Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

ASHER

A fter working, I lie in bed, rereading the text from my Secret Santa. Is it possible that there’s another person at the company whose dad worked as a traveling salesman who referred to himself as ‘a dying breed,’ and another woman whose family made an extra special effort to ensure Christmas was the most wonderful time of the year?

When my Secret Santa sent me that text, I almost threw my phone at the wall. It’s not like I’d ever let something as simple as texting make my head spin. Though, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find my Secret Santa interesting.

Now that I know she’s most likely my best friend’s sister, I should probably destroy this phone and never think about her again. It was bad enough when she touched me and sent my mind spiraling into steamville.

I was interested before I suspected she was Holly. That’s ticked up several decibels into outright lust territory. It’s physically challenging not to type a reply. When speaking with them earlier in the kitchen, I did my best not to even look at Holly. Couldn’t Dan read the desire on my face?

Why did I agree to let her come with me tomorrow? Nothing good can come from that. Except, maybe it’ll be nice not to have to face my childhood on my own.

The phone vibrates in my hand. My Secret Santa has texted me.

My Secret Santa: Was my Hallmark story about the joy of the holidays too much for you, Grinch?

I smile and then wipe the smile off my face. I shouldn’t type a reply, but I do. Maybe I can lie to myself and say it isn’t Holly.

Me: There’s nothing wrong with trying to make your family happy, I reply hypocritically.

I’m not making Mom happy unless you count housing and a monthly allowance. By providing for her financially, I’ve given myself a get-out-of-jail-free card for any meaningful connection.

My Secret Santa: You’ve changed your tune, she texts.

Me: Maybe I’m in a position where I’ll need to try soon.

My Secret Santa: How come?

Me: A family engagement, I tell her. I’ve got something coming up, classic holiday crap. I’ll need to be Mr. Christmas Cheer or as close to it as possible.

My Secret Santa: You might want to start by not calling it “classic holiday crap.”

Me: If I can’t be honest with my Secret Santa, who can I be honest with?

As I wait for a reply, I think of her in her bedroom, wearing shorts that show off her mouth-watering thick thighs, a shirt with no bra, her nipples poking through the fabric, ready for me to suck and caress.

My Secret Santa: The whole idea of Secret Santa is NOT to be honest …

That’s my bind. If I tell her what I suspect, that she’s Holly, I’ll have to confront the fact that I’m lying here with a goofy grin on my face, texting my best friend’s sister. But if she remains Miss Goody Two-shoes, I can pretend otherwise and trick myself a while longer.

My Secret Santa: What’s the event? she asks.

I can’t be honest. It would give the game away.

Me: Just something boring and Christmassy.

My Secret Santa: Thank you for that very specific and enlightening answer. I now have a much greater understanding of what you’re talking about.

I laugh, reading the text in her voice. It’s easy to do. Sarcasm has always come easy to her, even when we were kids.

Me: All I know is that I will lurk like a ghost at the feast.

My Secret Santa: That’s a choice you’re making.

Me: Are you going to give me a motivational speech?

My Secret Santa: Don’t be an ass , she replies. I don’t know your circumstances or understand why this is tricky for you. Sometimes, I get in a dark mood. When that happens, I have to play a role and pretend I’m in a good mood. “Fake it until you make it.” I think that’s another reason I love the holidays so much. Half the population is faking it, maybe more.

I knew nothing about her dark moods. I’m instantly intrigued.

Me: Why do you get in dark moods?

My Secret Santa: Because I’m a human being … duh.

Again, I laugh. Knowing, or at least strongly suspecting, that this is Holly makes every text come alive. Her facial expressions, voice, and a confident eyebrow raise all play in my mind.

Me: You love being sassy and sarcastic, don’t you? I was asking for specifics.

My Secret Santa: Being sassy and sarcastic is my specialty when it comes to you, Secret Santa.

Reading the text, I get irrationally angry. She doesn’t know she’s talking to me. We’re flirting, but she thinks she’s speaking with somebody else. There’s no way, out of a company of hundreds, she could know that fate or luck would throw us together.

What am I going to do, then? Tell her? I’m already opening one can of worms tomorrow with Mom. I don’t need a second to deal with.

Me: Are you going to answer my question? I type.

My Secret Santa: Lots of things can put me in a bad mood: the state of the world, my reflection in the mirror, just the usual stuff. I’ve been lucky that my life has been blessed in many ways. It’s easier for me to be positive than for many others. I acknowledge that.

One line stands up above all the others.

Me: What do you mean by “your reflection in the mirror?” Why would that put you in a bad mood?

My Secret Santa: I’m not saying it always does. But if you can find a woman who hasn’t sometimes felt a little blue about her appearance, you’ve found a unicorn.

Me: Describe your appearance to me, then. Let me be the judge.

My Secret Santa: Are you trying to get my identity again?

Me: I will not run around the office scanning every employee , I reply.

My Secret Santa: Let’s just put it this way. You won’t see me at the MET Gala anytime soon.

Me: So, you’re curvy?

My Secret Santa: That’s one way to phrase it.

