1. CONOR

CHAPTER 1

CONOR

T is the season to be jolly. Unless your name is Sierra Fernandez and you've just glimpsed my face.

She uses her laptop as a tray for her coffee, her phone, plus notepad and pen—because apparently she can't just key her minutes on the device. As she pushes the door open with her shoulder, I catch the unmistakable notes of All I Want For Christmas Is You humming from her throat. The way they die upon sighting me would be offensive if it wasn't so funny.

"Oh." Her brow plunges, all the cheer bleaching out of her expression in a nanosecond. "Why are you here already?"

I tuck my tongue against my cheek and debate whether to dignify that with an answer. I've given up on trying to get on her good side after almost two years of Sierra one-sidedly hating my guts. I'm just not a hundred percent on the nice list, which is why I open my big yap.

"You don't have to act so offended about it when you're early too, you know."

She turns her little button nose up and makes a point of heading as far from me as she possibly can, even if that complicates managing a hot cup of coffee teetering very close to the edge of her makeshift tray. You'd think I poisoned her pet or something. But first, I don't even know if she has one. Second, I love animals. And third, I've never found out what I did to her that was so wrong that she dreads even sharing oxygen with me.

I relax a little when she makes it to her chosen seat without spilling a drop. Her big, dark eyes veer toward me for a second, like she's expecting some commentary from me. Instead, I focus on the work I was doing before she walked in.

I'm just about to send a pitch to Richard, our boss, for a campaign to promote our new line of activewear pants. SPORTY is a major sports gear brand that everyone—from little kids to elite athletes—recognizes and wears, not to mention the sponsorships and media we produce to increase the brand value as well. And who would know its products better than me, a former pro hockey player? That's precisely the angle that landed me this job in the marketing team, and I'll exploit it forever for every campaign I want to run.

Besides, I really love these damn pants. I have a pair on right now and they feel as if I was wearing nothing—which, hey, maybe that should be weird since I'm at the office. But I legit can't think of the last time I wore pants , not joggers or sweats, that didn't squeeze my hockey thighs or my ass in an uncomfortable way. Surely this experience proves I'm the right man for the pitch, right?

A hissing sound makes me lift my eyes. Sierra's face is scrunched up in pain. The steaming mug close to her lips makes me think she might've burned herself.

"Careful, it might be hot," I say with a heaping spoonful of sarcasm.

The ensuing glare makes me bite my lips. Laughing could potentially get me thrown off the tenth floor of this building.

"Gee. Thanks, smartass. I could've never guessed for myself." She runs her tongue against the roof of her mouth a few times and for a second, I have a bizarre thought.

I wonder if there's anything I could do to make her mouth feel better.

I blink hard at my laptop monitor. A couple of ideas come to mind. The only feasible one that would also not get me fired or murdered, would be to offer her a drink from my water bottle. But I also doubt she'd want my cooties so I stay put and type even harder, hoping that my keyboard's noise drowns the very unwelcome thoughts in my head.

I might have limited vision in my left eye but I know Sierra's hot. I've known it since day one, even though that's also when she first directed a frown my way. Fortunately, her open hostility keeps me mostly immune—except for random moments of awareness where I truly regret forever being on her naughty list.

Like right now, after my ever helpful lizard brain just dumped the idea of kissing her into my logical brain like it's a present. Sure, I could soothe her burn with my lips. But she could also stab me with her sparkly little gel pen.

The door opens once more and I'm viscerally thankful for the distraction. Rachel Leon pauses at the entrance to cast a look my way and then to her bestie. "Ew, you guys are way too motivated this early in the morning."

I wouldn't define ten in the morning as early, but the aversion these two have to mornings is very well documented among the sales and marketing teams. They'd probably faint if I they found out I get up at five everyday, spend half an hour doing road work, another half hour on weights and chopping wood, shower, make breakfast from scratch, and still make it to work before seven. By now I've finished two reports, five invoices, and am almost done with the pitch.

"I owe my motivation to this, my third cup of coffee," Sierra says to her friend with a completely different tone of voice than she reserves for me. "Although it did burn me a moment ago. I hope that's not some sort of metaphor."

I snort.

Four laser beams point my way and I pretend like they're not intimidating at all, even though they could give lessons to professional hockey defensemen.

