Page 39 of Love Letters to Christmas

I am to beunsupervisedfor the month of July.

I need to order Christmas trees.

I need to assess what decorations we already have on hand.

I need to—

“Come again?” I ask, blinking at my boss, who surely didn’t just say words that should never, ever, be said to me.

“I’m leaving you in charge.”

My gaze flicks off Liam, toward his penthouse windows, which remain covered since my dear boss struggles some with light sensitivity. Finding no camera crew, I tilt myself to peer elsewhere. Still nothing. So. This…isn’ta prank?

Pointing at myself, I say, “Me?”

“Yes?”

“Mailroom Brian. Your favorite mail guy. You’re leaving…mein charge of a branding business?”

Liam nods. “In the context of handling disputes and making emotional decisions, yes. I’m leaving someone else in chargeof the business aspect, but you know everyone, probably better than I do. You care about everyone, just like I do. I want you to make sure the safe environment we’ve built here persists in my absence.”

Slowly, I lower my hand. “To…clarify…” I cannot believe the power about to fall into my lap. “It’s my job to maintain the peace and joy?” And, y’know, goodwill toward men, perhaps?

“Yes.”

I beam and wheel myself toward the door. “You got it, boss. I won’t let you down.”

“I’m counting on you,” he says.

A terrible decision, really.

But I am very much not one to argue with information that suits me.

Chapter Fourteen

All’s fair in love and fire.

Amelia

“Mars?” I say, staring at my box of…unmentionables.

Perking, the man, the myth, the legend turns his attention from a book toward the phone propped on Ceres’s desk. These two might be married now, but nothing has changed. I call. She works. He messes around behind her. Occasionally, depending on when Brian heads to the store or a work meeting, Mars will leave and return with food, but…that’s about it.

I’m jealous of howmarried couplethey’ve been from the very first moment I witnessed them together.

Rising, Mars approaches Ceres’s desk, plants a hand on the back of her chair, and smiles. “How can I help you, Mel?”

“I have a box of things I’d like to burn.”

“What sorts of things? You shouldn’t burn plastic, treated wood, styrofoam—”

“Letters.”

“Letters?” Ceres asks, dragging her attention off her computer for a rare bit of almost eye contact. “Why are you burning letters? Won’t that make Brian hate you?”

Yes, well. Possibly. But…

I stare at the overwhelming number of love letters I have drafted and sealed and shoved under my bed in my lifetime. I restarted the habit on Monday, after we got back from Bandera. In a desperate effort to shove my emotions somewhere else so I could return to my very important task of becoming a healthierperson, I somehow have managed to spend the entirety of my free time writing letters…about Brian…and working on myself just about, oh, not at all.

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