Chapter 2
ICLYN
I step onto our floor of the multi-floor high rise and the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee greets me, but it’s the soft jingling of Christmas bells that truly makes my heart skip a beat.
It’s December first, and I can feel the excitement crackling in the air like static.
I beam at my colleagues as they shuffle into the elevator, their expressions a mixture of Thursday morning lethargy and surprise at the burst of festive decorations that I’ve orchestrated overnight.
Every corner of our little office is transformed.
Garland carpets the door frames like a glittery welcome mat, and paper snowflakes cascade from the ceiling tiles above us like icy confetti.
I can’t help but clap my hands together, a giddy smile stretching across my face.
Each year, I make it my mission to bring a spark of joy to the workplace, but for some reason, this year feels extra special.
After putting away my things, I join the morning meeting in the middle of the room. After the boring, yada-yada of banking and investment business, I’m up.
“Okay, team!” I call out, my voice rising above the din of keyboards and hushed conversations. “It’s time to get jolly! Today, we kick off our Children’s Christmas Present Tree event. Remember, every present and dollar counts!”
I effortlessly navigate through the sea of desks, clutching a clipboard that props up my purpose and records who will be offering up what. Today isn’t just about decorating— it’s about getting building goodwill and getting commitments for presents for the children at the local women’s shelter.
I hum a tune, feeling lighter than air, as I think of the smiles my efforts will create. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot him.
Brinker.
He stands by the coffee machine, arms crossed and brow furrowed, surveying my festive decor with a classic Brinker scowl. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it anymore.
He’s dressed in a tweed jacket, mostly grays— like an ominous cloud and his dark hair slicked back with precision— like a sexy vampire. A grumpy sexy vampire. He looks rather casual for a Thursday, but that intensity etched across his face could scare Frosty the Snowman.
And maybe me.
But he’s harmless. He’s crusty, like a cinnamon roll, but it’s the gooeyness on the inside that really counts.
Maybe. Hopefully. Possibly.
“Really, Iclyn?” he drawls, rolling his eyes in a dramatic fashion that’s so odd for a man who runs a multi-million-dollar company. “Is this an office or Santa’s workshop?”
I stifle a laugh. Brinker’s disdain for all things festive is a constant source of amusement for me.
“Oh, come on! It’s the holidays and a little cheer never hurt anyone.” I hop closer, my excitement undeterred by his lackluster demeanor. “Besides, can’t you feel the spirit in the air? It’s practically begging you to join in on the fun!”
He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You do realize that not everyone is in the mood for sugary sweetness, right? Some people actually prefer office productivity over a festive display.”
“Productivity can take a backseat for just a little while,” I insist, hands on my hips. “What’s more productive than spreading kindness? Speaking of… how many presents can I put you down for?”
“Presents? What for?”
I refuse to huff. It’s beneath me, but this deserves one. “The present drive I’ve organized for the last three years for the children at the women’s shelter.”
And at this moment I can’t remember him ever participating in. I think he donated money, but someone else went and got the gifts.
He stills. “Oh, that. Right. Um… I’m really busy right now. Can’t I just give you some money?”
“You can take an hour to go get someone else a gift, Brinker. Right?”
He really seems conflicted and I can’t really tell why. It’s definitely not the money. The man is richer than… well, anyone I know. He’s relatively generous here at work, but maybe he’s less so when it doesn’t involve people who are making him money versus taking his money?
He sighs and runs a hand through those dark locks, putting them into a little disarray that I actually like. It’s less stuffed shirt and more matching his casual dress today. “Okay. You’re right. Okay, put me down for… three?”
Yes!
“That’s the spirit.”
When I say the words, his eyes twinkle with the slightest hint of mischief.
“And I challenge you to help me make this the best event yet. If you can hold back that frown, and we fill all these present requests, I promise I’ll bring in my award-winning, homemade cookies.”
He quirks a half-smile, the first crack in his stern facade. “Cookies, huh? You might just have a deal if the cookies are as good as you say, which I’m not sure they are.”
“Oh, thems fightin’ words, Mr. Carrington!” I hold up my fists like I’m ready to start punching. He barely breaks his lips into something that others might call a smirk, but on him, it’s the closest to a grin, I’ve ever seen. I switch to a held-out hand. “Challenge accepted.”
I’ve never backed down from one.
He takes the offer reluctantly, but that little sparkle in his eye suggests he's not entirely immune to my infectious enthusiasm. A zing of the season —it’s just static electricity, Iclyn— zips through his hand and into my chest. I’m sure he felt it, but I don’t see it affecting him nearly as much as me.
“Just don’t expect me to wear a ridiculous holiday sweater like everyone else,” he adds gruffly, pulling back his hand.
The image of Brinker, the quintessential stuffed-shirt corporate tightwad, clad in an ugly Christmas sweater is downright hilarious.
I picture him, normally a defender of seriousness, striding through the office with his perfectly pressed suit and a posture as stiff as a board, transformed as he wears a bright red sweater decorated with frolicking reindeer, garish snowflakes, and maybe even a jaunty little Santa hat perched precariously atop his head, and I giggle to myself.
As he reluctantly agrees to join in the festivities, I can see an internal struggle playing out on his face.
That faint twinkle in his eye hints at an irrepressible spark of holiday spirit, despite his gruff exterior.
It’s almost as if the static electricity from that handshake has sent a jolt of something new through him, infusing the air around him with a hint of mirth.
Mirth is a happy thing, right? Maybe it is less mirthy and more plain tolerance.
As the office fills with the trimmings of the holiday season, swirling garlands and twinkling lights, it would be a sight to behold him in anything but business attire.
Brinker, the label-obsessed, no-nonsense executive, blushing under the bright patterns of his sweater, valiantly trying to keep up his grumpy smokescreen while everyone around him bursts into laughter.
Perhaps, beneath his tough exterior, he’s not immune to the charm of the holidays, and maybe he’ll learn to embrace the joy.
One hideously festive sweater at a time.
“We’ll see about that!” I dance away, laughter bubbling in my throat.
The man feigns indifference, but I also know the holidays have a way of softening even the hardest of hearts.
As I continue down the hall to my desk, excitement thrums beneath my skin. This is just the start of my jolly spirit invasion. I sense a rush of glee as I imagine how we’ll all come together for the children, and I know deep down that I’ve already won this round against Brinker.
After all, Christmas is about spreading joy, and no amount of cynicism can dim that bright, twinkling light.