Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
“Yes, Lucia and I! We decorated the door in ops with cat drawings for a Meowy Christmas,” he says, then shows me a picture.
Oh, that we—Shay and his wife, not Shay and the boss.
“And you deserve it,” I say.
“We get three free nights at The Resort hotel in the honeymoon suite.”
“Can confirm that hotel is amazing. And I hope you have a great cat-mas,” I say, and I’m about to knock on Wilder’s half-open door when I stop. Just because his fingers were inside you doesn’t mean you can walk in like you own the place. Check with his assistant.
“Is Wilder here? We’re doing the stockings,” I explain, and oh…is my voice squeaking with nerves? Yes, yes, it is.
“I am,” Wilder says in that rich, brandy voice, emerging from his suite in a charcoal black suit, with a cheap drugstore Santa hat atop his thick hair.
I huff. “Wilder, are you Scrooge?”
“How am I Scrooge?”
I flap a hand his way. “You’re wearing a regular suit and a hat, and we’re handing out gifts.”
Shay rolls his eyes. “Total Scrooge.”
Wilder lifts a challenging brow to me, then Shay. “Does Scrooge deliver stockings full of gifts for every employee?”
I park my hands on my hips. “No, but Scrooge also does not have an elf. This elf works for Santa.”
“Ah, but you look good in an elf costume,” he says, and his gaze lingers on me for a good long time. So long that chills erupt along my skin.
“You two want me to just leave right now?” Shay jokes.
He doesn’t know the half of it. But even so, I return to making my case. “Wilder, you’re supposed to be Santa. You need the whole regalia—the beard, the red suit, the boots, and everything.”
“No,” he says.
“No?”
“No.” It’s a line in the sand.
Shay coughs under his breath, muttering, “Lovers’ spat.” Then he points to Wilder’s office. “Go fight in there, kids.”
“We’re not fighting,” Wilder says.
But we kind of are. So I grab his hand and drag him back into his office, shutting the door. “I thought you were going to dress up as Santa for us to deliver the stockings?”
He gives me a look like that’ll never happen. “Do I need to remind you?”
What is he talking about? “Remind me of what?”
“What my Christmas girlfriend once said,” he prompts then says, “I quote, Santa’s not hot. Of course you aren’t going as Santa.”
Ohhhhh. That’s what I said about the Christmas movie costume party. “That does ring a bell.”
“You also said Santa as a nickname gave you the ick.”
I gasp, all over the top. “What is wrong with me? Am I a Santa hater?”
He smiles smugly. “Maybe you are.”
“No! I can’t be.”
He gives me an I told you so look. “Be that as it may, I’m wearing a suit instead.”
It takes me a moment to fully register what he’s saying. “Because I said Santa’s not hot?”
He nods. “Yes. And because you also said You’re my boyfriend. You’ll look hot.”
“And you want to look hot…for me?”
“Yes.” His eyes pin me with a heated stare, like he did the other day on his desk. He looks like he wants to bend me over it. A spark slides down my spine at that wild thought. Then he nods to the door. “Now let’s go deliver the presents, little elf. I have a busy day, and we have a busy night.”
He leaves first, leaving me with the admission—he wants to look good for me. Because I’m his holidate? Or just because?
No idea, but I really could use that handbook.
Especially since he’s all business as we deliver the gifts, stopping by Shay’s desk first of course.
“I’m going to use the bonus on more hideous sweaters for next year,” he declares.
“Excellent plan.”
Then we stop by the marketing department, where T-shirts are admired, and chocolate is popped open, and bonuses make for sparkly eyes. We visit Sandra’s office, where my direct supervisor oohs and aahs over the gifts. “I knew you were working on this but it’s even better than I imagined,” she says of the shirt. “Can’t wait to advertise it and sell it.”
“A marketer after my own heart,” Wilder says.
As we make the rounds in human resources, I keep thinking of the picture we present—him in his sharp suit and Santa hat, me in the elf dress. Like we match. Like the couple they think we are. But do fake boyfriends want to look hot for their Christmas girlfriends? Do they want to bend them over desks? Do fake girlfriends want their pretend lover’s fingers fucking them in the office?
My face flushes at the memory and I try to push it away, but the questions chase me as we visit the operations department.
I finally push them aside when we pop by Bibi’s office. She’s wearing a red-plaid Santa hat today, and she eagerly takes the stocking. “I wonder what could be in here,” she says, like she means it.