she’ll be calling next week or early in January to ask me to come and finish her kitchen.
The guys drive the cabinets to the small warehouse I rent in Newberry Falls. I have to be back in Winter Valley by noon to pick up Perry from preschool.
All of that’s before the accident that closed the highway for almost an hour.
Morgan, my brother, volunteers to pick up my little girl. He plans to take her to the library for story time and buy her hot cocoa from the bakery across the street from his body shop.
This gives me enough time to drive to Snowmass today to a job site since, according to the weather report, a blizzard might be hitting us as early as five in the morning. That will keep my work around the area instead of hours from home.
On my way back to the house, my phone rings. Oliver Preston’s name appears on the dashboard screen. He’s one of my best friends from New York and my former partner at BKMP, the construction company we built after we graduated.
“Should I be concerned?” I answer instead of greeting him.
Although I sold my part of the company, he still calls me when working on some of the projects I led before he took them over when I left.
“Why do you always assume there’s a problem when I call you, Bradford?”
“Umm”—I pinch the bridge of my nose—“lately, you’ve only called to ask questions or make me solve your issues because, and I quote, ‘Bradford, you put me in that position.’”
“You did.” He laughs. “Nah, I’m just calling to check on you. Making sure your decision is still in place.”
“After a year, I’m pretty sure it’s a done deal. I doubt your new partner would want to sell my old piece back.”
“We could each sell you a part and have you back,” he offers. “We miss you, man. Things are working well, but it’s different, you know?”
It hadn’t been easy to walk away from my partners. Knowing they all missed us . . . was nice. “I feel you.”
It’s hard to get used to a new person, a different rhythm, or in my case, a clean slate. Oliver was with me when my marriage fell apart. He was one of five babysitters who’d carry Perry around when I was on-site because my wife couldn’t be bothered to split the responsibility of our baby. We hired nannies, but with her attitude, they quit within a couple days. Childcare was more expensive than the rent of a luxury apartment in the city.
“How’s my girl?” he asks.
“She’s doing great,” I answer. “I’ll send you some new pics later tonight.”
Even though I miss the city—having everything within walking distance and being able to order takeout at three o’clock in the morning if I was in the mood—the move was the best thing for Perry and me. My marriage fell completely apart when Remi figured out she didn’t want a family anymore. I was barely hanging on juggling the business and a child. My daughter and I needed to get away from the toxicity of Remi. To have support.
Now we get to have more time together. Life slowed down. Once Perry’s in bed, the house is quiet. Possibly too quiet at times.
“That would be great. I just wanted to let you know we sent over some presents,” Oliver says. “Make sure to take some pictures for me so I can share with everyone.”
“Thank you, man. If I’m fast enough, I’ll record it so you can watch her. Thinking we’ll try to come visit you early next year.”
“Bring my girl or don’t come, okay?”
“She wouldn’t forgive me if I went to visit Uncle Olie without her.”
After I hang up, I start thinking about whether we have enough food at home for when the blizzard blows in. I wasn’t a lazy husband who left everything to his working wife, but the solo act of planning meals each day while working scattered hours around preschool and pickups and a small person was never something I saw for my future. Life in Winter Valley is just . . . different. It’s not Remi. There’s no lost love for her. She did us a favor if I’m honest. But I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m not feeling settled. In control.
Chapter Three
Audrey
The security line is longer than the line outside Walmart on Black Friday.
I get searched because my clothes are too baggy and, according to the X-ray, I might be hiding drugs. The only contraband I’m carrying is a box of peppermint Oreos, and it’s secured in my carry-on bag.
Thirty minutes later, I’m at the gate, staring at an electronic board that reads in red bold letters: Flight A362 to Denver delayed.
I’m debating whether to spend seventy-five dollars to stay in the airline VIP lounge or just hang out around the airport until we leave. My evil boss makes the decision for me when she videoconferences me with the people in Malaga. A call she conveniently forgot to mention.
She doesn’t give me time to put makeup on or change out of my unicorn onesie pajamas.
What would be ridiculous and unfair? If I met some handsome hot suit in this l
ounge, and I lose my chance to find real love because I look like a washed-out crazy woman.
