Chapter 41 – Mindy
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The best Christmas surprise
Mindy
After my little breakdown in Mr. Hale’s office two days ago, I’m starting to come to terms with losing the last items I owned that belonged to my grandmother, Juanita Espinoza.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m in no way saying what Roger did was okay. I’m devastated by what that absolute doorknob did, but at least I don’t feel like bawling my face off every two minutes.
I only wish I hadn’t broken down and cried all over my boss, despite obviously needing to get it out of my system. And he was so freaking nice about it.
Another thing that’s made me feel a little better is that Twatface has apparently been hacked. He called me crying like a little bitch this morning because he couldn’t get into any of his accounts.
The idiot tried to blame me, but I reminded him he took me off all the accounts at the same time he changed the locks on the house so there was no way I could have done it.
Next, I very sweetly informed him I could have gotten him into the accounts so he could change his passwords back if he hadn’t acted like such a bastard.
Then I hung up on him. It was one of the most satisfying moments of my life.
I’m at my desk when Mr. Hale comes in, wearing one of his power suits and an actual Christmas tie.
“Well, good morning, Father Christmas,” I say cheerfully. This is the last day of work before Christmas, and the air in the building is electric and festive.
A smirk creases his face. “Is that your way of calling me Daddy?”
Oh. My. Was that a flirt? Yeah, definitely a flirt.
My cheeks heat, but I keep my tone neutral and give him a dismissive wave of my hand. “You shouldn’t walk around with that beard and those suits if you don’t want women getting Daddy vibes from you.”
His grin only increases. The cocky fucker looks incredibly pleased with himself. We’ve been playing this little cat and mouse game since that thing—whatever it was—in the bathroom a couple weeks ago. No inappropriate physical contact… only words and looks that border on suggestive.
“Noted,” he says. “When you get a second, come into my office. I have a gift for you.” He holds up a large red gift bag with green tissue paper.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, a little flustered because I didn’t expect him to get me anything. “I got you something too.”
Remi’s eyes soften around the corners. “You did?”
“Of course. You’re in charge of whether or not I get a raise,” I tease.
He laughs heartily, a sound I don’t hear much from him, and goes inside his office, leaving the door cracked. I don’t want to look like a present whore, so I don’t rush in immediately behind him, but I’m dying to know what’s in that bag. So I wait one minute. Two minutes.
And I’m done, quickly standing and taking a gift bag and a large bakery box from the closet behind my desk. Then I press a button on my office phone to let Amanda know I’ll be away from my desk for a few minutes. With that sorted, I head inside, my heart in my throat.
It’s not easy picking out a gift for a literal billionaire. They can buy whatever the hell they want, so this makes me nervous. What if he doesn’t like it? What if it’s not up to his high standards? Pushing all that away, I force a smile onto my face.
Remi is sitting on his office couch with the gift bag on the low wooden table in front of him. Crossing the cream-and-forest-green rug, I take a seat beside him on the leather couch that’s so dark green it’s almost black.
He eyes the gifts in my hand, probably already guessing what’s in the bakery box. I know he’ll like that one; it’s the other I’m worried about, so I set down the bag and hand him the large box.
“Hmmm, wonder what this could be,” he muses, making me laugh. He opens the box, and his eyes pop wide at the selection.
“I know you like the peach pie cookies, so I played around with that a bit,” I say pointing out the variety. “These have apple filling, and then I tried out a chocolate pie recipe, using meringue instead of pie crust for the top. They both still have a sugar cookie bottom crust though.”
“Chocolate pie cookies?” he asks with awe in his tone, easing one out and taking a bite. “Oh my god. So good,” he mumbles with his mouth full and his eyes rolled back in his head.
I giggle. “Is that your new favorite?”
His face takes on a pained look, like I’ve offended him. “You expect me to admit that in front of the peach ones? I would never insult my first love.”
“I thought you’d enjoy an entire box to yourself.”
“I will,” he says, squeezing my arm and sending tingles to the rest of my body. “Open yours now.” He slides the bag over in front me.
“Okay,” I say, trying to hide my giddiness. I begin pulling out the massive amounts of tissue paper to reveal… “Holy shit.” The words come out breathless and reverent as I spot the distinctive B on the gorgeous red purse.
“If you don’t like it, you can take it back and pick out something different from the Bouvier store.”
