Snowed In with the Billionaire

by Lila Monroe

  Snowed In with the Billionaire

  A Holiday Novella

  Lila Monroe

  Lila Monroe Books

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Billionaire With a Twist

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Rugged Billionaire

  Chapter One

  The Billionaire Bargain

  The Billionaire Game

  Get Lucky

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 by Lila Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by British Empire Designs

  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to all you ho, ho, hos.

  xo Lila

  Chapter 1

  Airports the week before Christmas are a magical sight. Loving families picking each other up at the gate. Enormous wreaths festooned with holly and twinkling lights. The guy working his shift at Sbarro’s wearing a Santa hat. But the nicest part of the Aspen airport is the fact that I’m not on a plane anymore. After three delays and an unexpected stopover in a mysterious, foreign city called Sheboygan, I’m finally here.

  I’m all grins as I head down to baggage claim, even though it’s completely hectic. People are running full out to catch a plane, many of them families with kids. Christmas carols play as I ride the escalator. I want to sing along, adding my own lyrics. Joy to the world/ Your flight is in/ Please don’t for-get your bags.

  My phone rings as I get to the carousel. It’s my sister, Ally. I grab the call as I wait for the luggage to come down. “Hey!”

  “Have you met him yet?” Ally’s not big on hello.

  “I hope you mean my client. And no,” I say. My stomach still tightens a little at the word ‘client.’ It’s an excited-maybe-slightly-scared tighten. This is my party planning company’s maiden voyage. It’s my Titanic, except without the iceberg. It’s my prima nocta, except without the rapey English feudalism.

  This is my first big job. I’m here in Aspen a day early just to set up for Ace Carmichael’s spectacular holiday retreat. He’s the billionaire record executive with the A-list friends, and I’m the person who has to make sure his weekend is flawless.

  “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Ally says.

  “Only slightly terrified,” I laugh.

  “Don’t be! If he’s rude about anything, just call him a douchebro.” There it is, my sister’s favorite word. “He doesn’t know the kind of talent he’s hired. Who prevented an all-out catastrophe at Belinda LaCroix’s lobster soiree? Who was able to get world-class Tuvan throat singers for Mindy Jamison’s Save Tibet fundraiser?”

  “Me,” I say, sitting on the carousel’s edge. I can’t help being proud. I know Ally rolls her eyes at all the socialites I used to work for, but I got along well with them. Seeing people happy and having a good time is why I started this business in the first place. I shake my head. “But this is different, Ally. This is my chance to turn my hobby into a real career. I can’t mess it up.”

  “You won’t. You’re a party planning Michelangelo, about to paint your goddamn Colorado Sistine Chapel. You’ve got this.” Ally uses swear words the way other people use exclamation marks. She sighs. “Anyway, I have to go. Hunter’s waiting.” Ally’s with her fiancé for the holidays.

  “Having fun?” I smile.

  “We’d have more fun if Mom wasn’t hovering around with her bountiful wedding planning ideas.” Ally mimics our mother’s airy Southern drawl. “‘Oh baby, don’t you dream of Swarovski crystals simply dripping from your wedding dress? Don’t you want to drip, Ally? Drip with me.’” She returns to her normal voice, flat as a board. “I’m going to elope.”

  She could get away with it, too. Ally used to be our mother’s cross to bear. Now that she’s marrying Hunter Knox, founder of Bartlett Brewery, suddenly she can do no wrong. But even if Mom didn’t approve, Ally wouldn’t think twice about running away. That’s the nice part about being the baby of the family. I love my sister, but having to be the responsible one, the one with the good behavior and the perfect smile, can grate on me sometimes. So as happy as I’d be for Ally and Hunter if they really do elope, I know it would end up being one more of her messes for me to clean up. But I’d do it with love.

