A Holiday Temptation: A Holiday Novella

by Tiffany Patterson

  A Holiday Temptation

  Tiffany Patterson

  TMP Publishing LLC

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Also By Tiffany Patterson

  Rescue Four Series

  The Townsend Brothers Series

  Copyright © 2020 by TMP Publishing LLC/Tiffany Patterson

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  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  He’s dead.

  Finally.

  Thankfully.

  Blinking, I peel one eye open before doing the same with the second and sigh in relief. Short-lived relief, as the second remembrance of my father’s death bursts through my sleep-induced haze.

  I’m still not free of him.

  Each morning for the past sixty days, I’ve awakened with those three sentences firmly planted in my mind. My father is dead. And I’m grateful for it. Most people likely wouldn’t celebrate their father’s death. Most people aren’t me. And lucky for them, they didn’t have my father.

  Yet, even in his death, he’s still found a way to control my life.

  With a sigh, I rub the remaining sleep from my eyes and stretch long, undoing the kinks in my muscles from slumbering in a bed that hasn’t been updated since I was kicked out at sixteen years old.

  Glancing down at the crumpled, pewter, embroidered sheets, I frown against the urge to straighten them. In an act of defiance, I stand from the bed, refusing to remake it before heading over to my bedroom window and pulling the curtain open. The magenta and orange rays peeking through the fluffy clouds demonstrate the rising sun.

  Looking down, I spot the street in front of our house, lined with the other McMansions that make up our community. The same red brick exterior on our house exists on the rest of the cookie-cutter homes in this perfect subdivision just within the limits of Williamsport. The people residing in this town did their absolute best to remain inside of the city limits while still distancing themselves from any of the crime and lackluster parts of the city.

  Thankfully, the temperature outside is in the low fifties, making it perfect for getting out for a walk or light jog. I need to get some fresh air instead of the stale, unchanged air within the walls of this house. It feels like a prison in here.

  Sighing, I step away from the window, spinning on my heels to open up the massive wooden bureau, and remove a pair of black joggers, workout top, and sports bra. After dressing and placing a black headwrap around my hair, I head downstairs to start a pot of coffee.

  “Mama,” I greet, surprised to see her up so early. Since I moved back in a month ago, she rarely gets up in time to see me off for work. “Good morning.”

  Her smile is slow and stilted.

  My heart constricts in my chest at the heavy sadness in those dark brown eyes of hers.

  “Morning, Jackie.” It sounds like it took all of her energy to get those two words free. She tightens the light grey robe around her body and continues sitting on the wooden stool in front of the kitchen island. Her eyes take on a far-off look as she peers out of the window. She doesn’t try to fill the stillness of the morning with her humming or busy herself to prepare coffee or breakfast as she used to.

  Unlike myself, my father’s death created a huge hole in my mother’s world. Now, as I stand here, looking at her, I don’t know if she’ll ever come back to herself. Quite likely, there is no self for her to come back to. My father was my mother’s entire life.

  Hot anger ripples through my belly, and I turn to the counter to pour the coffee grinds into the filter for them to heat up as a means to distract myself.

  Turning around a few minutes later, I still see my mother staring off into the distance.

  “Want to come with me for a walk around the neighborhood?” I infect as much cheer as one can muster at six-thirty in the morning into my voice.

  “I thought you were getting ready for work.”

  Shaking my head, I inform her, “I will, once I get back. I always try to get in a little walk before getting ready.” And also to spend as little time as possible actually inside of the house I grew up in, but I leave off that part.

  “It’s dark outside.” Her gaze shifts warily to the window again, noting that full sunlight hasn’t hit the sky yet.

  “We’ll be fine. The community is safe and gated, remember? Also, I always carry pepper spray. Plus, there’s safety in numbers.” I hope that last bit will convince her.

  Instead of answering, however, my mother lets out a weary sigh. Her shoulders slump even farther down.

  “Your father always looked out for us. That’s why he bought us this big house in this community.”

  I tighten my hands into fists at my side and quickly stuff them into my pockets to prevent her from seeing them. Taking her lack of movement as the answer to my question, I don’t say anything else as I exit the kitchen and put on my walking shoes that remain by the door from the previous morning.

  Out on my walk, my mother’s words push through my mind. She really believes that that man’s only desire was to protect us. If she only knew the secret he took to his grave. The one in which he made a part of his last will and testament to see to it that I followed his instructions, or else my mother would lose the very house and inheritance that he bequeathed her.

  “Looked out for us,” I spit out, disgusted as my feet beat out a harsh rhythm against the pavement below. Shaking my head, I do my best not to hold onto the resentment I’ve been harboring toward my mother. She was eighteen years old when she met and eventually married my father. I came along a year later.

