Chapter 8
Lark
“Does that bother you?” His lips curve in the makings of a smirk.
I realize, he’s testing me.
I did tell him I wanted to be CEO, and now he wants to find out if I can rise to the challenge.
Only it is a billion freakin’ dollars. My stomach ties itself in knots.
I am qualified to lead such a project. I studied for it. And I have experience in leading similar operations. Just not one of such a high value.
On the other hand, there’s always a first time. If I don’t start, I’ll never know if I can do it or not.
I can do this. I can.
I take a few deep breaths and regain my composure. “It is the kind of scope that I’d expect a Davenport-related project to have.”
“Good.” He rises to his feet and heads back to his desk, where he begins to scroll through his phone.
“Uh, there is one more thing.” I dawdle by his desk.
He grunts without looking up from his phone.
I take that as permission to keep speaking.
“It’s less than a month to Christmas and…
I was thinking.” I hesitate. “I was thinking it’d be good to have a Christmas tree up, have Christmas decorations around the office and…
We should definitely organize a Secret Santa.
And no way can we not have an office holiday party, and—”
“No.” He turns to his computer and begins to read something on the screen.
“No?” I blink
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
Wow. It’s as if I asked him to wear matching Christmas pajamas with Tiny and pose for a company holiday card.
I’m not the type to give up easily.
“This initiative is as important as a potential billion-dollar project. Maybe more so, because it shows employees that they matter.”
He raises his gaze from his phone, and a thinking expression crosses his features.
Oh good. Maybe I’m getting through?
Then he shakes his head.
Ugh. That was a show. A way to pretend he was considering my suggestion, to have the pleasure of vetoing it. His next words confirm it.
“Not happening. This is an office, Ms. Monroe, not Santa’s grotto.”
“More like the Grinch’s panic room,” I mumble.
I don’t think I expected him to hear it. Or maybe I did.
For his head snaps back. “Excuse me?”
That got his attention, eh? I allow myself a small smirk.
“I mean… It’s Christmas. The one time that people get taken in by the spirit of joy and giving.”
He glowers at me.
Apparently, it passed him by.
“It will help with employee morale and retention if there's more of a Christmas spirit evident—”
His brows grow thunderous.
“—in the office building.” I complete my statement without losing courage.
“It’s a distraction.” A muscle jumps at his jawline. It’s as if the very mention of the season of sharing is pulling every possible ounce of joy out of his body.
“What do you have against Christmas, anyway?”
“Nothing.”
His shoulders are so tight, they seem to be pulled up to his ears.
“Absolutely nothing.” He narrows his gaze. “I don’t care for people being nauseatingly happy, or spending all their time trying to figure out which gifts to buy, or playing that silly countdown calendar—”
“It’s called the Christmas Advent calendar.”
He snorts. “What-fucking-ever. My point is, it’s a waste of time. I need my employees focused. Not getting all distracted, too busy planning their Christmas lunch.”
Hmm. That didn’t go as planned. But I’m not giving up yet.
I paste a bright smile on my face. “It might be worth considering a half day for everyone on Christmas Eve. That will give the employees a chance to finish their last-minute Christmas shopping. I bet that’ll buy management a stocking full of goodwill. ”
His features harden. A flush creeps over his cheeks. It’s as if I told him I replaced the company logo with a Santa hat emoji.
Now that I’d try, to see what happens.
He’d probably have a cardiac. And that wouldn’t be fun. I don’t wish him any kind of ill health. In fact, I like him as is. Healthy, larger-than-life, and ripped. Sweet candy canes. He’s so alpha male, it makes my teeth hurt to look at him.
No. No. No. Don’t go there. Need to think of my fiancé. Engaged. Fiancé. Engaged. Fiancé. Keep it professional. I chant to myself and manage to find my focus.
Just in time for my boss chuckles, only the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your résumé didn’t indicate you also have a sense of humor.” The smile vanishes. In its place is his cold, hard, forbidding visage.
“Is there anything else?” he asks in a voice which clearly indicates that I'm wasting his time.
But I’m persistent. I'd have to be to get this far in the corporate world in such a short time. So, I square my shoulders, smooth out my features, and fix him with my best steely gaze. “Celebrating the lead up to Christmas is an opportunity not to be wasted.”
“Oh?”
