by Lara Hunter
THE BILLIONAIRE’S CHRISTMAS BRIDE
By Lara Hunter
And added touches from Holly Rayner
Copyright 2016 by Lara Hunter
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Table Of Contents:
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
ONE
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Grace stood shivering in her faux-fur coat at the Wassail Weekend celebrations in Woodstock, Vermont. Snow flurried around her face, and the cool air made her skin tighten. She pushed her hands further into her pockets, stretching her fingers to feel the harsh, unforgiving fabric of her white gloves.
“It’s like a dream, isn’t it?” her mother breathed beside her. Cara Long, the former beauty queen, now mother of four, wore a puffy jacket. Her greying curls swirled around her face. She gave her daughter Grace a tentative smile, a sign that their fight the previous day—one between a mother and an eighteen-year-old daughter—was a thing of the past. Now was the time for a Christmas parade. Now was the time for forgiveness.
Grace leaned her head upon her mother’s shoulder, eyeing her two younger brothers, Edgar and Tommy, who scampered down the street, awaiting the horse and buggies of the Wassail parade. Edgar hummed “Jingle Bells” out of tune while sending his right foot out sharp, attempting to trip his twin.
Tommy wailed, before righting himself. “See? Thought you could trick me. But I’m too smart for you. I’m Superman!”
Grace rolled her eyes, sharing the familial moment with her mother. Cara swept her finger through Grace’s dark hair, allowing the snow to melt upon her palm. “Hard to believe you’re related to those rascals, isn’t it?”
“Girls! It’s starting!” Grace’s father’s voice boomed, alerting them to the Christmas trumpets that began to cry out down the street. Edward Long wrapped his arm around his wife, creating a sure moment of love and purity, standing there with their three children, snow collecting on their heads and shoulders.
But Grace felt solitary, distant. She felt the weight of fake holiday charm in her heart. Blinking around, she felt she was in the center of a cheesy Christmas card: one you sent off in a rush to your grandmother, knowing she cared far more than you did about silly holiday one-liners and receiving mail at all.
She tipped her head back, eyeing the heavy, grey sky, wishing for the weekend to end so they could return to Maine. She could burrow herself back in her bedroom, her sanctuary-like cave, in which she worshipped classic rock and wrote heart-felt poetry for her crushes at school. At eighteen years old, she’d had only a single boyfriend: a guy named Clark, who’d moved away that fall to an Ivy League school where he’d ditched her for a sorority girl named Monica.
One evening, several months back, her mother had flipped through her stack of poetry, her eyes glazing over the swooping cursive Grace had worked so hard to cultivate. Cara had asked her, with a stern tone, if she was really going to keep up “that writing thing” throughout her adult life. “You’re eighteen now,” she’d said. “You have to think about what you actually want to do. Your father and I truly believe you’d be marvelous at law.”
Grace had balked at this, at the time. Writing was her single greatest passion. It was the burning flame that urged her to raise her weary head in the morning. When her father had passed her a pamphlet about studying law—something that would align well with her “passion for words,” he’d said—she’d slipped it deep into a manila folder and shoved it near her forgotten Calculus textbook and second grade clay model of the solar system. Unlike these other elements from her past, however, Grace did not forget about the pamphlet. Now, in moments like this, when she dreamed of her future, she saw prosperity, professional suits, and high heels. She saw herself in a boardroom, with bold red lipstick on, declaring her case to a judge.
Perhaps being a lawyer could be a part of her daydream, too.
As Grace stood watching the parade, she searched the eyes of the people she could see across the street. Her mind wound with images of their lives. The man with the hollow-looking eyes and the powder-blue winter hat: he surely had a long-lost love from his youth—one he’d lost for one silly reason or another. He clapped his hands at the parade floats, standing alongside a woman who was clearly his wife. But their body language pivoted away from each other. They were too bulky in their winter coats. They held no passion for each other.
Grace continued down the line, taking stock of each individual as the horses and buggies trotted past on the cobblestone streets. Enchanting Christmas melodies echoed in her ears. She heard her father quietly singing along to the songs in her mother’s ear, bringing a brightness to her eyes. Grace’s heart ached.
As she stood, shifting her weight from one frozen winter boot to the other, her eyes halted upon a dark-haired young man across the way. He stood with an older man, about her father’s age, and held his chin high, his nose slightly tilted toward the sky. His short hair curled attractively, almost angelically, around the edges of his winter hat. And, remarkably, his dark eyes halted upon her. Wait. Was he staring?
