The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

by Lara Hunter

  “The most wonderful time of the year?” Grace mimicked, rolling her eyes. “Frankly, I couldn’t care less about Christmas. It all seems so commercial to me. This morning, for example, my mom paid five dollars for a hot chocolate at a little kiosk. As if, just because Santa’s coming, that’s an okay price to pay!”

  Michael’s jaw all but dropped. He reached toward her hand, bridging the gap between them. His skin was warm, smooth. “How can you not like Christmas?” he asked, aghast. “I mean, overlooking the price of that hot chocolate or whatever, just look at the view outside!”

  Grace glanced through the window. The snow had begun to build up on the sidewalk, and on the hats of the spectators in the crowd. The horses continued their clopping, and the music still echoed through the crisp air. Nearby, a massive, twenty-foot tall Christmas tree twinkled beneath the grey sky.

  “I just don’t know,” she answered. “I only think of all the money that went into all this. And how most of the people standing in the snow out there are uncomfortable and just waiting for it to be over. Not a single one of them wouldn’t rather be in their bed at home, miles away from here.”

  “I just have to completely disagree with that,” Michael said, his tone full of humor. “I have so many different points to address.”

  “Look at you, arguing with the potential future lawyer,” Grace said, her voice lilting. “Quite a brave move you’re making.”

  “What can I say? Us computer science nerds see beauty in the holiday season, too.”

  “I suppose I misjudged you,” Grace said.

  They paused, then, searching each other’s faces. Grace sensed she’d never had such immediate chemistry with anyone. With her previous boyfriend, they’d spent their time just talking about the people at school: who was kissing who, who was fighting with who, just why anyone would wear what they’d decided to wear. It had grown boring, loathsome, even. Their conversations hadn’t sizzled with anticipation and excitement. Not like this. She felt like she could talk to Michael about anything, and it would never bore her.

  The parade wound to a close outside, as the last few carriages clattered past the café windows. Michael lifted himself up from his chair, forcing it to squeak back. “I should find my dad,” he said. “He’s like a kid. His sense of direction is all off. I’ll have to get us back to the hotel.”

  Grace gave him a nervous grin. “I suppose I’ll see you around?” She didn’t know how, but her heart felt weighted with possibilities.

  Michael shifted on his feet, his eyes searching the café. People had begun to scamper in from the cold, spitting orders for lattes and muffins and croissants. They brought the chill in with them.

  “Why not meet me here tomorrow?” he offered then. “I can convince you just why Christmas is really great. And you can fight me on every single point I make. What do you say, future attorney?”

  Grace stood up slowly, throwing her hand forward to shake his. “I think it’s a deal,” she affirmed. “One of the easiest decisions I have to make this year.”

  In the long moment that stretched before them, Grace sensed he was going to kiss her. She waited, yearning for it, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

  Finally, Michael leaned toward her and caught her lips with his, kissing her with the sweet excitement of an eighteen-year-old, but with the softness of an older, more experienced man.

  The romance of the moment nearly knocked Grace from her feet. She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling the smoothness of his skin and tracing her finger over one of his dark curls. As they broke their kiss, they peered into each other’s eyes, knowing they’d embarked upon something incredible. They didn’t want to let the other go.

  “So. I’ll see you here tomorrow, then,” Grace whispered. “Two in the afternoon, sharp. Deal?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Michael breathed.

  Grace stepped back from him, then. She felt a heavy sadness without his arms around her waist, without his eyes gazing at her with such curiosity and earnestness.

  Stepping out of the café, she raced toward her mother and father, tugging at her brothers’ sleeves as she wound closer. Edgar and Tommy joined her, behind her mother’s puffy jacket and her father’s greying head, and they walked back toward their station wagon, which would sweep them off to their local hotel. All the way, her mother sang Christmas songs, holding onto Grace’s hand, her grey curls swirling in the breeze.

  But Grace was a million miles away, tucked in a separate reality, still kissing that delicious boy. She could hardly wait for the following day. All her life, Grace had dreamed of finding her soulmate. And somehow, she’d imagined that it would feel exactly like this.

  ***

  Grace could hardly sleep that night. Of course, her brothers were chaotic, leaping from bed to bed, turning on lights, or else snoring loudly. On top of everything, her mind was racing with images of Michael.

  She snuck from her mattress at nearly four in the morning and reached for her journal, jotting down some initial thoughts. Writing was her lifeline, and it would get her through this first, terrible night of waiting.

  I met him today, she began the diary entry. He was tall, dark, and handsome, just like they say in the movies. He took my breath away with his earnestness. He has dreams of pursuing computer science, and he seemed like he really listened to me when I told him to pursue them. As a girl who’s felt invisible for much of my life, this was incredibly special. I was surprised at myself for telling him I was excited to go to NYU Law, mostly because of their incredible creative writing program. I never tell anyone about that. My mother hardly knows. And my father doesn’t pay close enough attention to really know that writing is important to me. Perhaps, alongside a law career, I can write my first novel. Perhaps, I can succeed both professionally and artistically. And maybe—just maybe—I can have someone like Michael by my side.

