CHAPTER TWO

John

As Abby—I mean, Ms. Sinclair—heads to the decimated tree, I return to my office. I sit at my desk and bury my face in my hands, practically singeing my palms from the heat radiating off my cheeks. You’d think a guy with an MBA from Harvard would have a handle on this whole “talking to women” thing. Instead, I’m floundering like an eighth grader who just tripped over his own two feet, cheeks flushed and tongue-tied. Pathetic doesn’t begin to cover my behavior with her.

Pathetic with a capital P still doesn’t come close.

First, telling Abby to “carry on…”

Seriously, who even says that? I cringe so hard I nearly strain my shoulder muscles. If only I could blame the words on some earworm from a radio station that plays oldies, but nope, I just had to channel my inner Mr. Darcy meets Michael Scott, didn’t I?

And then I nearly laughed at what her cat did. I mean, a video of that proud gray furball on the tree would easily go viral on social media. I almost said as much, but thankfully, my “carry on” comment stopped me from saying more than the bare minimum.

Oh, for the love of all that’s holy, Abby would be the one who witnessed my verbal face-plant. The universe clearly has it in or me. And her cat, too. I noticed its narrowed gaze when I stared at Abby.

My crush on her—an employee, as my brain screams at me every five seconds—has gone from a gentle simmer to a full-blown boil since I first saw her in July. That’s when I was unceremoniously dumped into this office to clean up the Category 5 disaster that was Mr. Patella’s reign of incompetence. Seriously, how does one man manage to file every single document under M for “Miscellaneous”?

I never managed employees before because I prefer working with numbers. I excelled at doing computational analysis, but Grandpa said I needed management experience for when I take over the company. Not that he plans to retire anytime soon, which is why I wish he would have let me stay where I was. I don’t like being in charge of others. Numbers are so much easier to understand than human beings. They don’t talk back or make my heart go pitter-patter like Abby does, either.

For months, I’ve tried to keep my distance from Abby, but it’s like she’s a magnet, and I’m a helpless paperclip. The more I avoid her, the more I want to be near her, possibly to sniff her hair like some creepy horror-movie stalker. I’ve always prided myself on my ironclad discipline and self-control, but where Abigail Sinclair is concerned, I have all the willpower of a toddler in a candy store.

She’s not only intelligent and hardworking. She’s even better with numbers than I am. And don’t get me started on her beauty. Those soulful brown eyes, flecked with spots of amber, reduce me to a babbling idiot faster than you can say “HR violation.” And then her full lips easily curve into a smile for everyone in the office—the janitor, the FedEx guy, probably even the office plants. But or me? Nada. Zip. The Sahara Desert of smiles. Which only makes me want her more.

I’m doomed.

If I had a snowball’s chance of being with Abby, I just melted it with a blowtorch. Our employee handbook might as well be titled 101 Ways to Crush Your Office Crush . To avoid any whispers of favoritism, I’ve bent over backward not to treat Abby special, even going full drill sergeant on her and demanding twice as much from her than others. It’s not fair, but switching gears now would raise too many eyebrows.

The kicker?

Abby always knocks her assignments out of the park, leaving me slack-jawed and more smitten. My heart does a backflip while my brain screams, “Abort mission!”

Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place—or, in this case, between HR policies and heart palpitations.

I need a distraction—preferably a woman with a pulse and a penchant for guys who can’t stop blushing around their coworker. A girlfriend would be perfect, except every woman I meet doesn’t compare to her. I should ask Grandpa to let me return to the corporate headquarters so I can put this unrequited love behind me.

This is what they mean by “love hurts,” right? Because my ego feels the burn like my cheeks.

A thunderous knock reverberates through my office like the Abominable Snowman is trying to break down my door. Or maybe it’s the Ghost of Christmas Future, here to show me the terrifying spectacle of a sexual harassment suit.

What if it’s Abby again?

I run my fingers through my hair and adjust my tie to appear professional. “Come in.”

The door swings open, and it’s Anna, her face pale. “Hey, boss. The weather reports predict a snowpocalypse hitting this afternoon. They’re advising people to go home now and avoid traveling unless absolutely necessary.”

Visions of employees trapped in snowbanks dance in my head. “Looks like the holiday shutdown is starting early. Tell everyone to pack up and have a great week off.”

