The Billionaire’s Christmas Vows: A Jet City Billionaire Christmas Romance by Gina Robinson
Authors: Gina Robinson
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sides.
More than a display, it was a competition. Each of the eight to ten entries vied for votes, which you texted in. I had never quite figured out what the winner got. All the money raised went to fund juvenile diabetes research. Prestige, maybe? Bragging rights?
A large, clear glass donation box sat at the entrance to the cordoned-off village. You could drop money in or text in your donation. There was no required entry fee, but donations were encouraged. Every year I thought the same thing—you had to see the sense of humor, or irony, or whatever you wanted to call it in concoctions made of sugar and candy raising money for diabetes research.
The hotel lobby sparkled with Christmas decorations and crystal chandeliers. It was a high-end hotel with granite countertops and gold fixtures. The staff dressed in suits. Christmas music played quietly in the background.
While we waited in line, a volunteer came by and passed out candy canes to the children and five-dollar gift cards to a local coffee shop to the adults.
Jus quietly stuffed a hundred-dollar bill in the donation box. If I knew Jus, he hadn't done it to be showy. He'd done it to encourage others to be generous. He had his cellphone in his hand. He turned away for a second. I was sure he'd texted in his generous annual donation.
Our turn came up as the line moved and we inched in front of the display. I smiled as the gingerbread village came into view. Who could be uncheered by the sight of cookie and candy buildings? Every year I felt the same sense of wonder. It was like being a child again, full of candy-cane dreams and magic.
The line moved slowly, as people paused to take pictures and bend down and peer into tiny hard-candy windows. The first house was based on "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town."
"Look, Jus!" I squeezed his hand. "Look at Santa going down the chimney. Do you think he's going to make it?"
Jus grinned. "He's pretty jolly and fat. My bet is not without a hefty dose of Christmas magic."
I bent down to look inside. As well as I could, anyway. It was hard when you had to bend around a baby person at your waist. "There's even soot on the hearth and cookies waiting for him."
Jus leaned beside me, his warm hand on my back.
"Next year you'll get to play Santa," I whispered to him.
"I better start eating cookies now." His eyes twinkled. How merry!
I shook my head and put my hand on his rock-hard abs. "Don't even think about it. I like these the way they are."
So far, we had managed to avoid the paparazzi. Seattle was tolerant of her billionaires, giving them their space and privacy. At least when they were in their regular neighborhood hangouts. But this was a public event that Jus attended every year. An event that would welcome media coverage. Though we hadn't announced our visit ahead of time, we were still fair game. Which added to the thrill, and danger, of proposing to Jus.
I crossed my fingers, hoping to avoid the press entirely.
Jus and I made our way slowly along the row of gingerbread buildings, laughing and commenting on each. Jus tended to comment more on the structural aspects of the designs, marveling at getting a four- or five-story building made out of cookie to stand.
I was in agreement, but for a different reason. "They must control the climate in here. Otherwise, how do these creations not get soggy and collapse? Every gingerbread house I've ever built, even ones made of graham crackers, has gotten soggy and collapsed within days. No matter how crisp it is at first."
I was running off at the mouth, talking about anything to cover my nerves and the pounding of my heart in my ears as we approached the Winter Wonderland display. I hoped Jus didn't notice my anxiety and excitement. Or the way I was trying not to be obvious as I kept an eye out for reporters.
The line started on the backside of the village and wound around to end the tour on the front side of the display. Winter Wonderland was the next-to-last display in the
More than a display, it was a competition. Each of the eight to ten entries vied for votes, which you texted in. I had never quite figured out what the winner got. All the money raised went to fund juvenile diabetes research. Prestige, maybe? Bragging rights?
A large, clear glass donation box sat at the entrance to the cordoned-off village. You could drop money in or text in your donation. There was no required entry fee, but donations were encouraged. Every year I thought the same thing—you had to see the sense of humor, or irony, or whatever you wanted to call it in concoctions made of sugar and candy raising money for diabetes research.
The hotel lobby sparkled with Christmas decorations and crystal chandeliers. It was a high-end hotel with granite countertops and gold fixtures. The staff dressed in suits. Christmas music played quietly in the background.
While we waited in line, a volunteer came by and passed out candy canes to the children and five-dollar gift cards to a local coffee shop to the adults.
Jus quietly stuffed a hundred-dollar bill in the donation box. If I knew Jus, he hadn't done it to be showy. He'd done it to encourage others to be generous. He had his cellphone in his hand. He turned away for a second. I was sure he'd texted in his generous annual donation.
Our turn came up as the line moved and we inched in front of the display. I smiled as the gingerbread village came into view. Who could be uncheered by the sight of cookie and candy buildings? Every year I felt the same sense of wonder. It was like being a child again, full of candy-cane dreams and magic.
The line moved slowly, as people paused to take pictures and bend down and peer into tiny hard-candy windows. The first house was based on "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town."
"Look, Jus!" I squeezed his hand. "Look at Santa going down the chimney. Do you think he's going to make it?"
Jus grinned. "He's pretty jolly and fat. My bet is not without a hefty dose of Christmas magic."
I bent down to look inside. As well as I could, anyway. It was hard when you had to bend around a baby person at your waist. "There's even soot on the hearth and cookies waiting for him."
Jus leaned beside me, his warm hand on my back.
"Next year you'll get to play Santa," I whispered to him.
"I better start eating cookies now." His eyes twinkled. How merry!
I shook my head and put my hand on his rock-hard abs. "Don't even think about it. I like these the way they are."
So far, we had managed to avoid the paparazzi. Seattle was tolerant of her billionaires, giving them their space and privacy. At least when they were in their regular neighborhood hangouts. But this was a public event that Jus attended every year. An event that would welcome media coverage. Though we hadn't announced our visit ahead of time, we were still fair game. Which added to the thrill, and danger, of proposing to Jus.
I crossed my fingers, hoping to avoid the press entirely.
Jus and I made our way slowly along the row of gingerbread buildings, laughing and commenting on each. Jus tended to comment more on the structural aspects of the designs, marveling at getting a four- or five-story building made out of cookie to stand.
I was in agreement, but for a different reason. "They must control the climate in here. Otherwise, how do these creations not get soggy and collapse? Every gingerbread house I've ever built, even ones made of graham crackers, has gotten soggy and collapsed within days. No matter how crisp it is at first."
I was running off at the mouth, talking about anything to cover my nerves and the pounding of my heart in my ears as we approached the Winter Wonderland display. I hoped Jus didn't notice my anxiety and excitement. Or the way I was trying not to be obvious as I kept an eye out for reporters.
The line started on the backside of the village and wound around to end the tour on the front side of the display. Winter Wonderland was the next-to-last display in the
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