Page 2 of The Holiday Inheritance

I wish Amie was here. I get it, she needed to spend the Christmas holidays with her family back in New York, but I’m selfish and want her here for comfort. She’ll be flying over after the New Year, though, and staying with me for a few months while her student visa gets processed. She’s been accepted into a local university and has decided to go back and get her master’s degree. Me, on the other hand, I have no clue what I’m going to do once I get settled.

I’ve been told the country home and grounds are taken care of by a few people who have worked on the home for years. I guess Aunt Katharine wrote in her will that they were to have jobs as long as they wanted, which isn’t an issue for me. I’ve never even lived in a place with a yard, so I don’t think I could even start a lawnmower, let alone take care of acres and acres of land.

“Next!” the gentleman behind the glass shouts in my direction. Sweat pebbles on my forehead, and I push the sleeves of my sweater up off my forearms. Why is it so freaking hot in here?

“Hi there,” I say, plastering on my sweetest smile.

The man just takes my documentation, not looking up from the desk in front of him. “Purpose of your visit?”

He finds the picture on my passport and then again on my visa and holds it up as if to check I’m who I say I am.

“Inheritance. Um, sorry. I inherited my aunt’s estate, and I’m here to officially move in!” A laugh that sounds half-manic escapes my lips, and I immediately flush hot with embarrassment.

Jesusfuckingchrist.

After several more questions, every single paper read through, and with what looks like a begrudged smile, he lets mego, wishing me luck as he does so. I practically sprint to checked baggage, praying under my breath that all of my luggage has made it. My boots are heavy and hot. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to dress for the snow, even though I’d be spending most of my day inside airports and planes. I’m about ready to strip down a few layers when I see a man holding a sign with my name on it. “Miss Donahue” is written in scrawled black permanent marker on a thin sheet of printer paper.

Nothing but the best, I guess? Honestly, I was expecting Mr. Smith to pick me up, but I must’ve misunderstood his emails. The man standing there with the sign looks to be in his mid-forties, with warm brown hair and a beard flecked with gray. He’s tall and broad and looks like he knows how to swing an ax in that flannel shirt. As I approach him, he catches my eye and looks surprised.

“Are you here for me?” I ask, dipping under the roped divider between us.

“You aren’t supposed to do that,” he says, ignoring me altogether. His voice is deep, and the closer I get to him, the more I can take him in. His eyes are a deep, rich brown that seem to shine even in the fluorescents of the airport. And he smells so good. My god, what is that? He smells exactly like a man should, spicy and sweet all at once.

“Oh, sorry. I just thought… I mean, you’re right here. Sorry, are you here for me?”

“Is your name Miss Donahue?”

“Yes.”

He clears his throat and blinks a few times. “Then, yes. I’m here for you. Do you have luggage?” He begins to lead me toward baggage claim, and I follow behind at quite a clip as I try to keep up. His long legs propel him far ahead of me.

“Quite a bit,” I admit, breathless, my face flushing again. The sweat is dripping down my back now, and between beingso hot and being so nervous about this whole ordeal while also being surrounded by too many loud people, I’m about to have a breakdown. I’m so overstimulated and out of my depth that I could cry. And why is this fucking sweater so goddamn itchy?

“I assumed,” he grunts over his shoulder. When he sees that I’m struggling to keep up, his face softens, and he stops until I’ve caught up. His hand reaches out and takes the backpack off my shoulder, slinging it over his own with ease. “That was rude of me,” he says. “I should’ve offered to carry this for you. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s been a long day. I’m just ready for a bath and sleep.” We begin walking again, this time slower. I can tell it bothers him as he continues to glance down at me, but it’s not like my legs can just magically grow a few inches. “I figured Mr. Smith would be picking me up.”

“The solicitor?” He laughs, the sound rich and comforting. “He’s not taking time away from his family during the holidays to pick up a client. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

“What was your name? Are you an associate of his or?”

“Briggs Davies.” When he looks down at me this time, his dark eyebrows are pulled together. “They didn’t tell you? I’m the head groundskeeper. I’m the one that keeps the place going.”

“Oh, wow! Okay, no. They didn’t tell me. I was sad we didn’t get to meet last time I was here. I’m Florence, but you can call me Ren. Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand, clammy as it may be. His calloused hand wraps around my own, and I have to fight against my wild hormones that have suddenly taken an interest in this growly older man.

“Florence,” he says, nodding as we go back to watching bags circle the conveyor belt. “That’s an old name.”

I shrug. “Family name. I’m the fifth woman on my mom’s side to have the name. Briggs is unique. I haven’t heard that one before. Is it an English name?”

“And Scottish. Think it actually goes back to Norse, but I’m not sure.”

We wait in silence for a while longer until my bags finally show up. They’re old, purchased secondhand last minute when I realized just how much stuff I was going to be bringing. Briggs jogs over to the baggage carts and grabs us one before lifting them all with ease onto it. I can’t help but watch the way his shoulders and arms bulge against the soft fabric of his flannel. And with each movement, I catch a whiff of his cologne.

“Shall we?” he asks once all of my luggage is loaded. Embarrassed that he probably just caught me smelling him, all I do is nod and gesture for him to lead the way. The bitterly cold air whacks me straight across my face when the automatic doors part, and it slices easily through my sweater. Seeing as I was sweaty just moments ago, it’s almost painfully cold.

“We’re just right here!” he calls out over the wind. Snow is coming down, wet and thick, landing heavily on my luggage and our hair. “Lucked out with the spot.”

I try my hardest not to stare at his ass in those sinfully tight jeans as he walks ahead of me, leading the way. It doesn’t really work, though, because when he stops in front of his impressively well-kept old Land Rover, I bump right into his back.Embarrassing. The Rover is a sage green with a white top, and frankly, it looks like this snowstorm could blow it away. The metal, while solid, seems thin and flimsy up close, and I’m wondering if it’s actually safe to get in.

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