Under the Mistletoe

Chapter 1

Jessica Johnson

I bury my head deeper behind my computer screen as the familiar click-clack of Shelley’s heels echoes down the marble hallway. It’s almost five, and I’ve successfully avoided her all afternoon. But as I flick my eyes upward, she’s already standing there, hip popped and looking right at me.

“Avoiding me?” Her eyebrow quirks like she’s caught me red-handed.

“Unsuccessfully.” I push my glasses up my nose and lean back, bracing myself for what she’s here to deliver.

Friends since college, we lost touch for a few years while she climbed the corporate ladder and I struggled to find even the first rung.

But when she called, needing a new team member for a special project, I came running.

I needed the work, so here we are. We’ve been working together for about six months now.

She’s a pit bull, my manager, and fast becoming a close friend.

“When are you going to learn to trust me?” A small smile plays on her lips, and I feel my shoulders loosen.

“So, he liked it?” It’s stupid to get my hopes up.

But this is a major project, one I’ve spent months on.

I was hired at York Enterprises as part of their finance team.

Shelley tasked me with finding ways to cut costs and boost profits, without laying off staff, risking company culture, or upsetting our shareholders.

Because that’s what I do. I fix problems from the shadows, mostly without anyone knowing.

It’s also why I can’t hold down a job. Once I solve the problem, which I inevitably always do, then I’m let go.

My job is another cost-cutting measure. I’m the girl constantly on contract, never permanent, never settled, never secure, never wanted or kept. A metaphor for my life, really.

In some ways, I prefer it. I like learning new things, not being tied down.

It’s probably why I’ve also been single for most of my adult life.

I blame my parents and their nomad lifestyle.

Always chasing the next big adventure instead of providing a stable home.

I was homeschooled, lonely, never really fitting in until my aunt and uncle opened their doors to me.

“He did.” There’s something in her expression that tells me there’s more.

“Annnnndddd?”

“He wants to see you.”

“Me?” The shriek escapes before I can stop it.

Donovan York, CEO of York Enterprises, is an enigma.

His office is on the top floor of this sleek city skyscraper.

He’s a billionaire worthy of the title, having taken over from his late father a few years ago.

He works hard and expects the same from his team.

It’s an honorable quality, one I admire.

Yet he’s also quite elusive, at least within the office walls.

I’ve never met him, never been in a meeting with him, never passed him in the hallway.

I only see him in the media—financial news, society pages—always looking untouchable and dapper, usually with a gorgeous blonde on his arm.

“Yes, Jay Jay, you.”

“But why?” Shelley’s my manager; she’s the one who presents our work to senior leaders. I come in, do my job solo, and leave. Just how I like it. I hate corporate politics and prefer to fly under the radar, simply keeping my nose down and taking home a paycheck.

“He wants to meet the staff member who saved him and his company millions of dollars in six months, all without a peep. The entire board is talking about it. You’re practically a god in their eyes.”

“But we did it.” Sure, I’m responsible for the daily grind, combing through expenses, forecasts, and economic trends. I now practically specialize in trade agreements across continents, too. But Shelley’s the one who has so much faith in me and supports me every step of the way.

“We both know it was all you. I just approved your ideas, gave you access to company information, and presented the final report. But unlike most managers, I don’t take credit for others’ work, especially not from someone who’ll be buying me a cocktail in about…

thirty minutes.” She makes an exaggerated display of looking at her watch.

“Shit…” I stand on shaky legs. “What do I even say?” My palms are already sweating.

As an introvert, walking into the CEO’s office feels like marching toward a firing squad.

I’m either going to shrink in size and barely talk, the panic overwhelming.

Or I’m going to talk too much, the nerves making me smart-mouthed and sassy.

Neither of those options feels remotely okay when it comes to Donovan York.

The man is an Adonis. With confidence bordering on arrogance, extreme good looks and a sexy-as-sin smile, and don’t even get me started on that seductive little flick of hair that falls across his forehead when he doesn't think photographers are looking. He’s enough to make any red-blooded woman weak at the knees.

Including me. God, can’t I just go back to hiding behind my monitor?

