Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Beau- The Office Christmas Party
The Commonwealth Club looked like something out of a Victorian Christmas card—all dark wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, and enough garland to decorate half of Richmond.
Someone had gone overboard with the decorations, draping every available surface in red velvet bows and gold ribbon, and a massive Christmas tree dominated the corner of the ballroom, its branches heavy with ornaments that probably cost more than my rent.
I stood near the bar, nursing a bourbon and trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt.
“You clean up nicely, Thatcher.” Lisa appeared at my elbow, stunning in an emerald green dress with white gloves. “Very GQ. Mason’s going to lose his mind when he sees you.”
I’d worn my best suit—navy blue, tailored to perfection, with a crisp white shirt and a tie the exact shade of Mason’s eyes. Not that anyone here would know why I’d chosen that color.
“Mason probably won’t even notice,” I said, taking a sip of my drink.
“What? Why would you say that?”
I shrugged. “He’s been a little distant this week. Standoffish. I don’t know, maybe I’m reading too much into it.”
“Distant how?”
“Just... not himself. When we’re together, he seems like he’s somewhere else in his head. Distracted.” I watched the entrance, waiting for Mason to arrive. “And when I try to ask him about it, he just says work is stressful.”
Lisa touched my arm. “It’s almost the holidays. Everyone’s stressed.”
“Yeah, maybe.” But it felt like more than that. Like Mason was pulling away, and I didn’t know why. “We haven’t really talked about anything real in days. It’s all just work stuff and logistics about whose place we’re staying at.”
“Have you asked him directly what’s going on?”
“Not really, but I’m trying not to push.” I took another sip of bourbon. “I don’t want to be that guy, you know? The needy one who’s always asking ‘what are you thinking?’ and ‘where is this going?’”
Lisa’s expression softened. “Beau, you’re allowed to want to know where you stand. That’s not needy. That’s normal.”
“I know. But...” I trailed off as more people arrived. “I’ll talk to him. After the holidays. When things calm down.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The compass was wrapped and hidden in my apartment, waiting for Christmas Day. I’d planned this whole romantic moment—I’d tell Mason I loved him, give him the gift, and we’d figure out together what came next.
But what if Mason didn’t want to figure it out? What if whatever had been bothering him this week was him realizing this thing between us was too complicated, too risky, too much?
“Stop spiraling,” Lisa said firmly. “I can literally see the chaos circling inside your head.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. You’ve got that look on your face like someone kicked your puppy.” She squeezed my arm. “Just enjoy the party. Have a few drinks. Flirt with your secret boyfriend from across the room. It’ll be fine.”
Before I could respond, Paul Cramer’s voice boomed across the room. “Everyone! Gather round! Let’s get this party started!”
The ballroom filled with associates and partners, with everyone dressed in their holiday best, champagne glasses in hand.
Someone had hired a pianist, and soft jazz versions of Christmas songs filled the air.
It was elegant and festive and exactly the type of event where I’d normally have a good time.
If I weren’t secretly in love with my coworker, who’d been acting weird all week.
“There he is,” Lisa murmured.
I turned and saw Mason walking through the entrance, and my breath caught.
He wore a charcoal suit that fit him like a dream, his blonde hair perfectly styled. He looked gorgeous and untouchable and so far out of my reach it made my chest ache.
Our eyes met across the room, and for just a second, his expression softened. Something passed between us—recognition, longing, something I couldn’t quite name. Then someone called his name, and the moment was gone.
Mason made his way through the crowd, shaking hands and making small talk, and I watched him play the part of the successful associate—confident, charming, completely in control. He was good at this. Good at pretending nothing was wrong.
“I need another drink,” I muttered.
“Pace yourself,” Lisa warned. “It’s going to be a long night.”
She didn’t know how right she was.
* * *
An hour into the party, I’d made the rounds—chatted with colleagues, laughed at bad jokes, accepted congratulations on the Henderson Technologies case.
Mason and I had exchanged pleasantries when our paths crossed, but nothing more.
We were playing it safe, keeping our distance, maintaining the fiction that we were just friendly coworkers.
It was exhausting.
I was standing near the Christmas tree, half-listening to one of the junior associates tell a story about a disastrous deposition, when Paul Cramer clinked his glass to get everyone’s attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” He stood near the center of the room, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. “I hope you’re all having a wonderful time. Before we continue, I want to thank everyone for an incredible year. The hard work, the dedication, the late nights—it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
Polite applause rippled through the room.
