by Alina Jacobs
We applauded politely as Walker and I glared over at the Holbrooks in the corner. Holbrook Enterprises had been at the top of the list the last two years, while my company had ranked tenth. Tenth!
“You'd think paying people a shit ton of money would be enough, but you would be wrong,” I said, glowering.
“People want atmosphere and a nice place to work,” Walker said, grabbing a mini cupcake off a tray. “They want fun activities, Christmas parties, nice food, and a CEO they feel like they could have a beer with.” I did not score well on any of those counts.
“You're just very frosty, Owen, get it? Because Frost is your last name?” Walker said, elbowing me in the ribs. See what I said about Svenssons? Obnoxious.
I spent the rest of the party pretending to be nice to my competitors and avoiding Sloane.
“Man, you go on one date with a woman in this city and it's like you agreed to marry her,” I complained to Walker under my breath.
“It's the population disparity. There are more women than men who are young professionals. It's flipped in San Francisco. Women are very territorial in Manhattan,” Grant Holbrook said loudly, swaggering over, arm around his wife, Kate. She looked up at him in bemusement then hugged me and Walker.
“Merry Christmas!”
Grant’s cousin Carter yawned beside him. “This party is boring. Holbrook Enterprises has a bomb-ass Christmas party planned. My wife—”
“You two literally are not even engaged,” Grant interjected.
“If I say it out loud, one day it will be true,” Carter said sagely. “She's got a ton of Christmas-themed cocktails planned.”
“You guys shouldn't even bother applying,” Grant said to me in that casual asshole way the Holbrooks had. “I have a Christmas wish list of companies I want to buy, and I think Santa’s going to bring me everything I want.”
“Honestly, I don't know how Grant manages to function given that he has to haul around his massive fucking ego,” Walker slurred. He had snuck a huge container of the boozy eggnog out of the party and almost sloshed it on me as we got into my luxury sports car. I would also have bet good money Walker had Christmas cookies wrapped in a napkin snuffed in his pocket. My COO had a sweet tooth.
My only vice was fast cars. In my tower, I had a whole floor of them. Usually I was too busy to drive them, but sometimes, late at night, when the roads were clear, I would take them out, zipping down the long avenues or out into the countryside.
My COO pulled a Christmas cookie out of his coat pocket, showering me with crumbs. I sighed. “I'm already ready for Christmas to be over.”
“Buckle up, Blitzen, because we are just getting started!”
I dropped Walker off at his condo building then drove home to the Quantum Cyber tower. My offices were in two-thirds of the building; the rest of the floors contained one of Archer Svensson’s hotels. Several condos were also part of the hotel. I owned three of them.
I loved my penthouse. It occupied three stories, with a sick roof deck and a master suite that was bigger than most Manhattan apartments. So sue me. I liked nice things.
To combat all the sweetness from the holiday party, I opened the fridge and pulled out my Thanksgiving leftovers. One thing I would say for the Svenssons: they could throw a good Thanksgiving. Or rather, their girlfriends could. Corn-bread stuffing, deep-fried turkey, green bean casserole—I snacked on it as I went upstairs to the master suite.
Curious. The bathroom light was on. Usually I was particular about turning the lights off. Maybe the holidays were starting to mess with my brain.
The room was hot. I threw open all the French doors to the balcony. It was way too warm; I usually kept the penthouse just warm enough so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. I started to undress, stripping down to my boxer briefs, ready for an ice-cold shower. Cold water was better for one’s health. I hung my pants on a hanger that had been lying on the bed. Also curious. Usually I didn't leave the hangers strewn about the room. I was about to pull the boxer briefs down when I realized there was someone in the room with me.
3
Holly
I was huffing and puffing as I pushed the trolley into the private elevator lobby.
“Man, I need to cut down on the holiday treats!”
“Don't blame the holidays. You've been stress eating since March,” Morticia said. I stuck my tongue out at her.
