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There’s no denying Presley is beautiful, but we work together. Not to mention, she’s nine years younger than me. I’ve done everything in my power to maintain a strict professional relationship since hiring her, so I’m not sure why my dick is taking this particular moment to protest. It’s probably because I haven’t gotten laid in a while.
I’ve been working on multiple acquisitions over the last few months and rarely leave the office. It doesn’t help that my entire staff wants to take time off during our busiest season. Hundreds of emails are waiting for a reply in my inbox, proposals that need to be drafted for three new clients, and multiple legal documents are ready for review. So why the hell am I putting it all on hold simply because my assistant said she had to travel home for the holidays? Or maybe the better question is why did I insist on going with her?
I attribute it to a temporary lapse in judgment. After seeing her holiday wishlist, there was no way I could let her go home to Aspen Grove alone, knowing that at any moment she could be kissing someone under the mistletoe.
“Mr. Sinclair, are you coming?” Presley asks from her spot at the boarding door.
“Yeah.”
I jog up the steps to meet her. Once we’re inside, I give a nod of approval to the flight attendant when she hands me a glass with two fingers of whiskey. I gulp the liquid in one swig, returning the empty glass to the tray.
The interior of my jet is furnished with eight leather seats to the left, two long couches to the right, and a large flat-screen TV built into the far wall. Presley leads us to the chairs in the back that have workstations, knowing that I plan to work the duration of the flight.
I’m aware that my employees have several choice nicknames for me, including hard ass, devil, and the Grinch. I’m a workaholic who keeps to himself and demands the best from my staff, and I make no apologies for that.
Most people assume that I inherited my wealth, but they’re wrong. Sure, I grew up in an affluent household, with my father owning a successful pharmaceutical company and my mother coming from old oil money. Aside from paying for my education though, they haven’t given me a cent since I graduated high school.
I didn’t have a conventional childhood. My time spent with my father was reserved for being taught how to run a business and the importance of doing whatever it took to become successful. His version of tough love was cutting me off from my inheritance so I’d be forced to venture out and prove to him that I was capable of succeeding on my own. Still, no matter what I do, he’ll never be pleased. When I earned my first million, he told me I wasn’t working hard enough, and the day I became a billionaire, he was disappointed that I hadn’t reached the status sooner.
“Why do you care so much about this holiday wishlist of yours?” I ask Presley.
I’ve been wondering ever since I came across last year’s list.
“My mom goes all out at Christmas, and I guess you could say it’s rubbed off on me. I usually have my family help me with my list. There’s nothing better than spending quality time with the people I love and making memories that we can cherish forever.”
I give her a curt nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. I distract myself by pulling out my laptop and firing off several emails.
I suppress a snicker when I open one from my mother’s personal assistant with an attached generic “Season’s Greetings” card. It’s something you’d send a business associate, not your son, but it’s befitting of our relationship—or lack thereof.
A part of me is envious of Presley, and I wonder if she knows just how lucky she is to have parents who care.
A black SUV is waiting for us when we land in Aspen Grove an hour later. Thankfully, there’s an airfield right outside of town that’s only a ten-minute drive to Presley’s parents’ house.
She insists the driver drop us off there and is planning to take me to the hotel once she’s seen her family. I had her call earlier and book their last available suite, so I’ll have plenty of privacy while I’m here.
I’m reading through a proposal from a new client when the car slows to a stop outside of a two-story Cape-style home with a wraparound porch. Thousands of colorful bulbs cover every inch of its exterior, and in the center of the yard are eight inflatable reindeer, complete with Santa Claus driving the sled behind them.
I roll my eyes at the dramatic display. I know she said her mom was obsessed with Christmas, but I’m not looking forward to spending the next few days with a bunch of Christmas fanatics. Why the hell did I agree to this?
Because it’s better than spending the holidays alone in my penthouse.
At least I hope it is.
I wordlessly follow Presley up the driveway to the front door with our bags in tow, but almost run into her when she abruptly stops on the top step of the porch.
“What are you doing, Ms. Stafford?”
“You can’t call me that here,” she hisses.
I furrow my brow. “What am I supposed to call you?”
“Presley.” Her tone is snarky. “Only my boss would call me Ms. Stafford, and you’re not him, remember?”
“Fine. Why are we standing outside, Presley?”
“Um, I just realized I’ve never brought a man home before,” she explains. “I always figured when I did it would be someone I was dating… Never mind, you wouldn’t understand.” She waves me off.
Before I can respond, the front door swings open and we’re greeted by an older version of Presley—her mother, I presume. They share the same bright smile, ocean blue eyes, and straight brown hair. The older woman’s hair is styled in a shoulder-length bob, and she’s dressed in jeans and a Christmas sweater.
