Page 5 of Her Christmas Fix
“Considering you cost me three months' income and I had to let half my crew go?”
I don’t mean for the words to come out as harsh as they do, but it’s been a long night all the way around. Her shoulders curl forward like she’s bracing for more, and regret twists in my chest.
“Sorry,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I get now that this wasn’t your?—”
“No, you’re right. I did cost you that. I’m the one who trusted Daniel. Ultimately, it’s on me.”
She sounds more defeated than resigned. It pisses me off, though I’m not sure why. It could be her willingness to accept blame for things that aren’t entirely her fault, or maybe it’s because seeing someone so clearly beaten down goes against the protective instincts I spent years honing.
“You want a glass of water?” I ask, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.
“Water sounds perfect.”
I head to the kitchen and hear her settling onto the couch, followed by a soft sigh that makes me glance over my shoulder.
She’s kicked off her ridiculously fuzzy boots and tucked her feet under her, looking smaller as she sinks into the cushions and gazes at the fireplace surround. The tough facade she wore in the torn-apart house slips, revealing something raw and vulnerable underneath. I have the sneaking suspicion that she doesn’t drop that mask often and definitely not in front of other people.
I lean against the counter as I wait for the tap water to turn cold. Even exhausted and emotionally wrung out, Monika Graham is beautiful. Not the overdone, untouchable glossy perfection of magazine covers and red carpets, but something real and natural that appeals to me at a soul-deep level.
Which is exactly the problem.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat as she catches me staring. “How long were you planning to stay in Wild Rose Point?”
“I’m staying through Christmas,” she says, her tone and suddenly stiff posture defiant.
“In the house with a raccoon infestation and no heat?”
Her chin lifts, and I imagine her in the role of a queen being challenged. And her royal highness is not having it. “I’ll figure it out.”
I highly doubt that, but I don’t say so. Instead, I finished filling the glasses. “Don’t you have a daughter? Does she have a raccoon on her Christmas wish list?”
Her eyes narrow before her expression goes blank again. “Riva is with her dad and stepmom in Colorado for the holidays. Skiing and hot chocolate and all the perfect holiday memories I can’t give her right now.”
The bitter edge in her voice tells me there’s a story there, but I don’t push. I know who Riva’s father is, and I’ve got enough problems without getting tangled up in celebrity family drama.
When I hand her the water, our fingers brush, sending a jolt of awareness zipping along my body that I absolutely do not need right now.
“Thanks.” She wraps both hands around the textured tumbler like she might drop it otherwise. “About the payments I owe?—”
“We don’t need to do this tonight.”
“Yes, we do.” She meets my eyes, and I see resolve beneath the exhaustion. I respect that. “I meant what I said. I’m going to pay you everything you’re owed, with interest. I also want to hire you to finish the job. Before Christmas.”
I nearly choke on my water. “You want to what now?”
“I want to—need to—spend Christmas in the house.” Her shoulders go stiff. “It’s important.”
“Important enough to pay me double time?”
“Yes.”
“Triple?”
“Anything you want.”
The words echo in the silence that follows. I’m sure she didn’t mean for them to sound suggestive, but she doesn’t take them back or stumble over an explanation.
“Why is this house so important that you’ll pay through the nose to have it done in two weeks?” Which is impossible, by the way, but I don’t add that bit. Not yet.
