“Fuck you, I’m nice!” I insist.
“Not as nice as you’ve been since you got some new blood in the office,” he pushes.
“It’s Christmas,” I say. “Christmas makes me nicer.” I use my hand to gesture toward my deep red suit. “Look at me, I’m practically fucking jolly.”
Setting down his fork, he props an elbow against the table and rests his chin between his index finger and thumb, raising his brow at me. “I would be, too, if I had a hot,youngassistant at my beck and call.”
“Oh, shut up, man, she’s younger than Emmett!”
He throws his hands up in mock surrender, telling me, “Hey, I have eyes. I wouldn’t be mad to find that tight little body wrapped up under the tree...with a string of lights.”
“Jesus,” I hiss, “you’re an HR nightmare waiting to happen.”
He throws his head back and roars out a laugh before returning to his food.
Once we’ve each had dinner, dessert, and seconds of each, I stand from the table and pull my phone from my pocket, checking the messages that came in while we were eating, one of which is from Rowan. I open the message to find a picture of her younger sister playing with her makeup set, at least five different styles of clips in her hair, with the message ‘Thank you, Santa.’
I slide my phone back into my pocket, trying to bite back the smile fighting to curl at my lips.
•
I find myself watching the door of my office, waiting for eight fifteen to tick by. I tap mindlessly at my computer to seem busy, to pass the few minutes until I hear that sweet, silvery voice greeting me.
Right on time, Rowan rounds the corner to my office, wearing a bright smile. “Happy Monday, Mr. Fowler!”
“Happy Monday, Rowan,” I reply.
The top half of her hair is pulled up, separated into two buns at the top of her head that look like little bear ears, which makes that big smile of hers so incredibly endearing.
My eyes rove over her of their own volition, taking in the way that her deep green sweater dress hugs her body. I watch as she unloads her belongings – among them the water bottle that was in her stocking, and her cane.
I force my gaze back to my computer when I see it, so that she can’t tell that I’m beaming with pride.
“I had a thought earlier,” I tell her.
“Oh? What’s that?”
She steps closer to my desk, leaning over it by bracing her hands at the edge. Her elbows lock together and I can see, even under the thick material of her dress, that the position squeezes her breasts together.
I clear my throat. “Until your car is working, please let me know what your rideshare fees are. You should be reimbursed.”
“But work didn’t break my car,” she laughs.
“Your reliability shouldn’t cost you money,” I push.
“Fine.”
She sits on the edge of the desk, one leg crossed over the other, and leans toward me to grab a pen and pad of post-it notes, eyes locked on mine the entire time. She opens her mouth just enough to let the tip of her tongue slide out and she taps the point of the pen to it a few times, then turns her attention to the paper and starts writing.
Jesus Christ.
When she’s finished writing, she slides the post-it pad across my desk toward me.
“Is that okay, Mr. Fowler?” She asks, a blush creeping across her cheeks.
My mouth goes dry. It takes a concentrated effort to peel my eyes from hers and look down at the note in front of me. “Yeah,” I rasp, “I’ll get you a check by end of business.”
“Thank you,” she tells me.
