'Tis the Season

by Carole Mortimer, Alison Roberts

  ‘One moment, Mr Taylor. I’ll just finish up.’

  She tucked the boy’s gift in the box and quickly wound ribbon around it, curling the ends and fluffing them to sit just so. Reluctantly she handed the present over to the smiling customer. Then she went to where her boss stood, waiting amongst the dazzlingly decorated Christmas trees.

  Mr Taylor did not look happy. ‘What exactly are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ she retorted.

  ‘I think we pay you a little more than we pay the spotty teens who come in to gift-wrap.’

  ‘Are you suggesting it’s a waste of my valuable time?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Well, Mr Taylor, you’re wrong. And not one of our teens is spotty—you know that.’

  ‘Actually, Ms Hall, I wasn’t looking at anyone but you.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Taylor—’ she sidestepped the dangerous whisper ‘—this is my lunch break. I’m free to do as I like. And I like to gift-wrap.’

  His glaring blue eyes took on a thoughtful tinge. ‘Well, seeing I’ve eaten into your precious personal time, perhaps you’d better have an extra five minutes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Taylor.’ She accepted his defeat with extreme graciousness. ‘I’ll do exactly that.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief as he walked away, and focused on wrapping the boxed china tea set that the lovely old lady next in the queue had placed on the table.

  Two minutes later Ryan reappeared and stood in her line.

  Sadly, the woman after the lovely old lady only had a book to wrap, and it took Imogen less than a minute.

  He stepped up to the table. She stared at him.

  ‘I’d like you to wrap this, please.’ He met her not so cool gaze with eyes like limpid pools.

  She couldn’t handle it. Looked down. The matching hat, gloves and scarf set was a deep green, and knitted from the finest merino wool.

  ‘I know someone who needs warming up,’ he whispered conspiratorially.

  She fumbled with the paper.

  ‘I had been thinking about a hot water bottle,’ he went on, ignoring her rigid silence. ‘But I think she thinks it might be dangerous.’

  Imogen picked up the scissors and resolutely decided to play along. ‘What about a wheat pack?’

  ‘Not big enough. I was thinking more along the lines of a human hot water bottle. Big and warm—someone that she can snuggle into.’

  His eyes weren’t quite so limpid now.

  Imogen ran the scissor blade along the ribbon. ‘She might get too hot.’ She might get burned. Imogen already had scars, she didn’t need more.

  ‘She wouldn’t have to wear pyjamas.’

  IMOGEN SPENT THE afternoon in recovery, doing payroll and avoiding Ryan and Shona and everyone. The office team was going for drinks that night—Ryan’s first week/Christmas shout. No way was Imogen going—she never went to staff social occasions, never mixed busi ness with personal. Once bitten, fifty-five times shy. And Ryan’s presence was even more of a reason to say no—especially after that ‘just a kiss’ this morning; especially when he’d flirted with her like that at the gift wrap table.

  So she made her usual excuse to Shona and hid out in the Christmas store while the others left. Then she went back up to the office to finish her last sheet of data entry before packing up for the day. She was about to shut the computer down when Ryan walked back in, frowning.

  ‘Aren’t you coming for a drink with everyone?’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘Ah.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘Mr Taylor?’ She was not going to have him poke fun at her.

  ‘Ryan.’ He walked to her desk and around it.

  ‘Mr—’

  ‘Ryan.’ He pulled her out of her seat.

  ‘No. Mr—’

  ‘Everyone else calls me Ryan. You can, too.’ He stood in front of her. Way too close for comfort.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’ He tilted her chin up with his finger.

  ‘I can’t…’

  ‘Can’t what?’ His eyes caressed her, captivated her.

  ‘I can’t think when you do that.’

  ‘This?’ He stroked her hair. ‘Or this?’ He ran his finger the length of her throat, letting it rest on the hollow at the base.

  ‘Umm…’ Her skin burned as she tried to get her head to function.

  He smiled. ‘Good. Don’t think. Just do.’

  But her brain flicked back on. ‘Like in some sports-wear ad?’

