Daxton: A Scrooged Christmas (Cedar Creek Book 3)

by Julia Goda

  Two minutes later, it was in danger of becoming non-existent in a short amount of time.

  Shit again.

  Jerkface McJerkerson stood with his hands on his hips, the scowl on his face now expectant yet knowing, since he’d heard my side of both conversations, which meant he also looked pissed off. I took a fortifying breath knowing what I had to do. And hating I didn’t have much of a choice. “My house has a guest room you can use if you’d like.”

  His brows scrunched together and his mouth sneered in disgust. “I’ll call a cab.”

  “I doubt they’ll come all the way from Boulder in this weather to collect you, but you’re welcome to try.”

  “There’s no taxi service?”

  I shook my head.

  “Fuck,” he swore.

  Yup. My thoughts exactly.

  It was me who raised my brows in expectation this time. Though, I didn’t repeat my disgruntled yet gracious—at least I thought so—offer.

  In answer, he rounded his car and grabbed a leather duffel bag from the back seat, then he threw his door closed and walked past me to the passenger side of my car, locking his with the remote as he went.

  I tipped my head back to look at the snowy and now almost dark sky and told myself to let it roll off my shoulders. Not everyone had it in them to be nice. There were assholes out there. A lot of them. I just had to clench my teeth, and it’d be over soon. Close your eyes and think of England. Not that anything sexual would be happening, but I knew I was in for an aggravating evening I would no doubt not enjoy, so the idiom seemed fitting. It would be my good Christmas deed this year. On that thought, I picked up my feet and followed the ungrateful bastard, who was already sitting in the passenger seat of my car. I had a nice bottle of wine waiting for me at home that I promised myself I would open the minute I walked into my house. I also had a Christmas dinner for one to cook. Shit. Or maybe for two. If I could resist the urge to commit homicide in the next couple of hours.

  We’d see how it went.

  ***

  Half an hour later, we pulled into my driveway.

  I didn’t live far out of town—a ten-minute drive on a normal day—but the roads had become slippery since I’d left earlier and it was snowing heavily now, impeding visibility. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got another good dump of snow overnight. I just hoped it wouldn’t be too much to drive come morning. Not wanting to let my thoughts go to what I’d do if that happened, I looked at my mountain cabin like I always did after I turned off my engine. My dream house. My home. The home I had worked my ass off for. I still was, just not as hard nowadays.

  “This is yours?” There was surprise in his voice, which I took as him not expecting me to own beauty like this.

  Yes, asshole, this is my house. I didn’t say this out loud but rather chose to clamp my mouth shut so I wouldn’t scream. Apart from his frequent grumblings in the first ten minutes about the state of my car and my less than stellar driving expertise—I’d ignored either until he’d finally shut up; maybe this was the way to go—the drive had been quiet. Almost a reprieve. Or a calm before the storm. I didn’t see good things happening in my near future besides curling up on the couch with a glass of wine after dinner, a Christmas classic playing on TV while snow was falling outside, blanketing everything with a white sparkly sheet. When I’d called my house a ‘mountain cabin,’ that’s exactly what I meant. A two-story log cabin with a green metal roof—which was hidden under two feet of snow right now. It had three spacious bedrooms—one of them, the master, was in a huge open loft with a cozy reading nook overlooking the mountains; the other two were on the ground floor off the opposite side of the living room. The perfect pine kitchen with high-end appliances was every cook’s dream and was open to the sunken living room space with, yes, a wood-burning oven-type fireplace facing a set of deep, comfy couches. I loved everything about my house, was proud of it, proud I was able to give this to myself.

  The sight of the front porch, illuminated by the lights I always set on a timer during the winter, calmed me enough to say, “Yes, this is my house,” in a soft voice.

  I felt his eyes on me and turned my head. I was shocked to see something there, something that was not derision, something I could almost say was tenderness. But before I could figure out what it was, it was gone, shifted to hard again. Then he turned away and got out of the car without another word, took his bag from the back seat, then stomped to my front porch.

