Page 47 of Vixen's Guide to Christmas
I knew he'd be down sooner rather than later. It’s not like we have food in our room. And while this hotel is pretty big, it's really small when you're snowed in.
Fuck…why is he so fucking hot? It’s actually unfair, especially because the clothes he’s wearing now are so casual it’s criminal. He’s in a white T-shirt with a coordinating gray zip-up hoodie andjoggers. And he’s wearing his glasses.
Gray sweatpants and glasses? He might as well have a sign above his head that says “Yes, I’m dressed like a whore. Any problems with that?”
The answer is no. There are no problems. And I’m not the only one thinking that. Every woman he walks by is looking at him. I think I saw one actually lick her lips. Another was holding her baby, with her husband next to her, and I watched in real time as her jaw dropped. Hell, I think the baby’s did too.
But he didn’t see any of that. Because that whole time, he was only looking at me.
Son of a bitch, I’m so screwed…
"Good morning," he says as he stands next to my table. “Up early today?"
I try to decipher if he knows that I snuck out or if he truly did sleep through it. Damn his poker face. “Yeah, and I didn't want to wake you. Figured I'd come down and get some work done. Wait, what is that?”
I don’t know how I didn’t notice that this whole time Grayson’s holding two cups of coffee in a carrier—one hot, one iced.
“One for you, and one for me,” he says as he sets down the container. “I had a feeling both of us would be working today—because it’s what workaholics do when they’re snowed-in and can’t start their mandated vacations. And I know working without coffee is criminal, so I thought I’d bring you one. Apologies if I messed up the flavors. I went with the Christmas special. In my opinion, you can’t go wrong with peppermint and mocha.”
I’m nearly speechless as I stare at the drink. “Thank you.”
Iced coffee, slutty glasses, and gray sweatpants? This is my Sunday morning, lazy-girl fantasy come true. Because this is what I imagine it would be like. Okay, not at a hotel. But Grayson and me. Sitting on a couch. Sipping our drinks. Comfy clothes. If it could all just be this simple…
“You’re welcome.” He looks around in the dining room. “Do you mind if I sit here? Maybe share the table as we get some work done? I think this might be the only open seat in the hotel.”
And there’s the crash. The vision of lazy Sunday mornings ruined by the thought of us working on the couch together and him just happening to look to see what I’m working on. Or small talk that seems innocuous but is really picking my brain. Next thing I know, every idea I’ve ever had is being pitched by someone other than me, and I’m watching my ideas get promoted while I’m left confused and heartbroken.
Grayson can see the panicked look on my face. I hate that my breathing is picking up. I feel ridiculous. I shouldn’t have this kind of reaction to something that happened eight years ago. But I do. Because that’s how emotional trauma works.
“Hey," he says, setting down his bag and crouching down to be at my eye level. “I don’t have to. I can find somewhere else to go.”
I look up at him, and his eyes…his voice…they’re so sincere. He’s rubbing his thumb over my wrist, trying to help me calm down.
I shake my head as I even my breathing. Idowant him to. I enjoy his company. I can't lie to myself about that anymore. “No. I want you to. It’s just…”
I trail off, not ready to tell him about my past. I don't know if I'll ever be, but I should give him some reason why my face is whiter than the snow outside.
“How about we start with breakfast? Then we'll take our computers out. I'll stay on my side of the table. That’s all that has to happen. Sound like a plan?”
I nod. “I like that.”
“Good.” He starts moving closer to me, and for a second I think he's gonna kiss my forehead. I hold my breath, hoping that’s what he’s going to do. Why? Because I’m selfish and apparently a glutton for punishment.
Except he doesn’t. Instead of feeling his lips against me, he taps his forehead to mine.
“This goes as slow as you want,” he says. “Just know that whenever you’re ready for the next move, I’ll be here, waiting to do it with you.”
I blink a few times as I process his words. Sure, he could be talking about this actual interaction. Me and him having a workday together.
But no…it means more. So much more.
The question now is, when will I be ready for that next move come? If ever?
“Craziest thing you’ve done for a client?”
I think about his question, but frankly it’s not even a competition. ”The craziest thing I personally had to do for a client was bake and deliver twenty-dozen cookies to the editor of a magazine because a client wanted to be on a list of fifty powerful people or some shit like that. The crazy part was, this wasn’t my client.”
Grayson’s reaction—confused but wanting to know more—is fitting for this story. “Please continue. I’m intrigued.”
