by M. E. Carter
I look down at the thick, warm, but thin material on my lap. Sure enough, it’s stretched just enough that I can see straight through to Kris Kringle. He’s staring up at me. “Well shit. Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“Because I have a running bet with Deborah about how long it will take you to figure it out. Don’t tell her you know yet. If you hold out another week, I make twenty bucks. Fifty if you wear them again on Monday.”
“Seriously? I’m the butt of office jokes now?”
“Only since that first week in December when it become obvious this was going to be a December thing. Before that we didn’t really talk about you at all.” She pauses, not giving me time to feel sorry for myself. “So let me take you shopping. Please? I promise to behave.”
She begs as if she hasn’t spent the last few minutes insulting me. “We’ll get you something sparkly that hugs your curves. We’ll—we’ll even do a see through test on your ass so you don’t flash anymore pink thong! Just don’t tell Deborah.”
I stand up and grab my favorite elf-hat shaped coffee mug, heading toward the break room. There isn’t enough peppermint hot chocolate to get me through this day. Maybe I should consider dumping in whatever Sheila dumps into her coffee. “Thank you, Sheila, but I actually think I have the perfect outfit in my closet at home.”
“You do?”
No, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Doesn’t every woman?” I call over my shoulder, and catch the smile of approval on her face. She nods enthusiastically.
“Bring it tomorrow and meet us in the bathroom on the 4th floor. 5:30 sharp. I’ll let Deborah know she can work her magic then. I can’t wait for us to turn you into a real woman!”
I roll my eyes as I strut toward the break room, a secret smile playing on my lips.
Because if there’s one thing I love besides Christmas, it’s the mall at Christmas.
ADAM
I can barely concentrate on whatever Jason is saying as I watch the exchange between Meg and that old battle axe Sheila, then watch in earnest when Meg storms off toward the break room, that goofy mug clutched in her hand.
I can’t quite figure out what the hell it is; some days I think it’s a tree, but others it looks like an elf. Who knows. The only thing I know is that it’s Christmas themed, and ugly.
She’s been going balls-to-the-walls with the holiday shit lately.
I wouldn’t have pictured sleek, sexy Meg as a Christmas groupie.
But man, she is over the freaking top. Oddly enough, it’s a surprising part of her personality that I find strangely endearing. Since signing as a junior agent with McGinnis, rumor has it that she’s a quick learner who soaks up information. You can tell she was born to be a sports agent; I know for a fact she’s checked out game tapes from the resource library on the third floor, and that she’s on the sidelines for home games. College. Professional. She doesn’t just go after the big names. She’s hungry and ambitious.
But kind.
Not that I would know about that.
I don’t know what the hell I ever did to her since we never speak, but she avoids me like the goddamn plague.
I watch as Sheila sits back down in her cubicle then begins applying lipstick using a small mirror. The number of times that woman has hit on our clients is staggering. Seriously mind boggling, and I’ve often wondered how in the hell she landed a job here. I think most of her clients are geriatric, but still.
Jason’s deep timbre cuts in to my train of thought.
…“I think the numbers look really good. Do you think we’ve spent enough on advertising? The blood bank is reporting another spike in potential bone marrow donors, so that’s good, but I’m not sure about the number of volunteers to work at the clinic.”
Meg reenters my line of vision, hips swaying in those ridiculous leggings.
“Mmm,” I respond, like an asshole because I didn’t catch anything he’s been saying, and tap a number two pencil on my desktop.
Apparently Meg doesn’t know her pants are see-through, the material stretchy, because I got a really good look at her ass this morning when she bent over to grab a file folder off the ground.
Her ass and her pink thong.
Pink.
As in: not a Christmas color.
I wonder what else she’s wearing that isn’t red and green.
“So. Are you gonna ask her out or what?”
“Huh?” My eyes snap back to Jason’s. “Shit, sorry.” I have no excuse for not paying attention to every word that’s been coming out of his mouth. This man pays my salary and I didn’t hear a damn thing he’s been saying.
“I asked if you were going to ask her out.” He asks the question warily, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, making his biceps pop. His biceps. That right there: the reason women like Sheila Dunphy work here. Title chasers.
“Ask who out?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me ask a third time, I know you heard me.” He lets out a long, laboring sigh and stares at me like I’m a damn idiot. “The girl in the cubicle across the hall.” Another blank stare. “The Mrs. Clause Wanna-be with the elf coffee mug and Santa pants?”
Ah, so it is an elf. I freaking knew it.
I give in to the cross examination, and give him a little intel. “Her name is Megan McClaren and I’ve been trying to figure out what that damn mug is for at least a week.”
“You would have known if you talked to her. You don’t talk to her, do you?”
“No. She hates me.”
Jason laughs, his meaty fist hitting the wooden desk with a loud thud. “Are you fucking kidding me? Adam Roberts? You lead me around by the nuts, and you’re afraid of a woman wearing jingle balls.”
“It’s tinsel, asshole.”
“Do you know that for the past three months, every time we’ve met, you don’t hear a damn thing I say? It’s a miracle you haven’t fucked up my schedule yet. A damn miracle. You have Santa pants on the brain.”