I pull out the purse with my mouth gaping open. “You got me a Bouvier purse?” My fingers run over the surface, the cool leather a stunning blood-red alligator-skin texture. This had to have cost thousands of dollars. “It’s the most beautiful purse I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Good,” he says, sounding relieved. “I must have looked at a hundred different purses, but none of them seemed right until the saleslady brought this one from the back.” He lowers his voice.
“It hasn’t actually been released yet, so she had to call New York to get special permission to sell it to me. ”
This is the point where I should probably act all demure and say something like, “Oh noooo! This is too much. There’s no way I can accept it.”
But this man took his time to pick this out especially for me, so there’s not a chance in hell I would hurt his feelings and not accept it. Plus, I really fucking love it.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Hale. I absolutely love it.”
“Remi,” he says, his voice gruff. “Call me Remi when we’re alone.”
Holy fucking hotness. Just the word alone from his perfectly sculpted mouth has me thinking thoughts that should probably give me a urinary tract infection.
“Okay, and you can call me Mindy if you want. When we’re alone. Not that I’m thinking about us being alone together or… shit. You know what I mean.”
He chuckles. “I know what you mean.” Then he gestures toward the purse. “Open it up. There’s something else inside.”
“What?” I practically yell in the man’s face. “The purse is plenty. You didn’t have to—”
He cuts me off with a finger to my lips. “Hush and open the damn purse, Mindy.”
I sigh and mumble, “You’re the boss.” It doesn’t escape my attention when he shifts in his seat at those words.
My fingers open the silver zipper, and, once again, my mouth drops open. “You got me pens?”
I lift my gaze to his, finding him chewing the corner of his lip. “I remember you told me your dad always got you cool pens for Christmas.”
“See? I knew you wanted to be my daddy,” I say airily, and he shifts again, this time tugging at the thighs of his black dress pants.
I do my best to contain my smirk when he growls out, “Could you not say shit like that?”
“Whatever you say, boss.” My words soften when I realize something. “I can’t believe you remembered that. I mentioned it once and that was seven years ago.”
His hot brown gaze strips me bare. “I remember more than you can imagine.”
I yank my eyes away before I do something stupid like straddle my boss, rip off his tie, and demand he tie me to his desk. Instead, I spend the next few minutes gushing and squealing over all the pens and cute markers in the bag. There have to be at least a hundred of them.
Finally done fangirling over writing implements like a nerd, I pick up the white gift bag with silver snowflakes and hand it over.
He pulls out the golf ball first. It’s mounted inside a plexiglass and wood case, and he turns it over in his hands before freezing, his eyes shifting up to mine.
“Is this for real?” I nod, and he looks back down at the signature. “This is an actual golf ball signed by Arnold Palmer?”
“It is. It’s one of the balls he played with when he won the Masters in 1964.”
He holds the case in one hand and massages his forehead with the other. “Honest to god? This was one of Arnold Palmer’s actual golf balls?”
“Yes,” I confirm again. “There’s a certificate of authentication in the bag. It belonged to my dad.”
Remi pulls out the paper and inspects it, shaking his head before gaping at me like I just handed over the keys to the lost city of Atlantis. “You can’t give me this, Mindy. Not if it was your father’s.”
I wave him away. “He had a lot of sports memorabilia, a whole room full actually. My mom rented a storage locker for all of it after she moved to a smaller house.”
His eyes narrow. “Is it climate controlled? Because a treasure like this needs—”
“It’s climate controlled,” I assure him, laughing a little at his vehemence. “You like it?”
“I fucking love it,” he says, still staring down at it before lifting his gaze to my face. “Thank you, Mindy. This is the coolest gift anyone has ever given me.”
“I’m glad,” I say, shrugging my shoulders in excitement. “I knew he was one of your all-time favorites.” I nod to the poster of the legendary golfer that hangs behind us on the wall.
He reaches for the other item in the bag, a flat white box. “You got me something else too?”
“This one is something more practical,” I say quickly, a little self-conscious because… hello? I’m buying for a billionaire.
He opens the box, and his eyes light up. “You got me gloves?”
“I heard you tell Antonio you lost one of yours.”
“I lost one, and I haven’t had a chance to get new ones.”
“They’re… yeah, they’re not super fancy or anything, but… okay, you’re putting them on.”
Jesus, help me. What if he thinks they’re shitty? Granted, they’re nicer than any gloves I’ve ever owned, with black Italian lambskin and a cashmere lining, but they’re not the most expensive gloves ever made or anything.
“These are perfect,” he says, wiggling his fingers.