Daddy Christmas, page 3
I whipped my head her way. “How do you know? Have you seen him with anyone?”
“God, no—” Mya took over again “—but I worked with his niece before I transferred here. I’m pretty sure she indicated…”
Oh, balls. An indication was enough to get my ridiculous hopes up.
There was just something about him. Something underneath the ten layers of “I’d rather slit my wrists with a rusty spoon than spend an hour with you.” It was partly the calm assertiveness he exuded. His feathers were so unruffled. I kinda wanted to ruffle them a bit—or at least see if I had the ability. And what his reaction might be.
Case in point. Mr. Abrams didn’t need to ask for everybody’s attention. As he took the podium, everyone just quieted down and listened. If I went up there, I’d need a PA system to be heard.
Someone handed him a microphone, though I wasn’t sure it was necessary for the… I glanced behind me and backtracked. Okay, maybe it was needed. I guesstimated about seventy people were here. More than half the workforce at this branch.
And another case in point. Mr. Abrams’s speech was fucking boring, yet he still made the whole office listen quietly to every word he said. Sales numbers, growth, something about nine percent, plans for the coming year, blah-blah-blah.
By all means, keep talking, Mr. Abrams. But I was only interested in his voice. It was perhaps the warmest part of him.
“But not everything is about sales,” he continued. “Data shows an increase of traffic on our social media platforms and websites, primarily thanks to the changes we’ve made in design and accessibility.” Woo-hoo, I’d played a part in that. A small one. “Our goal to get visitors to spend more time with us has certainly been reached, and we see the results every day. Rebranding our event services has proved fruitful as well, and we’re noticing an uptick in small businesses not only reaching out but spreading the word.” He flicked a quick glance my way, and I smiled. I’d worked on the rebranding most of the summer. “To wrap things up, I’d like to convey my thanks for your hard work this year. A little birdie told me that the graphic designer who worked on our holiday gift was very particular about the branding not taking up too much space. ‘This is for employees, not for the company to push promotions.’”
Oh shit. I grinned.
“Yeah!” Several clapped for this certain graphic designer.
Mr. Abrams had asked around about me.
I had said that. I had complained about the logo being too big at first—or rather, the designated spot for the logo—and I’d basically accused corporate of wanting to turn the gift into ad space.
A few of the employees on the seventh floor joined Mr. Abrams on the podium to start handing out the gift, which, funnily enough, always got more attention than the gift that really mattered: the Christmas bonus.
While Mya and Kim rushed forward, I stayed back and kept my eye on Mr. Abrams instead. I wanted a moment with him. I was drunk enough to feel bold. To do what, I wasn’t sure of yet.
“Oh, this is cool!” someone exclaimed.
“What is it?”
Open the damn box and find out, Laura. It was a pocket grill. It didn’t actually fit inside your pocket, but close. It was tiny, folding out of a tin case, and could hold four hot dogs on a small grid placed above a little box that you put the charcoal in.
The guy at corporate had requested a large company logo on both sides. I’d bitched enough to get my way, and in the end, I’d incorporated a mountain range into the company logo and placed it on the handle of the grill.
I watched Mr. Abrams carefully plan his exit. He left the podium and slowly moved toward the corridor leading to his office, indulging a couple coworkers in chitchat on the way. The man really didn’t enjoy sticking around. But for tonight, he smiled politely and did a decent job of pretending.
There’s another corridor…
One that was way less crowded with partygoers.
I chewed on my lip and glanced behind me. I could head down there right now and intercept Mr. Abrams when he returned to his office from the other hallway. It would be a minute or two before he’d gotten past the employees who wanted a moment of his time.
Screw it, I didn’t have a whole lot to lose except face, and I could live with that. I ducked out from the party area and made my way down the corridor toward Mr. Abrams’s office. At the same time, I was due for a stern talkin’-to. Mr. Abrams was an illusion in my head. He was the epitome of my fantasies, physically. His assertiveness. His height. His age. Which, in the grand scheme of things, was nothing. My best relationship so far was probably a high school boyfriend who’d been anything but my “type.” It took a lot more than good looks to build something.
