16. SIERRA

CHAPTER 16

SIERRA

C onor's hair is silky soft. I could run my fingers through it all day long and in fact, am considering it in the middle of the office because of a strand that's arched over his forehead. It's been tempting me since the start of the phone call I'm in, discussing terms with the DJ we're hiring for the event. The good news is that our desks are pretty wide. If Conor was sitting closer, I'm pretty damn sure I'd have embarrassed myself already.

His beard's surprisingly soft, too, not at all what I'd have expected. I looked up potential reasons online and concluded that Conor must oil it up and maintain it with way more effort than most guys. Which checks out—guy has a fine work ethic and I appreciate that. I'd also appreciate the feeling of his beard against my skin again.

"—So excited to work with you," the DJ from New York says into my earpiece.

"Yes, likewise!" My voice sounds so shrill that half of my coworkers turn to look. I duck my face and lower my tone. "Well, I'll email you the contract in a minute and once you return it, we'll be all set. "

"Fantastic. Thank you so much for the opportunity. This is gonna be bomb."

Being bomb, bueno. Bombing, no bueno. There's no room for error here.

After some more pleasantries, we hang up and I take a moment to gather myself. It's like dinner last night with Conor and his grandfather has unlocked something in me. I already knew I was attracted to the man because I'm not in the business of lying to myself, but now it's something else. I can't stop looking at him. Purposely keeping myself at a decent distance feels like nails on chalkboard. I want to spend more time with him—but without the prying eyes around us.

Sighing, I take out my earpieces just as a notification pops up on my screen. Fifteen minutes for our meeting with Camila Puig, Rachel's mentor.

I look up and find Conor's attention already on me. "Ready?" he asks.

Nope. I'm not ready for all of this. It's not like I planned on being single forever or anything, but my priority has been work, work, and more work. Dating won't make me money or help my family—that's all on me.

But that was easy to say when I didn't have anyone in my sights. Conor has been sitting in front of me for two years and I didn't see him. I pretended like he wasn't even there. I think Rachel was right that it wasn't simply that I disliked him because I was professionally jealous of him. I was afraid of him. That this could happen. That I'd develop a crush on him.

Well, it's happening, all right.

"Sure," I answer with an airy voice and grab my coat from the backrest of my chair.

"Say hi to Cam for me," Rachel says without pausing a beat from typing an email.

"Cam?" I ask.

"That's how people close to her call her. "

Everything in Conor's expression screams no way . I doubt Camila Ice Queen Puig has anyone that would fall under that definition too.

"Right…" I elongate the word with a healthy dose of skepticism.

Clear across the office, Richard stops minding the copy machine to say, "Good luck, guys. Don't let her intimidate you."

"Ha ha." Conor stuffs his hands in the pockets of his joggers and murmurs, "Easy for him to say."

"Remember," Kaylee says in a teasing tone. "Showing any weakness to predators is a sure-fire way to die."

Clearly, we shouldn't have asked Richard for help in getting an audience with Camila during the staff meeting earlier. But Conor and I have been trying with her assistant for one week and it just wasn't happening, yet our timeline keeps getting tighter and we really need the gifts that go in the ball pit. Logically, the next step was securing some goods fresh from the factory, for which we need Camila's help. She's the lead factory manager, after all.

Conor and I drag our feet toward the elevator. He presses the button and as we wait, says, "We need a game plan."

"I'm open to suggestions."

"A keyword for when we should just quit and run."

I snort. "Maybe I'll just trip you and escape on my own."

"That's fine. At least one of us should live to tell the tale."

The elevator dings and we step in. I reach over to press the ground floor button, but again he's faster and beats me to the punch.

"No, but seriously. How the hell are we going to succeed bypassing the purchasing process with Camila Puig?" he asks and I watch with such hyperfocus that it almost feels like he's moving in slow motion as he lifts a big hand of his, and combs his fingers through his silky soft hair. The skin between my fingers itches.

"Well, we just don't have time to put a normal internal order. It should be fine if we just buy a crate with the company credit card. The question is whether she'll even agree."

"It's Christmas, the season of giving, of being jolly—surely we can appeal to that?"

Slowly, I give him a side eye. "Does she seem the most festive person to you?"

Last year, Camila didn't go to Aspen with the rest of the company. Apparently, she worked the entire holidays through. The year before, she also didn't attend the annual bash although for a different reason. She was going to get married and then it didn't happen. Gossip ran rampant for weeks but no SPORTY employees had been invited anyway, so no one really had any idea why she didn't get hitched. I remember that the year before she did go—it was at a fancy hotel in downtown Boston and she dressed to the nines. Hollywood starlets would never. But she spent the whole night arguing with suppliers over the phone. I got too drunk for my first one, so I don't even know if she was there or not.

