Charming Co-Worker: Holiday RomCom Standalone

by Lauren Runow

  “Brilliant!” he says and then waves at someone over my shoulder. “You know, my mum is always telling me I have to be good to you. She’s grown quite fond of you when she rings.”

  “And I, her. She’s always asking me when you’re going to settle down. She wants me to set you up with someone.” That someone could be me.

  “Yes, and I plan to. Not getting any younger. Perhaps the woman of my dreams is right under my nose.” There’s a twinkle to his eye. I part my lips to speak, but before I can utter a sound, he sees someone over my shoulder and lifts a hand to them. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go say hello to a few people before I sneak out of here.”

  I nod my head in understanding as he walks away.

  With a deep breath, I keep myself facing the windows. “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” is playing on the speakers, and people have started to dance. The room grows noisier with alcohol-infused conversation, and the waiters have started to serve the second round of hors d’oeuvres.

  I take out my phone and arrange for Branson’s pickup. It’ll be here in five minutes. I forward him the confirmation and then toss my phone back in my purse. I grab a flute of champagne off a serving tray and down it in three quick swallows.

  Everyone is laughing and chatting away as I watch Branson move about the room. He places his hand on another woman’s arm, the same way he did to me before. It has me grabbing another champagne glass. When he kisses Iris from the Sales department on the cheek, I take a third, drain it, and then slam it down with a thud.

  I feel like I’m in a bad dream as Branson walks out of the room, his head never turning back to say good-bye. Why would he? It’s ridiculous that I hoped he’d give a final nod or wave, saying good night.

  I reach for another glass, but a warm, strong hand lies on my wrist, halting its motion. I glance up in surprise to see Hunter standing behind me.

  His eyes flick over to where I was just staring. His brows furrowed, his mouth pursed. When he turns back to me, he lifts a brow. “Let’s go somewhere we can do some real damage.”

  His comment is said almost as a dare.

  I’m not the type to leave an office event early, nor am I the girl who goes out and gets rip-roaring drunk. But as I think about Branson heading off to his date, which will probably lead to his bedroom, it has me staring into Hunter’s determined gaze and giving him a nod. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Two

  A quick walk through the snow-covered streets of Manhattan has us at the doorstep of a bar, the kind with wooden walls and a long mahogany counter with wreaths and mistletoe decorating every nook and cranny.

  Holiday music is playing, as it is everywhere in the city, but this is more of the rock variety. The kind you can really let loose to.

  We weave through the crowd and snag two stools just as a couple is getting up. Their dirty glasses and napkins are still on the counter, but we sit down before anyone else can grab the seats.

  Hunter shrugs off his coat and places it behind his chair. He rolls up his sleeves and removes his tie before releasing the second button of his shirt. I admire how handsome he looks in his thin-striped shirt and black pants that hug his defined body nicely.

  He catches me staring and raises a brow.

  With a quick turn toward the bartender, I hold up a finger. “Jameson.”

  Hunter leans over, placing his hand on top of mine and lowering it to the counter as he tells the bartender, “We’ll both have Bushmills. Double.”

  The bartender walks away, and I scoff at Hunter as he settles back in his seat.

  “I only drink budget whiskey,” I explain.

  “Well, if you didn’t spend all your money on that fancy dress to impress a man, you’d have more money for the important things. Like booze.”

  My mouth parts in surprise. “What makes you think this dress isn’t one I had lying around?”

  The bartender slides our drinks across the bar as Hunter takes out his wallet. “Like I said earlier, I notice things.”

  He lays a hundred-dollar bill down before placing his wallet back in his pocket, and then he lifts his glass. “To doing things the right way.”

  I grab my glass and clink his, taking a sip as he raises his own to his lips and doing the same, his eyes trained on mine.

  This must be how he woos his women, sitting at a bar with his suit in the beginnings of undress and this aura of cockiness about him. His thighs are spread apart to accommodate the length of his legs as he leans back with a casual grace and a devilish smile. I admire his muscular forearms, and as he takes another drink, I notice a tattoo of an arrow appearing where his sleeve is rolled up. It’s jet-black, and it looks striking against his golden skin.

