“Got you written all over it. What’d you get, Cooper?”
“A twenty-dollar gift card for White Castle!”
“From onion rings guy?”
“It even smells like onion rings.” She giggles, holding the card up under my nose.
“Mmm, reminds me of the interior of my car,” I say in a hushed voice—because this is an inside joke between my assistant and me and has nothing to do with Drucker.
“I love White Castle,” he says. “I like their smoothies.”
And before he can suggest that they stop by there on the way to the Hamptons, Maddie gets called over to the karaoke machine, because apparently, she signed up for a song.
“Hold this for me, will you?” She smirks, placing the card in the palm of my hand.
She smooths down the front of her dress as she sashays over to grab a mic and then proceeds to sing “You’re A Mean One, Mr. Grinch.” To me. Like Marilyn Monroe singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” Except instead of wishing me a happy birthday, she’s telling me, in front of everyone, that my heart is an empty hole and she wouldn’t touch me with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole.
Which is hilarious.
I mean—I’m laughing. Everyone’s laughing. I don’t even care that Drucker’s laughing.
Because it’s a holiday party. And her sexy voice is filling this entire room with holiday spirit and good old-fashioned sass. It’s not even sass, really. She’s cocky as hell. She isn’t nervously checking her watch to see how much time she has left to decide if she wants to accompany her boss to a few enjoyable family functions or work at the office all day and night for the rest of the year. And neither am I.
I’m cool as a Christmas pickle. A pickle who might have to call his mom and tell her his new girlfriend just got hit by a truck. Or maybe I’ll get hit by a truck. I could get lucky. I still believe in Christmas miracles. My heart isn’t really an empty hole. It’s an asshole. And an idiot. But it’s not a lazy dick.
I applaud and hoot and holler when Maddie’s done serenading me. She gives me a big, toothy grin from across the room. Service with a smile, always. But that smile falters for a moment. As she’s handing the microphone to someone else, those big brown eyes are still fixed on mine. I don’t know what my face is doing right now, but it’s making her a little worried. About me. About how she’s made me feel, maybe.
She cares. She doesn’t like it. But she cares.
What do you know? I might just have to look both ways when I cross the road on the way back to Sentinel so I don’t get hit by a truck. I might just have something to live for.
I tear my eyes away from her and stroll on over to the open bar to get one more drink before I head back to the office. I nod at What’s-Her-Name from Down the Hall, and Broker from the Downtown Office with the Stupid Mustache. It’s great to see everyone here at this party. Just great.
“Another Jameson,” I order from the bartender. “Neat.”
Shapiro calls out to Cindy, the unbearably happy receptionist, and tells her she’s going to have to come over to him to open up her present. Because it’s so huge. He had a bunch of interns bring all eighty of the Secret Santa gifts over from the office, but he isn’t willing to carry one twenty-one-pound box over to a sweet middle-aged lady in a Rudolph sweater. I am not the only one who’s watching her open this big box—it’s bigger than all the others. Nobody’s jealous, though, because Cindy deserves it. She’s the heart of the corporate office. It’s annoying how relentlessly cheerful she is, but she means well.
She screams—actually screams—as soon as she tears off the wrapping and sees the top of the box. It’s one of those deluxe karaoke machines from Korea. She loves karaoke. Everyone knows this. Sure, it cost a little more than the twenty-dollar limit. Okay, it cost over eight hundred dollars more than the limit. What are they gonna do? Sue for overspending and being a more awesome gift-giver than everyone else? As general counsel, I’d advise against it.
Cindy is so happy, and for some reason, Maddie appears to be really happy for her. She goes over to hug her. Cindy’s crying. Happy tears—you’d think Justin Timberlake jumped out of the box and kissed her—but she’s crying. Which is awkward. She wants to know who her Secret Santa is, but no one’s coming forward to claim the reward for being the greatest guy at Sentinel and possibly in all of Manhattan.
Because seeing Cindy happy is reward enough.
I gulp down my whiskey, check my personal phone. There’s a text from my buddy Matt, asking if I’ll be at his party. I tell him I won’t be able to make it out to Brooklyn tonight. There’s a text from my sister, with a photo attachment of something deep-fried that our nonna is making her family for dinner. It might be a thumb. There’s a text from someone who has no business texting me now or ever again. I delete it without reading it. And I have no idea how long Cooper has been standing right behind me, but she keeps saying my name.
“Hi,” I say, shoving the phone back into my pocket. She looks like she’s about to tell me something really important.
And I am ready to hear it.
“There you are,” Drucker says, handing her a cup. “Try this. It’s incredible.”
She takes the cup from him, still staring at me, at whatever my face is doing. She takes a big gulp and then—spits it out. All over my shirt.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
Ten
Maddie
SATAN BABY
What a baby.
Scratch the surface of every gorgeous, cocky man in this city, and that’s what you get. A big baby.
