Snowed In with the Billionaire

by Lila Monroe

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I say.

  “Yes, I’ve had all my shots.”

  “No.” I smile and lightly smack Ace’s arm. “Why did you get so defensive when I asked about the Christmas trees? This place is so perfect for the holidays, but when I came you didn’t have any decorations at all. Why? Don’t you like Christmas?”

  Ace looks uncomfortable. “I don’t have great memories of the holidays. When I was a kid, my parents were always fighting. For some reason, Christmas was the time Dad wanted to get away from us the most. Mom was usually too busy checking the downtown bars for him to do anything like decorate or cook. After a while, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever December rolled around. And now I’m always traveling during the holidays anyway, surrounded by a crowd of people that I’m barely acquainted with. I’ve never really had cozy Christmas feelings before.” He nudges me. “What about you? Probably the type who takes a family portrait in matching sweaters every single year.”

  Sometimes, I really feel like he knows me. “Oh, I’m used to the all-American Christmas. You know. Mom cooks up two turkeys, a pork tenderloin, Cornish game hen. Giblet stuffing, homemade pecan pie. Everything’s glazed in honey and syrup. Then she melts some butter and garnishes it with a couple of green beans.” I hope I don’t sound as spoiled as I feel, now that I know how rough things have been for Ace.

  “That sounds great. The South really knows how it’s done,” Ace says, almost wistful. “At my last holiday party, we served sachets of peppermint air. Air. And some of the singers told me it was too filling.”

  I laugh out loud, and he joins me.

  “So this is the rundown: first Mom makes way too much food. Then Dad takes a plate and hides himself in his den, watching football.” I stretch. “Then my sister, Ally, will probably go in the kitchen and provoke my Mom by discussing women’s suffrage—she’s still touchy about that one—and trying to drink all the wine. And afterwards, we all top up our drinks and decorate the tree.” I grin. “That’s my favorite part. Dad does the lights, we take care of the ornaments. Ally always puts the star on top.”

  “That sounds nice,” Ace says. He sounds like he means it.

  “It is. I wish you could see it.” My voice trails off and I look away awkwardly.

  “All right.” Ace sits up. “So how about we get you a tree?”

  “Seriously?” I’m sure he’s kidding, but he’s got that look in his eyes, the I-may-be-sexy-but-I-know-what-I-want look. He’s excited. “But what about the anti-Christmas blood oath?”

  “It was more of a sworn statement. I’ll be right back.” He starts pulling on his boots.

  “Where are you going to go? There’s fifteen miles of snow outside that say ‘No, stay by the fire, we got this.’ Can’t you hear the snow? It’s calling to you.”

  “There’s, like, a hundred trees outside. There’s a mountain full of them.” He goes out of the room to get his jacket. I hop after.

  “You’re crazy!” I’m laughing as I watch him pull on his gloves. “Out of your mind. Gone to lunch. Many other synonyms for crazy, insert them all here.”

  “Don’t follow me with that ankle! Go back and rest,” Ace says, grabbing his hat. He’s a man on a mission.

  “Oh, so the lady reclines by the fireside, waiting for the rugged man to haul back his evergreen kill?” I fold my arms.

  “Yes. Man kills tree, woman prepares and cooks it. Law of nature.” With that, Ace throws the door open and heads out into the snow.

  He’s right about my ankle. There’s no way I can follow him outside. Instead, I sit by the window and watch him go into his storage shed. He comes out with a chainsaw, revving it a few times and waving at me with a huge grin, then giving me thumbs-up. He looks like the world’s cheeriest, sexiest murderer right now.

  He goes down to the tree line, picks out a small pine about as tall as he is, and cuts it down. He knows what he’s doing, and the tree falls quickly and cleanly. Then he grabs it by the trunk and drags it back across the snow. A minute later, there’s a knock at the door. I hop over and open it. Outside, Ace stomps his boots on the mat. “I have returned,” he grins.

  “The mating ritual of the North American billionaire,” I say, laughing as Ace stands the tree up against the side of the house to shake snow out of the branches. “Here you find him bringing home a blue spruce to the female.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ace scoffs. “This is clearly a Douglas fir. Have you no eyes, woman?”

