Page 2 of Under the Mistletoe
I think back to the conversation with Shelley. She’s right; most other managers would’ve claimed the credit. So, while I’ve always delivered, I’ve never really been acknowledged. Maybe that’s why the Reuben sandwich I had for lunch is now sitting heavy in my stomach.
When the doors open, the opulence hits me like a sucker punch. Every floor in this building owned by York Enterprises is high-end, but this is luxury on steroids. I shouldn’t be surprised, since that’s what they’re known for. The company is in the luxury textile business. Sourcing and manufacturing fabrics used by the major fashion houses around the world. Donovan York is often abroad, building his empire and creating timeless fabrics fit for royalty. That’s why he attends many red-carpet events. He’s one of the most dapper men in the city. Fashion is his game. As I glance down at my professional yet somewhat librarian appearance, I know that one look at me, and he’ll realize fashion is not in my DNA. I prefer vintage and love the clothes I wear, but I’m certainly not what one might refer to as a fashionista.
My confidence wanes, but I force my head high as I walk to his assistant’s desk. The lighting reflecting off the glass and marble almost blinds me, and as I spot a massive, professionally decorated Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, I can’t stop my smile.
“Jay Jay?” The woman behind the desk gives me a once-over before obviously deciding that I'm harmless. Her lips purse, her eyebrows arched comically, and her nails resemble talons. I roll my shoulders once more and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear before I push my glasses higher on my nose.
“That’s me.” Internally, I cringe, wondering if I could sound any more adolescent.
She stands on black stilettos with heels so thin I wonder how they hold her up. Although she’s clearly a size two at most, and my average frame looks large next to hers. Her red lips are immaculate, her eyeliner sharp, her hair perfectly coiffed. Yep, she belongs in fashion.
“This way.” Striding over to a large door off to the side, she knocks three times and enters, announcing my arrival. I swallow roughly, following her lead.
“Jay Jay from finance is here.”
Taking a deep breath, I step through, expecting gold trim, a boardroom full of Rolex-wearing executives, maybe a crystal decanter and a cigar humidor.
I did not expect this.
There’s warmth. Mahogany. A sweeping view of the city around us through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bold abstract art adorns the walls. And there, rising from behind a sleek walnut desk, is the man himself.
Donovan York.
My heart somersaults, my breath catches in my chest, and for one horrifying second, I forget every word I've ever known.
2
Donovan York
I’m focused on the file in front of me so intently, I barely hear my assistant, Ashley, knock. What the finance team has produced is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Budgets adjusted, expenses cut, yet not a single department workload has been affected.
No impact on culture, output, or business function at all. On top of that, they've included forecasting, income generation ideas—some of which I can’t believe I didn’t already think of—and projected financials for multiple scenarios, from European trade agreements to what happens if a ship full of our fabrics from the Philippines sinks, doubling spend and jeopardizing our existing commitments. This is what I need. This is the kind of work that needs to happen here in order for me to take York Enterprises to the next level. To make it bigger and better than my father ever could.
When Shelley from finance presented this, I was speechless. She delivers monthly reports, but when she mentioned a new hire named Jay Jay was the lead on it this time, I knew I had to meet him.
The door closes, startling me from my thoughts, and I look up, ready to congratulate the man responsible for this brilliance.
“Jay Jay, this is…” The words die on my lips, as does my grin. Jay Jay is not who I expected.
I’m never lost for words. I speak at global conferences, I’m fluent in multiple languages, I network with people I like and many I don’t, and often. Yet here I am, mouth slightly agape, my throat dry.
Jay Jay is a woman. A young, breathtakingly beautiful woman.
Standing in my office, she looks entirely out of place. Her outfit is smart, conservative work attire but slightly ill-fitting. Unremarkable to an untrained eye, yet I immediately recognize the fabric, a unique vintage tweed, which everyone is expecting to make a huge resurgence and is a top pick in our upcoming line. And her heels, they’re shorter and thicker than the women in this building usually wear, yet they complement her outfit perfectly. They wouldn’t be out of place on the streets of Milan or Paris. It’s clear she knows fashion and trend cycles.
Her makeup is understated and brings out her features, and her hair is neat, glossy, and long, the type men notice, the type that makes me want to run my fingers through it before gripping it tight. With her hands clasped calmly in front of her, she watches me closely. There’s no nervous fidgeting. Aside from the slight blush to her cheeks, she seems in control and not the least bit intimidated.
I’m immediately very interested.
My eyes drop over her frame and back up again. Women rarely take my breath away, but this one makes me forget how to breathe altogether.
It’s then I realize I’m staring. I clear my throat.
“Sorry, I was expecting…”
"A man?" Her eyebrow arches with barely disguised amusement. Obviously, she’s heard this before. And just like that, I’m a cliché. It stings more than I expected.
I toss the file on my desk and pocket my hands, pulling myself together. I’m rarely surprised. I don’t get thrown off course by anyone or anything. But as she blinks up at me expectantly from behind her thick glasses, I feel a little off-kilter.
