Page 7 of Mistletoe Bargain with the Billionaire

His face turns serious. “Please, tell me you don’t want to drive to Maine, Carol.”

“Um… okay, I won’ttellyou that.”

But Nickknows. He looks like someone just told him he has to eat liver at every meal for the rest of his life. (FYI- He hates liver.)

5-Nick

December 14th, D-Day. What have I gotten myself into? I’m back in Vegas to pick up Carol for our drive.

Yeah, you read that right. Ourdrivefrom Las Vegas, Nevada to Whistler, Maine. Approximately 2800 hundred miles away. What would be less than six hours in the air will now be over forty in a car.

Anthony had said I was nuts to agree to Carol’s no-flying addendum and suggested we could easily hire someone else to be my fake girlfriend. Considering the extra time we’re going to have to take for the trip now, I can’t say I didn’t ponder the idea. If he ever finds out about Mr. Jinglebell, I’m never going to hear the end of it.

But, the thing is, I’ve got to sell this to Grams and she's still sharp as a tack. Trying to act like I’m seriously involved with a total stranger would never fool her for long.

For that matter, I don’t want to take anyone else to Whistler to be my fake girlfriend at this point. Even with years spent apart and the fact we’re adults now, I feel like deep down, Carol and I still know and understand each other.

And, while Carol might not exactly be the ‘settle down’ type of girl Grams had in mind, she surely recalls what good friends we were as kids. Childhood friends turned lovers, the nerdy boy and the wild child from next door. We can pull this off and might even have fun doing it.

In addition to the no-flying agreement, our initial reunion had been filled with some more haggling towards the end. She begrudgingly accepted the money as part of the package at last after I’d reiterated that, if I was pulling her away from potential work, the least I could do was compensate her for that. I didn’t want to wound her pride but it’s clear Carol’s struggling financially. What good is having all this money if I can’t help an old friend out when they’re in a bind?

As for the specific terms of our bargain though, it wasn’t something I’d wanted to take to my lawyer by any means.“Leave it to me,”Carol had said before I’d left for California and so I have.

When I arrive at the apartment, she’s packed and dressed in a pair of tight jeans and simple tank top, looking effortlessly and distractingly sexy. How am I going to keep my eyes on the road?

“It’s too hot for our Christmas sweaters yet,” she says, patting one of her bags and distracting me from my wandering horny thoughts.

“Christmas sweaters?”

She grins mischievously and nods. “His, hers and kitty’s.”

I have never owned a Christmas sweater in my life but I suppose... “Did you just saykitty’s?”

“I couldn’t leave our purr-baby out, could I?” She retrieves a cat-sized Christmas sweater to show me. God awful is the kindest description I can give it. “We’ll all match. Consider it an early gift from me.”

I bite back any snarky remarks as my palms start to sweat. Carol’s planning on people from back home seeing us in these. There’ll be photographic evidence.

Ignoring my dark look as I contemplate ways to ‘disappear’ three Christmas sweaters – are there hitmen for tacky clothing? - she continues. “Mr. Jinglebell is all set to go into his carrier. We’ll stop every few hours for a fifteen-minute kitty stretch, alright?”

I glance at the eternally pissed off-looking Himalayan I met last weekend. When poor Grumpy Cat passed, his spirit must’ve passed to Mr. Jinglebell. “Sure, that’ll work.” It’s not that I dislike cats. It’s the cross-country trip with one I’m struggling with. “Where did you get Mr. Jinglebell?”

“At a shelter in San Diego on Christmas Eve four years ago. All the other cats and dogs had been adopted except my baby. Can you imagine? It was obviously fate.”

“Good old fate,” I mutter as the cat shoots me a look that would scare the hair off the devil and purposely sharpens his claws on the end table.I’ll be keeping you away from the Mulberry luggage, buddy.

“Do you want to take a look at the contract I’ve drawn up?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve left a few things blank since we needed to cover them together.” She glances down at the floor, almost like she’s embarrassed. I hope she’s not still fretting over the money I gave her. It was nothing and I want to help her out.

I don’t expect a very legal looking document but I suppose I expected something printed out on regular paper at least. Instead, Carol retrieves a glittery pink and bedazzled journal. On the front in large stick-on letters, it says ‘Storyteller.’ Inside, its pages are filled with sheet-music, most of it used, some still blank. “This is where I work out song ideas so…”

She’s blushing. “It’s fine. Show me what you’ve got.”

What she’s got is the barebones bargain we’d made last week written out in her loopy cursive with a pencil. There’s something kind of charming about seeing how that hasn’t changed much since she was ten.

Per our agreement, she’ll attend the wedding and all related events pretending to be my girlfriend as well as going to Grams’ house for Christmas Eve. In exchange, she accepted my ‘loan’ of one hundred thousand dollars - it’s not a loan - and I’ve agreed to go to her family reunion, playing her boyfriend. No catching feelings.

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