Garrett
They call me the King of Dynex, architect of the company’s crown jewel: the world’s largest scientific website. Half the company loves me, the other can’t stand me—when you’ve got your sights set on bigger things, it comes with the territory. Bonus: My ice-cold reputation hides my broken heart.
If Dynex pulls off its upcoming public offering, my best friend and I will be swimming in corporate stock, free to launch our own company. Now more than ever, I need to be focused. I don’t need a distraction like Jasmine Carmichael, a gorgeous consultant with honey-almond skin and a killer smile.
Jasmine
Ever had any luck with dating apps? No? Girl, same. I don’t play games. One, my travel schedule as a consultant doesn’t allow it. And two, at the first hint I’m an old-fashioned girl in search of romance, I’m ghosted.
I shouldn’t be attracted to six-three of citrine-eyed, muscular, urban sophistication like Garrett Hamilton. He’s a client, and clients are definitely out of my dating pool. But something about him makes me want to ignore the rules and roll the dice.
I should have remembered corporate games never end well—especially when you gamble with your heart.
To the professional and appropriate girls who love veiny forearms, believe that grits are best served with salt and pepper, and who've conquered the three-strand twist. This novel is for you.
Garrett
Life and love each bring along their own set of challenges and stressors, but there is no greater pressure than making it through the holiday season. The parties, gifts, and forced family gatherings are enough to make any man lose his mind.
The contemplation of the past three hundred and sixty-five days can make the most confident person feel inadequate. Didn't get the promotion you hoped for? Dumped by your significant other before the start of the holiday season? Eleven fifty-nine p.m. on December thirty-first is the perfect time to reflect on it.
Then there's the search for the perfect date.
Kiss someone at midnight, and your year will be filled with love.
The basic tenet of the superstition is that your first experiences in the New Year set the tone for that year. If your home is clean at midnight, then your home will remain spotless throughout the year. If you have money in your wallet, you will have wealth for the next twelve months. If you kiss your dream woman at midnight, then you will have a year filled with love.
I have my mother to thank for pushing that silly belief in my head.
Bringing in the new year with a scotch and soda, flannel pajamas, and the remote control would have been pleasant and relaxing, but celebrating alone wouldn't have been wise. I couldn't risk being by myself for the rest of the year. Besides, I had received my first formal invitation to a work-related party with members of my job's c-suite and the board of directors.
Attending the party gave me an excuse to wear the single-breasted midnight blue velvet jacket that I'd recently purchased, along with black slacks, and a crisp, white, button-down shirt. A pair of patent leather Christian Louboutin loafers pulled off the look, and all courtesy of one of the few women in my life who wouldn't sleep with me—my personal shopper.
Armed with a bottle of fifty-year-old aged scotch, I hopped in the car and made the thirty-mile trek from my River North neighborhood to a stately home in the North Shore. And there I stood, in the land where Christmas threw up, freezing my ass off while the party raged inside.
I'd rung the doorbell once then turned to look at the holiday lighting display. This was a far cry from my parents' tasteful and homeowner's association approved Christmas decorations. Someone had draped tens of thousands of lights over every surface of the Tudor. A larger-than-life Santa Claus inflatable bounced in time to an instrumental version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" blaring through outdoor speakers.
I waited thirty seconds before ringing the doorbell again. Inside, laughter and chatter roared. The party sounded loud, but not so loud that the host would forget their responsibility to answer the door. I pulled out my cellphone to call the organizer before I froze into a block of ice.
I hadn't even found his telephone number when the door opened, and an inebriated Tony Jones stood in the doorframe. Glazed eyes stared at me while I focused on his bowtie that sat slightly askew. I wanted to alert him that he had a stain of something on his shirt. His disheveled appearance was atypical. Tony looked like stir-fried shit.
"Fuck. How long have you been out here? Why didn't you knock harder? Come on in!" Before I could answer, he opened the door wider and hollered back to someone. "It's Garrett. I thought Clem was watching out for guests. Garrett, let me get your coat. Glad you came out."
I stepped into the foyer before shrugging out of my jacket and scarf. I handed Tony the bottle of Macallan and blinked several times in amazement. If the exterior of the house looked like Christmas threw up, the interior looked like a small child's nightmare. Right inside the foyer stood a sixteen-foot Christmas tree. Wreaths and flowers festooned the walls. Life-sized Nutcrackers and Santa figurines stood in each corner.
"Ah. You're a man of class. Thank you." He surveyed the label. "Let's break open the seal a little later."
"You're welcome. How's it going?"
"Everything’s good. It'll be better when it's time to cash in the shares."
Tony served as one of the board members and the most trusted advisor of the Dynex Industries leadership team. He'd sat on the board since the inception of the corporation, almost twelve years. He and his wife, Clementine, owned several companies and had an affinity for investing in startups.
"I hear you. Where's Clementine?"
"She's around here somewhere. I'll put your coat away in a bedroom. We've set up the bar and buffet in the back." He tossed his head in the direction of the rear of the house. "Make yourself at home."
And with that, he disappeared into the chaos, leaving me alone to fend for myself in the sea of drunken partygoers. For the first hour, I milled about, drifting from inane conversation to inane conversation. At some point, a group sucked me into a somewhat spirited discussion on the future of social media. Spirited in that it was loud, and there were exaggerated hand gestures. I was only engaged because I was one of the youngest guests in attendance, so I had to serve as the authority on the millennials. I stood firmly on the side that it wasn't going away, and we should prepare ourselves for the next iteration.
I politely excused myself and continued to make my way through the clusters of revelers and stopped to dance a little with one of the female guests.
On my way to the bar for a second whiskey sour, womanly hands came from behind and encircled my waist. The mystery woman's face pressed against my back.
"Guess who?"
I'd recognize that nasal voice from anywhere.
"Hi." I inched out of her clutches and turned to face her. My greeting came out more like a sigh than a genuine acknowledgment, and it didn't go unnoticed.
Bronwyn Griffin is one of the first people I met when I moved to Chicago. I had been fresh out of college and working my dream job at a fledgling startup. For a year and a half, Bronwyn and I ran around Chicago, pretending to love and care for each other. She was with me for my potential, and I was with her because I was alone in an unfamiliar city.