Chapter 1
Christmas is my favorite holiday. I wait three hundred and sixty-four days to sit in fuzzy socks beside a large decorated Christmas tree drinking hot chocolate.
“Watch it!”
“Sorry, Charles.” I hold my little Christmas tree tighter. It’s Sunday days after Thanksgiving. I couldn’t wait to decorate for Christmas. I started this morning with my apartment now to deck out my office in peace.
“Hey, Miss Montgomery. Running late today?” He smiles, holding the door wide enough for me to fit with all my bags.
“I did a little Christmas shopping.”
“Christmas shopping?” His brows shoot up. “I’ll take the tree and your bags. You press the button.”
I pass them and place my hand on my hip. “You think you’re slick. I know what you’re doing.”
“What?”
“Trying to get first dibs.”
Charles smiles from ear to ear, and needles fall at his feet.
I shake my head. “Don’t ruin my tree, or I won’t give you any of my cookies.”
His face turns red. “So, they’re in here?”
“Uh, huh.” I laugh, pushing the button to take us to the executive floor.
We have a little water-cooler talk while exiting the elevator. He follows me to my office, through the quiet floor. I'm the only person who finds it necessary to work on Sundays. I need the time to catch up on my official work tasks because my boss keeps me occupied with his personal affairs. I almost don't have time to accomplish the tasks he pays me handsomely to complete.
“Sit the tree on that table. You might need to pull it from the wall a little.”
Charles places the paper bag on my desk and does quick work of righting my tree. He plays with the branches. Then stands back to check out his work.
"Move it a little to the right." I turn on my Christmas playlist and adjust the volume. I play the same few songs on repeat, pretending I don't miss home. I've lived in Los Angeles for seven years, and this time of the year never feel cozy and cold enough for me.
I feel his eyes on me.
“The cookies.”
He leans against the doorjamb waiting in his navy-blue security uniform. “When are you going to let me take you out for drinks?”
I remove my large Tupperware bowl and the glass serving dish with a matching lid. Plating the cookies takes my full attention as I think of another way of letting him down easy.
“Thank you for the offer, but I don’t date where I work.” I made the mistake of accidentally sleeping with a coworker. And I’m paying for it. So, no office nookie for me.
“Rachelle, all I need is one night.”
I think his smirk is supposed to be sexy. Charles could pass as a younger Matthew McConaughey. But the next time I give a man a shot, I'm breaking my sexual drought with a tall, dark, chocolate somebody. And someone not involved in the television industry.
“Thanks, but no thanks. If I remember correctly, the white macadamia nut cookies are your favorite.”
“Yeah.” He reaches for two in one hand and one in the other. He sinks his teeth into one. “These are better than my mother’s cookies.”
"Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me."
“Right. We’ll be at the front desk if you need anything.”
“Okay. Take a few to the others.” I wrap a few of each flavor in a napkin, knowing he’ll eat a majority of them before he reaches the first floor.
Charles takes the cookies, mumbling his goodbye. I turn up my music and start the transformation process. If I can’t go home, then I’ll bring Christmas to me.
The chime of my computer stops me. I check my email and see the general incoming messages for Denzel Graves, my boss. I turn down the music and open my inbox. This job was supposed to be the doorway to my dream job, yet I'm still the showrunner's assistant.
I open and scan a few and see the same general greeting that tells me it's routed from the studio's website. I pull closer and open the attachment, and it's a resume.
Dear Mr. Graves…
I brush past the professional greeting and introduction. We get unsolicited resumes from film students year around looking for internships or jobs after they graduate. They want to be in Hollywood and pursue their dreams. Ask how I know?
Because it was me.
Then somehow, I ended up here. I applied for an assistant position to get my foot in the door and learn the industry. They sold the job as hands-on, nine to five, industry parties, the life. But in reality, it's more like an eighteen-hour a day gig, consuming all my creative energy, and this is not the dream.
I can't remember the last time I wrote for pleasure—for the craft of it. I used to write for hours, creating vision boards for my pretend cast, pictures of movie sets, props, and...
Stop, Quanie!
It doesn't help to take myself down this path because I can't afford to dream. The salary that felt like a million dollars at the time keeps me in a decent apartment with the lights on. The benefit of living at work is I don't need cable or any extras because I don't have time for that either.
I close out of the email and open another, and another. They all have the same subject line–submitting for the writing assistant position, then I see "posted on the website."
What opening?
I open the browser, and the Ty Pix website pops up as the home page. The sound of my Christmas music muffles as my mind races with the same thought, Not again.
Denzel promised the next seat in the writer’s room was mine. He promised.
I click around until I land on the job openings. The mouse rolls around in my damp hand, and there it is.
Writer’s assistant.
And the contact person is Denzel Graves.
That mutha–
I shake my head. B.A.B. strikes again.
“Well… well… well. What are you doing here? Whoa, cookies.”
Think of the devil, and he shall appear. My bitch-ass boss in the flesh. I look up as he picks over the cookies and sits in the chair in front of my desk.
"I'm glad you're here. Saves me a call." He mumbles around a mouth full of chocolate chip cookies, propping his feet on my desk.
Denzel would put his namesake to shame. No disrespect to Mr. Washington, but Denzel Graves has smooth dark brown skin, pearly white teeth—and they’re real. He’s the “it” man in Hollywood. Financial backers and producers flock to him to write and produce content for the Black community.
He's the epitome of everything Hollywood promises—the job, the title, the connections, the bank account. He's the golden child at Ty Pix. He's said to be the next in line to hold the CEO and president positions at the studio. The first Black man to do so, and he's my boss.
All I have to do is hold my damn tongue. I can’t waste seven years because of some shady ass bullshit.
“Ready?” Denzel asks.
No! I’m not fucking ready. I scream in my head with a smile stamped on my face.
“Let’s start with my Christmas list.”
Denzel talks, not waiting for my response. He runs through his holiday shopping, makes a quick exit at taking his Bentley in for a scheduled checkup, and jumps back on his selfish-ass train adding a personal follow-up with his interior designer concerning his custom dining room table.