Page 3 of Mistletoe Bargain with the Billionaire

It’s my second week in Vegas but my sleep-deprived, couch-crashing, worried cat-mom self can only stand so many lewd calls before I’m throwing my felt reindeer antlers. And, a tray of pretzels and cheese dip. Then, a bottle of scotch.

The drunks had a good laugh before the bouncer kicked them out. I think Wes fired me because of the scotch. It was pricey.

I’ve just been canned and I’m trying not to cry while picturing Mr. Jinglebell’s sad little kitty eyes when mommy doesn’t bring home a can of the good stuff tonight. Most of the crowd acts like I’ve got a contagious disease, the sort they might catch just from making eye contact.

But not Nick Frost from Whistler, Maine, the boy-next-door turned billionaire.

“Are you alright?” he asks, stopping me dead in my tracks as I’m scurrying back to my mop closet, er… dressing room.

Two seconds to wonder who this hottie wrapped up in Armani is. Two seconds to cringe over the cheese dip now marring the Armani, likely thanks to me, before recognition hits like a ton of bricks. Iknowhim. He lived next door with his straight-laced grandmother.Nicholas freaking Frost!

I challenged him to a bike race when I was six. In the most embarrassing kid-bravado fashion, I told him I could ride my Huffy so fast he’d think I stole it. We won’t talk about who won.

Anyway, after that day, we were inseparable. The magpie and the quiet boy, we might’ve seemed like an odd couple to outsiders but we clicked. When my cousin Janey or any of her mean girl crew picked on me, Nick was always there by my side, making me feel better. He said he hated bullies, probably because he had his fair share of them himself as a self-proclaimed computer geek.

But flash forward to fifteen, I’d developed a big, fat, embarrassing crush on him. And, that was when Nick gave me my first kiss, right under the mistletoe on Christmas Eve. Under protest and with an audience goading us on, unfortunately. I didn’t care. It was my first kiss, a wish come true.

I thought that was the beginning of our love story.

Instead, it was a goodbye.

His estranged father swept into town the very next day and swept Nick away from Whistler and from me. For good.

“I was enjoying your singing. Those guys were out of line. I could speak with the manager if…”

“No, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s not fine. I’m broke and this gig was supposed to carry me through to the new year.

Meanwhile, I’m standing here, waiting on pins and needles for the awkward moment when Nick recognizes me.

The moment doesn’t come.

Yay.

And ouch.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He was named America’s Most Eligible Bachelor and listed in Forbes Thirty Under Thirty last year. I know because my parents religiously read every article they find about Nick from next door, our hometown wunderkind.

He’s supposedly worthbillions.

I can barely afford a can of tuna for my kitty.

“I’m sorry about your suit, Mr. Frost,” I say to his shoes. I’m not sure where the Mr. Frost came from. He’s taller than he was at sixteen. He’s got such apresenceto him now. Not someone to take lightly or push to the side. Unlike me.

My cheeks are hotter than Vegas in December as he stands there studying me. It’s hot here, okay? To somebody who grew up in Whistler, it’s like Hades. “I can pay your dry-cleaning bill or…”Please gracefully decline that offer like a gentleman. I’ve got a cat to feed.

“You make me sound old with that ‘mister,’” he says, chuckling. “And how do you know my name?”

“Everyone knows you, don’t they?” I say, daring to meet his eyes again.

His eyes. I’ve never forgotten them. Deep green like the forests surrounding Whistler. I can almost smell the pine trees. His hair’s still that dark auburn, reminding me of copper kettles full of hot apple cider by the hearth in winter. I’m a songwriter. I have poetic moments, okay?

With us really staring at each other, he’ll realize it’s me.Wait for it. Any second now…

He smirks. “I suppose a lot of people know my name. Doesn’t mean they knowme.”

His voice is deep, rich, a honeyed timbre which raises delightful goosebumps all along my arms. Whoa. I thought he was dreamy at sixteen but his voice didn’t automatically stoke a furnace in my undies back then. Holy snowballs, when did Nick Frost get thishot?

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