The Holiday Games

Chapter 3

three

. . .

Caroline

W hen I was a little girl, I had a pretty good idea what I wanted my Prince Charming to look like.

He would be tall, with an easy smile, dark eyes, and messy brown hair that fell over his forehead just so. He’d be jaded, but with a secretly tender heart. He’d love adventures as much as I did and have a quick wit like Flynn Rider from Tangled—my favorite animated film—with an equally quick temper, only I could calm.

I don’t know why I thought it was romantic for men to be cranky, but let’s blame the patriarchy. If you drill down far enough, the patriarchy is to blame for most things.

But it isn’t responsible for the web of lies I’m currently trapped in.

That’s all on me.

But at least I’m trapped with my childhood dream guy, right down to those clever eyes, and a deep voice that holds a hint of sarcasm as he asks, “Candy, I presume?”

My brows shoot up. “Caroline, actually. Only people from my hometown call me Candy.”

He makes a thoughtful sound low in his throat. “So, the man in flannel who ran by calling for Candy is…a friend from home?”

“My boyfriend.” I hate telling this delicious man that I’m taken, and I hate myself for feeling that way even more.

Chris is an incredible guy! But is he the guy for me? I’ve been having doubts about that for a while now.

Doubts that are getting stronger with every passing second…

I want to kiss this stranger more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss Bobby Christmas Williams, which is probably proof that I’m a terrible human being.

“I told him I was going to my aunt Theresa’s house for a few days,” I continue. “I knew if I said I was going to the city, he’d insist on coming along to protect me.”

“But you didn’t want protection,” Mr. Sexy says, a statement, not a question.

I shake my head. “No. I went to NYU. I lived in the city for four years. I know my way around. But I made the mistake of telling Chris about the time I was mugged in the Bowery my freshman year.” I sigh. “Now he thinks New York is filled with thugs with knives who steal coeds’ backpacks. So…I lied. I was trying to spare him worry and time away from the farm. I had no idea he’d be at the convention selling trees.”

The stranger frowns. “He’s a Christmas tree farmer?”

“Oh yeah. Hardcore. Third generation. His full name is Bobby Christmas Williams, but he goes by Chris,” I say, laughing when the stranger’s frown becomes a “just sucked a lemon dry” face. But even with lemon face, he’s still ridiculously good-looking. “I know. It’s awful. But we live in Reindeer Corners, Vermont so…not totally out of left field. The entire place is Christmas crazy.”

“Interesting,” he murmurs, nodding thoughtfully. “And you work at a hotel there?”

My eyes widen, but then I remember I’m at a hotelier’s conference and he probably isn’t a mind reader, after all. Duh, Caroline. “Yes. At the Reindeer Corners Inn. For over a decade now. Are you in the industry?”

“No, I’m a producer for a reality show shooting in the city right now,” he says. “My assistant and I are here to recruit a last-minute contestant for Innkeeping with You: Holiday Games Edition. It’s a hospitality-themed competition we’re shopping to the Realer than Real channel. The winner gets one hundred thousand dollars to put toward upgrading their current inn or opening something new.” His tone grows more pointed as he adds, “Say, a place with fewer Christmas sweaters and more decorating options? If a person were tired of that sort of thing?”

My lips part, my heart beating faster as I realize where he’s headed with this. “You don’t mean…” He nods, and I exhale a soft laugh. “Really? Me? In your show? But you don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re a small-town girl with years of innkeeping experience. You seem sweet and well-spoken. And you’re beautiful, so you’ll look amazing on camera. What else do I need to know?” His brows shift closer together. “You aren’t a felon, are you? Or keeping dark secrets you wouldn’t want to get out if the show becomes popular and reporters dig into your backstory?”

“No, I’m not a felon and no secrets,” I say, sort of wishing I did have a dark secret. Or at least a secret of some kind, aside from the fact that I’m in New York when I told my boyfriend I’d be at my aunt’s house. But I don’t, so I shrug. “Sadly, I’m very boring.”

“That isn’t sad. Boring is underrated. At least it means nothing bad is happening.”

I tip my head to one side in acknowledgement of that pearl of wisdom. Sexy and damaged enough to be grateful for the simple things in life.

Be still my heart…

“But I seriously doubt you’re boring,” he continues. “You had my interest from the moment I saw you, even before you crawled into an igloo.” He smiles, and I’m suddenly warm all over for the first time since I got off the train in the windswept city. “Would you like to hear more about the project? See if it might be something you’d be interested in being a part of?”

I bite my lip, filled with a strange sensation, a feeling that’s electric, fizzy, the opposite of the soul-numbing dread that’s been tugging at the back of my brain for the past few years.

It’s a feeling so unfamiliar, it takes a beat to realize that it’s…hope.

It’s excitement and hope mixed together and God, it feels good. Like a cold drink of water after a run through Central Park in the dead of summer. Like turning a corner and seeing that what you thought was a dead end is actually a fork in the road, leading to fascinating places and unimagined adventures.

