The dinging elevator pulls me out of my head. So does the painful shock.
Mag’s damn coffee burns the palm of my hand. Wincing, I shift the cup into the other hand and shake my fingers out until the stinging fades.
I head straight for his office to set his dark Kona with a splash of heavy cream in its usual spot, but he’s at his desk.
He looks up with this wisp of a smile, just in time for me to hand it to him instead.
“You should invest in Kona beans,” I say, my voice so tight.
He grins. “I own the farm.”
“You—what? What farm?”
“I bought a Kona farm in Hawaii several years ago after sealing a particularly lucrative deal. The Bean Bar uses my beans. Don’t you ever read the signs? It’s called Heron Blend. It’s the highest quality and the only kind I’ll drink regularly.”
Well, la-di-da.
“So, you’re a huge coffee snob on top of everything else?” Including asshole, jerk-off boss, brutally good kisser...
“Don’t you have work to do?” He scowls up at me, those eyes dark-blue whirlpools.
I plan to leave his office without another word.
I’m still pissed at him anyhow. I make it as far as the door when he says, “Miss Bristol?”
Lovely. So I’m only Brina when your tongue is down my throat, huh? I think, trying to hide the bitter crease in my lips.
I turn to face him, ever so slowly.
“Yes, Mr. Heron?”
“Take the week after Christmas off. We’ll be running on a skeleton crew.”
“Hmm, I don’t know, I have work. Just like you said. Maybe I prefer not to wind up buried after the holidays.”
“What do you mean? I don’t need an assistant while our clients are off counting their holiday sales hauls. Marketing is the last thing on anyone’s mind until January first.”
“I’d rather bank my vacation days for when I have a real vacation. Somewhere tropical like Kona with smoothies everywhere, maybe.” I fold my arms, daring him to push back.
I get my wish.
He clasps his hands neatly on the desk, leans his head forward, and sighs. “You can’t work the week after Christmas. I’ll give you extra comp time so you don’t have to use your precious vacation days. You’ll enjoy Hawaii more when winter teases us into thinking it’s over before slamming everyone with a March blizzard.”
“I—”
“My mind’s made up, Sabrina. Go spend some quality time with your folks.”
There.
There’s that hornet sting to the heart again, reminding me this horrible man knows about my parents, my family, and for some ungodly reason...he still seems to care.
I stare at him. “Whatever. I just...I never thought I’d see the day when you ordered me to work less, but okay.”
With a sad parting smirk, I exit and close the door, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
Our interactions are few and far between the rest of the day. Back to ’normal.’
Honestly, I think he’s purposely avoiding me more, but as long as I’m collecting my paycheck with extra time off, I shouldn’t complain.
Still. I take every opportunity I can to look through his window, trying to make out details behind the frosted glass.
Every now and then I catch a glimpse of him in his office with his head buried behind his laptop, or taking a call, slouched in his chair.
His usual King of the Universe aura is gone.
I don’t know what happened, but something’s very wrong.
I’ve seen Magnus Heron be a jackass, a tyrant, a prick, and an unexpected, overprotective sweetheart.
But one thing I’ve never seen him be?
Deflated.
And it scares me.
I know. After the stunt he pulled—teasing my tongue like he wanted to devour me and acting like nothing happened—I shouldn’t care.
But I do, and I hate that he’s miserable.
That’s why I push my doubts aside and stop at Sweeter Grind after work. I walk out with a bag of Hawaiian coffee, a box of Heart’s Edge truffles, and my usual cinnamon latte. Back at my place, I hide the stuff from Paige and discreetly wrap up the coffee and truffles in shiny red and green paper, tie a ribbon around it, and write out a card.
Mr. Heron,
I thought some variety might perk you up. No, it’s not handpicked Kona beans, but it’s Hawaiian. I hope you like it. Try not to work too hard over the holidays.
Merry Christmas,
Brina
The next morning, I leave it on his desk next to the steaming hot cup from the Bean Bar.
At my desk, a fancy gold-wrapped package sits in my leather chair, waiting for me. And here I thought I’d be the one to surprise him...
Ripping through the paper that almost looks too expensive to ruin, I find a leather-bound planner with a black cat prancing across the cover.
A thought bubble over the kitty’s head says, As long as I’m yours, I’m lucky.
Oh my God.
It’s from one of my own art pieces. One of the last designs I did before Purry Furniture ditched me, and I stole away so they couldn’t recycle it. I had it posted on my little website portfolio, which he’s obviously seen.
A note on the first page tumbles out as I flip through it.
Cat art and superstitions are just a few of my favorite things. Merry Christmas, Miss Bristol.
Holy hell.
I stare at it so long it becomes a permanent part of my retinas.
I’m equal parts hollowed out and flooded with this strange heat.
I wonder what ghosts paid Scrooge a visit last night and knocked the Christmas spirit into him?
Let’s be real.
I’m ecstatic. I want to hug it and dance around, but I’m also in public, in the office, so I set the planner on my desk and go about my day. My cheeks hurt from smiling by the time eight o’clock rolls around.
As I print contracts to check for missing items and finish the filing, I keep glancing at it, wondering how to thank him. Wondering what it means, if it isn’t just one more of his silly games.
As long as I’m yours, I’m lucky.
Does he mean it?
I don’t see Mag the whole evening. He snuck out for a meeting across town and never came back. So before I leave the office, I fire off a quick text.
Thanks for the planner. You caught me by surprise. Of course I add a black cat emoji and a Christmas tree.
Mag: Planner? I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Yeah. Because anyone else on the planet would tease me with my own cat art and superstitions?
Liar, I fire back.
Mag: Prove it.
Sabrina: That’s basically a confession.
Mag: So you’ve joined my legal team now? Shame, you’ll be taking a pay cut.
I send an emoji with the tongue out and type, Whatever, boss. I already do a better job than they do saving your ass.
After work, I go back to the apartment, still getting barraged by messages from the Grump Who Gave Christmas and trying not to laugh.
Paige dances into the room with a green elf hat on and the world’s ugliest sweater.
“Um...you have jingle bells over your nipples,” I tell her, doing a double take.
“Oh, put that thing down, Brina!” she belts out, passing me a glass of mulled wine she just made. “The big man says no working whatsoever. It’s almost Christmas Eve!”