Page 67 of A Very Bossy Christmas
“You planning on having more boxing equipment delivered to my apartment when I’m not there?”
“Sometimes I just like to give women flowers, Magdalena.” He crosses over to the table by the front door and holds up an elegant orchid plant in a gold patina vessel. “This is for you.”
“Dec, that’s gorgeous. I love orchids.”
“I know. It’s for your desk.”
Right. My desk. At the office. Where we work together. And he’s my bossy boss who bosses me around, day and night.
“Thank you,” I finally remember to say. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“And I definitely didn’t imagine bending you over your desk and fucking you while I was paying for this. Because that would be a clear violation of the company’s current nonfraternization policy. But I have it on good authority that the in-house attorney will be officially rewriting said policy tomorrow. So keep that desk clear.” He gives me an exaggerated wink. But not even that dimple can subdue the oncoming dread that’s even worse than what I felt when I was a kid who didn’t want to go back to school after Christmas break.
He puts his hands on my hips and presses his lips to my forehead, and okay, maybe it’s not as bad as going back to school. Because I never went to school with anyone as hot and charming as Declan Cannavale.
“Let’s go back to bed,” he says. “I’ve never used those trays before.”
* * *
Declan miraculously finds a parking space right in front of my apartment building in the early afternoon, and by now I’m not anxious about anything anymore because we showered together. And by “showered together,” I mean we had sex in his big amazing shower. Mrs. Pavlovsky is sweeping the stoop, and I know she’s a seventy-year-old widow who still loves her deceased husband and all, but from the way she’s looking at Declan as he approaches her with an arm full of flowers, I’m pretty sure she’d let him bone her on a ship if he was into it.
“Ohhh,vatiszis? For me?”
“For you,” he says, giving her a gentle hug before handing her the bouquet like she’s a prima ballerina.
“Sankyou. Ohhh,zisman, Magdalena! You see? I say to you before—put more fat on bones and good manvillcome.Zisis good man for you!”
Aww. Mrs. P. Your heart is going to be broken in January.“Seems to me he’s a good man foryou, Madame Pavlovsky.”
“Ohhh! Psssh!” She waves off that thought and then puts her hand on Declan’s coat. “Not for me, no.Zisis a—how you say? Flirtation.” She rolls the “r” like it’s a run-on sentence and it’s lovely. A flirtation with Mr. Boss Buttwouldbe lovely. Although I suppose that’s what we had before the holidays.
“There ya go,” Declan says, patting her hand, which is still grasping on to his coat. “We’re gonna grab a drink at McSorley’s. You want to come?”
“Ohhhh nooo! Nooo, not for me. You go! You go! Don’t let me keep you, young people. Come by for somekutyalater, yes? Good. Yes.” She finally lets go of Declan and beams at us, clutching the flowers to her chest as she watches us walk down to the pub—not hand-in-hand, not bumping shoulders.
Just walking down a sidewalk like two people who didn’t totally just go down on each other under a vigorous stream of water forty minutes ago. Maybe this is how it will be at the office. Maybe he was right when he said we’re just a couple of straightforward hot as fuck people who can handle vacation sex and then go back to business as usual. Maybe it is just the holidays stirring up emotions, the isolated period of time in which we’ve been interacting with each other in more casual environments than we’re accustomed to. I hate that I can remember every single thing he’s ever said to me, and I hope I can forget every appallingly wonderful sexy thing he’s said to me the past few days.
Declan holds the door to McSorley’s Old Ale House and leans in to say in my ear as I pass by, “I really wanted to hold your hand just now, FYI.”
Goddammit. I’ll never forget that he said that.
“Me too.”
The pub is barely a quarter full of patrons. It’s early afternoon the day after Christmas, so I’m not surprised. They still have the strings of lights and minimal Christmas décor up, and the holiday music is still playing. I’m glad. I’m certainly not ready for this part of the year to be over.
“Mug or glass?” he asks me.
“Fuck it—mug. I’ll get a table in the back.”
“I like your style, kid.”
I take the table for four in the back part of the bar, just inside the door behind the wall so we’re secluded. I’ve never run into anyone from work in my neighborhood, but you never know. Real estate brokers get around all over town.
Declan places two mugs of dark ale on the table and takes the chair next to mine.
“To not letting this interfere with our fantastic work relationship,” I say as we clink glasses. “Come what may.”
He gets a glint in his eye, and I already know he’s going to hit me with his Irish accent again dammit. “May your mornings bring joy and your evenings bring peace. May your troubles grow less as your blessings increase.”
