Pauses.
No joke, no smirk.
Just a small nod.
Simple.
Quiet.
Like thatthank youis worth more than anything else.
He opens the door, about to leave.
Then he leans his shoulder against the frame and looks back at me.
“I’ll promise you one thing, Sloane.”
His voice drops low, serious, steady.
One of those lines that digs under your skin and stays there.
“You’re not going to regret saying yes.”
And then he’s gone.
I stay there, frozen.
With my heart pounding too hard.
With my brain completely scrambled.
With the horrible realization that…
…for the first time since I started this job, I’m terrified the only real romantic disaster… might be me.
32
Operation Secret Santa (or: The Art of Not Throwing a Reindeer at Cohen Becker)
Sloane
The wine is warming my veins—but not nearly enough to dull the exasperation.
I’m sprawled on the couch at The Snowed Inn, which tonight looks like it walked straight out of a cozy Christmas movie, and I’m doing my absolute best to ignore the impending disaster disguised as a friends’ night in.
Plaid throws everywhere.
Pillows with reindeer and sayings likeLet It Snow, Baby.
Amber candles. Gingerbread cookies with smiley faces that feel like they’re absolutely judging me.
It’s our tradition: hot chocolate, wine, gossip, and the annual Secret Santa draw.
Normally, it’s one of my favorite nights of the year.
Tonight… I kind of want to slam my head into a wall.
I don’t—only because I don’t want to ruin my blowout.
