Reid
D ecember is always one long migraine for me. A seemingly endless month of gaudy string lights, raucous crowds of tipsy shoppers, and cheesy holiday tunes that grate on my last nerve.
It’s inescapable. Everywhere I look, wide-eyed kids warble out carols in choirs; scruffy Santas ring bells and shake buckets at passers-by; and store windows bristle with tinsel and plastic trees.
Half the Santas aren’t even fat, for Christ’s sake. They’ve got pillows shoved up their ugly red jumpsuits—fake padding to match their fake stringy beards.
Hideous.
“Brace yourself,” Noelle says as I lock up the office for the evening, stamping her ankle boots to keep warm. We’re crowded close together on the top step, but I try not to notice that fact. Try to ignore the warmth of her, and the telltale crinkle of that tote bag that says she lied to me before, and the green apple scent of her hair. “When I came out here earlier, this street was holiday mad.”
I grunt, shove my hands in my coat pockets, and lead the way down the steps. At this time of year, everywhere in this city is holiday mad. No—everywhere in the country. In the goddamn Western world.
Nowhere is safe.
Noelle and I fall into step easily as we drift onto the sidewalk, strolling in the direction of her apartment. It’s a seven block walk, and in the exact wrong direction for me, but she doesn’t know that.
It’s better this way. If she knew I detoured out of my way each night to walk her home, that might raise questions.
Inconvenient questions—and I don’t have good answers.
“We’ve got the Aspen Ridge meeting tomorrow.”
Noelle hums, her shoulder brushing mine as we walk. And tomorrow is Saturday, but she’ll work it without complaint. She always does. That’s why I pay her astronomical wages for an assistant role—Noelle’s evenings and weekends are mine , damn it, and I guard them like a dragon’s hoard.
“I’ll pick you up at eight AM sharp. Don’t be late.”
She laughs. “When am I ever late, boss?”
That’s fair. Noelle Granger is punctual, bright, sweet, and funny. Efficient and—disastrous inbox aside—unfailingly reliable. She’s the perfect woman and perfect employee, and I’ve somehow kept her with me for the last three years.
Probably because she has bottomless supplies of patience. Will she ever grow tired of me? Ever leave? Surely she will.
Chest burning, I scowl at a fabric snowman in a department store window. Its eyes are lopsided buttons. Is that supposed to be cute?
Ugh.
“Know what I’m gonna do when I get home?” There’s a skip in Noelle’s step, and a smile plays around her mouth. She always chats more freely with me when I walk her home—I suppose because she’s off the clock.
These stolen moments together always stick in my brain. The way she teases me sometimes… it ruins me for hours afterward.
“What?” I ask.
“A girl in my building has a load of bath bombs she doesn’t want.” Noelle’s practically bouncing down the sidewalk. She’s so small down there, the top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. “They’re from her ex, and he won’t take them back, but she doesn’t want to use them. Guess it’s awkward. So she gave a few to me, and there’s a giant cherry-scented one I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”
My headache pulses, squeezing my temples.
Noelle in a bathtub? All that bare skin, slippery and wet, with her blonde hair piled on her head? The images batter me in a torturous slideshow, and I swallow back a groan.
“Nice,” I grit out. That’s what a normal person would say, right? A normal boss with social skills. That’s me. “What’s the special occasion?”
“Because it’s Friday night, obviously.” Noelle’s pointy elbow digs into my ribs, and it’s pathetic how much I treasure that fleeting contact. “Most people have weekends free, . Crazy, I know. And I still observe the Friday night celebrations, even if my grumpy boss needs me bright and early on Saturday morning.”
Noelle glances at me out of the corner of her eye, checking that I’m not offended by her teasing. My face is stony, my shoulders hunched against the cold, but that’s standard procedure, nothing to do with her, and she knows it. She brightens.
“What about you, boss man? Any big Friday night plans? A hot date, maybe?”
Her smile flickers, like she doesn’t like her own joke, but then she pastes it back on even wider.
I suck on my teeth, shielding Noelle from the worst of the crowds as we make our slow progress down the sidewalk. Seven blocks can sometimes feel like an eternity—or like they pass by in a blink. Tonight, this walk will be over too fast.
“No plans,” I say.
And definitely no hot date—not unless you count my shameful daydreams about my assistant.
Noelle shakes her head, bemused, and hops over a crack in the sidewalk. Her tote bag crinkles under her arm. “I don’t get it. You’re, like, rich and successful and handsome as hell. Shouldn’t you be dating dozens of women? Batting them off with a stick?”
My expression doesn’t change, but my heart thuds harder in my chest.
As hell? Is that what she just said? Handsome as hell ?
Does she mean that? And is that an objective assessment, or her personal opinion?
“I don’t date.” The words come out thick and clunky, my mind still reeling from Noelle’s compliment. Maybe she’s being kind. Noelle is like that: always building people up. It’s maddening. “In fact, I don’t do relationships in general. At all. Ever.”
Noelle should know that better than anyone. She knows exactly how off-putting I can be, with my moods and impatience and endless demands.
But Noelle tuts, weaving around a trash can then coming back to my side. “Maybe you should give them a chance,” she says softly. “People might surprise you, .”
I scoff, glaring right ahead. “Not so far, they haven’t.”
Noelle’s shoulders slump. My headache flares.
We don’t speak again for the rest of the walk.
* * *
“Eight AM,” I call as Noelle climbs the steps to her building’s front door. There’s a wreath hanging above the brass knocker, and I glare at that green monstrosity. “And bring your laptop.”
Noelle shakes her head, not even bothering to glance back at me over her shoulder. Her mittens slip around her key, and she fumbles it in the lock. “I have done this before, . Most weekends for the last three years, remember?”
Yes. Well.
“People get complacent. Maybe I don’t want you getting sloppy, Noelle.”
Finally, a wry glance over her shoulder. “Heaven forbid.”
Her front door pushes open an inch, but she doesn’t go inside yet. She stands there, one mitten braced on the painted wood, and stares back at me with a thoughtful expression. Seeing way too much with those searching brown eyes.
Always seeing too much. That’s her problem.
“Call me later,” Noelle says out of nowhere, and suddenly blood rushes in my ears, my pulse thundering. It’s so loud I nearly miss her next words. “If you get bored, or whatever.”
Can’t speak. Can’t think.
Can’t nod. Can’t react at all.
Not without giving away the meltdown happening in my brain.
Because… call her? Call my beautiful assistant outside of work hours? To say what? I mean, look at me—I can barely string a sentence together, and that’s in person, never mind the awkwardness of talking on the phone.
Besides, Noelle doesn’t mean that offer. She’s just being polite and considerate, like she is with everyone. Pitying me for my lack of dates.
Slowly, robotically, I turn on my heel and walk away.