“Fine. I thought I was being covert about it, okay? I’d love to ask her out but she doesn’t even know my name.”
He laughs again. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Ok, maybe she knows my name. But only because my office is literally across from her cube and it has my name on it.”
“Maybe. Orrr maybe she’s into you.”
“Really.” I deadpan. “What gives you that idea?”
“Are you blind? I catch her staring at you through the glass.” His grin is shit-eating and confident, just like every other professional athlete that crosses my threshold.
I quirk an irritated eyebrow. “Jason, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Cross your arms over your chest again and watch your bicep as you do it.”
“Why?” He looks confused by my request. So I say it again.
“Cross your arms over your chest and watch your bicep.”
“Okkkkkkay,” he says slowly, but he does it. “Why did I just do that?”
“Did you see how that gigantic muscle in your arm flexed when you moved?”
He shrugs, like he doesn’t see what I’m getting at.
“That muscle is what she’s staring at every time you’re here. Not me. Believe me dude, I’ve been around here long enough to know an office romance isn’t just a bad idea for HR purposes. It’s also a bad idea because she’s not interested.”
I freeze when Meg stands, fusses with her desk chair, then takes her seat again. She runs a hand down her hair, fingers brushing through it. It shines under the glaring florescent lights above us. Meg may dress like a crazy cat lady during the month of December, but her face is beautiful. Some days, she piles that hair on top of her head and I can see her long, flawless neck. A neck I’d like to take a bite of—not hard. Maybe just a nip?
I’ve seen her expressive green eyes sparkle about a client’s success.
She’s gorgeous. Quirky, real.
Beautiful.
&n
bsp; “Oh shit. I’ve seen that look. You’ve got it bad.” Jason just will not shut up.
“Would you let it go?”
“I bet she has an Ugly Christmas sweater, and she doesn’t think it’s ugly.” He suddenly has an idea, and his face lights up. “Hey! You should see if she wants to come with you to Lindsay’s party.”
I groan. “I’m not going to that party. No.”
“The hell you aren’t!” he bellows. “Just because you lost the sweater contest last year doesn’t mean you get to puss out of coming.”
“I’m not pussing out, asshole, I just refuse to wear the Grinch sweater Addison gave me for Christmas last year.”
Addison is Jason’s wife.
“You lost the ugly sweater contest—that sweater was your prize. You should be cherishing that shit, asshole.” He crosses his huge pipes again. “Besides, you have to wear it. It’s our family tradition.”
I snort. “What tradition? You’ve been married for like two years.”
“Five years in June.”
“Whatever. That’s not long enough for it to be a tradition.”
“It’s long enough to me and the Mrs., so it’s long enough for you.”
I have nothing to say to that, so I don’t say anything.
“As the person who fills your bank account, I’m pulling a dick move and demanding that you come to Lindsay’s party. Ask the girl to come with you.”
He stands up, stretches, and moves to the door.
“I guess this meeting is over?”
“You can’t keep your head out of that cubicle over there so there’s no point anyway. I’ll catch you later man.” He turns around and points right at me. “Don’t be late for the party, asshole.”
“Fine.”
“Seven o’clock.”
“I know what time it starts.”
He sniggers and begins walking away. But then he stops, moonwalks backwards, and lays a hand on my doorjamb.
“And don’t forget the sweater.”
My eyes drift to Meg’s cubicle. She’s watching Jason saunter down the carpeted hallway, a smile lighting up her entire face.
A smile that’s wiped from her mouth when she looks over and see’s me watching.
Chapter 2
Meg
“My lack of an office romance is holding me back professionally.”
I love the mall at Christmas time.
The hustle and bustle that normal people can’t stand. The smell of the food court, especially the cinnamon buns. The baked pretzels and cookies. Let’s not forget the music, decorations, and the children waiting in line to meet Santa. There’s something magical about a child’s faith that a hired employee can make all their dreams come true.
Poor things.
One of my favorite parts of the Santa shop are the pictures of terror stricken and crying kids that end up on Social media. I know, I know, that kind of makes me a jerk, because I should feel sympathy but I don’t. I can’t help it; those pictures are absolutely hysterical.
So here I am—no, no, not scouring the mall for the perfect gift. Nope, not me. I’m on the prowl for another kind of perfect: the perfect dress.
I sigh, not familiar with this mall or where to find this unicorn outfit.
“Can I help you find something, darlin? You look lost.” A thick Texas drawl comes out of nowhere and scares the bejeezus out of me.
I turn to see a woman with the biggest hair I’ve ever seen in my life—a beehive, I think they call it— looking at me. She has more make-up on than Tammy Fay Baker (God Bless her soul), and she’s chewing gum like a longhorn chews on cud. Oh god, did I just make a Texan reference?
Of course, I have no room to judge her. I’m wearing see-through Santa leggings.
Plus, this woman has a huge, inviting smile on her face, and I recognize a friendly face when I see one.
“Yes ma’am.” There I go again, sounding Texan. “I need an outfit for my office Christmas party.”
She chews twice and snaps her gum. “What kind of outfit are ya lookin’ for?”
