Page 8 of A Billionaire for Christmas
But even more surprising was the fact the driver of the SUV paused to talk to the man standing at his car.
Did they know each other? Or were they just making casual conversation?
“Good morning,” her customer said, leaving his friend behind to join her. “You’re looking awfully grumpy for a Christmas elf.”
She lifted her chin and decided toownher ridiculous costume because—what else could she do? It made her mama happy, and right now every smile counted when she was in so much pain. “I haven’t had my coffee yet,” she said. “You came back.”
“I said I would.”
“Yes, I suppose you did,” she murmured. “Still planning on buying them all?”
“I am. Is that a problem?”
Buck would bring a load to replenish the lot either way, so— “Not at all. Can I ask what you’re going to do with so many trees?”
His handsome face broke into a smile once again, one that reminded her of thedetailsof the dreams she’d had of him last night. A hot rush flooded her bloodstream.
“Decorate them,” he said simply.
“All of them?”
“Every single one,” he drawled in a knee-weakening voice. “Would you like to help me, Sara? It might help you regain some of that Christmas spirit you say is dead.”
She blinked and frowned. “When did I say that?”
“Yesterday, when you yelled it at the tree thieves.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess I did.”
He held out a thick envelope, and their fingers brushed when she took it from him.
“So is that a yes? You’ll help me with the trees? I wouldn’t mind the company.”
Yeah, she doubted he lacked company in any way. “My Christmas spirit is in the negative numbers this year, so—I’ll pass. But thanks for this,” she said, waving the envelope.
He’d paid five hundred down as a deposit last night but fifty trees averaging a hundred dollars each added up, and he hadn’t even asked for a bulk discount or argued her delivery fee.
She quickly counted the money despite the little sticky bank strips holding them bunched in thousand-dollar increments. It was her parents’ money and not her own, so she had to be sure it was accurate—and real. So she marked the bills with the extra counterfeit marker she’d found inside the camper since the other one had been inside the stolen cash box. And like the bills he’d given her last night, they all passed the test.
The man—men, because his friend had joined them and now stood nearby while the other one had climbed back into his car and remained waiting—watched her with curious expressions as she checked the bills. Finally she finished. “I’ll, um, need time to load and deliver the trees, but I’ll try to have them to the address you gave me sometime today.”
She’d forgotten to look up the address last night because she’d been so out of sorts, but it was on the island, so it wasn’t a matter of travel time so much as loading and unloading time, and the man—or woman—power to do it. Hopefully she could scrounge up some hourly help with a quick Facebook post.
“I’ve got that covered.”
She blinked up at him. “What?”
“After I left, I considered the fact you were here alone last night and how you might be again today, so I brought help. Assuming we’re able to use the truck?”
She followed the lift of his chin to where the old red flatbed truck sat with Zinnick Tree Farm emblazoned on the doors in green and gold. “But you paid for delivery.”
“If we use the truck, you’re still delivering the trees,” he said easily.
A van pulled onto the lot, the doors marked with a logo she couldn’t make out from where they were by the camper.
He turned toward the four young men climbing out of the van, all dressed in matching work shirts and pants, and waved a hand toward the trees. “Load all the trees onto the truck, guys. Thanks.”
A series of “yessir” followed as the men immediately went to work, one climbing onto the bed as the other three began carrying trees for him to stack.
