“You’re into him. I told you he was your type, didn’t I?”
Did she? I shook my head adamantly. “He’s not my type.” But I hated being dishonest with myself or to Hope. “Okay, he’s my type,” I whispered. “Shit, Hope, I can’t stop thinking about him. That’s why I need that book. I need to know why I should stay away, despite his looks and his general verve…”
“Verve? Did you just say ‘verve’?” she asked, sounding shocked.
“Mm-hmm,” I said cautiously. “Why the reaction to ‘verve’?”
“Listen… and I’ll make this short because I’m cutting into my beauty sleep. You do know how early it is here, and I didn’t get to bed until three.”
I raised my eyebrows as I nodded, remembering how that felt. It was easy to lose track of time in the city. So many times, I’d shown up at my desk and run that day’s PR event fueled on four hours of sleep and four cups of coffee.
“Ah,” I said, dropping my head back to rub my temples. “Shit, I forgot about the time difference. Do you want me to call you back later?”
“Yes,” she said decisively. “I want you to call me a lot, and I’ll call you, too, but for now, I have something very important that you should hear.”
I frowned, disturbed, as I automatically sat back down on the bed. “What?”
“Do not fuck Spencer Christmas. You’ve never owned up to it, but I know you’re a virgin, Jada Forte. I don’t recommend you read the book either. The shit that’s written about him is, like, way out there. He doesn’t have the sort of unsullied dick that should fall into your virginal pussy. But I know he is like finding ice water after being stranded for days in a hot desert. So… if you decide to ignore my warning and drink, make him wear a condom or two.”
“Yikes,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Then he’s promiscuous?”
“That’s an understatement. But he’s also fucked up. You know I hate being judgmental, and you know I love a good comeback story, but make sure he’s come back before you do anything with him.”
My posture perked up. “Come back from what?”
She sighed hard. “Jada, you have good instincts. You know how fucking weird you said he’s acting?”
“Yeah…” I couldn’t remember actually articulating that he was behaving weirdly, even though he was, and heck, so was I.
“Until he stops acting that way, don’t fuck him.”
I wanted to question Hope until she was forced to take back what she’d said, but my friend was not the type to issue warnings lightly. I told her I would heed her words. However, the truth was that I would try to heed her warning. We both said we loved and missed each other and made a plan to figure out how we were going to spend New Year’s Eve together. She also mentioned that we should meet me in LA after I got my first check because there was no way in the world she was going to Milwaukee.
“Wyoming,” I said.
“Okay, there either.”
I had a good laugh before hanging up. When I left the room, I was determined to keep it only business between Spencer Christmas and me, and I was so hungry I could eat breakfast twice. So I left my room for the day and skipped down the stairs, and as soon as I sat down at the dining room table, I was served an egg-white omelet with cheddar cheese, spinach, grilled onions, and mushrooms.
I pulled up that day’s Times on my phone. Of course, my mother was on the political pages. There was what I called “Congress chaos,” and my mom had put herself in the middle of it, stoking the flames with her sound bites. She loved the game of politics more than she loved my dad and sometimes even more than me.
“How do you like the omelet?”
I looked up quickly, my belly fluttering as I stared wide-eyed at the gorgeous face of Spencer Christmas.
“Um…” I had to close my mouth and force myself to swallow. “It’s good,” I whispered as I narrowly avoided choking.
He put both hands on the top of a chair and clenched it. “And how did you sleep last night?”
“Um,” I said, shifting in my seat. “The bed is very comfortable.” Goodness, he made me so nervous.
His eyes smoldered as if something about me excited him. “Good.” He cleared his throat.
We watched each other in awkward silence. I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to wrap me in his arms. He was wearing the same pants he’d had on the night before, but this time, he had on a long-sleeved black sweatshirt.
I ignored my curiosity and forced a pleasant smile onto my face. “Are you going to join me?”
