Daxton: A Scrooged Christmas (Cedar Creek Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  BOOKS BY JULIA GODA

  DAXTON

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  A Scrooged Christmas

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  About The Author

  The Cedar Creek Series

  A Scrooged Christmas Collection

  Table of Contents

  BOOKS BY JULIA GODA

  DAXTON

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  A Scrooged Christmas

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  About The Author

  The Cedar Creek Series

  A Scrooged Christmas Collection

  BOOKS BY JULIA GODA

  The Cedar Creek Series

  Bent Not Broken

  Be Here Now

  Never Look Back (Coming Spring 2018)

  The Girl Series

  Wrong Side Girl

  The Girl Worth Fighting For

  Copyright © 2017 Julia Goda

  All Rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to characters, organizations, or events of real life described in this novel is either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN: 978-1-7751807-1-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7751807-0-8

  Cover created by Dark Water Covers

  Editing provided by Joanne Thompson

  Formatting by CP Smith

  Acknowledgements

  A huge THANK YOU goes to Mayra Statham, who invited me on this journey and gave me a chance to come out of my comfort zone and “try something different.” You have cheered me on along the way and believed in me more than I believed in myself. I love you dearly.

  Thanks, too, to all the great authors who are part of the Scrooged project. It was fun (even when it could get stressful) to vote on all the things that need to be voted on when ten cooks are stirring the pot.

  Also, thank you to Joanne Thompson, my new editor. I’m glad we found each other, not just for editing purposes but for your support and advice in general.

  And as always, thank you to my husband, Andre, for loving me the way I am.

  Daxton– A Scrooged Christmas is part of a collaborated collection by ten authors themed around a scrooged Christmas. Check out the blurbs at the end of this book for the following correlated authors: CP Smith, FG Adams, Jennifer Domenico, Jessika Klide, Julia Goda, Mayra Statham, Regina Frame, Tracie Douglas, BSM Stoneking, and Winter Travers.

  Dedication

  This one is for my soul sister Mayra Statham, without whom I would have never even considered writing a novella.

  Emersyn

  I discreetly checked my watch for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

  This was not what I needed.

  Not today.

  On Christmas Eve.

  Not after the week I’d already had.

  This is what you get for your inability to say no, I chastised myself. I never seem to be able to do that when a friend asks me for help. I feel like I disappoint them. It just isn’t who I am. Though I sure wish I did this time, I thought as I watched Daxton McArthur’s arrogant ass strut through the rooms of the main building for the third time. This was going beyond doing a friend a favor. The man in question had had business in Boulder for the last two days and had insisted on seeing the property today. He would not come back any time soon if he could help it—his words—so if Linda, the local realtor and my friend, didn’t want to lose a potential buyer, she had to figure something out and quick—again, his words. The property he’d wanted to see was the most expensive on the market seeing as it was the Birch Haven Cottages, which, if it sold, would make Linda a very happy lady and would bring the town of Cedar Creek good yet hopefully modest—we appreciated our privacy out here—business if it reopened.

  Enter me.

  I’m not a real estate agent, but I did on occasion help Linda out when she was in a bind and needed someone. It didn’t happen all the time but frequently enough, so I knew my way around. I usually didn’t mind showing properties; it was kind of fun and something completely different from what I did in my job as a freelance editor. I enjoyed it. Usually. So when Linda had called me in a frenzy, begging and bribing me, I couldn’t say no. What can I say? It was Christmas Eve, and Linda had a family to cook for. I didn’t. But not even five minutes into this showing, it turned out to be the most aggravating one I’d ever done. Not because Mr. McArthur—what he insisted on a scowl I call him, even though he couldn’t be more than a handful of years older than my thirty-two, when I introduced myself by my first name—had a lot of questions. No. It was because Daxton McArthur was the rudest, most condescending person I had ever met. To alleviate the pressure in my head that threatened to explode and would not make me Linda’s favorite person, I’d called him Mr. Jerkface in my mind for the bigger part of the past four hours.

  It helped.

  Somewhat.

  And yes, I said four hours.

  The longest four hours of my life.

  “Am I keeping you from something?”

  I clenched my teeth from saying what I really wanted to say. Yes, you’re keeping me from something. And you know goddarn well what it is you’re keeping me from, you arrogant bastard. But I couldn’t say what I was thinking and risk his wrath. I knew from having been in his presence for only one afternoon he would use anything he could to squeeze as much money as possible out of this deal. I was positive he was interested in buying and either remodeling the cottages or tearing them down and building something new. Though I was leaning towards remodeling. Why else would he keep looking around? If all he was interested in was the land, he wouldn’t care about the state the buildings were in. And if he weren’t seriously interested, he would have never come out here himself. A guy like him has people who do trivial things for him.