Grace tilted her head. Her lips parted with curiosity. Why was this guy looking at her?
After a moment of self-conscious confusion, she lifted the gloved fingers of her right hand and waved, almost as an after-thought. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard; she could pretend she hadn’t waved if he didn’t wave back.
Her heart jolted as he lifted his gloved hand in response. They passed the wave across another horse and buggy, each of them beginning to smile goofy, awkward smiles.
After several moments, Grace gestured for the boy to come toward her. She didn’t know why she did it, really. It was entirely unlike her to seek this kind of attention. But the air seemed chaotic and different, she was miles away from anyone she knew, and she felt a dramatic impulse, akin to those in one of her fantastical books. If she were writing the story of her life, she thought: she would want him to come to her. She would want to learn more.
The boy grinned, shrugged slightly, and in a sudden jolt, dashed from his side of the street and through the gap between two horses and buggies.
As he ran toward her, Grace began to back up, realizing she didn’t want her parents to witness her first meeting with this boy. She yanked at her mother’s elbow, pointing toward a nearby coffee shop, just down the street. “I’m going to grab a cup,” Grace told her. “I can’t take the cold anymore.”
Cara frowned, and deep wrinkles formed between her eyebrows. “Do you need someone to come with you?”
Grace shook her head vehemently. “Of course not,” she replied, the stubborn tones of a teenager piping from her throat. “I can handle myself.”
“Well. Come back soon, okay?” Cara said, shrugging. She turned back toward Grac
e’s father, swiping her mittened hand across his back. The Christmas fantasy continued to unfold before her, but Grace just couldn’t see it.
As Grace stepped away from her family, the boy from across the street reached her. He huffed slightly, allowing steam to course from his mouth. His eyes were bright, interested. He searched for words, his eyes roving her face, the arch of her nose, the supple lines of her lips. Grace knew she was pretty, in a kind of archaic, silent-film-era way, with her doe eyes and dark hair. But she froze up, bashful, if others did so much as acknowledge it.
“Hello,” she finally breathed.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was deep, firm. He shot his hand out toward her, shaking her gloved fingers. “I hope you don’t mind. I decided to swing over.”
“How wretched of you, interrupting my time at the parade. I look forward to this all year,” Grace said, her voice taking on a teasing tone. She stuck her tongue out slightly as understanding passed over his face.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I’d hate to ask you to get out of here. I know how much it all means to you.”
Grace felt her cells humming with anticipation. She gestured toward the coffee shop, saying a casual: “Shall we get out of here, then?”
“But I don’t even know your name,” the boy said. It was the perfect line, straight from a Humphrey Bogart movie.
“It’s Grace,” she whispered, feeling a snowflake fall upon her cheek. “And yours?”
“Michael,” he told her. “And definitely not Mike for short.”
This didn’t surprise Grace for a moment. Mike was a name for men who carried tools in their pockets. The boy—the man—before her was dignified, cerebral.
They eased through the crowd and toward the coffee shop, which was festooned with Christmas decorations. Outside, wreaths hung on every window, and inside, a man tapped Christmas tunes on a slightly out-of-tune piano.
Grace slipped her fingers from her gloves and began to rub her hands together, trying to bring the life back into them. “Do you want to grab a cup?”
Because the rest of the crowd was outside, craning their necks to catch sight of one horse and buggy after another, alongside Christmas bands and decorated floats, Grace and Michael were able to order their coffees quickly. They stood with their steaming mugs, pouring far too much sugar and milk into the brew, negating all flavor. Their every movement spoke of their eighteen years of age. They didn’t quite know how to handle themselves yet.
They chose a table near the window, alongside a crackling fireplace. Grace wrapped her hands around her mug and peered up at the attractive boy who slowly unbuttoned the black buttons of his pea coat, easing the fabric from his shoulders. He wore a scarf, unlike most boys she knew her age, and looked far more upper class than she. She hoped the “faux” of her fur didn’t show too obviously.
“So you’re enjoying this lovely day with your family?” Michael joked. “Those were your two brothers making a scene, weren’t they?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Grace said, rolling her eyes. “You know family vacations. Your mother and father are just trying to make everyone happy, but it’s impossible, what with the age gap and everything. I’d kill to be my older brother right now. His wife’s about to have a baby, so, they couldn’t make it. But then again, he is so much older than me. I suppose I was the one making all the ruckus back when he was a teenager.”
