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Or his three-breaths-away-from-murder voice?
Biting my lip, I tiptoe to the door that leads to our shared office space, fussing at my sweater and dark pants. As I push my shoulders back and smooth down my blonde hair, I check myself over for telltale crumbs and give myself a silent pep talk.
There’s no way he can tell.
That mince pie isgone.It’s a distant, delicious memory.
When I nudge the door wide, Reid Merryweather glowers at me from my desk in the corner. It’s a small desk with an older computer, a framed photo of my tabby cat, Bo, and a succulent in a bedazzled pink plant pot.
The succulent is wearing a tiny bow tie, but I know from experience that the boss won’t even look at it. Won’t acknowledge the existence of such shameless whimsy. It doesn’t fit with his oh-so-serious universe.
“Where the hell is that reservation?” Reid says.
He’s sitting on the scratched wood of my desk, with the monitor spun around to face him. His dark hair is all ruffled, like he’s been tugging on it and grumping around while I’ve been gone. His red tie is crooked, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up.
God, this man is pretty. My heart pulses with longing at the sight of him.
So unfair.
But I’m used to being slapped in the face by Reid’s cranky male beauty, so I stroll to the desk and pat the top of the monitor like I’m not affected at all. No butterflies here, no sir.
“Hidden in the depths of my inbox, I expect.”
“Noelle,” my boss says flatly.
Sinking into my desk chair, I smile up at him. Even sitting down, Reid looms. “I’ll forward it to you now.”
Like I already did last week—but who’s keeping track?
I don’t blame him for forgetting. Reid Merryweather has a lot on his mind. He’s the top corporate lawyer in the city—not that you’d know from our cozy little office. So he’s constantly in demand, hired for an eye-watering fee, and his big, frazzled brain has a lot going on.
Besides, I never take his mood swings personally; never get flustered by his grumping and grousing. Even though no one else seems to think so in the whole wide world,Iknow that deep down, this man has a heart of gold.
Deep down.
Deep,deepdown.
“Nice tie,” I hear myself say. My fingers race over the keyboard, the keys rattling in the quiet room. “Red. Very festive.”
The boss goes statue-still. His icy blue eyes bore into mine, and my stomach plummets to my toes. What happened? My fingers freeze on the keyboard as my words catch up to me.
Oooh shoot.
“I mean…” God, I’m sweating under my layers. Why the hell did I say that? “Not—notfest—”
“Don’t say it.” Reid raises a hand. He’s scowling like I’m a bug on his shower wall. “I’ll let that first one go, Noelle, but this is your final warning. If you say it again, you know what will happen.”
Yeah, yeah, I know. He doesn’t have to spell it out.
If I mention Christmas again, I can kiss my December bonus check goodbye. The money I desperately need if I want to keep my picky tabby cat in premium cat food.
It was dumb as hell to say the f-word. I should know better.
Because Reid Merryweather may have a heart of gold—but it’s buried under layers of snark, impatience, exhaustion with the world, and most of all, a hatred for Christmas. At this point, that heart is mostly theoretical.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks now, glaring at the tote still hanging from my shoulder. It’s stuffed with forbidden contraband—gift-wrapped holiday presents for the little old Polish lady who lives above my apartment.
She watches Bo for me sometimes, and she knitted him a mouse toy. Shedeservesa gift, damn it!
