Billionaire's Christmas Vixen (4 page)

Why did she care? Why was she asking about him, about his family? He wasn’t going to say a word, wasn’t going to tell her of what he had left behind. That was his past and it had nothing to do with the present, the here and now. It had nothing to do with the man that he was.

Had it been up to his parents, he would be working in a factory making car parts, spending his weekends with his wife and their two kids. Joanie, six, and Nicholas, nine. After eight years with the company, he would get ten vacation days that he would use to visit his family for a week during Christmas, a week with his wife’s family during the summer, and vice versa the following year. He would drive an old Toyota Camry, half-rusted and in the shop at least once a month, while the wife drove a mini-van to tote their kids and all of their friends from soccer games to dance lessons. That was the life his parents had wanted for him. To live just above paycheck to paycheck. There was no reason to share these details of his past with this stranger, not when they were irrelevant to the man he was now.

He could feel her eyes on him as she sighed into the silence, relenting to whatever inner battle she was going through. “Okay, I’ll go first. My childhood sucked, to put it nicely.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, her head dropping so that she was looking at her hands folded in her lap. He said nothing, giving the woman encouragement to continue. It wasn’t that he was curious about her life, or that he cared about her past and how she’d come to this point in her life; it was that, well, he hadn’t a real, honest conversation with anyone in years. Jim and John weren’t conversationalists.

“My father is a neurologist who firmly believes that he is superman and that everyone must be as accomplished as he, if not more so, to even be considered a human being. He served ten years in the Marines, the last four being spent earning his bachelors’. My mother, who was originally a receptionist at the hospital that my father did his internship with, is an alcoholic who, upon meeting my father, became a housewife who leeches off of his funds. Her thoughts on life are that a woman should marry into the upper classes and do nothing with her life. She’s accomplished nothing except creating every vodka concoction you could imagine and singlehandedly keeping Advil in business.

“My sister and I are best friends, bonded together through the criticism from both our mother and father. For dad, it was our education that was most important. Our home became a military-style boot camp to keep us on track. Pursuing anything other than our education had to in some way benefit a career in the medical field or law, or something just as reputable. Art, sports, dance; all of these were considered a waste of time and were therefore banned from our household.

“For mom, it was being desirable that she demanded, even at a young age. We were practically pimped out to other families with young boys our age or a year or two older, as our parents tried to find a suitable match for us. Our marriages weren’t arranged, per se, but our parents were very adamant on who they expected us to wed.” She paused as she struggled with her inner conflict.

Now he was genuinely interested. Her family seemed the opposite of his in almost every way and, in part, he wished that his father had been as ambitious as Brea’s father was and had been. Still, he couldn’t imagine his parents having expected him to marry, much less choosing the woman for him.

When she didn’t continue, much to his own surprise, George urged her to continue. “What happened? Did you marry?” He hadn’t planned on the next question leaking from his lips, but it suddenly mattered; suddenly mattered very much that he know the answer to the question. “
Are
you married?”

Brea laughed, a sweet, lyrical sort of laugh that made George want to join in, though he couldn’t remember the last time he had genuinely felt the pull to laugh about anything.

“Married?” she exclaimed. “Oh God, no!”

This time, George couldn’t contain himself from snorting at her response. The mention of marriage would have made him react in much the same way. “I said they had expectations, not that I did as they wanted,” she huffed lightly. “Honestly, I almost married.”

George was unsure if she stopped because the thought of this man still hurt, or if she thought George uninterested, but he was very interested. He was afraid to make an attempt at pulling more information from her, for fear that she would close up and decide that she had told enough, but as they sat there in silence, he realized that she likely already had.

“This man that you were to marry, what happened to him? Was it a great disappointment to your parents when the wedding was called off?”

Brea sighed, turning so that she faced him, her auburn waves over one shoulder, the light of the fire casting deep shadows across her smooth face. Her back was to the arm of the chair, her legs stretched out across the couch towards him, her feet only inches away. It was a casual move, but incredibly sensual as well. If he only placed his hand on the couch beside his thigh, he would touch her. She was still wrapped tightly in the quilt, but she was still so close. He felt that tightening in his groin, again, and he quickly readjusted his body so that the flames wouldn’t cast a telling shadow across his stomach.

“My family was furious. So furious, in fact, that no one spoke to me for an entire year. I missed Christmas with them last year.” She dropped her gaze in embarrassment. “It’s a four-hour drive from my apartment to my parent’s house. I called and called, but no one would answer or return my calls. So I figured that if I drove up, well, I just figured that if I was standing on their front steps, they couldn’t be so heartless as to turn me away.” He saw that her eyes were damp, glistening as the unsteady light caught the tears and then released them.