  “You’re insane,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I am feeling a little crazy,” he murmurs. “Luckily it’s in your favor. Ornaments!”

  Ace puts the tree up, and we start to decorate. It’s a good thing I ordered the strands of holiday lights and the ornamented garlands. We strip what we can without sacrificing too much of the holiday cheer around the lodge and get down to dressing up the little pine. My bum foot makes the lights a really exciting part of the process.

  “Hop to me a little to the left. No, my left,” Ace directs. I hang the red and gold baubles deep inside the branches. It’s the best way to let the ornaments catch the light and glow. We don’t have a star, but Ace manages to find some thick paper and before too long, I’ve origami-ed a five-pointed star with a conical base. Ace turns it around in his hands, looking like he’s never seen anything like it before.

  “That was magic,” he says. I laugh.

  “No. That was origami class at the community youth center. Mom always said girls needed a way to occupy their minds during summer vacation. Otherwise, we’d end up voting for Democrats.”

  “Truly scandalous.” Ace grabs me and kisses me, leaning me over the arm of the couch so that I flop onto my back. “Now don’t you move a muscle,” he commands.

  He takes my star over to the tree and places it on top. Standing back, hands on his hips, he looks sort of proud. My heart promptly turns to mush.

  “Thank you for this,” I say, going over to him. “It’s perfect.”

  “Not the fanciest tree you’ve ever seen, probably,” he laughs.

  “No, but it’s one of the best. We didn’t just do it because of tradition.”

  Ace turns me to face him. “I’m glad I could do this for you,” he says. “This is the first Christmas tree I’ve ever really enjoyed.”

  “Now I want to do something for you.” I push him away lightly. The heat flares back into his eyes.

  “Like what?” his eyes roll down my body and I smile.

  “That’ll come later. Right now I’m going to make you a special dinner.”

  “Dinner’s good,” he says, but his eyes linger at my breasts.

  “I’ll be wearing my most low-cut dress,” I add.

  “Dinner with low-cut dress is better.” He pulls me tightly to him, his hand grazing my lower back, reaching down to cup my ass. “And for dessert?”

  “The low-cut dress comes off,” I whisper throatily.

  “That’s best of all,” he growls.

  “Now go to your studio, get some work done.” I tell him, pushing him away, my mouth watering at the feel of my hand against his rigid abs. “I know you’ve been obsessing over that new track.”

  Once Ace hustles away, I go to the kitchen and inspect the fridge. I find a couple of fancy steaks. That’s a good place to start.

  This time, we’re eating in the dining room. While the oven heats and the pots boil on the stove, I go through the cabinets and find white, elegant cloth napkins and place settings. Nice to know someone thought about formal dining. I light candles and set out the silverware. It’s so polished it gleams.

  There are several bottles of Veuve Clicquot, and I set one on ice before going upstairs to change. I zip open my suitcase and take out the dress I was saving for the big night. It’s red with a scoop neck. Not too fancy, but then, I didn’t want to stand out from the party guests. It’s flattering, maybe a little sexy, but only in a professional way.

  I slip on the dress a
nd zip myself up, then slide into some black pumps. I turn in front of the mirror, admiring the way everything fits. Back home, I know Mom would chide me if I spent too much time looking at myself.

  Remember baby, eyes for your future husband only. Don’t let him think you know how pretty you are. He’ll start wondering if you plan to run off with the cabana boy at the country club, and then it’ll lead to such an argument he’ll have to buy you a new tennis bracelet to make up for it.

  Don’t tell your father I said anything, angel.

  But right now, I don’t feel wrong taking pride in myself. Not just my body—although it actually looks damn good in this dress—but my work. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed someone to take me seriously until I came here.

  Downstairs, I put out the food and pour two glasses of champagne. I turn down the lights and look over the table, pleased with myself. The table is a softly glowing island, perfect for two. The thought makes me smile.

  I walk out of the dining room, heading for Ace’s studio to tell him that dinner’s ready when—

  The doorbell rings. I stop, surprised. Who’s going to be coming up the hill at this hour? I cross the room and open the door.

