Page 150 of The Holiday Clause

“Which Hawthorne’s been buttering your biscuit?”

Wren crumpled the paper. “It’s just a gossip column, Aunt Astrid. There’s no real truth to this stuff.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Her aunt laughed. “The truth’s written plain across your face, dear, in a blush darker than whatever ink the printer’s using.” She cocked her head inquisitively. “There’s no shame in taking care of your needs, sweetheart. Girl’s gotta eat.”

“Astrid, are you going to help move this stuff, or what?” Bodhi dropped the xylophone windchime with a clatter.

“What did I tell you about being delicate with my instruments? You’re like a bull in a china shop!”

Wren backed out of the studio, her fist cinched tight around the newspaper, when she bumped into something firm. She turned and immediately stepped back with a wince. “Mr. Drummond.”

“I put a request in at the front desk for more soap an hour ago.”

“I’m sorry. I can get that for you.” She led him down the hall to the supply closet where Lilly currently exited, an armful of toiletries in her grip. The moment the receptionist spotted their challenging guest, she scowled.

“Mr. Drummond needs more?—”

“Soap for his room. I know,” Lilly said dryly. “I told him I’d deliver it.”

The CEO glanced at the haul of branded Haven products overflowing from her arms. “Is that conditioner? I need more of that as well.”

Lilly protectively turned away to shelter the supplies from his view.

Wren stole a bar of soap and a mini bottle of conditioner. “Here you go.”

“Is that an eye mask?”

“No,” Lilly said.

Wren plucked the mask from her arms. “Of course. There you are.”

He narrowed his eyes at Lilly, then winced when a sound bowl hit a particularly sharp frequency that howled long enough for everyone in The Haven to notice. “What is that ungodly noise?”

“That’s just our team getting ready for tonight’s sound therapy session. Have you signed up?”

“No, and I don’t plan to. Do you have any earplugs? How loud does it get?”

Lilly rolled her eyes. “You probably won’t hear it back in New York.”

“Lilly,” Wren snapped, then placed a hand on Mr. Drummond’s shoulder to walk him away from her feral receptionist. “I’m sure you won’t be disturbed by the sounds once you’re back in your cabin. And the sound baths usually only last an hour.”

“Thatfor an hour? People pay for that?”

“It can be very centering.”

“So can a migraine.”

“Sound therapy can actually lower stress, help with sleep, and even reduce muscle tension and pain, Mr. Drummond.”

“Right,” he said, tone full of doubt.

“You might benefit from such an experience.” She gently squeezed his arm. “You’re still carrying a lot of tension in your shoulders.”

His oppositional mood softened until he glanced over her head and scowled. “Something you need?”

Wren turned and immediately let go of Mr. Drummond’s arm. “Greyson.”

“Wren, honey!” Aunt Astrid rushed out of the studio. “Your father got a splinter from your cactus plant. Do youhave tweezers?” Her aunt paused and took in the crowded hall where Greyson and the CEO faced off. “Goodness, there’s enough testosterone in this hallway to fuel a small army.” Her smile curved as her gaze bounced between the two men. “Mr. Hawthorne.”