Free Snowflake Bay by Donna Kauffman

enjoy it. If you’re asking if I equate more clients with more money and more money with more success, well, money or profit is certainly one way to measure it, but I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone or impress anyone.”
    She tilted her head just a bit, eyeing him with renewed speculation. “Interesting.”
    â€œWhat is?” he asked, before he could think better of it.
    â€œThat you thought you needed to say that. I don’t believe I mentioned a thing about needing to prove yourself. I was just asking what it was you thought necessary to feel successful in your chosen profession. Who is it that you’re not trying to impress?”
    â€œNo one. I just meant—”
    Her eyebrow arched further, as she said, “Really? Then why mention it?”
    â€œI don’t know. I was just—”
    â€œDon’t you? I think you do. And if you want to figure out what choice you should be making about your family’s business, then perhaps that’s a good place to start.”
    â€œWhat does me proving something—or not proving something—with my landscaping business in Portsmouth have to do with my decision about the future of Campbell Christmas Tree Farm?”
    â€œWell, if you can’t see that, then you do have quite a bit to work out, now, don’t you?” She made a brief tsking sound.
    It was ridiculous to feel defensive. She was poking at him, but that’s what she did. He wouldn’t let it get to him. Which, clearly, it had, because he opened his mouth and said, “What I do with the tree farm will be what’s best for my folks. My company is successful by whatever measuring standard you care to use. The magazine spread was a nice compliment after all the hard work I put in, and if I get more clients from it, then that’s a double win.”
    â€œYes, but what is it you’re winning, Mr. Campbell?”
    Before he could figure out what to say to that, the bells on the door jingled as Fiona McCrae let herself in amidst a swirl of snowflakes.
    â€œHello, Eula,” she called out, stamping her feet on the mat just inside the door, brushing snowflakes off her mop of dark curls.
    â€œGood afternoon, Miss Fiona,” Eula answered, her attention on Fi, her expression . . . he supposed he’d call it dissatisfied. Probably concerned the middle McCrae sister was going to fling moisture in the form of melted snowflakes all over her beautifully restored antiques. At least she wasn’t wrapped up like a mummy in that scarf again.
    â€œHey, Fireplug,” he said, moving slightly so the tree didn’t block him from her view. “Snowing already? I thought they said it wasn’t coming in until after sundown.”
    She went completely still for a moment, then kept on with the business of gently brushing the snow from her hair, and unbuttoning her coat. Not only was she not wrapped up like a mummy, he noted, but she was also not layered in enough snow gear to dress an Olympic ski team. In fact, she looked pretty sharp in a smartly tailored black pea coat with a blue and green plaid scarf knotted and tucked into the front and . . . holy mackerel . Whatever else he’d been thinking got all sort of lost in a jumble when she slid smoothly out of the coat to reveal a sapphire-blue, cowl-neck sweater that clung to her in all the right places, over black slacks tucked into knee-high tooled leather boots that made her legs look longer than he’d have thought possible. All of which served to take curves he hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to—okay, no attention to, because he was apparently blind and dumb—and showcase them in a way that would make Jessica Rabbit envious. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
    He glanced down then as he pushed balled fists into his own coat pockets, feeling supremely awkward and just . . . well, wrong, for having thoughts like that about a person he thought of as . . . okay, maybe