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I pull the list from my pocket and place it on Jack’s desk.
“My holiday wishlist. Every year, I make a list of things I want to do while I’m visiting home that help me get in the holiday spirit.”
He hesitantly unfolds the paper, his eyes widening with every line he reads.
“A letter to Santa Claus. Really, Ms. Stafford? Are you a child?”
“It’s a tradition.” I shrug. “I’ve written him a letter every year since I was a kid.”
His impassive expression makes me think he’s not impressed with my answer, and his lips form a thin line when he gets to the end of the list.
“It looks like you already have someone to help you this year,” he says flatly.
“What are you talking about?”
He slides the letter in my direction, pointing to kiss under the mistletoe.
“It’s been crossed off, and I know for a fact that particular activity requires two people to participate,” he states.
Oh my god.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. How could I have forgotten that was on there?
“I crossed that item off because it’s not something I can do this year.” I keep my voice steady.
“And why is that?”
“If you haven’t noticed, Mr. Sinclair, I don’t exactly have a lot of free time to date,” I say in a snarky tone. “And I’m not the kind of person who goes around kissing strangers.”
A brief glimpse of relief crosses his face, but it’s quickly replaced with a stoic expression. His eyes dart between me and the list as he contemplates his next move.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find someone else to help you.” Jack pushes the letter back to me.
“Then I guess you’ll have to find someone else to help you prepare for the meetings with the Wescott team.” I fold my list and slip it back into my pocket.
“You’re being unreasonable,” he gripes.
“And you’re being a grinch,” I counter. “I suggested a fair solution, and you shut me down. You have no right to lash out considering you’re not willing to give as much as you take. Now, if that’s all, I need to leave for the airport to see if I can get on standby for the next flight to Maine.”
When Jack doesn’t reply, I turn to leave. I’m done letting him take advantage of me, consequences be damned. He’ll have to find someone else to order around until January because it won’t be me.
I’m nearly out the door when a hand wraps around my wrist, tugging me back. I look back to find Jack standing behind me with a conflicted expression.
“Ms. Stafford, please don’t go. I apologize for overreacting.” He says the words slowly, like they’re painful to get out. “I don’t usually celebrate the holidays, but I’m willing to make a concession and help you with your wishlist as long as I’m back in New York by the day after Christmas. I accept your conditions; do we have a deal?”
He extends his hand, and as much as I’m tempted to turn him down and give him a taste of his own medicine, I can’t do it. This feels like the perfect opportunity to finally unravel the mystery that is Jack Sinclair.
“It’s a deal.” I shake his hand, solidifying our agreement.
Why do I have the feeling this arrangement is going to be far more complicated than either of us bargained for?
2
JACK
I WATCH PRESLEY CLIMB THE steps of my private jet. She’s still in her workplace attire—a knee-length checkered skirt, white turtleneck, and black suede stiletto boots. Her brunette hair cascades down her back, and images of gripping it tightly while I plant a fiery kiss on her lips infiltrate my mind.
That’s an inappropriate thought to have about my assistant.