  The carousel starts moving. I say goodbye to Ally, hang up, and wade into the melee that is everyone trying to find their bags. I can only describe it as sheer, desperate chaos. Blood will be spilt this day. They will carry the fallen out in their own Samsonites. People push and pull me until—there! My bags! I recognize the pink ribbons Ally insisted on tying to the handles, and send up a silent prayer that she talked me into it. I grab for the bags but someone roughly knocks into me and I’m shoved to the ground.

  “Hey—ow!” I look up at the man who bumped me, and he doesn’t even flinch. From down here, all I can see is a dirty denim jacket, a stubbled jaw, dark hair peeking out from under a ski cap. He really doesn’t care at all that I’m on the floor getting trampled by frenzied travelers. Maybe it’s the stress of three delayed flights finally slipping through, but before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “You…you…douchebro!”

  I clamp my hand over my mouth. What did I just say? If Mom were here, she’d clutch her pearls and strategically faint into someone’s arms. She didn’t raise her daughters to speak like that to strange men! Well, she didn’t raise me to speak like that.

  The man glances at me disinterestedly. Then he grabs his bag and he’s gone, out the door before I can blink. I get to my feet, dusting myself off. I shouldn’t be mad. Probably some ski bum too selfish to notice what’s happening around him. The kind of person who lives for the snow. This is Aspen, after all. Maybe he has some amazing slope to get to. I finally manage to collect my bags, and walk outside to wait for my car.

  I spend ten minutes shivering on the airport curb before I start to consider the idea that no one is coming. My client was supposed to send a private, fancy car to take me to his private, fancy ski lodge, but it’s a no show. After all the delays and the incredibly rude ski bum, a wild, normally unheard of part of me wants to go on a snow-kicking rampage. But I take a deep breath and remember my mother’s words: Always graceful, sweetheart, like a beautiful swan. Paddle like hell where no one can see, but up above, all ease and charm. And no ugly frowny face; yes, just like you’re doing right now.

  I check my email again—nothing—and try calling. The result is even more nothing. Nothing for everyone. We have a last minute sale on nothing, please bring all your nothing to the checkout counter. It is the Black Friday of nothing.

  The sun begins to set, and I’m turning as blue as the plastic Frosty the Snowman sculpture by the airport doors. I have to remember that it’s the holidays. Mistakes get made. Keeping a smile on my face, I go back inside to rent a car.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m heading down the highway and mentally going over everything. I need to call Kelsey when I get a minute and thank her; she was the person who helped me get this job in the first place. It turns out my mother’s friends in the Queen Bee Society Quilters and Ladies’ Social Club have ins you’d never suspect. So, call Kelsey and thank her, call the caterers to double check on tomorrow. I’m lucky that most things, like catering a
nd decoration, are manageable from home. Otherwise, I’d be in danger of losing my perfect composure.

  I’m curious about this mysterious client of mine. I’ve only ever spoken to his assistant, and then strictly via email. Fortunately, Google can provide me tons of information about the elusive Ace Carmichael. He was a drummer for a successful rock band about ten years ago. The Salty Compromise, or The Sweet Composure, something like that. They were the kind of band that went to the Viper Room and punched Johnny Depp in the face. But then a car accident cut Ace’s music career short, something to do with a torn ligament that caused permanent damage. That must have been devastating.

  He hasn’t let it stop him, though. From that accident, he turned around and went into the business side of the music industry, grooming a stable of A-list talent and producing hit after hit. I couldn’t find many online pictures of his rock band days—drummers aren’t usually in the spotlight, I guess—but I’ve seen plenty of him post business transition. He’s usually in a sharp black suit, executive casual: a handsome sort of man who always has some willowy Barbie lookalike on his arm.

  Well, if I can pull off this party, he can bring all the Barbies he wants. We can have the Ballerina Barbie, the Beach Barbie, even the limited edition Scarlett O’Hara Barbie with the parasol. Bring all the antebellum corsets and hot pink bikinis and tutus you like to my fabulous ski lodge bonanza. Because this is finally it: my big chance. Ally had to push me to really give my event planning a professional go, and I’m forever grateful that she did—but the reality is that if this doesn’t work out, it’s back to my hometown, back to being a part-time receptionist, back to my ‘hobby’ of setting up cotillions and doggy massage parties. Yes, those are actually a thing.