  ‘Sure. I’m thinking athletic. My heart’s racing. My body definitely wants a workout.’

  She stepped back, broke free of his gaze and his touch. ‘I try not to act on impulse.’ She’d failed with that this morning—and look at the trouble she was in now.

  ‘Why not try acting on instinct, then? There’s a big difference.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Impulses can be rash. But trusting your intuition, going with instinct, will never see you wrong.’

  ‘My brain is telling me to run.’

  ‘Precisely my point. You’re thinking too much even to hear your instinct.’ He took a step after her. ‘Your instinct is that feeling from deep within here.’ He put his finger back on the hollow in her throat and then ran it down the length of her sternum, pressed his palm firm against her upper belly. ‘Your gut, your bones.’

  It wasn’t her bones feeling it. ‘It’s not that easy, Ryan.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Okay.’ He smiled then. There was sympathy and understanding in it, but also determination. ‘Don’t overcomplicate things. There’s us. There’s attraction. Isn’t that all that matters?’

  Don’t over-complicate things? As in search for more? ‘No. A lot of other things matter.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘My job. My reputation.’

  ‘Not in doubt. Not relevant to this.’

  ‘How can you say that? You’re my boss.’

  ‘Right. But we’re on the same team, Imogen, not opposite sides. Besides, my position here is tem po rary.’

  What? So this would only be tem po rary, too?

  ‘Anything we do outside of business hours is not going to affect your career here.’

  Yeah, right.

  ‘No one would know about it if you didn’t want them to. I can keep a secret.’

  She knew all about secrets. And lies. And she’d rather have someone who couldn’t keep a secret—that way she wouldn’t be set up for any nasty surprises.

  ‘What exactly do you want from me, Ryan?’ Was he just up for a quick fling?

  ‘Right now, I just want you. Honestly, I can’t think beyond that.’ He lifted his hand from her and rubbed his forehead. ‘I have a big job to do here, and it’s the start of our push into Europe. I need to focus—but that’s not to say I can’t still have a little fun.’ He dropped his hand and shrugged. ‘I don’t see that as a bad thing. In fact, I’d say it’s a great thing.’

  He smiled again. She wished he wouldn’t, because he smiled with his eyes and his mouth and his whole body, and she couldn’t fail to respond. He knew that, didn’t he?

  ‘When did you last have some fun, Imogen? You sit here all day, working very hard—and I do appreciate that—then go wrap presents for some nice customers. Then what? Go home?’

  ‘So?’ There was nothing wrong with working hard and doing a good job. She was determined to reclaim her work reputation and make something of herself. ‘Alone?’

  She blushed, and anger surged. ‘I’ve been studying.’

  ‘I know. Good for you.’ Did he have to sound so damn genuine? ‘But you’ve finished for now, so why not come out for a drink? It can’t hurt, can it?’

  With his almost electric-blue eyes he regarded her intensely. Not trying to domineer, but coaxing, tempting—frankly mesmerising.

  ‘It’s Christmas,’ he said softly.

&nbs
p; Her head nodded before she thought better of it. Somehow he had her coat in his hands and was holding it for her to slip her arms into.

  ‘Won’t they be wondering where you are?’

  ‘Shona has gone on ahead and opened up a bar tab. The others will be there—just relaxing after work. Having a quiet drink and celebrating the festive season.’

  Her arms were in her coat and he’d leant behind her and switched off her computer. They were walking out the door.

  The bar was in a narrow street at the back of the shop. As they walked in she looked around—small, intimate, hip and yet comfortable at the same time. It had been a long time since she’d been in a bar like this.

  No nightlife. No social life. She’d avoided it all since arriving over eight months ago.

  He was looking at her, that half smile teasing. ‘What are you having? Wine? A cocktail?’

  ‘I told you I don’t drink.’

  ‘Not ever, Imogen? Not even on Christmas Day?’

  He knew somehow, didn’t he? That she liked a glass of wine but didn’t trust herself—and certainly not tonight.

  ‘A glass of bubbly is lovely on Christmas Day. But we’re still a couple of weeks from then.’

