Page 3 of Terms and Traditions

“Are you all right?” Nash’s low timbre was soft and serious, despite our lack of company on the carpeted hallway floor. I might be able to laugh about this someday.

“I have POTS,” I said simply. “It makes my blood pressure drop ridiculously low, and my body equates a change in position, like from sitting to standing, to be a strenuous task. Usually it just makes me severely dizzy and my heart pound really fast, but I faint sometimes.” I shrugged, straightening my dress over my legs.

Nash blinked in horror before his dark eyes traced my face, like he was filing away this information for later. “How did I not know this? We’ve worked together for two years and been friends nearly as long.”

Friends. Such a hard word to swallow. I twitched my shoulder in a half shrug, making my earrings jingle. “It’s not exactly something I advertise. My case is manageable, so it’s not a huge inconvenience. I just have to be smart.”

“Like your preference for the elevator over the stairs? Or why you always stand up from your desk slowly and have an aversion to sports?”

I stared at him. He noticed those things? Noticed me? And why, instead of feeling embarrassed about it, were my shoulders relaxing? Okay, the sports one was a bit of a stretch. Sure, my POTS affected it a little, but truthfully, I just hated intense physical exercise.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly.

Only in my dreams. At thirty-three, Nash Prescott was a multimillionaire and just my type… if he wasn’t my boss. But I was so far out of his league he would never think of me like that, and after what Anika and Samantha said, I doubted any man ever would. It wasn’t just their words that hurt—it was how close their observations lined up with my own fears. If others saw the same flaws in me that I did, didn’t that make them true?

To my prolonged silence, Nash added, his rare Texas twang slipping out just a hint, “Anythin’, Stephanie. Name it.”

Why did he have to be so stinkin’ nice? And the way his voice curled over my name… Perfection.

“I need a fake boyfriend to take to Christmas with my family,” I muttered then slapped a hand over my mouth in horror. I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud. He was probably talking about work accommodations. So why in the Nutcracker realm of Christmas did I blurt that out? Maybe it was the way Anika’s words gripped my heart in a chokehold. Or the ringing dread in my ears after Hiram’s texts. Or the sliver of jealousy I struggled with while getting a front-row seat to my best friend’s happily ever after playing out. Or maybe it was just plain ol’ lack of oxygen to the brain. Regardless, my heart was tap-dancing in my ribcage, and the words fell out of me without permission. Abort! Abort! Run!

“A fake boyfriend?” Nash’s dark eyes swam with curiosity and confusion, and he adjusted his glasses. “Wouldn’t your real one get jealous?”

Was he… Was he fishing? Huh. And whatever gave him the impression there was a real boyfriend in the picture? I would have brought him tonight if there was. My shoulders slumped. “Forget it, it’s dumb. I’m not thinking straight right now.” And I’d need seven to ten months to recover from my humiliation. To save the last shred of my dignity, I shifted to try standing up without face-planting.

But Nash touched my elbow, stilling my movements and keeping me at his side. Not too tight—I could slip away easily if I wanted, which I didn’t. I am so dead.

“I’ll do it.”

Clearly my brain was short circuiting because there was no way he just agreed. “Huh?” was my elegant retort to this beautiful man.

Nash smiled, his dimple popping. “You need a fake boyfriend? You got one. You need me to meet your family? Consider it done.”

I frowned. Why was he being so blasé—even cheery—about this? He didn’t go around doing boyfriend-for-hire gigs any more than I could climb a flight of stairs without getting dizzy. Which was never.

“What about your girlfriend?” I wasn’t fishing. Really. As his PA, I knew his schedule. There were no evening dates or dinner plans—how? This guy was seriously a catch. But maybe he’d surprise me, and I wasn’t about to cheat.

His eyebrow raised, like he guessed my train of thought. “No girlfriend, Stephanie. You know that.”

Yes, I did. I sighed inwardly. He hadn’t dated since I’d worked here. Not that I was keeping tabs… Okay, fine I was, thanks to this stupid crush. But I was in no way crossing any HR lines. Because HR made a big deal about that type of thing… I think. At least in the movies. Maybe reality was different from fiction? And yet…

“You’re serious?” I asked, probing him for sincerity. Daring him to drop a “Just kidding!” To back out. Hoping he would but praying he wouldn’t.

“As a tombstone.” Nash didn’t flinch under my scrutiny, and my soul shied away from such directness. Even if it made my insides melt like toffee.

“Tomorrow!” I blurted out. “Coffee at Maisie’s. Ten o’clock. We can discuss our terms and…” Maybe I should have clarified exactly what this mission covered? Christmas at the Addams’s cabin might interfere with his plans. “Um, I should mention it involves spending Christmas with my incredibly dysfunctional, Christmas-obsessed, competitive family.”

The smile he flashed me was forty-watt perfection. “We can hash this all out tomorrow over coffee. You aren’t scaring me off.”

There was no way he could know just how sweet those words tasted after the sting of Anika and Samantha’s conversation in the kitchen still prickled in my heart.

Like the gentleman he was, Nash stood before holding both hands out to pull me to my feet. It was a chivalrous move. Thoughtful. Helpful. But when his large, warm hands captured mine, strong and sure, and he slowly tugged me up, I knew I was already a goner.

“If you change your mind, I promise I’ll understand,” I whispered, studying our lingering joined hands and taking a moment to catch my breath and my balance.

“I’m not changing my mind,” Nash said with sincerity. When I tipped my chin up to meet his gaze, he added, “I know what I want.” He squeezed my hands again, only stepping away once he was certain I was steady. Straightening his black shirt sleeves, rolled over his forearms, he said, “Fantastic work with the party. You can head out early if you want. You deserve it, and I still owe you.”

“Let’s call this fake dating my favour and be done with it. You’re on your own for all future party planning,” I grumbled, crossing my arms to hide the still-damp outline on my dress.