  It’s almost completely dark by the time I drive up into the mountains, and the snow is falling hard. I have to crawl along at 10 mph the last two miles because I worry my car might get blown off a cliff. My wipers go as fast as possible to keep the sleet off the windshield, and all I keep thinking is I can’t die here. I can’t die before I see Jessie J. and FloRida arguing in a Jacuzzi while eating the cocktail sliders I personally picked out. I will see FloRida eat a mozzarella fireball before I leave this earth, so help me God. I clench my jaw, shake off my frustration, and continue along the road at a snail’s pace—better safe than sorry, and better late than never. Hopefully Mr. Carmichael will feel the same.

  Finally, I see lights up ahead and pull into a winding driveway, my jaw falling open. Lights are burning in all the ski lodge windows, and there are a lot of windows. This house is like the Lodge Mahal. I park, turn off the car, and take a deep breath. I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer. I repeat the Litany Against Fear over and over in my mind. Forget my years at Delta Zeta, the Bene Gesserit are my true sisterhood.

  I haul the bags from my trunk and waddle through the snow, up the porch stairs to the front door. I am ready for a hot bath and a warm bed, and I am ready now. I knock and wait. No answer. I knock again.

  “Hello? Mr. Carmichael?” My breath is puffing into clouds in the frozen air, and I stomp my feet, which are already starting to go numb. I scan the siding for a doorbell, but all I see are goddamn logs stacked on top of each other. This can’t be happening. But third time’s the charm, right? I knock again.

  Nothing.

  Oh, it can’t be like the car at the airport. I will turn into a literal Popsicle out here, and then I will haunt this lodge as a sweetly smiling, cocktail platter laden ghost for all eternity. I knock and knock, then start banging my fists against the door. I’m debating whether or not to discreetly break a window when the lock turns and the door flings open.

  “The hell?” the man who answers says.

  No time to explain. First, I have to get warm. I pull my luggage inside and practically melt onto the floor, my nose and ears burning with the sudden heat. I turn around ready to apologize for beating down the door, when I recognize the guy.

  Stubbled jaw and dark, messy hair: check. He’s down the dirty denim and the ski cap, but I still know him. It’s the ski bum jerk that pushed me at the airport. He works for Ace Carmichael, too? Is he some kind of rugged butler, or an assistant, or…?

  Wait. No. It can’t be.

  “I’m Paige Bartlett,” I say, holding out my hand. Please tell me I’m wrong about this. “The event coordinator.” He doesn’t respond, so I try again. “The party planner.”

  “Nice to meet you, party planner Paige,” he says, crushing my hand in an iron grip. His dark eyes meet mine. “Ace Carmichael. Welcome to my lodge.”

  Ace Carmichael. The airport douchebro is my boss. I don’t know what to say as he reaches over and takes the bag from me. “Hey!” I find my voice at last, and it’s annoyed. “I can carry my own luggage.” At the last second, I manage, “But thank you.”

  Ace shrugs. “You’re on my turf now. He-man carries puny woman’s bags. Rule of the alpine jungle.” He raises an eyebrow as his eyes rake up and down my body. His gaze is very attentive, and I can’t help the hot flush that rises into my cheeks. “Not so puny, actually.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment?” I say, grumbling to myself as we climb the stairs. I’m behind Ace, staring daggers into his back. It’s a well-defined back, actually. Every muscled detail is visible through his thin t-shirt. Not to mention the way his jeans cling to a particularly well sculpted—

  Stop it, Paige. You’re angry right now.

  “In my book, not puny is always a plus.” He leads me down a plush-carpeted hallway. I catch snatches of the place: there’s rustic reclaimed wood everywhere, the walls adorned with black and white photographs of Colorado vistas and more than a few gleaming gold record awards. It’s the most ruggedly chic ski fortress I’ve ever seen.

