Page 3 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

I pull on the long-sleeved black dress, which is equally stunning. The design and cut are simple but flattering, and the sleeves help ensure the self-tanner mishap stays my little secret. I wait for Harry to show up to save the day because I’m no more able to zip myself into this dress than I was to zip myself out of the last one.

There’s a knock. “Come in,” I call out, then I shriek at the reflected sight of a stranger barging in through the door. This particular dress has a long zipper that goes down past my butt, so he’s just seen my entire backside and my lucky underwear.

He’s a big guy, a few inches over six feet, and muscular, with a short dark beard.

What the hell? Did one of the contestants from the show decide to barge into my room before filming to make a case for himself in private?

If he tries anything, I’ll slap him in the face and show him just how well this particular silver spoon girl can defend herself, but after a second, I register that he looks as horrified as I must—probably from the combined shock of finding me not quite dressed and also orange.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, reaching back reflexively to try to hold the gaping fabric together.

“Fuck,” he says, stepping back. “I…fuck.”

“Eloquent,” I say coldly, channeling my mother. Melinda Littlefield isn’t the kind of woman who’ll let any man ruffle her, however large, unexpected, and masculine.

He works his jaw. “You should have said you were changing in here. You told me to come in. For all you knew, you could have been inviting anyone in here.”

The nerve!

“I was expecting someone,” I say primly. “And that someone was not you.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he says, lifting a hand to his mouth. He tilts his head. “Who were you expecting? Prince Charming? Which one is he? Number Six?”

“It’s rude to come into a woman’s room without introducing yourself,” I say. I’m a little intimidated by him, to be honest. First, I have no idea who he is. Second, I’m still unzipped. Third, he’s just…so big. So masculine. There’s this energy around him that’s untamed. I’m not used to men like him.

His mouth works into a wry grin, and he lifts his other hand, which is when I finally notice it. A black veil.

“I guess in this one case, IamPrince Charming,” he says. His gaze moves over my body again, settling back on my face, and by then I’m sure pink has joined the orange of my cheeks. “It’s not that bad,” he says. “If Harry hadn’t told me, I might not have noticed.”

I hold back a snort. “Well, there you have it. I’m about to be filmed for a national broadcast, and I don’t look ‘that bad.’ Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “You could have just said thank you.”

Crap. He’s kind of right. Although I’m surprised Harry passed this job on to someone else after leaving my room withthe intense focus of a knight on a sacred quest, there’s no denying this man was helpful. I take the veil from him, admiring the quality of the lace. It’s dark enough that they’ll be able to see my features—or at least that I have them—but not any details. The orange will go unnoticed.

“Thank you,” I say. “Itwaskind of you.”

Is it my imagination, or is he rolling his eyes? I ignore it. “What happened to Harry?”

He snorts. “He’ll be here in a minute. My grandmother cornered him into a conversation, but he seemed to think this couldn’t wait.” He nods to the veil.

Grandmother. So…this must be the roommate. I’d imagined him differently.

Maybe Harry had to convince Nana Mayberry to go along with our strategy for the episode. They’ll probably have to run it by the producers too, and now we’re down to—I glance at the carriage-shaped clock mounted on the wall—ten minutes.

That’s not good.

“Well, have fun,” the guy says, turning to leave.

“You’re going?”

He stops and turns to look at me, raising one eyebrow. “You want me to stay, Princess?”

Something shivers through me, although I’m not sure why. I’m not intimidated by him anymore. He’s rude and gruff, but he’s no danger.

I tip my head over my shoulder, silently indicating the zipper. “I could use a little help.”

“Oh,” he says, looking taken aback, and for some reason I’m pleased to have done that to him. “I shouldn’t do that.”

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