Page 14 of Wrapped with a Beau

“Of course, it goes without saying that the production would pay you for allowing them filming permission,” says Elisha, changing tack. “Very generously. Not to mention the value added to the house when it does sell.” She leans in conspiratorially. “A ton of people place a premium on owning a slice of history.”

His eyebrows draw together. “It’s not about money.”

“Okay. Well, then, if you wouldn’t mind, could you tell me what it is about? Because I can’t tell you enough how much I need this to go through. Without your signature, this whole deal falls apart. As far as filming is concerned, they think we’re still on schedule and they’re set to show up in mid-January. Needless to say, I’m so fucked here.” She gives him a sweet, slightly embarrassed smile, toying with a gold pendant at the hollow of her throat that looks like a backward 3, but on closer inspection, is actually a cursive capital E. “You’d really be helping me out.”

Now it’s his turn to feel awkward. “Please don’t waste your breath. My answer is no.”

She huffs. “You’re not even going to let me try to sweet-talk you?”

“What would be the point?”

“Ves,” she says. The simple one-syllable sound of his name coming from her mouth shoots electric tingles up his arms. It’s the first time she’s used it, he realizes. “You wouldn’t have to be involved. They just need the house from the middle of January to the end of February, tops. I’ll take care of everything. You can still be ‘quick in, quick out.’ Give me five minutes to convince you. That’s all I’m asking for. Please.”

He clears his throat. She’s the one at his mercy now, and he’s surprised to discover he doesn’t like the feeling. “It’s not just the hassle. The valuation expert is delayed. It looks like Aunt Maeve hasn’t thrown anything out in the last fifty years. It would be impossible to film anything in that mess. On top of that, I have to work and I’m here without my laptop—”

“Work?” she interrupts, voice sharp with disbelief. “Your job didn’t give you bereavement leave?”

He can’t help but be charmed at her outrage on his behalf. Amused, he says, “I’m a writer. It’s not a traditional nine-to-five job. And I have to develop a new idea pretty much ASAP.” Which he’s still a little bitter about, but shit happens. Ves knows that all too well.

Elisha leans in, eyes sparkling with undisguised delight. “You’re writing a book while you’re here?”

“Not without my laptop, I’m not. So, thank you, but no thank you. I really don’t need to be adding another project to my already overflowing plate. So. You can save your spiel.”

She looks as though she’s biting words back, but there’s nothing she can say that will convince him. If there’s one thing Ves is a pro at avoiding, it’s mess. And nothing is messier than a damsel in distress, especially one who looks like her who’s looking at him like that.

Warily, he studies her right back. He can tell she’s torn between hounding him some more and letting it go gracefully. He knows which he prefers and, begrudgingly, is glad she hasn’t resorted to further pleading.

She taps her nails against the side of her glass. Finally, she asks, “What do you write?”

“Middle-grade fantasy. For kids eight to twelve.”

“Oh, fun! You’ll have to tell me more about that sometime. I love watching fantasy shows, but I don’t read a lot of it. Always been more into romance.” She grins like she’s about to divulge a secret. “And that overlap of romantasy because hello, hot guys with hero hair, shiny armor, and magic? Yes, please.”

Ves shrugs. “Well, I mean, that’s a kind of fantasy, too. Men like that don’t exist in the real world.”

He regrets his coolness when she visibly retreats, eyes hardening.

Elisha takes a delicate sip of her Spicy Grinch and eyes him over the rim before pronouncing witheringly, “Clearly.”

Chapter Seven

Elisha

Saturday mornings spent with her family at the Chocolate Mouse are special in a way that Elisha doesn’t think anywhere else can top. The emporium smells delicious, like the anticipation of the night before Christmas: crackling logs, stewed cinnamon apples, sweet vanilla, a whisper of pine and frankincense.

In these early hours before Piney Peaks stirs awake, the Chocolate Mouse kitchen quietly hums with the hustle-bustle of activity. The Rowes have been there since the crack of dawn, working in perfect synchrony to chocolate-coat mini Swiss rolls and candy orange wheels and painstakingly layer bebinca.

Elisha stifles a yawn, taking her eyes off the pot of gently bubbling caramel sauce for a second. Her head aches from last night, ninety percent thanks to Ves Hollins and ten percent thanks to way too many drinks.

“Elisha!” her mother scolds, snatching the wooden spoon to give it a brisk stir.

The coconut milk–rich Indo-Portuguese layered coconut cake requires a lot of patience; baking each of the sixteen thin layers—alternatingly, cake and caramel—takes forever. Messing up at any stage not only means waste but having to start all over.

“Sorry, Mom. I’m paying attention, I promise.”

“Honey, we’re all good here. I appreciate the help, but between Gramps, Dad, and me, we’ve got this covered.” Anita presses her lips to Elisha’s temple. “You’ve been working so hard, I wish you would sleep in once in a while. Go home and lie down, sweetheart. You look like you had a rough night.”

“I want to help! Besides, if I go home, I’ll probably find a new way to antagonize our neighbor.”

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