Page 42 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
“Bye!” I slam my phone face down.
“I hope you have a screen protector on that thing.” He laughs. “Trying to keep me a secret?”
“Nothing to tell.” I wince. “Sorry, that was harsh. I?—”
“All good,” he says, rounding my desk so he’s directly across from me.
I stare at him in silence.
What is he doing here?
“Hi,” he finally says.
“Hi?” I say back as a question.
I seize the opportunity to take Matt in. Until now, I’ve only ever seen him in ridiculous spandex Santa getups or T-shirts and gym shorts. But here he is wearing khaki pants, brown boots, and a light blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His sandy-colored hair, usually tied back into a questionable man bun, is loose and grazes his shoulders.
I hate to say it, but damn, he looks good.
“Your sister’s name is Banks?” he asks.
“Yeah. It is.”
“And yours is Penny? What, are your parents finance bros or something?” He chuckles.
“Dad is. Mom’s a former ballerina. Good catch, Barbera.”
Why did I call him Barbera? Am I flirting with him?
“I like that,” he rumbles. “You calling me by my last name.”
“I’ll be sure to stop then,” I sass.
Matt smiles, and for the first time, I spot the dimples he has on his upper lip.
How have I never seen them before?
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “Penny is a beautiful name, but why were you named after our country’s smallest financial increment possible, and your sister was named after the entire bank?”
“Favoritism, I guess?”
People don’t usually pick up on that. This guy continues to surprise me.
“Aren’t you, uh—aren’t you supposed to be at Eugene’s?” I ask.
“Eugene has a lot of siblings. His parents are cool as hell and eat early so they can all disperse to various in-law dinners.” It’s only then that I notice the stack of to-go containers he’s holding. He nods to them. “Thought you might be hungry.”
He brought me food? On Thanksgiving?
“Funny, I was just thinking about ordering in.”
“On Thanksgiving? At work? Alone!?” His usually deep voice gets all squeaky and weird.
I hold up a finger. “Slow your roll, sir. Do not pity me. Like I told you before, I have no problem whatsoever with eating—or being—alone on Thanksgiving.”
His face turns serious.
He places the containers down on my desk.
