Kissmas Eve: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

by M. E. Carter

  MentorTeam259: Lack of confidentiality, BRIBES—we are entering some seriously dangerous water here…

  Me: Oh Jeez, this isn’t even the strangest conversation I’ve had today. And it’s only 8:00

  MentorTeam259: You mean you’ve had stranger conversations this week? Do tell.

  Me: My friend Tabitha Thompson is a romance author and likes to fill me in every morning on what she’s working on. Use your imagination for a second about what we talk about (dot dot dot).

  MentorTeam259: Uh, what’s the (dot dot dot)? It sounds like I need to know more. Is she getting romance advice from you?

  Me: Why, do YOU need some romance advice?

  I hold my breath, waiting for his reply.

  MentorTeam259: Shit yes.

  MentorTeam259: Crap. There’s also no profanity on the IOM.

  Me: Seriously? Then we’re both in trouble, because I’m pretty sure I swore in a message to MentorTeam001 last week. Not to mention, I know half of YOUR identity already. Male. Gainfully employed. Anti-Holidays…

  MentorTeam259: I never said I was Anti-Holiday—Just anti holiday PARTY…

  Me: Why?

  MentorTeam259: I hate going to those alone.

  Me: So you’re single?

  I perk up, then cringe, having asked such a personal question. I sound so nosey. And desperate.

  Me: Sorry, I should not have asked that. You don’t have to answer.

  MentorTeam259: No, it’s okay. Yes, I’m single. Yes, I hate going to parties alone. No, I’m not online dating.

  Me: It’s like you were reading my mind. You’ve never done online dating? Why? It’s so fun!

  MentorTeam259: Long story. Also, did I mention these IOM conversations get randomly screened by the IT Department? We’ve probably already said too much personal shit, broken about three rules, and I’ve just used profanity for the second time in ten minutes.

  Me: Shit, shit, shit. Now we’re both in trouble when the IOM Police come to track us down.

  MentorTeam259: Would you go to IOM Prison for me?

  Me: No man left behind. Have you ever seen the movie The Santa Clause? The elves break him out of prison using tinsel and jet packs? I’d total do that. I have some you know.

  MentorTeam259: HOLY SHIT, YOU HAVE JET PACKS?

  Me: No, I have TINSEL.

  MentorTeam259: Oh. That’s not as exciting.

  Me: LOL. It can be.

  Oh my god, I did not just say that! I quickly type out a, I guess I should let you get back to work… and hit send.

  I don’t really want to end this, though. I want to keep chatting. Whoever MentorTeam259 is…he sounds fun. I picture him to be kind of dorky. Smart. Probably with glasses, like my friend Daphne’s boyfriend, Dexter.

  I bet MentorTeam259 is cute. Shoot, I’m already half attracted to his online personality.

  I glance up to the office where Adam sits at his computer, head down, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He picks up his coffee mug—a plain white one with words across the front that I can’t read from here, and takes a long sip. Licks his lips and sets it down.

  Leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his neck and staring at his monitor. I can see him thinking from here, brows furrowed in concentration. A moment passes, then another.

  He releases his hands, stretches, then sets back to typing as I watch, cheeks warm and something strange fluttering inside my chest. My heart is beating wildly, the melody to All I Want for Christmas is You playing in the background in my cubicle through the speakers on my monitor, when my IMO pings with a new message.

  MentorTeam259: This is completely unethical and against policy, but…

  My heartbeat speeds up, if that were possible.

  MentorTeam259: You know what? Nevermind. I shouldn’t be asking.

  My shoulders sag.

  I raise my head, glancing toward Adam’s office, eyes widening when our gazes collide. Embarrassed, I jerk my head back to my computer screen. Before I can think twice, I type out another question to MentorTeam259.

  Me: You should totally give the whole online dating thing a shot. You have an amazing online personality.

  MentorTeam259: You think?

  Me: Oh yeah. I don’t know you personally, obviously, but I can tell you’re pretty great.

  This is not a dating website, Meg! I remind myself so I don’t get too unprofessional.

  Me: Are you going to the Office Party tonight?

  MentorTeam259: Yes. You?

  Me: Yes.

  Okay, now what?

  MentorTeam259: Crazy thought…if you’re willing to go down in a blaze of glory.

  Me: You have my full attention.

  The over-imaginative part of me can almost hear MentorTeam259 clearing his throat uncomfortably. Pulling at the collar of his shirt, loosening his tie. Like Adam is doing right now. It’s a red power tie, and he’s tugging it at the knot, unbuttoning that first button of his starched baby blue dress shirt.

  He cracks his fingers above his keyboard, then goes in.

  MentorTeam259: Meet me at the Christmas tree tonight that’s always by the Reception desk in the lobby. They decorate it with blue ornaments every year, and there’s a white star at the top that never lights up. You can’t miss it.

  That’s the thing about the lobby in this building. It’s massive, completely surrounded by glass, with twenty-four-foot-high ceilings, sky rocketing beams, and huge, full grown potted trees. Massive crystal chandelier gleam overhead.

  Definitely large and grand enough to host a company Holiday party.

