15. The Secret Santa Situation
15
THE SECRET SANTA SITUATION
MACKENZIE
Three days after my revealing dinner with Alexander Drake, Seattle decided to transform into a winter wonderland. The kind that looks magical in holiday movies but turns rush hour into a demolition derby. The morning commute had taken twice as long, which meant I'd missed my usual coffee run, which meant I was now standing in the break room at 8 AM, watching Keith stage what he called a "festive sit-in" at the biometric coffee station.
He'd decorated his protest signs with tinsel.
"The holiday season is the perfect time to address caffeination inequality," he declares from his cross-legged position in front of the machine. His signature beret now sports a small string of battery-operated lights. "Also, someone keeps setting the machine to reject my fingerprints."
"That's because you tried to hack it to dispense free espresso shots," I remind him, desperately eyeing the machine. Three days since that dinner with Alex, three days of analyzing every word we'd exchanged, every look, every moment when his carefully maintained CEO mask had slipped.. .
I need caffeine for this level of emotional complexity.
"The coffee machine recognizes my authority as Head of Revolution," Keith insists. "It's the corporate overlords who?—"
"Keith." I summon every ounce of my Italian grandmother's commanding presence. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes about the Christmas Gala budget, another at ten about the new mentorship program, and somewhere in between I need to convince Brad that the wellness journal isn't actually haunted just because it keeps appearing in random places."
"That's what the ghostly spirits of capitalism want you to think!"
"Coffee. Now."
He must hear something dangerous in my voice because he scrambles up, tinsel trailing from his protest sign. "Of course, Comrade Gallo. Though I feel compelled to point out that this acquiescence to authority undermines our revolutionary?—"
"Keith."
"Right. Coffee first, revolution later."
I'm halfway through my desperately needed espresso when Lucia bursts in, waving her tablet. "You need to see this."
"If it's another viral post from Brad's journal?—"
"Better. Look what I found in the shared drive while setting up the holiday party scheduling."
She shoves the tablet at me, and I nearly drop my coffee. On screen is a spreadsheet titled "Drake's List" with columns for names, meeting times, and... mentor assignments?
"What is this?"
"Keep scrolling."
I do, and my heart does something complicated. The list contains names of female developers, engineers, and project managers from across the company, each paired with senior mentors. Notes in the margins track their progress, promotions, and accomplishments.
"Check the creation date," Lucia prompts .
"Three years ago?" I look closer at the notes. They're detailed, personal, clearly written by someone who cares about these women's careers. Someone who...
"These are Alex's notes," I realize. "He's been personally mentoring female developers. Since before the takeover."
"Before you threw champagne at him," Lucia confirms. "Before your blog started criticizing tech culture. Before all of it."
My phone buzzes – a notification that the anonymous tech blogger's latest post about industry gender gaps has gone viral. The post I'd written last night, unable to sleep after three days of replaying our dinner conversation.
"Mac?" Lucia waves her hand in front of my face. "You okay?"
"I need to..." I motion towards the door, my carefully constructed worldview tilting sideways.
"Have an existential crisis about the fact that your nemesis might actually be one of the good guys?"
"Something like that."
I head for my office, mind racing. The halls are decked with holiday decorations – someone (probably Brad) has gone overboard with the tinsel and mistletoe. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow falls steadily, adding to the four inches we'd gotten overnight.
Three weeks until the Christmas Gala. Three weeks to figure out what to do with this new information about Alex. Three weeks to?—
I round the corner and nearly collide with the man himself.
"Ms. Gallo." He steadies me with a hand on my elbow, and I definitely don't notice how warm he feels or how his cologne mingles with the coffee I'm clutching onto for dear life. "Running from another revolution?"
"Just Keith's latest protest. Nice tinsel additions though."
"Ah yes, the festive sit-in. Emma's added 'seasonal rebellion management' to her job description." He shifts, and I realize he's holding a folder. "Actually, I was looking for you. The annual Winter Strategy Summit at Cascade Lodge is next weekend."
My heart definitely doesn't skip. The Summit is legendary in Seattle tech circles - three days at an exclusive mountain resort where Drake Enterprises' leadership plans the coming year's initiatives.
"I've seen the agenda," I say carefully. "Keith's already submitted a proposal for 'Democratic Coffee Distribution Strategies.'"
"I'm more interested in your proposals." He hands me the folder. "As our Corporate Culture Consultant, your presence would be... valuable."
Is Alexander Drake actually nervous? No, impossible. Must be the caffeine deprivation affecting my judgment.
"The Summit's traditionally for senior leadership," I point out.
"Traditionally, we also didn't have revolutionary poetry in our meditation room. Times change." His lips quirk. "Unless you're worried about spending three days in the mountains with the corporate overlords?"
"Worried about being trapped in a luxury lodge with Seattle's tech elite?" I try for casual. "What could possibly go wrong?"
"Says the woman who turned our last formal event into a champagne shower."
"That was different. I was angry then."
"And now?"
I look up and realize we're still standing under Brad's mistletoe. Alex follows my gaze upward. "That's..."
"Brad's doing. He's very... committed to holiday traditions."
"I see." His hand is still on my elbow.
Neither of us moves.
"Mr. Drake!" Emma's voice carries down the hall. "The board is waiting for the quarterly projections, and Keith is trying to teach the interns revolutionary carols!"
The moment breaks. I step back, clutching my coffee cup like a shield.
"The budget meeting," I remind him. "Two o'clock?"
"Yes. Though perhaps we should..."
"Deck the halls with calls for justice," Keith's voice rings out from the break room, accompanied by what sounds like a kazoo. "Fa la la la la, la la LA REVOLUCIóN!"
"I should handle that," I say quickly.
"Mac." His voice stops me. "About dinner the other night..."
"Mr. Drake!" Emma again, closer now. "Gerald is asking about the projections, and he's using his 'I'm about to call an emergency board meeting' voice."
"Later," I promise, then flee before he can respond.
In my office, I pull up my blog dashboard. My latest post about gender gaps has thousands of retweets. The comments are full of women sharing stories about being overlooked, undervalued, pushed aside.
Stories I thought I knew all about. Stories I thought I understood.
Stories that feel different now, knowing about Alex's secret mentoring program.
My phone buzzes – a text from Lucia:
“I overheard you two. So... are we going to talk about you almost kissing the CEO under the mistletoe, or should I just forward the security camera footage to Nonna? PS: Keith is now leading a chorus of 'Joy to the Revolution' and Brad's journaling about holiday spirits haunting the coffee machine. PPS: Three days trapped at Cascade Lodge with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Billionaire?
Nonna's probably already planning what she's calling your 'mountain romance care package.' Can’t say I’m not convinced that this Summit is basically a Hallmark movie waiting to happen."
I tuck away my phone.
Some crises require more caffeine before facing.
Like the fact that I might really, really like the man I'm supposed to be exposing.
Or the fact that he might actually deserve better than that.
Or the fact that I now have to figure out how to survive three days at a mountain lodge with him without either exposing my blog identity or giving in to whatever this thing is between us.
Maybe Keith's right. Maybe I do need a revolution.
Just not the kind that involves tinsel-covered protest signs.