Page 48 of Under the Mistletoe
“Donovan,” she breathes out, keeping her voice low. “This is a Monday morning meeting I would never miss,” she pants, and I grin, chuckling with her as we catch our breath.
We fix ourselves up quickly, just as there’s a knock at my door.
“That will be HR. Ready to make this official?”
“I’m ready.” She nods, pressing a sweet kiss to my lips, one I wish I could continue. But I let HR in, and we get down to business. There’ll be more time for kissing later.
20
Jessica
I look at the black card in my hand. When my assistant handed me an envelope from Donovan this afternoon as I was deep in spreadsheets and shipping forecast research, I thought it was just another contract.
But when I finally got around to opening it, it took me by surprise. The whole meeting with HR went smoothly. I was asked all the questions you would expect and had honest answers for all of them. The nerves I felt during the meeting were not because of HR at all, but because of what Donovan said. About him wanting to make us official. It was him declaring his feelings. Him declaring that we’re together. Him wanting to go public, with me on his arm. It’s new and exciting but also meaningful. As a woman who hasn’t really had that before, it is equal parts frightening and a dream come true.
And while I know we aren’t taking out a billboard and promoting it everywhere, we are no longer going to be hiding it. While we’ll remain professional in the office, what we do together on the weekend will not be kept under wraps. As such the media will know, staff at the office will get confirmation that we’re together, and the gossip in the break room will escalate. But he wants me. And he wants the world to know I’m his. That makes me feel like I matter. I matter to him.
Now as Gordon snakes down into a basement parking lot, I’m a little nervous.
“We’re here,” my friendly driver announces as he steps out of the car and comes to my door. He’s been driving me for weeks now. You think I’d be used to it. But as I open the door before his arrival, he frowns.
“Trying to take away my job again, Miss Johnson?” he scolds me in his friendly way.
“Sorry, I forgot… again,” I apologize as I step out, but his small grin reassures me it’s all in good fun.
“Let me call the elevator for you. The card will give you access to the top floor. Donovan said to make yourself at home and he’ll be here later.”
I follow Gordon to the somewhat inconspicuous elevator over on the side and wait. The shiny thick card feels heavy in my hand. We went from meeting, to working together every day, to a hot weekend in Lake Placid, to me now holding the key to his kingdom. It feels like a whirlwind, yet completely how life is meant to be.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Gordon grins at me as the elevator doors open, and I step forward as he retraces his steps back to the car, his workday now over.
I swallow as I see my reflection in every shiny surface of this small space. Not a fingerprint nor a speck of dust to be seen. Swiping the keycard, I hit PH, and the elevator starts to move.
Is it a big deal that I have the keys to my boyfriend's house? Is it a big deal that he isn’t even here, working late and wanting me to make myself at home until he gets here? Is it a big deal that I have a boyfriend? It feels like it is, and while this new relationship is moving at lightning speed, nothing else in my life has ever felt so right.
I hear a ping, and as the doors open, I stand in shock. My feet don’t move as I lean forward a touch and my eyes flick around the place. I’m so stricken that the doors start closing again before I dash out and fall into his penthouse.
“I think I would have to sell a lot of sprinklers to ever have a place like this…” I murmur to myself as I take a few tentative steps. Looking around, I slip off my coat and slide the red scarf off my neck.
I’m not exactly sure where to look first. The view is unsurpassed. The kitchen is enormous, all open plan, and I imagine cooking while looking out at the view. The living area is inviting, with a large sofa and armchairs, rugs and blankets, soft cushions and a large fireplace, which is already on.
The lights are dim, shimmering on the glossy surfaces, not competing with the city skyline that has lit up the night sky.
“Wow.” I put my coat and scarf over the arm of the chair and look down at the note he gave me with the card.
Working late. Make yourself at home.
My heart beats hurriedly, feeling a little unsure and nervous.
“I suppose I could give myself a tour…” I look around, almost like I’m waiting for someone to jump out and say gotcha! But it’s quiet. I walk slowly toward the kitchen, dragging my finger across the counter, seeing it spotless, the appliances glossy and everything in its place. My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten all day, and after what we did in his office this morning, the thought of which still makes me blush, I’m famished.
I quickly look at my watch and decide to cook us dinner. But I’m wearing a beautiful outfit from Mabel, so I know I need to change beforehand.
With the decision made, I make my way through the apartment, spotting a bathroom, bedrooms, a small gym, office, and then finally make it to his room. It’s big. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city below. I’m not sure what view I like better, this one or the one from the kitchen. Both are amazing.
I kick off my shoes and walk swiftly to the bathroom to wash my hands before I decide to find one of his shirts, not wanting to cook while wearing my work clothes. But as I move toward the closet, my steps falter. His suits and shirts are all neatly pressed along one side. Black, navy, rows of white shirts looking comically in place. But on the other side is a row of women's clothes. I step forward, touching them, the tags still on, and I pull out a dress. The size is one that will fit me, and then I falter. He stocked his wardrobe for me?
I pull out another outfit and another, noticing almost all of them vintage. Some big designer names, others just made with a quality that’s unsurpassed in today’s modern fashion houses. Staring at the rack of clothes for what feels like forever, I’m gobsmacked that he not only spent money on me, but took the time to buy pieces that he knows I will love and wear. Things that match my style. I think back to the vintage fashion book he gave me on the way to Lake Placid, the one I have tucked away as a keepsake, not wanting to bend the pages or damage it in any way. He notices the little things about me. What I enjoy. What I wear.
