Page 16 of One Night on the Naughty List

No turning back now.I couldn’t play the role of Santa’s Helper in jeans and a sweater. As I stepped into the dress and fumbled with the zipper, I regretted my three margaritas. The material was far more form-fitting than anything I owned, and it clung to my hips and chest. The long sleeves were modest enough, but the low, square neckline showed the tops of my breasts and enough cleavage to shock a stripper.

Well, maybe that was pushing it. But I was definitely out of my comfort zone. I caught my reflection in the mirror over the dresser, which showed a flushed woman with tousled blond waves, a frazzled expression, and a fire engine red dress. I ran my hands over my waist, marveling at how much smaller it seemed with the tight material nipping it in.

There was a soft knock, and Bain rumbled, “Can I come in?”

Instantly, my heart pounded. I darted to my bag and grabbed my heels. “Yes! I’m ready.”

I’m totally not ready.

I bent and yanked on one heel, then the other as the door opened and he entered in full Santa costume, a white beard dangling from one hand. He stopped on the threshold, an arrested expression on his face.

Oh no. Was it the dress? It was too much. Too tight. Too revealing. Unflattering. A hundred other words revolved through my head, familiar insults spinning like a merry-go-round of doubt. My hand fluttered up, and I pressed a palm against my chest.

“You look…” He swallowed.

My mind filled in the blanks.

Bad.

Silly.

Fat.

“Stunning,” he said, his voice like gravel. “You look stunning.”

The merry-go-round lurched to a stop. Unless he was a really good actor, the shock in his eyes was real. There was heat there, too, and it was like a tossed match on kindling inside me. Whoosh. Bonfire.

Somehow, I stayed calm on the surface, even smoothing a wrinkle from my skirt. “Thanks. That’s what the saleswoman said.”

“She wasn’t lying,” he muttered, his gaze following my hand. He cleared his throat, but his voice was still rough as he added, “Maybe I’ll order you to dress like that at work from now on.”

The bonfire blazed higher, the admiration in his eyes like a laser beam warming the exposed skin of my neck and chest. The idea of him ordering me to do anything, let alone dress for him, made electricity crackle over my skin. He spoke of work, but he was no longer my boss. Not quite. All the polite confines of that relationship blurred, the edges going fuzzy and indistinct. The events of the day rolled through my mind—our banter in the car, him carrying me through the snow, the intense looks that passed between us—making me wonder if Kara was right.

That maybe this wasn’t a marketing meeting, after all.

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