Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 70368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Later, as the party wound down, Mr. Zimmerman cornered me near the buffet dishes I’d been clearing.
“This was a heck of a party. Exactly what my little girl deserved.”
“Thank you, sir. We appreciate your business.” Despite all the near-mishaps of the evening, I meant it. I was glad the party had been a success, glad to be a part of Betsy and Anderson’s happiness, and glad to have been part of a team.
“You did good standing in for Gabe, Zeb,” Mr. Zimmerman continued, ruddy expression far more earnest and kinder than his wife’s demeanor. His resemblance to a certain jolly elf sure was uncanny. “Your father and grandfather would be proud.”
Unable to speak, I nodded. Pride. I seldom felt the emotion, but that was exactly how I felt about pulling off the rehearsal dinner. I was proud. And it meant something that Mr. Zimmerman thought the two men I’d admired most would agree. Most of their paternal pride had been directed toward Gabe, who’d taken to the business far more naturally. But it was my legacy, too, and why I’d stayed connected to Seasons even when it might’ve been easier to break away.
“Do you drink?” Mr. Zimmerman asked abruptly, cocking his head.
“Sometimes.” Not sure where he was heading with this, I hedged. “Never on the job.”
“Oh, of course not.” He waved a meaty hand before holding up a champagne bottle with the other one. “We ended up with doubles of the special bottles we ordered to toast the happy couple with. It’s a good year. Enjoy as a token of our appreciation.”
“Thank you.” I took a steadying breath. Ordinarily, I might demur, say no tip or gift was needed, but the desire to taste champagne on Atlas’s lips won out. Yeah, it was a very good year, and we would make excellent use of the bubbly. Outside, snow had started to softly fall, and I couldn’t wait to warm Atlas up.
Seventeen
ATLAS
“This is already our best idea ever,” Zeb enthused as we locked the back door at Seasons and headed into the cold December night. He tightly clutched the bottle of champagne the Zimmermans had gifted us, and I held a bag of leftover appetizers and cookies we’d raided from the catering kitchen fridge. Fat white flakes rained down on us as we stepped away from the building. Zeb tilted his head skyward, utter awe crossing his expression. “Oh look, it’s snowing. Like really snowing.”
“Good thing we’re walking.” Throwing caution to the wind, I draped an arm around his shoulders. The Kringle’s Crossing downtown would ordinarily be deserted anyway this late on a Friday night, and the snowstorm added to the feeling we were the only two souls awake and outdoors. Tomorrow morning, kids would be out in force, attacking the sledding hills as they woke to the first real snow of the season. Grumpy parents would shovel sidewalks and hand out reminders to be careful while weary shopkeepers moaned about a down day for Christmas shoppers. But right then, the world was simply Zeb and me and his perfect reaction to the same weather he’d seen for twenty-eight years.
“I love how magical everything looks all white. No tire tracks or footprints yet. And the holiday lights reflecting off the snow make it seem like the world is glowing. It looks like some sort of iconic American small-town painting.”
“Are you sure you haven’t started in on that champagne?” My teasing came out light and affectionate, exactly like my mood. Zeb happy was the true magic, and his was the glow I wished I could capture, especially when he started kicking at the snow. I chuckled at his antics. “If it’s a painting, you’re the star.”
“Me?” Mouth pursed and tone skeptical, Zeb turned back toward me. “I’m not all that.”
“Yes, you are.” I pulled him to me for a fast, frosty kiss. Brushing the snow off his forehead and the curl of hair escaping his knit cap, I pulled back enough to stare deeply into his eyes. “You’re beautiful.”
“Beautiful.” He snorted. “You’re the one who’s already drunk.”
“Maybe.” If I was drunk, it was on him, intoxicated by his charm and inner goodness. His fast thinking had saved the Zimmerman dinner more than once, and watching him take charge had only sweetened how good it felt when he let me lead. But I didn’t want to wallow too much in emotions that couldn’t change the cold, hard facts. Luckily, I still remembered one thing about Pennsylvania winters. Acting quickly, I broke away to pack a snowball with my borrowed gloves. “Wanna play?”
“Oh, hell yes.” He set the bottle of champagne next to the bag of food and waggled his eyebrows in my direction. “I’ll have you know, I’m the Kringle’s Crossing Snow Wars champ five years running.”
“Ha.” My cackle came from some seldom-used place deep in my belly. “And I’ve had Arctic warfare training.”