That meant my employees were privy to a complete benefit package, which included all the bells and whistles. Their salaries were extremely competitive too. I had seven employees—one project assessor, three craftsmen, and three associate designers. Four of my employees lived in LA, and they were finishing up two projects in the county. I was on my way to start a third job. My associate designer Alana and the builder, Alex, who lived in New York City, were scheduled to fly into Vail, Colorado, the next afternoon. I liked to spend the first day on the job alone with my client to get a better feel for the house with the person inside it. After that, I would figure out how to bring our theme to life.
In the case of Eden Newell, she couldn’t think of a theme. I’d promised to help her come up with one. Manuel, my assessor, had traveled to her vacation home in October of last year, two weeks after Eden and I met in person. He’d taken pictures of each interior and exterior space and uploaded them into a design app that CFI’s technological team had made for me—another perk of being in the conglomerate. The app allowed me to shop catalogs and virtually insert products into the spaces. It made my job a whole lot easier.
I was working on preliminaries of the first-floor spaces when the stewardess returned to take my coffee cup and ask if I wanted another cappuccino. Remembering that once the airplane landed, I had a long drive ahead of me, I said yes. Then dinner was served. Absorbed by my work, I had no space in my head to think about my surprise encounter with Jamison Cox. He was out of sight and out of mind, forever forgotten, and that was exactly how I preferred it.
“You don’t need the receipt, Miss Christmas. I have your reservation in the system,” the guy behind the counter said.
I was standing at the car-rental counter, rifling through my purse. My cell phone had to be in there somewhere. I hated when I misplaced my things, especially my cell phone. I froze, trying to remember the last time I’d seen my device.
Then I sighed. Shit, I left it on top of the bar at the airport in Providence. “Thank you,” I said wearily.
It had been a mentally taxing day, so I had no energy to kick myself for losing my phone. I had just enough left in me to make it to the finish line, which was the two-hour drive to Vail.
We finished our transaction at the counter, and once I was in the large SUV, I shuffled through pop music stations on satellite radio and took a quick listen to the songs that were being played. I knew how my mind worked. I would obsess over losing my phone and running into Jamison if I didn’t keep my thoughts occupied by something like music I knew and could sing along with.
None of the songs were doing the trick, so I took my iPad out of my briefcase and used Bluetooth to hook it up to the car stereo. Ding! My iPad rang, letting me know I had messages. Gripped by relief, I remembered that I could lock my lost phone from my iPad. But first I saw that I had one message from J. Cox: I have your phone. When can I return it?
I flopped back in my seat, palm pressed over my overly beating heart. “What the hell?” I whispered.
At least my cell phone was in safe hands. However, it was being safeguarded by the last man in the world I wanted to see—or at least, I was trying to convince myself that I felt that way about him.
I gripped the steering wheel, wondering what to do next. I wasn’t ready to reply to Jamison’s email. “When can I return it? Is he serious?” His face. Those lips. His seductive eyes.
I shook my head like a rattle and started the engine. “No more Jamison Cox,” I whispered and turned up the volume on a song by Sam Smith and sang along.
It wasn’t the first instance in which I’d driven from Denver to Vail, although I hadn’t planned to make the journey so late in the day. My flight had been scheduled to arrive seven hours earlier, which would have allowed me to make the drive in daylight. Snowflakes struck the windshield, but my handy-dandy wipers shoved the ice off the glass. Snow-covered fields were illuminated in the darkness, making navigating the large SUV with snow tires feel less intimidating. In fact, I felt as snug as a bug in a rug.
I wasn’t a music buff, but over the years, I’d acquired a collection of songs by my favorite artists. Sam Smith and Adele topped my list. As their songs played and my heart connected, all I wanted to do was fall in love with Jamison. I needed a different effect, a reminder that I should always protect my heart when it came to him, so I called up Siri on my iPad and asked her to play “Uninvited” by Alanis Morissette. Once the dramatic beginning of the song had rolled, I let myself think of Jamison again, but in a different way.
It was evident that he was still working for his corrupt father, Richard “Boomer” Cox. Boomer had no ethical barometer when it came to business. He struck me as the sort of human being who not only knew he could get away with murder but would attempt the act just to prove it. Even after learning that his father had tried to smear Asher and me with a lie, Jamison had stayed with him. The fact that he hadn’t chosen to separate himself from that kind of person, father or not, spoke volumes about his own character. I needed to believe that in order to keep myself from giving him a second chance to break my heart.
I still owed Jamison a response to his message, though. But first, I had to remember that he was uninvited and not allowed back into my heart. And so I sang the words, putting all my heart and soul into them. When the song ended, I told Siri to play it again. When I stopped in front of the resort’s lobby, I could barely keep my eyes open, but I felt like a mighty warrior, dressed for battle and ready to resist Jamison’s charm and good looks.
After finishing the formalities with the valets, I stepped out of my car into the icy air. Exhaustion and the altitude made me slightly dizzy. I could have enjoyed all that the resort offered, and more, by staying at our family’s Vail estate. Also, I wouldn’t have had to go through the process of checking in at the front desk and ordering the early risers’ breakfast to be brought to my room in the morning. However, ever since the mansion had been built, I’d learned how much it cost to maintain the utilities and caretaking for properties as large as the ones owned by my family. Upkeep cost tens of thousands of dollars a month. I’d also purchased my own homes: a luxury but not overwrought apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and a cute mid-century modern home—less than a quarter of the size of the one I’d grown up in—on Mulholland Drive in LA. With a full-time chef who came with the property, along with groundskeepers and housekeeping, the Christmas estate was not only more convenient than the resort but closer to the job site too. However, the resort was easy enough and far more cost-efficient. I couldn’t believe I’d become so sensible when it came to money. Becoming cash conscious was easy for an heiress like me, who never felt as if her father’s money came without strings attached. There were no strings attached to what I’d earned on my own.
When I walked into my suite, which was suited for long-term stays, I tipped the bellhop, lugged myself to the bedroom, and plopped down on the bed. The moment I’d been anticipating had finally come. I took my iPad out of my briefcase, called up Jamison’s message, and replied: Thanks for securing my cell phone. Could you send it to me by mail, please?
I added the name and address of the resort. Then I sat still, waiting for his response. Minutes ticked by, and I became sleepier. Jamison was either away from his phone or asleep. As I remembered, he was the sort of person who went to bed early and rose early. Figuring I should have his response by morning, I followed his lead—I set my alarm and went directly to bed.