  ‘So how about a glass of red?’

  It wasn’t that she’d fall down drunk. But she didn’t want to run any risk of doing or saying anything stupid. He was too much temptation already—look at what she’d done this morning. Just a whiff of alcohol might have her throwing caution to the wind completely.

  ‘I’d prefer a lemon, lime and bitters.’

  ‘Bitters?’ he echoed. ‘How appropriate.’

  With a lethal look she left him and joined the others already sitting around a table. There was only space for one left in the U-shaped booth. Ryan would have to find another chair. But a few minutes later when he walked over, a tray of drinks in hand, he just smiled.

  ‘Bunch up.’

  They all bunched up. Imogen’s temperature soared as he squeezed against her in the tiny space they’d freed. He was too close. His leg was hard against the length of hers. Their arms were pressed tight together. Then he lifted his and rested it along the top of the seat behind her. Now his body was too close. It would take nothing to lean a little closer and be right in his lap. She had a long sip of her drink and tried to tune in to the conversation.

  Christmas plans. They all were sharing them. She had another sip, not wanting to admit to the Christmas Day she was headed for.

  ‘What are you doing, Ryan?’ Shona asked, and Imogen was all ears.

  ‘Going home.’

  She could feel the vibrations in his chest as he spoke.

  ‘It’s a big family occasion—my parents, my brother and sisters. A few aunts and uncles, lots of cousins.’

  ‘Do you have masses of decorations and neon lights everywhere? And a giant Santa on the roof like you see on American TV shows?’ That clanger was from Angela, one of the marketing team.

  Ryan’s smile was good-natured. ‘We do have a tree in the garden that we put lights on. The tree inside only has paper decorations that we make.’

  ‘That you make?’ Imogen’s question was out before she’d even thought it—or thought to stop it.

  ‘Sure. My grandparents originally came from Denmark, and there they call the Christmas season the festival of hearts. We make hearts to hang on the tree. Mum’s kept them all over the years. They have our name and the date on the back of them. Now the tree is smothered. It looks pretty good, even for home-made.’

  Imogen couldn’t believe that his family didn’t have one of those trees covered with designer decorations that each cost enough to buy five frozen turkeys. ‘Do you still make them?’

  ‘Every year. And on Christmas Eve we put real candles on the tree and my dad lights them. It’s a big deal.’

  She refused to be touched. ‘Isn’t that dangerous, with all the paper and wood?’

  ‘Life’s no fun without a little danger, don’t you think?’

  Imogen said nothing, but his thigh pressed a little harder on hers as he glanced away to the rest of the group.

  ‘Then we open presents and eat a lot of food.’

  ‘On Christmas Eve?’ Imogen sat ramrod-straight, but was unable to move away from the bone-melting pressure of his leg.

  He nodded.

  ‘You open presents on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, that’s not right.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘In New Zealand we open presents on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Oh?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, we open them on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘But that’s just wrong. It’s all about the anticipation. About waking up early and getting desperate for all the relatives to arrive so you can get on with it.’ She didn’t give him a chance to respond—just wanted to score a point. ‘Straw poll—show of hands,’ she said brightly to the others. ‘Do you open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day?’

  Christmas Day won by a landslide.

  ‘Different culture,’ he murmured.

  He was damn right about that. His background was light years from everyone’s here—his family hung out with presidents and popstars. She bet they did have an overpriced tree with overpriced decorations, and hid the Waltons-esque home-made number in the kitchen.

  But as the others chatted about their plans Imogen wondered, and finally gave in to the temptation of asking. ‘So what do you do on Christmas Day?’

  His face was full of humour. ‘Sleep in. Eventually get up and eat. Fish around in our stockings. Eat another big meal all together.’

  ‘You still get a stocking?’

  ‘I’m a very good boy.’

  Well, she knew that wasn’t the case. ‘You mean your mother turns a blind eye?’

  ‘Don’t all mothers?’

