Chapter 3
Chapter three
Frankie
My office Christmas tree is taunting me.
It’s twelve feet tall, aggressively glittery, and positioned directly beside my desk like a festive hostage situation. Somewhere between the tinsel, the blinking fairy lights, and the oversized star on top that keeps tilting to the left, I’m convinced this tree is personally mocking me.
I narrow my eyes at it.
“You don’t scare me.”
Ana snorts as she dumps her coat over the back of her chair. “Frankie, it’s a tree.”
“It’s a threat.”
“It’s Walmart décor, babe.”
“Exactly.”
She rolls her eyes and starts logging into her computer, humming along to the Christmas playlist our overly cheerful office manager insists on blasting from the communal speaker. I swear I’m one gingerbread-scented candle away from committing a felony.
December used to mean something warm and soft. But since Mom and Dad died, it’s like someone took the joy out of the season and left me the empty wrapping paper instead.
Not that I say that out loud.
I just sit, sip my burnt office coffee, and open Illustrator like I’m not being force-fed holiday cheer through a firehose.
My phone buzzes beside my mousepad, and my stomach does that stupid little swoop that I pretend is indigestion.
Fireboy: Did you know I risked my life for a blueberry danish this morning?
I bite my lip, already smiling.
Me: Thoughts and prayers. Was it at least an elite pastry?
Fireboy: Mid.
Me: Tragic.
Fireboy: But I thought you should know I ate it like a hero anyway. No blueberry gets left behind.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can catch it, and Ana swivels her chair.
“RedRiot’s flirting again?”
“I’m not flirting,” I lie, typing rapidly. “I’m mocking his poor pastry decisions.”
Ana raises a brow. “Is this still the same dude? That fire guy?”
“Yeah, same one… But it’s not that serious.”
It is absolutely that serious. He’s the only part of December that doesn’t feel exhausting.
Work is chaos—clients demanding full rebrands before the New Year, my boss pretending deadlines don’t apply to him, coworkers who treat me like the resident pixel elf. I don’t mind the job, really. I like making things look beautiful. But December at a design agency? Hell in glitter.
Fireboy is relief. Fun. A pocket of warmth I didn’t think I’d find again, and not just because he’s good at talking me out of my panties.
I glance at my screen.
Fireboy: What’s on your schedule today? Saving the corporate world from bad fonts?
Over the past couple weeks, I’ve shared a few more snippets of my life. Not enough for him to come stampeding through the office doors, but enough for him to know I work in graphic design.
It’s nice, and he’s been returning the gesture by sharing small snippets of his day-to-day life, too.
Me: Someone submitted a brief in Papyrus this morning. Pray for me.
Fireboy: Jesus Christ. I’ll light a candle.
Me: You seem to have a thing for fire
Fireboy: You clocked that, huh
Me: Didn’t take much, you’ve dropped just enough hints for me to suspect you’re a firefighter
Fireboy: Guilty as charged.
Me: Hot. Wait—do you do a calendar?
Fireboy: Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.
Me: You’ve 100% practiced your smolder in the mirror, haven’t you?
Fireboy: Every morning.
Another giggle bubbles out of me just as Ana leans in. “We still on for drinks tonight?”
I wince. “Do we have to?”
“Yes,” she says, deadpan. “Boss’s orders. Team bonding, festive joy. Forced happiness. You know the drill.”
“I’m allergic to forced happiness.”
“You’re allergic to December.”
“Correct.”
But she’s right, and our boss already cornered me about showing up. Something something “community spirit”, something “client relations.” And as much as I’d like to spend my evening in my pajamas, listening to Fireboy’s voice and pretending the world doesn’t exist, I don’t have a get-out clause.
The day crawls. Meetings. Emails. Three feedback loops from a client who thinks clip art is a personality. December in the design world is basically every man for himself.
By five, I’m mentally dead. By five-thirty, I’m dragged to Clementine’s—a bar drenched in twinkle lights and playing peppy festive music at the volume of a plane taking off.
The whole team’s here, already two cocktails deep. My boss hugs me too long, one coworker calls me “Frankie girl” like he’s my seventy-year-old uncle, and someone keeps trying to convince me to participate in Secret Santa. I dodge all attempts with the agility of a caffeinated cat.
Halfway through my drink, my phone buzzes again, and warmth hits me right under the ribs.
Fireboy: Still alive?
Me: Barely. Being held hostage by tinsel and capitalism.
Fireboy: Rate the experience.
Me: 2/10. No escape routes and watered down cocktails. Send help.
Fireboy: Describe the nearest exit and I’ll fast-rope in.
I snort into my glass, and Ana gives me a knowing smirk. I shrug it off, but I can’t wait to get home. On my couch, wrapped up in my fluffy blanket, safe from Mariah Carey and human interaction.
