tame the tumultuous sea of longing and loathing he’d lived with for as long as he could remember.
But why her? Why did she have to get to him? Why couldn’t she have been nothing but a quick fuck in a hotel room? How had she gotten under his skin in so little time?
“Bridget, I—”
“What?” she asked, the storm in her eyes intensifying.
“I’ll take those cookies!”
He and Bridget startled as the Kringle Care’s woman hurried up to them.
“Thank you so very much! You truly are an angel,” she said, taking the box out of his hands and carrying it over to the families gathered near the frozen lake covered with ice skaters.
“Did you have something to say?” she asked, concern edging out the anger.
But he didn’t want her pity.
“I was going to ask if this place looked different to you—you know, now that you’re not completely blitzed out of your mind.”
“Unbelievable,” she bit out with a shake of her head, but before she could lay into him, Carly called out to them.
“Birdie! Uncle Scooter! Over here!”
“We’re doing a snowball fight competition,” Cole called excitedly.
“Boys versus girls,” Carly added, taking his hand as Cole took Bridget’s.
Cole pushed up his red glasses. “It’s like capture the flag with snowballs. If you get hit, you’re out.”
“The boys are the green team, and the girls are the red team,” Carly added.
The children pulled them over toward the west side of the square that backed up to thick snow-covered foliage dotted with evergreens and willowy white wisps of leafless aspens.
“Doesn’t this look fun, Scooter!” Grace said as the snowball attendant handed her something that looked like large salad tongs with ice cream scoopers on the ends.
“What’s that for?”
“It’s a snowball maker,” Tom answered, grinning ear to ear as he formed a snowball, then chucked it at his head.
Soren veered out of the way just in time.
“Isn’t it great!” Cole exclaimed, making a snowball, then handing it to the judge.
“Not too shabby,” the man said, pretending to assess the weight of his great-grandson’s ball of ice.
Another Santa lookalike clapped his hands. “Gather around, folks. Welcome to Kringle’s version of capture the flag. We’re losing daylight, so you’ll be the last group to go out today.”
All these retired St. Nicks in one place was getting to be a bit much.
“All right, snow warriors, here are the rules. Each team gets five minutes to hide their flag. It must be visible from all directions,” the man continued.
“No hiding it under the snow?” Cole asked.
“That’s right. You’ve got to be able to see it. Now, after the five minutes have passed, you’ll hear me ring the bell, and then, the competition begins. The first team to steal the opposing team’s flag and carry it over to their side of the course wins. I’ll ring the bell again to let you know when the game is over.”
Soren glanced at Bridget as she stood with the women, carefully inspecting her snowball maker like a James Bond weapons specialist.
No matter.
He could roll with this. Fresh air and some fun with snowballs would be an excellent reset to get everyone’s minds off the whole cold-hearted corporate raider fleecing the nice bakers’ business business.
He stole another look at Bridget, who threw a fresh batch of eye daggers at him.
So much for a little fresh air changing anything with that vixen.
Russ handed him a green snowball maker. “Birdie’s got some spunk to her—a real take-charge woman,” the man said, lowering his voice.
“I guess,” he mumbled.
“Do you think she’d go for me? I know I’m a few years older.”
Soren pegged the guy with his gaze. “A few?”
“You should have seen the ladies that I was talking to yesterday. They were around the same age as Birdie, and they were really into me,” Russ replied with a triumphant glint in his clueless eyes.
“Yep, I’m sure they were,” he answered.
He’d heard all the bullshit Russ is smooth with the ladies stories. They never bothered him. In fact, he’d gotten a kick out of them until the lady in question was Bridget.
“Stay away from her, Russ.”
The man frowned. “Why? Do you like her, Scooter?”
“I—”
Dammit! Did he like her?
“Let’s focus on the snowball competition,” he said, hoping Russ got the message.
“Right, right! Always out for the kill, huh, Scooter,” Russ replied with a slap to his shoulder.
Was he always out for the kill? Is that all he’d become? And did that make him as myopic as his parents?
No, he ran a business, and there was no room for pussyfooting around when