  Four, no, five spray-tanned girls are wobbling in front of me, shivering in the cold. Two of them are peroxide blondes, the other three are salon dark with highlights. Between the five of them, they’ve probably got enough body fat for me. One half of me, actually. But I won’t judge.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, moving aside to let them in. “Are you lost?” They were clearly going to freeze out there with their non-body fat and whatever kind of thin, designer parkas and shimmery legging-things they’re wearing.

  “Oh my God, you saved our lives,” one of the blondes says, shaking her coat off. “I paid, like, two grand for this thing and it’s filled with crushed Mongolian butterfly wings. Literally. Like, so soft, but so not warm.” She grins as she hands me the parka. “We’re Your Romance.”

  I try to find a polite way to tell them that I’ve never had any bisexual feelings—if I do in the future that’s cool, it just hasn’t happened yet—when I realize I recognize the name. “Wait. The band?”

  “She’s heard of us!” one of the brunettes shouts. She punches me in the shoulder, a little too hard for my comfort. “Are you over twenty-five?”

  “Yes?”

  “Chantelle owes me fifty bucks.” She totters away on her stilettos. She might be drunk. And then she bursts into tears and starts hugging the Christmas tree. Yeah. She’s definitely drunk. And obviously these girls are here for the party. The party we cancelled.

  “How did you get here?” I gape. “They told us the airports were shut down.”

  “They, like, literally opened five minutes ago,” the second blonde says, bouncing down the steps and into the living room.

  “She means figuratively. We couldn’t have gotten here in literally five minutes,” one of the brunettes says, very serious. “I hate when she doesn’t use the right words.” Then she perks up. “Party time!”

  One of the girls starts blasting music. The band walks around, admiring the living room decorations. The drunk girl is still holding the tree and whispering to it, mascara tears trailing down her cheeks.

  “Are we the first ones? Do you have anything to drink?” One of the girls walks up to me, looking confused. “Wait. Who are you?”

  “The party plan—the event coordinator.”

  “Wow. You are way super hot to have that job.” She starts wandering around calling for Ace. He comes down the hall, looking completely bewildered.

  “What the hell’s going on?” He’s executive casual in a crisp shirt and nice pants. He was getting ready for our dinner. The dinner we’re obviously no longer having.

  I’d better go clear the dishes away.

  “You look sexy,” the girl says, almost disbelieving. “Like, if I weren’t quasi-dating two guys right now, I would totally take you home tonight!” She giggles.

  My stomach plummets as I watch them kiss each other’s cheeks. O-kay. This must be the kind of thing they joke about all the time. Ace pulls the girls into the living room, leaning casually against a couch and chatting with them. He smiles at me, tries to wave me over to join them, but then the doorbell rings again.

  “Can you grab the door, Paige?” Ace asks.

  “Sure,” I chirp faux-cheerfully. I suddenly feel a whole lot like the help. Just the help. Which I shouldn’t have to remind myself, I am.

  Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, the bell trills as I run for the door.

  “Coming!” I yell.

  The party has finally started.

  Chapter 9

  Your Romance is only the first arrival of the evening. Pretty soon, there are vans pulling up outside, doors slamming open and closed. I run upstairs and change into a charcoal grey pantsuit and flats quickly; I don’t feel like trying to blend in with these people anymore. The shout and murmur of voices downstairs calls me out.

  Ace wasn’t kidding about having a helipad. I step outside and watch, mouth open, as bright lights crest over the trees and a helicopter lands on the roof. I have to run right upstairs again and unlock the roof door that leads down to the house. There’d be a lot of problems if I left Jay-Z standing up there, trying to rappel down to join the party.

  Pretty soon, the bass is thumping, and all of music royalty is sitting on the furniture, eating my quickly reheated chipotle-lime crab crisps and Kobe beef kabobs. Thank God I still had the chafing dishes set up and ready to go. The dinner Ace and I were going to share is gone, no trace left. I gave the steak to the poor crying girl who was hugging the tree. I guess she didn’t have enough protein in her life.

