The Office Party

by G. , Whitney

  “What type of flowers did you get today from me?”

  “Eight bouquets of red and white roses.” I smile. “The florist said they were her bestselling blooms, and they’re sitting at the center of my desk.” My voice trails off once I see the look on his face.

  “Eight bouquets of bestselling roses?” His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is clenched. “Please tell me that you’re not this fucking dense, Savannah.”

  “I really do love your flowers,” I say. “They’re gorgeous.”

  “Okay, so you are this dense,” He shakes his head and signals for the check. “I should’ve seen this a long time ago.”

  “Would you prefer me to tell you that I hate them?”

  “No, I’d prefer for you to tell me that you’re fucking Garrett West, but try not to cause a scene while you say it.” He hisses. “I mean, it’s so obvious, and I’m so foolish. You probably picked his name on purpose, so you can get with him on your trip that you supposedly loathe.”

  “I’m not sleeping with my boss.” I feel my blood beginning to boil. “And you’re making one hell of an assumption for no reason.”

  “No reason?” He laughs maniacally, and the conversations around us fall into whispers. “No reason? Oh, okay.”

  “Maybe I should go now,” I say, now realizing he never even complimented my dress. “You can call me whenever you come to your senses.”

  “I’m never calling you again!” He glares at me. “And you know what? For your Secret Santa gift, why don’t you just put a bow on your pussy and sit on your boss’s face? I'm sure he'll love that—if you haven’t already done it with him before, that is.”

  My jaw drops to the floor, and the entire restaurant falls silent.

  A fork hits the floor several seconds later, shattering the silence with a reverberating clang.

  I throw my napkin onto my plate and stand to my feet. "So much for not causing a scene, right?"

  "You brought this on yourself," he says, signing the receipt. "Fuck you, you cheating bitch."

  I'm not sure what comes over me, but the next thing I know, I'm grabbing a glass of juice (He can’t afford to buy the wine) and throwing it in his face.

  I pick up my coat and leave the dining room without another word, ignoring the whispers that follow my every step.

  I fight back tears of frustration as I take the elevator downstairs. I take my time buttoning my coat—shielding my heart from the cold, and then I step into Manhattan’s latest snowfall.

  Moving close to the curb, I hold up my hand and hail a cab.

  “Where to, Miss?” The driver’s eyes meet mine through the rearview mirror. “You’re looking at a minimum of thirty minutes, no matter what, in this traffic.”

  Perfect. “2314 Seventh—” I stop myself. The last thing I need to do is head home. “West Media, please.”

  “Sure thing.” He pulls onto the street, and I lose the war with my tears for the rest of the ride.

  * * *

  An hour later, I hand the driver a handful of twenties and rush inside headquarters. All of the employees are long gone, but Garrett’s office lights are still burning bright.

  As usual…

  Without thinking, I head up to his floor and walk into the boardroom. I take off my coat, and pull my laptop from my bag to begin working on my next project.

  Then my next project, and the next.

  Before I know it, I’m ahead in my work by an entire week.

  At around two in the morning, Garrett sets a mug that’s topped with whipped cream in front of me.

  “Miss Grey?” He clears his throat, waiting for me to look up at him. “I could’ve sworn that you had a date earlier.”

  “I did.”

  “Did he like your dress?”

  “He didn’t get a chance to really see it.”

  He looks me up and down. “How unfortunate. How long did the date last?”

  “Twenty minutes, maybe.” I tap my fingers against the table; I have no idea why I feel the aching need to open up to him sometimes. “He dumped me because he thinks I’m cheating on him with someone else.”

  Raising his eyebrow, he takes a long sip of his coffee. “I’ve never heard you talking to any other guys except him. Who does he think you’re cheating with?”

  “He didn’t say.” I shrug. “He just got really upset after I thanked him for the roses he sent me today.”

  “Maybe he’s stressed. I’m sure he’ll change his mind later.”

  “Maybe.” I stand up from my chair. “Didn’t you have a date with Helen the hotel heiress?”

  “It only lasted half an hour.”

  “Is that how long it took her to finally realize that you’re the devil incarnate?”

  His lips curve into a smile, but he doesn’t answer that. Instead he moves closer to me, lowering his voice. “If your boyfriend didn’t immediately take you home, after seeing you in this dress, something’s wrong with him.”

  “Or maybe you picked the wrong one,” I say, feeling that familiar tension filling the room. “Maybe your taste isn’t as good as you think it is.”

  He looks me up and down again, his gaze settling between my thighs. “In that case, you should let me taste it for myself…”

  “What?” I’m certain that I didn’t hear that right.

  “You heard me,” he says, leaning closer. “Let me taste you.”

  My eyes widen, and I want to take a step back and draw the line, but he presses his mouth agains mine, every nerve in my body comes to life.

  I wrap my arms around his neck as he kisses me deeper, as he grips my waist and pulls me into him.

