Page 76 of Love Letters to Christmas

Signed and sealed,

Your Soon To Be Not-So-Secret Admirer

Chapter Twenty-eight

Who got my confession stuck in customs?

Brian

I’m excited.

“Food?” I ask, tapping my pen against my lip.

Amelia, not entirely the most nervous creature in the worldat all, chimes, “C-check!”

I put a tick in the box on my list. “Decorations?” My eyes scan the lobby of Whirlwind Branding, which I have kitted out in all manner of Christmas. Several trees dot the extravagant marble tiles. Fake snow fills every corner. Wreaths and garlands burden our one and only Aubree Waltz original painting titledShark. Behind the reception desk and burdened by the weight of Christmas cheer, the massive megalodon painting peers.

Amelia takes in the same scene, gaze lingering on the photo set up I’ve put together beneathSharkwith an assortment of holiday props. “Very decorative.”

I tick the box. “Music?”

She trots toward a DJ booth I’ve erected and turns on the selection of Christmas music I’ve provided. Cheerful tunes swell. “Playing!”

Perfect. So, so perfect.

I tick the box and click my pen closed. “Well then. I suppose all we have left to do is get changed and wait for our guests to either drag themselves away from their overtime upstairs or get back from their wee jaunts home.”

Amelia twists her fingers together in front of her skirt.“Y-yes. Right. Changing time.” She smooths her hands down her dress, which—in due Amelia Christmas fashion—already displays elegance just short of a gown. Smile shaky, she says, “I’ll just…go do that then. See you at the ball.”

For some odd reason, my heart skips a beat. “Yeah. See you.” I can’t pull my attention off her until she disappears into the elevator to get the hanging bag she put in the mailroom this morning. Once she’s out of sight, I shake my head, pull myself together, and get my own outfit from the back seat of my car.

The oven that is my vehicle in July toasted my candy cane suit enough to combat the chill of an office lobby that I have set just a few degrees belowmight be winter outside. I change in the main men’s bathroom located off the lobby and emerge to find several familiar faces.

Which means—as I feared—my rotten coworkers largely ignored themasqueradeaspect of this shindig.

Rude of them.

I delineated my expectations of the dress code so clearly in an email.

And,yes, Iknowthey can’t read, but still…I really, so dearly, could have sworn I made it obvious, what with how Ibolded, underlined, and italicizedthe wordmasqueradeand all.

Lousy, illiterate—

“That is…” Frank’s voice drifts below the music, and I stop my inner monologue to turn and find the world’s best graphic artist with a snack plate full of cheese. She completes her assessment of my outfit. “A choice.”

Under my half smiling, half crying drama mask, I raise a brow. “Aren’t you lactose intolerant?”

She pops a cube of sharp cheddar in her mouth, chewing around it to speak. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Right.

Crossing my arms, I tilt my head toward the smiling halfof my mask. “I did put out a very decadent and well-labeled vegan selection of gourmet cheese.” They cost Liam a fortune. Hopefully leftovers survive to wind up in his fridge.

Frank blinks, slowly, practically feline, and eats a cube of colby. “Brian.” She blinks once more. “Never say those words to me again.”

Heh… Noted.

Relaxing, Frank fixes her eyes across the room and murmurs, “Whoa. That stands out…”

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