  Grace blinked several times, eying her handwriting. She felt jittery and excited, filled with creative energy. She walked to the window of her family’s hotel room, listening to her brothers’ exhalations, her mother’s sighing, and her father’s snores. Soon, she would leave this life behind.

  As if on cue, the phone began to ring on the side table, beside her father’s head. His chin snapped up, and he blinked wildly at his daughter, poised like a shadow near the window, and then he answered it. He rubbed at his temple. “Hello?”

  Beside him, Cara opened her eyes, yawning wildly.

  “Wow. So it’s really happening?” he said. His snapped his legs to the side of the bed, suddenly alert, focused. “All right, son. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  Grace felt her heart jolting in her chest.

  Her father put the phone back in its cradle and turned toward Grace and her mother, an explanation on his lips. “Laura’s gone into labor. We need to get back to Maine.”

  Cara gasped. “That’s two weeks early! Are they at the hospital already?”

  “Yes. Nick was calling from there,” Edward said. He stood and marched toward the sleeping forms of his two younger boys. He shook them gently, waking them. “Come along, boys. We need to get going. You’re going to be uncles!”

  Grace couldn’t find words. As her mother dove into action mode, packing her brothers’ bags, throwing her jeans up over her hips, Grace packed slowly, thinking only of the opportunity to see Michael that she would be missing that afternoon. She could hardly stand it.

  “But what about the Old Town tour today?” Grace offered, her voice a whimper.

  “What are you talking about?” Cara said curtly. “You know we have to be there for your brother.”

  “But Nick’s not the one giving birth,” Grace mumbled. She knew she was being snotty, but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to rein in her attitude. She felt like stomping her feet, telling them she could find her own way back.

  Her mother rolled her eyes with the know-how of a once-beauty queen turned suburban housewife. “Grace. Don’t give me this ri
ght now. We have a long ride ahead of us. Get your coat on. We’re leaving in five.”

  Grace snatched her coat and wrapped it around her, grumbling inwardly. Her mind cycled through a dozen wretched realities. She would never be kissed again, she thought. She would never see Michael again. She would die alone, wondering, eternally, what happened to that intriguing boy with the big brown eyes. The first man who’d truly tugged at her heart, and who hadn’t even given her his last name.

  Moments before they left, as her father opened the hotel door with a squeak, Grace realized that she’d misplaced one of her white gloves. She flung herself down to the ground, searching under the bed. She rifled through the bathroom, looking in cabinets, the doors clattering loudly.

  “Mom! Have you seen my—” she called out.

  But Cara didn’t have the time, or the patience. “Whatever it is, we can buy you a new one. Come on, Grace!”

  Grace stuffed her lone, white glove into her pocket, grabbed her backpack, and flung herself down the steps of the hotel, into her family’s purring station wagon. Her father had already heated it and scraped off the snow with the efficiency of a man who’d grown up in the Northeast.

  The twins hopped into the backseat of the station wagon and tucked their heads close, Edgar’s upon Tommy’s shoulder, Tommy’s on Edgar’s soft, brown-haired head. Grace made a tiny nook for herself toward her side of the backseat, her head bouncing slightly against the frigid glass as Edward wound them out of town, toward Maine.

  She placed the tips of her fingers against the glass, blinking back tears. With a pang of regret, she realized they had no way of finding each other, now. She would never see Michael again. She had to eliminate all thoughts of him, if she was ever going to move on.

  She had to grow up.

  TWO

  Twelve Years Later

  Grace flung herself back into her desk chair, high on the 50th floor of the Manhattan building that held her office—Long and Sons, LLC. She clacked her fingers upon her keyboard, articulating an email to one of her clients. Her mind was strained after the harried day. Already, at five p.m., she felt she could collapse in bed the moment she returned to her apartment. She’d even considered napping beneath her desk—indeed, it wouldn’t be the first time—but she had one more meeting that evening, a favor to her partner, Marie Sons, and she had to push herself through. She couldn’t lose what Marie had referred to as an “essential” client. Of course, she was blissfully unprepared.

  She stabbed the Send button, sighed evenly, and stood from her chair. She kicked off her heels and walked in stockinged feet toward the window of her corner office, peering down at the ant-like taxicabs below. They were bright yellow, stark against the grey of the late November air. She was grateful not to be closer to the ground, where she knew other windows heard the jangling of Christmas bells from New York carriage tours. With Christmas just four weeks away, New York was already abuzz with excitement about this most wretched, commercial holiday. And she didn’t have any more time for it now than she’d had when she was eighteen years old.