“And now,” Paul continued, his grin widening, “it’s time for a little holiday tradition.
As some of you may have noticed, we have mistletoe strategically placed throughout the club.
” He gestured upward, and I looked up to see sprigs of mistletoe hanging from the chandeliers, the doorways, even above the bar.
Oh no.
“The rules are simple,” Paul said. “If you find yourself under the mistletoe with someone, you have to kiss them. It’s tradition! And who are we to fight tradition?”
Nervous laughter filled the room, and I saw several people immediately step away from the doorways.
“Now, to kick things off,” Paul said, his eyes scanning the crowd with theatrical deliberation, “I need two volunteers.”
My stomach dropped.
“Come on, don’t be shy! Who wants to start us off?” Paul’s gaze landed on someone near the tree, and his smile turned calculating. “Mason! Perfect. Get over here.”
Oh God, no.
Mason’s expression remained neutral as he walked toward Paul, but I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched.
“Excellent!” Paul clapped him on the back. “Now we need someone else. Let’s see...” His eyes swept the room again, passing over several people before landing on me. “Beau! Come on up!”
Fuck.
Lisa, standing beside me, grabbed my arm. “Is he serious right now?”
I didn’t answer. I just walked toward Paul and Mason on legs that felt like lead.
Paul positioned us under a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the chandelier, and I felt everyone’s eyes on us. Mason’s expression was completely blank.
“Perfect!” Paul’s voice carried across the room, gleeful and pointed. “Our two star associates! You guys have been absolutely killing it. MediCorp, Henderson Technologies. An unstoppable team!”
Everyone was watching. The entire firm, all our colleagues, gathered in a circle around us with their phones out and their champagne glasses raised.
“So,” Paul said, drawing out the word, “tradition dictates that you two have to kiss. Nothing too scandalous—just a quick peck. You know, for luck!”
The room erupted in good-natured cheers and laughter, and I felt my face go hot.
I looked at Mason, trying to gauge his reaction, and what I saw made my blood run cold.
Panic. Pure, unadulterated panic in his eyes. Beads of sweat dotted his now pasty white forehead.
“Come on, you two!” someone shouted. “It’s just a kiss!”
“Don’t leave us hanging!” another voice called out, followed by several loud guffaws.
Mason’s hands were clenched at his sides, his breathing shallow, and I realized he was about to bolt. About to make a scene that would raise more questions than just kissing me would.
So, I made a choice.
“Sorry, folks,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears.
“But I don’t kiss colleagues. Professional boundaries and all that.
” I clapped Mason on the shoulder, the most casual gesture I could manage, and stepped away from the mistletoe.
“Paul, you should go first. Lead by example!”
The crowd laughed, and someone pushed Paul toward a woman from accounting, but before the moment could shift completely, Patsy Carter’s voice cut through the noise.
“Paul.”
Everyone turned. Patsy stood near the bar, her expression pleasant but her eyes sharp as knives. She held a champagne flute in one hand and radiated an authority that came from decades of commanding courtrooms.
“Yes, Patsy?” Paul’s smile faltered slightly.
“A word?” It wasn’t a question.
Paul’s face went through several expressions—confusion, nervousness, forced nonchalance—before he excused himself and followed Patsy toward a quiet corner of the room.
The crowd’s attention shifted to other things. Someone pushed another victim under the mistletoe, and I used the distraction to escape toward the terrace doors.
I needed to get out of here right now.
“Beau, wait—” Mason’s voice behind me.
But I was already pushing through the doors, the cold December air filling my lungs.
The terrace was empty and blessedly cold. I leaned against the stone railing and stared out at Franklin Street below, my hands shaking.
I’d made a fool of myself. Not just tonight, but for weeks now.
The terrace door opened behind me.
“Beau.”
I didn’t turn around. “I need a minute, Mason.”
“I know. But I—” He moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel his warmth but not touching. “Thank you. For deflecting in there.”
“Yeah, well. Couldn’t let you have a panic attack in front of the entire firm.”
“I wasn’t having a panic attack.”
I finally looked at him. “Mason. Your face went white. You looked like you were about to throw up.”
He flinched. “Paul knew what he was doing. Setting that up.”