Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

ASHER

I drum my fingers on the desk.

Who is this woman?

Texting her feels uncomplicated, easier than talking to any woman ever has. The effortless banter makes me smile far more than anything with Mia did. That was a complicated mess. The other Mia—on my team—has been looking at me today, sneaking glances. Yet, I’m not attracted to her.

What if she’s the woman I’m texting? It’ll just mean that I find talking to her fun, but nothing could ever happen. I don’t even know why I’m thinking like this. After last Christmas, I decided I was done with trying to date.

That’s what it always felt like—trying.

My Secret Santa: What should I get you then? Something manly? Cigars? Gym gear? A big truck with “I’m a Big Powerful Man Who’s not Overcompensating” as the license plate?

Me: I think that might be a bit too long for a plate, I reply, grinning. This is more fun than I’ve had in a long time. If you’re that stressed about the gift, feel free to get me a voucher.

My Secret Santa: No way. No vouchers. That spoils the fun. I don’t want you to tell me outright, anyway. I want you to hint so there’s some mystery in it.

Me: So many conditions … Anybody would think you’re trying to get me to answer questions about myself so you can find out who I am.

My Secret Santa: Nope, you’re wrong , she replies. I just want to keep the Christmas spirit alive.

Me: That makes us opposites, then. I’m happy to let it die.

My Secret Santa: Wow. Morbid.

Me: Can’t you accept that not everybody is as into Christmas as you are?

I put the phone in the drawer and decide not to check it again today. It’s eating up too much of my workday, but that’s not exactly why I hide it. The real reason is that I don’t want to let any feelings grow.

Circulating the office floor, I notice Mia looking at me again. I suppress a groan. I hope she isn’t developing a workplace crush. It’s the last thing I need.

When I walk by Derek’s desk, I pause. He quickly changes the screen when he sees me looking, but I’m almost sure he was on Holly’s social media page.

I walk over. Why am I so bothered?

It’s annoying. He should be working, not stalking Holly’s page, going through her photos, thinking about her curviness, her silky, gorgeous hair, her combination of sassiness and capability when she ties it up. He should be concentrating.

“Everything okay, boss?” he says.

“Fine,” I tell him. “Are you planning to work with the marketing team?”

“Excuse me?”

I should drop this. My voice has gotten low and angry. Almost savage. Protective. Is it my place to care? Nope. “You were looking at Holly Harper’s profile.”

“Oh,” he laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah. I was, uh, well, I’m writing Christmas cards. I couldn’t remember how she spelled it. My cousin spells it with an ‘ ie ’ instead of a ‘ y .’ I’m sorry, Mr. Mitchell. I’ll get on with my work.”

I take a step back. I need to chill. “It’s fine. You’re doing a good job.”

What is wrong with me? There was a reasonable explanation, but I’m standing here with my fists clenched like I’m about to go full Krampus on him. Damn. My Secret Santa must be getting to me. I’m even thinking in Christmas metaphors.

Later, I use Dan’s home gym and do what I always do when I work out—go overboard. There isn’t anything else in life that obliterates my thoughts more than the gym. I love the feeling of my muscles burning and my lungs aching during cardio, pushing it until I can’t dwell, obsess, or think about anything.

To finish my workout, I hit the running machine. When I finish, I turn to find Holly walking across the room toward the pink weights in the corner.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Didn’t want to disturb you.”

I step off the treadmill, dripping with sweat, feeling lightheaded and in a good mood from the endorphin rush. “You aren’t disturbing me,” I tell her. “I’m done now, anyway. Just need to mop up.”

She laughs. It’s an endearing, sweet sound. She’s wearing shorts that show the unmistakable, tempting shape of her thick, curvy thighs. Her tank top shows the outline of her bra underneath it, bringing my attention to her chest. Her breasts are as voluptuous as the rest of her. Her hair is tied up, and she’s not wearing makeup, highlighting her natural beauty. For some reason, her cheeks are flushed red.

“Do you work out often?” I ask.

“I do it for health reasons, as opposed to trying to look like a bikini model,” she says. “I’m not going to be that anytime soon.”

“You don’t need to be,” I say, a little too forcefully.

