Kissmas Eve: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Read online

  Kissmas Eve

  M.E. Carter

  Sara Ney

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Meg

  “If I ever get fired, I hope it's because of an office romance.”

  I love Christmas.

  No. I mean—I love Christmas. Not just Christmas itself, but everything leading up to it. The crisp chill in the air and frost on the ground before the snow. Hustle and bustle and in town; I get stupid giddy when they finally hang the lights and the decorations on Main Street. It makes me feel nostalgic.

  I love seeing a Santa on every corner. I love the sounds of the Salvation Army bells, always chip in spare change if I have it handy, and bundling up in the bright red coat I only get to wear from Thanksgiving, through December 30. It’s an adorable, crimson pea coat and I added the greatest vintage rhinestone Santa pin to the lapel.

  This year, strangely enough, I can’t get into the Christmas spirit. I suppose it has to do with the fact that I just moved from Illinois to Dallas, Texas—and Dallas doesn’t get cold for Christmas—it gets frigid at best. But according to Sheila, the woman whose cubicle is next to mine at work, 65 degrees is cold enough to cause hypothermia.

  To me? Seeing lights and merriment without snow and without sub-zero temperatures just doesn’t feel as festive. At least, not to this transplant.

  And speaking of Sheila, I can hear her on the phone in her cubicle, tittering.

  Which means she’s on the phone with her boyfriend. Yes, the gray haired woman in the next cube over, twice my age and as jaded as they come, has a steady boyfriend.

  And I don’t.

  “No you hang up…” I hear over the thin walls, cooing into the receiver of her office phone like a teenager. “No you hang up….” She giggles softly, sounding slightly dirty. For a brief moment, a sick part of me wonders what they’d been talking about. “I swear you make it so hard to keep my mind on my job, Neil.”

  I silently plead for him to do us both a favor and hang up.

  I have work to do, but I can’t get it done with this lovey-dovey going on the entire day.

  It’s very distracting. And frankly, kind of depressing.

  Oh god, I’m jealous of Sheila.

  I decide to text my best friend Tabitha; she’s an author and loves hearing about shit like this. Not to mention, I miss her like crazy since I moved and not a day goes by that we don’t message each other. Glancing at my clock, I notice it’s almost noon, so she’s probably taking a break to have lunch.

  She does her writing at a quaint little coffee shop, even though her husband Collin built her the greatest home office; she says the chairs at home just aren’t as comfortable, and the lattes aren’t as hot Writers and their weird issues, I swear…

  Meg: I’m almost positive Sheila and Neil were just having phone sex.

  Tabitha: Remind me again who Sheila is.

  Meg: Her cubicle is next to mine at work, and I can hear everything that goes on.

  Meg: She just got off the phone with her boyfriend, and I swear they were, you know…

  Tabitha: You should ask to join them next time. Make it a threesome.

  Meg: You’re sick, do you know that?

  Tabitha: I write romance novels; what kind of sympathy were you wanting from me?

  Meg: You have KIDS! Two of them.

  Tabitha: So? How do you think I got ‘em? *wink wink*

  Meg: Good point.

  Tabitha: What do you think the real problem is here?

  Meg: What do you mean?

  Tabitha: Do you really care that Sheila is having phone sex in her cubby, or are you just jealous you aren’t having sex in yours. Oops, I mean PHONE sex. Hehe.

  Meg: I would never have phone sex at work!!!!

  Tabitha: Well, what about just regular sex?

  Meg: Go back to work.

  Tabitha: Thanks, I will. You just gave me a great idea to write about.

  Awesome. My best friend is going to write about sex, gets to have regular sex with her husband, and now I’m sitting at my desk at work, thinking about it. Sex, that is.

  I stare at my computer monitor blankly, having lost total focus.

  Don’t get me wrong—I like my job.

  In fact, I love it.

  It’s always been my ambition to become a sports agent; so landing a job at McGinnis Agency was a dream come true. I don’t want to say I got lucky, but the candidates that I had to compete against to get this job were the top of their class at some of the best business schools around the country. Some say throwing your resume into the hiring ring at McGinnis is as competitive as an athlete entering the draft.

  So many candidates, only a few spots on the McGinnis agent team.

  Still unable to focus on work, even with a looming compensation contracts deadline approaching, I readjust the little plastic Rudolph on my desk, his little red nose shining and bright, just like the song. I’m about to check his batteries when a commotion at the front catches my attention, and I pivot in my chair as Jason Hart strolls past my cube.

  Jason Hart.

  NFL defensive lineman powerhouse.

  Broadcasting personality.

  Tall, broad shouldered, and larger than life, Mr. Hart is one of our most well-known football clients. A virtual hulk of a man, he towers above the gray particians of the cubicles that make up the seventh floor of our agency, and I tail his wake as he enters the office of the one person I haven’t made an effort to talk to since I’ve been here.

  Adam Roberts.

  Agent and manager.

  Marketing machine.

