My blinking tree is not going to fix itself…
“Ugh…” I groaned and spotted the blinking culprit behind the mailbox.
Adjusting the settings, I made sure no bulbs were missing before unplugging and replugging it.
I didn’t forget.
It’s fixed.
Satan (Mr. Saint)
I need you to double-check all the décor and set up for the ceremony. Preferably with a sense of urgency.
A ‘thank you’ would be nice, Mr. Saint…
I agree. You’re very welcome for all I do for you.
It took everything in me not to send him thefuck you, assholetext he deserved.
Distracting myself with his holiday nonsense, I looked over the catering tables, checked the photography stations, and then—I stopped.
I saw them.
Thelists.
Stacked in alphabetical gold boxes, each one filled with individual envelopes for every employee.
Last year, I’d received a standardAll interns are nicebox, but now that I’d been promoted to his assistant, I should’ve had my own personal one.
After checking the lobby to make sure no one else was there, I opened the first “D” box and found my name.
I slipped my pen under the wax seal, certain I could glue it back in time for the ceremony.
The moment it gave way, I pulled out a beautiful silver sheet of paper that featured Mr. Saint’s handwriting.
Dear Jenna Dawson,
I made a list and checked it twice,
to determine if you were naughty or nice…
You are
NAUGHTY.
That means you will NOT receive a bonus this year.
Please continue working as usual.
Happy holidays,
Nicholas Saint
This man can’t be serious…
So, Francis…how open would you be to helping me egg the fuck out of Mr. Saint’s car tonight?
Like, scale of one to ten?
