Christmas Boss (Naughty X-Mas Nights Holiday Romance #1)

1. Claire

Claire

T he conference room on the forty-second floor of the Hancock Building has these massive windows that look out over Chicago, and the whole city is dusted with snow like something out of a movie.

The afternoon sun makes the ice crystals on the glass sparkle, and I'm definitely smiling at it like an idiot because it's Christmas Eve and the world is pretty and I can't help myself.

I'm probably the only person in this room who gives a shit about the view.

"Ms. Abbott." Garth's voice slices through my snow-globe moment. "The projector."

"Already on it." I tap the remote before he finishes the sentence, and his presentation fills the screen behind him. Rhodes Capital's Q4 performance metrics, perfectly formatted because I stayed until midnight making sure every pixel was exactly right.

I've been his executive assistant for fourteen months.

Fourteen months of learning to read his mind, predict his moods, and pretend I don't want to climb him like a tree every single day.

It's exhausting. Also kind of pathetic. But here we are—me, hopelessly gone on my boss, and him treating me like very expensive office furniture that occasionally brings him coffee.

"Gentlemen." Garth's talking to the three Hartwell executives now, and God, he's good at this.

He's wearing the charcoal Tom Ford suit—my favorite, not that I'd ever tell him that—and his hair has that silver-at-the-temples thing going on that should be illegal.

He's forty-two and looks like he walked out of a magazine spread titled "Men Who Will Ruin Your Life. "

I'm twenty-four and completely ruined.

I position myself in my usual corner with my tablet, ready to pull up whatever data he needs.

Outside, it's starting to snow harder, and I can see all the Christmas lights on the Magnificent Mile twinkling through the flakes.

There's this huge wreath on the building across the street, and for a second I wonder if Garth even knows it's Christmas Eve.

Probably not. He treats December twenty-fourth like it's just another Thursday that's inconveniently interrupting his world domination plans.

"As you can see from the third quarter comparisons..." Garth gestures, and I advance the slide without him asking. His eyes flick to me for half a second—acknowledgment, not appreciation—before going right back to his targets.

That's Garth. He notices everything. He just doesn't care about most of it.

Except business. Business, he cares about with an intensity that's borderline scary.

Watching him present is like watching a shark circle—precise, controlled, absolutely sure he's about to win.

The Hartwell guys are leaning forward, totally hooked.

I've seen this a million times. Garth doesn't just pitch investments; he makes people feel like handing him their money is the best decision they'll ever make.

Usually because it is.

"Ms. Abbott, the metrics."

I'm already pulling them up on my tablet, moving closer to set it on the table next to him.

His cologne hits me—something with cedar and bergamot, expensive and woody—and I have to physically stop myself from breathing too deep like some kind of creep.

His fingers brush mine when he takes the tablet.

I step back to my corner, heart doing that stupid racing thing it always does when he touches me, even accidentally.

The presentation keeps going. Garth's in his zone, ruthlessly competent and completely focused.

I love watching him work, even though it means watching him ignore me.

He's brilliant—like, actual Forbes "Self-Made Billionaires" brilliant.

Built Rhodes Capital from nothing and after his wife died, poured all his grief into something sharp and successful and completely untouchable.

Kind of like how he treats me.

"I think we've seen enough," the lead executive—Martin Hartwell himself—says, and I'm already pulling up the contract files because I know what's coming next. "Rhodes, you've convinced us. We want in."

Garth smiles, and it's small but real, and oh my God, it transforms his whole face. He goes from intimidating CEO to actual human person, and my stomach does this embarrassing flip-flop thing that I really need to get under control.

"Excellent." He shakes hands with all of them, and I'm trying not to stare. "Ms. Abbott will send over the contracts tonight. You'll have everything you need by end of business."

Tonight. Christmas Eve. Of course.

But I'm already nodding because that's what I do. "I'll have them for you by eight PM, Mr. Hartwell."

"On Christmas Eve?" Martin looks genuinely surprised. "Surely that can wait until Monday?"

I start to agree—because yeah, obviously it can wait—but Garth's already talking.

"Ms. Abbott doesn't mind. She's extraordinarily dedicated."

He makes it sound like a compliment. It's not. It's just a fact, delivered in that flat tone he uses for everything that isn't quarterly reports or acquisition strategies.

