Page 53 of Santa Baby

“I don’t need you to tell me I had this coming,” I told my dad.

“I wasn’t,” he replied, taking a few steps in my direction. He looked around the room. “But I did warn you about going against tradition.”

“I didn’t go against tradition. I made a decision for the good of my company.”

“And now look at you, having to give the public a bland apology, going on and on about your dedication to consumer safety, to quality, while you cut corners behind the scenes.”

I woke with a start, sweating, the sheets kicked down to my foot of my bed. It was a dream, the same nightmare I’d had for the past three nights. I checked my watch and found it was hours before the sun would be up on Wednesday, the day I had to walk into my office and make the same video I’d been having nightmares about.

I sat up, smoothing my hand over my face, then grabbed my phone.

I hadn’t been purposefully avoiding Fia, but I hadn’t had the time to reach out to her. After the first day went by with no contact, I’d felt like sending her a text telling her I was just busy at work wouldn’t cut it, but I hadn’t had a single second to myself since this nightmare began. I’d returned from the office two hours ago and fallen face first into bed in the clothes I wore to work. Two hours of sleep wasn’t enough, but it would have to do.

I took a shower. I made a pot of coffee and picked through my emails. I read the script my marketing team spent hours writing.

Fia. I was being awful to Fia right then. She was the only thing taking up space in my mind and the thought of her was making it impossible to focus on what I needed to be doing—saving my company from ruin.

But I couldn’t help it. I wanted her. I wanted to just talk to her. So, I called her, at four in the morning. It went to voicemail, of course.

“Fia, I’m so sorry to call you this early but I need to explain that I’m not avoiding you, not at all. Something happened at work and—I’ve been busy. I’ll call you tonight, I promise. I’m sorry—” The voicemail cut off. I set my phone on the counter and rubbed my tired eyes before finishing my coffee, dressing, and going to the office.

The day passed in another blur of activity. The city street, decorated for the upcoming holiday and dusted with fresh snow, betrayed the frenzy inside the office. I sat on the stool in front of the green screen and used that practiced voice that haunted my dreams to tell the public I was doing everything in my power to ensure quality assurance, and that Heritage Spirits was still a trusted name, a trusted business.

When the lights cut out again and the office emptied, it was well after ten at night, and I found myself walking the streets home to my apartment, kicking snow with the toes of my shoes. A couple crossed the street in front of me, arm in arm, smitten. The man kissed his girlfriend, or wife, on the cheek. She giggled in return, her shopping bags full of last-minute gifts for family and friends jingling as she turned to face him.

Jealousy ripped through my chest, hot and endless. I passed them swiftly, crossing the street into Central Park.

It was mostly empty. No teens throwing snowballs greeted me. I eventually found myself sitting on the same bench where I’d kissed Fia, alone, staring at a frosted-over fountain and the skyline beyond.

I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. I pulled it out, finding a text from Fia. My heart leapt with relief as I opened the text and scanned the contents.

“Everything okay?” she’d asked six hours ago.

I started to text her back, some long diatribe about how everything was peachy keen, that stuff like this happened all the time, that I wasn’t feeling the weight of my family’s expectations and disappointments over staining our name and whiskey recipe, but I stopped, my fingers hovering over the screen.

“No,” I replied.

Three little dots appeared immediately.

Fia replied, “Come over. Tell me what you need from me.”

I wanted nothing more. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and began to reply that I was on my way when Colin’s name flashed across my screen. Guilt settled heavily in my stomach for several different reasons.

“Hey,” I answered, trying to banish Fia’s image from my mind.

“Hey, are you at the office still?”

“I just left, why?”

“I have Japan calling in about twenty minutes. You should probably be on the call, too. Can you meet me here? Conference room A?”

I closed my eyes. My heart was screaming for me to say no. My feet were already walking in the direction of Fia’s apartment.

But my mind won out.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I’ll have coffee waiting. Be prepared for a long haul.”