My grandfather, bless his holiday-loving heart, believes Christmas should be spent with family, so he shuts the company down between December twenty-fifth and January first. A waste if you ask me since the stock market doesn’t close, but hey, who am I to argue with paid vacation time?

“Thank you, Mr. Barrington.” Anna sounds relieved. “If you want to head out, I can make sure to turn off the lights and lock up.”

“You have little ones at home who must be excited for Santa’s visit,” I say, appreciating the work she does for me. “Go home now. I’ll close up.”

Her eyes widen, and I restrain myself from cackling like I’ve had one too many holiday cocktails. Have I been channeling the Grinch or Scrooge? Maybe I’m their love child—the Grooge. I’ve heard employees’ not-so-subtle whispers painting me as the ultimate holiday party pooper after I axed the Secret Santa and Christmas lunch. Abby was the only one who spoke about it to my face, which was brave of her. But hey, with this apocalyptic winter weather and everyone leaving early, I’m practically Nostradamus in a Christmas tie.

Truth be told, canceling the office holiday party was completely self-serving. The mere thought of drawing Abby’s name sent my heart into a tinsel-tangled frenzy. The only gift I want to give her is a rock so big it would make the North Pole tilt—a dazzling Tiffany’s engagement ring that screams “marry me.” So, yes, I torpedoed the whole event faster than you can say “bah humbug.” Yes, that was selfish, but what can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic disguised as a Christmas killjoy.

“Thanks.” The word rushes out, as if Anna is afraid I’ll change my mind. I still have lots to learn about managing employees, but the one thing I am is consistent to a fault. “Have a merry Christmas.”

She hurries from my office before I can say, “Drive safe.”

Word spreads fast because soon the chatter of goodbyes and season’s greetings fills the lobby. I wish I could be as lighthearted, but I can’t forget the pile of work I need to do. I glance out the window. Not that I blame anyone for wanting to get home in this weather. The snow is falling faster. I’ll just take things with me to work on at the hotel. I need a night of peace and quiet before I go home to the madness that is our Christmas Day.

As I pack up, my cell phone rings. Grandma’s name and her number light up my screen. I accept the call and hit the speaker button. “Merry Christmas, Grandma.”

“Harrumph.” I can practically see her frown radiating through the phone. “It’s not Christmas yet, and you know better.”

And there it is—the reason why my family doesn’t dare to even whisper “Merry Christmas” on the twenty-fourth. Grandma isn’t only a stickler for celebrating on the actual holiday; she’s the self-appointed guardian of Christmas propriety.

I secretly adore how she clings to her traditions, even as others toss their Christmas trees to the curb on the twenty-sixth. Most people I know have only one tree. Not Grandma because apparently only one Christmas tree is for amateurs. Her house looks like Santa’s workshop exploded, albeit paid-decorator style, so tastefully done, with outside lights astronauts can see from space, all of which stay up until Epiphany. It’s as if she’s daring neighbors to challenge her holiday supremacy. So far, no one has dared.

“There are twelve days of Christmas for a reason,” we say in perfect synchronization. The words have been part of life for as long as I can remember.

“I hear there’s a big storm out your way,” Grandma says, as if knowing her point has been made. “Will that be a problem for you?”

“No, but I told everyone to leave early. I’ll be hitting the road shortly. My suitcase is in the car. I have a reservation at a hotel halfway between here and you, so I’ll beat the worst of the snow.”

“Well, aren’t you the clever little chestnut,” Grandma coos, her warm voice telling me she’s smiling now. She loves her grandchildren even more than she loves Christmas. “You’ll be heading east, while Mother Nature throws her tantrum in the west. Looks like someone is on the nice list this year.”

“I always am, but what did you mean about the west?”

“The weather person on the news predicted the west side of the city will take the brunt of the snowfall and wind.”

The west side—where Abby lives. My chest tightens. The storm might mean her power is still off too. She’s an adult who can clearly take care of herself, but a strange sensation, an irritating pull of concern, lodges in my gut. I want to brush it aside, not explore what it means. She’s an employee, nothing more, even if I want…

Strike that. I can’t have anything with her. Not tomorrow or the day after or any day in the future.

“Do you need me to pick up anything for tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yes, please. Bring a beautiful woman on your arm.” Hope oozes through the line.

