Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
The first bite brightened my day instantly. A perfect batch. Chewy on the inside, a thin crunch on the outside. With lots of cinnamon-sugar.
My cousin and I traded recipes sometimes. Cam was a submissive too, and he’d recently told me I reminded him of his new boyfriend, who was “a total brat.”
“Would you like a snickerdoodle?” I offered. “I made them myself last night.”
I’d been baking Christmas cookies anyway, so I’d had all the ingredients out.
Mr. Abrams lowered his paper and eyed me with an unreadable look. “How old are you, Parker, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I cocked my head and took another bite of the cookie. “Almost twenty-six. Why?”
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. He appeared surprised. “You act much younger.”
My own eyebrows bunched together at that. “Maybe you’re the one acting super old. Or, you know, your age. You’re…sixty-two, sixty-three…?”
His mouth flattened in dismay, and he folded his paper with enough force to let me know I’d struck a nerve. “I’m forty-six.”
“Then you have no reason to act like a snickerdoodle is a child’s toy,” I replied stubbornly and crammed the rest of the cookie into my mouth. “You’re a damn grinch, you know that?” I accidentally let some crumbs fling out as I spoke, so I quickly brushed them off the packages on my lap.
Mr. Abrams didn’t say anything else, and it was just as well. I’d lost my desire to try. I didn’t know why I’d bothered in the first place. Everyone who interacted with Mr. Abrams at work said the same thing. It was no use. He never let a conversation derail if it resulted in him having to stick around longer than necessary. He never went out to lunch with coworkers. He didn’t have friends at our branch.
When we arrived at corporate, I was quick to escape the vehicle before he did—before the driver could get the door for me—and I told Mr. Abrams, “I’m leaving three cookies for you. I strongly advise you to eat them. Maybe they’ll make you sweeter.” And then I aimed straight for the entrance to this huge skyscraper in front of us. Possibly the city’s largest mirror. It was covered in glass tiles—or whatever material they used to prevent seven thousand years of misfortune after an earthquake.
This day needed to be over!
It was impossible to find anything in this goddamn building. I’d been rerouted to three different lobbies and reception desks before I found myself face-to-face with Clarke Abrams’s assistant outside of his office on the twenty-third floor.
I left Mr. Williams’s gifts with the assistant, wished her a nice day, then hightailed it back to the elevators.
Wait.
I came to a screeching stop outside a door with Mr. Abrams’s name on it. Wyatt Abrams, that was. No assistant’s desk here.
I should knock.
I definitely shouldn’t knock. My God, was I a masochist? What was wrong with me? Why was I seeking out more interactions with that turd?
Oh, I knew why.
Mr. Abrams had buttons I wanted to push…
He let me speak to him in a way most stuffy bosses definitely didn’t do. I didn’t treat him with enough respect. He was also so ridiculously attractive.
I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced around me. Just a few feet away from this floor’s lobby and the elevators. All the corridors were lined with offices, many with the name Abrams on them.
I unzipped my jacket and loosened my tie next. It’d been a workout and a half to play errand boy. Checking my Fitbit, I nodded in satisfaction to myself. Nearly four thousand steps, and it was only 8:42 AM. Nice.
My best course of action right now was to call an Uber and head back to work.
So I cleared my throat and knocked on Mr. Abrams’s door.
“Come in,” I heard him say.
Don’t mind if I do.
I opened the door and poked my head in, immediately registering an office with more furniture than the one in Culver City. Seating area—typical British fancy leather sofas—a bulletin board on one wall cluttered with notes and papers. A bar table in one corner! I knew it. He was the type. Spectacular view of the city… And the man himself, seated behind a large desk, looking none too happy to see me.
My gaze fell to his hand as he quickly stowed away a napkin, and that did it for me.
I grinned.
He’d eaten the cookies.
“What do you want, Parker?” he asked impatiently.
I smiled so hard that my cheeks hurt. “Were they good? Are you sweet now?”
He clenched his jaw. “Get out.”
A laugh burst out of me, and I hurriedly closed the door again. Oh God, I was going to ride this wave of joy all freaking day. It’d worked! He’d eaten the cookies. Not even an old grouch like him could resist homemade snickerdoodles.
DECEMBER 3
Mya and I arrived to work at the same time, and I grinned at her getup. Specifically, the antlers in her hair.