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ChapterOne
BRAN RATCLIFFE
A billionaire looking for the one thing money can’t buy…
A half hour turns to forty-five minutes, and there’s still no sign of my snow bunny. Concerned that the cute redhead with the killer smile I just met at the Moose Festival may be a no-show, I keep one eye trained on the pub’s front door from my spot by the woodstove—prime real estate—but so far, the only people grabbing a drink this afternoon are tourists in ski gear and a few disgruntled locals.
“Gets more crowded every year,” the ancient Nevil Newsom grumbles from the armchair in the corner. “You’d think we had the only Moose Festival in the state.”
“The one in Woodstock’s bigger,” Leonard Newsom, his even older, crankier brother agrees. “And the one in Stowe has the world’s largest cheese fountain.”
Nevil grunts. “Some things shouldn’t go in a fountain. Things like cheese.”
“And chocolate,” his brother agrees. “Good way to get salmonella.”
“You can get salmonella from penguins, as well,” I add, determined to make friends despite the cool reception I’ve received from most of the Jingle Bell Junction natives thus far.
With both of my brothers and their significant others now calling Vermont home, it’s clear I’m going to be spending a lot more time here. It would be wise to have a couple seasoned—very well-seasoned—drinking buddies to meet up with on nights when the third wheel vibes get to be too much.
Nevil grunts again, a deeper grunt that lingers in the air as his rheumy blue eyes shift my way. “Is that right?”
I nod. “Yep. Infection rates in a colony can be as high as thirteen percent.”
“But how would you get it? You making out with penguins?” Leonard shakes his head. “Hipster billionaires. They ruin everything.”
Nevil’s gaze narrows on my face. “They sure do. I’ll never look at my penguin calendar the same way again. Thanks, Mr. Penguin Party Pooper.”
My mouth opens, but I shut it again with a sigh, knowing better than to try to defend myself. These men already have a fixed opinion of my family. We’re “hipster billionaires” they tolerate for the massive amount of property tax we pay each year, but they don’t like us.
Or trust us.
To them, we’re a different species, one worthy of wariness and suspicion.
But all of that’s about to change. As soon as I build my recreation park with complimentary snow tubing and cross-country skiing for locals in the winter, and an Olympic size pool for the summer, they’ll see that I value this community. That I respect the people and their health and happiness, and I’m not just some rich guy who’s damaged the carefully curated image of penguins.
“Why you dressed like that anyway?” Leonard asks, gesturing to my costume. “Who are you supposed to be? The Wolf of Wall Street?”
Sadly, that’s more clever than what I actually intended. I’m just a wolf. A regular, four legged, non-shape shifting, woodsy creature. “I was told everyone dresses up for the Moose Festival.”
But that was a lie my brothers told to mess with me, of course. Sure, there are a decent number of festival-goers in costume, but I would guess only around twenty-five percent.
It doesn’t bother me though. I want the people in town to see me as being involved and supportive of the community.
Nevil just grunts.
“How about a round on me?” I suggest by way of apology for ruining penguins for them. “And a promise not to tell you anything traumatizing about sea otters?”
“Sounds like a generous offer, but what if I want the dirt on sea otters?” a musical voice lilts from a few feet away.
I turn with a grin that widens when I catch my snow bunny’s glittering eyes. “You’ll just have to wait. These two have had enough animal trivia for one day.”
“That’s right,” Leonard says, a mischievous note creeping into his voice as he adds, “but I haven’t had enough beer. I’ll take a Pabst draft, boy. Same for my brother.”
“He’s got money for more than a Pabst,” Nevil hisses.
“But we like Pabst, and you know it,” Leonard insists. “We’re simple men with simple tastes. Except when it comes to that restaurant at your place, Kay. I’ll pay thirty bucks for that lamb shank your cook makes any day of the week.”
“Oh God, yes. Harriet does such a good job with lamb,” my snow bunny agrees, making my brows lift as I rise and head to the bar.
