Page 7 of The Mistletoe Makeover

“I’m sure my manager would appreciate your concern,” he adds, “even if you were a bit pushy.”

“He’s your manager?” I sputter.

“He works for me,” he says without explaining more.

My eyes flit over his outfit. He’s obviously not in corporate, wearing a henley shirt, ripped jeans, and a worn cap on backwards.

“What’s so important that you had to jump on the ticket like a rabid chihuahua?” he asks.

“Hey,” I say with a frown, straightening my spine. After stepping out of my career for a year, I feel like a rusty, bent nail that needs to be driven into new wood. “An open seat on an overbooked flight requires doggedness. And if you must know...I’m meeting with Jace Knight.”

He looks at me for a second without responding. Then he laughs.

“You know who Jace Knight is, right?” I assume he’s laughing because he doesn’t believe me. “The country rock singer?”

“I know who he is,” he says quickly, his sunglasses leveled on me, his mouth twisting slightly, like he’s annoyed and amused at the same time. “Do you?”

I shift from one foot to the other. Before I left, I only had time to look up a few pictures of Jace online at a music awards show where he was dressed in a tux. Not exactly thorough research, but I was too busy sending the Mistletoe Festival committee a list of tasks I need done before I arrived, as well as organizing a project management program for everything that needs to happen.

“Of course,” I say with feigned confidence. “He has lots of hits.”

The corners of his lips curl, and a small dimple deepens in one cheek. For some reason, that dimple looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where. “Thirteen top-ten hits,” he finally says, his dimple still plainly evident.

I bet women love that dimple. Because guys like him? They’re always aware of their assets.

I lift an eyebrow. “Well, someone’s a Jace Knight fan.”

“And you’re not?”

I play with the handle of my carry-on, suddenly feeling so called out I can hardly look at him. Why should this guy care, anyway? “Didn’t he win some music award last year?”

He grunts. “A few.”

For whatever reason, this guy is making me feel woefully ignorant. Shame zips down my spine.

I had planned on doing more research once I arrived in Maplewood and had a few hours before the meeting. Now I’ll be lucky to even make it on time. “I hope he doesn’t have the inflated ego to go with it,” I say, trying to make a joke.

He doesn’t laugh, just stares at me, his lips quirking. Even under those glasses, I can tell he’s got amazing eyes.

“I’m only doing this as a favor for my mom,” I ramble nervously, suddenly feeling the weight of his stare. “And because the money’s good.”

One eyebrow lifts above his glasses. “So it’s about the money?”

“There’s more to it,” I hint, not wanting to get into my complicated family history. Even now, I can feel the familiar ache at the reminder that I’m going home to face something I’ve been putting off.

“But the money doesn’t hurt, either,” he says bluntly.

I shift uncomfortably. “Well, it’s been nice meeting you. Thanks again for the seat.” Then I offer a weak smile, glad to escape this conversation.

I know my reasons, and I don’t have to justify them to him.

I doubt we’ll run into each other again since I’ll be crammed into economy while he’s luxuriously stretched out in first class with all that enviable legroom.

For some reason, his smug look got under my skin, like an itch I couldn’t satisfy. Thanks to Mr. Smolder, I’ll make my flight home.

I can only hope that when I meet Jace Knight, his first impression of me is favorable. Because if we get off on the wrong foot, it could ruin everything, including Christmas.

THREE

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