  The way his eyes roam over my face with his slightly tilted chin and hands that are now clasped at his midriff tell me I’ve been caught staring again.

  “Checking me out?” he asks.

  I shrug, not afraid to tell him so. “I was admiring how handsome you are.” I point to the open collar of his dress shirt. “It’s very Clooney-esque. You should do it more often.”

  “Are you saying I don’t come off as handsome every day?”

  My forehead crinkles. “You look fine every day, and you know it. I’m just saying, I get the appeal.”

  He leans forward in intrigue. “Appeal?”

  I roll my eyes. “Not from me. But you do capture female attention wherever you go. Which reminds me, why aren’t you gallivanting with Janice from Accounting? She seemed very interested in disappearing with you.”

  “My Katie McGee needed the company more.”

  “What made you think that?” I ask defensively.

  “You’re angry drinking.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the way you’re fisting that glass and scowling. What’s going on? This isn’t like my favorite co-worker. She’s always happy and full of corny jokes.”

  I swivel toward him with my hand on my hip. “My jokes aren’t corny!”

  He smirks. “Yesterday, Iris sneezed in the development meeting, and you turned to me and said, ‘What does a nut say when it sneezes?’ ”

  I drop my shoulders and lift my eyes to the ceiling. “Cashew.”

  Hunter arches forward, casually amused. “Corny yet adorable.”

  “I don’t want to be adorable.” I pout. “I want to be”—I push my hand against my thigh and sit up, staring into the air above me, thinking of the kind of woman I want to be—“a Christmas vixen!”

  “A vixen?” His brows curve in confusion. Even he knows it’s a crazy notion.

  I slump forward and sigh. “You’re right. You said it before. Branson is so far out of my league. I’m a pushover. A dreamer. Crazy for thinking I had a chance.”

  “You heard wrong—”

  “Teach me,” I declare rather animatedly, throwing my arms up and landing them on his thighs. “Show me how to be like the women you take home on a Friday night. I want to rock his sleigh bed and jingle his balls.”

  “Did you really just say jingle his balls?” He narrows an eye and then glances down at where my hands are on his thighs.

  I hastily move them away, now realizing how hard he felt under my palms. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

  “While I’m sure Branson would love a good manhandling, you’re not a slut, and the endgame is not a one-night stand.”

  “I’m twenty-five, and I have the virtue of a saint. It’s time I broke out of this”—I motion toward my prim and proper look—“shell.”

  Hunter lets out a cough. “Are you a virgin?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I scold him with a deep scowl and then add, “For the record, no.”

  He lets out a hard breath and shakes his head. After swigging his whiskey, he puts his glass down heavily. “There’s nothing I can teach you that will make him fall in love with you.”

  “Not up for the challenge?” I taunt him, knowing he’s not one to back down.

  “I don’t believe in ro
mance the way you do.”

  “Hunter Johnstone, do you not believe in love?” I ask, aghast.

  “Of course I do. I fall in love every weekend.” He grins with a wink. “What you’re talking about is fairy-tale stuff.”

  “Jeez, who stole the presents from under your tree?”

  He doesn’t answer my question. “I believe in a strong drink, clever conversation, an excellent first kiss, and a good fuck.” My eyes widen at his vulgarity, and a smirk covers his sexy face. “Did I make you blush?” he asks.

  “Kind of,” I grunt out my annoyance. “That’s what’s wrong with me!” I turn to the bar and grab my drink. “I’ll always be cute, corny Katie, who blushes at the mention of the word fuck.” I take a rather large gulp and flinch at the aftertaste.

  “You forgot sexy as hell,” he says, catching me off guard. “He’s a fool not to want you.”

  I clear my throat—not so ladylike, I might add—before I choke on my whiskey.

  A woman with a beautiful red cocktail dress walks past us. She has long legs and a tiny waist. She’s all I can stare at because I want to be just like her—vivacious and seductive. To my surprise, Hunter doesn’t notice her. His focus is only on me.

