Cooped Up for Christmas - Sabrina York Page 0,17

deliver tequila by drone? “Do we have other tequila?”

Wren snorted a laugh. “Loads. Just not that one.”

Okay. There was that. If push came to shove, at least we had tequila.

I’ll admit, it flashed through my mind to refill the bottles with a different tequila. I mean, I would never do that to a guest—lie or make up facts—unless the alternative was worse. In this case, the alternative was worse: Not having something in a Don Julio bottle when it had been specifically requested.

My only other option was telling Carmella her son drank all her tequila—and I really didn’t want to ruin that poor boy’s Christmas.

I never wanted to ruin anybody’s Christmas. It was kind of my rule of thumb.

Only, every day is Christmas in my biz.

But especially Christmas, Christmas.

Thank God Wren found another bottle of Don Julio 1942 in the (creepy) storage shed. I was so relieved because, frankly, I was well aware of what could happen, should Carmella have a sophisticated tequila palate and call us on our little ploy.

Please God, no. That’s the stuff of which nightmares are made.

“All right.” I stiffened my spine. “We have tequila. Let’s keep that bottle under lock and key from now on. Oh, and when you serve this, treat it as though this is the most expensive tequila you’ve ever poured. Right?”

“Small servings?” Wren grinned at me. I realized this was the first time I’d seen her smile. I suspected, maybe, this would be her favorite thing that happened all week. “Very small.” I winked, and she winked back.

Suddenly, we were not boss and minion. We were collaborators, and somehow, for some reason, that created a bond. It was nice.

When the guests returned from dinner, it was late, and most of the staff had gone to bed in preparation for the big snow day tomorrow. Only Wren, Ben, and I were still awake to greet them.

It seemed that their numbers had swelled.

The teens, as always, plowed past us into the great room to the TV—which was playing—hoorah!—YouTube. I tried to do a quick head count but got lost at ten.

“Did you have a nice dinner?” I asked Whit.

“Shore did.” He patted his stomach. “We ran into some friends. I hope it’s okay that we brought them back.”

Back?

Yikes.

“How many?”

“Five. Two adults and three kids.”

Egads. Five more beds? We had extra bunks, but they were in the (creepy) storage shed, which would require schlepping them over—probably not a job for Wren, all things considered. And then, of course, we’d have to make the beds. How long would all that take?

I smiled brightly. “Sure. No problem. When do you all think you’ll want to turn in?”

He grinned sheepishly. “We’re pretty tuckered.”

So, now.

Great.

Awesome.

“No worries.” I turned to Ben and let him know what we needed. He nodded and headed to the staff lodge to get Jed to help him. Wren and I headed upstairs to determine where the beds would be set and to find five extra sets of clean sheets and pillows. She didn’t need supervising once we decided which rooms could accommodate extra beds, so I headed back downstairs to see if anyone else needed anything.

Other than Carmella, and her Don Julio, there were no taxing requests. Still, my heart thudded as I watched her take the first sip, as everyone looked on. Her expression tightened. Her mouth puckered, and she gusted a deep, satisfied sigh. “Ah, Don Julio 1942,” she said. “Always the best.”

“Would you like some more?” I asked.

Her smile gave me the sudden feeling I was her new best friend. “Oh, please.”

Once Carmella started drinking, the other adults joined in—thank God not asking for the precious nectar of agave. Whit and Sabine favored whiskey and the others were martini people. Pretty soon it was a full blown cocktail party. If by cocktail party you mean the adults boozing it up on one end of the room while the kids fight over the remote on the other.

The early night Whit had so teasingly promised never materialized.

I sent Wren and Ben to bed at midnight and stayed up with the guests until slowly, one by one, the adults drifted upstairs, leaving the kids alone.

At that point, I had the blood-curdling realization that I had suddenly become a chaperone for someone else’s children, which was a job I did not want. I also felt decidedly out of place. The kids kept looking over their shoulder at me, as though waiting for me to leave, or maybe grow a second nose. But I couldn’t leave.