Terms and Traditions (The Reluctant Romantics #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Stephanie

Mandatory office Christmas parties should be outlawed, especially for the introverts who planned them.

Why would I want to attend a party I’d literally spent the last four weeks planning when I could be home in my pajamas with a plate of freshly baked gingersnaps—courtesy of my very talented roommate and bestie who stress baked on a regular basis—watching any assortment of Christmas movies? Why indeed.

But if I did say so myself, everything about the party was perfectly executed.

From the canapés to the music. Even the festive dress code was a hit.

Who knew a bunch of stuffy marketing executives would love the idea of dressing up as their favourite Christmas movie character?

(Although the Christmas bonuses our boss, Nash Prescott, always handed out might have explained their enthusiasm.) Neil, one of our graphic design interns, took the prize in my mind with a hideous knit sweater that walked straight out of a ‘90s movie. But he rocked it. Well played, Neil.

Perfection and costume decisions aside, I, Stephanie Addams, just wanted to go home. And that was before someone spilled cream soda on my sweater dress. While my favourite colour—forest green—hid a multitude of sins, soda wasn’t one of them.

But could I duck out early? No. My illustrious boss mandated one last huzzah before the grind of our upcoming software program launch in the new year.

So I was stuck there. In the deserted breakroom kitchen.

Scrubbing soda stains from my clothing and guzzling a fancy La Croix like tomorrow wasn’t coming.

Party planning wasn’t part of my job description, and if I ever saw another canapé, it would be too soon.

Because when the original event coordinator backed out last minute, who did Nash think was the best replacement?

You’re looking at her. Now we were playing a game of favours and IOUs.

“You are so going to owe me for this one, Nash,” I hissed under my breath, giving my dress a final scrub.

Nash Prescott, CEO and founder of Genesis Marketing, wasn’t a terrible man or a terrible boss by any means, even if I did hate his mandatory festivities participation.

I’d worked as his personal assistant for the last two years, and he was generous.

A glance at the budget he provided for this shindig proved it.

Had he foregone the party (my suggestion) and added said budget to my paycheck, I could have paid rent a few times over.

Not that I was biased about him or anything since we shared a friend group.

Which made us friends. Pals. Totally platonic.

Well, at least as chummy as a girl could be with her very attractive, very thoughtful millionaire boss.

Who was I kidding? I’d watched the man play tea party with his best friend’s daughters and rock a baby to sleep. Just. Friends.

My phone chimed with ear-shattering intensity, and I slapped my pockets, trying to find it.

Since when was my volume on? Not since 2015, that’s when.

My stomach churned and sweat prickled my skin as I glanced at the name on the screen.

Hiram Addams. Dear ol’ Dad. Oh, boy. I debated opening his message—they were always a harbinger of passive-aggressiveness—but it was family drama or returning to the party.

Easy choice. Blowing out a breath, I flicked the message app open and braced myself for his latest rant.

HIRAM

Stephanie, I want you to entertain Jarrett at the cabin. He’s still an asset to Nova and will be joining us for Christmas.

No, no, no! I choked on the mouthful of bubbly water, making my nose burn. This could not be happening. Breaking every boundary and rule I’d set for myself about replying to his messages, I typed out a panicked text.

ME

No! You are not setting me up with him again. He’s a creep. Besides, I have a boyfriend.

What was I saying? I hadn’t had a boyfriend in five years, and he’d only lasted a month.

The best I’d managed since then was a handful of second dates and one pathetic crush on my boss.

But the last time Hiram badgered me into entertaining Jarrett, this “asset” to his marketing company, the guy hadn’t taken “no” as an answer.

He’d wanted entertainment all right—ugh.

Trying to steal a kiss in a dark hallway under nonexistent mistletoe when a girl already said no was not acceptable behaviour.

HIRAM

So you are capable of replying to my messages instead of behaving like a child. Bring him. Your job is enough of an embarrassment. Don’t disappoint me again. It’s time you got serious about your life.

And I’d stumbled right into his trap. Hook, line, and sinker.