"My left pinky's more festive." One corner of Conor's lips rises and then he elbows me gently. "Tag, you're it."

I gasp at how my entire body flares to life just with that friendly touch, and pass it off as something else as I say, "Conor Mahoney, are you scared?"

"Oh, yeah. Big men feel fear, too."

I cock an eyebrow. "But you look strong enough to face a bear."

"I'd rather protect you from a bear than face Camila Puig."

Cálmate , I scream to my heart.

"Well, the good news is that you won't be alone," I say, pointing at myself. "Which also means I'll kill you if you abandon me to her. "

"Hmm." Conor narrowing his eyes at me as he rubs his beard is doing things to me. "How about this, I just stand beside you looking pretty and you do the talking."

"So I do all the work?"

"And I give moral support."

"On one condition." I pause strategically and it reels him in, going by how he leans forward ever so slightly. "You deal with the carpenters for the booths on your own. I'm really not looking forward to that one."

"Deal." He stretches his hand out.

I wonder if I'm too eager because Conor startles at how quickly I grab it. Just as fast, I try to pull it away and he stops me.

"Hey, has no one told you that a business handshake has a specific duration?"

"Huh?" He could be saying the earth is flat and it wouldn't register in my mind right now.

"You always remove your hand too fast." Conor keeps my hand trapped in his without even pumping it. They're just frozen together midair. "It kinda makes the other party wonder if you're nervous or hiding something."

Yes and yes. And I'm obviously not about to admit it so if I can throw him off the scent, I'll happily let my hand live in his for as long as it takes.

"Fine, handshake master. How long is an acceptable handshake length?" I ask with sarcasm I don't feel at all.

He hums from deep in his throat and I find myself breaking into goosebumps all over. I don't know what is it about this guy's throaty sounds that immediately get me going.

"I'd say about twice as long as your usual."

"At this point, I'd say it's been about ten times that and it's starting to get awkward," I mumble, because I'm this close to using the link between us to pull him down for a kiss that would scandalize the security guys checking the cameras .

"I will release you now, since I believe my point has been made."

I steel myself against the delicious friction between the calluses of his hand against my skin, and let my hand fall limp at my side. "Thanks for the lesson, I guess."

"Sure, any time."

Does he mean it? I hope so. I'm sure there are so many other lessons he could teach me.

The elevator dings again and I realize this was simultaneously the slowest and fastest ride of my life. I almost wish for an electric outage just so I can accidentally get stuck with Conor for longer.

Alas, we march to the security desk where we sign up for an impromptu visit to the factory and receive yellow safety vests in return. We momentarily leave the warmth of the main building and take a very snippy walk outside to the converted hangar that is now SPORTY 's main factory.

"Oh my word, it's too freaking cold for there to be no snow."

"It's going to snow soon," Conor says from behind me with the calm of someone who is comfortable with this horrid weather.

"What? How do you know?"

"My nose." He taps it, as if I didn't know what one looks like. "I can smell the ice in the air."

"Huh, that's interesting. Could you also smell an abandoned bag of money laying around?"

Conor laughs. "I wish. That would solve both of our problems."

Instead, we have to face Camila. We make our way through the factory floor using the walking paths, checking this way or that for forklifts or hanging loads like we were instructed in the safety class that every SPORTY employee has to take yearly, per Camila's command .

Her assistant is in a phone call when we arrive to the office area and she waves us right in, like her boss is doing nothing but expecting us. I check my watch because if we're actually a second late, I'll run off on my own and leave Conor to deal with the consequences. But we're a few minutes early so, after exchanging a glance of mutual reassurance with him, I knock on Camila's door.

"Come in."

I take a bracing breath at the sharpness of her tone but promptly open the door. "Hi, Camila. May we come in?"

"I just bid you to do so."

Shit, she did. This is already going wrong.

Clearing my throat, I walk in and am glad to confirm that Conor does the same. "I'm Sierra Fernandez and this is Conor Mahoney, we?—"

"I know who you are," the woman responds without looking up from her iPad. "You work with Rachel in Richard's team. Your email said you're organizing the company's Christmas party and want to talk about that. Get to the point."

Conor peels his eyes open and his shoulders rise as he tries to shrink. That reminds me that I can't do that if I want to get this manager's attention.

