A Snow Country Christmas. Linda Miller Lael
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but not exactly cozy. He’d been to celebrations at the Carson ranch before and they were usually quite the boisterous experience. He said, “Congratulations. Slater is a lucky man all the way around.”
“He’ll certainly be one tomorrow,” Grace replied with a smile. “I haven’t said a word to anyone—although Blythe knows, which means Harry knows.”
“Raine knows I’m in town.” He gave what he hoped was a casual shrug. “We have a business meeting tonight and she said no restaurants would be open, so she invited me over.”
Arched brows rose higher. “Did she now? She’s breaking her burger and glass of wine tradition?”
“No. I was informed that’s the menu.”
Grace gave a laugh of real merriment. “Only Raine would serve Mick Branson a burger. I love Raine but she is on the eclectic side. That’s why I was surprised the two of you hit it off so well. She’s right about Christmas Eve, by the way—we even close the restaurants here at the resort and the spa. Guests can pre-order special bags with gourmet sandwiches and salads that will be delivered via room service, but quite frankly, I just don’t believe in making anyone work who would rather be with their family on Christmas. A few staff members would rather work for holiday pay, so the resort is open, but not the dining choices. In town everything is closed.”
Vaguely he registered her words about the holiday, but his mind was caught on what she’d said about Raine. Hit it off? He chose not to comment. He could negotiate deals involving millions of dollars, but personal discussions were not his strong suit. “Los Angeles is a little different.”
“Oh, I bet.” Grace was definitely amused. Her phone beeped and she rose. “Excuse me, but that sound means something needs my attention. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After she left he finished his toast and coffee, checked his email via his phone, and headed out to his rental car. It was lightly snowing and briskly cold, the car dusted over in white, and he wished he’d thought about bringing some gloves. It wasn’t something that occurred to him back in L.A. when he packed for the trip.
The wine shop was on the main street and someone had done an artistic job of decorating the windows with snowflakes. The bells on the huge wreath on the door jingled as Mick walked in. There were several other customers and he noted Kelly Carson, Slater’s sister-in-law, was the one sitting behind the old polished counter. She looked cute wearing an elf hat and a surprised expression.
Good, his lucky day.
Or so he hoped, but it was yet another person to swear to secrecy. Her eyes had widened as she recognized him.
There was just no such thing as a secret in Mustang Creek. He’d heard that the last time he’d been in town and really hadn’t believed it, but was now starting to feel like living proof.
“Merry Christmas, Mick,” Kelly called as he approached.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “Let me make an educated guess and assume you’re working because you wouldn’t ask any of the employees to so they could be with their families.”
She nodded and the fuzzy tassel on her hat bobbed. “You’re right. Absolutely. We’re only open until noon today anyway, holiday hours... I guess I didn’t realize you were in town. No one mentioned it.”
“No one knows.” Well, not true. Grace, Blythe, Harry and Raine knew, and now Kelly. He smiled wryly. “Let me rephrase. I’d prefer if Slater didn’t find out I’m here. It’s about both business and friendship, so if you can keep it to yourself until tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.”
She sent him a wink. “My lips are sealed.”
“I knew I could count on you. Now, tell me, best wine to go with a burger would be...what?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but Bad Billy’s won’t be open.”
The biker bar was legendary for its burgers. “I’m not actually getting my burger from Billy’s.”
She blinked. “Oh...oh! Raine?”
It was tempting to deny it, but...well, why bother? Clearly her Christmas Eve burgers tradition was well-known. “We have a business meeting tonight. What kind of wine does she usually buy?”
“The Wildfire Merlot.” Kelly said it promptly, her expression alight with humor. “She also likes Soaring Eagle Chardonnay. Either one would be fine. At the end of the day, Mace always tells me to drink a wine you like with food you like. Don’t worry about the rest of it. He thinks snobbish pairing is overrated.”
“People all over California just fainted dead away because you said that.”
“People all over California buy our wines,” she countered with a mischievous elfin grin that matched her festive hat. “So he seems to know what he’s doing.”
Tough to argue with that. “I’ll take a few bottles of each, plus some for the Christmas gathering tomorrow, including the new sparkling wine. Just give me a case.”
IT WASN’T LIKE she didn’t consider what she wore, but on a scale of one to ten she would rate herself maybe a five when it came to how much thought and time she usually put into her attire.
Tonight for some reason, Raine was on the higher end of the scale.
The long red skirt and clingy black blouse looked nice, but were not exactly hamburger-worthy, she decided with a critical eye before she changed into jeans and a teal blue silk sweater. Except it occurred to her that if she dribbled ketchup or spilled even a drop of wine the sweater would be toast and she’d have to toss it—she’d known at the time it was an impractical purchase but had loved it too much not to buy it—so she changed for a third time. Black leggings and a patterned gray sweater dress won the day, comfortable but certainly dressier than she’d usually choose for a night home alone.
Well, she wasn’t going to be alone. She even set the table—which would never have happened on her traditional Christmas Eve—with what she called her December plates, white with tiny candy canes on them. Daisy had seen them when they’d been out shopping when she was six years old and begged, so Raine caved and bought them. Every year when the plates came out, it signaled the holiday season for her daughter and the sentimental value was priceless. Even though she’d been a classic example of a starving artist and had been trying to launch her business at the time, she’d also bought a set of silverware whose handles were etched with reindeer and a sleigh.
It was ironic in a good way to think someone as successful as Mick Branson wanted to meet with her on a professional level and would eat off the dishes that she’d bought when she really couldn’t afford them. Now she was so busy she doubted she could accept whatever it was he wanted to discuss even if she was interested.
Mr. Bojangles wandered past with a feline yawn, headed for his food bowl, but stopping to be petted. It was like a royal decree when a cat of his size demanded to be scratched behind the ears. Raine stroked his head. “What do you think of the table? Fancy enough for a hotshot executive?”
He yawned again, his gold-green eyes reflecting doubt. She said defensively, “Hey, I paid twenty bucks for those dishes.”
His furry face expressed his skepticism that the plates were worth even that. She argued his point. “Daisy loves them.”
He didn’t disagree, just headed off to the kitchen to chomp loudly out of his bowl. His ample backside was normal for his breed, but his love of food didn’t help matters. His vet, Jax Locke, had been diplomatic in suggesting she could maybe curtail the cat treats.
Raine agreed, but Jangles—as she called him face-to-face—was a contender when it came to getting his way. There was not much in the way of compromise on his part.
The snow was beginning to blow a little and she had started a fire