Chapter 1 #2
I should not be ogling him. But apparently, being almost married doesn’t make me blind, because my eyes are too busy notifying my brain—loudly—that the man in front of me is a prime male specimen radiating pheromones the way a pine tree sheds needles.
Enough. I need to get a grip.
I manage to rein in my hormones, and school my features into a professional expression. I hope.
He stops behind Tiny, who is now seated and, clearly, less affected than I am, and levels that scowl directly at me.
His icy gaze slides down to my chest. The furrow between his brows deepens like he’s staring at a crime scene.
“What are you wearing?”
“Excuse me?” I blink, then glance down at myself.
He tilts his chin, like he can’t believe he has to spell it out. “That. On your jumper.”
I look down at my merino wool pullover. I’m not used to how the Brits call it a jumper. It has a festive design…but it’s discreet.
It looks understated. Classy, in my opinion.
I paired it with a sleek pencil skirt and my one pair of red-soled heels. This is my version of the ‘please hire me, I’m festive and fierce’ combo.
In my head, I looked like the executive version of a Vogue Christmas cover. But taking in the distaste on my maybe boss’s face, I’m worried I resemble a malfunctioning elf from the discount store. Ugh.
I was hoping to make a positive impression on him, too.
Suspicion filters into my mind.
Surely not. He can’t hate Christmas, can he? Nah. Who hates Christmas? But, given how he stares at the reindeer like it dropped a turd on his plate of Christmas cookies, I’m beginning to think otherwise.
I resist the urge to cover it with my handbag. Instead, I point to my chest. “In case you were wondering, that’s a subtle reindeer motif.” I sniff like I’m describing museum art.
“Hmm.” He grunts.
That’s not a nice hmm. In fact, it’s a very worrying hmm. Also, I should not have pointed to my chest because now his attention is locked there. I flush, then tell myself sternly to stop.
Note to self: Never try to win over a man who looks like he could have Christmas arrested.
“Do you…” I shudder not wanting to ask the question but having to do so because that suspicion has grown until it clogs my brain like poisonous fungi. “Do you not like the festive season?”
He jerks his gaze up to my face, and his own features are hard. “I detest Christmas.”
That fizzy feeling I harbor in my chest during the festive season wilts. How can I work for someone who hates Christmas? I swallow.
But I do want this position. And there aren’t many EA jobs on the market.
Of all the offices in the world, I walked into this one. Unless… He’s saying it to test me.
“Yeah, right.” I chuckle.
Not a crack in his facade. If anything, his features grow more thunderous. He glares at me like it’s a forgone conclusion that he’s never going to say anything in jest.
“You’re serious.” My shoulders slump.
It’s just my luck to be stuck with a Grinch for my boss in my dream job. Assuming he’s going to make me his EA, that is.
“Very.” He eyes me with a disgusted look. “You, on the other hand, are a—”
“Christmas groupie.” It’s best to rip this off like a Band-Aid. “I love everything to do with Christmas.”
He opens his mouth to, no doubt, retort with something scathing, when Tiny thumps his tail on the floor. He whines, then looks up at Mr. Davenport with what I can classify as a pleading expression.
“Fine,” Mr. Davenport grumbles, like he and the dog had some kind of unspoken conversation.
A thought strikes me. “You were walking the Great Dane; is that why you were late?”
He nods.
Anyone who brings his dog to work and takes the time to walk the pooch instead of tasking one of his team with it can’t be too bad, right? Never mind that he hates Christmas, which, in my books, is almost irredeemable. Almost.
“Let’s start over again, shall we?” He’s pushed aside whatever his aversion is to Christmas and is wearing an emotionless expression. One which is very difficult to interpret. I almost prefer the one that screamed his loathing of the festive season instead. “You must be Lark Monroe.”
His hard voice pronouncing my name does weird things to my insides. My scalp tingles. My throat dries. Vibrations gather at the base of my spine. What in the name of tinsel-coated trouble is happening to me?
I shouldn’t be this turned on by the sound of his voice. He might become my boss. Also, I’m engaged. Engaged.
This is not how a woman who’s going to be married in less than a month behaves.
I should be thinking of my fiancé instead. And my wedding preparations. And how thrilled I will be to walk down that aisle and tick another item off my life list.
Unfortunately, none of my admonishments help when my possible boss’s blue-gray eyes turn a dark indigo. Like the deepest, most unforgiving depths of the Atlantic. Where the waters are the coldest and light goes to die. I could dive into them and die happy. Filled with guilt. But very, very happy.
A-n-d. Time out.
Get yourself together, woman.
I shake off these unwarranted, and very wrong, emotions that this hot as Hades man seems to elicit in me.
Instead, I hold out my hand and take a step in his direction.
He ignores my attempt at a handshake and firms his lips. "Why do you want to work for me?"