Page 16 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
“Reindeer latte. Delicious post lunch, afternoon pick me up.”
I reach into my bag and pull out an apple red cloth napkin and spread it out in front of his keyboard. When I lean in, Owen pushes his body back into his chair, creating distance.
I ignore the sting from that action. I open the travel lid of his drink to reveal the now melted whipped cream, which is kind of sad but still looks decadent. I stretch across the desk for the cookie box and place it in front of him, over the napkin, and open it.
“You are welcome to share, but those are for you,” I smile down at Owen, who is staring at his desk with bewilderment.
“We must have gotten our wires crossed. I was under the assumption we were meeting at my office around three.” I sit in front of his desk, across from him, and remove my tablet, red, glitter-trimmed work notebook, and Christmas-themed fountain pen from my purse.
“No biggie. Zoe explained you had something come up. I’ve made a list of tasks and broke them down into levels of priority. I’ve also scheduled which tasks fall under which of the three weeks we have to make Eden Ridge’s Christmas festival snow-rific with sparkle and jolly cheer.”
Crickets.
Huh.
I tilt my head. “Please,” I point at his treats with my pen. “Feel free to indulge. I don’t mind.” I raise my coffee. “I have one as well. If you haven’t had the Reindeer latte yet, prepare your taste buds for an awakening.”
I smile widely and wait. The man is now staring at me, those vivid hues darkening to storms. His left eye twitches. I’ve read that can develop from a vitamin deficiency. He should look into that.
At his continued silence, his body grows tenser.
What is happening?
My body starts as he abruptly stands, his chair hitting the wall behind him before he storms out of his office.
What the frick?
I sit still, replaying the entire encounter.
Where’s the man I untangled from last night who offered to help me with hanging lights? What happened between then and now?
I blame this on my mother and our earlier discussion, but something comes over me, and I harshly set my stuff down before standing up and following.
I thought we were making progress? I thought we came to an understanding, a truce, at least. I have a job to do, and whether this grumpy Grinch likes it or not, he and I have to work together. I will not allow him to be the reason I fail.
I’m wearing one of my favorite vintage red dresses with thick, skin-colored winter stockings underneath. My knee-high brown boots have a heel, making catching up with this giant a feat, but adrenaline courses hot, and I’m catching up.
“Mr. McKenna,” I firmly call out, my voice echoing through the open space.
His entire frame freezes before slowly, he turns, placing his hands on his hips. His chest heaves, but I’m doubtful it’s from stamina issues. He keeps his body turned away from me, not looking me in the eye.
Standing in front of him, I attempt to control my breath—from stamina issues—and straighten out my cream-colored blazer.
“Son of nutcracker, are you gearing up for a marathon?” I huff, taking a deep breath.
“I don’t understand this hot and cold persona you’re playing so diligently, but I am here to do a job, Mr. McKenna. I realize, for whatever reason, you have a clear disdain for the magic of Christmas. For the life of me, I can’t fathom hating the beauty,the joy, the giving spirit of such a holiday, but,” I wave my hand over his impressive frame, “clearly, here we are.”
His eyes narrow.
“What I do know is Event Planning, Social Media Marketing, and Christmas. I am perfectly qualified to excel at the task I have been hired to do, which the company you work for counts on me to execute successfully. Every mother, father, grandparent, and especially, child deserves to walk into Eden Ridge three weeks from now and have the most magical experience they’ll tell their future families about.”
We have an audience, and normally, I’d be the first to take this somewhere private. I was trained since I was a toddler to never create a scene. My brain is telling me to shut up, but I can’t seem to make the word vomit stop.
“Even the Grinch understood the fundamentals of Christmas, even if he thought he hated it and tried to stop it. So, I have full confidence that you, too, are capable of guiding me through the sponsorship of this event. I have done nothing to offend you, Mr. McKenna. I don’t deserve this behavior. So, let’s settle this once and for all. Can I count on your cooperation or not?”
The copper machinery whirls and compresses. Not a soul breathes—me included—as Owen McKenna’s mountain man frame stands stoically over my five-foot-five body. Okay, five-foot-eight with the boots.
Why isn’t he speaking?
