Page 10 of Please Send Snow
“I’m writing a letter to Santa,” the boy chirps joyfully. “She showed me how.”
Suddenly those blue eyes flash to me and I feel my cheeks heat.
“Sorry,” I hear myself murmur.
I have no idea why I just apologized, and I hate that I have that instinct. It’s just that I feel like a bug under a microscope with his eyes looking all the way into my soul.
“It’s good to see Dylan practice his writing,” the man says thoughtfully. “You’re not looking for a babysitting gig, are you?”
The world seems to stop turning for a second. Of course I am. I’m looking for an anything gig.
Could it really be this easy?
Then he chuckles lightly, like he can’t imagine awoman on vacation would want to babysit his kid, and I realize it was his attempt at a joke.
Stick to the funny movies, sir.
But when his eyes meet mine again I open my fool mouth.
“It would actually be great research for my book,” I hear myself say lightly. “I wanted to do something part-time while I’m here just to get my creative juices flowing. I was planning to lend a hand at the lodge, but the stuffy new owner is supposed to be coming and they don’t want anyone new messing things up for old Mr. Moneybags.”
His eyes widen slightly, and then he scowls.
“Sorry about that, sir,” Michael says, approaching. “My name is Michael. How may I help you today?”
“Jake Stone,” the man says, sticking his hand out to Michael who accepts it right away. “But I guess you can call me Mr. Moneybags. I’m the new owner.”
I swallow hard, just as Jake Stone glances back at me andwinks.
I hope my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel, because I’m pretty sure I’m giving off more heat than the fireplace right now. And I’m not even sure if it’s because I’m embarrassed that I put my foot in my mouth, or if it’s because a man who looks likethatis winking at me…
4
JAKE
Iwatch as the girl blushes to her hairline and I shouldn’t be proud about it, but a burst of satisfaction warms my chest for some reason.
Mr. Moneybags, the stuffy new owner, huh?
That part isn’t so great, but I’ll definitely have the last laugh.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Stone,” Michael says politely. “May I fetch your bags from the car?”
This old guy is so earnest, not like that aggressively smiling lady at the counter. It’s kind of a shame that he’s carrying people’s bags at his age.
“I’m staying in one of the chalets up the hill,” I tell him. “But thanks.”
I clap him on the back and shake his hand again, slipping him a couple of bills.
“You coming with us, Nora Roberts?” I ask the still-blushing girl.
The doorman’s brow furrows in concern, but she smiles up at him.
“Mr. Stone wants me to do some babysitting for him,” she tells Michael, who nods, looking guardedly relieved.
Smart man. The girl is cute, and just my type—anyone’s type, probably, with that long, dark hair and the light sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks.
But that doesn’t matter. I’ve got to keep things professional. I’m starting to realize that this project might take longer than I thought. And if I’ve got someone to keep Dylan occupied, it will make things a lot easier.
