Page 29

Audrey

There's a strange woman in my mirror wearing a dress that looks nothing like me.

"Stevie, I can see my entire chest."

"That's the point." Stevie Stone sits cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by the three dresses she carried up from her staff locker like a tiny blonde fairy godmother. "It's green. It's festive. It's perfect."

I mean, she's right.

The dress is gorgeous, I'll admit that.

It has a fitted waist, a flared skirt, and soft velvet the color of a Christmas tree.

It also has a neckline that plunges lower than anything I've ever worn before.

"I only met you four days ago," I say, adjusting the fabric over my boobs and achieving absolutely nothing to hide how big they look. "Should you really be seeing this much of me already?"

"Audrey, half the resort saw more of you the night you arrived. Miles told Dylan, Dylan told Aidan, Aidan told the entire locker room."

I whip around. "He told people about the nipple?!"

"Nipple? What are you talking about?" Stevie frowns as her cheeks go pink. "He told people about the runaway bride."

"Oh. Right." I feel myself shrivel on the spot. "I'm going to die on this mountain."

"Not in that dress you're not." She hops off the bed and stands beside me at the mirror, all five-foot-four of her looking genuinely wistful. "God, I wish I had your body. You look like a Christmas ornament that ruins marriages."

"Well, I've already ruined one."

"See? You're over-qualified already."

The thing is, this is my entire wardrobe situation now.

I have one emergency bag in my suite, yesterday's jeans, and a six-thousand-dollar wedding dress still crumpled across the back seat of my car.

I've managed to purchase a few things at the market with a small advance on the pay I'm receiving for a job I still don't think I've accepted, but for tonight, borrowing something nice from a woman I barely know was the only option I had.

And Stevie apparently owns dresses designed by someone with a personal disdain against breast containment.

"There are going to be sponsors down there," I say, tugging at the neckline one last time. It achieves nothing. "And cameras. Children, possibly."

"And Miles," Stevie says, far too innocently.

"This has nothing to do with Miles Stratton."

"Sure." She hands me my boots. "That's why you tried on all three dresses and picked the one showing the most boob."

I look in the mirror, and have absolutely no defence, so I put on my boots and head out the door.

The elevator ride down is a blur of pine-scented air and Stevie giving me a pep talk that's mostly about my poor posture. Then the ballroom doors open, and I forget how to be nervous, because the ballroom at the back of the resort has been transformed into Santa's workshop. Only with a billionaire's budget.

Dozens of Christmas trees line the walls beneath thousands of golden lights strung between the timber beams. Enormous competition stations stretch down the center of the room, overflowing with red ribbons, ornaments, gingerbread panels, jars of candy and bowls of powdered sugar piled like fresh snow.

Waiters glide between guests carrying trays of champagne and hot chocolate crowned with toasted marshmallows. Tournament media prowl the edges with cameras, and over in the corner, a string quartet is playing Sleigh Ride like their lives depend on it.

It's magic. Pure Christmas magic.

Stevie leads the way across the room to where Celeste Winters ushers Big Mike toward the microphone on a small stage. He's wearing a white suit that almost matches hers, paired with a red tie. The two of them look like a very expensive candy canes that got divorced.