  “No, Mr. McArthur. Of course not. Take as much time as you need. I’m just worried about the road conditions. Didn’t you say you’d be driving back to Colorado Springs today?” Cedar Creek was about an hour from Boulder, which was an hour and a half from Colorado Springs. The way the snow was coming down, a two-and-a-half-hour drive could easily turn into four hours or more, especially in the dark. And seeing as it was close to five in the afternoon, the sky would soon turn pitch black. Not that I cared how long it would take him to get home. I just wanted to get out of here so I could salvage what was left of my Christmas Eve. Even if it would only be a Christmas for one this year.

  “Please, do me the favor of not taking me for a fool. We both know that isn’t why you checked your watch for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.”

  What? Did this guy have eyes in the back of his head?

  I forced a smile. “I really am concerned about the roads,” I lied. “The snow is coming down heavily.” He raised one eyebrow in a dare, so I gave him some of the truth. “But yes, I have to admit I’d prefer to get home sh
ortly. It’s Christmas Eve and I—”

  “Christmas is overrated. Just another holiday people use as an excuse to not work and cost their employers money.”

  Of course, he would think that.

  “I’m sorry you think that way. But as you can see, I am here, working on a holiday, but it is getting fairly late and I—”

  I clamped my mouth shut as he interrupted me yet again. I’d lost count of how many times he had done it.

  “Yeah, you’re here. Though I could argue you actually doing any work.”

  See? Total jerk.

  I forced another smile. My cheek muscles were starting to hurt I was so practiced at it by now. I’m not usually one to fake anything. Yes, I have to bite my tongue from time to time, but hey, who doesn’t? I have my own mind and speak it. Usually. I this case, though, I couldn’t, no matter if this haughty ass was insulting me or not. I had to stay polite. “Again, I am sorry you think that way.”

  He waited for more, I could tell, but I didn’t say anything else.

  Take a deep breath, my Emmy. This, too, shall pass, I heard my mother’s words, words she had spoken to me countless times. God, I missed her. I longed to let her comforting voice and wise words soothe me. Sadness settled in my stomach. I hadn’t heard her voice in real life in almost a decade. I would never get the chance again.

  “If you don’t mind,”—his harsh tone snapped me back to reality—“please do what you’re paid to do and call your boss. Have her email me the last inspection report. I want to go over it tonight.” His brows were furrowed and his words were clipped. I really wanted to know who pissed in his cereal this morning, but then again, he was probably this charming every moment of his rich but otherwise sad existence. Proves money isn’t everything.

  Knowing my objections about interrupting Linda’s Christmas Eve would fall on deaf ears—and I wouldn’t mention setting him straight about her being my boss and me getting paid either; it would only result in having to spend more time in his presence—I simply nodded. “I will contact her.”

  “Good.” Then he turned and marched out the door and to his car without a ‘Thank you,’ without a ‘Have a nice day,’ without a ‘Merry Christmas.’ Not that I’d expected it. Still, it was beyond rude.

  “This, too, shall pass. In about two minutes,” I mumbled to myself when he was out of earshot. Then I slowly followed him outside, locked the door behind me, and trudged through the snow to my car. He was already sitting in his, his phone to his ear, his narrowed eyes on me. I ignored him.

  Until I couldn’t.

  ***

  No, no, no. This is not happening.

  I checked my rearview mirror and let out a frustrated sound in the back of my throat at the scene unfolding behind me.

  Shit.

  I didn’t think I could spend one more minute in his presence.

  He had already ruined most of my day by being nothing but a jerk. There was only so much patience left in me before I gave in to the urge to deck him.

  “No, no, no,” I chanted under my breath. “Please don’t let this be happening.”

  I’d been sitting in the car for the last five minutes, during which I’d called Linda with a profanity-infused update while my car was heating up, pleading to whatever power could hear me, that what I was seeing wasn’t happening. I checked the mirror again in the hopes a Christmas miracle had occurred and his car was gone.

  No, I really didn’t want to deal with this man for even one more second.

  But I also couldn’t just drive away. That would be rude. And my parents had not raised a rude daughter. Opinionated with a healthy dose of sass? Possibly. But not rude. Even though he had been nothing but insulting towards me. I was a better person.

  So, I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders, then I opened my door and got out, leaving my car running to have it fully heated up for my return trip home.

  He didn’t notice my approach—or so I thought, since he didn’t show any indication he did. Yet when I was five feet away and still behind him as he was leaning over the opened hood of his fancy—and I had to admit sexy—Lexus, probably trying to glare the engine into submission, I learned I was wrong.

  “What, Emersyn with a y, you finally decided to offer your help after contemplating if you could get away with ignoring me? You think you’ll show more skill at this than you’ve presented so far? I highly doubt they let you anywhere near shop class when you were in high school. And even if, it’s clearly been a while since you graduated.” He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat.