Not that I’m looking for a man. Love isn’t permanent, and there’s no point wasting my time with it. Some people in the videoconference room shake with laughter. I’m pretty sure they were able to see the hoodie of my onesie while I was running to the lounge. It’s impossible to ignore a flying horn dangling on my back.
After paying, finding a place where I can set up my laptop, and popping in my earbuds, I finally pay attention to the meeting and try my best to seem qualified for my job. God, I’m never going to be able to visit the Malaga resort, am I?
They’ll remember me as the woman wearing a costume, not the compliance and marketing manager. This is what I get for wanting to be comfortable during my flight and the drive from the airport to Winter Valley.
When our call is over, I receive a text from Aurora.
Crazy Boss Diva: Next time you travel, dress professionally. Also, buy a jacket that doesn’t look like you’re wearing a plushy. It’s tacky.
Clearly, she’s never worn a onesie. I might spend three-quarters of my life at work, but I try to have fun with my clothes when I’m off the clock. I should buy her a demon onesie for Christmas. The black will match her soul.
The plane doesn’t board until noon. At two thirty, I’m in front of baggage claim, regretting checking my bags.
They lost them.
My snow boots and most of the dressy winter clothes I own were packed in those, so I’m relieved when one of my bags appears. Thirty minutes later, I’m filing a claim because the other bag is nowhere to be found.
Though I planned for cold weather, I’m not ready to drive in the middle of a storm. Even driving twenty miles per hour, the swirls of snow circle my rental car. I’m inside a snow globe someone shook without asking me if it’d be okay.
The four-hour drive to Winter Valley takes a lot longer. The fear of crashing and dying nearly suffocates me. Every muscle in my body crunches itself.
After the longest drive ever, my phone GPS directs me to the next exit. Just when I’m sure the torture is over, the voice says, “Continue for seven miles.”
I have to drive for another seven miles along a narrow road. Stephen King should take notes and write Road to Perdition: The Drive of Doomsday. I should’ve told Mom goodbye.
I hit a patch of ice.
The car skids and spins out of control.
This is it.
I knew it.
This is how it all ends. I’ll slide into a ditch where no one will find my body until this winter wonderland thaws.
When the car slams against something, I hold on to the wheel and scream until the airbags blow, pushing me back into the seat. My lungs contract with such force I’m afraid they might fold into themselves. The car has spun so many times that, when the door opens, I'm disoriented.
"Are you okay?" someone asks smoothly, the baritone of his voice reverberating through my bones. The low rumble is comforting, and I could listen to it all day.
When I look up, I understand why his silky words felt like a warm hug. I’m in heaven, and St. Peter is the most gorgeous angel I’ve ever come across. Not that I met any while I was among the living.
This over six-foot, blue-eyed hunk with chiseled features stares at me with concern.
“Can you hear me?” He bends over, studying my face. “What is your name?”
I frown because he’s talking too slowly. Is he okay?
“How old are you?” he continues and then flashes the light of his cell phone.
I flinch and move away. “What are you doing?”
“Do you know where you are?” His last question sounds perfectly normal.
“I’m heading to Winter Valley,” I answer, getting out of the car. “Not sure if the place is real, but according to my GPS, I should be there soon.”
“It’s past eight.” He gives me a head-to-toe glance. “Who in their right mind would be driving so late at night?”
You are. But I don’t say that. And who thinks eight is late at night? What kind of place have I landed in?
“I was supposed to be here by five,” I defend. “At this point, I don’t even know if I have a place to stay.”
When I look at the smashed rental, I want to cry. Why did I decline the insurance? Because Aurora would take the extra expense out of my pay.
Is my insurance going to cover this?
The guy glares at me. So much for being concerned about my well-being. If looks could kill, I’d be with the real St. Peter right about now.
“Hey, can you pick me up and bring the big tow truck with you?” he grumbles into his phone. “Yeah well, a unicorn ran over my truck while I was heading home. That’s the kind of week I’m having. I wouldn’t be surprised if a leprechaun attacks me in my sleep.”
Frozen. I’m absolutely frozen. My mind works fast, trying to understand how ridiculous I must look in this outfit. His heavy-lidded gaze assesses me. I feel him examining every inch of my fur-covered body.