“I know that,” she replies. “I wasn’t saying I needed to … Just a comment, that’s all.” She looks at me with the aura of an investigator, like she’s trying to see if there’s only bleakness in my soul. “Thanks. If I had issues about my body image, that would’ve been a nice comment.”

I smirk, but it’s tricky. I’m not sure she’s telling half the truth or the total truth. It’s natural. A person’s thinking is rarely black and white. She probably walks the line between believing her body is perfectly shaped and wishing it were different.

For me, she’s built perfectly. She walks to the weight rack. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get an eyeful of her plump ass. Her round globes swaying side to side in those shorts seem designed to make her brother’s best friend get bad ideas.

“Are you still working out?” she asks, turning, spotting me watching her.

“I was just thinking of ways to get you back for your little prank yesterday.”

“ Little ,” she murmurs.

“Is the word offensive or something?”

“It just reminds me … It doesn’t matter,” she says off-handedly.

“It does now. Don’t play that game,” I grunt.

“What game ?”

“The game where you say something, then stop and expect me to pretend it never happened. Whatever it was, spit it out.”

“Do you have to be such a jerk?” she snaps.

I soften. I don’t want to upset her. “I’m sorry.”

“Whoa, I didn’t expect that.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t be such a jerk all the time, especially around this time of year. What were you going to say?”

“Little … It’s what you always used to say about me. I was ‘little Spielberg,’ or I was recording one of my ‘little videos.’ It always seemed like a way to demean my passion for video making.”

This hits me like a Mac truck. Suddenly, I walked across the room. I stand so close to her that I can smell her scent, sweet with a hint of vanilla, like a sugar cookie I want to devour. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was a million years ago.”

“I wasn’t trying to belittle you. I thought I was joking. I hate bullies, Holly. I never wanted to bully you.”

“Relax.” She lifts her hand to wave me off.

We both pause. What is she doing? Her hand is on my chest. Her warm palm presses against my sweatiness. My heart is thundering. She must be able to feel it, my blood rushing through my veins. She must be able to sense how difficult it is to hold myself back and be this close to her—the effect she’s having on me.

She quickly removes her hand. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

She laughs shakily. “I just assaulted you.”

“A little tap—I’ll be fine.”

“There’s that word again …”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Holly,” I say, discouraged.

“Hey, I got my revenge with the clothes trick. Who knows? I might even find other ways to get payback, too. Honestly, don’t sweat it. Like I said, it was ages ago.”

“You took your childhood passion, and you made it into a career,” I say, guilt still niggling at me. “Dan told me that when he put out a call for video submissions, you submitted anonymously. You didn’t want to use your connection to him to get the gig. Your talent did that for you.”

She looks down. Am I making her uncomfortable? I’m speaking with excessive intensity. It’s like I’m giving a speech. “Honestly, it’s fine. Seriously.”

I leave her before I do something I’ll regret. She looks half-broken as I step away, as if all the memories have resurfaced. She might say it’s fine, but it doesn’t feel authentic. I bet she’s been lingering on those memories far more than she’ll let on.

That makes what I do even worse.

While I lie in bed with my eyes closed, I picture her dressed as she was in the gym. Her scent returns to me. Maybe it was perfume, shampoo, or perhaps it was just her. It was appealing on a primal, physical level.

I slide my hand down my body, grip my stiffness, and stroke it as I think of her plump ass. I imagine her leaning against the weight rack, looking at me over her shoulder, biting her lip, her aquamarine siren eyes tempting, beckoning me to all kinds of betrayal.

My hand pumps faster. Forbidden heat makes my rod rock hard. It’s like I can feel her core kissing my tip as I sink deeper into my imagination. She’d smooth her hand over her ass, looking at me with the same sassiness that gripped her when she hid my clothes.

“What are you waiting for?”

Suddenly, I stand up. Wet release infuses every inch of my dick. I’m so close to exploding.

If I cross this line, I’m damned. I’ve fucked my relationship with Dan and any chance I had at ignoring this feeling.

So far, I have done nothing. I can lie to myself and pretend I’m innocent.

I rush down the hallway into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I stare at my reflection: at the gray in my hair, into the same blue eyes that strip the years away, taking me back to the early days when it was Dan and me against the world. Holly was a background figure flitting about with her camera.

“Get it together, man,” I growl.