“They turned you away, though, didn’t they?” he asked, not realizing that he was leaning forward to wipe the tears until the action had already been completed.

She nodded sadly and then jolted with the touch of his fingertips to her cheek before continuing. “My own parents turned me back out into the cold because the man that they want me to marry had decided against being with me. I had thought my entire life that I would be the one to turn down the marriage, that I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. In the end, though,
I
was the one that wanted it, and he didn’t.”

“But you’re on speaking terms with them now?”

Brea chortled. “If you want to call it that. Brandy called a month ago to invite me to Christmas dinner. She had spent all those months with just getting them to acknowledge that I existed, much less allow me to a family function. She said Mom and Dad wanted me there, but I found that very hard to believe at the time.” She shook her head as she laughed softly. Her hair swung behind her, loosened from her shoulder, the dark waves catching the light and creating a halo. “It was my sister I spoke with earlier, and my parents didn’t even realize I wasn’t there. And she had some news about my mom inviting a mystery guest. The news? That she invited my ex fiancé.”

He looked at her incredulously and was taken aback by how bright and innocent her eyes were as she lifted them to meet hers. “That’s just typical for my mother, though. If something doesn’t go the way she wants, and she can have any control over it, she takes it.”

“So tell me what was so amazing about this Eric.”

She hesitated, opened her mouth to answer, and just as quickly, she snapped it shut. “I’m sorry. I’m talking far too much. What about you? What are your plans for Christmas?”

He narrowed his eyes for a moment before smiling warmly. “You’re avoiding my question, aren’t you?” He cocked his head to the side as he waited for her reply. “Are you afraid of offending me in some way?”

She bit her lip in response, amusing George.

“You weren’t terribly concerned with offending me earlier, so don’t hold back now. You compare me to your Eric, do you not? Isn’t that why you hesitate?” He didn’t know why, but he wanted to know what her ex had that he hadn’t and why their relationship hadn’t worked.
Not that it matters
, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t see her again after tonight, and tonight was only tonight.

He had guessed her reason for not wanting to share details about Eric. After all, how fair was it to compare the two men when the one was obviously superior to the other? Eric was a saint, especially in comparison to George. True or not, she wasn’t going to rub all of his flaws in his face by telling him how wonderful her ex was.

He studied her, waited for her to answer, but she held her ground, remaining silent and meeting his gaze. Finally, he relented and she released the breath that she had held for those long moments. “Would you like some coffee?”

He pushed up from the couch and had already started towards the kitchen. Brea jumped after him and grabbed his arm, the shock of the touch sending chills through her fingers and up her arm. Goosebumps broke out everywhere as her cheeks flushed. She dropped her hand immediately, hoping that he didn’t notice her own reaction to the contact. “Let me,” she said sheepishly.

She got the feeling that he was just as grateful for the subject change as she was. She took the liberty of taking over the kitchen. The owner of
The Hideout
, the small town coffee shop where Brea had worked for the last several years, had come to appreciate her abilities so much that Brea’s recipes had started showing up on the menu. Now she dug through George’s fridge and cabinets, stacking up everything she would need to impress him with her coffee making abilities.

“Do you need any help?” His thick, tired voice startled her, nearly causing her to drop coffee beans all over the spotless floor.

Her body tensed as he moved behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat from his chest burning into her back. He pulled two mugs from a cabinet and placed them beside her numerous ingredients.

She grinned at him as she worked. “No, thank you. This is kind of my job.” She ground the beans and got the coffee brewing, but she could feel George making judgments on her based on that one statement. “Do you have chocolate syrup and any peppermint?” George raised an eyebrow at her, and Brea laughed.

“I don’t drink coffee. It’s just not my thing. I prefer the chocolate.”

“So you’re a connoisseur of coffee, but you won’t drink it?” Brea laughed, nodding. “And this is what you do with your life? Make coffee and serve others?”

That stung. She happened to love her job, happened to love the people who came into their small coffee shop, happened to love the stories that she heard from those customers. It wasn’t her career choice, but it was what she had chosen to do right now, while she figured out who she was and what she wanted. George sensed her discomfort, though she said nothing, and moved on from the question. “So you just follow the recipes?”

“I used to, but after so long at it, you start to know what will work and what won’t.” She blushed as she said her next words. “So I started throwing things together and, well, I guess I’m pretty good at it.”