"About that. As you know, we received the assignment with a short lead time, which leaves us unable to follow the normal channels to purchase some goods from the factory. We would be extremely thankful if you approve the purchase of a crate of baseballs via company credit card rather than by purchase order."

She has surprisingly pretty eyes. They're a light brown that almost looks yellow, striking when paired with her dirty blonde hair. They're also striking fear through my heart as she asks, "And why would I do that?"

I'm so stumped that Conor decides to take over. "You're the only person who can approve this and save Christmas. "

Short, sweet, maybe a bit too Hallmark for an audience so heartless.

Camila folds her arms delicately and leans back on her plush chair. "Now try that again with a business reason."

"Company morale," Conor spits out right away. "This is the top event every year and we can't put out something that feels incomplete."

"Sounds like your problem and not mine. Try again."

"We'd be forced to buy baseballs from the competition instead," I say, a bit embarrassed about how my voice shakes in the end.

"Now we're talking. We definitely can't have that." She picks up her iPad again, her long, perfectly manicured nails making tapping sounds as she types something. A second later, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. "There, approval sent. Now get out of my office."

"Thank you, ma'am," I say, and Conor salutes her but she's already focused on her screen and doesn't notice.

We're rushing out through the factory when I say, "Did you seriously just salute her?"

"Ugh." He cringes. "I couldn't stop my body from moving. She just gives eau du drill sergeant."

I bark a laugh but he's not wrong. "I don't know. I think I want to be like her when I grow up."

Conor scrunches up his face at my words and not at the gust of chilly air that's stabbing mine. "Why?"

"There aren't many women out there doing the thing and being taken seriously the way she is."

"I take you seriously," he says as he holds the door to the main building open for me, and the only reason I'm able to keep moving is to run from the cold. Otherwise, his words would've stopped me.

"Well, thanks," I mumble as I pass him, but my heart beats so fast I'm sure that not only Conor can hear it, but the security guys all the way across the lobby too.

We do quick work of returning the vests and signing off from the factory visit, and the elevator trek back upstairs starts quiet. From the corner of my eye, Conor seems relaxed and not like he just said the sweetest words a guy has ever uttered in my direction.

And then something changes. He grows as still as a statue.

"What?" I ask.

He's blinking up at the ceiling. "We have a problem."

"Oh no. Did we forget something? I thought all we had left today was contracting the carpenters and starting the crafty part."

"It's not that. This problem is wrapped in a red ribbon."

"What?" I look up… and groan. "Not again." There's a handful of mistletoe hanging from the elevator ceiling, the ribbon pressed between the ceiling panels. "I'm sure HR will be so pleased about this."

"Was this even here a minute ago? I don't recall."

"Great, what if we got bad luck already because we didn't kiss before?"

"Shit, we don't need that before the event but…" Conor takes a step back—the opposite of what I expected. "We can't kiss again."

No barb Camila Puig threw my way hurt anywhere as much as this moment.

Conor all but fuses himself to the opposite corner in an attempt to put as wide a berth between us as possible.

Like, I get it, he can't fathom the idea of putting his mouth on mine again and that he'd rather earn a thousand years of bad luck or whatever. He doesn't need to be so theatrical about it.

A small wrinkle appears between his eyebrows as I also take a big step back until my back hits the wall and fold my arms. " You're right, we absolutely can't. It's just not gonna happen again in a million years."

Self-preservation, baby. I'll deal with the crack in my heart later.

The elevator dings and as the doors open on our floor, I find Rachel waiting on the other side. She takes one look at us, frowns in confusion, and then glances up.

"Oh, you guys. It won't kill you to share a little peck."

A little peck?

Conor doesn't kiss like he doesn't mean it. In fact, he even asked me how I preferred to be kissed, which is a first. And I'd never prefer a peck. But knowing what I now know about him, even that would be enough to do me in.

"Did you put this thing here?" I grouch as I step out of the elevator and hold the doors open by keeping my hand on the sensor.

"No, it was Lewis. I think he was hoping for a different outcome."

Reaching up, Conor grabs the offending plant and tears it down, ribbon and all. "Fool, he should just use words instead of tricks."

"Totally." Rachel steps into the elevator and presses a button in the panel. Looking at Conor, she says, "Nothing sexier than a man who knows what he wants and goes for it."

As I move away and the doors start closing, a thought strikes me like a lightning bolt. Does that mean that if Conor isn't using either words or tricks on me, then it's a sign that he doesn't like me that way?

And fine, that's his prerogative. He's free not to reciprocate my feelings. But I'm also free to wish he did.

Mierda, what do I do now?