“You did good work yesterday. Thank you,” he said curtly, wearing what seemed like his perpetual frown, then left the room just as fast as he’d entered it.
I breathed heavily, feeling winded, and I made myself calm down. I couldn’t read the article about my mother or about anyone else, for that matter. My mind was too cluttered with visions of Spencer Christmas.
Suddenly, my phone dinged, alerting me that I had a new deposit in my bank account. My jaw dropped when I saw the amount. “Fourteen thousand dollars,” I whispered. The deposit had been made by someone named Pete Sykes and was noted as an advance on my salary plus reimbursement for the troubles I’d encountered during my journey to Jackson Hole.
When I could finally close my mouth, I swallowed the excess moisture.
“Pete Sykes,” I said low enough not to be heard, hopefully. Hope had warned me to trust my instincts, and I was beginning to wonder if somehow Mr. Christmas had heard me complain to Hope about how broke I was.
But who is Pete Sykes, and why is he the one paying me? I sat up tall as my eyes shifted from left to right and then back to the left. Knowing exactly what I had to do next, I went to the online store and bought The Dark Christmases.
Chapter Six
He had addressed the notes I’d put into the inbox the previous day and added some of his own. Spencer Christmas reminded me that he already instructed me to sit in on meetings requiring his presence. I’m not available so just do it, he’d written. I conjured in my mind a picture of him saying that. He’d never looked so hot, and I’d never felt so flushed.
The first person I called was Lass Olsen, the chief operating officer of TFC Global. My caller ID must have shown up as Spencer Christmas, because right away, Lass Olsen said, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Hello, Mr. Olsen,” I said.
“Who’s this?” he snapped.
Then I remembered what my mother said to all her aides when it came to the power game—figure out when to give expected answers and when not to give them. She would fire those who couldn’t figure it out. She called it the art of power-playing.
I grunted dismissively and sat up straight. “I called to advise you that I will be sitting in on all the meetings in which Mr. Christmas’s presence is wanted and required. Please have your secretary send me any dial-in or videoconferencing details.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m aware of that.” I paused. There was the gracious moment of silence that I’d hoped for. My next step was to fill it before he did. “Mr. Olsen, I’m here to help you get the process running smoothly again. When I hang up, I’m going to send you and others all the answers to questions that have been building for the past ten months. And by the way, my name is Jada Forte.”
He mumbled something incoherent and then said, “Okay.”
I quickly concluded the call and two hours later had sent all the replies to the emails that had gone unanswered for quite some time.
I was at the start of my first videoconference when Marta and another server brought coffee, tea, and an assortment of scones and set them on my desk so that I could easily serve myself. I smiled and winked at them before they exited, and they returned the gesture, which made me smile.
“Excuse me, Jada Forte. Do you find this topic amusing?” Lass Olsen asked. He turned out to be a balding man in his late thirties.
I kept my eyes from growing wide as all the attendees around th
e table scrutinized my image on the big screen in their office. These were the times when coming of age under the tutelage of my mother paid off.
“Never mind me.” I made sure my tone was authoritative and even. “Continue.” I watched them all as if expecting them to do just as I said.
Lass’s eyebrows furrowed and then released as he went on about new business. Every now and then, I would catch someone looking at me, but I listened and jotted down what I thought was important for Mr. Christmas to know. I had another meeting with an investment banker under Mr. Christmas’s employ who was pitching a major project. I hadn’t expected Lass to be present during that meeting, but he was—and he sat in on the next three meetings as well. It was clear he was monitoring me. I understood his concern, of course. I was young and a face he’d never seen before, so there was no need to insist he give me some fucking breathing room.
Marta had already delivered lunch, and I had asked her to bring me dinner, too, since I would be working well into the night. This time, I asked for something simple and not messy, like a grilled cheese sandwich with a garden salad, and that was exactly what she brought me, along with a classic tiramisu for dessert.