  If I weren’t so annoyed right now, I would laugh. He behaved like a five-year-old who hadn’t gotten his way.

  I sighed for the five hundredth and eighty-ninth time that afternoon and followed him.

  The first thing I did when I entered and left the door open behind me for him to follow, then took off my snow-drenched boots and dropped my purse, was not open the bottle of wine. No, I walked straight toward the six-foot tall Christmas tree in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the living room to turn on the twinkle lights. I stood and stared at it for a few moments, enjoying its simple beauty, before I turned and switched on the other various Christmas lights throughout the huge area. I never went overboard with Christmas decorations, didn’t like any sort of clutter or tacky knick-knacks, but I loved the lights—the warm white non-blinking ones. I ended my walkthrough in the kitchen—there was one last switch to light up the small countertop potted pine tree—where I shrugged off my coat and threw it over the back of one of the stools at the bar. Only then did I walk toward the counter opposite to retrieve the wine.

  I didn’t quite make it there before I saw him standing not more than a few feet inside the front door. His eyes were roaming the room, taking everything in, his jaw hard, a muscle in his cheek twitching, his brows drawn together, a deep frown between them. He also had his arms crossed on his chest and it looked like his fists were clenched.

  Wonderful.

  “My room?” he grunted when his eyes stopped on me.

  Rude. Again.

  But whatever.

  I didn’t stop in my mission to get liquored up to play hostess or give him a tour. “Down the hall, first room on the right. It’s got an en-suite, so you’ll have your privacy. Clean towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”

  I picked up the bottle, found the corkscrew in the utensil drawer, uncorked the wine, then pulled down a glass from the cabinet and poured. Eager, I lifted the glass to my lips and took a sip. A big one. When I opened my eyes after savoring the fruity smoothness on my tongue and palate, I noticed he hadn’t moved. His eyes were glued to me, glittering with what looked like a whole lot of anger.

  What the hell was his problem?

  I said nothing, just held his stare as I took another sip. Challenging him maybe. To what I wasn’t sure. I just knew I wouldn’t take his crap for much longer. Especially not in my own home.

  He broke the contact to sweep his eyes down my body to my waist, taking his time, his jaw no less hard, his eyes still glittering. On their way up, they rested on my chest for a few long seconds before he seemed to snap himself out of it, uncrossed his arms, bent to snatch up his duffel, then turned and marched up the stairs without another word.

  “Geez, Louise, that guy is a dick,” I murmured to myself, somewhat unsettled by my body’s reaction to his short, yet intense, perusal. Though, it shouldn’t surprise me. It tended to pick assholes—Mark, my ex-boyfriend, being the latest proof.

  Determined to not let my mind go there because that would cause my own anger to heat to epic proportions, I walked to the fridge to take out the supplies I needed to cook dinner. I would not let anyone ruin Christmas for me. Not dickhead Mark, not Mr. Jerkface, and not the fact that Dad couldn’t make it out here on time to celebrate with me.

  I turned on some Christmas music and focused on food preparation, humming and sipping wine while I chopped, seasoned, stuffed, roasted, peeled, and boiled. With the turkey breast in the oven, the potatoes set to boil, and everything else prepared, I was refilling my wine when the ph
one rang.

  Daxton

  Daxton strode down the hall intent on getting away from the exasperating yet undeniably captivating woman who had opened her home to him.

  Such a stupid and dangerous thing to do, taking in a man who was a stranger to her. She is completely clueless. Which proved what he already knew. Emersyn with a y was not the brightest bulb. Her lack of professionality when she’d shown him the listing would have made other men walk away from the immense potential he knew the property provided. But Daxton McArthur wasn’t a man who let a promising investment slip through his fingers. He wouldn’t be where he was if he’d let other people’s incompetency influence his decisions—in business and in life. The land those rundown cottages sat on alone would be worth more than double the asking price a few years down the road.

