CHAPTER ONE

Abby

Today at work might be the only merry time I get for the next two days. I’m facing a very Grinch-like scenario this Christmas. Well, tonight and tomorrow. Although, this morning isn’t turning out like I planned, and I don’t know what to do.

December twenty-fourth should be a happy day. I wanted to come in to work this morning. That is, until I got here.

The problem?

I thought working today would help me forget about tomorrow being Christmas, except all my coworkers want to do is eat sweets, show off their Santa hats and elf ears, and rock around the Christmas tree in the lobby. Cue the jingle bells a few of my coworkers are wearing on their earlobes and around their necks.

I’m glad they’re full of cheer—no spiked eggnog needed—but I keep getting triggered.

Not by the holiday itself, but where I’ll be spending it tonight and tomorrow.

Stop, Abby. You have work to do .

I do. The emails and messages from my clients are piling up. Everyone wants to talk or check in with me before the office closes until after the New Year. Would it be strange if I volunteered to work over the shutdown, including tomorrow?

Okay, especially tomorrow.

I don’t actually hate Christmas. It used to be my favorite holiday. I’m just not in the mood this year. My “ho-ho-ho” never appeared, and I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically.

Stop procrastinating .

I blink and refocus on the spreadsheet filling my computer monitor. I’d rather lay my head on the desk and call it a day. Instead, I yawn so big I expect two turtledoves to fly into my mouth. Yep, I’m that tired.

Even drinking two cups of coffee strong enough to wake the dead hasn’t given me any energy. Boo caffeine for not providing the boost I need. It must be almost time to go home.

I glance at the time. Nine o’clock. That’s a.m., not p.m.

How will I survive an entire day?

Night?

And tomorrow?

Outside my office door I left ajar, I overhear Sarah from accounting talking about the ski trip she and her husband are taking. I wonder if I could go with them, even though I’ve never skied in my life. Dora, an admin assistant, says she bought a mini massage gun for her in-laws’ white elephant gift exchange. I’m sure I could come up with a present of some sort if she invited me along. Mike pipes in about how he won a gift card at his neighborhood’s gingerbread house competition and can’t wait to give it to his sister. Nothing I can do there.

Each of them sounds so happy, so full of holiday joy, which only doubles the knot of dread in my stomach. A part of me wants to use my best ninja-stealth techniques to close the door without being noticed, but I’m sure someone would see or hear me.

I glance under my desk at Powerfluff. The door to her crate is open so she can explore my office, but she’s sound asleep. All I see is gray fur, but the sight fills me with warmth.

The electricity on the west side of town decided to ghost me at 3 a.m., leaving me in a dark and freezing-cold apartment. I’m talking arctic temperatures, which means I didn’t sleep much. I was too busy worrying about turning into a human-sized popsicle.

Thankfully, the east side—aka where the rich people live and where I work—is immune to the blackout drama. That means Powerfluff and I are basking in the warmth and light of my office like two crescent rolls fresh from the oven. The only thing missing? Butter melting over us. Merry Christmas to us.

The power outage has thrown a huge wrench into my plan—well, excuse—to miss Christmas with my family. What’s that adage about best-laid plans…? My mom has already texted me about my electricity being out. That means I can’t use my usual excuse that my demanding boss is making me work over the holidays so I have to stay home. That’s what I told them so I could skip Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, and Father’s Day. A white lie, but in my defense, my boss has asked me to stay late a few times, though never on a weekend. Besides, I’ve only fibbed to save my sanity…and my heart.

Especially my heart.

Except now I’m stuck without an excuse. I can’t use the same excuse I was planning to use today. I last saw my family on Mother’s Day, and the emotional scars are still healing.

Do I want to deal with all that drama now?

A big N-O-P-E.

