Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Fable: Sorry again! I really look forward to sleeping with you.
I dart to the elevator, then step into it with the box and my bags, and I try to catch my breath. The doors shut, and there’s no reply from him. That’s good. That has to be good.
But then, as the lift chugs up, I reread my text to be sure it went out.
“Are you kidding me?”
Thank god I’m alone in the elevator, with no one to see me shout into my phone like it’s the ultimate dictation villain. “Speaking with you! I look forward to speaking with you! I should not be allowed to text or use words at all!”
I hit send as the elevator arrives on the executive level. I’m about to jog down the garland-decorated hall, but I think better of it and beeline for the ladies’ room instead.
I can’t meet with the team owner looking like this—like a hot mess. Literally.
I pop inside, march to the sink, and grab a starchy paper towel. After I wet it, I unbutton the top button on my blouse, then strategically maneuver an arm into my shirt to pat at my sweaty armpits, hoping I don’t ruin my pretty peach top.
A few seconds later, I exhale, toss out the towel, and reclip my hair. After I wash my hands and dry them, I exit.
All put together again.
I may be a sweaty mess, and I may have sent an accidental sext, but I’ve absolutely got this now. I am an awesome designer. I can do this.
I started designing jewelry, working my way up as an assistant manager at a shop on Fillmore Street, and then snagging a job with one of the most prestigious businesses in the city. No, the whole damn world. In the last two years alone, our merch department has soared, setting records in the league with the coolest, freshest, most imaginative designs. Plus, I’m a few months away from finally paying off my college loans, and I’ve finally started putting something away. I’m seriously hoping the money I’ve been saving and the experience I’ve been gaining can help me achieve my dream someday—opening a boutique with my own line of eco-friendly jewelry. Someday.
I turn into the executive suite where a wreath hangs on the big wooden door that’s ajar. Pushing it open, I step in as Shay’s sitting tall and typing while wearing…wow. And that’s one way to get into the holiday spirit.
“Unicorns are boring, said no one ever,” I say, admiring his sweater.
“My thoughts exactly,” Shay says with a smile, closing out of what looks like a photo collage on his screen of a couple long-haired calico cats sitting in a photoshopped sleigh, then says, “For my wife. The pic. It’s one of her Christmas gifts. Also, Mr. Blaine is definitely expecting you.” His helpful tone does nothing to underscore the meaning of his words—you’re late.
“Thank you,” I say, lowering my face.
“Go, go,” he says gently but firmly shooing me into the suite overlooking the field.
When I enter, Wilder’s sitting at his desk, relaxed, confident, looking like he’s never once sweated in his entire life. There isn’t a strand of thick, dark hair out of place on his head. His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement. “Glad you could make it to the joining, Fable.”
I fight off a smile, then stand tall, saluting him. “Renegades Christmas elf reporting for duty.” That’s my role in making the holiday gifts for the staff—I’m the elf to his Santa. “And I think you’re going to love this stocking stuffer.”
Grabbing the shirt, I set my bag on the chair. “Ta-da!”
I unfurl the fabric and release a cloud of colorful themed confetti that flies out in a ticker tape parade of red and green glitter dicks. They go everywhere and stick to everything—his desk, the carpet, and his GQ face.
6
GLITTER DONGS AND SHINY SCHLONGS
Fable
I’ve always rolled my eyes at those scenes in the movies when the heroine spills coffee in the hero’s lap, then grabs a wad of napkins hastily in apology and dabs at him till she realizes she’s touching the outline of his dick and…awkward.
Like, who would actually do that in real life? Pat a dude’s lap and risk feeling up the crown jewels?
But I get it now—how it might happen. Because the instinct to clean up my own mess is as strong as my desire to hug the pair of Dachshund puppies I saw in a woman’s cart at T.J. Maxx last weekend as she stocked up on dog beds.
Intense.
I’m digging into my purse, furiously hunting for something, anything, to clean the glitter Christmas dicks off Wilder’s handsome face, his fancy tie, his expensive dress shirt as he removes his jacket quickly, assessing the damage. I mean, why make regular glitter dicks, when I can make holiday ones for Charlotte’s holiday bachelorette party?