  Ace opens a door and flicks on the light in a really cozy looking bedroom. There’s a fireplace and everything. “Hope you’ll be comfortable,” he says, putting the bags down.

  “Thank you,” I say. He nods, his dark eyes running over me one more time. I feel so exposed; I try returning him stare for stare, but we’re in his remote ski lodge, not mine. He smirks, flashing an actual, literal dimple, and my stomach does a traitorous little flip.

  “Good night, then.” He brushes past me and leaves, closing the door behind him. Jerk. Oh God, my boss is a hot jerk. My stomach sinks as I sit down on the bed. What in the world have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, I wake before my alarm and open the bedroom shutters to get a good look at the view. The snowstorm blew away overnight, leaving the air crisp and the mountains blue and white with snow. It’s all fresh, untouched powder as far as the eye can see. I can imagine Dudley Do-Right charging along on his horse, up the mountains and down, chasing Snidely Whiplash.

  Snow makes me think about old cartoons.

  My room has its own bathroom, complete with granite vanity tops, brass sconces, and a sunken whirlpool bath tub I can’t wait to try out later. For now I opt for a quick shower, and after I wash up I dress fast, throwing on my favorite Christmassy red cashmere sweater and black jeans. I tie my honey blond hair up in a ponytail; Mom always says buns are the open-for-business sign of spinsterhood, but I need it out of my eyes. I have a big day ahead, prepping everything before the guests start to arrive tomorrow. My stomach lurches as I realize I’ll have to spend more time with Ace today. He didn’t recognize me from the airport, which was good, and hopefully yesterday was just a horrible first impression. He was probably as tired of traveling as I was, and I can’t blame him for that. He’ll probably be a lot more civil this morning, with a cup of coffee and some breakfast. Maybe he’ll be polite-hot, instead of surly-hot. Here’s hoping.

  The important thing is that he doesn’t recognize me as the woman who called him a douchebro. And I need to remember that he’s a client. A client who could kickstart my career with the right word to the right people. Mom’s voice floats through my head again:

  The customer is always right, baby, always righ
t. But he should probably shaaaaave. Mom’s last word is echo-y, for some reason.

  I leave my room and walk around the quiet lodge, taking it in. It’s even more beautiful with all the daylight pouring in through the windows. There are words that come to mind. Impressive. Gargantuan. Pine-scented heaven. Colorado Xanadu.

  The upstairs alone has five plush-carpeted bedrooms, each equipped with its own private bathroom. All the tubs have Jacuzzi jets just like mine and are probably large enough to serve as Olympic training pools. Downstairs, the ceilings are high with exposed beams, and the walls are set with windows that showcase the best vistas in Aspen. The house is situated on its own private mountainside, and the trees and snow slope away from the terrace. Everything is pine-paneled, buffed and dusted to a perfect shine. A grand piano waits in the center of the living room, across from an enormous stone fireplace. The whole interior makes me think romantic Swiss chalet meets modern convenience. There’s one thing missing, though. No sign of the holidays. No trees, no lights, no ribbons or holly. Well, I can certainly take care of that. It’s why I’m here.

  When I get to the kitchen, I’m tempted to fall down in abject worship. If I brought any incense with me, I’d light it and pray. It’s a hostess’s dream. There’s a huge island in the center for caterer prep, rows of spacious cabinets done in an antique eggshell finish, and plenty of granite countertops for setting out food, beverages, and tasteful touches of decoration. Every appliance is chrome and gleaming. You’ve got your mixers, your mincers, your toaster with seventeen slots waiting for some ritzy one-percent bread. There are two separate machines just for differently calibrated espresso. I’m a double shot cappuccino girl myself, what Mom calls ‘European socialist coffee.’ I steam some milk, humming to myself. This is going to be perfect.