  Every cell inside her chilled. A mother like his would. A mother with money enough to pay off the damage caused by her son’s indiscretions. George’s mother had done exactly that—refusing to believe the ugly reality of her son’s nature, blaming Imogen instead. It was always the woman’s fault, right? Especially if she hadn’t grown up in the right area and hadn’t gone to the right school—then she was definitely the one to blame.

  Ryan murmured, way too close to her ear, ‘Does Santa bring you a stocking, Imogen?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘That so?’

  ‘I really am good.’

  ‘Yes—to my great disappointment.’ He smirked into his glass. ‘What does Santa put in your stocking?’

  ‘It’s been the same every year for some time now.’ She tapped her fingers on the table as she itemised the list. ‘An orange in the toe, some lipgloss, my own bag of chocolate-covered peppermint creams and…’ She turned her head, met his too-close gaze full-on, and told him straight. ‘Lacy knickers.’

  ‘Really?’ His thigh was pressing harder against hers again. ‘How lacy?’

  ‘Pretty lacy.’

  ‘Just the one pair, or several?’

  ‘Several.’

  He lifted his drink and took a deep sip. ‘I always knew Santa was a good guy.’

  She escaped not long after. Finished her drink and ran away before she was tempted to flirt back.

  SHE AVOIDED MAKING eye contact with him all of the next morning. But in her lunch break, just as Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer was being told he’d go down in history for the fourth time that day, Ryan hit the front of her wrapping queue again. He had a huge, bulky down puffer jacket in his arms.

  ‘Could you wrap this for me, please?’ There was more than a hint of devilry in his eyes. Way more.

  ‘Certainly, Mr Taylor.’

  He dumped the jacket on the table between them. It was dark grey. Size triple XL. And it was as if it was alive. She folded it over and it sprang back. She tried tucking the arms under. They slipped out. She glanced up at him. He was smirking.

  ‘It’s not a problem for you, is it?’

  ‘Of cou
rse not.’ She bared her teeth in a savage sort of smile.

  Telling herself he was just like any other customer who deserved good service, she thought up some polite small talk. In honesty, she was in satiably curious.

  ‘Is it for a loved one?’

  Confusion flickered across his face. ‘It’s for my cousin,’ he suddenly spouted. ‘Jodie. She’ll like it.’

  Imogen pulled on the spool of ribbon in the green and gold colours of Mackenzie Forrest and took in his minor attack of the fidgets. His cousin? Somehow she doubted that.

  ‘She feels the cold, too, you see—needs to warm up.’

  Imogen’s suspicion hardened as his eyes danced. ‘Well, this should certainly do the trick.’ She smiled again, docile this time. ‘Are you sure you have the right size?’

  Dancing eyes narrowed, ‘Oh, yes. She likes the layered look. Lots of bulk underneath.’

  Good recovery. But she didn’t believe a word of it.

  Watching her hands, he went on the attack. ‘I thought the ribbon was meant to go on the outside of the parcel?’

  ‘Ordinarily. But this will help it look a little neater.’

  She’d wound the ribbon round the middle of jacket and pulled the ends tight, fast, knotted it. Then wound another length from top to toe. Another few lengths of ribbon and she had a neat rectangular shape.

  She cut some paper to length, now able to wrap it perfectly. She cut yet more ribbon to flourish over the outside this time.

  ‘That looks wonderful.’ He didn’t seem thrilled to concede.

  ‘I hope she enjoys it,’ Imogen said smoothly. ‘Even if she is going to open it twelve hours too early.’

  He leant over the desk between them. ‘Christmas Eve is when the magic happens.’

  ‘Christmas Day is when the world plays.’

  He shook his head. ‘Are we going to agree to disagree?’

  ‘Never.’

  IT BECAME THE ROUTINE. Every lunch break, every day.

  ‘Silent Night’—an oversized toy abacus for his niece Donna, who was still learning her numbers.

  ‘White Christmas’—a giant suitcase on wheels for his cousin Clara, who apparently always had too much baggage.

  ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’—a jeroboam of cham pagne for his Great-Aunt Hilary, who only liked to live it up on Christmas Day, with an oversized twirly straw for her to suck it straight from the bottle.