It was going on ten o’clock at night when I was finally ready to place my thick set of notes in the inbox and head upstairs for bed. However, a chill ran down my spine, and I quickly turned toward the entrance and then the fireplace and folded my arms, waiting for that eerie feeling of being watched to pass. Perhaps Spencer Christmas was way too much on my mind. I had missed him and had been too busy to obsess about my hope that he’d come in and check on me at some point during the day. My eyes were so tired they burned, and all I could think about was stripping off my clothes and getting into bed, which was probably why my inhibitions were lowered just a bit.
I rushed over to the floating shelves, snatched a Post-it out of the holder, and wrote, Are you going to avoid me for most of the time that I’m here?
I played with the piece of paper between my fingers before sticking it on top of the thick stack of papers I was leaving for Mr. Christmas.
“What the hell,” I whispered on my way out.
I didn’t even shower. I stripped out of all my clothes and climbed into the comfortable sheets, which felt like heaven against my skin. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out. I didn’t wake up until my alarm chimed at five in the morning. My first meeting was at ten o’clock Eastern Standard Time, which meant I had to be showered, fed, and ready for work by at least six o’clock my time.
I’d missed a call from Hope, but she left a voice message: “You haven’t fucked him yet, have you?”
I chuckled and responded by texting: Not yet.
Suddenly, I gasped and sat up straight. “Not yet” implied that I would at some point end up having sex with my new boss. That was very presumptuous of me. I wanted to take back my response, but it was too late—I’d already put it out into the universe. Plus, Hope hadn’t replied yet, which could only mean that she was on her way to the office or getting ready for court. Hope was a public defender.
Suddenly, I buried my face in my palms as I remembered the note I’d left Mr. Christmas while in my intoxicated state of exhaustion. “Shit,” I muttered, ruing having to step back into the office and face his reaction to my blatant flirting. What the hell was I thinking? I crossed my fingers and hoped to God that if I moved fast enough, I could get to the inbox and pull the Post-it off the report before he saw it.
There was no time to shower. I wiped up with a warm washcloth then brushed my teeth, washed my face, and reapplied enough makeup to look fresh and pretty just in case I ran into Spencer Christmas unexpectedly. Before leaving the room, I rang the kitchen and let the staff know I’d be having breakfast in the office and requesting that they serve me whatever Mr. Christmas was having.
“He’s not eating breakfast,” Marta said.
I felt a hard knot form in my heart as I paused, wondering why not.
“But you can order whatever you like, Jada,” Marta said, my name rolling easily off her tongue.
I looked heavenward and thanked my lucky stars that he more than likely wasn’t on the property, which meant he probably hadn’t read my note.
I ordered eggs Benedict with fresh fruit and light-roast coffee and a cup of mint green tea for later. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders as I strolled confidently to the elevator and made a pact with myself to never ever break professionalism with Mr. Christmas again, even if the last time I’d seen him, he’d looked at me a few times as if he wanted to rip my clothes off. I gazed up at the ceiling, trying to picture every time he’d done that.
The soft ding of the doors sliding open broke my fantasy of him throwing me on the table, spreading my legs, and thrusting his hard cock inside me, ending my days as a virgin. I stepped out of the elevator before the doors closed and stopped to pinch the bridge of my nose. I scolded my mind for imagining such naughtiness between my boss and me. Bad brain. As soon as I was able to completely banish the picture of us getting it on, I walked to the office as fast as I could, bypassing my desk and heading straight for the inbox.
I gasped. The box was empty. My heart sank.
I looked at the outbox, which had papers in it and a sticky on top that read, Your angst is duly noted.
My legs grew weak. I looked for something to sit on and managed to make it to one of the club chairs in front of the unlit fireplace. I plopped my rear into it. My angst is duly noted?
I covered my face with my hands and said, “Shit, shit, shit,” into my palms. As I was quietly swearing, I heard a sound similar to heat turning on. I removed my hands in time enough to see fire erupting in the fireplace.
