His jawline twitches. “I said it was fine.”
The edge to his voice tells me it’s not fine, but what’s left for me to say at this point? So, I muster up my best poker face and ask, “Okay, so was that the only reason you asked to see me?”
Please, be the only reason.
I stretch my lips into a smile as genuine as a three-dollar bill, completely unconvinced by my mom’s claim that smiling takes fewer muscles than frowning. Honestly, it feels like an extreme workout in here.
“Do you have a place to spend the holidays if the electricity remains out?” he asks.
Whoa, plot twist. I blink in surprise. That’s not the question I expected. Did Mr. Barrington just express human-like concern for my well-being? Cue the dramatic music.
“Abby?” he presses, his voice suddenly sharper than a chef’s knife. I can’t remember him ever using my first name. He always calls me Ms. Sinclair.
“I, uh… Yeah, I’ll be with my family.” The truth feels awkward on my tongue, given I’d rather spend Christmas with anyone else but them.
“Good, good.” He shuts his mouth, then opens it again, but no words come out. The silence is awkward.
His gaze locks on me, and the quiet weighs me down as if we’re trapped in a sitcom that’s run out of jokes. I wish I’d worn jingle bell jewelry to make some noise.
Okay, this is just great. I don’t like being the center of attention—unlike Rachel. My hands clasp together, and I pull them apart before I fidget.
I need to get out of here. “Anything else, sir?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “No. Carry on.”
Carry on? Did he forget the “keep calm” part?
I give him a polite smile, but my insides twist. This conversation hasn’t gone the way I thought it would. Not thatI had any idea why he called me into his office. I leave, feeling more confused than ever.
When I return to my desk, I peek under it and find an empty cat crate. My stomach drops to my sneakers.
Something crashes outside my office.
Oh, no. Powerfluff wouldn’t…
Yes, she would.
Fueled by adrenaline, I rush to the lobby. There, in all her fluffy glory, is Powerfluff, perched atop a fallen Christmas tree, tinsel wrapped around her like a royal cape.
My coworkers stand frozen, staring in shock.
“Powerfluff,” I groan, imagining the damage this will do to my already fragile employment status. “I’m so sorry, everyone. I locked her crate. I swear.”
A deep chuckle sounds behind me. I turn to see Mr. Barrington watching the chaos with a fleeting smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Clean this up, Ms. Sinclair.” His voice is gruff once again, yet warmth flashes in his eyes, and then it’s gone. I must’ve imagined it.
Ugh. I need more cookies. Stat.
Well, after I clean up the mess my cat made.
CHAPTER TWO
John
As Abby—I mean, Ms. Sinclair—heads to the decimated tree, I return to my office. I sit at my desk and bury my face in my hands, practically singeing my palms from the heat radiating off my cheeks. You’d think a guy with an MBA from Harvard would have a handle on this whole “talking to women” thing. Instead, I’m floundering like an eighth grader who just tripped over his own two feet, cheeks flushed and tongue-tied. Pathetic doesn’t begin to cover my behavior with her.
Pathetic with a capital P still doesn’t come close.
