2. SIERRA

CHAPTER 2

SIERRA

F unny enough, it's not my biggest foe I have to watch out for right away.

"A concert!" Kaylee screeches so hard, her neck veins are about to pop. And it sets off pandemonium.

"Beyoncé!" Lewis, of course, joins in before she's even done catching her breath.

I have a brief, abnormal moment of camaraderie with the enemy. Conor's eyes meet mine and in them, I can see the same shock I'm feeling at the audacity of our coworkers. They had their turn and it's not our fault Richard didn't dangle a promotion in front of their faces when it was their respective chance to organize this thing.

Before Conor can recover, I bang my hands against the desk hard and bring all attention to me. More calmly, I say, "A fully immersive experience."

Every pair of eyes not already on me turns my way.

"That's the only way we can make this a success in a town as boring as Mapleton," I continue saying directly out of my ass. "Think about it. We have colleagues who come from all walks of life—blue collar, white collar, locals, expats, former athletes, fans. We all have one thing in common."

"What's that?" Richard asks when I leave them hanging for a second.

"We're all in SPORTY because it's exciting. So, whatever we do, it has to be something that stokes that need to belong and more importantly, to compete." I lean back on my chair, pretty damn smug that all throughout, Conor hasn't been able to get a single word edged in. I may or may not be smirking a little at him.

But he isn't cowed. He lifts his fist to hold his chin and says, "That sounds intriguing, but I don't hear a concrete idea."

I wouldn't say I hate Conor Mahoney but it's very close. The list of reasons why this man irritates me is long.

It started on his literal first day at the company. He was late and that's not really what triggered the avalanche, it's what happened before he arrived. Namely, our boss losing his ever loving mind about welcoming a recently-retired elite hockey athlete into our team. I didn't mind the fanboying, but when Richard decided right there and then that the best way to welcome the new teammate was to give him a cool project… and literally ripped one off my catalogue to give it to him… the seed of dislike was firmly planted in my mind.

I'm not a shitty person, though. I didn't assign the blame on the new guy who wasn't even around for Richard's great lightbulb moment. Except that was just the beginning of a near two-year saga that continues.

"I don't hear you offering one, either," I counter and fold my arms tight to keep my hands from making a strangling motion.

"Thank you for giving me the floor." His lips curve and he shifts his attention to our boss. "I have a simpler, sure-fire way of making this party succeed—guaranteed. And it won't cost us a pretty penny. "

Richard's eyebrows take off like airplanes. "Color me intrigued."

"The first principle of marketing is knowing your customer, right?" Conor shrugs those big shoulders of his. "Well, SPORTY is a company for and by athletes. What we need is a sports event."

"Wow, that is so specific. We only have to narrow it down to one of the hundreds of organized sports that exist on this planet." The deadpan in my voice is perhaps a notch too obvious to be professional, but I can't help it. The stakes are really freaking high for me.

If you poll everyone in this office—or heck, in this room alone—about what Christmas is to them, you won't get the same answer twice. Some might say giving or receiving presents. Or the food that evokes memories from childhood and home. Also the drinks that make people forget precisely those things. Or the parties they attend to forge new memories. The music that brings a spark of joy to a year that feels old and tired, and reminds us of the promise that the new one brings.

For me, it's family.

That's the center of my life, even though it's a pretty small one. It's just my mom and dad, and everyone else is either back in my parents' home country, Venezuela, or all over the world. Being so spread out has made it so that I basically just have phone-cousins, phone-Aunts, and phone-Uncles.

Except for one person who is special. My grammie.

Grammie is Mom's mother and she also lives back in Venezuela. We've only been together in person once when I was a kiddy, but Grammie has always been there for me. She's the sole reason I learned actual Spanish growing up. My parents tried to make my life easier by only speaking English but then Grammie didn't understand me, so I studied hard to be able to converse with her. She kept me company in the afternoons while Mom and Dad were at work and I was out of school, thanks to Whatsapp. I did my homework while she cooked or sewed or cleaned. Basically, she brought me up from afar.

And she's getting older. A lot older.

"I got it." Lewis traces an arch in the air like he's painting a billboard. "Beyoncé singing while teaching a cycling class. Then the lights go dark and it's Post Malone singing while teaching a boxing class—and so on."

I scratch my head with the clicker end of my pen, wondering if he's serious. Except, pride beams out of his smile like he genuinely thinks this is the greatest idea since whoever came up with toasters.

"Well." Richard brings us back to what matters—his opinion. "I think both of these ideas sound promising. Unfortunately, they're equally half-baked."

Lewis glances around. "What about my idea?"

"Honey," Rachel says with a tone of voice that makes her sound sixty-years-old instead of late-twenties. "You had your chance to book Beyoncé last year and you took us to Aspen instead. It's Sierra or Conor's turn now."

I notice how she mentions me first. That's a good friend right there.

"Dude." Stephen leans over the table to look at his buddy. "Beyoncé's not even your favorite artist. What gives?"

But it's Kaylee's. I keep my mouth zipped, though.

"Well, uh…"

"We could do like a sort of Olympics-inspired event," Conor says, nodding to me. "It would definitely be the immersive experience Sierra suggested, while catering to our very unique target audience."

Mierda. Why didn't that occur to me? I basically served the whole idea to him on a silver platter.