“But you still won’t drink it?” He asked again, incredulously. “How do you know it’s any good if you won’t even try it?”

“Well the customers have yet to complain, so I suppose that’s saying something, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” As she worked over her coffee creation, she heard him whipping up a hot chocolate behind her. “Whipped cream?” he asked.

She turned and narrowed her eyes. “Are you kidding me? Whipped cream? What’s hot chocolate without whipped cream?”

He smiled along with her, piling on the whipped cream and sprinkling chocolate shavings over top. “You have your masterpiece and I have mine! Granted, mine came from a package, and yours,” he nodded towards the concoction on her side of the kitchen and the numerous ingredients she had lain out, “is a fair bit more complicated. Still, I’m proud.”

Brea giggled and she suddenly realized that she wasn’t having as miserable a time as she had thought she would. “As you should be! It’s beautiful.”

The fire was roaring as they made themselves comfortable on the couch once again, hot chocolates in one hand, Brea’s special brew in the other. “Would you believe that I’ve not shared this house with anyone since I was a teenager? It was my childhood home, passed down from my grandfather.”

“Why not?”

“No-one has…caught my attention.”

Brea waited, but he said nothing else. She knew there must be more to the story, but for some reason, George was choosing to not share with her. She wouldn’t prod him about it, either. She didn’t want to push him into a corner. “So,” she paused, “is there anything that catches your attention, other than being in the tabloids?”

“You realize that I am a busy man otherwise? My life isn’t just tabloids and women.” George was very dedicated when it came to his business, acting as a middle man for many companies, benefiting each party in different ways. He had spent years developing the company and now that it was in full swing, he had little time for much else and his time in the limelight encompassed pretty much all of it. So through those few spare moments, he chose to live them at the fullest and to be unconcerned for anything other than his joy at the moment.

“Yes, but other than work, what is there? What about hobbies, interests, passions? What about friends or family?”

“I’ve no family and no time for hobbies.” He did have hobbies, but they were the types that nearly killed him every time. He hadn’t lied, not entirely; he didn’t have time for hobbies, not really, but on the few occasions that he did, he took full advantage and went after activities that were going to keep his blood pumping and hold his interest. There just weren’t a lot of things in his life that did that for him.

But as he sat there beside this woman, this strange woman who would be out of his life in a matter of hours, he realized just how flat his life truly was. Today was the first time he had felt like himself (though he thought that he might be forgetting who he even was) in a very long time.

When the whir of the bullet had brushed past him, close enough to disturb the fine hairs on the side of his face, he had finally felt alive. When Jim had thrown him on the ground, practically leaping on top to keep him from harm’s way, he had felt exhilarated, nearly euphoric. While John searched the crowds for the assailant, Jim had yanked George from the concrete and tossed him into the back of the limo. George had thought that finally, this was what he had been waiting for. The feeling of sustenance and meaning, as if he finally had a place in the world—urgency, importance.

Even when he was waterfall kayaking, the pounding of his heart drowned out by the angry water that thrashed around him, he had felt rather empty. He knew thrills were supposed to make him feel alive, and couldn’t understand why they never worked. Somehow he knew that if he told Brea of his adventures, she would see into him and know why he did it.

But she only watched him. He knew that she wanted more from him, but wasn’t sure what she wanted or why. He took a sip of his coffee, and had to admit that it was the best damned coffee he had ever had. Perhaps he had been a bit harsh when it came to her career choice, because she was certainly great at what she did.

He noticed her discomfort. “What’s on your mind?”

She looked down into her hot chocolate before speaking. “I should be at home with my family right now, and you should be at home with yours.” She swirled the nearly melted whipped cream around in her cup. “It’s Christmas Eve, and here we are. Snowed in, drinking coffee and hot chocolate with a complete stranger.”

“Is it your family you’re wanting to get home to, or is it Eric?”

She shook her head. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen him.” She gave him a look of doubt. “I just don’t know. For me, not much has changed. I’m still in the same place, I’m still the same person, I still have the same goals and dreams, but what about Eric? Has anything changed for him?” She sighed. “It’s only been a little over a year, so I can’t imagine that much has changed. And seeing me is supposed to do what? Revive feelings he once had? No. I’m sure that he hasn’t had a change of heart.”

George took another sip of his coffee before setting the mug onto the table. “But you won’t know until you go home, will you? So what makes him so wonderful?” he asked again. Instead of avoiding the question, though, Brea gulped at her chocolate—her liquid courage, it seemed—and began.