“You walk your fine ass up there and tell him what he wants to hear. He’ll probably ask a few questions about the project, and then that will be it. I’ll meet you at the bar.” She winks, and I swallow hard.

It’s not that I'm scared of him. But technically, he could fire me and send me back to the job hunt again for the hundredth time in my life. And let’s be honest, he probably will, since my contract is almost up. Although I was expecting Shelley to be the one to confirm my last day.

I’m just not a people person. That’s why I prefer numbers and facts.

Why I choose to stay home. Why, instead of going to the bar to meet Shelley later, I’ll likely catch the subway home and spend the evening in yoga pants with leftover takeout and the evening news.

Plus, it’s freezing. Who wants to go out in the cold, at night, in New York City?

“Aaaand don’t even think about bailing on drinks. We need to celebrate,” she calls over her shoulder as she returns to her office, obviously knowing me too well.

“I can do this,” I breathe out, fixing my hair and swiping on some lip gloss. Not because I wear much makeup, but I need a little armor before I meet the man the girls in marketing swoon over daily.

As others pack up to leave, I take a few tentative steps toward the elevator in my sensible heels.

“I can do this…” I repeat to myself as the elevator doors open, and I step inside. I pause, eyeing the buttons, then I press the one I’ve never dared touch before.

The doors close quickly, and as the elevator ascends, so does my heart rate.

Christmas carols filter through the speakers, not helping my jitters.

It’s almost the holidays, but with Thanksgiving still a few weeks away, clearly the facilities team is already excited.

I blow out a breath, rolling my head like I’m a boxer preparing for a fight.

I catch my reflection in the polished doors, pushing my long mousy brown hair behind my shoulders and straightening my posture.

“You’re a strong, capable woman. You just saved his company millions. You have worth. You have value,” I whisper my mantra, giving myself a death stare in the reflection of the doors, forcing the words to stick in my mind.

I think back to the conversation with Shelley. She’s right; most other managers would’ve claimed the credit. So, while I’ve always delivered, I’ve never really been acknowledged. Maybe that’s why the Reuben sandwich I had for lunch is now sitting heavy in my stomach.

When the doors open, the opulence hits me like a sucker punch.

Every floor in this building owned by York Enterprises is high-end, but this is luxury on steroids.

I shouldn’t be surprised, since that’s what they’re known for.

The company is in the luxury textile business.

Sourcing and manufacturing fabrics used by the major fashion houses around the world.

Donovan York is often abroad, building his empire and creating timeless fabrics fit for royalty.

That’s why he attends many red-carpet events.

He’s one of the most dapper men in the city.

Fashion is his game. As I glance down at my professional yet somewhat librarian appearance, I know that one look at me, and he’ll realize fashion is not in my DNA.

I prefer vintage and love the clothes I wear, but I’m certainly not what one might refer to as a fashionista.

My confidence wanes, but I force my head high as I walk to his assistant’s desk. The lighting reflecting off the glass and marble almost blinds me, and as I spot a massive, professionally decorated Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, I can’t stop my smile.

“Jay Jay?” The woman behind the desk gives me a once-over before obviously deciding that I'm harmless.

Her lips purse, her eyebrows arched comically, and her nails resemble talons.

I roll my shoulders once more and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear before I push my glasses higher on my nose.

“That’s me.” Internally, I cringe, wondering if I could sound any more adolescent.

She stands on black stilettos with heels so thin I wonder how they hold her up. Although she’s clearly a size two at most, and my average frame looks large next to hers. Her red lips are immaculate, her eyeliner sharp, her hair perfectly coiffed. Yep, she belongs in fashion.

“This way.” Striding over to a large door off to the side, she knocks three times and enters, announcing my arrival. I swallow roughly, following her lead.

“Jay Jay from finance is here.”

Taking a deep breath, I step through, expecting gold trim, a boardroom full of Rolex-wearing executives, maybe a crystal decanter and a cigar humidor.

I did not expect this.

There’s warmth. Mahogany. A sweeping view of the city around us through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bold abstract art adorns the walls. And there, rising from behind a sleek walnut desk, is the man himself.

Donovan York.

My heart somersaults, my breath catches in my chest, and for one horrifying second, I forget every word I've ever known.