I hit send on my pitch right as some of our other coworkers walk into the room. Stephen, Kaylee, and Lewis are another little clique within the marketing department, just the way Sierra and Rachel are one. The difference here is that Kaylee's into Stephen, but Lewis is into Kaylee. It's not awkward probably because no one dares to bring it up. The three of them sit on the table across from me, starting by Lewis next to Rachel.

"Why's everyone sitting on that side?" I fold my arms. "Do I stink, or something?"

Sierra nods without hesitation, even though she's too far to really confirm that.

"I just want to be close to the door, in case this turns into a blood bath." Stephen casts a pointed look at Sierra's corner and then at me.

"Yeah, I mean, we all know how this is going to go," Kaylee says with a shrug. "You two are the only ones who have yet to organize a Christmas party from the team, so there's going to be a fight."

"Hmm." I lean back on my chair.

My opponent takes her sweet time firing up her laptop and arranging her things around it. She pushes a curl of dark hair behind her ear delicately, unbothered by my scrutiny. It was way easier to find flaws in the defense of an opposing hockey team than dealing with this woman. I'm sure she's come armed with a plan to nab this job and normally, I wouldn't give a shit about a one-time gig, except this is the biggest event of the year.

And it comes with a healthy ten thousand dollar bonus for the organizer .

Last year, we also had a team meeting the week of Thanksgiving to decide who'd be running the event. It was going to be my first Christmas party at the company, so I decided to not put my name in the hat and bide my time.

Well, guess what? My time is now. I need that money. The hockey dreams of almost sixty kids are counting on it.

"Good morning, team," Richard announces as he opens the door. He also brings a steaming mug, although this one is shaped like Santa's head. Festive but a bit disturbing too. He takes a sip of Santa-brain juice and pauses at the head of the table. "Where's Dave?"

Lewis is quick to respond. "Home sick."

And Sierra's even quicker to be helpful. "Oh, he must be joining online. I'll hook us up to the room."

"Excellent, Fernandez. Let's get this party started." Richard rubs his hands not because they're cold, but in glee. "Get it?"

I do a masterful job of resisting the urge to cringe.

Richard finally begins the meeting after Dave's hooked up to the room via Sierra's laptop. "We all know why we're gathered here. We're officially a month away from the most wonderful time of the year—bonus season." He laughs at his own joke.

I rub my hand across my mouth and beard, then adjust my glasses. I'll laugh when I'm wiring the bonus money to the hockey arena so it doesn't shut down in the new year.

In the background, Dave blows his nose loudly until Sierra presses the silence button.

"Anyway." Richard clears his throat after no one really joined in his laughter. "Last year we had a major skiing extravaganza at Aspen, but I received a lot of complaints from people who travel for work all the time because the last thing they want to do is also travel again for the holidays. That's why this year, I've decided to keep it local. "

I check Sierra's expression from the corner of my eye and catch her inspecting me too. We both turn to our boss.

"Um, that poses a problem, sir," she says with her hand raised like this is a classroom. "It's not like our little town is too exciting during the holidays."

Ah, yes. Mapleton, Connecticut, isn't a sprawling metropolis. The small town's main employer is SPORTY , and the only reason headquarters are still here is because this is where the founder started the first product line of baseballs over a hundred years ago. We're close to New York but if Richard's saying we have to keep it local, it also means that the Big Apple is out of the picture.

"Since when do we run from a challenge?" I add just to antagonize her. The gnashing of her teeth tells me I succeeded.

"That's right, Mahoney." Richard points at me. "This brief is meant to push your creativity. I want this year's feedback to be that this was the best Christmas party SPORTY headquarters has ever had in its history."

I squirm, trying to contain the sudden rush of energy coursing through my veins. It feels very close to the seconds right before sliding onto the ice for a big game.

"Whoever brings the winning brief is guaranteed a ten thousand dollar bonus. But also…" We all lean forward, even the people who technically have no right to try this year. "A potential promotion."

Promotions always come with a salary increase. I don't need to be a math genius to know what that means. I lead a pretty cheap lifestyle, so any extra cash in my pocket will easily go to the maintenance costs of the kids's hockey program.

I open my mouth to fire a random half-baked pitch before Sierra can.