14. SIERRA

CHAPTER 14

SIERRA

I freaking love my job. SPORTY is literally paying me to listen to music right now—and not just any good jam trending on Spotify, but Christmas music.

So far I've found two solid candidates who make the wildest remixes to Christmas classics that sound like club bangers until you pay attention. One's Boston based and the other from New York, and I've already emailed them asking for rates and availability. But no matter who pans out, they just secured themselves a new fan.

I'm shimmying my shoulders when Conor walks into the office, and two bizarre things happen at the same time. First, that even though I'm partying at my desk, I somehow light up like a Christmas tree at the sight of his face. I'd argue it's because I'm excited to hear news about the venue but I'm not in the business of gaslighting myself. I can confirm that Conor Mahoney is officially out of my naughty list, and I never thought that would happen.

But then I notice the other thing. And that is his face. It's not arranged in the normal way.

Okay, his nose is still in the middle and all that. But normally Conor's face is the textbook definition of happy, all shiny eyes and easy smiles that I used to take as a personal attack. The man plopping at his seat across me looks like he's about to punch something. Or cry. He's definitely screamed, at least.

I pause my happy music and remove my headset. How do you ask the guy who was your former work nemesis if he's okay?

"Yo, dude. You look like you fought a bull," Stephen says casually while munching on chips from a crinkly bag in an annoying way. Or maybe I'm just annoyed that he could get straight to the point without overthinking.

Conor doesn't answer right away. Sighing, he pulls at his red scarf from one end until it unwinds from his neck. After tossing it on his desk, he removes his glasses and rubs his eyes with the most exhausted sigh I've ever heard from him.

What the heck happened?

First he gets the kiss of his lifetime from yours truly, and I'm not exaggerating. I know he was into it because that heavy blush didn't lie—I've never seen him do that. Then after that, he got the great news that we can use his grandpa's rink and he went on his way to get the sweet old man on board. Nothing in his expression right now would make me infer any of these things actually happened today.

Conor jams his glasses back in place and pins a hard stare on me. "Sierra, can we please have a word?"

"Ohh." Stephen puts a handful of chips in his mouth and crunches loudly, watching like he expects a MMA fight.

One by one, our colleagues turn their attention to us. Lewis is on a call but you'd think someone stripped naked in the middle of the office with the way his eyes sparkle at the potential drama. Next to me, Rachel stops scribbling something on her planner and scrunches her nose at me in that way I know means she's wondering if I'm okay. From the opposite corner, Kayla glances between Conor and I like this is a tennis match, even though no barbs are being exchanged. Dave is still home sick.

Meanwhile, I'm racking my brain to figure out what I could've possibly done wrong—today, I mean. He wouldn't randomly get upset at the million ways I've wronged him in the past two years.

Well, whatever it is, we don't need an audience.

I push away from my desk and say, "Let's find a conference room."

"Yeah, good idea."

I try not to focus on how his muscles flex while he removes his jacket. Thankfully, I have to keep walking around him towards the meeting rooms hallway, or else the gossipmongers would catch me drooling over Conor.

Man's more than fine, what can I say. I wasn't even immune when I thought I hated him.

He sighs behind me several more times until we lock ourselves in a meeting room. I whirl around to face him with my arms folded. "Okay, what's wrong?"

Is it the kiss? It has to be the kiss. He probably regrets it. My mouth goes dry at the concept and I have to work my throat several times until I'm able to swallow.

If he does regret it, it's going to be real hard to pretend like I'm cool about it. Because I'm not. In fact, it's the entire opposite—I'm still very hot about it. If he wanted to kiss me again right now I wouldn't care that the meeting room walls are iced out glass panes.

"Gramps doesn't want to do it."

"Huh?" What? Kiss me? I also don't want to— Oh . "Oh, shit."

"Yeah." Conor rubs the back of his neck and avoids my gaze like it burns. "He just won't listen, old curmudgeon that he is. "

Ugh, I can feel things rising to my head. Embarrassment at what my previous train of thought was, and also a headache.

As I massage my temples, I say offhand, "I don't get it, he doesn't seem that bad."

"Yeah, well. Maybe you should've been the one to ask him." Conor hangs his head and leans back against the glass wall. "I had a feeling this could happen and yet… So basically, it's all my fault."

"Wait, wait. I need you to backtrack and like, fill in all the blanks for me."

Another extremely pained sigh and then… "Gramps wants to close the rink."

You could hear a pin drop.

"Um, why?" I cringe because his body language screams that this is personal. However, this is also about our project—our bonuses. Grammie being able to spend Christmas with us, getting medical treatments and quality prescriptions. Me being able to hug her with all my might and giving her all the presents she deserves.

He runs a hand through his hair and it gets all spiky and messy. "It's complicated. The finances haven't been working out for a while but he refuses to do something about it. Like this kind of event could be a legit new revenue stream, you know?"

"Absolutely. I'm pretty sure I've watched only a million holiday movies with skating dates and family events at skate rinks, and all that. Why not corporate parties too?"

"Right. Thank you!" He gestures with his hands before slumping again. "But that's not the real reason. I'm the reason."

When all he does is frown, I say, "Words, Conor."

"He thinks it's a constant reminder of… you know." He waves a big hand around the air. "The career I lost and all that. "

I suck in air.

Conor starts gesturing bigger the more he talks. "But it doesn't, and that's what he doesn't get. I love teaching kids how to play hockey. I want them to succeed way past what I ever achieved. Why do they have to get their dreams destroyed so early because of me? Like, how would that ever make me happy? Make it make sense."

