Thirteen
There, let that be the last tartan bow to be tied, Faye begged silently as she stood back and eyed the turned-wood balustrade that led to the upstairs gallery of the lodge. Swags of Christmas ribbon looped up the stairs, with a large tartan bow at each peak.
Not for the first time, she cursed the bad luck that had seen her boss’s usual decorator fall off a ladder and dislocate her shoulder a week before Piers was due to arrive at his holiday home here in Wyoming for his annual Christmas retreat and weeklong house party.
Faye had suggested he go with a minimalistic look for the festive season this year, but, no, he’d been adamant. Tradition, he’d called it. A pain in the butt, she’d called it. Either way, she’d been forced out of her warm sunny home in Santa Monica and onto an airplane, only to arrive in Jackson Hole to discover weather better suited to a polar bear than a person. So, here she was. Six days away from Christmas, decorating a house for a bunch of people who probably wouldn’t appreciate it. Except for her boss, of course. He loved this time of year with a childlike passion, right down to the snow.
She hated snow, but not as much as she hated Christmas.
She turned slowly and surveyed the main hall of the lodge. Even her late mother would have been proud, Faye thought with a sharp pang in her chest, before she pushed that thought very firmly away. The entire house looked disgustingly festive. It was enough to make a sane person want to hurl, she told herself firmly, clinging to her hatred of the season of goodwill. There was no reason to be sad about being alone for the holidays when she hated the holidays with a passion, right?
At least her task was over and she could head back to the sun, where she could hide in her perfectly climate-controlled apartment and lose herself in her annual tradition of binge-watching every Predator movie made, followed by every Alien DVD in her collection, followed by any other sci-fi horror flick that was as disassociated from Christmas as it was from reality.
She moved toward the front door where her compact carry-on bag was already packed and waiting for her retreat to normality and a world without decorations or Christmas carols or—
The front door swung open and swirl of frigid air preceded the arrival of her boss, Piers Luckman. Lucky by name and luckier by nature, they said. Only she knew what a hard worker he was beneath that handsome playboy exterior. She’d worked for him for the past three years and had the utmost respect for him as a businessman. And as a man...? A tiny curl of something unfurled deep inside her. Something forbidden. Something that in another person could resemble a hint of longing, of desire. Something she clamped down on with her usual resolute ferocity. No. She didn’t go there.
Piers stomped the snow off his feet on the porch outside then stepped into the lobby and unslung his battered leather computer satchel from one shoulder.
“Good flight?” she asked, knowing he’d probably piloted the company jet himself for the journey from LA to Jackson Hole.
He had no luggage because he always kept a full wardrobe at each of his homes peppered around the world.
“Merry Christmas!” Piers greeted her as he saw her standing there and unzipped his down-filled puffer jacket.
Oh, dear mother of God, what on earth was he wearing underneath it?
“Weren’t you supposed arrive on Saturday, the day before your party? You’re four days early,” she commented, ignoring his festive greeting. “And what, by all that’s holy, is that?”
She pointed at the gaudy hand-knitted sweater he wore. The reindeer’s eyes were lopsided, his antlers crooked and...his nose? Well, suffice to say the red woolen pompom was very...bright.
A breathtaking grin spread across Piers’s face.
Faye focused her gaze slightly off center so she wouldn’t be tempted to stare or smile in return. The man was far too good-looking, and she only remained immune to his charms because of her personal vow to remain single and childless. That aside, she loved her job and getting a crush on her boss would be a surefire way to the unemployment office.
After all, wasn’t that what had happened to a long line of her predecessors? It wasn’t like he could help it if personal assistants, who had an excuse to spend so much time with him, often found him incredibly appealing. He was charming, intelligent, handsome and, even though he’d been born with a silver spoon lodged very firmly in that beautiful mouth, he wasn’t averse to working hard, overseeing his empire with confidence and charisma. The only time Faye had ever seen him shaken had been last January, when his twin brother had died in a sky-diving accident. Since then he’d been somewhat quieter, more reflective than usual.
While Faye had often felt Piers had been a little on the cavalier side in his treatment of others—particularly his revolving door of girlfriends—he’d become more considerate over this past year. As if Quin’s death had reminded him just how fleeting life could be. Even Lydia, his latest girlfriend, had been on the scene far longer than was usual. Faye had even begun to wonder if Piers was contemplating making the relationship a permanent one, but then she’d received the memo to send his usual parting gift of an exquisite piece of jewelry in a signature pale blue box along with his handwritten card.
It was purely for reasons of self-preservation that she didn’t find him irresistible, and she was nothing if not good at self-preservation. Besides, if you didn’t have ridiculous dreams of happy-ever-after then you didn’t see them dashed, and you didn’t get hurt—and without all of that, you existed quite nicely, thank you.
“This?” he said, stroking a hand across the breadth of his chest and down over what she knew, from working with him at his place on the Côte D’Azur where swimwear replaced office wear, was a tautly ripped abdomen. “It’s my great-aunt Florence’s gift to me this year. I have a collection of them. Like it?”
“It’s hideous,” she said firmly. “Now you’re here, I can go. Is there anything else you need me to attend to when I get back to LA?”
* * *
Piers looked at his erstwhile PA. He’d never met anyone like Faye Darby, which was exactly why he kept her around. She intrigued him, and in his jaded world there weren’t many who still had that ability. Plus, she was ruthlessly capable, in a way he couldn’t help but admire. It might have been cruel to have sent her to decorate the house for him for the holidays—especially knowing she had such a deep dislike of the festive season—but it needed doing and, quite frankly, he didn’t trust anyone else to do it for him.
And as to the sweater, although his late great-aunt Florence had knitted him several equally jaw-droppingly hideous garments in the past, the truth was that he’d seen this one in the window of the thrift store during his morning run and he’d fallen in love with it instantly, knowing exactly how much Faye would hate it. The donation he’d made to the store in exchange for the sweater