Me: There’s nothing wrong with that, I reply, thinking of her in the kitchen earlier, wearing her work clothes, a hip-hugging pencil skirt highlighting her plump juiciness. My rod hums with tension. Some men prefer the curvy look.

My Secret Santa: Are you one of those men?

I prefer the Holly look, but I can’t tell her that.

Me: Yes, in fact, I am. You should be proud of your appearance.

My Secret Santa: Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, I am. It’s not black and white. I haven’t got serious body issues, but I haven’t got some deluded idea that I’m the hottest woman alive.

Me: That’s where you’re wrong , I type. You’re hotter than any woman at the company or in the city. When I came home and saw you, I didn’t believe you could be the same little Tarantino I left behind. Your curves, your tits, and your shape make me hungry and savage.

Needless to say, I delete this before I send it. The nickname alone would reveal too much and tell who I am, let alone the lust boiling off each word.

Me: That’s a healthy approach , I reply instead, feeling lame.

My Secret Santa: I’m in the same boat as you, she texts. I’ve got to do something Christmassy tomorrow.

Me: Aren’t you excited about it? You seem very gung ho about the holiday spirit.

My Secret Santa: It’s going to be awkward, she replies.

Me: Why?

My Secret Santa: It involves some private stuff. I can’t really explain. I can say that I’ll need to wear a mask, just like you will. I’m going to need to fake it until I make it. Pretend.

Me: Pretend what?

My Secret Santa: I can’t say.

I sit up. My body is growing hot. I’m physically warming up like I’ve just run a 5K. The image of her sitting in bed, possibly with her knees tucked to her chest, possibly with her shorts riding up her ass and into her haven, won’t quit my head.

Me: You’re not giving a man much to go on.

My Secret Santa: It’s Secret Santa, duh. That’s why I’m being so secretive. Anyway, I need to get some sleep. We still need to get around to the whole gift thing, Grinch.

Me: Good night , I text.

I put the phone on the bedside table, close my eyes, imagine the taste and texture of her sensitive crests in my mouth, imagine my hand sliding up her leg, imagine her sex soaked with wetness.

At work the next day, I notice Mia looking at me again. It bothers me, mostly because her name isn’t Holly Harper, and no other woman apart from my best friend’s sister could interest me. Unquestionably, I’m broken on some fundamental level to have these thoughts.

All too soon, it’s time for Holly and I to drive to Mom’s place. I meet her in the underground parking lot of Dan’s building near my new car. She’s changed into an over-the-top red Christmas sweater with green jeans that make her look like the curviest, sexiest holiday ornament ever.

“Nice wheels,” she says.

I open the butterfly doors. “A man has to have his indulgences,” I say, looking at her, wondering if she gets my double meaning.

She climbs into the car, wriggling in a way that lights up my mind with ridiculous fantasies. She’s just getting comfortable, but I imagine her crawling into my lap, grinding her thick ass against my imprisoned manhood, making me hard, coaxing precome out of me.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

Unfairly jealous that you’re texting a man you don’t know is me, Holly. Guilty about keeping secrets from you, too. “Fine,” I grunt.

“Fine,” she says, mimicking my tone.

I chuckle. “Excuse me for not being artificially happy all the damn time.”

“I’m not artificially happy .”

That’s right. She knows how to fake it until she makes it. If I say that, though, I’ll be hinting that I’m her Secret Santa.

I drive without speaking for a few minutes.

“How’s your Secret Santa going?” she asks.

I glance at her, searching for any sign she’s playing games. The question seems innocent. “Not too bad,” I say vaguely. “You?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “My guy seems determined not to give me any gift ideas. He’s a real Grinch.”

“People have reasons for not enjoying the holidays.”

“I know. Bad stuff happens even this time of year and can leave a mark.”

Is that a hint about my ex? Dan must’ve told her she broke up with me around Christmas. “Are we talking generally here, Snowflake?”

She laughs. “Snowflake? Where did that come from?”

It’s a valid question. The last thing I should do is start giving her cute nicknames, especially when I’ve already given her one. Miss Goody Two-shoes, but she doesn’t know that’s me.

“It seems to fit,” I say, against my better judgment. “At this time of year, you seem to …” Shut up, Asher. “… sparkle, and you’re uniquely enthusiastic.”

“Well, thanks. I’ll take it. Yeah, I was speaking generally. Why, what did you think?”

I shrug. “I was wondering if Dan told you what happened to me last Christmas.”

“Yeah, he did, but I wasn’t speaking about your ex; I promise. It’s none of my business.”

The topic seems closed, then; it’s probably for the best. I don’t need to justify or explain to Holly, especially when she’s flirting with another man. Sure, this “other man” is me, but she’s unaware of that. I’ve got no right to be jealous or possessive, but I feel that way.

Sure, I could tell her the truth anytime I wanted. That would make things more complicated, not less.

“How are you feeling about this?” she asks.

“With Snowflake at my side? We’re going to kick this Christmas tree’s ass.”

She laughs. It’s just as sweet as she is.