ONE
Colt
Theseparties are always the same: cheesy Christmas songs sneak in between every few tunes, colleagues disregard the ‘no fraternization’ policy and sneak off for their own little celebrations, and someone – usually Davis – has several too many glasses of eggnog and deals a few grand in property damage. Last year, he drunkenly ‘bumped into’ the venue’s Christmas display and sent their twenty foot tree through a window, which I then had to replace.
I suppose one good thing that remains each year is seeing the new hires, typically younger people, basking in the opulence of the event. This year is particularly special for me in that regard, because my son has finally taken a job with us, after more than a year of me pestering him about it, and it’s his first holiday party with the company.
While I do genuinely think he’ll make an excellent addition to the team, most of my bothering him was selfish in intention. He moved out on his own two years ago, and between his old job and his schooling, I hardly saw him anymore. It’s nice to see him letting loose tonight, letting down the serious exterior he’s built up around himself – he’s even spending time chatting with my assistant. She seems like a good kid, I wouldn’t mind if he pursued her. In fact, I might have to step in and encourage it.
Plucking two flutes of champagne from a tray carried by a server, I approach them with a smile and extend the glasses out to them in offering. Emmett takes one of the glasses from me, inclining his head in thanks.
“Oh, no thank you,” Rowan tells me, holding up her hand. “I don’t drink.”
My brow quirks in surprise. “No? I can’t say I’ve ever met a twenty-one year old who didn’t jump at the chance, especially at an open bar.”
“Do you make a habit of offering many twenty-one-year-olds alcohol, Mr. Fowler?” She retorts, her own brow arching in response to mine.
I let out a chuckle and shake my head, admitting defeat on this one. “No, no, I suppose I don’t.” Patting my son’s arm, I tell them, “You two enjoy the evening.”
My son doesn’t date much. He’s unfortunately, like me, encountered one too many women who are solely in it for the money. They see his flashy car and nice clothes and they hook their claws into him so they can take advantage of him. It’s good to see him spending time with a nice girl.
Moving through the party, I do my best to ensure that everyone in attendance is both enjoying themselves and not destroying the venue. Another incident like last year’s, and I’ll have to make this the last of the holiday parties.
Actually, maybe I should bring Davis a fresh eggnog.
After dumping what would have been Rowan’s flute of champagne down my throat, I discard the glass and stop to check in on the area which has been designated for toy and cash donations for families who need them.
Happy to see the collection boxes overflowing with gifts, I quickly write out a check for twenty thousand dollars and stuff it into the cash box before heading toward the sounds of chaos to find – surprise – Davis at the center of it. I only have five years on him, but it often feels more like there’s a thirty-five year difference between the two of us.
I nearly miss dodging a miniature cheesecake that whizzes past my head as what looks like the beginning of a food fight starts to pick up among a group of my colleagues and employees. I scrub a hand down my face in annoyance. You would think that a group of grown adults would be able to compose themselves in a setting like this, and yet they never seem to.
“You all have your fun,” I tell them, “but anyone who throws food is responsible for cleanup. You will not leave a mess for the staff here.”
“Got it, old man buzzkill,” Davis drawls, offering me a lazy salute.
My best friend of seventeen years and co-founder of our company, Eric Davis presents the fun face of the company, acting as the life of the party any time the opportunity is presented to him. He doesn’t take many things seriously, including his job, but the excitement that he brings is usually enough to balance that out. He likes to give me shit for prioritizing work over basically everything other than Emmett, but we wouldn’t be where we are today if I had stopped at every chance to party and push work off of the table.
“That includes you,” I warn him.
A look of resignation crosses his face and he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, announcing to the group around him, “You heard the man, no more flying food.”
Offering him a tight smile, I walk toward the tables that those too-small cheesecakes came from and spot Rowan sitting alone at a table nearby, nursing a small glass of water. I pull out the chair opposite her at the table and take a seat.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Oh yeah,” she smiles, “it’s a great party. I’m so happy the toy donations are so full.”
I look back toward the overflowing boxes with a proud smile of my own, then I return my gaze to hers, tellingher, “This is the second batch. A truck was filled up earlier with the first.”
Stars dance in her deep blue eyes as she tucks a lock of her long, sandy brown hair behind her ear. “Really? That’s incredible.”
“It’s the best turnout we’ve had so far.” I reach for one of the trays of desserts, pulling a brownie from it, and take a bite. “Do you know where Emmett ran off to?”
She crosses one leg over the other, the hem of her maroon sweater dress riding up just enough to show me that what I had assumed were a pair of sheer, black tights are, in fact, a pair of stockings, ending at the thigh, topped with a scalloped lace trim. My eyes wander down her legs and back up, scanning her body and the way that dress hugs it. If I were twenty years younger, this is the type of girl that I would go for. But she’s two years younger than my son, interested in him, and very much off-limits.
“I think he said he was going home,” she tells me, forcing me out of my own mind and back to the present.
“He didn’t offer to take you home?”