I wasn’t going to build anything with Mr. Abrams. I just wanted to test the waters and see if it might be possible to flirt or talk to him without his internal grinch ruining everything.
As I rounded the corner in the back, I noticed two young women standing near Suravi’s desk. I didn’t recognize them.
They smiled politely at me, one of them a bit more amused by my undressed appearance than the other.
“Are you waiting for Mr. Abrams?” I wondered.
One of them nodded. “He said he’d see us after his speech.” She exchanged a grin with the other one that left me feeling weird. They looked alike, both blond and pretty.
They weren’t Mr. Abrams’s…type…were they?
I had too little to go on, but my boldness had taken a hike. Either way, Mr. Abrams had plans.
So this was where I decided to go get wasted.
“Why’re you leavin’ me already?” I managed to get out. “It’s only ten or something!”
“Mya went home an hour ago.”
I squinted toward the voice and felt myself being hauled up from my chair. God—lights. Everywhere. “Too bright.” The music had died too. People had gone home… Damn, was I the last one here? The cafeteria seemed empty.
“Where do you live?” the voice asked. “I’m taking you home.”
“Uh…” If I focused really hard, I… Wait, was that— “Mr. Abrams, is that you?”
“I’m glad your eyesight works. Here. Your other friend brought you your clothes before she left.”
Fuck. His words were too many and coming too fast for my brain to process them all. I screwed my eyes shut as the floor moved beneath me, and I scratched my head—which reminded me. I was clutching money in my other hand.
“They gave me a hundred bucks to wear only this tonight,” I said. “Now I’mma buy more yarn for Nana’s Christmas gift. Yarn’s more expensive than you think.”
“I see.” Mr. Abrams disappeared. Or he sat down on the other side of the table and held up my slacks. “Put on your pants, Parker. You can hold my shoulder for support.”
Nooo, not when he was finally here and didn’t have beautiful girls waiting for him. I wanted my moment. I could get dressed later. “I have a better idea. You were Daddy Christmas earlier but didn’t hear my wish.” I batted away the pants in his hands and plopped down sideways across his lap. “It’s Santa’s job to listen, and I’ve been a good boy all year.”
Mr. Abrams cursed and quickly glanced around us.
I found that funny. “Are you afraid someone’s gonna see us, Daddy Christmas?”
“Parker, this isn’t appropriate. You need to put your clothes on so I can take you home.”
That made me pout. “You don’t wanna hear my wish for Christmas?”
He sighed and gave me an impatient look. “Out with it, then.”
Yay! I leaned in and whispered in his ear. “I just wanna wake up on Christmas morning with snow all around and a Daddy holding me tight.”
Was that too much to ask?
For the longest time, maybe two hours or four seconds, I didn’t hear a sound aside from the ringing in my ears and Mr. Abrams’s breaths. He still smelled so damn good. And felt good. Shame he wasn’t wearing his costume anymore. He’d changed back into his suit.
Then he swallowed and carefully put a hand on my back. “You’re cold. Please get dressed right this instant.”
I shivered at his warm touch yet didn’t feel cold at all. “It doesn’t feel cold.”
“Because you’ve had too much to drink,” he responded quietly. “Way too much.”
His low voice had a strange effect on me. Something that I didn’t even know had been buzzing erratically within me slowed down and enveloped me in peace and comfort.
It made me yawn.
“Maybe it’s time to wrap this party up,” I conceded. “No more candy cane Jell-O shots for me.”
“That’s a good idea,” he agreed. “In any and all scenarios. Candy cane Jell-O sounds terrible.”
I grinned a little and side-eyed him. “After four or five, they taste nice.”
“Four or five.” He shook his head and reached for my pants again. “Time to go, Parker. Tomorrow, when you’re sober, you can reflect on the possibility that you might have a problem with knowing when to stop drinking.”