  The bartender comes over, and he refills Hunter’s drink and tops off mine before walking away.

  “Do you really think I’m sexy?” I ask.

  His eyes widen for a moment as he looks down with a slight upturn to his lips. When he glances up, I notice a glimmer in his eye and a grin that is mischievous yet daring. “Honestly?”

  “Yes.” I swallow, waiting for his response.

  His chest rises as he licks his lips, and those caramel eyes turn molten as they widen. With a lift of his chin, he looks to the side and then shakes his head, as if whatever he was just thinking was a crazy thought.

  His posture shifts, and his legs close as he rests his elbows on the bar and lifts his glass to his lips. “The sweet-secretary thing works for a lot of guys,” he says before taking a drink.

  I blow out a sigh that makes my lips vibrate. “If only Branson thought so.”

  Hunter raises his glass. “To wanting people you can’t have.”

  I lift mine but don’t clink. “To wanting people you can have if you just make changes.”

  He tilts his head at my arched brow. I’m daring him, begging him for his expertise.

  He shakes his head. “I already said, I won’t teach you. It’s not something to be taught. You are who you are.”

  “Fine, just a few pointers then. Please, Hunter. I need you and your man-whore ways to help me get my Christmas wish.”

  He rubs the back of his neck as he chuckles. “What is this, a Hallmark movie?”

  “Yes,” I declare. “Come on. It could be fun for you. Make me a holiday harlot!”

  “You need to know I like you just as you are.”

  I lift my eyes to the ceiling. “Noted.” Rising from my barstool, I stand up and turn him, so I can stand between his open thighs, squaring my shoulders and holding my arms out. “Come on. Don’t you want to have your way with me? Show me some tricks that really make your bells jingle?” I do a little dance for him.

  He blows out a breath, trying not to laugh, and rubs his thighs. “Holiday harlot, huh?”

  “A mistletoe mistress.” I tilt my shoulders in a sexy way.

  “You know, your talent for alliteration is quite amusing.”

  “Then, I shall stop.” I make a zip my lip motion and toss away the figurative key.

  With a hard laugh, he grabs my hand and pulls me fully into him. My waist lines up with his groin, and I gasp at the closeness—and the hardness.

  Hunter places a hand around my neck and starts to pull the bobby pins from my chignon. It’s a simple motion, but with each tug, I feel his sturdy hand, warm on my skin, grasping the pins gently yet with purpose. It causes me to lift my chest with a deep gasp.

  “While you have the graceful neck of a dancer, you should let your hair down,” he breathes.

  “Thank you for the compliment, but wouldn’t that mean I should show it off, like I am now?”

  With each delicate pull of a pin, the tendrils fall onto my shoulders, leaving a whisper of a tickle against my skin. When they’re all out, he laces his fingers through my hair, letting it tumble in loose waves down my back.

  My scalp tingles, and the sensation runs through my body, into my toes. He sweeps it to the side, making it cascade across one shoulder. He runs a finger along my skin, pushing my hair to the front.

  “Hide that beautiful flesh behind the veil. Make him want to find out what’s buried beneath,” he says with purpose.

  “What’s next?” I ask with a swallow.

  “To touch is to flirt.” He moves his thumb in a slow circle on my neck, causing a shiver to run down my chest. “A hand on the shoulder is friendly. A hand on the chest shows attraction.”

  I raise my hand and lay it on his chest. The heat of his body pours through his shirt and into my palm. His heart is pounding, mimicking my own.

  “What do I do with my other hand?” I ask.

  “Where does it feel like it wants to be?” he asks provocatively.

  I place it on his bicep. “Is this too forward?”

  “If he doesn’t want it there, he’ll tell you. Compliments are always welcome. Men are constantly telling girls things about them, so switch the role and surprise him.”

  My hands shake mildly. “Okay, let me think. I’ve never role-played with anyone before.”

  “It’s not role-playing. It’s honesty. If it’s a line, he’ll know. If it’s the God’s honest truth, then he’ll feel that.”

