Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
My Secret Santa: What’s the event? she asks.
I can’t be honest. It would give the game away.
Me: Just something boring and Christmassy.
My Secret Santa: Thank you for that very specific and enlightening answer. I now have a much greater understanding of what you’re talking about.
I laugh, reading the text in her voice. It’s easy to do. Sarcasm has always come easy to her, even when we were kids.
Me: All I know is that I will lurk like a ghost at the feast.
My Secret Santa: That’s a choice you’re making.
Me: Are you going to give me a motivational speech?
My Secret Santa: Don’t be an ass, she replies. I don’t know your circumstances or understand why this is tricky for you. Sometimes, I get in a dark mood. When that happens, I have to play a role and pretend I’m in a good mood. “Fake it until you make it.” I think that’s another reason I love the holidays so much. Half the population is faking it, maybe more.
I knew nothing about her dark moods. I’m instantly intrigued.
Me: Why do you get in dark moods?
My Secret Santa: Because I’m a human being … duh.
Again, I laugh. Knowing, or at least strongly suspecting, that this is Holly makes every text come alive. Her facial expressions, voice, and a confident eyebrow raise all play in my mind.
Me: You love being sassy and sarcastic, don’t you? I was asking for specifics.
My Secret Santa: Being sassy and sarcastic is my specialty when it comes to you, Secret Santa.
Reading the text, I get irrationally angry. She doesn’t know she’s talking to me. We’re flirting, but she thinks she’s speaking with somebody else. There’s no way, out of a company of hundreds, she could know that fate or luck would throw us together.
What am I going to do, then? Tell her? I’m already opening one can of worms tomorrow with Mom. I don’t need a second to deal with.
Me: Are you going to answer my question? I type.
My Secret Santa: Lots of things can put me in a bad mood: the state of the world, my reflection in the mirror, just the usual stuff. I’ve been lucky that my life has been blessed in many ways. It’s easier for me to be positive than for many others. I acknowledge that.
One line stands up above all the others.
Me: What do you mean by “your reflection in the mirror?” Why would that put you in a bad mood?
My Secret Santa: I’m not saying it always does. But if you can find a woman who hasn’t sometimes felt a little blue about her appearance, you’ve found a unicorn.
Me: Describe your appearance to me, then. Let me be the judge.
My Secret Santa: Are you trying to get my identity again?
Me: I will not run around the office scanning every employee, I reply.
My Secret Santa: Let’s just put it this way. You won’t see me at the MET Gala anytime soon.
Me: So, you’re curvy?
My Secret Santa: That’s one way to phrase it.
Me: There’s nothing wrong with that, I reply, thinking of her in the kitchen earlier, wearing her work clothes, a hip-hugging pencil skirt highlighting her plump juiciness. My rod hums with tension. Some men prefer the curvy look.
My Secret Santa: Are you one of those men?
I prefer the Holly look, but I can’t tell her that.
Me: Yes, in fact, I am. You should be proud of your appearance.
My Secret Santa: Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, I am. It’s not black and white. I haven’t got serious body issues, but I haven’t got some deluded idea that I’m the hottest woman alive.
Me: That’s where you’re wrong, I type. You’re hotter than any woman at the company or in the city. When I came home and saw you, I didn’t believe you could be the same little Tarantino I left behind. Your curves, your tits, and your shape make me hungry and savage.
Needless to say, I delete this before I send it. The nickname alone would reveal too much and tell who I am, let alone the lust boiling off each word.
Me: That’s a healthy approach, I reply instead, feeling lame.
My Secret Santa: I’m in the same boat as you, she texts. I’ve got to do something Christmassy tomorrow.
Me: Aren’t you excited about it? You seem very gung ho about the holiday spirit.
My Secret Santa: It’s going to be awkward, she replies.
Me: Why?
My Secret Santa: It involves some private stuff. I can’t really explain. I can say that I’ll need to wear a mask, just like you will. I’m going to need to fake it until I make it. Pretend.
Me: Pretend what?
My Secret Santa: I can’t say.
I sit up. My body is growing hot. I’m physically warming up like I’ve just run a 5K. The image of her sitting in bed, possibly with her knees tucked to her chest, possibly with her shorts riding up her ass and into her haven, won’t quit my head.