It’s not that I hate my family. I love them. But they’re…exhausting. My parents only care about my sister, Rachel—her fancy job, her boyfriend she stole from me, and her whole perfect life. I’m more like the friend who overstayed her welcome, not their younger daughter. They don’t understand me, nor do they care to. We have the same conversation about my life every time we’re together. When my boyfriend, who I thought was “The One,” cheated on me with my older sister and broke my heart, they were so excited to celebrate Rachel’s happiness and told me to get over it. Everyone seems fine now that Rachel and Jake are “officially” together and in “love.” How I feel still doesn’t matter to them, which tells me I don’t matter.

My stomach churns, though that might be the result of one too many cookies I ate for breakfast. I hope Santa is good to my colleagues after all the homemade treats they brought in to share. At least my two-pound bag of red and green peanut M&M’s has been a big hit. If only I could send a bag of candy to my folks’ house in my place.

I perk up. If I eat enough here and stop for takeout on my way home, I can probably survive another night in my wintry-cold apartment. Waking with icicles on my eyelashes won’t be fun on Christmas morning, but at least I won’t have to deal with my family.

I weigh the pros and cons, my mind doing what it does to earn praise from our clients. Would waking up to North Pole temperatures be that bad or make it a Christmas to remember?

A meow sounds, reminding me I’m not the only one affected by my decision. I glance at the crate under my desk again. “Do you want to spend tonight at your grandparents’ house or at home?”

Powerfluff does her best grumpy expression, and I try not to laugh. “I get it. You’re too much of a diva to tolerate freezing-cold temperatures for two nights in a row.”

My cat closes her eyes, her fluffy body nestled cozily in her crate, as if to say, “Keep earning money so you can afford to buy treats, my minion.”

I smile at the regal tilt of her head. She’s the queen of our apartment—and no doubt believes she rules my office too. She probably thinks they turned on the forced-air heating just for her.

I envy her ability to just curl up and shut out the world. Maybe I should’ve been born a cat. No one would expect anything from me other than being adorable and occasionally knocking things off tables.

Not that I blame her for wanting to be warm. I prefer that myself.

Maybe what I need are more cookies and another cup of coffee to get through the morning…

Anna, my boss’s executive assistant, pops her head into my office. Her reindeer antlers light up with tiny red bulbs, bouncing cheerily as she grins at me. “Mr. Barrington wants to see you.”

Of course he does. Merry Christmas to me. Better make that a blue Christmas.

I groan inwardly. Somehow, I’ve ended up at the top of Mr. Barrington’s naughty list. I wish I knew why. He transferred here in July, and since then, it’s been clear he hates me. That’s not an exaggeration.

The weight of impending doom presses against my shoulders. “What did I do this time?”

Anna shrugs. “No idea.”

I lock Powerfluff’s crate and double-check it to make sure she can’t escape again. “Stay put,” I whisper.

I’m met with the sight of her backside—the quintessential cat move. She only acknowledges my existence when she’s ready for mealtime or I have treats.

I grab my tablet off the desk, ready for a list of things that might guarantee me job security.

“Is he in a good mood, at least?” I ask, half hoping for a Christmas miracle.

“Not really.” Anna rolls her eyes as if she’s had a front-row seat to his “bah-humbug” antics. “But then again, he doesn’t seem like a huge fan of the holidays.”

“He did cancel this year’s Secret Santa and Christmas lunch.”

“You tried to get him to change his mind,” she says with a hint of sympathy in her voice.

“He already hates me, so why not?”

“Your efforts were noted.”

Her words make me wonder. “Does that mean people have changed their bets on when I’ll be fired?”

Anna’s cheeks flush, and her mouth hangs open like she just saw Powerfluff fly. “You know about the, um, pool?”

I nod with a mischievous grin, thinking “pool” is a more polite way of saying they’ve all bet on my employment. Honestly, I’ve been eyeing that pool too. After being hit with a six-hundred-dollar vet bill for my feline diva—who was not suffering from a serious gastro issue, but punishing me for working late two nights in a row—I could use a windfall to rebuild my savings account.