“People want to celebrate the holidays, but not being able to openly do so causes stress levels to spike. If we let them express their happiness, it makes them feel appreciated, increases motivation, and hence, productivity levels. It helps boost morale and provides enough momentum for the troops to weather the dreaded January slump.”
“Hmph.” He continues to frown but, at least, he’s listening.
“Look, no one wants to hit Q4 targets while silently crying into a spreadsheet. A little Christmas cheer is a strategic investment.”
“Is that right?” His tone is half sarcastic.
I nod. “Decorating a tree is cheaper than the team having to take time off due to post-holiday burnout.”
“Oh?” He seems intrigued. “I assume you have research to back up these observations?”
“Absolutely.” It’s true.
I did get my facts from an article written by an academic in a very well-regarded business magazine.
He drums his fingers on the table. His expression tells me he’s not dismissing everything I said.
“Besides, even the most forbidding executives are twenty-three percent less terrifying when wearing a paper crown and holding a mince pie,” I say, half-jokingly. “It definitely breaks barriers and fosters better communication within teams.”
He tilts his head, a considering light in his eyes. “You really believe in all this Christmas shit, don’t you?”
Anger coils in my stomach. Did he call my favorite time of the year Christmas shit? Argh. I draw in a few deep, sharp breaths. Losing my temper is not going to help at all. And I did get him to, at least, listen to my reasoning. That’s a win, right?
“Of course, I do. I’ve seen these strategies work before. It might seem trivial, but a little festive warmth and holiday spirit directly impacts employee productivity which, in turn, feeds the bottom line.”
He seems skeptical again.
“I mean, you won’t know until you try it, right?”
He rubs at his jaw where his beard is beginning to show, and its only midday. Good God.
Is this man so virile that the only way his body can cope with all that excess masculinity is by extra fast hair growth on his face? I shove the thought aside.
He’s my boss. I can’t have such carnal thoughts about him. I can’t. I’m engaged. I have a fiancé.
“You make some good points”—he leans back in his seat—“but no.”
“No?”
“Not happening. Everything you said is a distraction.”
I set my teeth, and swallow back the insults hovering at the tip of my tongue. Calm. Cool. Collected. You don’t want to lose your job on the first day, do you? “At least, think about it.”
“I’ll think about thinking about it.” He turns back to his computer screen. “Dismissed.”
Grrr. I'm starting to hate it when he uses that tone. Like he’s royalty and I’m his lowly subject.
And my lurking around here isn’t going to change anything. At least, I got my points across. That’s got to count for something.
I pivot and head toward the connecting door which leads to my office.
I’ve found out the reason he has that strip of rope on his desk. Mr. Broody McNasty likes to untie then re-tie the knots as he talks on the phone. Some kind of relaxation thing, I gather.
I feel like I’ve been afforded an intimate glimpse into his habits.
Unfortunately, working with him this closely, I also know that he can often be a Grinch. I’m going to call him Mr. Bah Hum-bro-dy, from now on.
I chuckle.
“What’s that?” His low, dark voice reaches me.
Damn, did I say that aloud? “Oh, just thinking out loud. I need to get back to work and plan for the upcoming board meeting.” I shoot him a saccharine sweet smile over my shoulder.
Not that it matters, for he’s focused on his screen. “I sent you a few more things to add to your to-do list.”
Oh cool, cool.
If he thinks I’m put off by a never-ending task list, he’s wrong. I have no doubt all of this is part of his way of testing me. He wants to see if I have the mettle to stick with it without giving up. Well, he chose the wrong person to challenge. I can match him task for task.
Or not.
It’s been three days since that conversation about Christmas festivities.
It’s also the end of my first work week. It’s been exacting, and exhilarating.
My boss has set a brutal pace; I'm thriving. He’s led endless back-to-back meetings, many of which I’ve sat in on.
He’s also asked my opinions on many work-related matters, some of which have led to the most intellectually stimulating exchanges I’ve had with anyone.
We seem to bounce off each other’s ideas.
Enough for me to realize we make a good team.
He must also realize it too because, after the first couple of days, I notice him pushing more of the detailed work to me.
I’m loving the additional responsibilities. Every time he challenges me, I rise to it. I feel myself stretching and growing. It’s been thrilling. I am so happy I took this role.