“Not that it doesn't look good on you, though your Christmas mugs do runneth over,” she said, gesturing to my chest then helping me roll the trolley over the hardwood floors. “Gunnar Svensson, one of the show's producers, thinks people will love you. I really talked you and your baking boxes up to Penny. She wants to do a special for the Vanity Rag. She's basically running things over there. Good thing, especially since Evan Harrington is a moron.”
“He's rich and handsome!”
“And engaged to a harpy.”
“This is the place where the contestants are staying?” I said in awe when we walked into the penthouse. It was huge!
“Vanity Rag doing a web special on decking the penthouse halls,” Morticia explained as we went back to heaving the cart. “I need to buy decorations.”
I had a flash of an apocalyptic holiday scene—black snow, a burned tree, a weeping angel—it would look like The Nightmare Before Christmas.
“I'll come with you to help pick out décor,” I said hastily.
“Good choice,” Morticia replied.
“This penthouse is nuts.” I said, trying not to drool. “There is an actual staircase! I can wrap it in garland, real garland that smells like pine, with cranberries, big white ribbons, and fairy lights!”
Morticia smirked and tucked a strand of her long black hair behind her ear, showing the piercings. “I knew you would want to jizz Christmas all over this place.”
“How is Romance Creative able to afford all this?” I asked her.
“They worked out some deal with the tower owner to film The Great Christmas Bake-Off here,” Morticia said, sauntering into a large living room. It was fancy but bare.
“I hope this is on the list to be decorated.”
“Of course,” Morticia said.
“And no skeleton reindeer or creepy elves on the shelf,” I added.
“The elf on the shelf is not creepy!”
I froze. The voice that haunted my Christmas nightmares—Amber.
“Heya, sis,” she said, sauntering down the stairs.
I glared at her. “Don't tell me you're part of the bake-off. No. I literally cannot have this. You ruined enough Christmases for me. I cannot take another!”
When I went off to culinary school, Amber had decided that she would go to culinary school too. I did my best to avoid her, but I believed in spending the holidays with family, even if it killed me, so I had to see her over breaks. At the very least I didn't have to work with her at my various restaurant jobs.
“You always do this!” I yelled at her, “You stalk me and try to ruin my life! It's just like culinary school when you flirted with the dean so he would give you my schedule so you could take the same classes as me.”
“I'm not here for you. I'm here to snag a billionaire,” she said, admiring her freshly manicured nails. “Rumor has it one of the Frost brothers is going to be a judge. Chloe landed Jack Frost last year. Now I want my own billionaire too. I even adjusted my look,” she said, fluffing her hair, which she had dyed a peroxide blonde.
“Gag,” Morticia said.
Amber glared at her. “Naturally, Holly, you would be friends with the queen of the dead.”
I stepped between them before Morticia could plant her heavy boot in Amber's face.
“Don't you dare try to steal my man,” Amber warned me. “You were always trying to steal my boyfriends.”
“No I wasn't. I literally was not trying to steal any of those crusty males you were stalking. You have the worst taste in men.”
“Liar!” Amber hollered.
“I cannot even believe I’m having
this conversation. St. Nick, give me strength! I am almost thirty. I am not acting like a teenager around you. I refuse!” I said, throwing up my hands.
Amber flounced away.
Morticia gave a black-eyeliner stare at Amber's back. “She was picked to add drama, so I've heard.”
“Which means she's going to be here for the majority of the competition.”
“Yep.”
“Great. Just great. I need a drink.”
“Do you want a white Christmas or a red Christmas?” a fun-looking girl with a pixie cut asked, holding up a bottle of wine in each hand.
“Just put an IV of each in each arm, please, spirit of Christmas alcohol,” I said, following her to the couch, where she had glasses laid out.
The girl laughed. “I’m not a Christmas spirit, just Fiona!”
“Good enough for me!” I said as she filled the glasses.
“To Christmas baking!” We clinked glasses.
