Page 2 of Their Christmas Miracle

I give my lips a quick lick, glancing at the open door behind us. “Who are you?” I whisper.

For a moment — just a moment, mind you — I think I’m hallucinating. It is late. I am godawfully tired. And she’s so vivacious, this young thing beside me. I’m not saying I’m old — although I have at least a decade on her — but she’s so colorful, so brash.

So goddamn beautiful.

I haven’t put on the fluorescents — there’s no need, really — so she stands silhouetted against the light streaming in from the hallway. She’s dressed in some kind of boho getup: a wide, loose skirt, a bright yellow vest, and a floppy cardigan over everything.

I can see the shape of her thighs and the curve of her ass through the thin fabric. My gaze moves up her body, where I force it away from those sumptuous curves with iron determination. So instead, my eyes move to her breasts.

She’s not wearing a bra.

I know this because, from the angle she’s leaning against the photocopier and due to the aforementioned ‘floppiness’ of her clothing, I can see inside her vest.

God, I could stretch out my hand, slide them into that gaping neckline, and cup a breast in each hand. Squeeze them — just once — hard. She has tiny, perky mounds with strawberry-pink nipples dusting their tips. There’s a tattoo, some henna-like artwork running between and under her breasts.

If she stood straight, if I slid that shirt over her head, then I could see that tattoo clearly.

I really, really want to see that tattoo.

The instant I realize this, my damn dick remembers it hasn’t had the feel of anything other than a silk sock in more than six months and decides to test out the restraining properties of the suit I’m wearing.

Thank heaven for good quality briefs, is all I’m saying.

“Seriously, dude, you can’t think of a single place?”

I twitch at ‘dude’. I don’t think I’ve ever been called that, not even when I was of dude-ish age back in university.

Who is this girl? I make sure to go through all the staff newsletters; I would’ve picked up if there was a new hire. Even if she was just a temp, Sally from reception would have mentioned—

My finger brushes the side of my nose — switching to contacts after ten years of wearing glasses is quite an adjustment — as I collect my copies from the output tray without looking at her. And while I fervently try to will away what’s transformed into a rock-hard erection.

“I suppose there’s always the Golden Goose down the road,” I say after clearing my throat. “They have—”

“The Golden Goose?” She slaps her hands on the photocopier. The sound draws my gaze, unbidden, to her face. A wide smile parts those rosy lips. Her dark — almost black — eyes sparkle. “I love it! Let’s go there.”

“Wait, what?” I’m in the process of heading out and turn back to her with a frown. “I’m not going—”

“I could eat a cow.” Another slap on the machine — serves it right, being so damn slow — and her grin deepens. “Like, the whole thing. The hooves, the tail—” she sticks her index fingers along either side of her head and wriggles them “—the fluffy fucking ears. Everything! Come on, let’s go.”

“Look, I don’t know who you—”

“Aw, come on! I’ll treat you.”

I clear my throat and try again. “Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice—”

“The Golden Goose?” a voice behind me cuts in. A hand falls on my shoulder, broad and warm. I flinch — at the touch, at the voice.

They belong to Mr. Hill, the CEO of Hill Enterprises.

“Sir, I don’t—” I begin, swinging around to my boss with a ball of dread already weighing down my stomach.

“I think that’s a fantastic idea.” Mr. Hill — all salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes the color of steel — gives me a wide grin. “I’m sure Holly’s starving, aren’t you, my girl?”

Holly — my girl? — brushes past me. I smell ginger and cinnamon in the air as she thumps Mr. Hill on the chest with a small, insignificant-looking fist.

Mr. Hill isn’t bullish, but he has wide shoulders and a thick waist. He’s taller than me, so compared with the slip of a girl standing up against him, he looks enormous.

“Damn straight I am,” Holly says, a laugh in her voice. “But I guess your lackey here lives off the blood he has stored in his apartment or something — he’s not biting.”

Mr. Hill clears his throat and glances at me with a tight mouth. “Lee, what did I tell you about calling people that?”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Holly breathes, turning to face me. “Your employee’s too busy. I’ll just get take-out. Can I use your phone?”

Daddy?

I realize I’ve got Davidson’s files pressed to my groin in an effort to disguise my hard-on, mouth gaping, as I assimilate all the information that’s just been thrown my way.

Oh good God — I’ve just been having dirty thoughts about my boss’s daughter.

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