“You’re a nice guy, Brant. I’ve seen it in action more than once since we were here last time.”
He nodded, still speechless. Her touch had stolen his ability to speak. Somewhere, a car honked and he jumped. Layla did chuckle at that. That broke the spell.
She put her hand on the door handle. “I should check in so I can change. Are you staying in a room or in one of the cottages?”
He didn’t know. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask Darcy.
She opened the door but looked back at him. “Meet you in a half hour in the foyer?”
His pulse still hammered in the side of his neck. He pressed his fingers to it, thankful for the darkness. She’d surely notice how flustered he felt if it were still light outside.
“I’ll be there,” he answered.
Sean showedhim to his room, where he took a quick shower, shaved, and dressed. While he buttoned his shirt and clipped on the bow tie, the scene outside mesmerized him. His window looked out onto the back lawn. String lights outlined each of the four guesthouses, the gazebo, and the boxwood hedges and arborvitae. The paths were lit too. He focused so intently on the festive sight that he almost missed the movement on the porch of one of the cottages.
The black hair and the sheen of her long dress flowing beneath her coat as she hurried from the porch and along the path toward the house were unmistakable. Her dark figure contrasting with the white snow was magical. He drew closer to the window, breath suspended in his throat, and pushed the curtain aside.
Layla must have seen the curtain move, because she stopped in the middle of the path, looking up at him. The holiday lights illuminated her face like the moon had somehow fallen from the sky and stared back at him from below.
Layla waved. She threw her arms wide, then pointed toward the house as if to say, “Get down here!”
Brant didn’t waste another minute.
Downstairs, the foyer and living room were already crowded. A violin version of “Jingle Bell Rock” played in the background as party chatter filled the space. The waitstaff in white suit coats circulated among the guests, balancing appetizers on silver trays. He jogged down the stairs, tugging the lapels of his tux together—it’d grown a little snug since he wore it last—and spotted Layla at the same time she noticed him. Above her, the glow from the chandelier shone on the top of her head, giving her dark hair a copper crown. He slowed, taking the last few steps carefully like she were a wild animal and any sudden movement or noise might cause her to flee.
“You look…stunning,” he said softly when they stood face to face, even though the din of the party competed with his voice.
She looked away, but a slow smile spread across her face. A green frosted glass earring dangled prettily from her ear. “Thank you,” she said.
“And look at what you’ve done to this place,” he said hurriedly, a little self-conscious at his directness and the emotions welling in his chest. “It looks amazing. You’re the Mistress of Christmas Magic.”
Layla turned to him. He knew right away he’d hit a home run by the look on her face.
“The Mistress of Christmas Magic,” she mused. “I might have to use that some time.”
Her red lips mesmerized him. For a second, he wondered how they’d taste. After Layla’s slow thaw toward him these last few weeks, he caught himself wondering more and more about kissing her. But would that take it too far too soon? If she forgave him for causing her so much embarrassment, did it mean she might be capable of seeing him as something more than a business contact now?
She took in the room again, the smile still there. “Decorating this place was the most fun I’ve had during my whole career so far.” She glanced at him. “Thank you again for recommending me.” A waiter brushed against her back at that moment and she instinctively moved away, stepping closer to him in the process. A wisp of her hair tickled his face. He inhaled the sweet scent of her so near, willing the moment to last a second or two longer.
“Sorry,” she said, looking up into his face. “We should probably move out of the foyer.”
Brant looked around for a quiet corner so they could keep talking. He wasn’t ready to share her attention with anyone else just yet. The heady feeling of having her all to himself during the trip up to Hendricks still warmed him. If it were up to him, he’d steal her away to the loveseat he noticed in the upstairs foyer, right in front of the large paned window. They’d sit and talk and look out over the back lawn all night until they were too tired to think another thought. But she’d come to make connections, not socialize with him. It was wishful thinking that she felt for him anything more than a professional kinship.
She led him by the arm to an unoccupied spot next to the bar in the living room. A waiter came by with a tray of cranberry-orange baked Brie tartlets. She stopped him, sampling one herself and handing the other to Brant. He didn’t like Brie, but now was not the time to admit it.
“So, who’s who here? Anyone in particular I should meet?” she asked. “Or steer clear of, for that matter?”
He took a deep breath. That confirmed his suspicions. She was only with him tonight for a career boost. Wishful thinking would get him nothing more than a broken heart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When the strains of “The Holly and the Ivy” rose up from the string quartet in the corner of the room, Layla set her plate on the bar. Next to her, Brant scrutinized the chocolate-covered strawberry between his fingers like it was a lab experiment.
“I wonder how long the chocolate takes to harden? Are they dipped into the chocolate with a spoon or something?”
“I dunno.” She wanted to ask him to dance, but was reluctant to interrupt his all-important assessment of the strawberry. Then she’d seem desperate. And would he even agree to it? Maybe he wasn’t a dancer.
“These remind me of my trip,” he said before he bit into it.