I shake my head. “I’m thinking classy. Fun. Maybe something sparkly?”
Her smile widens. “Well, yer in the right place, honey! We specialize in sparkle.”
I must look terrified as she takes me by the arm and drags me into her store.
She laughs. “Oh don’t be afraid, darlin’. Rhonda will take good care of you. I’m Rhonda, by the by.” She links her arm through mine and guides me toward the back of the store. “Here at The Dress Stable, we have everything you’ll ever need in office dress. Dresses, pants, shirts, chaps, … you name it. Do I detect a Midwestern accent?”
Chaps? Did she seriously say chaps?
As she shows me around, all I can think is, I have never seen more leather fringe in my life. Rhinestones. Turquoise. And does everyone own a pair of chaps in this town? They’re everywhere. Am I missing something by not having any? And how can I get my hands on a pair of those pink studded cowboy boots?
Or maybe I stumbled into the wrong place…
“Just look around and jingle if you need anything,” Rhonda says. “I’ll be going through some new inventory that just came in.”
As she struts her way back to the front, wearing a blue version of the boots I have my eye on, I turn my attention to the racks around me. Plaid studded shirts, western wear, and denim as far as the eye can see. But then I walk further, and further, past the shoes and boots and hats and stumble into some of the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen. Solid wrap dresses made out of the finest cotton. Silky shifts.
Of course, they’re displayed with cowboy boots, but they’re perfect.
I grab one dress, then another, until I have an armload. Stumble to the curtained dressing room. Peel off my red sweater without getting caught in the Christmas lights strung across Rudolph’s crochet horns. Leggings. Shoes.
I go to work trying everything on.
Unfortunately…thirty minutes and twelve outfits later, I’m no closer to finding a dress than I was when I started.
“Rhonda?” I call from the fitting room when I’m done re-hanging my last cast off. “Thanks so much for your help. I appreciate it—and I loved a few of these, they just didn’t fit right.”
I shrug helplessly, disappointed and tired, heading back toward the mall.
“Darlin! Wait!” she calls out. “I meant to bring this to you, but I got sidetracked by the new shoes.” She reaches behind the counter. “I found this in Christmas red.” She winks, revealing a simple wrap dress. Rich red, thick fabric—it’s the perfect color. Better yet, it has tiny rhinestones lining the pleats. “Want to give one more a try?”
Eager, all I can do is nod as she hands me the hanger.
“Size six, I reckon? That’s what you wear, right?” I caress the silky material. “Well, go try it on. Scoot, scoot!” She shoos me into a dressing room, practically climbing inside with me.
Stripping off my clothes once again, my heart starts pounding. The material feels amazing against my bare skin. More amazing than my Santa leggings. I’m almost afraid to turn around and look in the mirror.
But I do.
I gasp.
It’s perfect.
There’s enough sparkle to make it festive, but it’s classy, not gaudy. It fits me like a second skin on my upper torso, flaring at the waist. The belt surrounding my waist falls down the pleated skirt.
“Rhonda!” I screech, whipping the curtain wide open. “This is the dress!”
“Just as I thought. Rhonda knows dresses, darling, and that one was made for you. Here. Take a gander at what I found to go with it.” She holds up a pair of black, sling backs. The leather is glossy and butter soft, the heel a sexy three inches. “Try these on. They’re on sale.” She leans in close and whispers, “Last season.”
I do as she says, removing my ballet flat and sliding my foot into the black shoes.
I look down at the price tag, and groan.
“Now, I know it’s a lo
t of money, honey, but you can’t put a price on this kind of perfection.”
Well, technically you can, I want to say. Two hundred and some odd change.
But I bite my lip and crunch the numbers in my head to include the tax. Christmas always means more money out of my pocket. But I really want to make an impression tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I’m going to talk to Adam.
And I don’t want to do it in a glowing tee shirt and candy cane leggings.
I want to look sexy.
“Ok.” I yank the tag off the dress, handing it and my credit card to Rhonda “Ring it up before I change my mind. The shoes, too.” I squeeze my eyes shut and then add, “Don’t tell me the total!”
She bounces, and her hair bounces along with her boobs. “This is so excitin’. You won’t regret this! And! You just helped me make my quota for the month.”
She doesn’t hesitate to charge my credit card a month’s worth of groceries while I return to the fitting room, get dressed again in my street clothes, and collect my things.
As much as it cost me, I actually feel good about my purchases. I’m giddy.
Excited.
As I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
Adam.
He doesn’t see me, but I definitely see him. I fiddle with the garment bag slung over my arm like a rag doll, watching as he stands at the entrance of a toy store, staring down at the floor. At the remote controlled cars zooming around the tile floor. Hand on his chin, it looks like he’s debating buying them.
My heart sinks.
Of course he has kids. Which probably means he’s married. It makes sense. A guy that successful and attractive is bound to be off the market—I was a fool to think otherwise.
I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything about it in the office, but then again, I’m new and just getting to know people. The only one who tells me anything gossipy is Sheila, and I only believe half of what she tells me.
Feeling defeated, the weight of my dress weighing heavier with every step, I make my way through the crowd. To the only man who can make me feel better this time of year.