Dick the Halls

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Most people traveling around Christmas time are headed home to spend the holiday with loved ones.

And then there’s me—reading the email I received from my new client for the fifty-seventh time in twenty-four hours.

The flight attendants announce it’s time to fasten seatbelts and put tray tables up as we prepare to land, and I’m busy thumbing through the set of instructions I’ve received.

Upon landing in Silver Hollow’s small regional airport, proceed to baggage claim. There I should find a man in a Rockies ball cap holding up a sign that says Ivy Davis.

His name is Mark, and he’ll be driving me from the airport to the Taylor estate, where I’ll be spending the next seventy-two hours.

Business hasn’t exactly been booming in the interior design industry, and after three clients cancelled on me in a row, desperate times call for desperate measures.

In the past, it was one of the busiest times of the year—email after email with repeat clients asking me to redo their living rooms before relatives visit or some hotel mogul requesting I create a winter wonderland for their premises.

This year, it’s been nothing but polite cancellations and a depressingly empty calendar.

Then the offer came.

A private client reaching out about a mountain estate. The sum of money being offered was so ridiculous I had to double—and then triple—check it wasn’t some scammer.

But everything checked out.

I was being hired by real estate mogul and billionaire Noah Taylor. Much more private than most billionaires, little was known about him other than the fact he went into the real estate business with his brother and the two made bank.

He didn’t even have a social media account (I know because I looked). The best I could find was the company’s business profiles, which revealed nothing personal.

The contract was attached, and I was told once I signed, I’d receive half the payment upfront. The other half once the job was complete.

Needless to say, I signed that thing on my phone in the grocery store checkout line, a bottle of red wine, brie cheese, and crackers in my cart.

It seemed like the universe finally wanted to throw me a bone, and I was not about to pretend to be upset about it.

The plane touches the ground and soon we’re coasting to our parking spot among an army of other planes full of eager holiday travelers.

There’s practically a stampede just to get off the plane. I let the others go first, then grab my bag from the overhead bin and head straight to baggage claim.

Thankfully, since Silver Hollow’s airport is so small, I don’t have to walk far. But that doesn’t make baggage claim any less of a zoo—everywhere you look, people rush in different directions, determined to make it to their carousel to grab their things.

I’m more concerned with finding this Mark guy. As my gaze searches the crowds, he suddenly appears off to the side.

It helps that he’s more than a head taller than most people, with broad shoulders and a solid build, his sherpa jacket dusted with snow and his messy dark hair shoved under a ball cap.

I’m no sports person, but I recognize the Colorado Rockies logo imprinted on it.

He’s clutching a sign that reads IVY DAVIS in messy block letters.

It almost feels like I’m six again being picked up from school by a parent as I pivot in his direction.

…except, admittedly, he’s much cuter.

I roll my suitcase toward him, boots squeaking against the epoxy flooring. A small, almost shy smile comes to my face as I grow closer, and his gaze settles on me like he’s recognizing I’m who he’s been waiting for.

He doesn’t smile back and there’s no warmth to be found in his dark brown eyes, but he does step toward me and take my suitcase off my hands.

“Ivy?” he asks in a deep voice.

“That’s me. You must be… Mark?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m parked right out the sliding doors.”

We fall into step as we leave the chaos of the airport baggage claim behind and cross the arrivals drop off lane. He leads me to the concrete parking garage right across the way, pressing the button on his SUV remote to pop the trunk door.

I head around to the passenger side and slide into the back.

“Long trip?” he asks as he gets behind the wheel. His dark eyes meet mine again in the rearview mirror.

“Long enough,” I say, tugging my coat tighter. “Two flights, one layover, one crying baby, and a man who insisted on eating tuna out of Tupperware at seven in the morning. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost feeling in the left side of my brain.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, though he never smiles. “We don’t have tuna guys up here. Just snow and bad radio.”

“Honestly, that already sounds like an upgrade. It’s not like I can complain much anyway. Free trip to Colorado and a new client who pays well? I’ll happily deal with some tuna and screaming babies.”

“You ever been to Colorado before?”

“Not once in my life,” I answer. “I’m a Cali girl through and through.”

“First time for everything. Welcome to the Rockies.”

As we pull away from the parking garage, the airport vanishes almost immediately, swallowed by trees and rising rock. The road steadily climbs, snowflakes drifting lazily in the air.

“How far is it?” I ask, watching the mountainous terrain from the passenger window.

“About forty-five minutes if the roads stay clear,” he says. “Longer if it keeps coming down like this.”

“So you guys really get snowed in up here?”

“Sometimes,” he replies. “The plows do what they can with the main road. The private drives are another story.”

There’s no drama in his tone, no attempt to scare me. Just a statement of fact that slides under my skin anyway.

I meant what I said about being a Cali girl—Southern California. Cold weather and I have never gotten along well.

I slide my fingers into my gloves and decide not to imagine what would happen if the SUV slid off the slick roads and into the trees.

“I guess it’s a good thing I’m here to make everything festive while you’re all trapped,” I say lightly, changing the subject. “Your boss must really love Christmas.”

He glances at me in the rearview, his expression unreadable. “He likes things a certain way. Especially this time of year.”

“Specific instructions, then,” I murmur. “That tracks. The contract was very… detailed. Well, the parts I read were.”

“He was grateful to find you. You were one of the only high-end interior designers available.”

I’m exhaling a breath when I interrupt the sound with my own laugh. “Probably because everyone else has a loving family to spend it with. I’m more concerned about paying the mortgage on my condo. I’m not turning down any Christmas miracle.”

He nods but says nothing else as we drive on in silence.

Except for the wheels turning on the pavement and the hum from the heater, I’m left with only my thoughts to fill in the blank spaces.

The higher we climb, the more the world seems to narrow until there’s only snowflakes outside my window. The snowfall has definitely picked up, the flakes themselves growing thicker and coming down faster.

When Mark finally turns onto a long, private drive marked by two stone pillars, my stomach twists with a strange mix of anticipation and unease. The SUV crawls forward, passing through a tall wrought-iron gate, tires crunching over untouched snow.

The house finally appears, rising from the surrounding trees. It almost resembles some luxury ski resort, made up of dark stone and wood and sleek glass with steep roofs that wear the snow like a crown.

A wide set of steps leads up to a deep front porch flanked by heavy stone columns. There are no cheerful lights, not even a wreath on the door. Nothing festive at all to be found.

I guess that’s where I come in.

Mark pulls up near the front and turns off the engine. He gets out, comes around to open my door, and offers his hand without comment. I take it, his grip firm and strong as I step down into snow that crunches crisply under my boots.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “But… a little isolated, isn’t it? So many trees and no neighbors.”

He merely stares at me for a beat, his impassive face giving nothing away. Then he turns and walks around the back to grab my suitcase. Setting it down at my side, he juts his chin at the front door.

“Mr. Taylor should be expecting you. He’ll be able to help get you settled in.”

“Oh… right. Thanks.”

He gives a small nod, then returns to the driver’s seat. A second later, the SUV’s retreating down the drive, taillights glowing as he turns onto the road and disappears among the trees.

For a heartbeat, the silence strangles me. The wintry chill in the air shivers through me.

I pull my coat tighter and start up the steps, dragging my suitcase along. I’m halfway up when the tall double doors swing open and a man is standing there.

He’s older, maybe early fifties, with dark hair gone a smoky gray and a blazer that doesn’t hide his short, stockier build. But that’s not to say he isn’t handsome for an older man—his blue eyes twinkle as he discovers me on his doorstep.

“Ivy Davis,” he says, extending a gloved hand as I reach the top. “Welcome to Silver Hollow.”