“Well, that’s just mean.”
I don’t disagree, but I can’t tell her that. I won’t go against Holden. I won’t say anything against him to our coworkers. That’s what happens when you’re in love with your boss. Sure, I listen to their grumbles. I have to be approachable. But I usually redirect us pretty quickly.
It’s just getting harder to do these days. It hurts me to hear people vilify Holden. He’s incredibly talented. He owns some property on the outskirts of Hope peak where he’s going to build his dream house someday. He’s even shared some ideas and basic renderings with me, and I know he values my opinion because every suggestion I make appears in the next version he shows me.
And I’m not gonna lie. There’s a little part of me, the part with ovaries that are about to freaking explode with love and want for Holden Carmichael, that thinks maybe, just maybe, he might be interested in me. But he’s never done anything to show that. Never done anything inappropriate that will compromise his business.
Because that’s the guy he is. He is a good man, deep down inside. He will give us random bonuses for big projects. Once, after finishing a big job, he gave people in the office the choice of a day on the golf course or a day at the spa. Just closed the office and let us relax and celebrate.
That was the year we won the Gold. Everybody pulled overtime to get that job done, but it was so worth it. That’s why I don’t understand where he’s coming from lately. He didn’t used to make us work the Friday after Thanksgiving. Ever since winning that award, though, it’s like he keeps pushing us to out perform ourselves. And when he does? A little bit of light in him dims every day.
I smile at Penny, the soothing office decor a contrast to how we’re both feeling. “It’s in the contract we signed.”
Penny walks off in a huff, and I don’t blame her. This policy stinks. I head to Holden’s office, knock on the door, and walk in when he motions for me.
He’s always had an open-door policy, hence the half-glass wall. Lately, it’s been closed more often than it used to be, but he doesn’t say no when someone needs him.
He looks up at me. He’s got that focused look, the one where he runs his thumb along his bottom lip while thinking, his brown eyes intense, and my resolve starts to crumble. But then I picture Penny, and I double down.
“We need to close the office the day after Thanksgiving.”
He looks at me like I have lost my mind.
I grip the back of a guest chair. “Being open and not allowing the team even the option of taking the day off prevents employees from spending time with out of town family. Big Sky didn’t used to do this. There are still Cyber Monday sales—”
“No.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. He’s not even going to discuss this with me. I don’t care if I love him. He is being an ass.
“You could make it an optional workday, giving those of us that want to come in time and a half or offer a flex day to be used at another time.”
I can see something flicker in his eyes before he disappoints me a second time.
“It’s still no, Atlanta.” He scrubs his face. “We just lost a new contract, so saving money on Black Friday is a solid move.”
“Wrong! It’s a solid move for the general public to save money on holiday presents for their kids and families, which you are not letting any of us take advantage of. It’s a very Grinch move.”
Did I just say that?
His eyes flash.
Oh, snap.
“You just called me a Grinch.”
I take a rule out of his playbook and say nothing.
He heaves a big sigh, places his elbows on the desk, and scans my body from head to toe. The heat in his eyes is enough to make me want to get on his desk and let him have his way with me, which is stereotypical and inappropriate, but this is my favorite Carmichael fantasy. Well, that and him winning at a game of strip poker.
I would be sitting there in nothing but a red bra and panty set, him in his tie and suit. He’d lean back in his chair, that cocky smile playing at his lips as he’d slowly loosen his tie and bite his lip. ‘Give up an article of clothing, Atlanta,’ he’d say, his voice low and rough.
I’d remove the bra, and his brown eyes would heat. “Touch yourself for me,” he’d command, loosening his belt while watching me slide my hand beneath the red lace, my fingers finding wetness as his breathing grew heavier.
He grumbles, startling me to the present. “I am not Grinchy.”
The lights in his office flicker, and his face pales.
Almost under his breath, he mutters it a second time. “I am not grinchy.” They flicker again.
