Lucy Miller has worked her way up from coffee-fetcher and copy-maker to invaluable assistant. She’s proud of her accomplishments, but she’s looking forward to a break from her demanding boss; a visit home is just the Christmas treat she needs.
Diligent and unassuming, Chanoch Evans has avoided relationships not just out of shyness, but because he doesn’t feel like he has anything to offer—most of his resources are devoted to his war-veteran younger brother.
When a desperate plea from their boss ruins their holiday plans, Lucy and Evans are stuck in an otherwise empty office with only each other for company. After catching their boss in flagrante, they start to see that each other’s mild workplace personas might be just the tip of the iceberg. Despite the prohibition against fraternization between employees, there may be more than kissing going on underneath this mistletoe…
This one’s for you, Mr. Parker, because Lucy and Evans would totally find spreadsheets romantic. Love you!
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Thank you!
Other Books by Tamsen
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Chapter One
‡
December 18th
Lucy
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa lalala, lalala.”
This is what I mutter under my breath while I look over the latest report for Phoenix. We’ve been working there less and less over the past few years since India did such a great job in the first place, but Greg Wu still calls us for technical assistance or things outside the normal scope of work for his office. Even though we cost a pretty penny, sometimes it’s worth it for him to pay us for six hours of work that might take his staff sixteen. Or sixty, for that matter.
“’Tis the season to be jolly…”
If India were travelling, I’d have my headphones on. I can see the blinking lights on my phone if people call or buzz, but sometimes my boss likes to shout. Not in a yelling way—not so much anymore, anyway—but in a “I have ten thousand things going on in my brain and this is easier” kind of way.
Speaking of India, it’s about time for her next cup of coffee. I don’t know how that woman hasn’t dissolved her stomach with how much she drinks, but I suspect she’s only half-human. Maybe her digestive tract is one of the cyborg parts.
“Don we now our gay apparel, falala lalala lalala.”
I’m about to push back from my desk when my phone rings. Must stop singing Christmas songs and do my job. I shouldn’t resent the pause on my holiday cheer since I’ll hear so many carols when I go home to Iowa I’ll be relieved when they stop playing on the twenty-sixth. Just a few more days until I get on a plane.
Although, I shouldn’t get too excited. I look forward to going home and seeing my family, but I know as soon as I get there, it won’t be as great as I remember it. Nostalgia has a way of covering up some of the reasons I wanted to leave in the first place.
But first…
“Good morning, Burke Consulting Group. This is Lucy.”
“Hi, Lucy, it’s Greg Wu from Phoenix. How are you?”
I like Greg, and it amuses me that though I’ve been speaking with him on and off for five years, he still feels the need to use his whole name and remind me where he’s calling from. Sometimes I want to say, “Greg, I’ve seen pictures of you, your husband, and your kids at a Diamondbacks game. I know you’re Greg Wu from Phoenix.”
But maybe he realizes how busy the office is and that I get dozens of calls every day and doesn’t want to put either of us in the awkward position of me not remembering him. I appreciate that. The small gesture throws another fluffy pom pom on the pile of how much I like Greg.
“Hi, Mr. Wu. I was just looking over the kindergarten report.”
When India had first signed on to the Phoenix contract, she’d recommended dropping free universal kindergarten, and it was one of the things Greg hadn’t wanted to do. But after several years of belt-tightening and rearranging and thinking about ways to increase tax revenue in the city, we’ve got some news he’ll be thrilled with. I should let India be the one to tell him, but when he asks, “And how does it look?” what am I supposed to say? Not answer at all?
“It’s looking pretty good.”
There’s a shout of joy on the other end of the line and then a clatter. What the heck happened? But then Greg’s back.
“Sorry, dropped the phone while doing my fist pump. That’s great. And you know, you can call me Greg.”
“You could stop introducing yourself every time you call. You’re our only client named Greg.” And one of my favorites. He’s goofy—exhibit A) the fist pump that was so enthusiastic it made him drop the phone, and B) that he admitted it—he’s always nice to me, and he’s one of the few clients India genuinely enjoys working with, so talking to Greg puts her in a good mood. Mostly. Today, it will for sure. “Hold on and I’ll put you through to India.”
“Thanks, Lucy, and Merry Christmas. You headed to Iowa?”
“Yes, sir. Are you and the family going to Minnesota?”
“Yes, and I can’t wait for proper winter weather. Boots, mittens, hats, a muffler for goodness’ sake!”
His enthusiasm for cold weather gear makes me laugh. I feel the same way—I’ve been gazing longingly at the box of scarves and gloves and earmuffs I keep on the top shelf of my closet, untouched except for when I go home.
“Me too. Hope you have a good holiday.”
“Thanks. You too.”
And with that, I put him through to India, who should be occupied at least long enough for me to get her coffee. Her foot probably hasn’t started tapping yet, but it will soon if I don’t soothe the beast. What does she do to keep herself an appropriate level of caffeinated when she’s on the road? Or at home?
