Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

HOLLY

“ M y Secret Santa doesn’t seem very into it,” I tell Dan as I stir-fry the veg and chicken, one of our favorite meals. We’ve agreed not to have Christmas, wintery meals for every dinner because it might get old.

Dan glances up from his laptop. “No?”

“They just told me to tell them what I wanted, and they’d get it. They even said they didn’t want a gift. I could pocket the cash.”

“Not everybody is as into it as us,” Dan says.

“On the upside, the video’s doing well on socials. Other companies are even following suit. We’re getting a good push with the green people—the whole recycling angle.”

“Good.” Dan nods. “It’s a fun way to brighten up people’s holidays, but if it can work for the company, too, that’s a win-win.”

“Am I dishing up three plates?” I ask.

I hope I said that casually. You know, no big deal. I might as well say, Is my crush joining us for dinner? But he’s my ex-crush, not my current crush.

“Speak of the devil,” Dan says, looking up.

Asher looks even more serious than usual as he walks in. He’s wearing just his shirt, no suit jacket. Not that I should notice stuff like this, but maybe he might want to invest in a bigger size. His shirt squeezes onto his bulging muscles.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“How’d it go?” Dan says.

“How’d what go?” I ask.

Asher sits beside Dan at the table, drumming his fingers, distracted. After a pause, he says, “I went to visit Mom. She’s doing a lot better and seems healthier.”

As I plate up the food, I say, “What’s she doing for Christmas? Does she want to join us with Mom and Dad?”

“What?” Asher says, glaring at me. “I don’t know what she’s doing.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“Not everything is about this goddamn holiday,” Asher snaps, then he sighs. “Sorry. I just …”

“It’s fine,” Dan says, giving me a look. He had already warned me that this was a touchy subject because of his ex .

I don’t enjoy thinking about her, which is wildly unfair. He’s a grown man with a history. With looks like his and money in his bank, he’s probably got dozens of exes. He’s undoubtedly broken countless hearts. It’s not my place to judge or care or even think about it for longer than a second.

Maybe Asher feels guilty for snapping. After we’ve begun eating, he says, “The video looked good, Holly.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “It was a team effort. I didn’t get to include my favorite clip, though.”

He smirks. It’s like I wash away his pain. His northern lights-colored eyes linger on me almost in fascination. I’m probably reading far too much into it. He knows I’m talking about the one of him flipping me the bird. It was so funny, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of laughing.

The next day, during my lunch break, I text my Secret Santa.

Me: I want to do this properly. Why don’t you give me a hint of what you’d like?

My Secret Santa: Why are you so obsessed with doing it properly? They didn’t give us any rules.

Me: Well, maybe I’ve got my own rules—Christmas rules.

My Secret Santa: You can’t be serious.

Who is this person? It could literally be anybody in the entire company, meaning hundreds of people. Just because most of us are getting into the Christmas spirit, it doesn’t mean that applies to everybody. Lots of people are probably ready to put the holidays behind us.

Me: Why is that so shocking to you?

My Secret Santa: I don’t want to be a cliché, but some would say Christmas is just a consumerist, wasteful holiday—a sign of decadence.

Me: That’s a very pessimistic way to look at it.

My Secret Santa: How do you view it, then?

Me: I see it as a way to build community, bond, and make memories.

I study my last message as the cursor blinks, then delete it. Why am I trying so hard with this person? It’s not my job to win them over. Instead, I text, Okay, fair enough. Why don’t you just tell me what you want?

My Secret Santa: I already told you. I don’t want anything.

I groan. Are they trying to be annoying?

Me: What sort of person wants nothing for Christmas? Plus, it’ll be super awkward when it’s time for us all to swap our gifts, and you give me something, and I’m just standing there.

My Secret Santa: Are you worried about looking like a jerk?

They’re the jerk, but I will not tell them that. They’re making this process far more complicated than it needs to be. It’s supposed to be a bit of fun. Some people are determined to ignore any concept of goodwill at this time of year.

