Page 85 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"Too obvious." I eye the gown that matches the suit I wore when I first threw champagne at Alex. "Also possibly traumatic for the dry cleaning staff."

"Fine. The black one." She sorts through my options with the efficiency of someone who's been managing my wardrobe crises since high school. "Though you might want to focus less on fashion and more on why you're hiding from your boyfriend."

"I'm not hiding." I am absolutely hiding. "I'm working out how I’m going to?—“

My phone buzzes. Alex again:

ALEX: Your office is suspiciously empty for someone coordinating tonight's gala. Unless you're staging another coup with Keith?

KEITH (group chat):COMRADE GALLO! The revolutionary choir needs your approval for our festive rendition of "All I Want for Christmas is Corporate Equality"!

BRAD (group chat):The wellness journal suggests avoiding revolutionary carols during high-stress events. Also, has anyone seen my emotional support tinsel?

"The emerald silk," Lucia decides, pulling out a gown that somehow matches Alex's eyes exactly. "And maybe actually talk to him before the gala? Instead of hiding at our restaurant while inhaling your weight in pasta?"

"I wasn't?—"

A car horn outside interrupts my denial. Through my window, I spot Alex's distinctive black Range Rover idling in the snow.

Oh no.

"That's..." Lucia peers out. "Isn't that?—"

"Hide me."

"You're forty-two."

"Exactly. Old enough to know better than to face this conversation in sweatpants and yesterday's messy bun."

The doorbell rings. Because of course it does.

"Ms. Gallo?" Alex's voice carries through the intercom. "We need to talk about why you're avoiding me. And possibly why Keith keeps sending me revolutionary Christmas carol lyrics for approval."

Lucia grins. "Want me to tell him you're not home?"

"Yes."

"Too late." She hits the buzzer. "Come on up! She's having a fashion crisis!"

“Snitch.”

"Think of it as sister-mandated intervention."

I have exactly forty-five seconds to either escape through the window (unlikely in sweatpants) or face Alex looking like I've been pounding down carbs and avoiding adult conversations (accurate but unfortunate).

The knock comes just as I'm seriously considering the window option.

"Mac?" His voice through the door makes my heart do that stupid flutter thing. "Either let me in or I'm giving Keith complete creative control over the gala entertainment."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me. He's already written something called 'Jingle Bell Corporate Hell.’”

I open the door because the alternative is probably Keith teaching Seattle's tech elite to sing about proletarian holiday spirit.

A stone-jawed Alex fills my doorway in a perfectly tailored suit that definitely doesn't make me regret my current outfitchoices. Snowflakes dust his shoulders, and his expression suggests he's equally amused and concerned by my obvious avoidance techniques.

"Nice sweatpants," he says dryly.

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