Page 1 of A Prince for Christmas

CHAPTER 1

What a lousy day for rain. I huddled back into the doorway as I tried to tuck my books and papers under my coat, getting ready to make a run for it. Unfortunately, the Wayward Wings was a full three blocks from the building I’d just finished class in, and the weatherman this morning hadn’t mentioned needing an umbrella by afternoon. I took a deep breath and sprinted down the wet sidewalk, telling myself that it was just as good for me as time at the gym.

By the time I pushed through the broad wooden door that opened directly into the main bar area, I was thoroughly drenched, gasping for breath, and shivering from the cold. I was also late, as my phone alarm had been announcing for a good ten minutes.

I glanced around the room, which was already half full, mainly students unwinding after class with a sprinkling of older folks, the usual after-work crowd. No sign of Mr. McGregor. I peered into the dining room, but didn’t see him there, either.

If I punched in and looked busy, he wouldn’t notice my lateness until he checked the timecards. Trying to brush my hair out of my eyes as I dashed toward the timeclock behind the bar caused my books to shift in my arms, and when I crashed into a customer, they all went flying. I only managed to keep from falling on my butt by grasping at the collar of the man’s coat, and a few choice words escaped me.

“Well, pardon me. I didn’t realize I was in the fast lane.” The man’s deep, smoky voice and foreign accent snapped me out of my grumpiness, and I stepped back to take stock. It was more than worth it. He was almost a head taller than me, with startling blue eyes and a smile that seemed a little mocking. Then there was that accent—Australian? Or maybe English? My Montana ears couldn’t tell, but it made him stand out, that’s for sure.

Everything about him stood out, to be honest. He looked athletic, but not like the farm boys from back home. His physique seemed to come from an expensive gym, not log-rolling or wrangling cattle or shoveling snow.

All in all, he looked downright delicious… And totally out of place in the Wayward Wings. I decided my best move in this embarrassing moment was a little bravado.

I met his eyes, took a deep breath, and let my bartending instincts take over. “This is Boseman, Honey. We don’t have a fast lane,” I said with my best leave-a-tip smile. “It was my fault. I was running late and didn’t pay attention.”

“We’d better do something about these books before they get trampled,” he said, arching a brow.

He bent to start picking up books and papers, and I quickly joined in. When he handed them to me, I couldn’t help but notice his masculine hands and manicured nails. I’d never seen a man with such nice hands. I curled my fingers around the books to hide my own hands, knowing they had ink stains from taking notes and hadn’t seen a nail file all semester.

“Thanks so much,” I gushed, trying to cover my embarrassment. “I’m not usually this clumsy.” I edged towards the time clock, ready to end the awkward encounter.

My progress was halted by a heavy hand on my shoulder. Damn. There was Mr. McGregor, staring at me with his usual scowl. I responded with an apologetic smile. “Sorry I’m late, Sir. The rain….” I trailed off as the additional wrinkle to his brow let me know my apology was falling on deaf ears.

“Excuses, excuses,” he grumbled. “You young people always have one. You think you can show up when you want, waltz in here with another sob story, and I’ll keep on paying you.”

“The weatherman didn’t predict rain today,” I offered, unsure whether the truth or a penitent look would appease him today.

He made a sound that was somewhere between a cough and a growl. “I’m not going to dock you, but you’ll make up for it today.”

I braced myself for the full lecture, but Mr. McGregor seemed to have something else on his mind. It couldn’t be worse than listening to his opinions on young people today, most of which had nothing to do with me. I worked hard for every penny I had, trying not to go into debt for the tuition my partial scholarship didn’t cover. I even worked during summer and Christmas breaks at the farm. My parents paid me what I could have earned in Boseman as a bartender because they needed the help and because they knew I needed to go home in the summers. It was hard enough spending nine months away from the mountains.

I fought down a bit of resentment toward my surly boss. I was only late on Thursdays, and that was because my class always ran late. McGregor could’ve adjusted my schedule, but he’d refused to let me start my shift half an hour later.

I’d heard that lecture a time or two.

“You think the customers should wait for a half-hour? In my bar, without anyone to serve them a drink? Do you have any idea what it costs just to keep this place open, with or without customers?” He’d shaken his head in disgust. I knew it was all a show for my benefit because the day server would have been happy for the extra money.

Sometimes I wondered if I would’ve been better off if I’d chosen some kind of agriculture major or even veterinary school, but the truth was, I couldn’t stand the sight of blood, and I couldn’t imagine killing an animal, even though it might be the most merciful thing. And I really couldn’t imagine spending my life running my parents’ farm, despite the fact that I loved them dearly and even loved working on a farm.

My first love was literature, and from a young age, I’d dreamed of passing my love of the written word on to others. That meant teaching in a university somewhere, despite the disappointment my parents had expressed.

Anyway, McGregor really wasn’t so bad. His curmudgeon act was mostly just that—an act. When Ben’s grandma was sick and he had to go home during finals, McGregor actually helped work the dining room and fill in where he was needed. In truth, the tips were good, the hours worked for a student, and even though my boss was a bit of a pain, I wouldn’t mind keeping this job until I graduated.

I gave Mr. McGregor a conciliatory smile. “How am I going to make up for it?” I asked, expecting to hear that I was assigned to stay late for clean-up at the end of the night, which was fine. I always seemed to be short of money, so staying late wasn’t too much of a punishment.

“You’re going to be training the new guy tonight. And for the next week.”

“Oh, Lord,” I muttered. I didn’t mind helping out, but I sure hoped it wasn’t someone completely hopeless like the last couple people McGregor had tried to hire. Pickings were slim around the holidays, with most students going home. It was an odd time to hire for the same reason.

“Ben’s grandmother is in bad shape again, and he’s transferring to a school close to home,” my boss said. “In fact, he left today.”

“That’s too bad. I’ll miss him.” That was very true. Ben was easy to work with and good at his job, though I didn’t know him too well. “So where is this new guy?”

“You just ran him over.” Amusement crept into Mr. McGregor’s voice, although he didn’t let himself smile.

The stranger, who had appeared beside us, wasn’t as stingy with his smile. He flashed perfect, blinding white teeth at me as he stuck out a hand. “Nick Lancaster. Pleased to meet you.”