A Billionaire's Holiday Love - Posey Parks Page 0,1
else,” I growled.
He stared at the chalkboard. “No, I like it right here.”
I rolled my eyes.
He glanced at Delila. “Do you have Canyon beer on tap?”
“No.”
“I don’t want any frills.” He waved his hand in the air.
“Just domestic.”
“Coming right up.” Her long ponytail danced behind her as she sashayed toward the opposite end of the counter.
The guy retrieved his laptop from the brown leather satchel hanging from his chair.
I watched Delila create my cup of goodness and pour the sexy Scrooge guy’s glass of beer.
The man pecked away at the keys as Delila sat our drinks on the counter. I glanced at his hair, cut to precision. The sides were cut low. What was my infatuation with his hair?
My nose wiggled over the peppermint goodness before I brought the scolding hot red mug to my lips. The smooth, rich chocolate warmed my insides. Later tonight, I’d sit in front of the fireplace with another cup of cocoa.
His eyes never left his laptop screen. He grabbed the glass and sipped.
“On a deadline, huh? I know all about that.”
I brought the mug to my lips again, drawing marshmallows into my mouth this time.
He sighed. His narrowed eyes raked over me. “Look, Ms. Christmas. Not everyone’s on vacation. Some of us have to work.”
Slamming my cup on the counter, I pointed at him.
The hard lines on his chiseled face softened for the second time since we met.
He burst into a hysterical fit of laughter.
“What’s funny?”
His dark brown brows crinkled. “I’ll show you.”
He grabbed his cell, snapped a pic of me, then held the phone between us.
My eyebrows shot up. “Oh, my god.” Felt like my face and neck were on fire. I stared at the hot chocolate and white marshmallow mustache in horror.
I franticly searched for a napkin. The dispenser nearby was empty.
Shielding my mouth with my hand, I attempted to reach across him for a napkin.
“Need something?”
“You’re getting a kick out of this. Give me a napkin, jackass.”
His brow arched. “Ms. Christmas has a potty mouth. Ask nicely.”
“Screw this.” I attempted to rise, and he gingerly gripped my arm. My ass met the seat.
“Relax.” He grabbed a napkin, then pushed my hand aside. “I got it.”
He dabbed the soft skin above my top lip. My heart banged in my chest at a rapid speed.
“The cocoa mustache brought character.” He grinned.
I slapped his hand away. “You aren’t funny.”
“Not joking.”
“You can erase the picture now.”
He shoved the phone back into his pocket.
“Seriously?”
His eyes fell on his computer again. “Who made the gold shimmery festive Christmas sweater? Your elves.” He chuckled.
My back straightened. “Me. Usually my sister Claire designs and sews. But we share the gift.” I slid my hand under the red bow in the center.
“Does that mean you’re a fashionista?” He sipped his beer.
“I only design in my free time, which isn’t often. I’m a journalist.”
“What news outlet do you work for?”
“Oh, I’m my own boss. I’m a freelance journalist. I find the story, then shop it to news stations.”
“Are you on the go all the time? Yes. I rarely have a dull day. It’s the life.” I sucked on the peppermint stick. His eyes stared at my lips.
“How does your boyfriend or husband feel about living with a world traveler?”
“Oh, he loves it. He’s usually right by my side. But he had a last-minute trip.”
His face hardened.
“Just joking.”
“Cute.”
“There isn’t a guy out there willing to deal with my grueling schedule.”
“I thought...”
“Orders are ready.” Delila sat our plates before us.
“Thank you,” I smiled.
The guy thanked her too.
“You’re both welcome.” She darted in the other direction.
“We ordered the same meal. Great taste in food,” he smirked.
“Yeah. Wait, what were you saying?”
“Where are my manners?”
“Didn’t think you had many.”
He shook his head and stretched his hand toward me. “My name is Noah Canyon and you are?”
My palm grazed his rough, calloused hand.
Hard worker.
Tingles shot up my spine. God, he was beautiful. “Hope Manning.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” I removed my hand from his.
“Earlier, I said, I thought you were your own boss. Why do you work so much?”
My fork slid through the buttery mashed potatoes.
“Claire the fashionista needed to rent warehouse space for her designs in New York. The cost is triple what it would be in South Carolina. So I’m helping her out.”
His lips tipped up at one end. “I just noticed the southern accent.”
“It’s grown faint over the years. The more I travel abroad, I feel like I lose a piece of me.”
“You shouldn’t feel that way. The people you come in contact with