Page 62 of Santa Baby

The Ritz-Carlton had been completely transformed into something that reminded me of what it might feel like to be standing inside a snow globe. The foundation in charge of the event, a charity auction benefitting underprivileged children, had pulled out all the stops. Massive Christmas trees stretched to the ceiling covered in envelopes scribbled with childlike handwriting, and dozens of tables covered the dance floor, elegantly decorated with greens, reds, and golds, while a live jazz band played what I assumed were Fia’s favorite holiday songs.

I scanned the crowd, finding her in a few aching moments. She was dressed in a deep, emerald green tonight, a gown I’d helped her pick out earlier this morning with barely a second to spare. It hugged her curves in a way that made her look like an actress from the fifties, and I wasn’t the only one who had my eye on her tonight. But it was my diamonds glistening on her earlobes.

I was struck with the desire to have a diamond on her ring finger, as well.

I adjusted my tie and went back to inspecting the tables, trying to hide the heated blush ripping across my cheeks by sipping scotch and signing my name on the “contracts” peppered across the silken tablecloths. I enjoyed this event every year. It wasn’t nearly as pretentious as some of the other charity-auction-type balls held this time of year. In lieu of bidding on overpriced cars and jewelry, I read Christmas lists written by tiny hands. Sasha, a seven-year-old girl from the Bronx, desperately wanted the entire Harry Potter series and a Barbie convertible. Adrian, from New Jersey, wanted a new baseball bat and baseball cards. Allison from the lower west side wanted sparkly pink sneakers and a backpack with her name embroidered on it.

I signed my name on the dotted line, a promise that their wishes would be fulfilled.

I moved on to the next table, giving tight smiles and nods in greeting to weary acquaintances. I’d expected the whispers. I chose not to let it affect me. I was having a good day, and I wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it.

Last night I’d left the office and picked up Thai food before going to Fia’s apartment. She’d been in the throes of event planning for Heather Schuyler’s massive Christmas blowout, her entire apartment covered in fabric swatches, design plans, down to the style of cutlery that would be served and what color suits the string quartet would be wearing. Fia had been in the zone, and it was amazing watching her work, even if I did have to throw a spring roll her way from time to time to ensure she ate something, anything, as the night progressed.

I spent hours listening to her talk, her hands always busy, watching the gears turning in her head through her wide, excited eyes. When she finally passed out at midnight in a heap of invitation drafts, I picked her up and picked my way up the horribly unsafe stairs to her loft and dumped her in bed, pushing her as close to the far wall as I could.

I cleaned up her apartment, made sure she had enough coffee to get her through the morning, and went home feeling warm and fulfilled, even if we’d barely touched.

This morning and the hours that followed were a whirlwind. Fia insisted on wearing something from her own closet, feeling guilty about the gown she purchased with my credit card for Deck the Decks, and had a full-on meltdown on the phone when I told her the event tonight was actually black tie. I’d picked her up, dried her frantic tears, and taken her to Bloomingdale’s, where an associate was waiting for us with a dozen gowns in her size, ready to go without alterations, and a whiskey neat for me.

Today had been a glimpse into my future. Holding Fia upright while she hopped into a pair of heels at my apartment, simultaneously trying to put on her earrings, had been a vision of a future of us rushing out the door to get to these events on time, but married, sharing the home we were leaving for the night. I’d imagined being greeted by the hosts of parties like this one as “Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary” instead of “Mr. O’Leary and his date?” Yeah, I was thinking about it. Hard. My mind was already made up.

“Mason, old boy. I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.” The voice of Richard Callaway, a rival competitor in the spirits scene, floated my way on a breeze of cinnamon and spice. I turned, giving him a short, to the point nod in greeting, to which he smirked. “You’ve made me a very rich man this season, O’Leary. My wife would probably kiss you on the mouth if she’d come tonight. She’s getting a new yacht.”

“I’m happy my dip in business made it possible to buy your wife another boat, Rich.”

“More than a dip, I heard. A total recall right before Christmas? You must be frantic.”

I smiled around the rim of my drink. “It’s settled. Nothing but a blip. You might want to consider tightening your pockets again.”

Richard, a handsome man in his early fifties, rolled his green eyes to the ceiling and laughed heartily. “You young sharks in the market have sharper teeth than I’m used to.”

“There’s room for all of us in this ocean,” I reminded him. “Unless you’re finally willing to consider my offer of a merger. You could buy your wife three boats, and one for your mistress.”

He snorted a laugh. “You can fight for my company when I’m cold in my grave, Mason. Hell, I’ll make sure to wax your boxing gloves before I kick the bucket.”

We smiled knowingly at each other. Richard owned Empire Wines and Spirits, a conglomerate that owned at least a dozen vineyards and distilleries, primarily on the west coast, and a few larger operations in Europe. I idolized him as a young man just getting my foot in the door, and I still did, although I didn’t agree with what he got up to in his personal life.

In fact, I watched a beautiful woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty waltz toward us, dressed in startling red, her icy blonde hair falling down her back. “I’m hungry, when are we leaving?” she pouted, tugging on his arm.

She was definitely not his daughter.

“Good seeing you, Mason.” Richard smirked as he led his date away and I continued my exploration of the tables, finally winding my way back to Fia’s side.

“Mason!” she gasped, surprised when I stepped up to her. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you!” She adjusted the bodice of her dress, which hugged her breasts in a way that made my mouth water. I did my best not to look down as she clicked her tongue with impatience. “Everyone has been asking me about you and your business. I know nothing, so I’ve been making things up.”

“Like what?” I chuckled, noticing the pinkness spreading on her cheeks.

“I told someone—I can’t remember their name—that the whiskey in question was just disgusting, and you thought it was a better idea to tell the public it’d been recalled for contamination instead of admitting the batch was a dud.”

“Well, the truth would certainly be hard to prove in that case.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Someone else asked about how the projections for your… third? No, second quarter earnings were looking, and I had no idea what to say, so I said they were probably good and pointed to my earrings.”

“Well played. How upper crust of you.”

She pinched my arm. I grabbed her fingers and tucked her hand in mine, smiling down at her. “I had to make the rounds, you know, let people talk, let them ask questions so we could get that out of the way.”

“Well, now that it’s out of the way, what are we doing?” she asked.