I grabbed the trunk of the Fraser fir, trying to ignore the way the cold snow immediately soaked through my leather gloves. Wrestling it out of the ditch turned out to be significantly more difficult than tossing it in had been.
And she offered no help. She sat in the truck and watched me.
“Happy now?” I asked as I climbed into the passenger seat of her truck.
She didn’t answer immediately, but I caught the slight smile she was trying to hide as she started the engine.
The cab of the truck was warm despite the ancient heater. I found myself hyperaware of her presence beside me. She said nothing as she drove.
I had irritated her. The Christmas tree disposal had genuinely offended her, and my casual dismissal of her concerns had made it worse.
Why that bothered me, I wasn’t sure. I’d never particularly cared whether I offended people before, especially people I barely knew. But something about the disappointment in Sylvie’s green eyes made me feel like I had failed some test I hadn’t even known I was taking.
“That tree grew for eight years to be someone’s Christmas memory,” she said finally as she drove. “And you just threw it away like garbage.”
I wanted to point out that it was just a tree, but I found myself keeping those thoughts to myself. She looked sweet and innocent, but I had a feeling she’d had enough of my bullshit. She would leave me outside to fend for myself if I pushed too hard.
I bit my tongue and stayed silent.
CHAPTER 7
SYLVIE
Back at the lodge, I spotted Stacy behind the check-in desk. Her blonde head was bent over the computer as she worked on what was probably our guest registry or booking calendar. The check-in area looked like Christmas had exploded all over it, and honestly, that wasn’t far from the truth.
We’d gone a little overboard with the decorations this year, draping garland around every possible surface until the desk looked more like a holiday float than a place of business. Twinkling lights were wound through the evergreen boughs, candy canes hung from every available hook and corner, and ornaments dangled at various heights, creating a maze of festive obstacles that guests had to navigate just to sign in.
It was perhaps a bit much, but desperate times called for desperate Christmas cheer. There was a fine line between too much and just enough. We were teetering on the edge, but it worked.
I hip-bumped Stacy away from the computer, nudging her aside.
“Hey!” she protested, stumbling slightly as she tried to regain her footing. “I was in the middle of updating the?—”
“Shush,” I muttered under my breath, sliding into the chair she’d vacated. “I’ll explain later. I need to check someone in.”
Stacy opened her mouth to argue, probably about to point out that checking in guests was technically her job as lodge manager, but something in my expression must have warned her off. She stepped back, crossing her arms and giving me a look that clearly said this better be good.
I turned toward Kent, who was standing just inside the lodge entrance, snow still melting off his expensive coat and dripping onto our polished wooden floors. He was looking around the lobby with an expression that seemed caught between amusement and bewilderment, taking in our enthusiastic approach to holiday decorating.
“So,” I said, fingers poised over the keyboard. “I’ll need a credit card and ID for check-in. What’s your full name for the reservation?”
“Kent Bancroft.” He pulled out his wallet and handed me a credit card that probably had a higher limit than my annual salary. I had heard about these black cards. Only the rich were granted such things.
The name Bancroft meant absolutely nothing to me, but I made note of it as I started entering his information into our booking system. Rich guy with a fancy name from the big city. That was all I needed to know for the purposes of this transaction.
And speaking of the transaction, I was suddenly struck by a moment of inspiration that was probably going to get me into trouble but felt absolutely justified given the circumstances.
He’d thrown our tree in a ditch. He clearly had more money than he knew what to do with. We desperately needed every dollar we could get. What was an extra few hundred dollars to someone like him? Pocket change. Pennies.
I tripled our standard rate.
“That’ll be six hundred dollars for tonight,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly professional as I typed in the inflated amount.
Kent barely blinked at the price, which only confirmed my suspicion that money wasn’t really an object for him. He just nodded.
“Quite the decorating scheme you’ve got going here,” he said, ducking slightly to avoid a particularly low-hanging ornament that was swaying dangerously close to his head. “Did a Christmas store explode, or is this intentional?”
My jaw tightened at his casual mockery of our holiday décor. We had worked hard to create a warm, festive atmosphere, and here he was making jokes about it like we were something to laugh at.