  I sigh his name wistfully inside my head. Watch as he stands to greet his client, smoothing down the pleats of his dark gray slacks. The men shake hands, Adam slapping Mr. Hart on the back, then closing the door behind them both. Darn it, now I won’t be able to hear his laugh.

  It’s subdued but strong, just like he is.

  Fortunately, I can look my fill because Adam’s office is made completely out of glass. It’s like he’s in a proverbial fish bowl, and I watch him like he’s there just for my enjoyment. I can sneak glances and gaze at him all I want because he is right. There. All his dark, hot chocolaty brown hair and darker eyes, Adam is just as tall as Jason Hart. Just as formidable.

  He steals my breath away.

  Don’t get me wrong; I don’t just watch him because of his looks.

  Adam Roberts is brilliant.

  A managing member of the Talent Department, Adam’s job is to direct and organize the professional—and media circus—that is the life of Mega Athlete Jason Hart. That includes supervising the public relations team when Jason’s son was sick, and joining the Board of Directors of Mr. Hart’s multi-million-dollar foundation, Hart to Heart.

  He manages to make it seem effortless.

  I sigh again, this time into my Elf coffee mug.

  Obviously I’m drinking hot chocolate and not coffee, because there’s no holiday spirit in that. I poke at a floating marshmallow, sipping it into my mouth with a soft slurp, trying to look busy while I covertly watch Adam invite Jason Hart to have a seat in one of his big, leather desk chairs.

  I wonder distractedly if a brilliant, attractive bachelor like Adam would ever notice someone like me. Someone who can’t resist her Santa leggings when the calendar strikes December 1. Someone who dons an ornament shaped purse and silver, dangly Christmas tree earrings.

  Someone that doesn’t exactly scream Executive Management Girlfriend material.

  As
I gaze through the glass of his office walls, my green eyes can’t help wandering to the lavender necktie expertly knotted around his neck, and I wonder if he’s the type to ever consider wearing one with tiny snowflakes on it. He’s animated now, large hands gesturing as he speaks to his client, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  I find the whole picture incredibly sexy.

  His forearms are incredible.

  My eyes drift as he speaks, traveling over a full set of lips surrounded by the dark shadow of beard stubble.

  Sexy.

  His hair is still wet from an early morning shower, and I bet he smells as incredible as he looks—I’ve never let myself close enough to take a whiff. Another wistful sigh escapes my mouth, and when I prop my chin in my hands and lift my eyes—

  Oh Scrooge.

  Shoot. Shit.

  Jason Hart is staring at me. Staring.

  With a cocky smirk stretched across his handsome face.

  Instantly my guilty eyes widen at being caught, cheeks flush before I jerk them away to look down at my monitor.

  How embarrassing.

  Then I have another horrifying thought: what if Jason Hart thinks I was staring at him? How unprofessional, ogling a client. And one that’s married for heaven’s sake! And famous. And so far out of my league it’s laughable.

  A scratchy, intrusive voice interrupts my woolgathering, and I give a start in my chair, almost dropping my mug. “Hey, Christmas Mary, what are you wearing to the office party tomorrow night?”

  “Jesus Sheila, you scared the crap out of me! I thought you went back to work.”

  “Nope.”

  Of course she wouldn’t be. Instead of tackling that mountain of paperwork I’ve noticed on her desk, it looks like she’s spent the last ten minutes primping. Literally applying make-up as she speaks to me, circular pink compact, and crimson lipstick tube in her hands.

  I swear, with as much lipstick as she puts on, it’s a wonder Neil doesn’t have permanently red stained lips. I tap my mug in thought—come to think of it, his lips always have been a little on the colorful side. Stained.

  “What are you wearing to the office party tomorrow?” She repeats, blotting a pressed powder puff to her overly done face.

  I squirm in my seat. “The party is right after work, right?”

  “Six o’clock on the dot down in the lobby. Most people don’t get there until closer to seven, but if you’re not down there right away you miss out on the free booze. Band starts at eight.”

  “Don’t most people just wear their work clothes?”

  She shoots me a disapproving look. “Meg. This is the office Christmas party. This isn’t an office Ugly Sweater Christmas party.”

  Wait. Did she just lower her eyes to my sweater when she said that?

  “You can’t wear your…” she stalls and waves her hand in a circle in my direction, like she’s trying to find the words to describe what I’m wearing but can’t quite find them. “Festivey…crazy…people of Walmart outfit. Look them up on the intranet system if you don’t believe me.”

  I scoff. Like I would do that.

  “Sheila, these leggings are so fun! And how did you know they were from Walmart! Four bucks—I couldn’t just leave them there.” I laugh. “Besides, they’re festive and fun. This is the best time of year and the only time I can get away with dressing funky at work.”

  She crinkles her nose in disgust. “I didn’t realize you actually got your clothes there. I thought it just looked that way. Now it all makes sense.”

  I try not to let her comments bother me. She can’t ruin my holiday cheer. “Well, you’ve been here longer than I have. What do you think I should wear tomorrow? Will I be overdressed if I wear a fun sweater to the party?”