His speech ends in him huffing and puffing, his cheeks pink and eyes flashing with temper.

Um. As we say in Spanish: adorable.

"I have a proposal for you."

"I'm all ears." He lifts a hand to rub his stomach. "And frustration."

I press my lips against the smile that starts to form, because he's still so wound up about this and I don't want him to think I'm mocking him.

"What if I try talking with him?"

Conor's eyebrows rise a notch. His lips part another notch—and I zero in on them. I wonder if they'd still taste of coffee.

Wait, he's moving them.

"You'd do that?"

"I mean…" I clear my throat and wrap a hand around my elbow, squeezing hard enough to remind me that maybe kissing him again, ever, especially here, might not be such a bright idea. "At least about the event. I can't promise I'll convince him to keep the rink open forever."

"Right. Of course." Then one corner of those perfectly shaped lips of his rises. "Joke's on him, though. With the bonus and the promotion money, I'll save the rink."

"Ah, so that's why you're doing this?" I shake my head. "It's very sweet, but I have my own list of reasons for getting that promotion."

"I know. But if there's no venue, then there's no event, and no one's getting a promotion. "

"And that's why I'm going to get your Gramps on board, nothing else." I poke him in the chest.

I freeze as he wraps his hand around mine and grins down at me. "Thanks, partner."

"Ah, yeah. Sure."

I walk back to my desk on shaky legs. Someone should tell him that he has a lethal one-two combo between that smile and his touch.

*

Conrad Mahoney, or Gramps as he prefers to be called, is stunned to find my head popping in from his office door. He opens and closes his mouth, eyes squinting up at me like he thinks I'm a mirage.

"Is this the pretty miss I met at my grandson's?"

Who can resist this charm?

Grinning, I straighten myself and stand by the door. "The one and only. How are you doing, Gramps?"

"Well, certainly much better now than a second ago. Please come in and pull up a chair." He gets up from his with enviable agility I don't even have now, and starts fussing about. "I'm just sorry the place is such a mess. I'd have tied it up if I knew you were coming."

There's a worn sofa pushed up against a wall, but every surface of it is covered in books, magazines—and I spot a SPORTY one with his grandson's handsome face on the cover—and paper sheets of different sizes and shades of yellow. The actual chair across his desk has a stack of binders that he tries to pick up at once. His huffs tell me they're heavy, so I rush over to help.

"Now, take a seat and tell me why you're brightening my dinky office."

I snort a laugh .

Gramps is funny. His voice has a harsh quality to it, as if he were permanently stuck in annoyed mode. But his eyes are bright and his wit is quick. I can see where Conor got his own sense of humor that he uses to diffuse every awkward situation with.

The chair creaks under my weight, which just serves to remind me of what Conor revealed earlier at the office. He's doing all this to save this place, that's how much he cares about it.

"I hated Conor for two years," I say, realizing a second later how that would make no sense to Gramps. "Or, okay. I didn't hate hate him. I was just generally very annoyed by his presence and how our boss basically bent over backwards for him from the beginning. I was jealous."

He lifts up his gray beanie and scratches the top of his head through a mass of white hair. "I'm not following, pretty miss."

"But then," I continue as if there hadn't been a pause. "Our boss forced us to start working together to organize the Christmas party for the company. It's only been what, like two weeks? And that's literally how long it's taken me to undo two years worth of resenting him for no reason.

"Your grandson's a really good person." I shrug. "I couldn't imagine a better teacher for little kids and I haven't even seen him in action."

He grunts. "Did he send you over to give me this pitch?"

"No, that's just a freebie for both of your sakes. Here's my real pitch." I smile. "We really need your help to make this company event happen. A nice bonus for each of us, and a promotion for one of us, is on the line."

"How nice?"

"Nice enough that I'll be able to fly my grandmother in from Venezuela for Christmas and maybe pay for some of her medical treatments, too. She has hypertension and it's been getting worse."

I bite my lip. Crap, it may sound like I'm laying it too thick but it's all the unvarnished truth.

A few days after breaking the news didn't go as well as I expected, Grammie and I had a chat. She had to think about it really hard, because flying to another country—one where she doesn't even speak the language—sounds stressful enough to drive her hypertension through the roof. But losing the chance to see us would be much worse for her heart.

So it's a done deal, she's coming for Christmas. And even if we fail at putting together this event, I'll carry the credit card debt for a year if I have to. But I'd rather not, so here we are.

"Well." His chair croaks even louder as he leans back and laces his fingers over his belly. "Did he tell you why I refused?"

"Yes."

"And what do you think about that?"

"Not my business, really," I respond honestly.

Gramps barks a hacking laugh that startles me. "I like you, pretty miss. You're a breath of fresh air."

I tilt my head and offer a sweet smile. "Does liking me mean you'll let us use the place for the SPORTY event, at least? It's up to you two to hash out the rest, not me."

"Yes, but on one condition."

"Oh?" I fold my hands neatly over my lap, trying not to scratch my head through my own beanie as if that could help me figure out the condition in advance.

"That you join my hardheaded grandson and I for dinner tonight."

Funny, Conor called Gramps a curmudgeon. Gramps calls him hardheaded. Clearly they're cut from the same cloth. And clearly they'd kill for each other.

How sweet.

"Hmm." I tap my chin. "What if I already have plans? "

"Then no SPORTY party."

"Good thing I had no plans." Chuckling, I stand up and offer my hand. "Deal."

Gramps shakes it with surprising strength, and that's when I notice the particular glint in his eyes. Like somehow he's the one who has won the bargain, and I can't figure out how.