Page 22 of Under the Mistletoe
“Timing is impeccable as always, Gordon,” he mutters, and I grin. Donovan looks at me before a small smile appears on his face as well.
“I don’t know exactly what’s happening here. But in the office, we need to remain professional,” he says tentatively, and I nod, in complete agreement.
“But outside?” I ask the question we’re both now thinking. “There’s a line in my contract about fraternizing with senior executives… It's legally risky. For both of us.” My stomach flips, and I feel sick. This is so not me. I don’t date, and I certainly don’t flirt. Yet here I am, almost throwing myself at the very man I shouldn’t.
“If circumstances were different…” He leaves the decision up to me.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” I say quietly, “but it’s harder to ignore than I’d like to admit.”
The two of us breathe out, relaxing into the vulnerability we just shared. Nothing’s resolved, and a whole lot of yearning still lingers.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” I break the silence.
His facial features soften as I grab my bag. “Sleep tight, Jessica.”
I give him a little nod and step out of the car, walking briskly to my apartment building. Unlocking the glass doors, I look back, only once I'm inside. As if on cue, now that I'm safe in the building, the car slowly departs. Running up the stairs, I push through my apartment door, slamming it shut and pressing my back against the wood, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape and chase after Donovan’s car.
I’m falling for my boss. And he feels it too.
I sink to the floor, knees bent, trying to breathe past the mess in my head. I should be panicking. I should be thinking I’m crazy. Instead, all I can think about is how protective he was of me tonight and the way he almost kissed me in the car.
How in the world am I meant to work beside him when all I want to do is have his lips on mine?
10
Jessica
I slide into the car as Gordon closes the door, and I still. This is my routine now. Gordon collects me each morning, and I sit in the car, in the warmth, enjoying being chauffeured to work and relieved to be missing the train commute I became so accustomed to.
But this morning, it’s different.
“Gordon, whose coffee is this?” I see a steaming hot coffee sitting in the cup holder.
“Yours,” he says quickly, and my shoulders lower at his kindness.
“Thank you, Gordon. You didn’t have to.” I usually just wait until I get closer to the office, grabbing a coffee from the nearby café or when I’m in a hurry my new assistant, Katie, gets it for me. Which feels completely unnecessary, but it’s something an assistant does, I guess.
“Mr. York has instructed me to get this for you every morning.”
“Instructed?” I pick up the hot brew and taste it. Perfection. Just how I like it.
“Mr. York also left the box for you as well.”
I look at his face in the rearview mirror, but his eyes are firmly on the road, not giving anything away. The box on the seat next to me has a label that looks familiar. Expensive. But I have no idea what it is. The box is luxurious, the thick black ribbon around it telling me it’s a gift.
I put the coffee back in the holder and grab the box as my heart rate increases. Untying the ribbon, I suck in a sharp breath, opening the box and seeing a beautiful red scarf inside.
“Oh…” Pulling it out of the box, the material is so thick and warm and soft, I want to wrap myself up in it and snuggle into a large armchair in front of an open fireplace. I had to get rid of my favorite red scarf after being stuck in the rain on my first day. It was one of my favorites, but so well worn it needed to go. Something he obviously noticed.
I pull out the card, seeing it’s handwritten.
I saw what the rain did… thought that I would replace what it ruined.
My mouth dries as I take in his thick black script that looks like it’s written with precise strokes. The kind that’s deliberate, no mistaking his focus.
As my fingers delve into the fabric again, I take a deep breath. We’re playing with fire; we both know it. But these feelings I have are building, and now that he’s delivering hot coffee and gifts to me before the workday has even begun, how’s a girl meant to say no to that? I mean, I should. I’m a professional. I want to show my skills and talent at work. I want to help Donovan build his business to greater heights. I don’t want to be known as the woman who got the top job because she’s romanticizing the boss.
Romance isn’t something I’ve experienced before. Not really. And seeing this gift and this coffee, I’m almost gushing, my crush for him developing even more. It’s almost like my female hormones have suddenly come to the forefront, slapped me across the face, and said batter up, buttercup. I’m usually reserved and extremely risk averse. Yet here I am, bringing the scarf to my cheek and brushing the soft material across my face like a woman who’s completely fallen for a man she has no business even knowing.