  The past twelve years, since that family holiday in Vermont, had passed in a blur. She’d gone to New York University to study law and creative writing, and had soon found that law was a constant annoyance, eternally tugging at her pant leg, metaphorically speaking, and keeping her from any kind of artistic pursuits. As she moved up through the undergrad law program, her journal entries had become shorter, less poetic. She’d written down events, rather than feelings: “Kissed a boy at the fraternity party.” “Fought with my roommate over dish soap.” “Mom’s been diagnosed with breast cancer.” “Mom’s in remission. Thank God.” And on and on, until writing in her journal had become a chore, rather than an indulgence, or a chance for her soul to sing.

  She’d waited till her junior year to give up on the creative writing minor. In reality, her schedule had squeezed her dry long before then. She had been hanging on for that one youthful element that had persevered: hope.

  As she stood, peering down at the congested streets, Grace thought about her apartment, gleaming, sundrenched, on the Upper West Side. For better or for worse, she was alone there, but she was comfortable.

  She’d had only two boyfriends since high school: a guy named Joe, whom she’d met during her last year of college, and another named Tyler, who she’d dated the previous year. Both men had broken up with her, telling her she was “too distant.” They’d said it was clear she didn’t care enough about having a family. They’d recited the words she’d said to them about not having enough time for love. Grace hadn’t recognized the romantic block in her demeanor. At one time, when she’d been a teenager, she’d been nothing if not romantic, writing poetry to her crushes and daydreaming her days away.

  And, she’d supposed, her ex-boyfriends had been right that she didn’t have time for them, or for marriage. She was wealthy and successful; one of the most powerful female attorneys in New York City. She’d opened her firm nearly three years before with her best friend, Marie, whom she’d met at law school. They’d been all-but inseparable, until they’d gotten separate places on either side of Central Park. Now, they met every Saturday morning for long, intensive running sessions, and during the week, they spent long hours looking after their many clients, at Long and Sons LLC. “Sons” was Marie’s last name, and she and Grace loved that it sounded like a crotchety, 20th century law firm, when, in reality, it was owned by two strong, independent women, each with a true passion for the law.

  That afternoon, Marie had called Grace from a lunch meeting. Her voice had sounded weak, a thin line over the receiver. “Babe, so sorry. I need to go home. I just spewed my lunch.”

  “Ew,” Grace had said, laughing slightly. “What did you eat?”

  “I don’t know, but I can’t meet with my client this afternoon. It’s the new one, the billionaire. Can you cover for me? It’s at five-thirty. I know you wanted to get some sleep tonight, but…”

  “But it’s not like I expected sleep, opening our own firm,” Grace had laughed. “Go home, Marie. Get some rest. I’ll call you this afternoon to see if you need soup or something.”

  “Girl, you know I can order my own soup.”

  “It’s the thought that counts. But you’re right,” Grace continued. “We’re not those broke girls any more, living off ramen as we waitress our way through law school.”

  Marie laughed. “Thank God for that. I’ll remember that as I spend the next five hours dying.”

  Grace shook her head, feeling her long, raven-like hair brush against her soft cheeks. Minutes were ticking by far too quickly. She marched back to her desk, slipping her feet back into her high heels, and began to rifle through manila folders, searching for information regarding this new, billionaire client. She could have sworn her secretary, Christina, had placed it upon her desk earlier that afternoon, when she’d caught her scarfing down a muffin in lieu of lunch. Christina had, of course, reprimanded her about eating too quickly, and Grace had rolled her eyes.

  As she shuffled through the folders, panic beginning to course through her brain, she heard a knock on the door. She stopped, her elbows pointed outwards, cursing herself for not being prepared; back in law school, she’d always delivered everything about two days ahead of time.

  “Come in?” she called.

  The doorknob turned. In the last frantic second, she lifted the correct manila folder from the stack and righted herself, tossing her shoulders back and standing tall, confident. She knew that the first impression was everything.

  The man who appeared in the crack of the door struck Grace immediately. She felt that a mighty, metaphorical sunbeam had descended over her, causing her to feel warm and nostalgic at the same time. In the back of her mind, she reasoned that not a single second had passed since the first time she’d seen that face; that she’d been waiting for this moment for almost twelve years.

  “Michael,” she said, her voice weak, carrying none of its normal professional flair. Rath
er, it was familiar, like a whisper in the middle of the night. “Michael. It’s you.”

  He took a step toward her, his eyebrows raised. “Wait a moment,” he said.

  It felt as if time had halted around them. He took another step, assessing her face, her shoulders, her body. Grace felt like she was under a microscope.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” he said. He spoke quietly, genuinely.

  Grace nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure if he knew what she was agreeing to. She tucked her tongue against her teeth, hesitating. “From Vermont,” she offered. “Christmas in Vermont. I met you when I was eighteen.”

  “Right,” Michael said. “I remember it like it was yesterday, somehow.” He shook his head slightly, coming back to reality. His voice offered more of a professional ring, a sturdiness. It was clear he didn’t hold any nostalgia any longer; not for his eighteen-year-old self, and certainly not for her.