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Harlow smiles again, and fuck me; I’m enjoying this back and forth more than I should.
“Fine, then how about we start small? Thirty minutes at the ugly Christmas sweater party.”
“No.”
“Twenty?”
“There’s no point in bargaining with me.”
“Ten, final offer,” she says, her eyes wide as she studies me.
“I don’t even have a sweater,” I point out.
Harlow gets the most mischievous, breathtaking grin, and I know I’m fucked.
“I thought that might be the case, so I took the liberty of making you one.”
She pulls out a sweater she was hiding behind her back, presenting it to me like an offering. It’s a hideous baby-poop green color with Santa’s face plastered on the front. His beard is made of synthetic hair, and his red hat is velvet. The worst part is that there seem to be colored Christmas lights woven in, the strand connecting to a small box containing batteries. Good lord, it might just be the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen.
I can’t believe I’m going to wear it.
What is this woman doing to me?
CHAPTERFOUR
HARLOW
Seeing Bishop Castillo in the ugly sweater I made him is by far the best moment of my life. I can’t contain my grin as he steps out of the en suite bathroom in his office.
The sweater is a little too tight for him, but I’m not mad about it. The man is ripped, and while he’s ravishing in his crisp Armani suits, they don’t contour to his muscles the way the thin wool fabric does. Yes, he looks ridiculous, but that only makes my crush on him grow ten times larger. It’s becoming a real problem.
“Well, how do I look?” he asks, frowning down at his sweater. Bishop tries pulling the sleeves down over his wrists, but they’re too short.
“Dashing,” I tell him with a smile. He grunts, which pulls a laugh from deep within my belly. He’s like a grumpy Christmas teddy bear, and my heart can hardly stand it.
His eyes meet mine, and for a brief second, I think he might smile. It’s hidden in the layers of his stormy blue eyes, but Bishop won’t let it come to the surface for some reason. I’m not sure if it’s because he forgot how to smile or if he just hasn’t had a reason to in a while.
Either way, I’m determined to get this man to emote somehow. Preferably in a positive way, but honestly, at this point, I’ll take anything. I’m halfway convinced my boss is a robot. He basically confirmed it by telling me he has no relationships, wears the same outfit every day, and works from sun up to sun down.
“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, giving me some strong side-eye.
“It’s not going to kill you to chat with your employees.”
“You don’t know that. It might. I’ve never tried it before.”
I grin at him, delighted when I see a tiny little spark of playfulness. “Did you just make a joke?” I gasp dramatically.
“Never,” he answers solemnly, though his eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I grab Bishop’s hand and pull him toward the door. He freezes in place, and I’m caught off balance, coming to a stuttering halt. I look at Bishop, who is staring at our clasped hands.
Realizing the line I crossed, I try pulling my hand from his, but he wraps his fingers around mine, giving them a light squeeze. Our eyes meet, and my breath stalls in my lungs at what I see. A mix of tenderness, confusion, and awe flashes across his features, but it’s gone before I can even blink my eyes.
Bishop drops my hand and nods toward the door, his face schooled over once again. I saw it, though. His fragile heart. Everything in me wants to wrap around him and hold all his broken pieces together.
For now, I’ll settle for getting him out of his corner office.
I walk out into the hallway, Bishop following me like a puppy being dragged to the vet. He’s taking slow, small steps and keeps falling further and further behind. Finally, I turn around and put my hands on my hips.