  “Fuck…” he whispers harshly against my mouth, sliding his hand against my exposed thigh. He slips a hand under my dress and sucks in a breath once he realizes I’m not wearing any panties.

  His kiss hits my lips in a different flavor now; it’s ten times more passionate and raw, and before I can say, “Please just fuck me,” the ping of the elevator interrupts us.

  “Mr. West, are you up here?” A deep voice calls out, and we tear away from one another. “Mr. West?”

  Garrett doesn’t answer the call, he just stares at me.

  I catch my breath and try to look away from him, but I can’t. We’ve had moments before—small brushes against each other in the office, but nothing like that. Ever.

  And we need to keep it that way.

  “Well, I’m sure that you already have your next date lined up.” I look at my watch, still stunned by that kiss. “You’ve bragged about believing that any woman in this city will go out with you, so I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. Just make sure that you’re not picking up socialites or Wall Street girls. Those aren’t a good fit for you.”

  “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

  “I don’t.” I clear my throat. “I need to get back to work now, Mr. West. So, if you don’t mind. I prefer to not talk to you during the hours when I’m not getting paid the nine to five rate.”

  “You’re salaried, Miss Grey.”

  “Right, well.” I turn away and bury my head into a book, ignoring the sexy scent of his cologne. “If you’re really sorry, you’ll let me have a few days off before the office party. I need them right about now.”

  “You already know that I can’t do that,” he says. “There are no exceptions to the rules.”

  “I think you can make me the first one.” I pause. “That, or I’m quitting to work for your competition.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, saying nothing for several seconds. “I’ll give you two days.”

  “Four.”

  “I’ll meet you at three, but you still owe me work on the Benson account.”

  “The whole purpose of having off-days is not doing any work.”

  “Then do the work before you take off, Miss Grey.” He hisses, turning back into the Satan I know. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Good.” He steps to the side. “Take the kiss w
ith you, too. It never happened.”

  I walk away and lock myself in my office—vowing to sit at my desk for the entire day. I only get up to use the restroom and take a power nap in the break room.

  I make sure I’m four weeks ahead, and then I stumble into a town car and head home to freedom.

  SEVEN

  Savannah

  This Christmas

  Manhattan, New York

  Two days later

  Me: I sent you the Davis reports. Did you get those?

  Mr. (I Don’t Know What Off Day Means) West: You did a good job. What about the Harrison ones?

  Me: I’ll have them to you at five.

  Mr. (I Don’t Know What Off Day Means) West: Are you having a good off day today?

  Me: If I was, I wouldn’t be texting you.

  Mr. (I Don’t Know What Off Day Means) West: Good to know. Tomorrow, on your other off day, send me the Turner files.

  I wait until midnight to send his requested files, and even though I try to make myself get out of the apartment and traipse around the city like a local, I eventually wind up at a coffee shop where I complete assignments on my phone and fail to forget about that kiss.

  It’s not until the third off day that I manage to spend an entire two hours without thinking about work at all. I spend most of it in the newbie’s aisle at Whole Foods, figuring out why the food I make always turns out horrible.

  When I finally make it home from the grocery store, Georgia is jumping on my living room couch like a three-year-old.

  I blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining this. She should be on a plane heading home to Colorado, sending me guilt texts about my refusal to join her.

  She should be watching me toss our cousin Taryn’s annual gift to me into the trash via FaceTime, and telling me that it’s okay for me to continue hating her.

  “Why is your furniture so soft?” She jumps a bit higher. “I mean, this stiff is on par with hotel quality, and your bathroom suite is stunning! The pictures you sent me did not do it justice, so I’ll need an invite to come crash here at least six times a year.”

  I smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “Surprising you.” She jumps off and hugs me. “I’m sorry that Joshua dumped you like that. You know I hated his cheap ass anyway, and you can do better. Much better.”

  “Thanks. How’d you get here?”

  “Your boss,” she says. “He sent me a first-class plane ticket and said you desperately needed someone to talk to. He said you’re not being as mean to him as you usually are around this time of year, and he was getting concerned.”

  “He did not say that.”

  “He did.” She pulls out her phone. “He also was generous enough to give me a credit card for dinner tonight. I bought a few Birkin bags on it, to make sure it was real, so you’ll need to pretend like those are yours. Where would you like to go?”

  “Nowhere. I have to finish a project,” I say. “We’ll need to get something to go.”

  “Of course.” She rolls her eyes. “You know, I’m starting to think that maybe your boss isn’t so bad after all.”

  “Excuse me?” I cross my arms. “You do remember that he’s the same man who flew to Punta Cana to make us leave, right?”

  “I remember we left for Hawaii to escape the storm.”

  “This is the same man I call and complain to you about every day.” I glare at her. “Every. Day.”

  “Yes and no.” She smiles. “You two could probably date each other if you wanted to. You have a lot in common, and you do spend a lot of time together.”