Most of the time, I didn’t reply to his messages, but somehow my father—who didn’t even deserve the title—figured out threatening me with a creepy date would be an effective topic to break the radio silence.

Way to win a dad-of-the-year award. Now I needed a fake boyfriend in less than a week to go and meet my family of five older half siblings and their families. All but one of whom hated me. Lovely.

I’d downed all but the last swig of my seltzer water when unwelcome feminine titters drifted down the hall towards me.

Drat. I ducked behind a gigantic silver-wrapped gift.

Not my finest move, but I needed a breather after that text and to hide the Texas-sized wet spot staining my front.

Maybe I could sneak to the bathroom and see if the air dryer would work some magic on my dress.

On a regular day, I’d never consider it—have you read how gross those things are?

—but this was no ordinary day. And a paper towel wasn’t going to cut it.

Plus, I was in no mood to bump into the women moving towards me.

While I loved my job as a personal assistant, the environment I didn’t love so much.

For some reason, being the PA to one of the wealthiest men in Washington State had garnered me the hate of every woman in the office—yay me.

The women were catty, and all my attempts at friendship and cordial working relations in the last two years had fallen flat.

When I brought a platter of Liz’s to-die-for pecan sticky buns?

They dismissed them as “too fattening.” My lobbying to hear their contributions at the table when we brainstormed ideas?

They labeled me as condescending. I was no stranger to the rumours about me floating through the sleek office between cubicles.

About how the only way I’d landed my job was from sleeping my way to the top.

Gross. It might be the Christmas season, but green jealousy didn’t look good on anyone.

I ignored the hum of voices—Samantha and Anika, from the sound of it—as they entered my makeshift sanctuary.

Wearing a sweater dress mirroring a Hallmark heroine had been a terrible idea with the thermostat gone haywire, and the sticky residue of cream soda and dampness wasn’t helping my overwhelming levels of swampiness.

It wasn’t until I raised the La Croix can to my lips for the last delicious swig that my brain latched onto the conversation they’d brought into the small kitchen.

“She’s the only one who didn’t bring a plus one,” Samantha commented. “And she planned it all.”

Anika tittered. “She’s never had a boyfriend as long as I’ve known her.

I doubt she’s been asked out since we graduated.

The one time I dared her to kiss a guy in high school, he threw up immediately.

” They laughed hysterically before she added, “Some people peak at graduation and just never realize it. Besides, she’s too much of a workaholic to date. Zero work-life balance, I tell you.”

I silently resented that because I had been asked out.

True, only a handful got a rare second date, and there was only one who progressed to boyfriend status—which lasted about a month—but still.

Get your facts straight, Anika. As for a workaholic…

There was some truth to that. Nash was busy, which meant I was, too.

But I did have a life outside of work, and Anika didn’t have to be nasty about it.

Oh, did I mention I knew her from childhood? Yeah. We used to be close friends in middle and high school back in Denver, then we lost touch and ended up in Spokane at the same marketing firm ten years later. Small world.

One of them rummaged in the fridge. Seriously, why were they in here when all the food was out in the conference room? This breakroom was for daily lunches and solitary confinement, not perfectly catered events and gossip hour.

“Any idea why?” Samantha asked.

Oh, boy. My heart stuttered, and a trickle of sweat inched down my back, making me squirm and nearly bump my nose against the shiny paper grotesquely distorting my reflection. Could we get off the love train of Stephanie Addams’s nonexistent love life? Please and thanks.

Apparently not, because my former friend opened her big mouth. “Stephanie is… a lot. I grew up with her. I’d know. She’s got tons of baggage. Her mom was Hiram Addams’s sixth wife, you know, and after she left him, Hiram was never around. Just dumped Stephanie with his parents and moved on.”

“She’s still an Addams princess,” Samantha drolled, then dropped her voice to a whisper.

“And what was she thinking, choosing to work here when her family is literally the competition? I should have gotten the job.” She sniffed.

“Although the look on her face when you spilled your soda on her was the most emotion I’ve ever seen from her.

” She snickered. “She’s such an ice princess. Guys don’t go for that kind of thing.”