I haven’t gotten what I actually want for Christmas, anyway.
Or need.
But I’ll get it. I just didn’t expect to feel this nervous about it, now that it’s getting down to the wire. Five-fifteen on the 22nd of December and absolutely no indication that Maddie will be accompanying me to Ohio. She’s booked everything, although she didn’t do exactly as I’d asked her to. Because she knows that as of now, I’ve got no leverage. It’s problematic. And still weirdly hot that she’s pushing the envelope like this.
Instead of flying in on the afternoon of the 24th, she booked us on separate flights to Cleveland—tomorrow. When I complained, she told me that she was just being a good assistant, as usual. It’s the winter, and there’s always a chance that the weather will prevent me from arriving at my destination on time. Better safe than sorry, she said. And we wouldn’t want to risk being seen together at the airport in NYC, so to be safe—separate flights. And she might not even be on hers. She booked her flight “just in case.”
She did not book us adjoining suites at the Ritz-Carlton in Cleveland either. She didn’t book us into the Ritz-Carlton or any of the hotels in Cleveland for the 23rd and 24th. She booked rooms at a hotel in Youngstown. An hour and fifteen minutes from Cleveland. Ten minutes from my parents’ house. “I know it feels like I did this to punish you,” she said, “but it’s just to be safe.”
And I’m not mad. I’m a lawyer—I respect being safe. I respect her audacity. It looks good on her. Everything looks good on her. Especially that bright red dress. It clings to her audacious curves like the skin of a Red Delicious apple, and I am staying just as close to her at this party. To be safe. I wouldn’t want her to feel like she has to wave off lazy dick fruit flies like Drucker on her own. I’m here to help.
Shapiro, our CEO, is wearing a four-thousand-dollar suit and a crappy Santa hat, passing out Secret Santa gifts to his employees. I’m pretending to give a shit while three assistants sing some fucking Jonas Brothers Christmas song on the karaoke machine. On top of the deluxe karaoke machine, Shapiro sprung for the back room of this fancy steakhouse that’s a few blocks from our offices. He’s not buying us steak, but there’s an open bar. I advised him to give out drink tickets and enforce a two-drink maximum per guest, but he didn’t listen. It’s fine. The off-site venue reduces the company’s liability, and the professional bartenders know when to cut people off. But he did take my advice and provided safe transportation options for anyone who needs it. This is why you should never invite your general counsel to your office holiday party. And why I shouldn’t be here. Because I’m always on the lookout for potential legal issues.
I gotta hand it to whoever decorated this place, though. With the strings of lights and the sparkly snowflakes and the very appropriate hanging blue balls and the silver tree—it looks nice. If you like this sort of shiny, happy holiday thing. I don’t. But I respect it.
What I don’t respect is lazy dick assholes who think they can hit on my assistant just because she’s wearing a bright red dress and hasn’t told them to fuck off yet. Just because she’s standing right behind me there, politely listening to him word-vomit about how relaxing it is at his beach house in the Hamptons in the winter. She knows I’m listening—that’s why she keeps oohing and ahhing, as if she’s actually considering accepting this d-bag’s invitation to hang out with him there. As if that’s a more enticing option than dinner with my family in Ohio.
“Well, let me know,” Drucker says. “I’m heading up there tomorrow, for a week. In case you don’t already have plans. Should be super chill.”
“I’ll think about it, thanks,” she replies. “I haven’t quite decided what I’m going to do yet. But it certainly sounds more relaxing than some of my options.”
She accidentally on purpose elbows me in the back, almost making me spill the drink in my hand. Almost. I put the tumbler down on the buffet table next to us and turn to join in on the conversation, because she obviously wants me to—just as Drucker is pulling something out of his blazer pocket.
“Hey, what’s this doing in here?” he exclaims, like the world’s worst close-up magician. He holds up a sprig of fake mistletoe, and before he can say why don’t you help me honor this holiday tradition, I’ve swiped that thing out of his hand and crumpled it up. “What the shit, man?” he whines.
“As general counsel of this firm, I’d advise against the use of mistletoe at a work function.”
Maddie covers her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
“It’s not like I was going to force her to do anything,” he mumbles.
“Best not to put her in an awkward position to begin with.”
Now she’s laughing out loud.
Yeah, I get the irony.
But at least I waited until non-office hours to approach her and offered her the safety of a legal agreement instead of a leafy invitation to sexual harassment. And also—this guy is neither hot as fuck, nor is he physically or mentally agile enough to appreciate or handle her in all the ways she deserves to be handled.
“Employers are legally liable, even when incidents occur at off-site venues. Thanks for the socks, by the way.” I wave them around in front of Drucker’s face.
“What makes you think they’re
