Page 3 of Holiday Interference
Too still for a guy midway through his rookie season, wearing a suit like it’s a punishment and watching the room like it owes him something.
“Reid.” I soften the edges of my voice just enough to make it sound like I’m not annoyed.
Yet.
His eyes drag over to me slowly. Up close, they’re hazel, reminding me of autumn leaves.
They’re also unreadable and framed by dark lashes that don’t match the expression underneath. They should belong to someone cocky, someone with too many selfies on his phone.
But there’s no shine. No bite. Just calm. Heavy. A little broken, maybe, if you know what to look for. Like he’s young but with an old soul.
“I’m guessing this isn’t your kind of party,” I say, half-smile in place as I stop in front of him.
He lifts one shoulder. “I was told to show up.”
“You were also told to smile. And mingle. And maybe pretend you don’t want to crawl out of your skin.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
It’s not the words. It’s the tone—cool and even, like everything’s on mute except for me.
“I’m going to go ahead and call that a no on the mingling,” I say lightly, glancing past him toward the bar. “Unless brooding in formalwear is your personal outreach strategy.”
A beat.
Then—barely,barely—the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like a glitch.
Progress.
“You always this pushy?” he asks.
“I’m not pushy. I’m effective.” I glance at my watch. “And currently twenty-two minutes behind schedule because someone decided to ice over the city.”
His gaze slides toward the window. Snow streaks sideways across the glass like the sky’s in a mood.
“I told the PR team you’d be a hit tonight,” I add, turning my eyes back to him. “Tall, broody, no social skills? That’s catnip for sponsors.”
“I don’t do fake charm.”
“Good. Because I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.” The words slip out before I can leash them, then hang there, sharp.
His eyes flick to mine again, more curious this time.
“I just need thirty seconds of you standing near a wreath and not looking like you want to murder someone,” I say, smoothing the moment over with a practiced smile. “Think you can handle that?”
He looks me over—not in a way that lingers, not in a way that’s rude. Just…observant. Like he sees everything and says nothing unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“Depends,” he says.
“On?”
“Is it a real wreath?”
My laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Why do I feel like that’s the most you’ve said all night?”
“Because it is.”
And there it is again—that flicker of a smile, or something close to it.