  Me: Okay. Yes!! 8:30?

  I’m trying to contain my enthusiasm, but I just can’t help adding those two exclamation points.

  MentorTeam259: Great. See you then.

  It’s on the tip of my fingers to type It’s a Date! so instead, I go with: I look forward to meeting the man who’s gotten me out of a few conundrums.

  I inwardly cringe. I should have messaged Tabitha about this; she would know the perfect thing to say and she sure as hell wouldn’t use the word conundrum.

  MentorTeam259: Let me know if you get stuck any more with the contract.

  Me: Sounds good.

  I log off and get back to work. I have no idea who MentorTeam259 is, but he sounds nice. Funny. I’m looking forward to possibly having an actual office friend, and try desperately not to think of this as a blind date.

  But fail miserably.

  Sheila reappears over my cubicle. “Did you get an actual outfit for tonight or just another ugly shirt?”

  I sigh, spinning in my chair to face her. She’s standing with her arms folded along the top of my walls, steaming hot mug of something in her hands. The steam rises up, and she blows on it, a dreamy expression on her face. Doubtless daydreaming about all the men she’s going to hustle at tonight’s party.

  “No. But I did go shopping and got a gorgeous dress,” I can’t stop myself from gushing. Just a little. “Probably paid too much money, but I like it.” Then I add, “I think you’ll actually be proud of me.”

  “Yay!” Sheila claps, almost dropping her mug. It’s brown and plain, and not Christmasy at all, so it wouldn’t be a total loss if she did. “Are you going to let Deborah do your hair and make up? I bet her five bucks you’d do the smart thing and go shopping, but she didn’t believe me. So she loses.”

  I cock a brow. “Sheila. You have a serious gambling problem—you do know that, right?”

  “Only when it comes to your poor sense in fashion.” She takes another few sips of coffee, and I suspect there might be something other than coffee in it. Something much. Stronger. “And you’ve already won me next month’s car payment, so I’m not about to stop betting on my winningest horse.”

  Am I the horse in this scenario? Awesome.

  I drop my head to my desk and groan. Why? Why of all the people in this office do I have to be neighbors with this one? Why not Caroline, who’s cube is four away? She brings her neighbors cookies, and
has a string of festive, colorful lights above her cabinets. Or better yet, Mark, the quiet computer nerd across the narrow hall. He might be a mute, but he’s polite and keeps to himself. And, I notice he has a Santa bobble head on a stack of Sports Management manuals, so he can’t be all that bad…

  “Remember,” Sheila is saying now, voice authoritative. “A few of us gals are meeting at 5:30 to primp. We heard Norman Hayward is going to be here this year and I want to have Deborah contour my wrinkles.” Mr. Hayward is the VP COO of our company and is recently divorced from the third Mrs. Hayward. It sounds like Sheila is gunning to be the fourth. “Meet us in the sixth floor Ladies’ washroom. I smuggled some bourbon in my purse so we’ll start the party a little early.”

  Washroom? Bourbon? Hard pass.

  “Thanks for the invitation. I’ll think about it.” I give her a polite smile and brush away a few loose strands of hair from my lips. It’s sticking to the North Pole Peppermint Chapstick I just applied.

  “5:30,” she says again with a nod. “We’ll doll you up real nice.”

  Oh, I just bet you will.

  ADAM

  Damn, whoever McGinnis983 is, she’s funny. She makes me laugh every damn time we chat, and although a small knot of guilt forms in my stomach from having broken the company’s confidentiality agreement—and about four other policies—I’m not sorry I get to find out who she is.

  Even if she’s a troll up on the eighth floor who always sends me an inter-office memo when I take one too many steno pads from the supply room. Then at least I’ll have a face to go with the name. Or, in this case, the Screen Name.

  Fine. I’m secretly hoping who ever she is, she’s not the office hag.

  I’m hoping she’s as sexy as she is clever.

  I’m still thinking about McGinnis983 when I glance through the wall of windows that make up my office, to Meg’s small desk.

  Her open cubicle entrance faces mine, so I can see inside without any effort or obstructions. I’m able to freely study her profile and the long, brown hair falling in silky waves. Her sweater is red, and though I can’t see the front, I’d bet money that’s it’s got one of those butt ugly designs on it.

  Speaking of bets, it’s common knowledge that more than a few people have made Meg the prime target of the office betting pool, another thing that’s frowned upon by Human Resources around here. Given that our profession is professional athletes, and betting on sports is illegal, the fact that our employees are betting within the office is deplorable.

  Meg shifts in her seat, and I’m given a full frontal of her sweater. I was right; it’s fucking ugly.

  Red, with a quilted sweater sewn onto the front, it’s an ugly sweater…sweater? Bright, plastic lights, strung across the front of it that I bet have a battery pack somewhere that lights them up.

  Shit. Now I’m doing it.

  Meg stands, pulling the sweater down over her ass. Plucks at the fabric of her green and blue plaid leggings. Plops back down in her seat. Begins shuffling files around on her desk, occasionally jotting notes down on a pink sticky note pad. I’ve noticed her doing that a lot; jotting notes. Little post it’s are everywhere in her cubicle—on her monitor, on the two gray shelves, on her file cabinet.