So, even though I’ve never had the slightest urge to appear on a reality show and I’m pretty sure my parents will be mortified—New Englanders don’t like to air their dirty laundry or their clean laundry or anything in between—I find myself nodding. “Yeah, I’d like to hear more. Thanks.”

“Perfect.” Mr. Sexy pulls out his phone, shooting off a quick text. “I’ll have my assistant meet us upstairs at the restaurant on the top floor.” He glances my way as he adds, “I’m assuming you’d rather not stay down here and risk running into your boyfriend? At least not until you’ve filled him in on your change of plans?”

“Yes, that’s probably best,” I say, following him out of the blow-up igloo.

My change of plans…

Chris isn’t going to like this change of plans any more than my parents will. Chris is a private person who’s happy with his peaceful, small-town life with no surprises in it. Even if I behave impeccably and end up winning the competition, he’ll probably be so embarrassed by the associated attention, he won’t leave the farm for weeks.

But that’s something I can worry about later. Reality shows take time to film and prepare for television, after all. It could be six months or more before this show makes it to the small screen, and by then…

Well, by then, Chris and I might be a thing of the past.

Staying with him when I assumed I was simply too depressed to experience frisky feelings for anyone was one thing. Staying with him when I’m suddenly dying to make out with a stranger in a blow-up igloo is another.

Not that I’m going to make out with this man, of course. If I go forward with the reality show, he’ll basically be my boss, and I’m not the type of girl who mixes business with pleasure.

Besides, Mr. Sexy could have a girlfriend.

Or a wife…

I don’t see a ring, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a devoted spouse back at his apartment. Men don’t always wear their wedding rings. I see an alarming number of bare left fingers around the inn, even when guys are on vacation with their wives, let alone when they’re out and about in the city, wheeling and dealing.

Or looking for gullible mountain girls to human traffic. I hear there’s quite a market for sex slaves during the most magical time of the year…

Heeding the inner voice—I don’t think this man is a human trafficker, but you can’t be too careful—I reach out, catching the sleeve of his dress shirt as we cross the hotel lobby. “I’m sorry,” I say, when he turns to face me. “I didn’t get your name. I should probably do an internet search to make sure you’re legit before I let you chloroform me in an elevator, slip me into your suitcase, and put me on a private plane to Kathmandu.”

“Right. Shit.” His eyes widen as he gives a quick shake of his head. “I mean, sorry. I can’t believe I forgot to give you my card. I blame the igloo. It threw me off my game.”

“No worries at all,” I say, accepting the card he hands over with a smile.

But my grin falls away as I read the name etched in classy bronze letters: Leo Sampson Fenton.

My head snaps back up, my jaw dropping. “You’re Leo Fenton?”

He nods but seems confused by my reaction. “I am.”

“The Leo Fenton who used to write for Sketch Night Live and Sandy Saunders?” I ask, certain I must be wrong. He doesn’t look old enough to have been writing for television when I was in high school.

Or to have betrayed my cousin four years ago and still be this recklessly handsome…

He has to be at least forty, but there’s barely any gray in his dark hair and only the faintest lines around his eyes.

Those eyes crinkle with happiness at my question. “Yeah. That’s me.” He laughs. “I can’t believe you knew that. No one remembers the writers on a sketch show. Most people never know our names in the first place.”

“You always wrote my favorite sketches,” I say.

It isn’t a lie—his sketches were my favorite—but I didn’t know he was responsible for writing them until my cousin Vivian pointed it out. She was dating him at the time and so wildly in love. She stayed that way until she caught him going at it with another woman in a sauna while they were on a trip to Maine and came running home.

Luckily, her childhood sweetheart, Frank, the kindest lumberjack in the world, was there to help her pick up the pieces. They reunited at a Scottish festival not far from Reindeer Corners and have been inseparable ever since. They’re married now with two kids and a thriving maple syrup business. Vivian manages the shop and distribution while Frank works for the forestry service.

They’re so happy, but it took a long time for Vivian to heal from Leo’s betrayal. For years, just the mention of Sketch Night Live was enough to make her tear up. Every time, I’d silently curse Leo Fenton and his dirty cheating dick.

Ugh! I can’t believe I indulged in a make out fantasy about this man, and I really can’t believe I almost made his life even one tiny bit easier.

I’m not usually a vengeful person, but when it comes to my friends and family, I know how to hold a grudge. I’ve never escalated a grudge to vengeance before, but suddenly I’m wondering…why not?

I mean, Fate went to a lot of trouble to ensure I ended up in an inflated igloo with this man. It seems like I should at least take this meeting and…consider my options.

“Well, this might have been meant to be,” Leo says, still looking pleased and flattered.

I beam up at him. “Seems like it.”

To myself, I add, You have no idea, buddy.

We head toward the elevator. While one part of me discusses my favorite Leo Fenton sketches with the one and only Leo Fenton, the other part of me is contemplating all the ways a person might teach a cheating reality show sleazeball a lesson he’ll never forget.