Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
“How long?” I yell. “I need to know!”
Dean looks back at me since the button wasn’t down and the guy on the other line couldn’t exactly hear me. He then presses it and speaks. “How long do you think that could be?”
“Not sure, sir. I’ll get back to you when I can. We’re working on getting you guys out just as fast as we can.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Another thing to add to why I hate the damn holidays. And old buildings.”
Dean shakes his head, and his brows furrow. “Why the hell do you hate the holidays? No one hates this time of year.”
“Well, I have a ton of reasons. Snow. Santa. Stupid men. Power outages. Elevators being stuck. The list really goes on . . .”
He removes his suit jacket, revealing his tight shirt that hugs all the right places. I try not to remember how it felt to have him moving above me as I gripped those arms—I fail. The memories of that night flood me. The scotch, taste of his lips, and how amazing every moment we spent together was.
“Santa?” Dean asks. “You hate Santa?”
“Yeah, him and his stupid list, which apparently I landed on the naughty side of two years ago. My gift was to get dumped. It really changed my feelings on all things holiday related.”
“Ahh.” He nods. “Yes, now I get it.”
When it happened, it wasn’t something I was quiet about. Not that I could’ve been if I wanted to be. I sobbed all the time. I swear I should’ve carried around a sign that said: Caution Slippery When Wet. With the amount of tears I cried, I left a trail. Plus, half my company was invited to the wedding that would’ve been seven days from today. Sending out the I-just-got-dumped email was super fun.
“Not my favorite time of year thanks to a certain someone.”
“You mean that idiot of an ex you were engaged to?”
“Please . . . I don’t want to talk about him.” Especially not with him.
“Understood.” He nudges me. “I could help you forget him again.”
I roll my eyes. “No thanks. Besides, I don’t really think about him at all.”
I’m too busy thinking about you.
“I’m glad to hear that. He wasn’t good enough for you anyway.” He shrugs and folds his jacket in half and then sits on the floor beside it. He doesn’t speak as he extends his hand for me to sit there.
“Why is that?”
Dean cracks his neck, looking a little uncomfortable as he offers a simple, “Because.”
I laugh and cross my arms. “Well, that clears all that up.”
“Why don’t you sit, Holly? We could be in here for a while.”
“Thank you.” I sit on the jacket, crossing my ankles in front of me since I’m not wearing panties. “I’m sorry I was being sort of bitchy. Troy does that to me.”
“Don’t be. I don’t exactly like talking about my ex either.”
I nod. “Yeah, they aren’t usually a great topic.”
“Okay, so let’s move to neutral ground. We could talk about us,” he suggests with a hint of mischief. “Or we can just be quiet . . .”
Oh, the possibilities for that suggestion are as endless as they are unlikely. And with as low on the list as talking to Dean about Tony is, talking to him about what happened is even lower.
“Can we keep talking? Please? Just not about any of the aforementioned things.”
“Okay then, what about your pitch, do you want to practice?”
I laugh. No freaking way am I going to tell him my pitch. “I’d rather swallow nails than go there.”
“Is it because you aren’t confident?”
I raise my brow. “No, it’s because I would rather not give you an edge.”
Or because I don’t have it done and don’t want him to know that.
“I don’t need an edge, babe. I plan to kick your ass.”
“Really? You’ve had a whole a day to get your presentation together, and you think you’re going to win?”
Dean’s eyes narrow and he leans close. “You hate Christmas. This is all about why the holidays are the best time of the year. You’re sort of the poster child for who not to hire.”
“I can fake it.”
“Ahh, but I know the real thing. You’re exquisite when you’re not faking it.”
I scoff. “Dean! You can’t bring up my orgasms or what happened with us that will never happen again.”
He chuckles that deep laugh that does things to my girly parts. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Why would you even want this account? You’ll have to practically pretend you live in Santa’s workshop and you’re his bitch.”
Admitting this will make me sound so stupid, but it’s the truth. “I want to love the holidays again. I want to remember the magic and smile when I put my tree up again. I thought . . . I thought that maybe this would help.”