Page 13

"Stratton…" He swallows thickly, his eyes growing huge. "Where did that woman come from?"

I smile as Audrey helps one of the coaches locate his missing suitcase.

"Snowbank."

"Where did she learn to do that?" Big Mikes asks.

"I don't—" I shrug, but then remember what she told me in the truck about her old life. "She used to do it professionally… I think. She kept celebrities and sponsors from killing each other or something like that."

Big Mike looks around at the restored lobby. Then at Audrey, standing in the middle of it wearing my coat, and a grin spreads across his face that I already know I'm going to regret.

He claps his hands together, loud as a gunshot.

"WILDCARDS! Welcome, welcome! Now I'd like you all to meet your new team liaison!"

Audrey freezes at the reception desk.

Fuck.

So much for no distractions.

Turns out the runaway bride isn't going anywhere.

Chapter 3

Audrey

Apparently, running away from your wedding earns you forty-eight missed calls, ninety-three unread messages and one luxury suite overlooking a Christmas village.

Honestly, I’ve received worse consolation prizes.

I sit upright beneath a mountain of bedding and take in my suite properly for the first time.

The room is ridiculous.

A velvet couch curves around a stone fireplace where two deep armchairs sit beside a table holding the welcome tray I never touched. It's still loaded with chocolate truffles, sugared cranberries and a bottle of champagne that's now nestled in melted ice.

The bed where I'm laying in nothing but white lace bridal panties faces an entire wall of windows hidden behind heavy curtains, and a handwritten card beside the lamp welcomes MS. FIELDS, WILDCARDS TEAM LIAISON to Mistletoe Resort.

I pick it up and frown at the assumption.

“I have not agreed to that,” I groan to the suite.

The gold lettering remains aggressively confident.

Last night, Big Mike announced that I’m working for him. After I handled whatever the hell kind of mess was happening down in that lobby, he handed me a suite key and disappeared before I could explain that's not how employment works.

But somewhere between the heated floors, the arrival champagne and a pillow menu that offers six kinds of pillow, I lost the urgency to correct him.

So now I lie in the middle of a king-sized bed surrounded by white pillows, velvet cushions and a goose-feather duvet thick enough to conceal me from every decision I have made in the past twenty-four hours.

Life could be worse.

Beyond the curtains, muted daylight presses against the windows, while somewhere beneath the bedding, my phone vibrates for what feels like the thousandth time.

I find it trapped beside my thigh and squint at the screen.

BRETT: We need to talk.