Page 9 of Under the Mistletoe
“We like having you here too, kiddo.” He walks off, and I open another box. As I kneel again, box cutter in hand, the little silver bell above the shop door jingles. Uncle Bob and Aunt Vivian are busy in the back, probably finishing their lunch, so I stand partway, still crouched at knee height and glance up to greet the customer.
My breath catches.
Donovan York stands in the doorway, black coat open, scarf loose around his neck, like he just stepped out of a winter fashion magazine spread and into my quiet little world. Once his eyes land on me, they stay there.
For a moment, we simply stare at each other. The store fades. The air stills.
Then his gaze lowers slowly, taking in the dust on my knees, the box cutter in my hand, the practical boots. And something flickers across his face, something not quite like amusement. Not quite desire. More intense.
I straighten, drop the cutter, and awkwardly brush my palms over my thighs.
“Mr. York.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel as I push my glasses up higher.
He stalks toward me. “Call me Donovan. I was… in the neighborhood,” he lies. “Thought I’d take a look at this sprinkler empire you’ve built.”
I arch an eyebrow, because he’s clearly researched me. One look at my resume, and I assume he saw our new website, where Uncle Bob insisted my face be on the ‘About Us’ page alongside his and Aunt Vivian’s.
My hands hit my hips as I look at him pointedly. “In need of a sprinkler?” Where did that sass come from?
He steps closer, just shy of too close, and his mouth quirks slightly. “Actually, I’m here to renegotiate.”
“Renegotiate?”
“This time”—his eyes lock on mine—“I’m not leaving without a yes.”
4
Donovan
I look down at Jessica, wondering not for the first time what the hell I’m doing. I went to bed thinking about her and woke up with my dick hard in my hand and her still on my mind. Her work is amazing, obviously, but it’s more than that. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s the first woman I’ve ever met who seems mostly unaffected by me, or one who doesn’t seem interested in telling me yes just to blow smoke up my ass. When we met yesterday, she wasn’t scrambling to please me, wasn’t flirting, wasn’t unprofessional in any way.
It was refreshing, admirable, and a turn-on. But I do want her working for me. Her vision aligns with my own. After thinking about her all night, I got home from the theater and sat in my home office, reviewing her work for the second time. I poured over her suggestions and the few things that the finance team had already implemented and knew I needed to do anything I could to keep her.
I spent the next hour of my night looking through her file, researching her last employment, and saw her face staring at me from a lawn sprinkler website. Jessica Johnson from Johnson Sprinklers, a family business in Sleepy Hollow.
I put two and two together, grabbed a coffee, and headed here in my town car this morning with plans to offer her a job she can’t refuse.
But that was before I saw her, on the floor before me, looking more real and stunning than any other woman I’ve met. My eyes canvass her. She’s wearing denim overalls, and at first glance, they seem uninteresting, but I notice the stitching and know they are last season Prada. The peach top she's wearing has green thread across the wrists and neckline, telling me it’s Gucci. She looks like the girl next door, yet her fashion selection shows quality. Effortlessly chic.
She clears her throat, and my eyes flick back to meet hers. I swallow past a sudden lump in my throat.
Me being here is borderline stalking, something I never do. I never chase people to work for me. I never spend my Saturday mornings traipsing outside the city, following a girl who, before yesterday, I didn’t even know existed. My weekends are usually full of either work, hitting the gym, or I’m away traveling. But as I watch her slowly rise from the floor, her head still barely coming to my shoulders, I feel warmer here than I ever have spending the summer in the Caribbean.
“I’ve been—”
“As I said yesterday, six figures, full healthcare and benefits. I will double anything else you’re offered and I want you to start on Monday,” I cut her off, not wanting any more excuses. There’s something about this woman that has immediately captivated me.
“As I was going to say, I—”
“You’ll have your own assistant and team if needed. Full access to all departments.”
“I’m trying to—”
“I’ll need you to visit our other facilities with me, in both Asia and Europe. I’ll cover all travel expenses. Your own corner office—”
“Donovan!” Her voice is sharp, and I stop immediately. She looks just as startled as her cheeks heat at her outburst. I’ve never been a bumbling fool. That seems to be a characteristic I’ve acquired around this woman. I pause, watching her—which is becoming increasingly easy to do.
“What I’m trying to tell you is, I’ve thought about your offer, and I’d like to accept.” She pushes her glasses up her nose, and I itch to pull them away so I can see all of her more clearly. Hell, I want to see her. Not the analyst. Not the strategist. Just the woman who somehow made denim overalls and scuffed boots look like a damn power suit. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I shove them in my coat pockets before they embarrass me.