“I couldn't help but overhear,” Fiona said to Morticia, “but are you the one who got us all private rooms?”
“Morticia has ways,” I said.
“Thank every spirit of Christmas. I've done another competition like this, and we were four to a room. One person got sick, and it spread like wildfire,” Fiona said.
“And that's why I insisted we use a huge penthouse,” Morticia replied, sipping the dark-red wine. I'd never seen her drink white. “I did make sure Holly got the best room, though if I'd known how cool you were, I'd have made sure you got the second best,” Morticia continued.
“What I have is actually bigger than my entire apartment in Manhattan that I shared with two other people, so namaste,” Fiona said, making a little bow.
“For what it's worth, Amber did get the worst room.” Morticia smirked.
“I'll drink to that!”
Morticia hadn’t been lying, I decided later, after Fiona had helped drag my bags and boxes upstairs to the master suite. At least, I assumed that was what it was, because if it was just a normal bedroom, the actual master suite might make me spontaneously combust. The suite was enormous and luxurious. My toes sank into the carpet of the private sitting room, which led into the bedroom. A king-size bed was centered along a wall facing a set of French doors that led to a private balcony that looked out over the Manhattan skyline. There was a huge plush robe in the walk-in closet. I stripped down and put it on then walked into the master bathroom and just about died.
“Totally decorating this for Christmas,” I said, switching on my phone. I needed to do an Instagram story for my measly number of followers. They were a small but dedicated fan base. Instagram had been propping up my existence for the past year. At first, it was supposed to be all baking. Then I started filming myself in cute outfits baking. I felt a little dirty, but then most of the messages were nice. A few were creepy, but I blocked the senders. None of the guys seemed normal enough to risk swapping messages with.
“We are having a Christmas bath scene in the near future,” I said to the camera, “with holiday bath bombs and themed cocktails. But unfortunately, it won't be tonight. The bake-off starts tomorrow, baking fans!”
I looked longingly at the bathtub. Then, making sure the phone was definitely not recording, because I did not need to be that kind of Instagrammer, I took a quick shower. I seriously could not get over how huge the bathroom was. I could live in it. With a toaster and a mini fridge, I would totally be good.
After wrapping myself in the robe, I tied a T-shirt around my hair. I had frizzy hair on a good day; keeping my curls manageable was a perpetual struggle. I applied a gingerbread-cookie-scented moisturizer while my videos uploaded. Because I was busy scrolling through my phone and answering comments as I came out of the bathroom, I didn't notice the half-naked man until he swore.
I looked up and screamed.
“Help! Help! Stalker!” I shrieked and ineffectively pointed at the stranger. Between the rippling muscles, the washboard abs, and an ass I could bounce a quarter on, I hoped he wasn't actually here to hurt me, because he could do some damage. Pointing and shrieking wasn't going to stop him. Fortunately, he looked more shocked and horrified than angry and violent.
“Stop screaming!” he bellowed. A freezing breeze blew into the room. It was as if the man had brought the rage of winter into the master suite with him. He looked like it, too, with his ice-blue eyes and silver-white hair. “This is my penthouse. You are not authorized to be here. That makes you the stalker!”
I stopped screaming. It clearly wasn't helping anything. I also couldn’t help but notice that the bathroom wasn't the only thing that was huge in the room. With him wearing nothing but boxer briefs, I could tell Santa had brought the handsome man a very large Christmas package indeed. The breeze blew in from the balcony, swirling the strange man's clean and masculine scent around the room. I forced myself to ignore it.
“Get out of my house,” Big Christmas Package said flatly.
“You get out!” I shrieked. “I'm a bake-off contestant. This isn't your room!”
“What the—” he grabbed his clothes, tugging on his pants. “The Great Christmas Bake-Off? I cannot have Christmas invading every element of my life. This is ridiculous. Christmas is ridiculous. It's such a stupid, childish holiday.” He punctuated his words by snatching up articles of clothing.