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly strain something. “It’s Christmas, you unsubtle matchmaker. Don’t you know, everyone will be knee-deep in family chaos and unavailable for dates.”

“Pishposh,” she counters. “Not everyone is blessed with our brand of yuletide togetherness. And you’ve endured enough sappy holiday flicks with me to know Christmas is the most wonderful time to fall in love. That’s why I’ve rigged the house with mistletoe. You can’t escape it.”

She’s relentless, my pint-sized cupid in designer clothing. But hey, tis’ the season for miracles, right? Might as well toss Grandma a bone.

“Fine. I’ll put out an APB for all available elves. I mean, dates.”

Grandma squeals like she received a pair of diamond earrings in her Christmas cracker. “Now, that’s the spirit. Though you’ve mentioned a woman at your office a few times…”

Abby, in moments of weakness and never by name. “She’ll be with her family.”

“Never hurts to ask.”

“I’m her boss, and she’s long gone.” Speaking of which, I peer out the window to make sure everyone has left. The blanket of white makes the parking lot look like a snow globe. I spot only two cars—mine and a tiny hatchback that belongs to Abby. Shouldn’t she have headed out by now?

“I’ll let you go so you can leave. I don’t want you stuck in the storm.” Grandma’s genuine concern feels like a much-needed hug. “I know you need some quiet tonight before coming home to the chaos that is our family.”

I laugh. She knows me so well. “I’ll head out as soon as I can. I need to make sure the last employee leaves safely.”

“You’re learning to be a good boss. Just like your grandfather knew you would. Drive safely. I love you.”

“Love you.” With that, I disconnect from the call. As I stand, I spot Abby through the frosted window, her arms outstretched as she brushes snow off her car. Where did she come from?

Her car’s headlights are on. The windshield wipers swish back and forth, but they aren’t doing that great a job with the car. I hope she’s warming the engine.

Less than thirty seconds later, she hurries to the driver’s door and gets into her car. A slam of the door and the headlights go out. The wipers stop, too.

Uh-oh. I bite my lip. That’s not a good sign. I can’t see her inside the car, so I focus on the headlights.

“Come on.” Irritation bubbles—mostly directed at the weather, but also at her car. It’s like the power outage on the west side is following her, because her lights remain off.

I sit for another few seconds and then stand. I grab my coat and my briefcase, deciding it’s time to step out of the carefully constructed comfort zone I’ve erected around a certain employee.

I stride out of my office, check the back door, and turn the lights off. As the front door clicks shut behind me, I lock it. My job is done here until the New Year.

As I head into the parking lot, I stare at her as she sits behind the steering wheel. Abby’s mouth curves downward in a frown. I can’t see her eyes as well, but she rubs them.

A shiver ripples through me. I’ve seen that look too many times but could never bear to acknowledge it. Now, I can’t ignore it.

With my exhale visible in the cold air, I knock on her window, ignoring the churning in my stomach.

She turns, her eyes widening, and opens the door. “Mr. Barrington?”

“Need a hand?” I call out, the wind nearly stealing my words.

“My car started and then died. It worked fine this morning on the way in, but maybe the engine’s frozen or something. The battery could be dead, though. All the lights on the dashboard went on right before everything stopped working.”

“Could be the alternator.”

“I’ll call a tow truck.” Her tone is nonchalant, but I notice the slight quiver of her lower lip.

“During a snowstorm on Christmas Eve? That could take hours.”

“I don’t want to be stuck out here for hours.” A hint of vulnerability creeps into her voice.

“Why didn’t you head home earlier?” I lower my voice, trying to sound like her boss, even though a part of me wants to wrap my arms around Abby and deposit her into my car, where I can keep her safe and warm. That, however, would be seen as kidnapping and bad for our corporate image.

“I wanted to finish something for a client.” The V between her eyesbrows deepens. “I didn’t realize the weather would be this bad.”

She looks so small and sad, and I need to shield her from the car trouble and weather. If I have consent, then it won’t be seen as weird or illegal. “Where are you headed?”

“To my parents’ house.” She glances at the steering wheel and then at me, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “It’s about an hour and a half east of here.”

East . On the way to my grandparents’ house. I take a breath to steel myself. “I’m going in that direction. I can give you a ride.”

She hesitates, her eyes darting everywhere but at me, as if weighing her options. “Are you sure?”