  Jerkface, I thought yet again, now leaving off the Mr. because I didn’t feel he deserved any courtesy. I should add ‘Fucking.’ That nasty comment more than deserved it. Incidentally, I had introduced myself as Emersyn with a y. It usually brought a smile to people’s faces and started an easygoing conversation about why my parents had chosen an uncommon spelling—to offset my last name—Moore—one of the most common names in the United States. But that was before I’d realized what an ass he was. I should turn around and drive away. But it was cold outside and the snow was falling heavier by the minute. I didn’t have it in me to leave anyone stranded in the middle of nowhere, no matter how awful they were.

  Linda owed me huge for this.

  I ignored his obvious animosity but answered his question. “Unless it’s a dead battery I can help you jumpstart, you’re right, I won’t be able to help you determine what’s wrong with your car. But I do happen to know where the garage is located.”

  He scowled some more. No surprise there. A scowl was pretty much the only expression I’d had the pleasure of seeing on his face, with intense glares and sneers liberally mixed in for seemingly no reason at all. I wondered if his face was stuck at that grimace and if it gave him headaches. A girl could hope.

  “It’s not the battery.”

  “Okay, then, would you like me to give you a ride to the garage? I’m sure they can tow your car there or send someone out here to have a look.”

  He straightened and looked down his nose at me. “Yeah? You think?” More sarcasm.

  Asshole.

  Since I had already told him what I thought, I didn’t answer, not that he actually gave me the chance to.

  “You seem to be forgetting what day it is, even though you didn’t fail to mention it no less than three times in the last hour. Not that I’m surprised by the lack of mental capability which would keep you from making the logical connection that the local garage will most certainly be closed on this fine evening.”

  I was glowering at him now. That man could not be believed. Though he was right. The guys at Lucid would probably all be home by now, enjoying their wives’ Christmas roast or turkey or ham. Or all three if they were lucky. I ground my teeth and managed to pull out my phone instead of scratching his eyes out. Maybe I’d be fortunate enough to catch someone on their way out.

  After six rings, the answering machine kicked in, informing me the shop would be closed for the holidays and would not re-open until December twenty-sixth. “Shit,” I hissed, eyes to my boots. On a grunt from him, they shot to his face.

  Jerkface gave me nothing more but raised eyebrows before he reached up to close the hood of his car with a loud bang. “I don’t suppose you have any accommodation that isn’t infected with rats in this charming little town of yours.”

  He was referring to the cottages, I knew. They weren’t infected with rats. Not even close. Yes, they had seen better days, but they’d also been closed for a couple of years with no one taking care of them. They needed some love and hard work, no doubt. But his derisive comment was unnecessary. “I can make a couple of calls,” I forced out through clenched teeth. Though I didn’t hold my breath. It was past five in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and we were in the Rocky Mountains. The chances of finding open accommodations were slim to none. Not to mention we didn’t have a hotel in town, or a motel, or a taxi service which could drive him to Boulder, the closest city. The only tourist acc
ommodations we had since the Birch Haven Cottages had closed shop were a bed and breakfast and Ivey and Cal’s rental. Both of them were almost always booked. There were a few hunting cabins throughout the mountains which got rented, but I doubted those would meet his standards. And anyway, I wasn’t close to anyone who owned one, so there was no one to call. We liked our town like that, with some tourism here and there, hikers on a day trip from Boulder, a handful who stayed maybe a week to enjoy a calm mountain retreat, plus hunters who pretty much stuck to themselves when they were out here. Another reason why I hoped Mr. Jerkface would be looking to renovate rather than rebuild.

  I tried Ivey first, since she was one of my good friends in town. We weren’t besties, but I liked her a lot. We’d bonded over books, of course, her owning the bookstore named Serendipity in town and me being an editor. I didn’t want to encroach on their family Christmas, but I was in a bind. At this point, I would interrupt the Queen of England during her Christmas dinner if it got this guy away from me. She answered on the third ring.

  “Merry Christmas, Emmy! Everything okay?”

  I could hear kitchen noises in the background, as well as a boy’s laughter and a man’s chuckle. Cal and Tommy.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on Christmas Eve, Ivey, but is your rental open for tonight by any chance?”

  “Our rental?” A short pause, then, “No, hon, it’s rented until the new year. Do you need a place to stay? Is something wrong with your house? You can come and stay with us.” She sounded concerned.

  I hurried to assure her. “No, no. Nothing like that. Just an…acquaintance who needs a roof over his head. But don’t worry. I’ll figure it out. Thanks, Ivey.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. It’s no big deal. Enjoy your night. And Merry Christmas,” I ended the call before she could ask any more questions, and dialed the only number left which could save me from having to sacrifice my sanity.