I rack my brain trying to come up with an alternative that is at least just as fun, but Richard drops a bomb .

"That's it! An immersive Christmas sport experience." He snaps his fingers several times and humming in tandem. "You two have nailed the brief."

I pause. Even Conor shuts his mouth so tight that his teeth make a clacking sound.

"Um." I clear my throat. "I came up with the initial idea."

Conor chirps back. "But I fine-tuned it."

"Exactly, and that's why the two of you will work together."

"But—" We both start at the same time.

"You both challenged each other and came up with something really intriguing. I have no doubt you'll push one another to excellence for this event and that's what I want. An absolute banger."

Slowly, Rachel turns her head to offer me a full-teeth cringe. She's the only person in this room who knows what all is going through my head right now. Not only would I rather shave my glorious head of curls than work closely with Conor Mahoney, but also what this money means to me.

That latter is precisely what pushes me to challenge Richard one more time. "But does this mean we'll have to split the bonus? What about the promotion, then?"

"Yeah." A wrinkle appears between Conor's eyebrows. "I'll be honest, Richard. This doesn't make me super motivated."

"Me neither," I admit openly.

Richard throws his head back and releases a very Santa Claus laugh—all ho ho ho like. I guess he's channeling the inspiration for his mug or already getting into the seasonal mood.

"And I wouldn't expect you to, so I raise you this." He laces his fingers all villain-like. "It's ten-kay each, guaranteed, for organizing the event. But whoever impresses me the most gets the promotion. How's that for motivation?"

Oh, shit.

I swallow hard. Okay. If the money's guaranteed already I'm definitely in, no matter how horrible it'll be to endure Conor's face up close. But if I also get that promotion, I could change the plan altogether. Grammie could come to America not just for a visit, but also to get some proper healthcare.

That's when I notice that Conor's attention is solely on me. His eyes roam my face like he's trying to read it for what I'm going to do. Odd. Why would he even care? This isn't the first project he messes up for me.

When I can't take the silence anymore, I say, "Fine. I'm in."

"Guess I'm in, too." Conor nods.

"Great. I expect a solid proposal on my desk in a week."

"Er, Richard… it's Thanksgiving in two days." Rachel now turns her cringey smile on our boss.

"And that's why I said in a week. That way they'll have all of tomorrow and Monday to put it together."

As if two nine-hour-long workdays were enough for that. Tomorrow and Monday aren't anywhere near enough, and there's no way I'm seeing hair or hide of this guy during the holiday break—no matter how pretty either of those is.

"Well, we have more or less a plan so this meeting is adjourned." Richard picks up his ridiculous mug and gets to his feet.

Dave regales us with one of those coughs that make everyone uncomfortable even though he's not in the room. I give him a polite wave of my hand before disconnecting the call.

Kaylee lets out a sigh that bleeds disappointment before leaving her seat. Meanwhile, Lewis huffs and pushes away from the table. Only when his chair slams back against the glass wall does he get to his feet.

"Good luck, Sierra." Rachel squeezes my arm. "I know this isn't what you were hoping for, but don't forget you're the one who took the initiative here. You got this. "

"Thanks." I jut my lower lip. It sucks, but I guess I'll just cry my way to the bank.

"You coming?" she asks me when I don't move from my seat.

"Nah, I have a few minutes before another meeting in this room. I'll just stay and get some work done here."

By work I mean I'll make a flight reservation right away. This is going to be super expensive because it's so late, but I didn't have enough funds in my bank account to cover a cheaper ticket earlier. Now that I know the bonus is happening, I can charge the ticket to my credit card and pay it off later.

"Okay. See you later."

I respond without looking up from my screen. "Yep, bye."

"This is gonna be fun to watch," says Stephen just outside the door, no doubt referring to what could potentially turn into a shitshow. Best I can do is ignore him and focus on my renewed hope.

My browser pulls up the exact flight information I need once I type the first few letters. I've looked it up so many times that it remembers. My Christmas spirt returns with a vengeance and I start humming Mariah Carey's classic seasonal song. Mariah is Mom's and Grammie's favorite singer because she has Venezuelan ascent.

"Sierra."

I freeze. Apparently not everyone left.

Would ignoring him make him go away?

I close my eyes. Probably not. We're going to be in each other's grills pretty hardcore for the next three weeks. I swivel my chair and open my eyes.

Instant regret floods me. Conor leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded and holding his laptop against his chest. The problem is that a strand of hair has escaped its pomade hold, arching over his forehead in a way that is offensive. He's all smiles and easy laughs with everyone but me, which is fine except for the fact that it earns me his most intense stares. Like this one. I wonder how his hockey opponents felt when his brown eyes were on them like this. Or if unlike me, they felt nothing at all.

See, that's another important item in the list of reasons why he irritates me. He has no right to be so freaking cute.

"What?" I grit the word out.

He narrows his eyes a notch. "Is this going to be an issue?"

I let the silence hang because making him slightly uncomfortable is the only way I can intimidate a guy who is like two hundred pounds of solid, very nicely shaped muscle.

"Not if you don't get in my way," I say at last.

"Hm." He straightens away from the doorframe. "I guess it'll be an issue, then. That promotion is mine."

I stretch my lips into a sweet smile that doesn't fool him, going by the way that little wrinkle appears between his eyebrows again. "You're going down, Mahoney."