Page 52 of Pining for Christmas

I cut across her. “Don’t say it. Do not say it.”

Because this room drips with more tinsel than a department store on Christmas Eve. Ugh. How can an intelligent woman have such dreadful taste?

“It’s like a separate blizzard blew through here and tossed cheap decorations everywhere. Vile.” I shrug off my coat and sling it over a nearby armchair, then march to the laundry hamper. “Help me with this.”

Noelle sighs and peels off her own coat, piling it on top of mine. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

Obviously. Because I’m her boss—inappropriate feelings aside—and if I spend ten more minutes surrounded by gaudy cheer, my head will explode.

So with much creaking of wicker and rustling of tinsel, we work our way around the room, stuffing armfuls of holiday tat into the hamper. Flecks of shiny tinsel stick to my shirt, and baublesthwumponto the pile one by one. I throw them harder than necessary.

“You are such a Scrooge,” Noelle says for the millionth time, lifting the holly wreath off the inside of our door. She lays itcarefully in the hamper, like she’s settling down a precious child for a nap. “Tell me why you’re like this.”

“No.”

“We’re going to hurt Anirudh’s feelings.” Noelle folds her arms as I take down the pair of red and green stockings dangling from the mantelpiece, tossing them in the hamper without a second glance.

“I highly doubt that.”

“He’s saving ourlives, Reid. This is going to seem so ungrateful.”

Ugh. Fine. “I’ll leave an obnoxiously large tip. Feel better?”

Noelle rolls her eyes—but her shoulders do relax.

And with the decorations gone, the laundry hamper exiled to the corridor outside, this room feels much better. Uncluttered. There’s a double bed with a kitschy patchwork quilt; a mantelpiece and TV screen over an unlit hearth; a coffee table carved from oak. Several lamps that cast a warm glow, two squashy red armchairs, and a separate door leading to an en suite.

Where Noelle will shower at some point.

I’m going to hear her shower. I’ll be this distance away—barely any distance at all—and hear the water drumming through the wall, maybe the soft thump of a shampoo bottle. After she’s done, I could go in there and breathe the same steam.

Christ.

I’m unhinged.

And this is a terrible idea. I’m herboss, for god’s sake, and not the kind of man Noelle would ever want sleeping close. She probably likes cheerful men. Loud laughers and tight huggers.

Not prickly asshole bosses who snap at her all day, then obsess over her all night.

“On second thought, I’ll sleep in the car.” It’s probably warm in there, what with the snow heaped around the sides. Like a makeshift igloo. Cozy, and safe from bad decisions.

“Reid.”

“You can put the ugly decorations back up if you like. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t worry, I’ll still tip.”

“Reid.” When I finally force myself to meet Noelle’s eyes, she looks… hurt. Baffled. Oh, hell. “Are you seriously saying you’d rather sleep out in a blizzard than share a room with me?”

Am I?

Maybe.

Because—all that silky blonde hair, tumbling over her shoulders. Those wide brown eyes and those plump, pouty lips. Noelle is rumpled from a long day, pale with tiredness, but even with that creased green dress and those shadows under her eyes, she’s still beautiful. Unearthly.

This is why I can’t look at my assistant too much. Once I start looking, I can’t stop.

“No.” My throat is dry. “But I assume you’d be more comfortable in this room alone.”

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