Page 55 of Minted

I shove Bentley just a little, which is a huge overreaction, but I can’t have him here, warming me up in every way. The temptation to lean against him is too strong. “Of course not. Don’t be stupid. And it’s not really dropping ten degrees.”

“It is.” He points at my car. “Keep the coat.”

I almost tell him about Dave and Seren’s party that they’re apparently throwing tomorrow night, but I decide that I’m better off shutting holiday-madness James down without my bouncer’s help. Plus, with the way Bentley’s been, he might really punch him. The only thing more pathetic than the way James is acting right now would be a bleeding James who was also whining.

With my soft spot for pathetic things, who knows what I might do then? Something stupid, surely. The last thing I need this year is one more idiotic mistake.

I’ve made more than enough for the next decade already.

12

Bentley

One year, my mom found a tailor who made custom men’s dress shirts. My dad wears pajamas every day under his robes, and he hates dressing up, but when Mom had some shirts made for him, he lied and said he loved them.

Every year since, Mom has gotten him another shirt or two.

She has probably put this tailor’s kids through college, and as far as I know, Dad has never worn a single shirt. They just hang in his closet, laughing at him. He has to get up before Mom wakes up to make sure she never notices he doesn’t have them on, and then he works out on his way home, without fail, every day, so she won’t see that he wore athletic clothes into the office. And he has to tell her that his assistant picks up his dry-cleaning.

Or maybe Mom knows he never wears them, but she just keeps buying them anyway. That might be even stranger.

And this feels like that, only worse.

At that holiday party, I finally told Barbara I liked her. My hands were shaking, and I’d pitted out my shirt underneath my suit coat. Though, that may have had more to do with the massive heat waves from the portable heaters followed by cold wind gusts from being outside.

That Quintano guy’s a moron.

But in spite of what I thought was an eloquently phrased, and even rather brave disclosure. . . Barbara thought it was part of this stupid act.

Part of me thinks I should quit pretending. Let her fire me.

But then I have no reason to see her. I’m not confident enough that she likes me to be ready to give up the extra holiday party time.

Which is why, this morning, as soon as I get to the office, I text her. I STILL NEED HELP WITH DATES. I CAN’T LET YOU WIGGLE OUT OF OUR DEAL. LUCKILY, YOU SENT ME THE CALENDAR. I KNOW WHEN THE NEXT PARTY IS.

She doesn’t reply.

Which is fine.

I’m not checking my phone every five seconds in an unhealthy way or anything.

“Is there some problem I’m not aware of?” Oliver asks.

I drop my phone like it’s on fire. “No.”

“Did you get those documents signed?”

“I’ll do it now,” I say.

But the second he’s gone, I pick my phone back up. And it rings. I’m almost smiling. . .when I realize it’s only Dave.

“What?” I ask, perhaps with a little too terse a tone.

“Well, hello and Merry Christmas to you too,” he says. “To my oldest friend, let me just tell you how your positive attitude and generosity of spirit has lifted my heart during—”

“Shut up,” I say.

“You let me go on way longer than I expected, honestly. In another three words, I’d have run out of stuff to say. I was just calling to invite you to a party tonight.”

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