  He kept us both under his thumb through mental and emotional manipulation and what others might call abuse. When he felt those methods weren’t garnering the outcome he desired, he moved on to physical coercion. On more than one occasion, I walked in on my father twisting my mother’s wrist or arm when she wouldn’t instantly comply. Even if she or I just appeared as if we were on the verge of talking back or saying no, we’d have hell to pay.

  The fitness watch on my wrist beeps, informing me that I just made it to mile three of this walk. Peering up at the front of my parents’ home, renewed dread settles in the pit of my stomach. As much as I don’t want to walk back inside, I have to. I remind myself that my mother, one of my few living relatives, is inside, and she has no one else but me to rely on.

  My mother isn’t the sole reason I chose to move back to Williamsport, but she is why I actively decided to move back into this house. This home that looks so beautiful from the outside, but for me, holds many ugly memories.

  When I enter the kitchen, my mother’s still sitting there, staring out of the window. I don’t say anything as I head up the stairs to shower and get ready for work.

  Only when I pour the hot coffee into my mug, twist the lid, and gather my shoulder bag to head out does she finally come out of her stupor.

  She blinks as if seeing m
e for the first time that morning. “Heading out to work already?”

  I take a sip of my coffee before answering, needing to swallow down the uncomfortable lump in my throat.

  “Yes, Mama. Hey, how about when I get home from work tonight I take us out to dinner?”

  Her forehead crinkles. “You usually get in from work late.”

  I’m surprised she even realizes that most days, I do get in from work around eight or nine. Part of it is because of this new role I’m in. My new employer is working on a merger, and I’m getting up to speed on the ins and outs of it all. I haven’t shared those details with her. The second reason is that I do my best to spend my days avoiding these suffocating walls. Even with my father’s physical absence, it’s almost as if I can still feel him here—the pictures on the walls, the way everything conforms to exactly how he wanted it. Even my mother’s melancholy mood is an indication that he still holds power in this house.

  “I can get out by five tonight. Anywhere you want to go. What do you say?”

  She bites her bottom lip as her gaze shifts around as if searching for something or someone.

  “You like Korean food, don’t you?”

  I remember we used to order from a Korean place when I was a teen, just about every weekend.

  To my horror, her eyes water. “Your father loved Korean BBQ. I tried to tell him all that red meat wasn’t healthy, but he …” She trails off, looking away.

  I, too, have to look away as she starts to wipe a tear.

  “No, I don’t need to go out to dinner. I’m going to lay down for a little while. You have a good day at Seacrest,” she says, patting me on the shoulder as she passes.

  “Cypress,” I correct.

  She tosses me an apologetic smile. “Cypress.”

  I watch as she heads up the stairs. Time, I tell myself. She just needs more time. After all, she’d been married to the man for nearly thirty years.

  In time she’ll move on.

  Chapter 2

  “The hell?” I grumble as soon as the office door opens to the main office, where I work on the top floor of Townsend Industries.

  “Does it have to be so loud in here?” I demand as I roll my chair over the threshold to enter.

  Suzette, the only other person in the office at this hour, wrinkles a dark eyebrow as she peers up at the ceiling as if searching for what I’m talking about.

  “What?” she questions.

  “You don’t hear the blaring Christmas music? Isn’t it too early for holiday music? We haven’t even made it into November.”

  “It’s November 2nd,” she informs me with a smirk on her face.

  Rolling my eyes, I ignore her and push myself toward my desk.

  “I would've thought you, of all people, enjoyed the holidays. It's such a fun time of year.”

  Her genuine cheer for this season causes nausea to rise in my stomach. That and the burning in my chest that always starts in early November. Despite what I said to Suzette minutes earlier, I know what the date is. I don’t need to look at a calendar. Yesterday, when I awakened with the burning in my chest, I knew the date. That sensation always begins around early November, reminding me of the coming holidays, and with them, the reminder of what I lost sixteen years ago.

  A little over a decade and a half, the same amount of time I’ve lived life in a wheelchair.

  “That meeting with Cypress is today, right?” Suzette questions, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Yes. Today at ten,” I murmur in response, watching as my computer boots up. “You have all the previous meeting papers printed and filed, correct?”

  “I do,” she says, sounding proud.

  Glancing up, my gaze first catches the fake Christmas tree that sits in the corner of the lobby. By all accounts, the tree is beautiful. This will be my third holiday season at Townsend Industries, specifically as Aaron Townsend's executive assistant. Each year the office is outfitted by professional decorators for the holidays. Rumor is, Aaron wasn’t much for holiday decor before becoming a family man.

  A shame he still isn’t.

  Who needs to be reminded continuously of the holidays?

