Page 133 of The Holiday Clause

“Cute.” Drummond pulled back his hand and flexed his fingers as if they hurt. He sighed. “My therapist recommended this. I need to find a new shrink.”

They hosted all kinds of guests at The Haven. Some celebrities, some earthy types, others just looking for a chance to disconnect and recharge, and, unfortunately, the CEO sort.

The CEOs were the hardest to please because their stays were usually booked by an angry spouse on the verge of divorceor a desperate assistant, following directions after some sort of mental breakdown. By the tension in Drummond’s body language, Wren assumed he fell into the latter category.

No wedding ring. Either the divorce already happened or no one had married this gem of a man in the first place.

He adjusted the collar of his cashmere dress coat and mumbled, “Fuck my life.” He slammed the car door and popped the trunk, walking toward the lobby entrance. “Espresso machine’s in the trunk. See that it gets to my room, Paul Bunyan.”

Wren caught Greyson by the back of the coat. “Don’t.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing on Drummond as he disappeared through the automatic doors into the lobby. “I can’t stand men like that.”

“Well, he’s a guest.” She reached into the trunk and awkwardly lifted the small but heavy espresso machine out. “Can you shut the trunk?”

“Give me that.” He took the machine out of her arms.

“Don’t throw it like you did the bag.”

Greyson grumbled and carried it inside.

Settling Mr. Drummond took three times as long as usual check-ins. Greyson left to do his rounds and Wren spent most of the afternoon making sure all of Mr. Drummond’s requests were met.

The high-maintenance guests had the power to devastate her retreat with one negative review, which they were more likely to leave—or pay an employee to leave. It didn’t matter if she impressed them. These type-A tight-asses loved to complain and barely praised anyone but themselves. They came to places like The Haven to find a sort of reset that didn’t exist for ninety percent of them.

She could tell right away that Drummond would be a difficult, impossible-to-please sort of CEO guest. Very rarely did a pinstripe suit change its stripes.

“See if Harbor & Home carries the kind of sheets he wants, Lilly.”

Lilly rolled her eyes and picked up the phone to call the store.

Harbor & Home was the only home goods store in town. It offered limited linens, handmade quilts, ceramic dishware, and vintage-inspired table settings. Chances were, they wouldn’t carry the Egyptian cotton sheets Drummond requested—at least not at the specific thread count he wanted.

Wren always over-extended herself for the difficult guests because it honored her mother’s belief that nitpicky people only needed repositioning to find their Zen. She used to say, “Unhappy people are just souls with tangled roots—repot them, water them, give them light and space, and they’ll bloom.”

Her mother possessed a gift for bringing grumpy people out of their bad moods and Wren tried to honor her memory every day by becoming the same kind of caring person. It was this philosophy that drove her patience with even the most demanding guests, the belief that underneath all that anger and frustration was simply a person who needed tending.

Her mother had never met a soul she couldn’t soften, and Wren refused to give up on that legacy, even when faced with the Greg Drummonds of the world.

But by the day’s end, Wren’s nerves and patience had been put through the wringer. When she got home, salt covered her walkway and extra logs sat stacked neatly by the door. She smiled, knowing Greyson had visited.

Several cats followed her home, sensing the incoming storm and hoping to find a warm lap for the night. “No, no,” she told Spruce, the fat tabby who never gave up trying to be an indoor cat. “You have a home. Go there.”

The sanctuary cats lived incredible lives. They stayed safe from traffic, well fed, loved, spoiled by Bodhi and the rest of the staff at The Haven, and their kitty condos offered state-of-the-art solar heating and custom cat furniture Greyson built.

“You’re being a drama queen.” She waved Spruce away. “Go home before the snow starts.”

She hadn’t realized how exhausted she felt after two nights of very little sleep until she settled into the tub and almost drowned by accidentally dozing off. After her bath, she cuddled up by the fire with a book, but fell asleep before turning the first page. She didn’t wake until Greyson lifted her off the sofa.

Not needing to open her eyes to recognize him, she smiled into his chest. “You smell like snow.”

The scent of winter clung to him—crisp, clean cold air mixed with the warmth that was uniquely his. Underneath the outdoor chill, she could detect traces of his soap, the faint tang of motor oil from his truck, and something indefinably masculine that made her want to burrow deeper into his arms.

He carried her quietly through the dark house, and she nestled into the safe sanctuary of his arms. When he lowered her into bed, he pulled the covers over her and kissed her temple. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to stoke the fire and take a quick shower.”

“What time is it?”

“A little past four.”