Page 9 of Christmas at the Ranch
How could Drew not have mentioned that his father was Arthur Wentworth, CEO of her publishing house? And how could she not have guessed herself? She’d never met Drew but she had heard that Arthur had a grown son who was always traveling around the world. To be fair, Samantha didn’t have much reason to know all of Arthur’s family business. And on the plane, she never asked Drew why he was going to Jackson Hole. It was too late now. Drew could have told his father everything: That for the last four years, Charlie and the whole team had been lying about Samantha’s social media profile. That she was only here because Charlie tricked her and she couldn’t wait to leave.
She was tempted to find Bruno and ask him to drive her straight back to the airport. She could invent an emergency—there was a gas leak in her apartment, Socks needed a blood transfusion and the vet wouldn’t give anyone access to his medical records. But Charlie would be furious and she’d be back where she started: with Melody Minnow threatening her readership and she and Charlie out of a job.
The only way she could think clearly was after some strong, dark coffee. She put on a robe and found a pair of slippers. It was 8:00A.M.; hopefully no one else would be up. She’d bring a cup of coffee to her room. Then she’d figure out what to do.
Arthur’s kitchen was straight from the pages ofArchitecturalDigest,western edition. There was a ten-burner range that could easily cook up enough bacon to feed a dozen ranch hands. A center island took up the middle of the room and the appliances were hidden behind oak panels.
She was trying to figure out how to use the coffee maker when she heard footsteps.
Drew was standing in the doorway. He wore jeans and a thick jacket.
“Samantha,” he greeted her. “I just went for a walk. I didn’t know anyone was up.”
“I wanted to make coffee, I hope that’s all right,” she said, feeling guilty. She should have asked if guests were allowed to use the kitchen.
“Of course, I was going to make a cup myself.” He watched her furiously pushing buttons. “Would you like some help?”
Samantha was happy to turn it over to him. “I’ve been trying for fifteen minutes. It must be stuck.”
Drew reached around and clicked a button in the back.
“My father loves high-tech gadgets.” He grinned. “It’s made by a Dutch company; they only manufacture four hundred a year. They didn’t want to ruin the aerodynamic design by putting the switches in the front.”
Suddenly she longed for her familiar Krups coffee maker. If she were at home, she’d be drinking her second cup of coffee while Socks curled up in his doggy bed and her favorite Christmas songs played on Spotify, and she’d have nothing to worry about except Sloane Parker’s next adventure.
Drew made two coffees and handed one to Samantha. She took one sip and had to agree that the undoubtedly four-figure price tag for the coffee maker was worth it. The coffee was incredibly smoothand just the right temperature: not too hot to burn her tongue, but not the least bit cool so she had to pop it in the microwave and heat it up.
She noticed that Drew was staring at her slippers.
“I didn’t mean for anyone to see me in a robe and slippers,” she said awkwardly. “I was going to take the coffee up to my room.”
“I like your slippers. I’ve never seen anything like them,” Drew remarked.
“Every year, Socks and I exchange Christmas presents,” she offered. “I tried to think what Socks would buy for me if he could go shopping.”
“You thought he would buy slippers with floppy ears and a dog’s nose?”
“It was either that or a box of cereal shaped like dog bones,” she answered. “But I prefer coffee and toast or oatmeal in the mornings.”
Drew sipped his coffee thoughtfully.
“You’re very attached to your dog, aren’t you?”
“Dogs are loyal,” Samantha said, nodding. “And Socks doesn’t mind if I spend all day writing.”
“I’ve never had a dog,” Drew replied. “I grew up in a penthouse on the Upper East Side. My father’s decorator furnished it all in white: white carpets, white sofas. Dogs weren’t allowed.”
“It doesn’t sound as if little boys would be either,” Samantha said doubtfully. “I’ve never even been inside a Manhattan penthouse. Well, except once for a book reading.”
Charlie had promised it would be fine. The penthouse had a private elevator that was so fast and quiet, Samantha wouldn’t even know it was moving. And the owner promised to keep the drapes in the living room closed. But the elevator was broken, so she hadto take the service elevator, which stopped at every floor. Ever since the engine fire on the airplane, Samantha was terrified of heights. When she arrived, one of the attendees wanted to see the view. Everyone else oohed and ahhed, but Samantha couldn’t read from her book without experiencing vertigo.
“My childhood was quite boring. My parents were teachers. My mother made peanut butter sandwiches and we always had a dog,” Samantha said, stirring her coffee. “A cocker spaniel and then a dachshund called Salty because he resembled a pretzel. After that a mix named Bucky. Bucky’s personality changed more often than a mood ring.” She paused. “I loved Bucky the most. I cried for weeks when he died.”
Drew perched on a stool. His face took on a somber expression.
“I never had a mother to make peanut butter sandwiches. She left when I was four.” He sipped his coffee. “My father kept buying houses as consolation prizes: the place in Connecticut, a beach house in the Bahamas. A kid doesn’t care where he lives, all he cares about are the people inside the house.”
“I’m sorry.” Samantha stared down at her cup.