In the kitchen, I make her third cup of the day and manage not to spill it down Evans’s shirt front as we almost collide in the doorway. A flutter of “sorrys” follows because both of us could probably get Canadian or British citizenship based solely on the amount of apologizing we do.
His hands have somehow ended up resting on my waist in an effort to keep us both from being covered with coffee. The warm weight of them feels nice and almost indecently intimate. Clearly it’s been a while for me in the sex department if this minor human contact flusters me so much. Evans is flushed when he finally pulls away, and I can’t imagine I’m not a similar shade of pink.
“Hey, uh, Lucy. Thanks for formatting the report for Springfield. It looks great.”
I smile at him and bob a curtsey. “No problem. I’m glad it was helpful.”
He looks as though he’s about to say something else, but instead he ducks a nod before heading into the kitchen. That’s right, it’s yogurt time. Every morning at ten, without fail when he’s in the office, Evans gets a yogurt from the fridge. The flavors change—peach, pineapple, key lime, strawberry banana, blueberry—but the timing is so unswerving, I could set my watch by it.
I knock lightly on India’s door and
don’t wait for a response before pushing it open. She’s still on the phone with Greg, and I don’t want to interrupt.
“Yes, we should have that to you by this afternoon. Lucy’s putting the finishing touches on it.”
India mouths a thank you as I hand over her cup, and her eyes close with pleasure when she takes a sip.
“Yes,” she says into her phone. “I agree. Lucy’s a treasure. And you’ve never even tasted her coffee!”
It’s a small and stupid compliment, but I do take pride in doing my job well and in keeping India happy, so I let the warmth of it fill my chest as I head back to my cubicle.
“O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree…”
*
Evans
Eating my yogurt and scrolling through my crammed-to-bursting inbox, it’s possible I start to daydream. I need a vacation. A real one. Not one where I take a day off work and do all the errands that have been stacking up on my to-do list since the last time I took a day off. I mean, yes, I should definitely clean my apartment because that place is a hole, but I’d also like to go to the beach. Go for a swim, not just sit there with my sleeves and cuffs rolled up, taking a quick walk in the sand before I head home.
I’ve got to have the time for it too, because it’s not like I ever take vacation. Maybe after Christmas I’ll ask India when would be a good time to do it. I can be flexible since this is the only obligation I have to work around. I don’t have a partner I have to coordinate with or a pet to take care of, and while my mom will tell me it’s a terribly inconvenient time, that’s what she’d say no matter what.
I can hear it now. “A vacation? That’s nice, Chuck. Your father and I used to love going up to Monterey. If you go, I might be able to recommend some restaurants, but it’s been so long, what with having to be home with your brother and all, probably all our old favorites are closed. But you go on, enjoy yourself. It’s not a good time with all of Darren’s appointments, but we’ll manage. We always do.”
My forehead meets my desk, narrowly avoiding my half-full cup of yogurt. That conversation’s going to be fun. And she’ll probably call me more than usual if I stick around, asking me to help out since I’m not working. I’ll have to go someplace else. Or maybe lie about going someplace else, which I don’t want to do, but she doesn’t give me a choice.
Maybe I won’t come back.
The idea simultaneously feels as if I’ve sprouted wings and all my internal organs have turned to cement. It’s a nice fantasy, to walk away from it all—the demanding job and my exacting boss, my just-as-taxing family, my crappy hovel of an apartment, and my rickety-ass car.
I could go to Mexico—it’s not like it’s far—and live on the beach. Fish for a living. Only a few problems with that. First, my Spanish isn’t great. Second, I burn like whoa in the sun. I’d have to slather on SPF 10,000 eight times a day and that stuff’s expensive, which would probably eat up any money I made fishing, which probably wouldn’t be much because—third—I don’t know how to fish. Or own a boat.
Then there’s that whole internal-organs-of-cement thing. As much as I complain about my job and my family, I love them, and they need me. Walking away isn’t a thing I do, which I’ve always been proud of. Showing up isn’t always easy, but I do it. And will keep doing it. The idea of disappointing everyone, letting everyone down—that’s a better reason to stay put than any other.
But I can get away for a few days. I deserve that much. I think.
So I take the employee handbook down from its place on the shelf—which still says JVA and not BCG, another project India will probably slough off onto me or Lucy—and look up the vacation policy.
If I’m reading this right and doing my calculations correctly, I have roughly six weeks of vacation saved up. Not that I’d take it all at once because, if I did, I’d come back to a charred suite of offices where BCG used to be. India’s mellowed some over the past six years or so—though she’s still one of the most neurotic people I know, and that’s saying something—but since Jack left, she’s been wound pretty tight, and she’s come to rely on me to handle a lot of the management responsibilities.
She’s amazing at the work she does, but she’s in no way a people person, which is something I do well. People aren’t afraid to come to me for help, and I have a better understanding of us mere mortals, unlike my cyborg boss. But I admire how hard she works and how smart she is. We make a good team. Which is why I can’t leave.