  As my thoughts sour yet again, Suzette begins humming along to the instrumental version of “Jingle Bells”.

  “Aaron will be in shortly, and I suspect he’ll be needing his coffee and that file as soon as possible,” I tell Suzette with a lifted eyebrow.

  She doesn’t seem to pick up on my attitude, but she does smile. “They’re already on his desk, just as you taught me.”

  I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. Though I’m the executive assistant to the CEO of the company, Suzette transferred in six months ago to take on tasks such as filing, and organizing his travel and meetings, while my work responsibilities have been increasing to include things like leading meetings.

  To be honest, my goal isn’t to remain an administrative assistant for my entire career. Not that there’s anything wrong with the role, but I know I have so much more to contribute. And while most who visit this office tend to have fear around even meeting Aaron Towsend, I’ve found him to be an entirely fair, ethical, and brilliant leader of this company. Aggressive? Yes. Arrogant at times? Absolutely. Even demanding? That’d be a hell yes.

  But he’s efficient.

  Moreover, he didn’t overlook me because of my disability. He saw I could do the job and do it well and gave me an opportunity. I’m not the type that feels sorry for myself, but you’d be surprised how many past employers overlooked me due to my being in a wheelchair.

  Dumb fucks.

  I run my hand across my chest to calm the burning sensation yet again. Reminding myself that I’m at work, I log into my email to respond to a few while I print out some notes I took from my last conversation with one of the executives over at Cypress Mental Health and Addiction. The company is on track to become one of Townsend Industries’ subsidiaries as Aaron moves the company toward expanding into the healthcare sector.

  I would fucking kill to be on this merger team. Sure, I’ve done a lot of the research and work regarding setting up meetings, reviewing Cypress’ annual reports for the previous five years, and even spoken with a few execs on behalf of Aaron himself. However, I’m seen as a stepping stone to the real decision makers, which is not where I want to be long-term.

  “Good morning, Aaron,” I greet as soon as he passes through the door, with his surly scowl in place.

  It’s not unusual to see him scowling, so the face doesn’t bother me. However, his frown deepening does.

  “Morning,” he grumbles, much the same way I had upon first entering the office.

  “I can have the music turned down if you like? Better yet, let me call the guys in security to cut it off entirely.” I assume his frown is due to his distaste of holiday music.

  I’m likely projecting because he lifts a dark eyebrow as he glances up. “What music?” He pauses a beat, and then waves his hand in the air. “The music is fine. Patience tells me it gives the office a warmer feel. She says it makes me more palatable to the staff or whatever.” He rolls his eyes.

  Patience, Aaron’s wife, is probably the only person on the planet who could get Aaron to play music in the office willingly.

  “One of the twins spilled their oatmeal on me this morning,” he gripes, glancing down at the dark grey button-up shirt beneath his black suit jacket.

  For the first time since he entered, I see the stain. I don’t bother asking which twin he’s referring to, given the fact that he and Patience have two sets of twins that are almost seven years apart.

  “I’m certain he did it on purpose so that I could give him back to his mother.” Aaron shakes his head, frowning. “Boy’s trying to steal my wife.”

  I grin for the first time that morning. Theirs. One of Aaron and Patience’s younger twins. He’s a mama’s boy.

  Aaron continues griping as he strolls down the hallway toward his office. I follow, same as I do each morning, running down his sched
ule for the day, which I always have memorized.

  “The meeting with Cypress is going to take up the rest of the morning and probably spill into the afternoon. I’ve already told Suzette to put in a lunch order from the restaurant down the street that you like.”

  He nods. “My soup?” he questions without peering up from the paper’s he’s shuffling through on his desk.

  “They’ve already been told to make sure it’s available.”

  “Good. I skipped breakfast this morning.” He takes a sip of his coffee that was left by Suzette. “I’m going to need you at the meeting with Cypress.”

  “Already planned to be there. My schedule has been cleared.”

  “Good. Now get out. I need to change my shirt before the day gets started.”

  I dip my head and roll my chair backward, exiting the office to head back to my desk.

  As irritating as this holiday music is and the accompanying decorations, I do my best to drown them out while focusing on this Cypress meeting. There’s nothing like a shit ton of work and the possibility of showing my skills to help force out the memories of the past.

  “I’m nervous,” I admit to my direct manager, Jase.

  He smiles warmly at me as we enter the spacious downstairs lobby of Townsend Industries. Stepping inside is like being enveloped into a winter wonderland. The lobby is beautifully decorated in various Christmas trees surrounded by gift-wrapped boxes as presents, and even a fake Santa riding a snowman to the far right.

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Jase says, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, I spot a hint of fear in his gaze. He, too, is intimidated by the infamous Aaron Townsend, whom we have a meeting with today.