December 2

DECEMBER 2

Iyawned as an expensive car drove up right outside the entrance, and I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised to see Mr. Abrams rolling down the window from the back seat. Of fucking course he had a personal driver. Of course he did.

“Get in, Parker Jacobson. We have a planet to save.”

“Ha-ha.” It was too early to acknowledge his probably first joke ever. Before I could open the door, his driver was out of the car and opening it for me. “Oh, wow. Thank you.”

This was unbelievable. Maybe it wasn’t grand enough to be called a limousine, but it still had a divider between the driver’s section and the rear, and two seats faced each other back here. With my boxes from Mr. Williams in my grasp, I sat down across from Mr. Abrams and buckled my seat belt.

Mr. Abrams was reading the paper. No glasses today.

What a fun travel companion he must be.

“Did you bring a paper as a social cue for me to keep my mouth shut?” I asked. “Because that won’t work.”

He didn’t even look up from the paper. “It’s a long walk to corporate from here.”

I wrinkled my nose.

He had a point.

As we headed out into traffic, I took a few seconds to have a look-see. Cupholders in the doors, always nice. He had a small to-go mug stuck in one.

He was probably an espresso guy.

His entire character was kind of immense. I couldn’t not observe him. And it was the air around him, the vibe he gave off, more so than his stature. I mean, that was pretty impressive too; he was tall and had a stocky build, but most people looked like skyscrapers next to me.

Not that many could be so quiet and yet ooze “I own the world” like Wyatt Abrams could, on the other hand.

I had a slight thing for such men.

The Daddy Dom type.

“It’s not polite to stare, Parker,” he said mildly and turned the page.

I let out a laugh, unable to help myself. Could he be any hotter? He smelled incredible too. Another day, another bespoke suit. It was dark blue today. Never a wrinkle in sight, obviously. One leg folded over the other. Shoes professionally polished, I bet. Rich people had services to hire for everything.

“Can I ask why you treat every day at the office like it’s your own funeral?” I asked.

“When I die, there won’t be a funeral,” he responded coolly. “I intend to donate whatever I can to science.”

I shook my head. Noble and all, but even after his death, he would rob people of the fun experience of hosting a funeral service.

“Surely someone loves you enough to throw a memorial…? You have a big family.”

Most of them were involved in the family business—on his uncle’s side. As far as I knew, Wyatt didn’t have any siblings, just cousins. Many of them. And three stood out. Three men had risen over the years and managed their own branches. Clarke’s two eldest sons, both located on the East Coast, and Wyatt.

“Hm.” Exciting response.

“Wow,” I mouthed to myself.

Safe to say, I wasn’t going to become besties with my boss.

Starting to feel hungry, I opened my jacket and retrieved the stack of cookies I’d wrapped in a napkin before leaving this morning.

The first bite brightened my day instantly. A perfect batch. Chewy on the inside, a thin crunch on the outside. With lots of cinnamon-sugar.

My cousin and I traded recipes sometimes. Cam was a submissive too, and he’d recently told me I reminded him of his new boyfriend, who was “a total brat.”

“Would you like a snickerdoodle?” I offered. “I made them myself last night.”

I’d been baking Christmas cookies anyway, so I’d had all the ingredients out.

Mr. Abrams lowered his paper and eyed me with an unreadable look. “How old are you, Parker, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I cocked my head and took another bite of the cookie. “Almost twenty-six. Why?”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. He appeared surprised. “You act much younger.”

My own eyebrows bunched together at that. “Maybe you’re the one acting super old. Or, you know, your age. You’re…sixty-two, sixty-three…?”

His mouth flattened in dismay, and he folded his paper with enough force to let me know I’d struck a nerve. “I’m forty-six.”

“Then you have no reason to act like a snickerdoodle is a child’s toy,” I replied stubbornly and crammed the rest of the cookie into my mouth. “You’re a damn grinch, you know that?” I accidentally let some crumbs fling out as I spoke, so I quickly brushed them off the packages on my lap.

Mr. Abrams didn’t say anything else, and it was just as well. I’d lost my desire to try. I didn’t know why I’d bothered in the first place. Everyone who interacted with Mr. Abrams at work said the same thing. It was no use. He never let a conversation derail if it resulted in him having to stick around longer than necessary. He never went out to lunch with coworkers. He didn’t have friends at our branch.

When we arrived at corporate, I was quick to escape the vehicle before he did—before the driver could get the door for me—and I told Mr. Abrams, “I’m leaving three cookies for you. I strongly advise you to eat them. Maybe they’ll make you sweeter.” And then I aimed straight for the entrance to this huge skyscraper in front of us. Possibly the city’s largest mirror. It was covered in glass tiles—or whatever material they used to prevent seven thousand years of misfortune after an earthquake.

* * *

This day needed to be over!

It was impossible to find anything in this goddamn building. I’d been rerouted to three different lobbies and reception desks before I found myself face-to-face with Clarke Abrams’s assistant outside of his office on the twenty-third floor.

I left Mr. Williams’s gifts with the assistant, wished her a nice day, then hightailed it back to the elevators.

Wait.

I came to a screeching stop outside a door with Mr. Abrams’s name on it. Wyatt Abrams, that was. No assistant’s desk here.

I should knock.

I definitely shouldn’t knock. My God, was I a masochist? What was wrong with me? Why was I seeking out more interactions with that turd?

Oh, I knew why.

Mr. Abrams had buttons I wanted to push…

He let me speak to him in a way most stuffy bosses definitely didn’t do. I didn’t treat him with enough respect. He was also so ridiculously attractive.

I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced around me. Just a few feet away from this floor’s lobby and the elevators. All the corridors were lined with offices, many with the name Abrams on them.

I unzipped my jacket and loosened my tie next. It’d been a workout and a half to play errand boy. Checking my Fitbit, I nodded in satisfaction to myself. Nearly four thousand steps, and it was only 8:42 AM. Nice.

My best course of action right now was to call an Uber and head back to work.

So I cleared my throat and knocked on Mr. Abrams’s door.

“Come in,” I heard him say.

Don’t mind if I do.

I opened the door and poked my head in, immediately registering an office with more furniture than the one in Culver City. Seating area—typical British fancy leather sofas—a bulletin board on one wall cluttered with notes and papers. A bar table in one corner! I knew it. He was the type. Spectacular view of the city… And the man himself, seated behind a large desk, looking none too happy to see me.

My gaze fell to his hand as he quickly stowed away a napkin, and that did it for me.

I grinned.

He’d eaten the cookies.

“What do you want, Parker?” he asked impatiently.

I smiled so hard that my cheeks hurt. “Were they good? Are you sweet now?”

He clenched his jaw. “Get out.”

A laugh burst out of me, and I hurriedly closed the door again. Oh God, I was going to ride this wave of joy all freaking day. It’d worked! He’d eaten the cookies. Not even an old grouch like him could resist homemade snickerdoodles.