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We hurry to pull ourselves together and get back to our party. He takes my hand and squeezes it.
“Yep. Unwrapping you as my Christmas gift after kissing you under the mistletoe will always be my best memory ever. This wedding of ours is up there, too, though, and I’m sure having a baby will be very memorable.”
“I’m sure it will be,” I say, smiling back at him as we return to dance the night away before starting our honeymoon and the rest of our lives together.
THE END
Under His Charm
Quarantined with My Boss on St. Patrick’s Day
Love Under Lockdown
Chapter One
It raged like an albino volcano. The bubbles raced each other to the tippy top, threatening to spill over the side like so much white lava. It was one of the downsides to the use of water-based antacids, timing it just right to avoid a soggy tragedy.
I hadn’t even been drinking, which only compounded things. I actually could barely remember I’d downed a bit of the hard stuff. Either in terms of beverages or men.
Work had taken over increasingly large portions of my life. I’d always been dedicated, but the switch to remote-only work really threw me for a loop.
But after a bit, the ritual had become like second nature. A comfort in a universe where nothing seemed certain, even if the only order to be found was that we made for ourselves. If nothing else we, that is humans, had gotten fantastic at it over the past few centuries. When all that fell away, reloading routine and predictability with tasks that had no structure around them, not even a schedule, I started to panic.
But then my workaholic nature took over and my whole existence came to be about productivity. Not only getting things done but done well, and in record time. I saw them more as a challenge. A Mt. Everest of paperwork to climb before anyone else.
It was possible, I had to admit, that if I had a less important or high-profile job, I might not be so stressed. Not only did a lot of people rely on me and what I did, everyone knew it too. It wasn’t always like that, or anything close to my ambition.
I’d started out in the mail-room, pushing my cart between the floors and through the corridors of City Hall, helping the city function in what way I could. 18 when I’d started, I was still young enough to not be cynical about the whole system. A fate which never befell me, even after I’d discovered the harsh truth of the world.
There was little that could shake my faith, both in the system and the master I served. Ryan Owens, the new mayor who, even near the end of his first term in office, was as popular as when he was first campaigning prior to his landslide victory.
The election that year boasted a 90 percent turnout, a historic 80 percent voting for Owens, several of the other candidates receiving support in the double-digits. Including the Conservative incumbent who was captured stomping his own campaign poster. An apt metaphor for the kicking Owens had given him at the polls.
There was something about him that drove me, always wanting to do my best for him and his vision. Although the new self-imposed scheduling wasn’t exactly helping my health, even as it helped to drive his time in office. I was one of his top aides, after all. True, I’d gotten the position two years into his four-year term, but was determined to make up for the lost time, blissfully unaware that time was about to become an even bigger factor. As long as the work was done, no one really cared. The fact I got an average of three hours of sleep a night went unnoticed by most.
My phone binged with a new message as I glutted down the foul tasting stuff. Tapping the happy little icon I was informed of a Zoom request from the man himself. Pulling myself together following a spasm of girlish squealing, I put on my most professional face and tapped the link.
“Hi Candide.”
My heart skipped a beat as my pussy tightened. He looked as handsome as ever, as dashing and polished over a video screen as he is positioned in his seat of power downtown. The fact he still insisted on wearing his trademark tweed suit and Oxford cloth shirt even for online meetings helping this impression no end.
It was honestly difficult to tell how old he was just by looking at him. His face looked young, and movie-star handsome, but his jet black hair was shot through with streaks of light gray. My own independent research placed him at 35, just over a decade beyond my own age.
A bit of a gap but nothing too scandalous, even though you wouldn’t know it but looking at him, or me to be honest. No matter how professional I tried to look, I still came across mostly as a teenager playing at adulthood, rather than an adult, albeit a young own, with an important job to be done. I got more than a few looks after my promotion, that was for damn sure.