  I give her a blank stare. “Garrett has a girlfriend.”

  “Does she know about you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That if I met a guy like Garrett, but he was talking on the phone to some other woman in the middle of the night—even if it was all “work,” I would not have a boyfriend.” She shakes her head. “And yes, he can be quite the ass, but he pays you really well…”

  “Whose side are you on, Georgia?”

  “Yours, of course.” She laughs, walking over to her suitcase. “By the way, since I finished my shopping early, I brought along your gift. You’re going to be very proud of me, because I was super thoughtful and creative this year.”

  I know better than to believe her. She says that every year and the gift is always the same: A “rescued” sweater (different color) that she knitted herself and a “Be grateful I got you anything at all” card.

  She tosses me the red box, and I place it on the counter.

  “You know what?” I say. “Screw takeout. Let’s go run up a huge tab at a five-star restaurant…”

  “Don’t you think we should also get him your Secret Santa gift?”

  “Would you get your boss a gift if he made you work on your off days?”

  “Point taken.”

  EIGHT

  Garrett

  URGENT:

  West Media Internal Memo

  Dear Valued Employees,

  We’re two weeks away from our prep-ceremony for this year’s office party. As such, I’d like to publicly thank the anonymous group of executive employees who decided to give me an early present: A month’s worth of “psychological therapy” and a full collection of Horrible Boss films with the “This is how you make us feel” note.

  I find this revelation quite shocking and unfortunate.

  No other boss in this city offers the full range of benefits & high salaries that I do. No other CEO is willing to spend millions of his profit to give his employees a very generous holiday vacation. That said, I’ve decided to make a few changes to our mandatory event this year, so we can perhaps, get on the same page about what your “feelings” mean to me.

  This year’s Office Party will span three weeks. No excused absences.

  As always, I look forward to seeing you at the prep–ceremony, where our travel partner will reveal this year’s destination for our two-week, all-expenses-paid work retreat.

  Be sure to bring along whatever gift you purchased for your coworker(s) via our company’s Secret Santa tradition.

  Sincerely,

  Garrett West

  C.E.O., West Media International

  P.S.—You did this to yourselves…

  ~The entertainment industry never sleeps, so neither do we ~

  NINE

  Savannah

  This Christmas

  Manhattan, New York

  Day of the Pre-Ceremony

  Ringggg! Ringggg! Ringggg!

  I roll over and hit snooze on my alarm clock for the umpteenth time this morning. I start to pull the covers over my head, but I catch sight of the time.

  How the hell is it five forty-five already?

  I stumble out of bed and take a quick shower. I pull my hair into a curly bun and put on one of my favorite beige pantsuits. I make sure I have my briefcase and my purse, but then I suddenly feel like I’m forgetting something.

  My Secret Santa gift for Garrett.

  Ha! The last thing he needs right now is a gift.

  He’s worked us ten times harder than ever after that ‘anonymous gift,” and our kiss in the office is long forgotten. So much so that I’ve left work early every day this week.

  He’s made every intern break down in tears, brought every senior executive into his office for a brutal evaluation, and told me, “This year may be the first year that I don’t give you a rose at the final ceremony, Miss Grey.”

  Fuck that rose.

  Rummaging through my closet, I search for a three-wick candle I can spare, but I don’t want to give him one of those. Even though he’s been nice to me lately, he still has a track record that doesn’t make him worthy of one of my favorite things.

  I spot my box of ‘Last Minute Gift cards’ and flip through them. The fifty and twenty dollar ones are far too much, so I settle on a ten-dollar Amazon one.

  Even that’s too high, though.

  I log into Amazon a
nd spend half of it on some new hair conditioner. Then I pick up the gift Georgia brought me and toss it in my bag.

  He’ll probably give it back once he opens it, anyway.

  I ignore the fact that my neighbors are standing on their stoop in black and red leather Santa costumes and rush to the town car.

  Thankfully, the driver already has a bagel and coffee ready for me, and he manages to get me to headquarters with five minutes to spare.

  The moment I step inside, one of the other top executives from the message board—Lily, loops her arm in mine.

  “You know, I’m kind of excited about this year’s reveal. I heard it’s going to be someplace super luxurious.”

  “It’s always someplace super luxurious.”

  “Bridget in Accounting said she overheard the travel agent on the phone yesterday morning.” She lowers her voice. “She asked the resort to make sure that all the hot tubs had private access. Oh, and she mentioned some type of carriage ride.”

  I tune out her words, smiling and nodding as we step onto the elevator.

  When we arrive on the top floor, we find ourselves walking right into a real-life Christmas card. As usual, the professional decorators have gone out of their way to make us forget that we work in the seventh circle of hell.

  Every window is dressed in a massive custom wreath with red ribbon. Sixty foot Christmas trees stand guard against the walls, showing off complementing red and gold ornaments with flashing white lights.