  Outside, FloRida and Katy Perry are passing a bottle of rosé back and forth and arguing heatedly about something in the hot tub. Ooh! There. FloRida’s holding my mozzarella fireball. It’s just as I prophesied. But it’s not a sight that I want to take a picture of anymore. At least, not many pictures. With my phone. Which I quickly text to my sister with lots of exclamation points (she replies with about fifty happy face emojis).

  The quiet retreat has gone to full raging party mode in less than forty minutes, and other than my quick texting break to Ally, I’m running around like a madwoman to keep up. I’m literally running down the hall at full tilt, trying to figure out whose bags go in which guest rooms, when Ace steps out of a doorway and catches me.

  “Relax,” he soothes me. “You’re acting like this is your job or something.” He smiles, and that calms me down a little. Until I notice the lipstick mark on his cheek.

  Get a grip, Paige. It’s not like he’s cheating on you, after all. You’d have to be in an actual, legitimate, mutually-committed relationship for that to be the case. Remember the fling thing? Still flinging.

  I start babbling at Ace, trying to distract myself from the inconvenient feelings I’m totally not having right now. “I always have little pep talks I give myself before events start. ‘You can do this.’ ‘Reach for the stars.’ Any poster that shows a kitten hanging off a tree branch, that’s sort of what I do. There was no time for it, and now I’m freaking out,” I tell him.

  “Everyone here is an over-privileged grown up with a giant ego and a soggy pair of Ugg boots. Let them figure things out, it’ll be good for them. They can learn how to dress and feed themselves. We might find a few dead in the snow come morning, but I’ve got insurance. Come on,” he says, guiding me down the hall. “I want to introduce you.”

  My heart slows a bit. I didn’t realize just how afraid I was that he’d pretend I wasn’t there at all. But I don’t think that’s the sort of person Ace is. At least, I hope not.

  Our first stop is some white-haired man with that leathery orange tanning salon glow, wearing a pinstriped gray suit and a cashmere scarf. It seems as though he’s probably had a few too many drinks and is just going to keep on having them, but at least he’s friendly. Ace briefly introduces him as Alan Silvers, head of media distribu
tion at Ace’s record label. Alan gives me a smile, a firm handshake, and an even firmer pat on my ass. Lovely.

  If Ally were here, she’d call him a douchebro, step on his foot, and throw her drink in his face. Instead, I do what Mom taught me, and inch out of his way. Ace didn’t see what happened, but I’m not going to tell him. Ace’s career is on the line here, and I won’t distract him with this kind of party drama.

  Remember baby, focus on what keeps your man happy. Your own happiness will follow.

  I love my mother, but one day I’m going to drag her imaginary voice out of my head, kicking and screaming.

  We go out into the huge living area, and it smells like a bar that’s gotten knocked over in a nuclear apocalypse, where everyone’s drinking for free. I see cases of beer and Jack Daniels that I know I didn’t order, and I’m anxiously wondering how many of those opened bottles of wine were probably stolen from the secret cellar downstairs.

  “Jezebel,” Ace calls, motioning over a girl with spiked green-and-black hair and tattered jeans. “This is Paige Bartlett.”

  The woman looks at me blankly. She’s got one colored contact in her left eye, turning it blood red. At least, I hope that’s a contact.

  “I’m the event coordinator,” I say, smiling. She looks at my hand like it’s some kind of dripping, cadaverous thing. With a really nice manicure.

  “Thank God, then you can help me.” Is she chewing gum? She snaps something between her teeth. “I brought my expensive face cream from Versace—you know, the one made with powdered diamonds—but it’s not working. The climate up here is fucking terrible. So I need you to get on the phone to whatever podunk general goods store you’ve got around here, and ask what they have that’s expensive and dermatologist tested. My face is like sandpaper. Then, we need to talk about the A/C in here, because the cold is hell on my vocal cords. I’m supposed to play New Year’s Rockin’ Eve or some shit—I don’t know why they want me, I’m still going to bite the head off a chicken, it’s in my set—but I have to be ready for it. So crank that shit down stat, pretty please. If I’m in this icebox five more minutes, I’m probably not gonna be able to speak at all.”