  Sheila’s eyes widen. “Overdressed? No. The ladies here get all decked out; dresses, sequins—the whole enchilada.”

  My brows shoot up, concerned. I nibble my lip. “They do?”

  “Yes, but don’t y’all worry; Deborah from accounting has a cosmetology degree. I’m sure she’d love to get her mitts on you.”

  “Deborah from accounting? Has a cosmetology degree and an accounting degree? Wow.”

  “And nails. She does a kick ass gel refill.” Sheila takes a few seconds to study her manicure. “Her pedicures are shit, though, but don’t you dare tell her I told you that.”

  I give my head a little nod, causing my silver tree earrings to jingle. “I won’t.”

  Sheila waves a hand airily, and I notice her long, blood red nails. Yikes. “Let’s finish this talk about your clothes, sugar. You can’t wear…work clothes to the party.”

  “I can’t?”

  “Well. Some people can. Just not you. That outfit is hideous.”

  I look down at my beloved leggings. Sure, they aren’t the best material money can buy—and yes, you can see right through them to my underwear when I bend over—but they’re covered with Santa! If the women of the world can run around the entire year wearing those crazy, weird leggings everyone is buying on Facebook, then surely I can get away with some Santa heads all over mine.

  “I’m wearing the most festive outfit in this entire office. See, my shirt has glitter on it,” I argue.

  “Yeah, I can see it.”

  “How is this not appropriate for the party?”

  “Honey, for the women in this office, this is like the Super Bowl of man-hunting. They’ll be showing up in four-inch heels and the most sophisticated outfits they can get their manicured claws on. You don’t want to turn up lookin’ like a bumpkin, do you?”

  Fine. I’ll be the first to admit I go a little overboard around the holidays, but during the rest of the year, I’m as professional as they come. Predictable and boring, if I’m being honest: navy pencil skirts down to my knees and white button down shirts. Heels. Sleek ponytails and pearls.

  “Meg. Darlin. You forget the industry we work in.” She says it gently, as if I’m not aware our company services some of the most physically fit, good-looking, men and women in the world. “I realize this will be your first Christmas party with us, but do you think it’s just men from the office that will be there tomorrow? Clients come too, Meg. Clients.”

  “Clients?”

  “You know that quarterback who was just in Adam’s office today?”

  “He’s not a quarterback.”

  “Whatever. The Holiday party is going to be packed with his teammates. Coaches. There will be hot, virile, athletic men galore. If you want the chance to nail one of them, you need to look the part.”

  “Wait. Nail one of them?”

  Is she nuts? I would never dream of mixing business and pleasure—getting involved with a client? Plus, I think I read something in the Employee Handbook about fraternizing with clientele; it took me an entire week to read that thing.

  “One of them might decide he actually likes you for you, but until then—you’re going to have to change your clothes if you want to be the wife of Mr. Hot, Hot Bodied Sports Star,” she says with a dreamy look on her face.

  “I’m beginning to think you just work here for access to the athletes,” I mutter. “Besides, don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “Neil?” She laughs, a few loose strands of gray hair falling out of her top knot. “Oh honey, no. We’re just having some fun.”

  Just having fun? This is news to me.

  Trust me, I’ve seen the bouquets he’s sent her—big, obscenely expensive ones—and have to hear about the places he takes her on weekends. Romantic restaurants, concerts, plays, and one time, a cabin by the lake.

  “Are you sure he knows you’re just having fun? Are you sure he’s not…” Let see, how do I put this. “More invested in this than you think he is?”

  She waves a hand, dismissively, charm bracelet jingling. “He’s a nice distraction, Meg, but he knows he’s temporary until the right man comes sailing through those,” she stabs her index finger toward the embankment. “Those elevator doors over there.”

  I jus
t shake my head. I should have known she didn’t have any real interest in this job.

  She barely does anything but gossip and flit around, and I’m a little disappointed in myself for not figuring it out sooner. I just assumed she likes short skirts for the breezy aspect.

  “So. Back to the holiday party,” she says clapping her hands together. “You need a new outfit.”

  I glance down at my red, tinsel covered sweater, then up toward Adam’s office. “I don’t need a new outfit.”

  “Sweetie, I’m afraid you do. We’re going shopping.”

  “We are not going shopping.” I can go on my own.

  “Why not?” she asks, looking crestfallen.

  “Because you don’t actually like me.”

  To her credit, she tries really hard to not agree with me at first. Until she gives up the charade.

  “Ok fine. I don’t. But whether or not I like you is irrelevant because I like shopping.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Unless you’re at Walmart,” she mutters.

  “Hey!”

  “Really? You’re going to deny it? You’re wearing four dollar pants.”

  I shrug in acknowledgement, picking at the fabric hugging my thighs. Picking at Santa’s little rosy cheeks. “But they’re so cute.”

  “Honey, no. They’re really not. It looks like you sat on Santa’s face and it got stuck to your ass.”

  My mouth gapes. “Then you’re looking too closely at my ass because, I’m wearing a sweater over it.”

  “You mean the sweater that hikes up the back every time you bend over to pick something up?”