Note to self: never travel in a onesie again in case you make another gorgeous man fear for his life from a five-foot-four unicorn. I don’t even attempt to smile at my inner humor. Mr. Unicorn Hater looks way too angry for that.
“Just hurry up, Morgan,” he orders in his deep strong voice. “We don’t have all night.”
Chapter Four
Colin
“Come back to Colorado, Colin. It’ll be easier to move your business here,” they said.
“We will help you with Perry,” they assured me.
“Housing is cheap,” they insisted.
I’m a contractor, but I no longer own one of New York’s most prominent construction companies. Six months of the year, my parents live in Arizona. Juggling Perry, work, and life since they left in late September has been almost impossible. But I can’t argue with the housing market. The rent is cheap, and the lot I bought to build our house on was a steal.
Perry is doing better than I thought, but I wish my sisters and Mom were around.
Being the only contractor in the area is good for business, but not when I have to drive in the middle of a big storm. Exhibit A: the little unicorn who rammed my car when hers spun out of control.
I shrug off my coat and give it to her. The woman must be freezing. Is she wearing anything underneath that ridiculous outfit? Who the hell is she?
She waves her hand. “Thank you. But I don’t want you to get cold because I’m unprepared.”
“You must be freezing in that . . . are you wearing pajamas?”
I swear Perry has a similar onesie.
She looks down at herself and laughs. It’s a light, musical sound that loosens the tension I’ve carried all week.
“I hate flying,” she answers.
I don’t understand how one thing relates to the other. “Scared of heights?”
“No. The seats are uncomfortable, the air smells weird, and there’s always some nonsense going on around me wherever I sit. It never fails,” she explains as she finally grabs my jacket and covers almost her entire body with it. “One time, there was this poor new mom who forgot diapers. Then there was the flight I took from LA to New York next to a toddler who couldn’t sit still—I couldn’t either. Today, I was next to a couple of loud friends who thought the entire plane should be a part of their conversation. This outfit is comfortable, and not many people approach me while I’m dressed like this because . . . what kind of person would wear this on a plane?”
“Great tactic.” I laugh.
“It didn’t work so well this time.” She sighs. “I had a videoconference call at the airport. This doesn’t scream professional. The airport’s air conditioning was off, so I was roasting while I waited for my flight to take off. And now . . .”
“Bad day, huh?”
She shrugs. “It’s a part of life. Days like today teach you to enjoy the good times.”
I extend my hand. “By the way, I’m Colin Bradford.”
; “Audrey Reed,” she answers.
My entire body zings as our hands touch. I release her hand almost immediately, taking a step back. Desire vibrates in my body. What the hell, Bradford? This is not only unexpected but highly unusual. For the past twelve months, my life has been full with changing location, helping my little girl adapt to moving away from the people she's familiar with, and establishing myself here in Winter Valley. I haven’t had time to even think about women and attraction. Yet I can’t deny that although extremely quirky, this woman intrigues me.
Shaking my head, I look at the dark, lonely road, hoping Morgan arrives soon. The perks of being the brother of the town mechanic include free towing. The downside is he doesn’t care if I freeze my balls off while I wait for him.
“Sorry about the . . . I’m not used to driving in snow,” she mumbles after a long silence.
Her gaze moves from the collision to me. I hope Morgan can fix my car or lend me one of his trucks while it’s at his shop.
Please tell me she has insurance, or this will be a pain in the ass.
She offers me a confident smile. “Do you think the mechanic can repair it?”
“Probably. How long do you plan to stay?”
Before she can answer my question, Morgan arrives with the tow truck. He tosses me a pair of leather work gloves. “Help me get her car on top while I hook the chains to yours.”
He glances at Audrey and snorts. “Why don’t you get inside the tow truck, miss?” Morgan tilts his head toward the open cabin.
She hesitates. Who would want to get in a truck with two strange men? Well, Morgan is strange anyway.
“Is all your luggage in the trunk?” my brother asks.
That seems to spark her back to life. “Yes.” She moves toward her smashed car. “I only have one bag.”
And she doesn’t sound happy about that.
“I’ll get it.” I'm already walking before I finish the sentence.
Holiday with You Page 2