Page 2 of Silver Fox's Christmas Scandal
Even in the middle of what was rapidly becoming the worst Christmas party in corporate history, he looked absolutely flawless.
His charcoal tuxedo fit him with the precision that only came from expert tailoring, emphasizing the broad line of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame.
Silver hair gleamed under the elevator's soft lighting, and when those pale gray eyes found mine, I felt my heart stutter against my ribs.
He was holding a crystal flute of champagne, and somehow, that small detail made everything worse.
While I'd been crawling around in storage rooms and trying to perform miracles with electrical tape and whispered prayers, he'd been upstairs looking completely unruffled by the chaos surrounding us.
"Miss Wynn," he said casually. I was used to him speaking to me about work details, but with the colossal failure tonight was turning out to be, I felt ashamed to be in the same space with him. "I wondered where you'd disappeared to."
Heat flooded my cheeks as I pressed myself farther back against the elevator wall, suddenly hyperaware of my disheveled appearance and the musty smell clinging to the decorations in my arms. "Mr. Cross. I was just… I found some backup decorations in storage. From previous years. I thought maybe we could?—"
"Salvage Christmas?" There was something that might have been amusement flickering in those steel-gray eyes, and I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or terrified.
"Something close to that, yes." I tried to shift the decorations to a more secure position, but the tangled mass of garland had other ideas.
A string of ancient silver bells chose that moment to work free from the pile, clattering to the elevator floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever in the enclosed space.
Lucian bent to retrieve them, his movements fluid and unhurried despite the confined space. When he straightened, he was standing much closer than before, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and understated that made my pulse quicken in ways that were entirely inappropriate for an employee-boss interaction.
Let's face it, I wasn't immune to how drop-dead gorgeous he was. Every woman in the office knew how intoxicating he was and exactly how single he was too.
He held the bells out to me, and when our fingers brushed during the exchange, I felt a tiny charge of electricity pop between us.
"The storm caught everyone off guard," he said, and there was something almost gentle in his tone. "No one could have predicted this level of disruption."
I knew he was trying to be reassuring, but all I could think about was how thoroughly I'd failed at the one thing he'd entrusted to me.
The Christmas gala wasn't some minor office function—it was Cross Capital's biggest social event of the year, a carefully orchestrated evening designed to strengthen client relationships and showcase the firm's success.
Board members brought their spouses. Major investors flew in from other cities. The financial press usually sent photographers.
Tonight, they were all getting cheese and crackers by emergency lighting.
"I should've had contingency plans," I said, more to myself than to him. "Multiple backup caterers, alternative lighting arrangements, weather protocols?—"
"Tessa." The sound of my first name in that deep, measured voice stopped my spiraling thoughts completely. He never used my first name.
In the four years I'd worked as his executive assistant, it had been ‘Miss Wynn’ in every interaction, maintaining the careful professional distance that kept Cross Capital's hierarchy clearly defined. Hearing him say my name now felt intimate in a way that made my stomach flutter with something that definitely wasn't professional admiration.
The elevator resumed its climb, and I realized I'd never pressed the button for our floor. Lucian must have done it while I was busy having a minor breakdown over silver bells and my own incompetence.
"These things happen," he continued, his gaze steady on my face. "The measure of a professional isn't whether problems arise, but how they respond when they do."
I wanted to believe him, but the evidence of my response was literally draped across my arms in the form of decorations that had gone out of date twenty years ago. "I'm not sure desperate basement excavation counts as professional problem-solving."
That earned me a ghost of a smile. "I've seen worse solutions to larger problems."
The elevator slowed again, and I braced myself for the return to the party that wasn't quite a party. Maybe I could distribute these decorations strategically, get a few more lights working, find some way to transform disaster into something that at least resembled festive. Maybe?—
My phone buzzed against my hip, and I tried to shift the decorations to reach for it without dropping everything.
The movement brought me forward, closer to where Lucian stood near the control panel, and I realized too late that I was off-balance and carrying far more than my arms could securely manage.
The collision happened in slow motion.
My elbow caught his wrist as I reached for my phone, and I watched in horror as champagne flew in a perfect arc across the small space between us.
