Chapter Four
ETHAN
I’ve never liked Christmas.
That alone wouldn’t make me special. Half the office grumbles about the music and the forced cheer, but my dislike runs quieter than that.
Christmas feels like pressure. Expectations wrapped in ribbon.
Obligations pretending to be joy. Basically, how it’s like to be around my family any day of the week.
But any day of the week, I can avoid them.
At Christmas, not so much. At least not without creating even more drama and pressure.
Liz Harper, I learn, feels the same way. Well, I don’t know how she feels about her family, but she’s not a fan of Christmas.
I catch it in the way she sighs when someone mentions the office party. The way she rubs her temples while scrolling through online shopping during lunch. The way she winces when someone turns up the volume on yet another rendition of Jingle Bell Rock.
She’s even more perfect for me than I thought.
The Secret Santa spreadsheet glows on my screen, neat and harmless-looking. If they knew how much power it holds, HR would revoke my admin access immediately.
I don’t hesitate.
Sally in accounting is my first stop. She’s nursing a burnt coffee and looks like she regrets every life choice that led her here.
“Sally,” I say.
She flinches. “Yes, Ethan.”
I feel bad for startling her, but I can’t afford distractions right now, so I focus on the mission. “How attached are you to your Secret Santa assignment?”
She squints at me. “Is this a trick question?”
“No tricks. Just… flexibility.” That’s not really an appropriate synonym for cheating, but this is definitely a situation where the positive outcome justifies the method of achieving it.
She considers this, tilting her head as she studies me.
“Who would I be getting instead?” I like her immediately for not asking why I want to trade.
Sally’s obviously the type of person who’s mostly interested in what’s in it for her.
I don’t blame her. The corporate world is brutal, and Christmas seems to bring out an even more mercenary spirit in most of us.
“Your desk neighbor, Mark.”
Her eyes light up. “Done.” I suspected she had a crush on him, but say nothing as I wait by her desk. “Immediately?” She asks, eyebrows raised.
“Yesterday, if possible.” I don’t have time to waste on this.
There are more trades to negotiate before I am at my end goal.
But luckily I trained for this. Well, I doubt Secret Santa cheating is what business school had in mind when they taught me strategic project management, but I’m using all the tools I have to get my girl.
My sweet, sexy girl, who likes dirty talk and vibrators.
Sally digs around in a desk drawer and hands me a slip of paper. I make the switch before she can change his mind.
Two more trades later, and by noon, Liz Harper is officially my Secret Santa.
I’m a little surprised that nobody asked why I wanted to trade, but I put some thought into the trades, so maybe people are just relieved that they got someone they actually know a little.
Or maybe they’re going to rat me out to HR and I’m about to get fired. But it would be worth it.
And they probably don’t have time to get rid of me before the office party and the official Secret Santa gift exchange, so I have time to complete my mission.
The rest of the week unfolds, and I’m in full operation-Secret-Santa mode.
Navy SEALs on covert operations use less finesse than I do.
Actually, that’s probably not true, because they are skillful mofos, and sometimes have to use deadly force, but for once, I’m actually enjoying going to the office.
Each day, I look at the schedule and figure out what I can do to make Liz’s day better. Having a list of tasks that are enjoyable puts a cheer in my spirit I never thought I’d have this time of year.
I notice when she’s shivering and quietly adjust the thermostat. When she drops her pen, twice, I retrieve it without comment. When she looks overwhelmed during a meeting, I steer the conversation away from her before she can be put on the spot.
None of it is obvious. All of it is intentional.
And she notices. Several times, I find her pretty green eyes studying me. A frown on her forehead as if she’s trying to figure something out.
Outside, the weather sharpens. The first real cold of the season settles in, biting and persistent. Frost clings to car windshields in the mornings. My breath fogs the air as I walk to the office in the mornings.
The town leans into the season anyway, making their workers don extra clothing and decorate with garlands strung between lampposts, white lights outlining storefront windows, evergreen wreaths tied with red bows that flap in the wind.
It’s all very… earnest. And, surprisingly, I don’t hate it.
Friday afternoon, Liz lingers by my office door.
