A Snow Country Christmas. Linda Lael Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ and was startled. Mick Branson? The Mick Branson had sent her a message? Hotshot Hollywood executive, way too focused, and no sense of humor—though come to think of it, he did smile now and then. He was good-looking, but she couldn’t get beyond the sophisticated polish. She was a Wyoming girl through and through and thousand dollar suits weren’t her preference. Give her a hat, jeans, and some worn boots.

      Of course she’d met the man quite a few times at the ranch because he was the driving force behind the documentaries that Slater Carson, her ex-boyfriend and the father of her child, made, but getting an email from him was a definite first. Sent five minutes ago? She was too intrigued not to open it.

      I’m going to be in Mustang Creek for the holidays. Can we have a business meeting? Maybe over dinner?

      That was interesting, but currently she was up to her ears in deadlines trying to produce artwork for the labels for Mountain Vineyards wines. Her graphic design business had really taken off, and she wasn’t sure she could handle another project.

      From what she knew of Mick Branson, it wouldn’t be a small one, either.

      She typed back. When did you have in mind?

      Tomorrow night? If you don’t already have plans, that is.

      On Christmas Eve?

      Well, Daisy did usually spend that evening with her father’s family and Raine spent it alone with a nice glass of wine and a movie. They always invited her, but she went the next day instead for the big dinner celebration and skipped the night before in favor of solitude. It was never that they made her feel like an outsider; quite the opposite, but Slater needed some time with his daughter to make memories without Raine always in the background. So while she appreciated the invitation, she’d always declined. It had been difficult when Daisy was little to spend such a magical evening away from her, but he was entitled. He was a wonderful father.

      She typed: On the 24th of December, I assure you no place is open in Mustang Creek. This isn’t California. You’d have to come to my place and I usually just eat a hamburger and drink wine.

      He wrote back: That sounds fine. I like burgers and I enjoy wine. Let me bring the beverages. Please excuse me if I’m inviting myself.

      She couldn’t decide if he had, or if she’d done it. She really did need to get more sleep now and then. She typed: Mountain Vineyards for the wine.

      You got it.

      Have a safe flight.

      Thank you, but I’m already here. See you tomorrow. Don’t mention to anyone, especially Slater, that I’m in town please.

      Raine sat back and let out a breath. She hadn’t ever anticipated spending an evening with someone like Mick Branson, much less Christmas Eve.

      Luckily, she thought, she’d thoroughly cleaned the house the day before when she realized that sound she abstractly heard in the background was the vacuum. Daisy was voluntarily doing a chore she usually argued over? Raine decided then and there—once she recovered from her shock—that maybe she had been spending too much time in her office. Sure enough, the house needed dusting, the kitchen floor had crumbs on it and the laundry room was in dire need of a workout.

      Not that someone like Mr. Hollywood Executive Mick Branson, who probably lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills, would be impressed with her small and eclectic house anyway, no matter how tidy. Wait until he got a look at her Christmas tree. There was no theme to the ornaments; if something caught her eye, she bought and it put it up. There were owls, glittery reindeer, a glass shrimp with wings wearing a boa, all right alongside her grandmother’s collection of English traditional antique glass orbs in brilliant colors. Those heirlooms were hung up high thanks to Mr. Bojangles, her enormous Maine coon cat. He was somewhat of a reclusive character, but he became positively playful when the Christmas tree went up. Walking past it usually meant an unexpected guerilla attack on your ankles because he considered it his covert hiding place every December. Therefore the ornaments on the bottom were soft stuffed squirrels and bunnies with a few fake pine cones he could bat around. Add in Daisy’s giant dog, Samson, who accidentally knocked an ornament off every time he walked by, and her tree had no hope.

      “Definitely not a designer tree, unless a deranged leprechaun arranged it” was how Daisy described it.

      Raine loved it.

      It was exactly her style. There was nothing wrong with being quirky. She went and switched off the lights and headed off to bed, wondering how she’d gotten roped into this situation.

      Hollywood Hotshot Mick Branson eating hamburgers at her house on Christmas Eve?

      Slater Carson was going to laugh himself into a fit.

      * * *

      The plane had touched down on a snowy runway and Mick had said a small prayer of thanks for an experienced pilot and maybe some luck of the season as the snow continued to pile up. It had been a bumpy ride and he wasn’t at all a nervous flyer, but coming over the mountains he’d had a moment or two.

      He’d been everywhere. Asia, Africa, South America, Australia, Europe...he lived in Los Angeles, but he liked Wyoming. It felt like being on vacation and he could really, really use a vacation.

      It wouldn’t be a hardship to see Raine McCall again, either.

      The thought surprised him because she was so not his type. Frothy skirts, and as far as he could tell she thought makeup was optional, or maybe forgot it altogether, and if she owned a pair of heels he’d be surprised. Her artistic temperament was the antithesis of his rigidly corporate lifestyle, but he somehow found it intriguing. She was naturally beautiful without trying. Maybe that was it. There was no artifice to Raine—what you saw was what you got. Not to mention he had a feeling she could care less how much money he made. Material things, he guessed, to her, were little more than a necessity now and then.

      Anyway, he had planned this trip with a dual purpose.

      He wanted to surprise Slater, who was not just a colleague but a friend, with the television premier of the documentary of Wild West...Still Wild—and he wanted to see Raine. Two separate goals but also intertwined, since Slater and Raine had a past and shared a daughter. Slater was now happily married to someone else, but through a few very casual questions, Mick knew Raine wasn’t seeing anyone.

      This might get complicated and he hated complications. Business deals were a dance back and forth but he kept his personal life as simple as possible.

      Raine was far from simple. Her art was exemplary and over the top, and the vivid mermaid label she’d created for the Carson winery’s sparkling wine had resulted in more bottles sold in one day upon release than were sold of all their other wines combined, and they had been doing quite well before. Somehow he doubted Raine even registered the triumph.

      But he wasn’t interested in her for her talent—well, he was impressed, but that wasn’t first and foremost in his mind. Maybe opposites did attract, though if you’d told him that before he’d met her through the Carson family, he’d have laughed it off.

      He wasn’t laughing now. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a good reason to be in Wyoming at the moment anyway, but he was essentially there because of a certain woman he couldn’t seem to get off his mind.

      Grace Carson met him in the dining room of the Bliss River Resort and Spa, her eyes sparkling, and gave him a welcoming СКАЧАТЬ