Page 6 of Their Christmas Miracle

Holly

I’m probably standing too close to him, aren’t I? It’s just to try and catch his smell, I promise. It’s got nothing to do with how nervous I’m making him. It’s hilarious though — I’ve practically crowded him into the back corner of the elevator just by moving an inch at a time.

Trust my dad to get an office at the top floor of a fifty-story building; this elevator ride’s been going on forever.

Doesn’t matter how close I stand though, I can’t catch a whiff of him. I toy with the laces on my vest, glancing at Joshua from the corner of my eye. He’s put on his suit jacket — the suit’s black, his shirt is black, and that tie is black.

“You have a funeral today?”

He frowns, looks at me, and then hurriedly faces forward again. One hand goes in his pocket, the other tightens around his black briefcase.

Black, black, black. Ugh.

“Why, do I look sad?”

“You look like you just came back from one,” I say.

He looks down at himself, frown deepening before he forces all expression from his face. “You look like a gypsy,” he mutters.

I laugh. “Just what I was going for.” I dart forward, yanking his hand from his pocket and turning it over. “I can read palms, too. Wanna know what yours says?”

His hand is surprisingly warm, deliciously dry, and so, so smooth. I trail my index finger over the creases in his palm, reveling in the feel of his satiny skin.

So he obviously doesn’t work out — not with such soft hands — but he also doesn’t look like he eats enough.

His hand twitches in mine as if he wants to pull away and then reconsiders. I don’t look up at him — I’m watching that bulge in his pants to see if I can get a reaction out of him. A quick glance to the side; I have another twenty-three floors to go.

The race is on.

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