“Not all the juicy details,” I admit, playing it cool while internally cringing at the thought of my so-called friends wagering on the expiration date of my employment. “I stumbled across a few conversations in the break room that clued me in.”

Anna gives me a tight-lipped smile, and I try not to laugh, because Powerfluff smiles more naturally than that. “You know how people are here.”

I didn’t until I overheard my name being mentioned. Now, I wonder if I’ve been a punchline to everyone at the office and not just since Mr. Barrington’s transfer from corporate headquarters to oversee our branch.

Not that it matters. I’ve been sending out my résumé for the past three months like I’m already unemployed. I’ve finally made it to the third interview round at one firm—fingers crossed they toss me a lifeline (or a job offer) before I’m fired. If I hand in my resignation letter, no one wins the pool.

Petty? Perhaps.

“I should go,” I say, not wanting to keep our resident grouch, our Grinch of a boss, waiting so his foul mood gets even worse. He doesn’t seem to have much in the way of people or managerial skills.

As I make my way to Mr. Barrington’s office, I run over a list of what I’ve done lately. I finished a report of my clients’ accounts. I reviewed Sarah’s numbers for the fourth quarter. I also sent every client of the firm—not just mine—a Christmas card, even if my fellow certified financial planners thought it was a waste of time. I’ve worked hard to ensure I have the lowest client turnover of anyone at the firm. Not that Mr. Barrington seems to care about that. Still, nothing sticks out for him wanting to see me…

Or hating me so much.

As usual, his door is closed when I arrive, so I knock twice on the wood.

“Come in,” a gruff voice says from within. Not exactly a holiday greeting.

I open the door and step into Mr. Barrington’s office to find him at his desk, typing. He doesn’t look up. Great, he must be pretending I’m invisible again. That’s what he does whenever I’m around.

I don’t want to find anything likable about Mr. John Barrington. My boss occupies the realm of men whom you can’t help but notice: smoldering good looks, dark eyes that seem to swallow the light whole, and those long thick eyelashes that could make any woman jealous, including me. His jawline is chiseled and goes with his nose so well. He’s the kind of guy who could effortlessly trade his briefcase for a modeling contract if he ever got bored with helping people invest their money and making my life difficult.

I shake my head internally, casting off the rogue thoughts. I need to pay attention.

I sit, noticing the snow falling outside the window behind him, forcing myself not to tap my toe. I miss Mr. Patella—bless his heart—who was our last boss, even though he seemed to have emerged from a time capsule filled with mothballs and wide ties. Sure, he repeated the same tired advice every week, but at least he mentored me. Now, I’m left to contemplate my job security every day, and I’ve gone from loving my job to hating coming in each morning. I really hope I find a new position soon.

My impatience strums at my nerves, and I resort to counting. By the time I reach thirty, I feel like an uninvited guest, except he’s the one who requested my presence.

I clear my throat, which sounds much too loud in the quiet room. “You asked to see me, Mr. Barrington.”

His eyes flick up for the briefest second, locking onto my Christmas sweater and then my faded jeans. Oh, perfect. Just what I need—his judgment about my wardrobe choice. Perhaps I should have gone for something more “deck-the-halls” and less “holiday hobo,” but an email declared today was casual dress. His tailored suit, complete with a striped candy cane tie, says otherwise. At least the tie has a holiday vibe, even if he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t.

“I noticed you were the first one in the building this morning,” he says, his tone flat. It’s infuriating how he manages to look like he just stepped out of a hair commercial—every strand perfectly in place, like he sees a hairstylist or barber every morning. No human should ever look that polished, especially at work, in the middle of a cold freeze and what appears to be an impending snowstorm. “Are you behind on your work?”

What a jerk. Why does he always assume the worst of me?

“No, actually, I’m ahead.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes, even though he deserves it. “I came in early because I live on the west side.”

“The west side?”

“Yeah. The electricity went out on the west side of town in the middle of the night. No heat, no lights, no anything since three this morning.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. Is that…concern? No, it can’t be. He’s just thinking about my productivity. Still, I can’t shake the feeling something softer hides behind his scowl.