“Hey,” she says. “Do you have a second?”
“For you?” I reply. “Always.”
She smiles despite herself, then grimaces. “I just wanted to confirm, you are coming to the Christmas party, right?”
“I am,” I say. “Unless you’re trying to convince me otherwise.” I hold my breath as I wait for her answer. Did I come on too strong? Did I make her feel uncomfortable by paying too much attention to her? I thought I’d been careful.
She exhales. “No, I just…okay, good. Because Sara said you might skip it and then HR would panic and, never mind.”
“You don’t sound thrilled,” I say, trying hard to sound casual and not give away how much her answer means.
She rolls her eyes. “I hate office parties. Too loud. Too many people. Too much pretending we’re all having fun.”
Relief floods my stomach as I nod. “Agreed.”
She blinks. “Really?”
“I’m not a fan of Christmas theatrics.”
Something softens in her expression. “That actually makes me feel better.”
“About the party?”
“About… not being weird,” she admits.
“You’re not weird,” I say gently. “You’re human.
” A beautiful, gorgeous human woman who loves dirty talk and playing with her vibrator.
In other words, perfect. But saying that out loud would definitely count as coming on too strong.
So I just watch as she blushes. That pretty pink color I love creeping up her cheeks.
She ducks her head as she leaves, but winks.
Winks.
My girl winked at me.
That keeps me going for the rest of the day, and I’m not even mad that I have to spend the weekend braving the crowds while I shop for presents. Because my girl winked at me, and one of the presents I’m buying is for her.
Saturday arrives wrapped in frigid air and with cloudy skies.
Snow flurries dust the sidewalks, just enough to make the world feel muted.
The town decorations are less enjoyable when my breath creates icicles in the scarf I’ve wrapped around my face and I can’t feel my fingers, despite the extra-thick gloves I put on.
I almost go back home to do the shopping online instead, but I’ve left it too late and the gifts might not arrive in time.
So instead, I shop for family presents until I can’t stand the jostling of my fellow grumpy shoppers. I more than deserve a break and a treat, so I duck into a coffee shop to warm up.
She’s standing at the counter when I see her, wrapped in a thick knit scarf, hair loose around her shoulders, cheeks pink from the cold. Liz studies the pastry case with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
I smile, but then duck my face to hide it when she turns, spots me, and freezes. “Ethan?”
“Hi,” I say. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
She laughs softly, breath fogging the air between us. “Same. It’s freezing outside. I ducked in for survival coffee.”
“Smart choice.”
We order, she hesitates, then gets something warm and spiced. I note it. File it away, and insists on paying, waving away her protests.
“It’s just two colleagues having coffee,” I say, when it’s so much more than that. This lucky surprise encounter is perfect. Both for my mission and for my mood.
We hover near the pickup counter, close but not crowded.
“So,” I say when the silence between us gets a little too long, “you’re out braving the holiday crowds?”
She groans. “Unfortunately. Family shopping. And…” She trails off, grimacing.
“And?” I prompt.
“And Secret Santa,” she admits. “Which I’m pretending is fine but is actually ruining my life.” She slaps both hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize work. I mean, it’s nice that they’re organizing something for us…”
That gets a genuine laugh out of me. “Don’t worry. I will not rat you out. Just two colleagues having coffee, remember?”
She looks at me like she’s relieved to hear the words. “Okay, then.” She unwinds her scarf. “I guess the holiday stress is getting to me. Everyone acts like it’s magical, and I’m over here trying not to have a minor breakdown in the shop aisles.”
“I relate more than I probably should,” I say.
Her brows lift. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirm. “I’ve never been big on forced cheer.”
She exhales. “Thank God. I thought I was just defective.”
“Not defective,” I say. “Selective.”
She smiles at that, shoulders relaxing. The barista calls my name, and I grab the tray with our drinks and pastries.
We move to a small table near the window, and I pull out a chair for her.
She hesitates, but then sits down, thanking me with a sweet smile.
My gaze lingers a little too long on her delectable lips, and I clear my throat as I put down the tray on the table and take the seat across from her.
We shed our various outer garments, and I lean back in my chair, exhaling as I relax.