“I have that problem with lots of things,” I chuckled and stood up. Whoa, had to steady myself on the table. “When I have fun, I just wanna keep having fun.”
“Hm.” He helped me step into my pants, ’cause that was trickier than most people believed. “Boundaries are good for you.”
“Boundaries are boring!”
“There’s no need to shout.”
“That wasn’t shouting. This is shouting. Bound—!”
He slapped a hand over my mouth with enough force to make me look up at him, eyes wide, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing at first. Mingling with the hot Daddy sternness was plenty of amusement, and it turned his blue eyes into pools of liquid sex.
“Behave, boy.” With another look of warning, he reached for my shirt.
I was in trouble.
DECEMBER 4
“I just wanna wake up on Christmas morning with snow all around and a Daddy holding me tight.”
My eyes flashed open.
“Behave, boy.”
Oh God.
“Stop being so difficult, Parker, and tell me your address. I’m trying to get you home safely.”
“Oh no,” I whimpered.
My sheets weren’t this nice. My bed was…softer than this.
No, no, no, no, no, no.
What had I done?
With my heart lodged in my throat, I scrambled out of bed and looked around me. Ouch—perfect time for a headache to just slam itself right into my skull.
My bedroom wasn’t this tidy. Or fancy. Every piece of furniture was of some dark wood, a stark contrast to the cream-colored walls and beigey stone floor.
Holy shit. I’d given him no choice but to take me home with him when I’d refused to tell him my address. Because apparently you didn’t give that to strangers. But going home with one was okay? I was a fucking idiot. I’d crossed so many lines. And I remembered it all. Why did I remember? I didn’t wanna remember.
I swallowed a bout of nausea as I scanned the floor for my clothes. That was how I noticed the door next to the large bed. It had to be a bathroom. At some point, I’d shed all my clothes and left them in a trail into the bathroom. Man, I hoped he hadn’t been around to see that.
I picked up my clothes on my way into the bathroom, where I quickly decided to stay for a while. Hot damn, a shower for two. I wasn’t going to make myself at home—I’d already done that too much—but I needed to get rid of any traces that revealed I’d inhaled a bar last night.
There were actual dispensers in the shower for shampoo, body wash, and conditioner. Like at some hotel.
And the fluffiest towels…
Yeah, I was gonna end up taking a long shower. I couldn’t face Mr. Abrams like this. I had shadows under my eyes, my hair was a mess, and let’s not discuss how I smelled. I couldn’t show up at dance rehearsal like this later.
Spare toothbrushes under the sink, thank you, thank you.
Okay, a plan. I needed a plan. Once I was done here, I was going to apologize profusely, make it clear that I would totally understand if he fired me, and then I’d call an Uber, go home, and put together a gift basket that screamed I’m sorry.
Embarrassment was one thing, and everyone made mistakes. But I’d gone way too far. I felt ashamed, and I might actually need a good cry as soon as I got home.
How the hell did I open this ancient block of a wood door—oh, it was a sliding door. All right. I swallowed my nerves and left the guest room. I assumed it was a guest room anyway.
The stone floor continued outside the room, and I could veer left and right along a hallway or go straight ahead, where it opened up to reveal a large kitchen with a priceless view of the ocean. No, not priceless. There was definitely a set price tag on this address. Mr. Abrams had an actual beach house in Santa Monica. That was a whole other level of rich.
He liked his cream-colored floors and walls, combined with the same dark wood I’d seen in the guest room. Maybe walnut. Along with lots of spotlights and natural light. The patio doors went along the entire length of the house, as did the patio outside.
The weather fit my mood. Overcast and foggy.
I spotted him when I was just a few feet into the kitchen. To the right, past a kitchen bar, was a dining area and then a sitting room. He sat at the kitchen table and looked like he’d just walked out of a Nespresso commercial with George Clooney.