  But if he was being honest with himself—brutal honesty was something he prided himself in—it wasn’t just Emersyn’s ineptitude that had frustrated him to the point of anger. No. It was more than that, even though he kept telling himself it wasn’t. From the moment he had watched her getting out of her car, then kept watching as she’d walked toward him with those long legs encased in a tight pair of jeans, jeans that hugged her curves before they were hidden by her fitted wool winter coat that was belted at her narrow waist, he had been attracted to her in a way he had never experienced in his life. And it wasn’t just physical. There had been something else, something, though he didn’t know what it was. Uncomfortable and unfamiliar with any type of uncertainty, he had felt the instant fury igniting deep in his gut. Before she’d even made it to him to introduce herself and shake his hand, he’d had difficulty controlling the heat coursing through his body. The only way he had been able to control that heat had been to treat her like he had. Daxton was an asshole most of the time, was famous for it both in his professional and private circles, and he didn’t much give a fuck. But even he knew he’d been an even bigger ass than the situation had warranted. The realtor had told him someone not in the business would show him around since she herself was tied up, so he’d known Emersyn wasn’t an expert, just someone who was doing a friend a favor—something he had long since wiped from his range of behaviors; granting favors, that is.

  Nobody does anything for nothing. That was the motto he had lived by for a long time now, a motto which suited him just fine and had proven to be a great resource over the years. He didn’t owe anyone anything, but a lot of people owed him. Not money; he didn’t lend even a dollar. Favors. Markers. And he used them to his biggest possible advantage. Always. One of those markers had brought the cottage property to his attention. He had known by merely studying the details on paper he was going to buy the property. Even knowing this, he still had insisted on a viewing today. He didn’t give a rat’s ass it was a holiday, cared even less it was Christmas. He hadn’t always hated Christmas, but he utterly despised it now. People’s uncontrolled spending on things they didn’t need, the reproachfully forced cheer that was expected, the distasteful and ugly decorations. It all left a sour taste in his mouth.

  Most wonderful time of the year, my ass.

  Just like every year, he couldn’t wait until it was over and a new year started.

  But even though he had known he would invest in the property, he had kept Emersyn there for much longer than had been necessary to ascertain his initial confidence, not knowing why he did it. Which in turn had aggravated him further, which had made him act like more of an ass than usual.

  Daxton opened the first door on the right and surveyed the space. Not what he’d expected. At all. The room was comfortable in a masculine way, with no sign of flowery or cutesy patterns anywhere. In fact, it was close to his own decorating tastes but warmer, more inviting. Just like the rest of the house he’d seen so far, making him want to stay a while. Which wasn’t something he liked. He didn’t connect—with things or people.

  Not ever. Not anymore.

  He wouldn’t let himself.

  Gritting his teeth, Daxton unpacked the few things he would need before he sat in the wingback chair by the window to check his email and make some phone calls. He’d be missing a lunch meeting with his accountant tomorrow, and just in case, he also told his assistant, Margaret, to reschedule the conference call in the afternoon as well as the dinner meeting. Who knew how long dealing with his car, then driving back to Colorado Springs in this weather, would take. Emersyn hadn’t been wrong, though he would never admit it. The snow was coming down hard. And the fact it was Christmas, when ninety-nine point nine percent of the American population thought it wasn’t necessary to open their businesses, would make things marginally more complicated out here in the middle of nowhere. If nothing else, he would order Margaret to come and get him first thing in the morning. He paid her enough to be available to him twenty-four seven, Christmas or not.

  Done with his final call for the night, he stayed where he was and listened to the noises traveling to his room from the kitchen. It sounded like Emersyn was cooking. His growling stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was now close to seven o’clock.

  On a groan, he got up to head to the kitchen. He doubted any restaurant in town would be open on Christmas Eve. He didn’t like it, but he hoped Emersyn could cook and was making enough food for the both of them. He would eat in his room.

