Page 5 of Their Christmas Miracle

Joshua

Jesus Christ. I am so royally screwed. For a moment — just a moment, okay? — I’m really tempted to punch myself in the nuts.

But would it help?

Probably not.

Might make matters worse, in fact.

Okay… dead puppies, dead puppies, dead puppies.

Long, even breaths.

Rolling forecasts, rolling forecasts, rolling forecasts.

Well, that worked. Nothing more horrifying than financial planning.

I slide Davidson’s file onto my desk, squaring it with the leather skiver before grabbing my briefcase.

I take my jacket, pull my office door closed, and almost swallow my tongue when I turn around into Holly. She has her arms behind her back, head to the side, studying me.

How long had she been standing there like that? Had she seen me tensing my shoulders, fisting my hands, being all OCD with the stuff on my desk?

“What’s on the menu?” Holly asks.

For tonight? Oh God, had I been talking aloud?

“At the Goose?” She smiles, those lips a little too coy for my liking.

“Oh, the restaurant. Of course. Yes.” My damn hand brushes the side of my face again — it’s like they’re still there, perched on the bridge of my nose.

“Italian. Pasta, pizza. Do you… do you like Italian?”

“Do they have catsup?”

Catsup? “I guess—”

“Then I’ll eat it. Seriously, I could annihilate several chickens.”

She starts off down the hall. Her sea-green hair is drawn back in a fat, messy braid that dangles almost to her narrow waist. She glances at me over her shoulder, cocking her head toward the elevator. “You coming or what?”

I give my head a shake, force a smile onto my mouth, as I follow after her.

“Not yet,” I mutter under my breath. “But if you keep swaying like that when you walk, it’s going to take a lot more than rolling forecasts to keep me down.”

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