“Don’t knock cookie decorating until you’ve tried it,” I said, trying to keep my tone light even though his words stung a little. “There’s an art to it.”
We fell into easy conversation then, the bourbon loosening my tongue and making me forget why I’d been so irritated with him earlier. Kent was actually funny when he wasn’t being deliberately provocative. His dry, sarcastic humor made me laugh.
When his glass was empty, I refilled it and found myself reaching for his hand without really thinking about it.
“Come on,” I said, tugging him toward the door. “I want to show you something.”
We stepped back out onto the porch, and I immediately regretted not grabbing our coats from inside the lodge. The cold air cut through my sweater but I had just enough bourbon on board to make it manageable.
I reached over and opened the front door just wide enough to access the light switch on the wall. When I flipped off the exterior lodge lights, the transformation was immediate and magical.
Without the bright porch lights competing for attention, the twinkling lights strung throughout the Christmas tree farm seemed to glow brighter. The fresh snow on the tops of the trees caught and reflected the light, making everything sparkle like it had been dusted with glitter.
In the distance, Santa’s cabin glowed cheerfully, its own string of lights adding to the festive atmosphere. And above itall, the star-filled sky stretched out in a canopy so clear and bright that it took my breath away.
“Us Northwoods are a lot of things,” I said, looking out over the magical winter scene that my family had created and maintained for generations. “But we’re not dull.”
Kent was quiet beside me. When I glanced over at him, I was surprised by the expression on his face. He looked moved, somehow. Like he was seeing something he’d never expected to see.
The thoughts running through my mind about Kent Bancroft were anything but dull, too. Standing next to him and watching him take in the beauty of our property with what looked like genuine appreciation, I found myself noticing things about him that had nothing to do with his expensive clothes or arrogant attitude.
The way his hair was perfectly mussed. It was likely a very expensive haircut that made it look so good. The strong line of his jaw. The fact that he was still holding my hand from when I had led him outside was making me think about things I didn’t want to think about.
I pushed those thoughts down firmly. I didn’t need this kind of distraction, not now. Not when everything my family had built was hanging by a thread and I needed to focus on saving it.
Tomorrow, Santa would be making his first official appearance at the tree farm for the season. With any luck, families would flock to the property for the experience, and we would actually have a busy day for once.
I couldn’t afford to let myself get distracted by a mysterious stranger with too much money and an infuriating smile, no matter how good he looked in the starlight.
CHAPTER 10
KENT
Isat in the Evergreen Suite later that night, my thoughts churning. The room was comfortable enough, rustic luxury with all the Christmas touches that seemed to define everything about this place. But I felt anything but comfortable.
There was an odd feeling in my gut that I didn’t like. It felt unfamiliar. It wasn’t bad booze because the bourbon had been pretty good. It was something different. Something deeper.
My evening had taken a sharp turn after Sylvie had led me to that dusty bar. What had started as simple attraction to a beautiful woman had morphed into something more complicated, something that made my chest tight with an emotion I couldn’t quite name.
Her family clearly had deep roots here. Generations of them, stretching back centuries according to those photographs in the library. This wasn’t just a business to them. It was their legacy, their identity, their entire world.
And I was the guy who was here to convince them to let it all go. So it could be destroyed. Flattened. Turned into a drilling operation that would leave nothing but an industrial scar where their Christmas tree farm used to be.
I felt nauseated thinking about it.
What the fuck was this feeling? When was the last time I’d ever felt guilty? The word sat strangely in my mind, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Kent Bancroft didn’t do guilt. Guilt was for people who second-guessed themselves and let emotions cloud their business judgment.
I tried to think back to the last time I’d experienced anything like this churning in my stomach, this sick feeling that suggested I was on the wrong side of something important.
It took me back to childhood, to an incident I’d buried so deep I was surprised it surfaced now. I must have been eight or nine, playing with a friend at school during recess. We’d gotten into an argument about something—probably something completely stupid, the way kids do—and in a moment of pure rage, I had picked up a rock and thrown it at him.
It had caught him right in the nose. There was blood everywhere, streaming down his face and onto his white school shirt. He started crying. Not just hurt crying, but the kind of deep, shocked sobs that came from betrayal as much as pain.
I had felt awful. Horrid. So bad that I’d almost thrown up right there on the playground. He was my friend and I hurt him. That sick feeling had left me crying to my brother about how bad I felt. It had left me feeling like shit.
Kind of like now.
But that didn’t make any sense. What did I have to feel guilty about? The Bancroft acquisition of Northwood wouldn’t be a bad thing. Not really. We could make the locals in this town richer than they’d ever dreamed of being. The drilling work would even create jobs, bring economic opportunity to an area that was clearly struggling.