My body quickened, and I scooted to the edge of the seat. It was as if it had been lit just for me. My examining eyes roamed the room as that feeling of being watched returned with a vengeance. But I saw nothing that resembled a camera. Perhaps it was in my mind. I checked my watch. I still had enough time to complete some important tasks before my first videoconference of the day. Forgetting all about that weird sensation of being watched and the strange—and, actually, promising—reply from Mr. Christmas, I doubled down on my vow to keep it strictly business between him and me, and I went to my desk and got to work.
The day was going a lot like the day before. I was certainly earning every dollar of my high salary. Another skill I’d adopted from my mother was devising a system that worked and sticking to it. I would take notes and ask those who wanted input from Mr. Christmas to be clear about what they needed to say to him and the outcome they were seeking. By the third meeting, Lass Olsen had sent me an email to say that I was doing a fine job of getting the ball rolling again. I knew I was winning him over because by our last meeting of the day, he stopped scowling whenever he had to say something to me.
I’d forgone lunch, but I didn’t miss dinner at my desk. Once again, we decided to keep it simple. I had a juicy Angus beef burger and crispy steak fries. I rubbed the corners of my eyes after writing the last task, which Spencer Christmas was to address. Then without thinking about it, I snatched a sticky out of the holder.
I knew what was fueling me. I had gone another whole day without Spencer Christmas even making a short appearance. I missed his energy.
My hand seemed to have a mind of its own as I wrote, People are missing you!
One exclamation mark wasn’t enough, so I added two more.
The next morning, I ran straight to the outbox. I pressed my hand over my frantically beating heart when I saw the yellow Post-it stuck to a piece of paper. I jerked my head back in surprise as a quarter of my attention registered that he’d only written one flimsy page in response to everything I’d put in his inbox. The Post-it on top read, You’ll see me soon.
I shook my head repeatedly, wondering what to make of his response. My note had said people were missing him. It hadn’t said I was missing him.
Am I that transparent? I closed my eyes and groaned. I was.
I stuc
k the Post-it on the back of the single page of his notes as I walked back to my desk. Then I stopped in my tracks to finish reading what he’d written. I was not supposed to turn on my computer that day. He said he’d handled my scheduled meetings, so no one would be expecting me to attend any of them. Someone named Martin would be meeting me in the foyer at noon to take me to the atrium.
“The atrium?” I whispered and looked around to see if anyone else was reading the note. Of course, no one was.
The fire ignited in the fireplace, and I jumped, startled. I put my notes, along with Spencer’s reply, in the top drawer of my desk and then sat in my chair and stared at my computer. I’d been working nonstop ever since I started the job, and frankly, I didn’t know what to do with myself other than head back upstairs and sleep for another two hours. It was as if I’d gotten used to functioning while being excessively exhausted. But truth be told, I hadn’t fully recovered from my arduous journey to the ranch. It was Friday, and I had the weekend off. I had no doubt I would sleep in the next day and indulge in the book about Mr. Christmas’s family as well.
There was no need to defy my boss’s directives, but I so badly wanted to. I couldn’t hide the fact that I was pissed off at him for staying away from me. I’d never wanted to see somebody’s face again as much as I did his.
Figuring I’d call the only person I could complain to, I took my cellphone out of the pocket of my cross-body bag and called Hope. That was exactly what I did, but my call went straight to voicemail. I didn’t even leave a message. Instead, I pouted about how my move across the country was making it difficult to connect with the one person I loved as a sister.
I texted: Just called you. Hate this game of phone tag. Miss you. Love you. Call me.
I sighed as I put the phone back into the pouch. That feeling of isolation was back and stronger than ever. Then I asked to have breakfast brought to my room. There was no way I was sitting at the big lonely table by myself ever again. I had the classic American with scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and hash browns. Marta told me that was what Mr. Christmas was having. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach with the thought that he was somewhere on the premises. What does he do all day long, anyway?
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