Page 14 of Bad Boy Bachelor Christmas
Okay, fool might have been extreme, but she’d be making a mistake.
Waylon Farms was known across the country and had a spotless reputation. Sure, we were really locked in on our Christmas niche, specifically our trees, but we ran a tight ship, adhered to ridiculous deadlines, and met the needs of some of the most upscale clients in the nation. Not only that, but we worked extremely publicly. Our work was out there for the eyes of the whole country to see. If Winter wanted her name to be on something she could be proud of that meant something to people, this was it.
Perhaps I should have said that to her yesterday before dropping her off at the cabin.
Whatever.
She could figure it out for herself. I had no interest in pitching my family company to a naïve twenty-four-year-old who thought she was qualified to decorate places like the Four Seasons at Christmas. Give me a break.
A design degree didn’t open doors that big for you.
I walked with my chin tucked into the collar of my heavy Carhart jacket and my hands crammed into the sheep-wool-lined pockets. It was a damn cold day today. A sharp breeze blistered between the trees and came up sharply between rows. I’d parked a ways off so Winter didn’t hear the four-wheeler’s obnoxious approach. Maurice might have called me a coward, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She had her breakfast, and I had my peace.
Win, win.
When I reached the four-wheeler ,I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted Winter with the number she gave me earlier, letting her know breakfast was on her porch. Then I turned the ignition, gave it the throttle, and sped off through the cold back to the main house. Lights glowed from the inside as I approached, promising warmth and comfort. I saw the fire crackling through the living-room window and smiled despite myself.
Nostalgia was a powerful thing.
As a boy, I’d often run through these trees, pretending to be a prince battling a dragon hiding in their midst, or a soldier caught behind enemy lines. My imagination would lead me every which way, and by the time my afternoon of fun and games expired, I’d be frozen to the bone, teeth clattering, hands frozen damn near solid. My gloves would have gotten lost amongst the countless other pairs from the previous weeks of play minutes into my games. As soon as I walked in the back door, my mother would sweep out of the living room where she’d often be bundled up reading a book in front of the fire. She’d bring me over to the hearth, set me in front of the crackling flames, and fuss over me while the fire warmed my back and behind.
I remembered how warm her slender hands would feel on my cheeks. She’d press them to my neck and I’d nuzzle into her touch like a Labrador retriever. God, if only I’d known how lucky I had it back then.
But eight-year-olds are not afforded the burden of knowing everything is fleeting.
Maurice would bring me hot chocolate, polished off with a generous dollop of whipped cream and covered in whatever sprinkles he could get his hands on. If there weren’t any, he’d shave some of my mother’s expensive chocolate onto the top. She never minded. I was the apple of everyone’s eye back then.
My hands burned as they warmed up and I shrugged out of my Carhart jacket, leaving it on the dining-room table. I moved into the house, heading for the kitchen to collect my own breakfast. I could hear Maurice’s loud, excitable French voice echoing through the house but couldn’t determine who he was speaking to. At first I assumed it was someone on the house staff, but when I came around the corner and spotted Justin, I drew up short.
“Don’t you have your own house you can, you know, live at?” I asked.
Justin flashed me a devilish little grin. “My house doesn’t have a Maurice, and I fancied myself a nice breakfast this morning. I’m cashing in on the perks of having you as a friend wherever I can, North. Don’t get it twisted.”
Maurice chuckled as he whipped up eggs on the stove. “Don’t get it twisted? Is that what the kids are saying these days?”
The expression sounded outlandish in his accent.
Justin snickered. “The kids? Beats the shit out of me, man. The only kids I interact with are my clients’ kid, and they always have their noses glued to their phone screens. That or they’re filming something stupid on their phones like a dance or lip syncing.”
“Your business would benefit from using social media the way youth are using it these days,” I said. “Have you seen the following and influence they can acquire? Hundreds of thousands if not millions, Justin. You could do house tours to promote open houses.”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you ever stop working?”
I’d been accused of this before—seeing everything as an opportunity to expand and grow my business and the businesses of people I cared about and kept in my inner circle. It was a skill—or a habit—I’d honed from my father before I was twenty. He was always innovating, always turning things over and trying to figure out how to make the most of them. His marketing and his people skills had expanded the Waylon business by sixty percent in the four years after he took over from my grandfather, and he’d been the first to break ground with a website for our farm and our services.
I was working to take the next step into social media, but that would have to wait until the new year when I had more time on my hands, and we would build it up for next Christmas.
Justin went over to the stove and hovered over Maurice’s shoulder. “Smells good, my man.” He closed a hand on Maurice’s shoulder only to have the chef chase him off with a spatula. Justin fled like a scolded child and took cover on the other side of the kitchen island. “Testy.”
“I don’t like people in my space when I cook,” Maurice said.
I nodded matter-of-factly. “Some of us learned that lesson a long time ago. Better shape up, Justin.”
Justin chuckled, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and began showing me some of his new listings in the area while Maurice put the finishing touches on our breakfast. He’d acquired a beautiful old heritage house about a mile down the street from my farm. It was a three-story, staggering, glamorous property that looked like it had been plucked right out of the nineteen twenties. All that was missing was a husband and wife posed on the front porch, her in a flapper dress, him in a pinstripe suit and fedora.
“I think this one is going to go in the heading image on my website,” Justin said. “I’m going to have my assistant update everything. It’s eye-catching, unique, and will draw a certain clientele. You know I’m trying to break into the next level of real estate. Do you think this property will do that?”
I took the phone from him and flipped through some pictures. “If you do it wisely.”