  As soon as he opened the door and walked into the hallway, a number of delicious scents hit his nose and made him stop. The smell of the home-cooked food uncovered memories he had locked away, forgotten about. Happy memories from his childhood. Of his mom. Memories of her smiling and laughing while she cooked. Or baked. Memories of his dad watching her with an indulgent smile playing around his lips before he brought her into his arms and kissed her. Christmas had been her favorite holiday.

  Pain suffused his every pore and glued him to the spot, locking his body. Other memories, other sounds, entered his mind, took it over, threatening to eviscerate him. Fuck, this hadn’t happened to him in a long time. Ten years. With no choice, he hung his head and gave the pain its due before he gritted his teeth and managed to breathe through it, then shoved it aside. Though he could feel it lingering, he would not succumb to such a pointless thing as emotions; it wouldn’t get him anywhere he wanted to go. He had done it too many times in his life before he became the man he was now and had sworn it would never happen again.

  But when he lifted his head, his eyes landed on Emersyn. She was swaying her hips, humming to the music as she cooked. Mesmerized, he watched her every move as she seemingly danced through the space while she chopped, poured, checked, and stirred, never faltering, never hesitating, fluid, a smile playing around her lips. She looked content. Happy.

  None of the women he’d spent time with in the past fifteen years had cooked for him. He hadn’t given them the chance. Though he doubted most of them had ever cooked a single meal in their lives. Few of them had been allowed into his condo, and those who had, had not eaten there. He himself hardly ever ate inside his home. When he did, it was takeout, which was also rare.

  So he had forgotten.

  Forgotten the scent, forgotten the taste.

  Forgotten the feeling.

  Any feeling.

  But they all came rushing back now as he couldn’t help but stare.

  Transfixed.

  Powerless.

  He had no choice but to let them engulf him.

  When the phone rang and Emersyn moved out of his sight to answer it, he moved closer, as if in a trance, as if pulled by her. It sounded ridiculous, ludicrous, but he couldn’t stop it. No matter how hard he tried to shake it off, to shake himself free, he needed his eyes on her.

  Yes, needed.

  The man who didn’t want for anything in his life, didn’t require anything but himself to live the life he wanted, the man who achieved everything he set his sights on, needed her in sight.

  Which turned into desire when she answered the phone.

  “Hey, Daddy. Merry Christmas.” God, her voi
ce was so soft, so loving, so full of affection and warmth, so very different from the voice she had used when she’d talked to him. Daxton had known this woman for a mere afternoon, had treated her with nothing but irritation and disdain, had judged her unfairly because he was blinded by his own superiority and frustrated by his inexplicable attraction, yet he knew he’d never meet another woman who could feel so deeply and express that in four simple words.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Missing you. You’re still coming for New Year’s, though, right?”

  “Good. That’s great. I can’t wait.”

  “I’m still making dinner.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Get this, Dad. I helped Linda out and showed a property this afternoon for some hobnob investor from Colorado Springs who had to see it today. Kept me there for four hours. And you won’t believe what an arrogant dick he was. I swear, Dad, I’ve met some assholes in my life, but this guy takes the cake. You’d be proud of me. I didn’t punch him. Cursed him a million times over in my head and christened him Mr. Jerkface, but I didn’t get violent.”

  There was a smile in her voice when she said the last, but Daxton was stuck on the feelings her words brought on. Before he could sort them out, she continued.

  “And it gets worse. His car broke down. It’s late afternoon on Christmas Eve in Cedar Creek, the garage is closed, no hotels in town, and the snow is coming down hard. So, I had no choice but to offer that asshat my guest room. He’s upstairs right now, probably glaring at the wall or something.”

  The heavy sensation in Daxton’s gut dropped further.

  He watched as Emersyn winced and pulled the phone away from her ear.

  “Dad—”

  “No, Dad, calm—”

  There was a long pause during which she rolled her eyes yet listened as her father probably lost his mind on her for being stupid. As he should. He was her father. It was his job to set her straight.