  I lick my lips and nod my head, trying to narrow down his most attractive quality. He has many. His full lips, broad shoulders, tousled hair …

  “Your eyes,” I say, and he starts to roll them, so I add, “they remind me of caramel candies. But it’s not just the honey-colored streaks or your long lashes, which are ridiculous for a man. It’s the way you look at people. They’re really inviting. When we talk, I feel like I’m the most important person in the room.”

  I laugh at how crazy this scenario is and shake my head, tilting it down to the ground to avoid the exact contact I was just explaining so I can gain my composure.

  I inhale and look back up to him, my shoulders sagging. “That sounded stupid, right?”

  His gaze clings to me, analyzing my reaction, staring at me with so much interest that I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.

  “Never mind.” I cross my hands in front of me, like I’m waving a white flag. “Your turn. I need help with the flattery, obviously. What would you say?”

  “Your lips,” he answers easily. “You have the most beautiful bowed mouth. When you smile, it’s so bright, you light up, even when you’re confused or focusing really hard on something. Your lips are like a present I want to unwrap and make smile again because when you do, everything’s better.”

  I bite the exact body part he just made me all mushy about and turn my head away. His words, so smooth and yet so honest, have that tingle in my chest radiating through my body.

  “Eye contact is key,” he says, pulling my attention back to him. “If you can hold a man’s attention with the simple look of your eyes, then you know you have him.”

  I raise my chin and stare into his eyes and find myself being drawn into him. Like a moth to a flame, I’m being pulled in, and I can’t find the strength to turn away.

  They grow darker and glaze over in a lustful haze as his pupils dilate, searching mine. He seems to have the same magnetism toward me as I do him. The noise I heard all around us is completely silenced. The people surrounding us disappear.

  His fingers grip my waist, giving a more physical sensation as he applies pressure to there. I’m tugging his arm, willing him to come closer to me, and I don’t want to stop.

  My senses are heightened as his body brushes against mine. A bolt of electricity courses through my bones, and I clutch
him tighter. His intoxicating, musky scent washes over me, and as we draw nearer, I can practically taste the whiskey on his soft lips.

  I don’t know what comes over me, but without thinking, I fall forward and crash my mouth against Hunter’s. My lips form against his, and for a brief moment, I consider what a foolish mistake this is until he parts his mouth and pulls me into him, his tongue gliding out to caress mine.

  If this is a mistake, then I don’t want to be right.

  His other hand is now on my face, caressing my skin as our tongues dance around each other. He applies the firmest pressure to our kiss, which makes my chest heave into his, as I search for any amount of friction and embrace this man is willing to offer.

  I raise my palm from his heart and move it up to his neck, feeling his pulse throbbing beneath my thumb.

  His mouth draws out our kiss until I’m breathless. When he pulls away, his eyes are hooded as his thumb rubs a circle against my cheek.

  I lower my arm and take a step back. I have to blink to remind myself we’re in a crowded bar with garland stretched across the ceiling and Bruce Springsteen playing on the speakers.

  What the hell just happened? I’ve never kissed someone like that—with me making that final push to make it happen—but holy hell, I couldn’t stop myself.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” I whisper in disbelief, placing a hand over my mouth, still feeling the tingle of our make-out session. “One minute, I’m talking about being infatuated with a certain man, and the next, I’m sucking face with you.”

  He grins at that comment. As he grabs his glass and takes a drink, I have a feeling he’s just as shocked as I am at what we just did.

  “I’m sorry. God”—I shake my head, not sure what I’m trying to say—“I don’t want you to think I’m some foolish girl who throws herself at any guy over his silly words and then gets lost by his all-consuming kisses. I mean, I only wanted to learn how to be more forward. That was a complete accident. I’m so sorry. Please say something. Why aren’t you speaking?”

  With raised brows and a smirk, he leans forward and takes a long, slow sip of his drink, turning only his chin to me and looking at me through his long lashes. “You think my kisses are all-consuming?”