“Hey now!” I said, hands on my hips, fear subsiding. “Christmas is never ridiculous. It's the best holiday ever. And if you can't see that, well then, you’re just a grinch, aren’t you?”
He advanced on me. I was suddenly very aware of how large he was. Christmas package notwithstanding, this dude was tall, broad shouldered, with rippling muscles. He could probably split me in two.
Yes, please.
“You're some stupid little baker who never outgrew the childish fantasy of Christmas,” he sneered.
My nose was inches away from his chest. He glowered down at me. I was too angry to be aware of his half-naked body. Okay, maybe I was like fifteen percent aware. But the majority of my energy was focused on being offended on behalf of Christmas.
“Don't insult baking,” I said, giving him my best “I want to speak to the manager vibe,” though it was ruined by the fact that I had to crane my neck up to see him and that I was completely naked under the robe. “And never insult Christmas!”
His nostrils flared slightly.
“Men like you constantly belittle the work that women do to keep cultural traditions like Christmas alive,” I continued, poking him in the chest.
“We decorate homes to make them cozy.”
Poke.
“We cook holiday dinners and bake festive desserts.”
Poke.
“We host parties that bring families and friends together.”
Before I could poke him again, he grabbed my hand in his much-larger one. Then, realizing what he’d done, he quickly released it.
“I will not stand for your bad attitude!” I declared.
He glared down at me, strong jaw clenched, eyes cold as a frozen lake. “I can't even believe this,” he finally snarled. He grabbed his briefcase and stormed out, still shirtless.
“Oh my God!” Fiona exclaimed, wide-eyed, as she ran into the room. She hugged me then pushed me to sit on the bed. “Are you okay? Who was that? Why was he in here? Someone call the police!”
“I knew it! You're trying to steal my boyfriend,” Amber yelled at me, rushing into the room. “That’s Owen Frost, and he's mine!”
4
Owen
What was that girl doing in my bedroom? I fumed as I stalked out of the penthouse. I paced around in the elevator lobby. I was still shirtless. I didn't even have my shoes on. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened.
“Look who's back!”
“Belle?” I said.
My older sister leaned casually against the wall of the elevator. She had my coloring, and though she didn't quite have my height, she was still tall. When we were kids, she would be the one to take care of m
e and my younger brothers because my own mother couldn’t be bothered. She had disappeared for several years and shown up again last Christmas. My brothers and I were all afraid she would leave again one day. Therefore we would do anything and everything to keep her happy.
Belle, of course, knew this, and like any big sister, she took full advantage. I had decided she enjoyed seeing how far she could push us.
Belle smirked. “Is that how you decided to introduce yourself to the contestants? You're going to be a very distracting judge,” she said, motioning me inside the elevator.
“I am not judging. And where are all my clothes?” I asked as she pressed the button for the floor below.
“In your other condo,” she said.
“You moved all my stuff?”
“We needed the bigger condo for The Great Christmas Bake-Off. You're one single man. You don't even have a girlfriend. There's no reason for you to own such a large penthouse.”
“But I need it!” I protested as I slipped on my shirt.
My sister glared at me over her shoulder. “I think you'll just have to survive in the two-story condo with the custom marble accents for the next four weeks.”
“We agreed that Romance Creative could have one of the unused lower level floors for the studio space and the smaller condo for the contestants' housing. My penthouse wasn't anywhere in the negotiations,” I grumbled.
“Well, they can't live here,” Belle said as I followed her into the condo she had been staying in the past few months.
Dana Holbrook and Gunnar Svensson, the owners of Romance Creative, the reality-TV production company behind the bake-off, were at the dining room table.
“There's our judge!” Dana exclaimed. I glowered at her. She smirked.
“No,” I said flatly. “I have squatters in my penthouse. They're probably up there making cupcakes and gingerbread houses. I refuse to be a judge.”