Page 52 of Texting My Secret Santa

His touch is still making my sex throb from the car ride yesterday.

My breath catches when I spot him. It’s Derek, holding a cell phone and looking around. When he spots me, he walks over with a thin, moist smile on his lips. I’m too stunned to stand. He stares down at me.

“Hello, Secret Santa,” he grins.

What!? This can’t be real.

“Stop messing around, Derek,” I grit out.

He frowns. “We’ve been texting each other, Holly. As soon as you told me that story about your dad being a salesman, I knew it was you. I remember you mentioning something like that a few weeks ago. Or maybe you posted it on social media.”

I mentioned it for my dad’s birthday several months ago. I wasn’t friends with Derek, and my settings were private, but were Dad’s?

“Do you want to see the phone?” he says.

My skin crawls. This can’t be right. This can’t be happening.

I stand up, grab the phone, and scroll through the texts.

How did he do this?

It’s all there: me calling him Grinch, him calling me Goody Two-shoes, all the banter, all the sharing, everything—all the flirting. My head spins. I shove the phone back at him.

“What’s wrong?” he says. “Are you disappointed it’s me?”

“I just don’t …”

As usual, I’m doing my best to be polite to Derek, but it’s so difficult. I had this storybook in my head. Sure, there were complications, namely the brother-shaped hole that would blow up any long-term plans we had. For the texting, I thought I had it all worked out.

He was my Secret Santa. Asher was my Grinch. It all fit. This doesnotfit.

“We’ve bonded by texting,” he says, sounding like a kid who hasn’t got the gift he wants. “You can’t say we haven’t. Youcan’t. Anybody could see that we’ve bonded. I’m your Grinch, Holly. You’re my Goody Two-shoes.”

He reaches out for me, and I panic. “Don’t touch me, Derek.”

He tries to grab my hand, anyway. I move away from him, shaking my head. “I just told you not to touch me. You’ve got no right, okay? No right at all. Just because we’ve texted,” I say, still unable to believe it’s true, “doesn’t mean you get to touch me. This is about the Secret Santa game. That’s all.”

“Then why did you agree to meet me?” he demands. “This is just ridiculous. I’ve been nothing but nice to you. I’ve been polite—the perfect gentleman. You want to treat me like I’m some freak who’s done something wrong. What have I done that’s so bad? Care about you? Text you?”

“I can’t do this, Derek,” I hiss.

“Go on, run away,” he snaps. “Go tell HR you needmorespecial treatment.”

I spin, waving my finger in his face. “Iearnedmy job, you little toad, and if you come near me again, Iwillgo to HR. I don’t care if we’ve texted. I don’t care if you think something happened. It didn’t. Nothing is ever going to happen between us. Okay? That’s it. Plain and simple. Don’t talk to me again.”

“What about texting, Miss Goody Two-shoes?” he calls after me.

I ignore him, hurrying into the office, my thoughts spinning. I can’t believe that Derek has been the one behind the texting all this time.

I genuinely thought I was building a connection with my Secret Santa. In hindsight, I can see how silly that was. I ride the elevator to my office, lock myself in, and lose myself in my work.

All the banter, the back and forth, and the silly hope I let flurry into my heart—it’s all over.

I flinch when somebody knocks on my door. Just my luck! It’s my big brother with a smile on his face until he senses my mood. I’m not hiding it very well.

“I thought I’d swing by to see some of the footage from last night,” he says. “Ihaveto see Asher in that Santa getup, but your face, Holly. It’s like you’ve seen a ghost. Is something wrong?”

I seriously need to keep it together. His sympathy is heartbreaking. When the tears come, he rushes around the desk and wraps his arms around me.

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