Chapter 7
SYLVIE
Back at the lodge, I spotted Stacy behind the check-in desk. Her blonde head was bent over the computer as she worked on what was probably our guest registry or booking calendar. The check-in area looked like Christmas had exploded all over it, and honestly, that wasn’t far from the truth.
We’d gone a little overboard with the decorations this year, draping garland around every possible surface until the desk looked more like a holiday float than a place of business.
Twinkling lights were wound through the evergreen boughs, candy canes hung from every available hook and corner, and ornaments dangled at various heights, creating a maze of festive obstacles that guests had to navigate just to sign in.
It was perhaps a bit much, but desperate times called for desperate Christmas cheer. There was a fine line between too much and just enough. We were teetering on the edge, but it worked.
I hip-bumped Stacy away from the computer, nudging her aside.
“Hey!” she protested, stumbling slightly as she tried to regain her footing. “I was in the middle of updating the—”
“Shush,” I muttered under my breath, sliding into the chair she’d vacated. “I’ll explain later. I need to check someone in.”
Stacy opened her mouth to argue, probably about to point out that checking in guests was technically her job as lodge manager, but something in my expression must have warned her off. She stepped back, crossing her arms and giving me a look that clearly said this better be good.
I turned toward Kent, who was standing just inside the lodge entrance, snow still melting off his expensive coat and dripping onto our polished wooden floors.
He was looking around the lobby with an expression that seemed caught between amusement and bewilderment, taking in our enthusiastic approach to holiday decorating.
“So,” I said, fingers poised over the keyboard. “I’ll need a credit card and ID for check-in. What’s your full name for the reservation?”
“Kent Bancroft.” He pulled out his wallet and handed me a credit card that probably had a higher limit than my annual salary. I had heard about these black cards. Only the rich were granted such things.
The name Bancroft meant absolutely nothing to me, but I made note of it as I started entering his information into our booking system. Rich guy with a fancy name from the big city. That was all I needed to know for the purposes of this transaction.
And speaking of the transaction, I was suddenly struck by a moment of inspiration that was probably going to get me into trouble but felt absolutely justified given the circumstances.
He’d thrown our tree in a ditch. He clearly had more money than he knew what to do with. We desperately needed every dollar we could get. What was an extra few hundred dollars to someone like him? Pocket change. Pennies.
I tripled our standard rate.
“That’ll be six hundred dollars for tonight,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly professional as I typed in the inflated amount.
Kent barely blinked at the price, which only confirmed my suspicion that money wasn’t really an object for him. He just nodded.
“Quite the decorating scheme you’ve got going here,” he said, ducking slightly to avoid a particularly low-hanging ornament that was swaying dangerously close to his head. “Did a Christmas store explode, or is this intentional?”
My jaw tightened at his casual mockery of our holiday décor. We had worked hard to create a warm, festive atmosphere, and here he was making jokes about it like we were something to laugh at.
“The decorations are very intentional,” I said coolly, adding another hundred dollars to his bill just for the smart comment. I doubted he even looked at his statements. It was an asshole surcharge. “We pride ourselves on creating an authentic Christmas experience for our guests.”
“Seven hundred now, is it?” Kent asked, apparently having caught the adjustment. But instead of looking annoyed, he seemed almost amused by my blatant price manipulation.
“Late check-in charge,” I said without missing a beat. “And just so you know, check-out is at nine a.m. sharp.”
Stacy sucked in a breath. It was two hours earlier than our usual time, but the sooner I got the man out of my hair, the better. If Mr. Bancroft wanted to sleep late, he could book a second day.
He reached out to touch one of the ornaments hanging from garland that had been hung from the ceiling.
“Don’t touch the ornaments.” I processed his payment and printed out a keycard. “Some of them are family heirlooms.”
That was a complete lie. Most of our ornaments had come from the discount store in town, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Noted,” Kent said solemnly, though I could see he was fighting back a smile. “I suppose a lot of this stuff looks like you’ve had it for generations.”
The comment erased any lingering guilt I had about charging him extra. I had saved him from being stranded in the snow, and he was still insulting our lodge. If he was too good to stay here, he could go back out into the snow.
I swallowed the thought. We needed the money and his rotten attitude wouldn’t be my problem for too much longer.
I grabbed his keycard and stood up from behind the desk, gesturing for him to follow me toward the staircase that led to the guest rooms. “Right this way, Mr. Bancroft. I’ll show you to your suite. I trust it’ll be to your liking.”
As we walked through the lobby, I could feel Stacy’s eyes boring into my back.
She had to be dying to know what was going on.
Why I was personally escorting this particular guest to his room.
All questions I would have to answer later, assuming I could come up with explanations that didn’t make me sound completely unprofessional.
I led Kent up the stairs to the second floor, where our luxury suites were located.
The Northwood Lodge might not be the fanciest place in the world, but our suites were genuinely nice, spacious rooms with period furnishings, updated bathrooms, and views that showcased the best of what our property had to offer.
“This is the Evergreen Suite,” I said, unlocking the door and stepping inside. “It’s our nicest accommodation.”