Outside, it’s getting dark as snow drifts lazily past strings of white lights wrapped around the lampposts. The town looks quieter like this, softened by cold and glow.
“Does everyone in management have to go to the Christmas party?” She asks, blowing gently on her drink.
The question surprises me, and the hand holding my cup stops midair on the way to my mouth.
“You don’t have to answer,” she blurts out. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“No,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ve just never thought about whether or not I have to go. It’s not an order, of course, but it is strongly encouraged.”
“Does the staff feel like they have to go, like it’s not a choice?” Because that is bullshit and something I need to take up with HR.
She makes a face. “I don’t think so. People seem stressed about it and complain a little, but then they really enjoy the event once they get there. I think they’d complain more if it was cancelled.” She looks up, her eyes twinkling. “It’s probably just me that feel like I have to go.”
“Do you often feel that way? Like you’re pressured into social events instead of actually wanting to go?”
She blinks a few times. “What do you mean?”
I pause for a beat, wanting to thread carefully but also wanting her to know that I see her.
That I notice how she sometimes struggles with people interactions.
“I have a friend who suffers from crippling social anxiety,” I finally say.
“My college roommate had no problems interacting with friends. He was witty and charming, and came up with the best burns. But put him with strangers or in a crowd, and he’d clam up and couldn’t utter a word without stuttering. ”
She studies me over the rim of her cup. “Yeah, I have some of that. Social anxiety.”
“That must be hard.” I put my hand over hers where it’s resting on the table.
She looks down, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if I moved too quickly.
Maybe her having a sex dream about me has nothing to do with how she actually feels.
People can have dreams about people they don’t like.
Fuck, have I misread everything? But then she turns her hand so we’re palm-to-palm, and squeezes.
“Sometimes,” she looks up at me, a smile hiding in her eyes.
“But I have good friends who are understanding and don’t give me hard time about it. ”
“But it’s still stressful.” I let my fingers play with hers, and she joins me as our hands do a little dance.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Especially when work situations turn into social obligations. The stress leading up to it can get intense.” Her hand stops moving. “Plus, last Christmas party I really screwed up.”
I wasn’t with the company a year ago, but I heard about the Kevin EpiPen incident. “Who’s allergic to cacti?” I say.
She groans and is about to pull away her hand, but I hold on, so instead she sets down her cup so she can bury her face in the other one. “Even you heard about it.”
“It could have happened to anyone.” I squeeze her hand again.
She looks back up at me. “I’m just worried that I’ll make another mistake at this year’s party. And I’m likely to, because I’m so nervous about going.”
“It’s okay to be nervous,” I say. “But we’ll survive it.”
Her eyes flick up. “We?”
“Well,” I say lightly, “we can at least stand in a corner together and complain about how miserable we are.”
She laughs. It’s a warm, joyful sound that does something strange to my insides. “That actually sounds… manageable.”
Silence settles, not awkward. Just comfortable.
“I didn’t think I’d see you out here,” she says. “You don’t strike me as a last-minute shopping guy.”
“I’m adaptable,” I reply. “Apparently.”
She studies me for a second. “You seem different lately.”
“Different how?” I take another sip from my cup of coffee, using only one hand so I can keep holding hers. When was I last this excited about holding a girl’s hand? Early middle school?
“Happier,” she says, then winces. “Sorry, that was weird.”
“It wasn’t,” I say honestly. “You’re not wrong.”
Her cheeks warm, but she doesn’t look away this time.
Outside, a gust of wind sends snow swirling past the window. Inside, it smells like cinnamon and coffee and something quietly hopeful.
“Well,” she says reluctantly, glancing at her phone, “I should get back out there before I lose my nerve.”
“Good luck,” I tell her. “With all of it.”
She smiles, soft and genuine, as she pulls her hand from mine. “You too.” She stands and pulls on her coat, scarf, and gloves. As she heads for the door, she hesitates. “Hey, Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you don’t love Christmas.”
I hold her gaze. “This year,” I say, “I might rethink it.”
She smiles, pulls her scarf tighter, and steps back into the cold.
I watch her go, warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the coffee.
And everything to do with her.