Somebody sits at my table. I look up, ready with a smile. If somebody has just sat down without asking, they’re presumably a friend. When I see it’s Derek, I do my best not to look annoyed. He’s been giving me attention for the past month or two. It’s not that he’s a bad person—at least, I don’t think he is—but I’m just not interested.

As usual, I notice how skinny he is. It’s not a bad thing, but he’s nothing like Asher, with his strong jawline and temptingly powerful features.

Get a grip, Holly.

“Hey, Derek,” I say.

“Hey.” He picks at the table with his thumbnail like a shy boy approaching his crush. “I just wanted to say it’s a shame I didn’t get you for my Secret Santa.”

“Maybe you did,” I shrug. “Who knows?”

“The person I’m matched with wants a LEGO set. You’re not really into LEGO sets, are you?”

As usual, he skirts that fine line between making me uncomfortable and making me feel bad for thinking that way.

“No, Derek, not really. Aren’t you going to get anything to eat?”

“I’m not hungry … for food.”

I stand up, leaving the rest of my meal untouched. “I have to get back to work.”

I seriously don’t like those hints he’s dropping. He seems like a decent enough guy, somewhat odd and a bit disconnected from reality. We met when I was doing a feature on his department. I must have said something he perceived as flirty, but I never meant it like that.

Back in my office, I text my Secret Santa, trying to get Derek out of my head.

Me: I’m worried about you looking like a jerk. Because, guess what? When people ask why you haven’t got a gift, I’m not exactly going to be tight-lipped about the answer.

My Secret Santa: Let me look like a jerk, then. It won’t be the first time, and it probably won’t be the last.

Me: Jeeeeeeeeeeeez. I don’t get why you won’t just give me an idea about what you want. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Something fun, something light, something silly. That’s all.

My Secret Santa: Fine. Get me a reindeer hat with big obnoxious antlers covered in fairy lights and a T-shirt to match. There can be a caption on the shirt. Something like “The Happiest Grinch Ever” might suit me. Happy now?

Me: I think “The World’s Biggest Douche” might suit you better, stranger.

My Secret Santa: Some might think that’s an HR-worthy comment.

Me: I was only kidding, I type quickly. I didn’t mean any offense.

My Secret Santa: Relax. I’m not the type to go running to HR about innocent jokes. Are you ready to tell me who you are?

Me: What? No way! That’s against the rules.

My Secret Santa: Are you always such a goody-goody?

Me: It’s not about being a “goody-goody.” The whole point of this is to keep our identities secret . Let me know when you can be serious about your gift idea.

I try to get on with some work, but I check my phone far more often than usual. There’s something fun about texting this person. I don’t even know if they’re a man or a woman or know anything about them, but it’s almost like—Well, it’s like flirting, okay?

I know that’s silly. It’s not like I think it’s going to go anywhere. I’m focused on my career. I’ve never started or ended a relationship, but I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t fun.

That’s a two-way street, my Secret Santa replies. What do you want?

Me: I’m easygoing. Scented candles, a voucher for a clothes store, maybe something creative to do with photography …

My Secret Santa: So you’re a woman, then.

Me: Easy there. Are you taking this in a non-HR-appropriate area?

My Secret Santa: No, but you are clearly a woman.

Me: That’s very old-fashioned thinking. Since you’re so obsessed, can I assume you’re a man?

My Secret Santa: Yes, Miss Goody Two-shoes, I’m a man.

I smile. This is easier than talking to a man could ever be. I don’t have to worry about staring at his ripped body, gazing at the steam rising off his massive, sculpted chest muscles. I don’t have to beat myself up because he’s my brother’s best friend.

The best part? I know this isn’t going to go anywhere. It’s innocent. It’s fun.

Me: I’m a woman, but that’s all you’ll get out of me.

My Secret Santa: I can’t believe you broke a rule, Miss Goody Two-shoes. I’m shocked.

Me: It’s the last one I’ll break, Grinch.

My Secret Santa: I’ll try to find you some scented candles worthy of such a seemingly angelic person.

My smile widens when I read his last text.