Also, I’d feel bad leaving Lucy to fend for herself. When I’m not here and she is, she bears the brunt of Hurricane India. I…I like Lucy. So, okay, I maybe more than like her, have had a little thing for her since the first day I met her, but it’s of no consequence for a bunch of reasons. One of which is a point in the JVA employee handbook: fraternization between employees is strictly prohibited.
Not that it’s been a real concern since Lucy’s never given any indication of interest in me outside of the pleasant camaraderie between people who have survived the worst of India and lived to tell the tale, but… Nope. That’s the end of it.
Maybe while I’m on my vacation, I’ll meet a nice woman who likes awkward but intelligent men who work too much and make a decent living they can’t enjoy. Because that’s every woman’s idea of a dream man.
Good luck with that, Evans. I can barely speak a sentence to women outside of a work context because I don’t want to impose, and I feel the urge to apologize just for existing. And if I don’t want to apologize to India while I ask for this vacation, I’d best get back to work and earn it.
*
Lucy
“I’m so sorry to do this, Lucy.”
It’s two hours later, and my chipper holiday mood has descended into a morass of confusion. I’m not entirely sure how to feel about this. Disappointed? Angry? Flattered? My boss’s expression is surprisingly earnest. She doesn’t say sorry a lot. More than she used to since she got married, but still not so much. I bite my bottom lip because I’m not quite sure what to say. I’ve never not been at home for Christmas.
“When this is all over, you can have a week off to see your family. I’ll pay for your tickets myself and reimburse you for the ones you won’t be using. I wouldn’t ask, but I need you.”
“You need me?” The words plunk out of my mouth, and I curse myself. Stupid, Lucy. Shut your face before she changes her mind.
“I do. Travers and Ellington completely shat the bed on this PRA bond project, and the entire thing needs to be redone. The presentation’s not until January second, but the report’s due on the twenty-sixth.”
Travers and Ellington have been working on this project for the Philadelphia Redevelopment Authority for months. It’s the first bond project our firm has done, so it’s not exactly business as usual. Not to mention I haven’t worked on it at all. The only reason I know it’s due right after Christmas is that India likes me to proof reports before they go to clients and I was supposed to do this one right before I left. Along with a thousand other things.
India’s kept me crazy busy for the past four months, what with all the changes going on around here since Jack left. And it’s not as if it was an expected transition. No one plans to have a massive heart attack. On the plus side, he did survive. Jack used to scare the crap out of me, and I never got used to his yelling, but altogether, he was a decent and fair boss.
“But I—”
“Yes, I know you haven’t had anything to do with it, which was probably my first mistake. Okay, maybe my third, but the point is, I know you can help fix it. You and Evans are the only people I trust to get this right in the amount of time we have.”
It’s times like these I miss Jack. Not his yelling, of course, but he’d never put me on something like this. He’d plow through it himself. Which would likely explain his heart attack. It’s probably a good thing the current Mrs. Valentine made him give up JVA. Jack Valentine Associates is now the Burke Consulting Group, or BCG, though I still answer the phone wrong sometimes.
> “Speaking of Evans, I’ve got to tell him he’s not going anywhere for the next week either. So, again, Lucy, I’m so sorry. I’ll get you to Iowa soon, just not for Christmas.”
“Okay.” I could tell her I have mixed feelings about going home anyway, but I don’t want her to change her mind. I’m not going to say no to a free plane ticket. And maybe if I tell my family why I have to miss Christmas…
No, they’ll never change their minds about me. I left Iowa years ago to see if I could make it in Hollywood. But all I got was a crappy apartment I shared with four other “aspiring actresses”—aka waitresses—blatant sexual harassment, and a whole bunch of credit card debt. Christina Hendricks had cornered the market on buxom redheads. That’s what the nice ones had said. The mean ones…
I shake my head.
“Lucy.” India’s voice is stern, but not angry, so I meet her gaze. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Ms. Burke. But I… Could I take a minute to call my mom and let her know?”
“Of course. You can use my office if you want. I have to go give Evans the bad news.”
She huffs a sigh and straightens her shoulders before heading down the aisle formed by the cubicles.
I grab my phone out of my bag under my desk and hustle into India’s office. She’ll be back soon. I’ve never seen her do anything slowly. She’s more of the rip-off-the-Band-Aid school whereas I’m more likely to peel at the adhesive bit by bit in the hopes gentleness will make things better. It doesn’t always.
The phone rings a few times and then my mom picks up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mama.”
“Hi, Lulu. Wasn’t expecting to hear from you this time of day. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I am, but I—”
“Did the dragon lady actually let you take a lunch hour today? You should find somewhere else to work.”
It’s true I’d said some not-so-nice things about India after I’d started working at JVA. She and Jack used to scare the bejesus out of me. But they can be nice too. Jack had given me a week off when Grandma Cloris had died, and he’d encouraged me to take some community college classes so I could help on more interesting projects. Given me a raise at the same time so I could pay for them without changing how I live much.
Due South (The Compass series Book 5) Page 1