What am I thinking? There’s nothing soft about him.

He continues to stare at me, appearing slightly dazed, which means he must be from the east side, the land of expansive lawns and fancy coffee shops, where the power is always on. They probably have heated driveways and underground cathedrals dedicated to their generators.

My voice drips with mock drama. So sue me. “I came in early because, let’s be honest, being surrounded by ice cubes while under every single blanket and towel I own isn’t my idea of a good time.”

His jaw tightens, and I can’t help but think that, under different circumstances, he really could be a model. Though he’d probably need to take lessons in how to smile. His perpetual “I just bit into a lemon” expression wouldn’t translate well in photographs.

“I hope that’s okay?” I add, laughing nervously. “I mean, it was so cold inside I could see my breath.”

“It’s fine.” He doesn’t sound fine. In fact, he sounds upset.

Uh-oh . Anxiety curls my stomach into pretzel knots. If I lose my job today, the paycheck drought will stretch into the new year. Talk about a holiday crisis.

“When I got here, I hunkered down in my office. I only turned on my office light and the one in the break room. Oh, and I whipped up a steaming pot of coffee because without a cup, my brain would resemble a foggy swamp, and I needed something to warm me up from the inside. I didn’t even crank up the thermostat.”

Though, I thought about it—more than once.

His jawline twitches. “I said it was fine.”

The edge to his voice tells me it’s not fine, but what’s left for me to say at this point? So, I muster up my best poker face and ask, “Okay, so was that the only reason you asked to see me?”

Please, be the only reason.

I stretch my lips into a smile as genuine as a three-dollar bill, completely unconvinced by my mom’s claim that smiling takes fewer muscles than frowning. Honestly, it feels like an extreme workout in here.

“Do you have a place to spend the holidays if the electricity remains out?” he asks.

Whoa, plot twist. I blink in surprise. That’s not the question I expected. Did Mr. Barrington just express human-like concern for my well-being? Cue the dramatic music.

“Abby?” he presses, his voice suddenly sharper than a chef’s knife. I can’t remember him ever using my first name. He always calls me Ms. Sinclair.

“I, uh… Yeah, I’ll be with my family.” The truth feels awkward on my tongue, given I’d rather spend Christmas with anyone else but them.

“Good, good.” He shuts his mouth, then opens it again, but no words come out. The silence is awkward.

His gaze locks on me, and the quiet weighs me down as if we’re trapped in a sitcom that’s run out of jokes. I wish I’d worn jingle bell jewelry to make some noise.

Okay, this is just great. I don’t like being the center of attention—unlike Rachel. My hands clasp together, and I pull them apart before I fidget.

I need to get out of here. “Anything else, sir?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “No. Carry on.”

Carry on? Did he forget the “keep calm” part?

I give him a polite smile, but my insides twist. This conversation hasn’t gone the way I thought it would. Not that I had any idea why he called me into his office. I leave, feeling more confused than ever.

When I return to my desk, I peek under it and find an empty cat crate. My stomach drops to my sneakers.

Something crashes outside my office.

Oh, no . Powerfluff wouldn’t…

Yes, she would.

Fueled by adrenaline, I rush to the lobby. There, in all her fluffy glory, is Powerfluff, perched atop a fallen Christmas tree, tinsel wrapped around her like a royal cape.

My coworkers stand frozen, staring in shock.

“Powerfluff,” I groan, imagining the damage this will do to my already fragile employment status. “I’m so sorry, everyone. I locked her crate. I swear.”

A deep chuckle sounds behind me. I turn to see Mr. Barrington watching the chaos with a fleeting smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Clean this up, Ms. Sinclair.” His voice is gruff once again, yet warmth flashes in his eyes, and then it’s gone. I must’ve imagined it.

Ugh . I need more cookies. Stat.

Well, after I clean up the mess my cat made.