Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
I’ve got more chance of putting on a Santa suit and running around the office with a sack of gifts than that happening.
For the next few hours, I sit in the main office, reviewing my predecessor’s notes, trying to work them into a logical arrangement. They’re a mess. I make lists. Not lists like he’s making a list, checking it twice—lists like a cold, calculating machine, methodically bringing the world into some semblance of order.
A knock comes at my door at two.
“Hello, sir,” a woman says. “Can I introduce myself?” She’s a little awkward. “My name’s Mia.”
I must look startled because she takes a step back. Mia is the name of the woman I dated last year until she broke up with me at Christmas. It’s a weird coincidence, but I quickly plaster what I hope is a professional smile on my face. The last thing I need is to bring my personal baggage into the office.
Plus, they’re nothing alike. This Mia has red hair in a ponytail, and she’s a few years younger than the woman I was dating. A callous way to think of an ex, maybe, but I can’t think of her as “my” Mia. I never could.
“Hi, Mia. Can I help you?”
“I just wanted to let you know that they’re announcing the Secret Santa in the cafeteria. Marketing wants us there. I think they’re going to be getting some footage.”
That means Holly will be darting around with her camera, just like when she was a kid. That hasn’t changed, then.
“I’ll be right down.”
I’m not sure there’s much use to me going. They certainly won’t use footage of me sitting around glaring. Who knows, though? Maybe Holly’s Christmas spirit will rub off on me.
I like the idea of her rubbing off, but not for that. Thoughts like this are going to get me put on Saint Nick’s fuck-you list. Or does he have another name for it?
Yet it’s true. She’s curvy, sexy, and tempting. This morning, when I was half-naked, and she was staring at me, I liked it. I wanted to tear off her oh-so-proper pantsuit and see what was underneath. It doesn’t mean I have to act on it.
I walk into the cafeteria. Predictably, there’s another giant, sparkling tree in here. Memories are funny things. One hits me now—hits me hard. It’s Mom, skeleton-thin, rushing around some bush she dug up from a neighbor’s yard. She’d tied some fast-food toy to it with dental floss, grinning at me, manic, high.
“Isn’t this going to be the most special Christmas ever?”
I push the memory away. I’m not a kid anymore. There’s no point in dwelling on the past.
Hundreds of people crowd into the large room. There’s a mic stand at the front and two speakers. In the corner, I spot Holly with a big camera in her hand. She’s got a focused expression on her face. It’s interesting and appealing. She looks passionate about her job. It’s good to see all my douchebag teasing didn’t discourage her from pursuing her passion.
Dan walks out and takes the mic like a rock star. “What’s up, my holiday heroes?”
Everybody cheers. I clap. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, but hearing “holiday heroes” makes me cringe. There’s nothing heroic about putting on a silly outfit and wrapping consumer products in wastepaper.
“As you all know,” Dan continues, “we love ourselves some Secret Santa. Mystery, intrigue, surprise, but you know what ruins it? When you get a gift that sucks.” Everybody chuckles. “So, this year, we’ve devised an idea to make that less likely. Using phones from our recycling project, we’ve programmed them so that they can only text one number—your Secret Santa. You can use these to give hints about what gift you’d like or to lead them astray. The only rule is not to reveal who you are. Keep it secret. Keep it fun. So, who’s ready to get this party started?”
I almost roll my eyes like a petulant kid. Just because I think this is stupid doesn’t mean everybody else will. I line up with the others as people hand out phones.
“And remember,” Dan says into the mic, “if any of you mischievous elves …” More laughter. “… abuse this system, I’ll have HR on your ass quicker than Santa can jump on his sleigh.”
Did he seriously use Santa and his sleigh as an HR threat? I must be losing my mind. The Harpers were always a Christmassy bunch, but this is next level—almost unbelievable.
The closer I get to the front, the closer I get to Holly. She walks around with her camera. I like how she tosses her head to get her thick brown locks out of the way. Then she pauses, grabs a scrunchie, and ties it up into a messy ponytail that’s somehow more attractive.
She sees me looking and aims the camera at me. Doing a quick witness check, I flip her the bird. She lowers the camera. She looks like she’s trying to hold back the smile that spreads inevitably across her face. When she loses the battle, she goes for a pout instead.