Page 3 of Polar Prank
“Okay, team!” I call out, my voice rising above the din of keyboards and hushed conversations. “It’s time to get jolly!Today, we kick off our Children’s Christmas Present Tree event. Remember, every present and dollar counts!”
I effortlessly navigate through the sea of desks, clutching a clipboard that props up my purpose and records who will be offering up what. Today isn’t just about decorating— it’s about getting building goodwill and getting commitments for presents for the children at the local women’s shelter.
I hum a tune, feeling lighter than air, as I think of the smiles my efforts will create. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot him.
Brinker.
He stands by the coffee machine, arms crossed and brow furrowed, surveying my festive decor with a classic Brinker scowl. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it anymore.
He’s dressed in a tweed jacket, mostly grays— like an ominous cloud and his dark hair slicked back with precision— like a sexy vampire. A grumpy sexy vampire. He looks rather casual for a Thursday, but that intensity etched across his face could scare Frosty the Snowman.
And maybe me.
But he’s harmless. He’s crusty, like a cinnamon roll, but it’s the gooeyness on the inside that really counts.
Maybe. Hopefully. Possibly.
“Really, Iclyn?” he drawls, rolling his eyes in a dramatic fashion that’s so odd for a man who runs a multi-million-dollar company. “Is this an office or Santa’s workshop?”
I stifle a laugh. Brinker’s disdain for all things festive is a constant source of amusement for me.
“Oh, come on! It’s the holidays and a little cheer never hurt anyone.” I hop closer, my excitement undeterred by his lackluster demeanor. “Besides, can’t you feel the spirit in the air? It’s practically begging you to join in on the fun!”
He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You do realize that not everyone is in the mood for sugary sweetness, right? Some people actually prefer office productivity over a festive display.”
“Productivity can take a backseat for just a little while,” I insist, hands on my hips. “What’s more productive than spreading kindness? Speaking of… how many presents can I put you down for?”
“Presents? What for?”
I refuse to huff. It’s beneath me, but this deserves one. “The present drive I’ve organized for the last three years for the children at the women’s shelter.”
And at this moment I can’t remember him ever participating in. I think he donated money, but someone else went and got the gifts.
He stills. “Oh, that. Right. Um… I’m really busy right now. Can’t I just give you some money?”
“You can take an hour to go get someone else a gift, Brinker. Right?”
He really seems conflicted and I can’t really tell why. It’s definitely not the money. The man is richer than… well, anyone I know. He’s relatively generous here at work, but maybe he’s less so when it doesn’t involve people who are making him money versus taking his money?
He sighs and runs a hand through those dark locks, putting them into a little disarray that I actually like. It’s less stuffed shirt and more matching his casual dress today. “Okay. You’re right. Okay, put me down for… three?”
Yes!
“That’s the spirit.”
When I say the words, his eyes twinkle with the slightest hint of mischief.
“And I challenge you to help me make this the best event yet. If you can hold back that frown, and we fill all these presentrequests, I promise I’ll bring in my award-winning, homemade cookies.”
He quirks a half-smile, the first crack in his stern façade. “Cookies, huh? You might just have a deal if the cookies are as good as you say, which I’m not sure they are.”
“Oh, thems fightin’ words, Mr. Carrington!” I hold up my fists like I’m ready to start punching. He barely breaks his lips into something that others might call a smirk, but on him, it’s the closest to a grin, I’ve ever seen. I switch to a held-out hand. “Challenge accepted.”
I’ve never backed down from one.
He takes the offer reluctantly, but that little sparkle in his eye suggests he's not entirely immune to my infectious enthusiasm. A zing of the season —it’s just static electricity, Iclyn— zips through his hand and into my chest. I’m sure he felt it, but I don’t see it affecting him nearly as much as me.
“Just don’t expect me to wear a ridiculous holiday sweater like everyone else,” he adds gruffly, pulling back his hand.
