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: I already told you. I don’t want anything.
I groan. Are they trying to be annoying?
Me: What sort of person wants nothing for Christmas? Plus, it’ll be super awkward when it’s time for us all to swap our gifts, and you give me something, and I’m just standing there.
My Secret Santa: Are you worried about looking like a jerk?
They’re the jerk, but I will not tell them that. They’re making this process far more complicated than it needs to be. It’s supposed to be a bit of fun. Some people are determined to ignore any concept of goodwill at this time of year.
Somebody sits at my table. I look up, ready with a smile. If somebody has just sat down without asking, they’re presumably a friend. When I see it’s Derek, I do my best not to look annoyed. He’s been giving me attention for the past month or two. It’s not that he’s a bad person—at least, I don’t think he is—but I’m just not interested.
As usual, I notice how skinny he is. It’s not a bad thing, but he’s nothing like Asher, with his strong jawline and temptingly powerful features.
Get a grip, Holly.
“Hey, Derek,” I say.
“Hey.” He picks at the table with his thumbnail like a shy boy approaching his crush. “I just wanted to say it’s a shame I didn’t get you for my Secret Santa.”
“Maybe you did,” I shrug. “Who knows?”
“The person I’m matched with wants a LEGO set. You’re not really into LEGO sets, are you?”
As usual, he skirts that fine line between making me uncomfortable and making me feel bad for thinking that way.
“No, Derek, not really. Aren’t you going to get anything to eat?”
“I’m not hungry … for food.”
I stand up, leaving the rest of my meal untouched. “I have to get back to work.”
I seriously don’t like those hints he’s dropping. He seems like a decent enough guy, somewhat odd and a bit disconnected from reality. We met when I was doing a feature on his department. I must have said something he perceived as flirty, but I never meant it like that.
Back in my office, I text my Secret Santa, trying to get Derek out of my head.
Me: I’m worried about you looking like a jerk. Because, guess what? When people ask why you haven’t got a gift, I’m not exactly going to be tight-lipped about the answer.
My Secret Santa: Let me look like a jerk, then. It won’t be the first time, and it probably won’t be the last.
Me: Jeeeeeeeeeeeez. I don’t get why you won’t just give me an idea about what you want. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Something fun, something light, something silly. That’s all.
My Secret Santa: Fine. Get me a reindeer hat with big obnoxious antlers covered in fairy lights and a T-shirt to match. There can be a caption on the shirt. Something like “The Happiest Grinch Ever” might suit me. Happy now?
Me: I think “The World’s Biggest Douche” might suit you better, stranger.
My Secret Santa: Some might think that’s an HR-worthy comment.
Me: I was only kidding, I type quickly. I didn’t mean any offense.
My Secret Santa: Relax. I’m not the type to go running to HR about innocent jokes. Are you ready to tell me who you are?
Me: What? No way! That’s against the rules.
My Secret Santa: Are you always such a goody-goody?
Me: It’s not about being a “goody-goody.” The whole point of this is to keep our identities secret. Let me know when you can be serious about your gift idea.
I try to get on with some work, but I check my phone far more often than usual. There’s something fun about texting this person. I don’t even know if they’re a man or a woman or know anything about them, but it’s almost like—Well, it’s like flirting, okay?
I know that’s silly. It’s not like I think it’s going to go anywhere. I’m focused on my career. I’ve never started or ended a relationship, but I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t fun.
That’s a two-way street, my Secret Santa replies. What do you want?
Me: I’m easygoing. Scented candles, a voucher for a clothes store, maybe something creative to do with photography …
My Secret Santa: So you’re a woman, then.
Me: Easy there. Are you taking this in a non-HR-appropriate area?
My Secret Santa: No, but you are clearly a woman.
Me: That’s very old-fashioned thinking. Since you’re so obsessed, can I assume you’re a man?
My Secret Santa: Yes, Miss Goody Two-shoes, I’m a man.
I smile. This is easier than talking to a man could ever be. I don’t have to worry about staring at his ripped body, gazing at the steam rising off his massive, sculpted chest muscles. I don’t have to beat myself up because he’s my brother’s best friend.