“You’re trying to scrooge your way out of dancing. But I’m not about to let you get your bah humbug vibe into my cookies.”
“Your cookies didn’t mind my bah humbug vibe last night,” he replied, pretty damn pleased with that retort.
Unfazed, she wagged her finger at him and clucked her tongue. “See, you’re trying to upset me. You think that if you act like a real scrooge, I won’t make you dance.”
He swallowed, surprised to find his throat had gone dry. “How do you know I’m not a real scrooge?”
He’d never thought of himself in stupid Christmas terms—except the damn Rudolph part, which, thanks to his last name, he couldn’t escape.
But was he a real scrooge? He did prioritize earning money. He didn’t give a shit about the companies he decimated. Not only that, he’d screwed every air-headed Manhattan socialite and Page Six party girl and never had nor wanted the hassle of a relationship.
On those fronts, he wasn’t winning any sappy save the world points.
But he did have one redeeming quality. For whatever reason, the Abbotts cared about him. And that one thing meant everything.
Without them, he was a scrooge—a scrooge able to bench three-fifty and built like a brick house. But on the inside, in the dark corners of his heart, he was an empty, lonely soul.
Bridget screwed her face into a puckered, curious expression. “You might be a real scrooge. Lori did say that you’ve made buckets of money destroying people’s livelihoods.”
He squared his jaw. This is why he couldn’t allow Tom to marry Lori. He’d only seen Tom once in the last five months—and that was when his best friend invited him to lunch to meet his new fiancée. Granted, he’d ignored her and then left early to go bang a waitress. But he’d known instantly that a Tom, Soren, and Lori triad wouldn’t work. And after seeing Lori with the Abbotts today, it was only a matter of time before she’d poison the well with Tom’s family.
A dropped comment here.
A subtle observation there.
And then a five-month stretch without seeing his friend would extend to six months, then eight months, and then, when the holidays rolled around, would they even remember to include him? Would sixteen years of happy holiday memories revert to the solitary Christmases he’d endured as a boy?
He swallowed past the lump in his throat.
“Soren?” Bridget said, her voice pulling him out of an anguishing spiral.
He turned away from her and opened the refrigerator, searching for something to drink. He pulled out a bottle of water, took a sip, then pulled himself together. Bridget Dasher had a way of turning everything upside down, and then with just one word, bringing him back from the brink.
He set the half-drained bottle on the counter.
“The money part is right, but the notion that I’ve had a hand in ruining anyone’s business is wrong,” he replied, maintaining an even tone.
Good! He was in corporate raider mode. All he had to do was stay in this callous groove, and he’d be immune to her charms.
She tucked an errant lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, and he had to ball his hands into fists to keep from sweeping the strands back himself.
Get some control, Rudolph!
She watched him closely. “Explain it to me.”
He maintained his muted expression. “I run a private equity firm. My company invests in businesses. If they aren’t profitable, I sell off the assets to recoup any losses.”
She nodded, taking in his succinct explanation. “Let me get this right. You give a little money to a business that needs help. Then you wait for it to fail, fire everyone, and squeeze every dime out of it that you can?”
She was a quick study.
He shrugged. “If they don’t become profitable, essentially, yes.”
Bridget tilted her head to the side. “How do you know if a business is really failing?”
That was easy.
“The numbers,” he answered.
That damn adorable crinkle in her forehead was back.
She watched him closely. “That’s it? Just a bunch of numbers?”
“What more is there?” he replied with another shrug.
She smiled up at him as if he made up the sun, moon, and stars. And if he wasn’t such an ass, he might have admitted that he didn’t mind that one bit.
“What?” he barked instead.
She shimmied around him. “If you haven’t noticed, Mr. Scrooge, you’re dancing.”
What?
He looked down to find his feet tapping to the beat as he swayed side to side along with her.