The people could relocate with generous compensation packages, start fresh somewhere new. They could build better lives, find new opportunities, thrive in ways they never could in this isolated mountain town.
Didn’t they deserve that chance?
Wasn’t it crueler to leave them destitute? If the tree farm shut down and the lodge closed up, where would people work? They would have to leave anyway, but they would be leaving empty-handed with no real means to start over.
I was doing everything I could to justify what I had been sent here to do, but the justifications felt thin. Like I was trying to convince myself of something I didn’t actually believe.
I already knew Sylvie wouldn’t go for it. I’d seen the look in her eyes when we’d stood on that porch together, looking out at the snow-covered Christmas trees twinkling under the starlight. The way she’d talked about her family’s legacy and this place being all she’d ever known or wanted.
I couldn’t care less about Christmas trees. Hell, I’d literally thrown one in a ditch just hours ago. But watching her face as she’d looked out over that winter wonderland, seeing the fierce love and pride in her expression, it had made me want to care. For the first time in my life, I found myself trying to see something through someone else’s eyes.
And what I had seen was that this place meant everything to her.
I shook my head and pushed myself up from the chair, walking to the suite’s bathroom. I needed to splash some cold water on my face, clear my head, get back to thinking like a Bancroft instead of some lovesick fool who’d been distracted by a pretty face and a sad story.
The mirror showed me exactly what I expected. Kent Bancroft, heir to a business empire, temporarily slumming it in a mountain lodge. I looked the same as always, but something in my eyes seemed different. Uncertain.
“Don’t go soft for a small-town girl with a Christmas obsession,” I told my reflection sternly. “You’ll be back in New York in a few days. She’ll be here, doing whatever it is small-town girls do. And you’ll be sharing a bed with whoever you please, whenever you please.”
The words felt right, familiar. This was who I was. I was Kent Bancroft, who took what he wanted and moved on without looking back.
I had a job to do. A family obligation to fulfill. A legacy of my own to uphold.
I just needed to stop letting a pair of green eyes and the scent of cinnamon distract me from what really mattered.
But even as I tried to convince myself, I kept thinking about Christmas. Not the Bancroft version of Christmas, all designer gifts and expensive champagne and elaborate parties that were more about displaying wealth than celebrating anything meaningful.
I thought about what Christmas must have been like for a kid growing up here in the lodge’s glory days. Waking up Christmas morning to snow outside and a tree that had been cut fresh from the family farm.
I shook it off and stripped down to my boxers, then climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling for far too long.
I found myself in a room so dark I could barely see my own hands in front of my face. But ahead of me, I spotted a string of Christmas lights creating a path through the darkness. I followed them, drawn by something I couldn’t name.
The lights led me around a corner, and there was Sylvie.
She was breathtaking, wrapped in nothing but a red ribbon that somehow managed to be both festive and incredibly erotic. Her copper hair fell around her shoulders like silk, and those green eyes of hers held promises that made my pulse race.
“Merry Christmas,” she said softly, reaching up to untie the bow that held the ribbon in place. The fabric fell away, and she was perfect, curves and soft skin and everything I’d been trying not to think about since I’d first seen her.
She pressed a kiss to my cheek, her lips soft against my skin. “Every Grinch deserves a little love,” she whispered. “Even if he doesn’t deserve it.”
Then she was kissing me properly, her mouth moving against mine with a hunger that matched my own. My hands found her waist and pulled her closer. She responded by threading her fingers through my hair.
The kiss deepened, became something desperate and needy. Her hands were everywhere. Skimming over my chest, down my sides and making me crazy with want. I could taste cinnamon on her lips, could smell that warm, spicy scent that seemed to be part of her very essence.
I needed to touch her, to run my hands over every inch of her skin and make her gasp my name. I lifted her up onto the edge of what appeared to be a perfectly placed desk, her legs wrapping around my waist as I settled between them. The ribbon had been beautiful, but this was so much better. Her warm skin against mine, her breath coming in soft gasps as I kissed along her neck.
“Kent,” she whispered. The sound of my name on her lips sent fire through my veins.
My hands roamed over her curves. She was soft and warm and everything I hadn’t known I was craving. Her fingers traced patterns across my chest that made me groan against her throat.
I pulled back just enough to look at her, to take in the sight of her flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the careful perfection I was used to and everything to do with genuine desire and warmth.
“I want you,” I told her.
She smiled, that same bright smile that had been driving me crazy since the moment I met her, but now it held promises that made my heart race.
“Then have me,” she said simply.
