Page 30 of Vixen's Guide to Christmas
“Pot calling the kettle black, wouldn’t you say?” She steps even closer, our bodies nearly touching with every breath we take. “How did that go, by the way? Get the client?”
Red. That’s all I’m seeing right now. Yet, I don’t know which part of this I’m angrier about, the fact that I’m meeting my rival, that she’s nothing like I’d envisioned, that she’s right about a lot of things, or that I want to fuck her.
Honestly, it’s all of the above.
“Why didn’t you tell me you worked in PR?”
“I could ask you the same question,” she says. “Because again, I also seemed to have learned downstairs that you work for a public relations firm, which was brand-new information. So before we go out throwing stones, Grayson, how about we realize that we’re maybe a both a little in the dark about who we are and maybe, just maybe, we’ve taken things a little fast and we need to play catch up.”
Why does she have to be sensible?
I pace around the room for a few seconds, taking some deep breaths and trying to calm myself down. Because right now I’m feeling a thousand emotions, and I don’t know which ones are warranted.
“How about I start while you get your steps in,” she says. How does she make a joke that’s a dig at me, while also making me laugh? I thought the moment I met her that she was going to be the death of me; I just didn’t realize how multi-faceted that statement was.
“My name is Katherine Smith. I go by Kat, except in professional settings. I’m about to turn thirty years old, I’m an Aries, and have been in public relations and media strategies since I graduated college. I’m currently an independent strategist while also serving as head of PR for GameTech Industries. I think deep dish pizza is really just a casserole, and on that note, the elite pizza toppings are pepperoni and mushrooms. I also believe that you should have to work a shift at a grocery store if you don’t return your shopping cart, thateverything can be fixed with an iced coffee, and ‘Jingle Bells’ is the worst Christmas carol in existence.”
“Bold take,” I say. “Clearly that right answer is ‘Twelve Days of Christmas.’ What day does it actually start? When does it end? Why are there so many birds involved?”
This stops her train of thought. “You’re right. So many fucking birds. Who would even want them?”
“Right?”
She smiles at me. Smiles! I mean, I’m smiling too, but how dare she! I’m trying to be mad at her. Now I just want to kiss her.
“Have we calmed down yet?” she asks, patting the bed for me to take a seat next to her. “And maybe gotten under control the douche that popped out at the table in front of Howard and Declan?”
I nod and finally let myself stop moving for a second, sitting down on the bed—the only bed in our room—as I take a second and let every ounce of information finally settle in.
She’s my competition.
She’s my rival—the only person since I transferred to Nashville to get the best of me.
She’s the woman I’m fucking crazy about.
One of those things is not like the other.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say, finally feeling like my blood pressure is back to a normal level. “I felt overwhelmed and bombarded.”
“I get that,” she says. “How about you tell me about yourself, now that we’re doing reintroductions?”
I take in a breath before beginning. “I'm Grayson Ross. I don't go by any other names, so there's no confusing me. I'm thirty-four and work for Sterling Strategies as a public relations and media specialist. I think I'm a Leo, but only because a girl I met on a blind date said I was. I’m originally from Connecticut and moved to Nashville three years ago. I’m a baseball fanatic—played in college, have a collection of baseball cards, and my bucket list is to visit every stadium in the country. I could eat tacos for every meal, I never skip out on the queso, pineapple gets too much hate for being on pizza, and you, Katherine Smith, are the only person since I’ve transferred to Nashville who has ever beaten me out for a client.”
My admission takes her off guard. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” I say. “I’ve had a pretty good run here. Undefeated in every sense of the word. Worked with some celebrities, cleaned up a situation that could’ve sent the country music world into a spiral, handled a few brand deals and new business rollouts. I was on the roll of a lifetime. Then one day, I got the email that no person in our business wants to get.”
“The decline?”
I tap my nose. “The very one. But I didn't let it bother me. No one can bat a thousand, you know?”
“I don’t. I’m assuming that’s a baseball reference? All I know about the sport is that a baseball stadium is an acceptable place to eat unlimited hot dogs.”
God, I want to kiss her. I want to be having this get-to-know-you conversation with her wrapped in my arms—preferably naked. But unfortunately, that now can’t happen. Not now. Not ever.
If there’s one thing I know about this industry it’s that you can’t sleep with the enemy. And that’s exactly what this beautiful vixen is.
“In baseball, batting a thousand is a perfect average. But in comparison, an average of three-hundred gets you into the Hall of Fame. A four-hundred is considered off the charts.”
