Page 5 of Merry with a Tycoon

I force myself to take a step back, my hand fumbling for the doorknob behind me. “I’ll just... I’ll give you a minute to finish changing,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper as I slam the door shut.

Leaning against the closed door, trying to compose myself, snippets of gossip I’ve heard around town start floating through my mind. I’ve heard whispers about his popularity with women, about how he could have his pick of any single lady in town—or from out of town.

But I’ve also heard about how he threw himself into running the company after his father’s sudden death a few years ago. How he managed to transform the Hollister empire from a respectable mid-sized hotel chain into a global hospitality powerhouse. Under his father’s leadership, the company hadbeen pulling in a solid $50 million annually—nothing to sneeze at, but a far cry from what it is today.

Within three years, he’d expanded the Hollister brand internationally, diversified into luxury resorts and boutique hotels, and implemented cutting-edge technology across their properties. The result? A staggering leap from millions to billions.

It’s strange to reconcile these stories with the one who just spent hours delighting children as Santa. And now, with the image of his half-naked body fresh in my mind, I’m seeing yet another side of him.

A few minutes later, Preston emerges, back in his impeccable business attire. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “That was quite an event.”

Seeing you half naked? Definitely.“It was,” I say, reminding myself that’s not what Preston is talking about. And even if it were, we’re not going there. “Thank you again for stepping in. You were amazing with the kids. Where would you like us to send the fee?”

He frowns. “You don’t need to pay me anything.”

“But–”

“It was a treat, actually. I enjoyed it more than I expected to,” he admits before pausing. “In fact, can I take you out to dinner? It’s the least I can do after you provided me with such an interesting evening. I had the most wonderful time.”

I eye him suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

The responsible part of me says I should decline, maintain the professional distance we’ve always had. But another part, a part I’m not entirely comfortable acknowledging, wants to say yes.

It’s not like I haven’t hung out with Preston before tonight. I saw him two weeks ago at Willy’s homecoming at the Hollistermansion, although I stayed with my best friend for most of the evening.

“I’d love to have dinner with you, but I already have dinner waiting for me at my apartment. Beef stew in the crockpot,” I say, pausing as an idea hits me. “Why don’t we do that instead? Or is a crockpot dinner too simple for you?” I pause, my eyes narrowing. “In fact, I bet you’ve never set foot in a normal person’s apartment.”

Preston scoffs. “Is that a dare?”

I laugh. “Maybe it is.”

“I’d love to have a crockpot dinner at a normal person’s apartment,” he says, grinning. “Lead the way. We can take my car.”

“No need to do that,” I say. “I live two blocks away.”

“Then I’ll walk with you.”

Ten minutes later, we’re climbing the stairs to my second-floor apartment. I’m suddenly acutely aware of every scuff on the walls, every creak of the old wooden steps.

As I unlock my door, the rich aroma of beef stew wafts out into the hallway.

“That smells delicious,” Preston says as we step inside.

“It’s not five-star cuisine but it’s–”

“Crystal, it’s perfect, especially,” he clears his throat and uses his Santa voice, “after a day of hard work at the toy shop.”

I chuckle. “You were excellent, by the way.”

“And you were adorable as an elf,” he says, his voice back to his normal baritone.

Gosh, are we, like, flirting?

Heat creeps up my neck, spreading across my cheeks. My face must be as red as my elf costume by now. “I... thank you,” I stammer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. My skin tingles where his gaze rests on me. “Please make yourself at home.”

Preston looks around, and I can only imagine him taking in the mismatched furniture, the overflowing bookshelf, the collection of crystals on the windowsill. “It’s charming,” he says, and to my surprise, he seems genuine. “It feels like a real home.”

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