“Just take your hair out of your ponytail,” Eden whispers. When I comply, she grins at me. “Better. And for the record, it’s okay. You look really happy.”
I glance over my shoulder, but no one else is around to hear. “Thank you. I am.”
“You deserve it.”
I don’t actually know what’s going on with me and Locke, but after last night, I don’t really care about having a name for it. All I know is that what happened between us smashed all my doubts and I’m totally okay with that.
The halls fill with more of our colleagues, and Eden and I turn the conversation toward conjecture of who everyone’s Secret Santas might be. As the organizer of the event, Eden already knows who’s been matched with who, but she indulges my guesses with a grin.
When we arrive at the conference room, I stop short with a gasp just inside the doorway. “Oh my gosh, Eden. You did all this?”
She gives a humble nod, but transforming the conference room into this winter wonderland must have been no small feat. The four huge tables normally scattered throughout the room have been pushed together to form one large square. A wintry blue tablecloth covers the white tabletops, and miniature Christmas trees cluster in the middle of the table, while drifts of fake snow decorate the centerpiece. A counter in the back of the room boasts an assortment of cakes and hors d’oeurvres, along with a row of alcohol bottles, and the bench beneath the picture window holds everyone’s mystery gifts. Even the conference room video screen has been put to use, playing a video of Ron Swanson sipping Lagavulin whiskey in front of a crackling fire.
“This is incredible,” I say.
“I have to agree. Nice work, Eden.”
I turn at the sound of Damien’s voice as Eden dips into a mini curtsey and the room fills up around us. My ex stands beside me in a crisp blue button-down shirt that matches the decor perfectly, and I have to admit he looks good. With his neat hair and his clean-shaven skin that shows off his square jaw, he’s every bit the model of the successful tech mogul. But now that I know what it’s like to have Locke’s stubble beard rasp across my most sensitive skin, now that I know what it’s like to have his talented tongue play my body like a piano—the sparkling high notes, the crashing lows—Damien holds none of his former appeal.
He’s not a bad person, he’s just not my person.
Damien’s eyes drop to my neck and his jaw tightens, his blue eyes darkening from sky to storm in an instant.
Crap. Did he see, too?
I sweep my hair forward over my shoulder to hide my hickey, wishing I wasn’t close enough for him to have noticed.
When I signed up to this agreement with Locke, I thought I’d want Damien to react like this. I wanted him to care about leaving me, or at least recognize what he’d lost. But none of that matters anymore. All that matters is Locke, picking his way through the crowd with two glasses of holiday punch, his eyes so warm on mine that it feels like I’m holding the sun in my chest.
I turn away from Damien to accept the glass of punch with a smile. After all, drinking on the job’s not frowned upon when everyone’s doing it.
“You come bearing gifts,” I tease, breathing in the warm, fruity scent of the drink in my hands.
“Indeed, I do.” Locke’s eyes dart to the assortment of gifts for a fraction of a second before he smiles and takes a slow sip of his punch. Then he pulls the glass from his lips and holds out a hand for Damien to shake. “Thanks for sponsoring this party, Damien.”
The two men stare at each other for an awkward second, and then Damien returns the handshake.
“Happy to celebrate such a great team.” Damien flashes a tight smile. “Things in tech are always changing, so it’s good to enjoy these moments while we can.”
Why does it feel like his words are cloaked in a threat?
Locke drops his hand to the small of my back, just barely brushing it, and Damien’s mouth jerks into a frown.
Over their shoulders, Eden makes a slicing motion across her throat.
Oh, Jesus. This is going downhill fast.
“Okay, well, I’m going grab some, um, cake. Yeah, cake.” I step backward, away from the thick cloud of testosterone crackling between them.
Whatever’s going on, I need to get myself the hell out of there.
I clutch the glass of punch to my chest and jingle my way across the room toward the snacks. Tom, one of our designers, guards the table, wielding a cake knife like a samurai sword.
“Chocolate crepe cake or New York cheesecake?” he asks me.
“That’s like asking me to pick a favorite child.”
With a grin and a deft flick of his wrist, Tom cuts a slice of each and hands me a plate. We chat for a minute about his pregnant wife’s latest food cravings—Kraft American Cheese slices and lemonade—before Eden extricates herself from the conversation with Damien and steps to the center of the room.
“Alright, everyone, let’s all take a seat so the gift exchange can begin!” She looks across the room in my direction. “Greer and I will bring over your gifts so you can open them before we move on to more food and games.”
My colleagues start to make their way to the open seats around the center table while Eden and I distribute the gifts. Then I slide into the empty seat Locke’s saved me and grin at the package Eden must have put there. Tiny, printed dachshunds wearing bow ties trot across the package, which is held together like a drunk T-rex with a tape dispenser tried to decorate it.
Definitely wrapped by a dude.
What is it about guys and wrapping paper? We’ve put people on the moon, and yet men