"Well." Martin gives me this sympathetic look. "Merry Christmas to you, Ms. Abbott. And thank you."

"Merry Christmas!" I give him my brightest smile because someone in this room should have holiday spirit. "Seriously, it's no problem."

Garth's already packing up, all efficiency and zero sentiment. The Hartwell team files out with handshakes and "happy holidays," and then it's just us in this big conference room with Chicago turning into a snow globe outside.

"Good work today," Garth says without looking up from his briefcase.

Good work. Two whole words. That's what I get for fourteen months of basically reading his mind, working eighty-hour weeks, and learning his moods better than I know my own.

"Thank you, Mr. Rhodes." I keep my voice sunny and professional, even though inside I'm a disaster. "Your seven PM flight to Aspen should board on time. I checked the weather an hour ago and—"

"I know. You sent the update." He finally looks at me, and those grey eyes are completely unreadable. "Your flight to Detroit is at seven-fifteen. You should leave now to make it."

I should go. I really should. My mom's probably already at the airport, ready to spend the flight asking why I'm still single and telling me all about cousin Rachel's perfect engagement to her perfect fiancé.

But standing here with Garth, even when he's being cold and dismissive, feels better than going home.

Which is so pathetic I can't even think about it.

"I'll send the contracts from the airport," I say, grabbing my stuff—tablet, phone, the giant leather bag I lug everywhere. "Have a good Christmas, Mr. Rhodes."

He nods, already on his phone. Dismissed, as usual.

I make it to the elevator before I let myself sag against the wall.

The doors close and I catch my reflection in the polished steel—strawberry blonde hair I spent forty minutes flat-ironing this morning, minimal makeup, the navy blazer I specifically wore because it's structured and hides every curve I've been taught my whole life to be ashamed of.

I look like I have my shit together.

I look like a complete lie.

The elevator drops me in the lobby where there's this massive Christmas tree covered in white lights.

There's a kids' choir singing carols in the atrium, their voices all high and sweet on "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

" I stop for just a second to soak it in, this perfect holiday moment that Garth would probably call a waste of time.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light...

My phone buzzes.

Garth: Flight delays possible due to weather. Check status before leaving.

Of course he thought of that. The man thinks of everything.

I pull up my airline app while pushing through the revolving doors into actual winter. The cold smacks me in the face, and I'm digging for my coat when I see it:

FLIGHT 2847 TO DETROIT - CANCELED

No. No no no.

I refresh the app like maybe it's wrong, maybe—

FLIGHT 2847 TO DETROIT - CANCELED DUE TO WEATHER

I just stand there on Michigan Avenue, watching snow land on my phone screen and melt.

Chicago's turning into this perfect winter wonderland around me—the smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor, "Silver Bells" playing from someone's car radio, couples walking by with shopping bags full of wrapped presents.

And I'm stuck.

My phone rings. Mom.

"Hi, Mom, I know, I just—"

"Claire, sweetie, the weather's getting worse by the minute. I don’t want you flying in this. Come tomorrow?"

Tomorrow. Christmas Day. I'm blinking back tears which is ridiculous because I'm twenty-four years old and shouldn't be this upset about missing Christmas with my mom, who's just going to criticize my life choices anyway.

"Yeah," I manage. "That's probably smart. Be safe, okay?"

We hang up and I'm alone on Michigan Avenue on Christmas Eve. The irony isn't lost on me—I've spent months pining after a man who barely knows I exist, and now I can't even make it home.

My phone buzzes again.

Garth: My flight's canceled. At O'Hare now. You?

Of course his flight's canceled. He's probably already making backup plans while everyone else panics.

I stare at the message, at the snow, at all the happy couples walking past. And I do something either really brave or really stupid.

Canceled too. Need help with anything?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Find us a hotel room. Everywhere will be booked.

Us. Hotel room.

My heart does something complicated and completely inappropriate.

I'm already scrolling through hotel apps like my life depends on it. He's right—everything near the airport is booked solid. Downtown is worse. The suburbs are a joke.

My phone rings. Garth, actually calling.

"Where are you?" He sounds annoyed, which is basically his default setting.

"Still on Michigan. Everything's booked, I'm trying—"

"Get a car to O'Hare. I'll meet you there. Keep looking."