Christmas in Wine Country Read Free Page A

and Lila looked up for a moment in hope. “I could carry the guests. I could be a shuttle. They could hop on my back and I could run them into the ballroom.” Lila’s mouth opened in shock at the rudeness.
                  Then, to her complete disbelief, he turned and simply walked away. Not in a hurry, no angry huff, the same nonchalant pace he’d assumed prior to learning about the crisis. Appalled, she watched him in stunned silence as he headed down a paved path along the side of the building. It was a flat, safe, handicapped accessible path that she’d somehow missed before, leading directly to an adjacent parking lot. 
    As a hot flush of embarrassment flooded her cheeks, Endicott’s event coordinator appeared once again at her side. “Now about the margarita maker. It’s in a wagon being pulled by a plastic donkey.”
    Looking inside the French doors, Lila found herself locked in a gaze with a large and unrepentant ice giraffe.
    *               *               *
    Phillip was not looking at her. That much was obvious. Lila had been standing in a clean line of his vision chatting—or more listening while her co-worker, Allison, chatted—for at least 20 minutes now. Other than a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and a distracted “Don’t you look nice,” he’d been MIA.
    Actually, it was worse than that she thought with a grimace and took a big sip of champagne. He was totally in action, just not with her. He’d been wrapped up with Axelle, the Parisian director who worked out of the New York office. Effortlessly glamorous Axelle, so tiny she could just about fit in your pocket. There they were, in a small circle with the board chair, a vice president and a giant man in a tux and cowboy hat. Just now Axelle was leaning into Phillip with laughter. And there he was, debonair and gorgeous as always, inclining his head toward hers, his hand resting oh-so-casually on the small of her back. Her bare back.
    Lila took another sip of her champagne and wondered how Axelle pulled it off—wearing a red, backless dress to the company party and still managing to look sophisticated and professional. In her black off-the-rack Ann Taylor dress Lila felt like a 50-something career nanny. The red-dressed stick laughed again, this time leaning back and flipping her long, honey-streaked hair in a cascade. Lila wished she could take hers down from what now felt like a schoolmarm bun, but she’d pretty much shellacked her hair up into a fire hazard.  
    Looking at her watch, she realized dessert was due to be served in 15 minutes. Here’s hoping that Endicott crew was great at fixing up microwave brownies. Before the party began, she and the waitstaff had had time to take down the Mexican flag, dismantle the Baby Jesus piñata , deflate the cacti and send home the Mariachi band with a nice tip for their troubles. Nothing could be done, however, about the Mexican flag sheet cakes large enough to serve 100. About 150 less than the number of guests.
    “Oh my God! Karaoke!” Allison squealed next to her. “You didn’t tell me we were going to have karaoke!”
    “We’re not,” Lila said, turning toward the dance floor. Where the DJ was announcing the next portion of the evening’s entertainment: Karaoke! Pressing her fingers against her forehead, Lila made a direct line toward the DJ. She thought she’d cleared it up: light jazz as guests filtered in, swing standards as people dined at buffet stations and milled about, moving into 70s/80s classics to top off the evening with some dancing. No open-mike invitations for drunks bellowing out “Only the Lonely” or, worse, ranting against rumored company lay-offs.
    “Excuse me,” She cleared her throat behind the DJ. Garnering no response, she tapped him on the shoulder. 
    “Oh, ho!” he chortled into his microphone and turned down the music. “We have our first volunteer!” What seemed to be a good half of the party guests turned