Michael grinned, showing a glimpse of pearly white teeth. Grace’s insides stirred with sudden attraction. She couldn’t pinpoint what drew her to this man. Sure: she’d seen attractive curls before, along with that teenage five o’ clock shadow on his upper lip and cheeks. On him, it seemed dignified.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’m here with my dad,” Michael said, his dark eyebrows rising. “I left him out there alone, but he’s talking to some woman, now. I think he likes it when I disappear on him. He can dip into his old life.”
“His life before you?” Grace asked.
“Before he adopted me as a baby, yeah,” Michael said, his eyes flickering in the firelight. “He never fell in love with anyone, but I think he wanted someone to care for, and someone to love him back.”
“That seems so honest,” Grace whispered. She’d never heard such candor from a stranger before. She hadn’t realized people could speak so frankly.
“He’d never admit it to anyone,” Michael continued. “He’d probably just say he needed someone to clean the house. Which, to be fair, he’s terrible at. I pick up most of the slack.”
Grace loved how easily Michael could laugh at himself. She looked down at her off-white, creamy coffee, searching for something to say. She so rarely found herself in the company of strangers.
“So. You’re a senior? Or are you already in college?”
“It’s my last year of high school, yep,” he said. “One more year until college. But I have to make my decision soon, and I’m feeling pretty nervous about it. It’s the first big decision you have to make that will change the course of your life. You know?”
Grace nodded evenly, feeling a slight spark of panic. “All too well,” she said. “What to do? Where to go? What passions to follow? All of these questions, they haunt me. But of course, whenever my mom suggests something, I automatically reject it.”
Michael laughed. “I know what you mean. My father wants me to study business so I can one day take over the family company. And all that sounds well and good, you know. It’s not like I don’t appreciate everything my father does, I mean, he built his business from the ground up. It’s just that, personally, I’d rather build something on my own. Perhaps that’s foolish of me.”
Grace thought of the little world she’d built in her room at home: one of the only places in which she felt truly safe. “Sometimes, we have to build our own lives to see the world clearly,” she murmured. The tiny coffee shop, with its crackling fire, felt similar to her room at home: almost as if she could whisper secrets here, and they would remain between them forever.
“How beautiful,” Michael agreed.
“What would you do? What kind of life do you want to build?” Grace asked, trying to snap herself from her reverie.
“Computer science,” Michael said, shrugging slightly. “I know it sounds nerdy, but, it’s truly my passion. I stay up at night coding. I mean, alongside my amazing social life of girls and friends and parties.” He winked at her.
“Computer science,” Grace repeated, mulling it over. “That’s not something you often hear people speak of so passionately. What does your gut tell you to do about your future?” The question came out before she could vet it properly.
“My gut?” Michael laughed, sipping his sugary coffee. “I’m not sure if my gut and I are very in sync.”
Grace pressed on. “You know what I mean. In your heart of hearts, what could you see yourself doing for the rest of your life?” she asked, leaning toward him. She could feel the heat of his breath upon her lips as he considered her words.
“I think I’d like to live on my own terms,” Michael offered. His eyes connected with Grace’s for an intense moment, before he dropped his gaze. “If I’m not too afraid to do it.”
“You should. That way, no matter what happens in your life, it will be on your terms,” she said. “I think far too many people live without thinking of what they truly need; what it is that really motivates them.”
“And what about you?” Michael asked, lifting his hand and positioning it close to hers on the table. The heat seemed to bounce between them.
“What I want to do?” Grace asked. “Well, I’ve always loved writing,” she breathed. “But I don’t know what to do with it. My father says I could use it to do something with the law. He says I can be very persuasive.”
“He might be on to something there; you’ve pretty much talked me into going to school for computer science, and I didn’t even know you an hour ago,” Michael laughed. His laugh was warm, hearty, and it felt good in Grace’s ears.
“I think you could convince anyone to do anything. Why not?”
Grace nodded. “There’s this pre-law program at NYU. I was thinking I could try it. Of course, I could continue to take writing classes, as well. Writing is so important to me. It allows me to breathe.”
“It sounds like you have your future more or less planned out,” Michael said. “Strange, isn’t it, how it’s all going to happen? We’ll just be along for the ride.”
“You’re right,” Grace smiled. “If I go to NYU, I’ll follow it immediately with law school. And then, I’ll have to get a job at a firm. And pay expensive rent. And—what else do people do when they get older? Date?” Grace found herself chuckling, feeling already as if she were 30 years old. “It sounds exhausting.”
“You’ll find time for all of it. You’ll even find time to appreciate the little things in life. Like Christmas,” Michael said, gesturing around the room at the twinkling decorations and the Christmas tree, standing crooked in the corner.