And I want his warm voice in my ear, melting away my day. And that soft, ridiculous smile he pulls out of me without trying.
The night drags, and the guys from accounting get louder. One leans in too close to tell me he “likes creative girls,” and Ana swoops in like a guardian angel to rescue me. I owe her my life.
By the time I get home, my toes are numb, my makeup’s smudged, and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed and hear the man whose name I don’t even know.
I fall into my couch and message him before I can overthink it.
Me: I survived. Mostly.
His reply comes fast.
Fireboy: You home?
Me: Yeah, just got in. Thank god for that
Fireboy: Need me to beat someone up for you?
Me: Yeah? Would you?
Fireboy: Absolutely. I got connections.
Fireboy: Name, location, description of offense.
Me: Guy named Dean. Tried to guess my bra size and called me a “spicy little grinch.”
Fireboy: He dies at dawn.
I laugh and curl deeper into the couch, legs tucked under me as I type.
Me: So what are you up to? Still at work? Still in uniform?
Fireboy: Nah. Day shift, finished at 7pm. Hazel is glaring at me because I ran out of her fancy kibble.
Me: Hazel?
Fireboy: My cat. She only eats one brand I have to import from Australia. She likes jazz, hates joy, and I think she’s plotting my death.
Me: I respect a dramatic queen.
Fireboy: Don’t. She might get ideas
I grin into my blanket, warmth blooming in my chest. These chats with him—these little glimpses into part of who he is—are quickly becoming my favorite part of the day.
Me: Well, I don’t own a pet, but I do own a fluffy blanket that’s covered in cartoon cats.
Fireboy: God I love a woman with priorities.
Me: You jealous of my cats?
Fireboy: Getting to be wrapped around you right now? Maybe a little
Fireboy: Maybe a lot
It’s stupid, the way my heart thuds. But it’s been a long day, and I’m tired, and it’s easier to blame the cold or the quiet or the wine Ana made me drink.
Me: What would you do if you were here instead of the blanket, then?
I expect a filthy answer, but I don’t get one.
Fireboy: Talk, just like this. Sit on the couch with you and make you forget about shitty days.
I stare at the screen, my pulse slowly rising to my throat. And before I talk myself out of it, I type out the most real thing I’ve ever told him.
Me: You always make me forget the shitty days, Fireboy
He doesn’t answer right away, but just when I start to wonder if I said too much, my phone pings.
Fireboy: So do you, Red.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it, and I snuggle into my blanket and close my eyes.
It’s not real.
It’s not real.
It’s not real.
But for tonight, it’s something warm.
***
I’ve barely stepped into the office when Ana hits me with a snowflake-shaped Post-it to the forehead.
“This is your Secret Santa assignment,” she says with a festive grin.
I peel it off with a glare. “I thought we agreed I was boycotting Christmas this year.”
“You say that every year, and yet here you are. In an office. In December. With friends who love you.”
“Stockholm syndrome.”
“Bitch, please. You designed the name tags for the office potluck in four different fonts.”
“Against my will.”
“You added glitter.”
“Again, against my will.”
“Sure.” She flops into her desk chair. “Just admit it, you love us.”
I roll my eyes but don’t argue. Ana’s been my work wife since my first day here three years ago, and she’s annoyingly perceptive for someone who voluntarily listens to Christmas remixes before 9 a.m.
Everett, our third musketeer and the only man ever good enough to refer to as our conjoint work husband, slides into the conversation. “Also, I saw you smiling at your phone before you even clocked in. Don’t think we didn’t notice.”
“That was a work email.”
“Uh huh,” he says, sipping his iced oat latte even though it’s minus six degrees outside. “And I only wear this peacoat for warmth, not aesthetics.”
“It was probably the fire guy,” Ana says, then leans into stage-whisper. “The one she sexts.”
I nearly choke and snap my head around to ensure no-one else in the office heard. “Would you like to shout that louder?”
“I mean, if we’re putting it to a vote—”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, sliding into my chair and turning on my computer. “Yes, it was Fireboy. No, we weren’t sexting… And can we not discuss my vaguely anonymous situationship before I’ve even had caffeine?”
Everett raises an eyebrow. “Vaguely anonymous? Has he given you anything real yet? Like, ooh I don’t know, a name? A face? Or are we still in voice-only fantasy land?”
I shrug. “He’s told me stuff. Little things. He has a cat named Hazel who only eats imported kibble, and he’s a firefighter who works shifts. And he likes jazz… or his cat does.”
“Jazz?” Everett blinks. “Is he eighty?”
“Don’t be rude,” I say, smiling despite myself. “He’s sweet, and funny. And honestly, he’s the best part of my day.”