  I wonder what they all say.

  I wonder what she’s thinking when she looks up, into my office.

  I try to smile, but it comes out as a grimace, and she quickly looks back down, but not before I see her lips saying, “Oh god,” and she spins her chair away from me.

  Great. Now she thinks I’m a freak.

  Which…I won’t lie. I’ve tried to look up information on her. Personal shit that I thought maybe I could use to strike up a conversation with. Shit, I’ve even tried looking her up in the office directory, then stopped when I felt stalkery. The last thing I want is to invade her privacy by creeping on her.

  After awhile, Meg visibly relaxes, concentrating on her work. From here I can see her biting down on her lower lip and scrunching up her nose every few minutes. It’s sexy adorable.

  Yeah. Definitely sexy adorable.

  I wonder if McGinnis983 will be sexy adorable, too.

  Chapter 4

  Meg

  “I want to break the company’s HR policy with you.”

  With a trembling hand, I smooth down my long hair, it having mercifully fallen into loose waves after being in a top knot all day. The finishing touches on my make-up are done; I managed a smoky eye without looking like a raccoon, my contouring artfully applied—for once. Instead of false eyelashes, which were sure to tear off and get stuck to my cheeks, the mascara I found at the mall elongated my lashes so it looks like I am. Lips glossy.

  I run a palm down the front of my new dress, flattening out the pleats—if possible, the dress is better than I remember. When I pulled it out of the garment bag last night to iron out the wrinkles, the cool fabric slipped smoothly between my fingers before I finally slipped it on.

  The dress looks even better today than it did yesterday. Feels amazing.

  The shoes feel even more comfortable.

  I feel pretty.

  I twirl, catching my reflection in the mirror.

  Gathering the clothes I wore to work, I check the time—I’m a little late, but only casually—shove everything into a tote with the North Pole printed on it, and drop it off in my cubicle. Once I reach the elevator banks, clicking across the white marble floors on my new high heels, I give the down button a gentle push with a red polished nail. There’s a small candy cane painted on my pinky finger, and I smile when it catches my eye with a flirty little wink.

  The elevator opens slowly, and I can already hear the notes of music wafting up from the lobby below. Obviously, as a new employee, I haven’t been to an office Christmas party before, so I’m curious if they actually get as wild as Sheila claims. If it gets crowded with clients, owners, and coaches. I know first hand how prone Sheila is to exaggerations, so I’m interested to see who will be crowded around the bar tonight.

  And of course, my meeting with MentorTeam259.

  The elevator still hasn’t arrived, so even though I know it’s pointless, I poke at the down button again. It’s been slow to arrive before, but this is ridiculous, even with a throng of people forming in the lobby, barely anyone would be using them to cause them to stall.

  I tilt my head, watching the numbers lower. It’s coming from the higher floors, gradually making it’s way down. Thirteenth floor. Pause.

  Tenth floor.

  Ninth.

  Pause.

  Eight.

  Ding!

  Finally, the elevator slides open and I hop on, immediately reaching for the panel board. Give the lobby a poke. Wait for the doors to slide closed, facing them. When they’re in place, I step back, leaning against the cool wall, stunned to realize there’s actually another person tucked away in the corner, head down, on his phone.

  My eyes begin the slow decent from the tips of his shiny leather shoes, his long legs. Tapered waist. Broad chest…

  The lights suddenly shut off.

  I stand stunned, in the pitch black car.

  “What’s happening?” I ask quietly. Or was it a whisper?

  The entire elevator is pitch black. Not even the emergency light on the control panel is lit up.

  “Come on, answer your damn phone,” the man says. And he has a low, baritone voice. Okay, so maybe being trapped in this elevator won’t be so bad.

  He slams what sounds like a phone back down into it’s metal box.

  “Shit.”

  “Was that the red emergency phone?”

  “Yup.” He hesitates, then asks, “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I answer, thinking how weird it is not being able to see the person I’m talking to. I can’t quite figure out where I’m supposed to look. “Why did you hang up? Should we call them back?”

  He sighs. “The last time this happened—”

  “—What do you mean last time?”

&nbs
p; “About two years ago, a few people got stuck here a few hours.”

  “How many? Do you remember?”

  “I mean…not to alarm you, but you asked.” He clears his throat, the sound reverberating in the small space. “It was overnight.”

  I gasp. Fine, it’s more like a squeak. “Overnight! What took them so long to get rescued?”

  “Not sure?” The voice says. “From what I understand, they were the last ones leaving for the night. The next morning, when someone punched the call button, the elevator just started moving again.”

  “No one ever answered the emergency phone?”

  “Apparently he’d already gone home for the night.”

  “Just like now,” I whisper. “He’s probably down at the party and can’t hear his phone over the band.”

  The voice chuckles. I like the sound. It makes me feel tingly, which is utterly ridiculous. This person is a nameless, faceless stranger.

  Whoever is sharing this ride with me grunts. “He’s probably taking advantage of the free booze at the party right now—just what we need; a drunk rescue worker.”