Page 86 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"Nice timing." I gesture at my general disaster state. "I was just about to?—"

"Hide at your family's restaurant again?" His eyes catch on the emerald dress Lucia's still holding. "Though apparently not before choosing a gala outfit that matches my eyes. Subtle."

"I'll just..." Lucia edges toward the door. "Go help Nonna with... anything that's not this conversation."

She escapes, leaving me alone with six feet two inches of concerned CEO and my complete lack of emotional preparedness.

"So," Alex closes the door, his movements deliberate. "Want to tell me why you're avoiding me? Or should we discuss Keith's proposal for a 'dance revolution' at the gala?"

"He's what?"

"Apparently it involves synchronized protest movements and something called the 'equity shuffle.' Emma's having an aneurysm trying to prevent him from teaching it to the board members."

Despite everything, I laugh. The sound seems to relax something in Alex's shoulders.

"Mac." He steps closer, and suddenly my apartment feels very small. "What's going on? You've been avoiding me since that blog post. If this is about the information security concerns?—"

"It's not." It absolutely is. "I just?—"

His kiss cuts off whatever lie I was about to tell. His hands cup my face, and for a moment I forget about exposés and secrets and everything except how right this feels.

"I miss you," he murmurs against my mouth. "Even if you are wearing sweatpants with moth-holes in them.”

"They're comfortable sweatpants."

"They have pasta sauce on them."

"Occupational hazard of hiding at an Italian restaurant."

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where I'm pressed against him. "Come to dinner before the gala. Just us. No revolutionary carols or corporate politics."

I should say no. Should maintain distance until I figure out how to tell him about the exposé.

"Okay," I hear myself say instead, because apparently my self-preservation instinct takes vacations.

His smile could power the city through Seattle's next blackout.

"Good." He kisses me again, deeper this time. "Though maybe change first? Not that the sweatpants aren't charming, but?—"

My phone buzzes with another gala update. Then his does. Then both our emails chime with what's probably another crisis involving Keith's revolutionary holiday spirit.

"Rain check on dinner," he sighs. "Apparently Keith's teaching the catering staff something called 'Santa's Social Justice Shuffle.'"

"Go." I push him toward the door. "Save the gala from revolutionary dance numbers. I'll see you tonight."

He pauses in the doorway, snow still melting on his shoulders. "Wear the emerald dress."

"Trying to coordinate our outfits, Mr. Drake?"

"Trying to properly appreciate my corporate culture consultant, Ms. Gallo." His eyes darken. "Even if she is avoiding me."

He leaves before I can respond, which is probably good because my brain short-circuits every time he looks at me like that.

Six hours later, I'm watching Seattle's tech elite fill the Four Seasons ballroom while trying very hard not to think about how thoroughly I'm about to destroy everything. The emeralddress feels like armor, though against what I'm not sure anymore.

"Keith's revolutionary choir is staging a protest performance by the ice sculpture," Lucia updates, appearing with champagne. "Something about 'frozen assets' and 'melting corporate barriers.'"

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow falls on downtown Seattle like nature's attempting to make this disaster more cinematic.

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