Not a hair out of place. Suit pants, a light blue button-down that made me acutely aware of the wrinkles on my own shirt—hell, he even wore shoes. A small cup of coffee or espresso, the paper he was reading, and one leg folded over the other. Nespresso Daddy. That was it. He was a Nespresso Daddy.
I cleared my throat and didn’t come closer.
He glanced over at me and put down his paper. “Good morning, Parker.”
“Morning, sir.” Fuck, I was seriously nervous. I wasn’t used to that. My stomach knotted into a tight mess, and I hated it. “I, uh…I wanted to apologize before I get out of your hair. My behavior last night was…” I shook my head, struggling to find an adequate word. “Obnoxious.” Good enough. “I’m very sorry if I made you uncomfortable, and I wouldn’t blame…” I trailed off when I heard the doorbell.
Mr. Abrams held up a finger and got up. “That should be your breakfast. I expected you to sleep till noon, but this is good. Now we won’t have to reheat anything later.”
He passed me on the way to the door, and I was just dumbfounded. At a complete loss. He’d ordered me breakfast?
“I understand if you wanna poison it,” I blurted out.
He threw me a strange look over his shoulder, as if I was acting weird, then continued toward the door.
He was the weird one right now. And while he was out of sight, I did my best to tuck in my shirt and smooth down the fabric. I ran a hand through my hair too, in an attempt to tame it.
Mr. Abrams returned shortly after with a white paper bag, and he told me to have a seat at the table.
Having breakfast here indicated I wouldn’t be making a hasty exit.
Just pointing that out.
I didn’t dare defy him, though. I’d been doing that by pushing his buttons all week.
I made my way to the round table and sat down at a respectable distance. In the meantime, Mr. Abrams went behind the kitchen island and unpacked whatever he’d ordered for me.
“I took a shot in the dark and followed the holiday party’s hashtag on social media,” he said conversationally. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you tagged in oh-so many photos and videos.”
Gulp.
He poured a bottle of OJ into a glass, followed by some hot beverage into a mug. “You’re quite the clown around friends. Quite the drinker…” That one earned me a raised brow. “And quite the performer.”
He must’ve seen footage of Kim and me dancing.
“From there, it was easy to locate your own account and find out what you like to eat,” he said, plating something in a wrap. “Because as we all know, you can’t be on social media and not let friends know what you had for lunch. Dinner… Breakfast.” With that said, he gathered everything on a tray and returned to the table.
If I had been dumbfounded before, it had nothing on now.
He was supposed to yell at me—or, which was more apt to his character, quietly tell me to leave and never come back. Instead…he’d bought me juice, hot cocoa, a breakfast sandwich, and friggin’ pancakes.
“How’s your head this morning?” he wondered and sat down again. With his espresso and some tiny cookie. It looked like a biscotti. Typical Nespresso Daddy, I decided. “After I put you to bed last night, I was going to get you a couple painkillers, but when I came back to the guest room, you were in the process of taking off all your clothes.”
“Oh, of course I was.” I scrubbed at my face, beyond mortified. “This would be the perfect time for the ground to swallow me whole.”
He chuckled. He actually chuckled.
I looked up from my hands, and damn, his smile reached his eyes. It was the hottest sight I’d seen all year.
Then it faded, and he motioned to my food with his cup. “Eat your breakfast.”
Yes, sir.
“What about you?” I tucked into my pancakes with gusto and filled my mouth. “A cookie iffn’t breakfaft.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, just a pinch of mirth lingering. “Swallow before you talk.”
Oh, right. Yeah. I knew that.
“Are they good?” he asked.
“Very. But they’d be even better with more syrup.” I had to be honest. “And my head is okay, by the way. The shower helped.”
“Good, I’m glad.” He rose from his seat and headed over to the kitchen again. “I spent most of my thirties in both Rome and LA. This is what I had for breakfast every day in Italy.”
An espresso and a tiny cookie? That sounded boring.
“Maybe Italians should stick to pasta and pizza,” I said. “Do you by any chance have whipped cream? I already owe you the biggest gift basket known to man. I figure why not go all the way.”