I’ve also begun to respect my boss more. He’s proved to be as hard a worker as he is a task master.
When I come into work, he’s in a conference.
When I leave, he’s on yet another call. The man is relentless. And has enough energy to make me feel like I’m not doing enough. And I’m pulling twelve-hour days myself.
The constant stream of things-to-do keeps adding to my list, and that motivates me further.
Of course, my perfectionist streak wants to cross everything off before I leave at the end of the day, but I’m practical enough to realize that’s not going to happen.
Instead, I make a fresh list before I leave work so it’s there waiting for me when I get in the next day. Heaven!
My one complaint is that my dreams are occupied by blue-gray eyes, and images of a tall, dark, moody, holiday hater. That, and my guilt at thinking about him so much, and my consternation at why I don’t dream about my fiancé instead, means I haven’t slept well this entire week.
I yawn and take a sip of my coffee, trying to stop my eyes from closing, when my phone buzzes.
I stare at the person who’s calling. Keith? I frown.
It’s a testament to how stretched I am by this job that it takes a few seconds to register that this is Keith. My fiancé.
The man I’m going to marry in a little over three weeks.
The man for whom I’ve been leaving messages over the past ten days. Finally, he's calling me back. A mixture of relief then anger fills me. He finally found some time for me, huh?
I snatch it up and answer the phone. “Keith, where have you been? Why haven’t you answered my messages and my voice mails?”
“Hi Lark, how’s it going?” His cheerful voice comes down the line.
Ugh, how can he sound so relaxed when I’m juggling so many balls in the air—trying to get everything done at work and organizing our wedding. I swallow my frustration and make sure to keep my voice even.
“I’m good. A little tired but good. Where are you?”
“In Texas. I’m here for a conference. But I expect to be home soon.”
“How soon? I need you to give me your opinion on the menu choices for the reception and the names of everyone who’s coming to attend the wedding from your side.”
“Is that all?” he asks breezily.
Anger simmers up my spine. “I’ve been working my tail off trying to get everything in order for the wedding, along with managing my new job. And you? You disappear in the lead up to the wedding.”
He hesitates. “I’ve been busy.”
“Seriously, Keith? So have I!” I grit my teeth. “You leave all the wedding arrangements to me. And don’t even bother to reply to my messages.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve been busy meeting deadlines so I can spend Christmas and New Year's with you in London without having to travel.”
“Oh.” My anger cools, a little.
“I want to make salesman of the year, so I can put the bonus toward our dream home.” He sniffs.
Ugh, now I feel like a bridezilla who’s been haranguing her fiancé while he’s been working hard to get work out of the way so he can focus on me.
Just then, a man in a courier’s uniform walks into my office with a bouquet of holiday-themed flowers: a mix of amaryllis, white roses, and eucalyptus, accentuated with holly sprigs. “Lark Monroe?”
“One second, Keith.” I look up. “That’s me.”
He places the vase carefully on one side of my desk, then slides his device under my nose. “Sign here, please.”
I oblige.
He leaves.
“What is it?” Keith asks impatiently.
“It’s a delivery of flowers.”
“Did you see who the card is from?” His voice carries suppressed excitement.
I open the card and see his name signed on it. I frown. “They’re from you?"
“Do you like them?”
I flatten my lips. I should be flattered that he thought of me. But after ignoring me for weeks, it feels like he’s trying to buy my forgiveness.
Why does it seem like he’s manipulating me?
“I wanted to apologize for being away so much,” he adds.
There’s something in his tone that implies he’s waiting for me to thank him.
Because he sent me flowers. Because he’s never done so before. Because after not talking to me for days and days, now he’s trying to show me that he’s thinking of me?
I rub at my temple, not completely convinced about the intentions behind his actions.
He’s saying all the right words and doing the right things.
Like calling me and apologizing for ignoring me and sending me flowers.
But somehow, the very fact that he’s doing this sends a whisper of unease up my spine.
He’s being thoughtful. He’s trying to make amends. I should be happy that he thought of me.
The gesture tugs at something in me I don’t want to look at too closely. I smooth away the feeling like brushing lint off my sleeve.
The connecting door between our offices swings open.
Brody steps in and comes to an abrupt halt, his expression thunderous. “Who sent you flowers?”