Page 42 of Yule Know It When You See It
Simone taps a fingernail on one stack of papers and clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth. “A romance story and sports article coinciding with it. Encouraging couples to read together and possibly even educating those interested to learn more about the sport.”
“Exactly. We could also get some photos of the athletes and include them if you ever intended to publish it physically.” I’m on top of the world now and recline in my chair a tad, utterly relaxed.
“A centerfold. I like it.” Simone nods, her eyes brightening now. “And you’re sure you want to do it this way?”
“Absolutely. It’d be easier and more efficient if I do it alone.”
Simone shifts in her seat, folding her hands atop the desk. “Have you talked to Romance about this?”
Have I talked to her about it? There wasn’t time to stew on it, let alone run it by her first. And this is nothing if entirely in favor ofher.
“No. I don’t think we should. No reason to risk creativity.”
A feline grin pulls at Simone’s lips before she extends her hand. “Alright then, Sports. Consider the article yours.”
Inside, I’m jumping like I’m in the middle of a Metallica concert mosh pit.
“You won’t regret this, Simone.” After shaking her hand and thanking her more than necessary, I enter the hall.
Theo’s shoving things into her bag at her desk like someone’s pulled the fire alarm. I flick my wrist to check the time. It’s only five before four.
With my hands in my pockets, I sidle beside her, raising a brow when she jumps at the sight of me and yelps. “Where are you going, Romance?”
“Home,” she clips, attempting to shove four notebooks stacked at different angles into the bag, grunting as she does so.
I juggle a stray paperclip resting in my pocket with two fingers. “There’s still an hour left in the work day. Figured we might do some overtime to get this thing hammered out. Call it done?”
Theo vigorously shakes her head, making fiery tresses fan over her eyes. “Nope. Can’t. I uh—remembered I need to pick up my dry cleaning.”
What in the flying hell is going on? Did something happen in the ten minutes she went to the restroom?
“And you can’t pick it up on your way to work tomorrow instead? Ithasto be tonight?” I bend sideways, trying to catch her gaze, but she lets the hair remain over her face and makes all effortnotto look at me.
“No. I cannot, Axel. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have anything to wear tomorrow.” With the notebooks victorious, refusing to go in her bag, she flops them to the desk.
I scratch my cheek. How did our dynamic change so lightning fast? Yesterday, we shared a moment under that office tree, admitting we’re on the same level when it comes to Christmas. Not only did we feel comfortable enough to tell each other this sensitive piece of information, but we have thesameopinion on it. And now, she’s acting as if I’m Krampus here to punish her for misbehaving and avoiding me to prevent it.
“Okay, then. See you tomorrow?” My mind is the world’s most chaotic vehicle roundabout—circling and circling with no exit in sight.
Theo fumbles with her gloves, not caring that two fingers go into the same hole. After pulling her blue knit hat so tight to her head it covers her eyebrows, she breezes past me with a blunt, “Yup,” emphasizing the “p” sound.
I stare down the hall as she disappears from view, standing motionless and numb. My phone buzzes across my desk and Spencer’s face lights the screen. I wouldn’t bother to answer if it had been anyone else, but Spence? He’s precisely who I need right now and I swipe the screen to answer.
“Hey. You busy?” I ask.
Spencer’s silent for a beat before chuckling. “You had me thinking for a moment that you calledmeand not the other way around.”
“Sorry.” I trace a pattern on my desk where I’d sat last night with Theo between my legs. “Some things have recently happened, and I’m feeling a littleforvirret.”
“I have no idea what that word means, but do know when you start dropping Norwegian, your head is anywhere but here. Ironically, I was calling to ask if you wanted to come over to watch the Meteors game tonight.”
The Meteors. Since living on the East Coast, Spencer’s been loyal to that hockey team and refuses to switch to the Hawks.
“Sure. But don’t expect me to root for them.” Cradling the phone with my shoulder, I slip on my jacket.
“Aw, come on. They’re not playing the Hawks.”
Some random commercial about hemorrhoid cream plays faintly in the background from his television.