Evergreen Suite had a rustic elegance with a heavy emphasis on natural materials and, yes, more Christmas decorations.
But these were tasteful ones. Subtle garland around the windows with a small tree in the corner that complemented rather than overwhelmed the space. It filled the air with its scent.
Kent walked over to the window that looked out over the tree farm. From this angle, it actually looked quite magical, like something out of a Christmas card. Even his Grinchy butt had to acknowledge that.
“There’s a brochure in the side table,” I said, pointing to the small booklet we’d put together showcasing all the local events and activities available during the first week of December.
“In case you decide to stay longer than one night. We have quite a lot going on around here during the holiday season.”
Kent picked up the brochure and flipped through it, his eyebrows rising as he read some of the event listings. When he got to one particular page, he actually laughed out loud.
“A sleeping bag race?” he said, looking up at me with undisguised amusement. “Seriously?”
I felt my cheeks warm slightly. “It’s an annual tradition that’s lasted over thirty years. People take it quite seriously.”
He blinked at me like I’d just told him that adults in Northwood also believed in the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.
“Right,” he said slowly. “Sleeping bag racing. Very serious business.”
I could tell he was making fun of our local traditions. It stung more than I wanted to admit. The sleeping bag race was silly, sure, but it was also one of those quirky community events that brought people together and created memories that lasted for decades.
“Anyway,” I said, changing the subject before he could make any more comments about our “quaint” local customs. “If you need anything, just call down to the lobby. Dinner is served at six thirty in the main hall. Tonight we’re having roast beef with all the fixings.”
I was already heading toward the door, ready to escape when his voice stopped me.
“Are there any nice restaurants in town where I could take you to dinner?”
My brain completely stalled. Had he just… Did he just ask me…
I turned around to stare at him, sure I must have misheard. But he was looking at me with an expression that was definitely expectant, like he was waiting for an answer to what was clearly a dinner invitation.
I started, then stopped, then started again. “What?”
“Dinner,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You. Me. Somewhere with good food and maybe fewer Christmas decorations.”
The suggestion was so unexpected, so completely out of left field, that I couldn’t seem to form a coherent response.
This was the same man who’d thrown our Christmas tree in a ditch not two hours ago.
The same man who’d been making jokes about our decorations and our traditions since the moment he’d arrived.
And now he wanted to take me to dinner?
“I’m not going to dinner with you,” I finally managed to say. “No way.”
Instead of looking disappointed or offended, Kent flashed an infuriating, confident smile. “I might stick around a bit longer than one night,” he said. “And by the time I’m ready to go home, you’ll have let me take you out.”
The sheer arrogance of the statement left me speechless. He was so sure of himself. He thought he could waltz in here, insult all the things I cared about, and then charm me into having dinner with him.
“We’ll see about that,” I said without bothering to hide the disgust in my tone.
I fled the room before he could say anything else that might scramble my brain even further.
I practically ran down the stairs, my heart beating faster than it should have been, my cheeks warm with what I told myself was indignation rather than anything else.
Stacy was waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase, her hands on her hips and her expression demanding immediate answers. “What was that all about?”
“What was what about?” I asked, trying to sound innocent and probably failing miserably.
“Don’t even try that with me, Sylvie Northwood.
You just charged that man seven hundred dollars for a room that usually goes for two hundred, personally escorted him upstairs like he was visiting royalty, and came back down here looking like you’d been hit by lightning.
So I’ll ask again, what’s going on here? ”
I sighed, knowing there was no point in trying to hide anything from Stacy. She’d been part of our family for too long and knew me too well. Plus, she had caught me red-handed.
“He threw our Christmas tree in a ditch,” I said. “So I figured if he wanted to waste money, I’d help him do it.”
Stacy’s eyes widened. “You overcharged a guest because he didn’t want his Christmas tree?”
“He didn’t just not want it,” I protested. “He literally threw it in a ditch on the side of the road. Like it was garbage. After paying a hundred dollars for it! And he said the sleeping bag races are dumb.”
Stacy raised an eyebrow at me. “And you thought the appropriate response was to commit what’s basically fraud?”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. When she put it like that, my righteous indignation sounded a lot less righteous and a lot more like petty revenge. “Think of it as dynamic pricing. When companies do it, it’s genius. When I do it, it’s a crime?” I scoffed. “Typical.”
“What if we get caught?” Stacy continued, her voice rising slightly with panic. “What if he complains to corporate travel sites? What if he leaves bad reviews? What if—”
“We won’t get caught,” I said firmly. “He didn’t even blink at the price. Trust me, seven hundred dollars is nothing to someone like him.”
“He’s a Bancroft,” she said, nodding.
“So?”
“Bancroft,” Stacy said again. “That’s his last name. Kent Bancroft.”
“Yes, I know. I checked him in.”
“Don’t you know who they are?” she whispered.
I frowned. “Who? The Bancrofts? They can’t be a bigger deal than the Northwoods. We founded this town.”
“Girl, you have no idea.” She sighed. “We are so screwed.”