My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 6

Fable

I’ve always rolled my eyes at those scenes in the movies when the heroine spills coffee in the hero’s lap, then grabs a wad of napkins hastily in apology and dabs at him till she realizes she’s touching the outline of his dick and…awkward.

Like, who would actually do that in real life? Pat a dude’s lap and risk feeling up the crown jewels?

But I get it now—how it might happen. Because the instinct to clean up my own mess is as strong as my desire to hug the pair of Dachshund puppies I saw in a woman’s cart at T.J. Maxx last weekend as she stocked up on dog beds.

Intense.

I’m digging into my purse, furiously hunting for something, anything, to clean the glitter Christmas dicks off Wilder’s handsome face, his fancy tie, his expensive dress shirt as he removes his jacket quickly, assessing the damage. I mean, why make regular glitter dicks, when I can make holiday ones for Charlotte’s holiday bachelorette party?

“Here,” I say, stretching across his desk to shove a pack of tissues at him while I desperately try to replace the file folder in my brain that stores information about glitter removal.

Think fast.

Got it! “Do you have any coconut oil? I read this article the other night when I was making the shirt. You dip two fingers in the oil, gently rub circles across your face, and…” Oh my god, what am I saying? No one has coconut oil in their office. “It, um, removes sparkly makeup.”

The end of my sentence dies like a kite without wind as Wilder swipes at his cheek. He hasn’t flinched since the glittering. He’s wearing the most blank expression ever. I bet he kills it at poker. “I’m fresh out of coconut oil,” he deadpans.

“I’m guessing no makeup remover then?”

“I don’t have that either,” he says.

But most of the red and green flecks landed on that crisp shirt he’s wearing. I bet he’s one of those executives who keeps a change of clothes at work. I swivel around, but a quick scan of his office doesn’t reveal a garment bag or a handy-dandy costume change. Don’t billionaires always have tuxedos at the ready? Must be another lie of the rom-com flicks.

I’ve got to be able to do something. I made this mess. I need to clean it up. Then, an image flashes before me. Or, more specifically, a collage.

“Lint rollers can remove glitter from clothes!” I shout, like I’ve unearthed the answer in a vicious game of charades.

I sprint across the plush carpet, yank open the door, and bound over to Shay’s desk, powered by hope and a prayer. I slam down my palms, rattling the purple picture frame of a cat that sits in prime position by his computer. “Please tell me you carry lint rollers with you because you have long-hair cats?”

He’s an Avenger called to assemble. “Of course. Would you like sticky, super-sticky, or extra-sticky?”

I lift a finger, ready to debate the difference between super and extra, before I shut myself up. Now’s not the time for semantics. “Extra sounds fab.”

“Always travel with rollers,” he says, then snags one from his backpack—his holiday backpack, decorated with a Grinch face and the words Cheer up, dude, it’s Christmas. “Here you go.”

“You’re the best,” I say as I return to Wilder’s office, swinging the door shut behind me. As I peel off the adhesive strip on the roller, he strides around the mahogany desk, and I practically slam into him. But I stop in time. A small miracle for me today. “Let me help,” I say, then roll his chest. Up and down his pecs. Until it hits me—I am that girl in the movie.

The only difference is I’m not rolling his lap.

Also, when do bosses have time to get pecs of steel? Who cares? I’m just glad he does because I approve. Except he’s my boss, and I should not even think about what’s under that shirt. I swallow roughly, jamming the lint roller his way then backing off. “Um, you can do it.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking over the glitter-removal duty and methodically rolling, quadrant by quadrant.

“You’re as good at that as you are at stacking a dishwasher,” I say. Maybe the compliment will deflect from the terrible T-shirt mix-up.

“That’s always been a goal.”

Soon, he’s sparkle free. Except…

I gingerly point at his face. At one of his carved cheekbones to be exact. “There’s a little bit still there.”

He swipes at the stubborn stripe of sparkly red sausages, but they don’t come off.

“I think I have lotion in my purse. I could use that,” I suggest, since it’s the least I can do.

“That would be great.”

I grab my purse and locate a small tube of hand cream. “It’s Dark Kiss,” I say, reading the label.

He gives a casual shrug, like why not use Dark Kiss. “Sounds perfect.”

It does? Is that how he likes to kiss? Dark and dreamy too? I blink away the surprisingly tempting thoughts invading my brain.

“Here you go.” I offer the tube to him. Probably safer than me squeezing it. I’d get it all over the shirt that covers his titanium abs, which go with his granite pecs.

He squeezes a little bit on his finger and rubs it on his cheek but misses the path of festive sparkles.

“Still there,” I say with a guilty wince. He doesn’t move. He barely even lets out a sigh. I really can’t read him. But he has to be annoyed. My stomach twists. “Can I help?”

“Okay,” he grits out like it costs him something.

“I’ll be gentle,” I say, trying to keep the mood light as I take the tube again, then step closer to him than I’ve ever been. Closer than when I rolled him. He’s inches away now. Wilder Blaine is taller than I am, but not by an absurd amount. More like…a just right amount. With my fingertip, I pat along his cheekbone, and I’m close enough to notice he smells like falling snow and midnight—something calm and powerful all at once.

Something alluring.

I’m a scent girl. If a man takes the time to smell good, it says he cares. It says he tries. It says he doesn’t take things for granted.

He’ll make the effort.

To brush his teeth before he kisses you in the morning.

To dress in a fresh, clean shirt, rather than sniff-test his dirty laundry.

To pat on just the right amount of cologne for a date—the amount that makes your pulse speed up.

But a few seconds later, he’s glitter-free, and I jerk my hand away. I can’t spend the morning thinking about how good the man who signs my checks smells. That’s a recipe for trouble. For losing a job I both love and need. For making more mistakes. For messing up this tremendous opportunity.

I have to rein in this momentary bout of lust since that’s all it is.

Wilder gestures to the dove gray couch in his office. I sit, and he takes the navy blue chair across from it then adjusts his tie. It’s slate gray and has whimsical illustrations of skiers on it. He’s clearly ready for our meeting to finally begin and frankly, so am I. But it’s time for me to apologize. “I’m so sorry. I was rushing and I grabbed the wrong shirt and I feel terrible. I’m pretty sure I have the actual shirt for the employees’ stockings in my purse. I swear I’m an industrious elf. I can get it and show it to you,” I say, then I lunge for my purse, ready to right this ship.

“Let’s take five on that,” he says, then rolls up the cuffs on his shirt. “But don’t think twice about it. I’m more interested in something else.”

I tense and stop searching for the actual shirt. “What is it?”

His expression is intense, borderline severe. “Should we start a line of shirts with sparkly Christmas penises on them?”

He says it with such a straight face that I’m so tempted to pick up the gauntlet he’s throwing. To toss out names for a line like that. Snazzy Schlongs? Twinkling Twigs? Or better yet—Glitter Dongs and Shiny Schlongs.

But I realize he’s graciously letting me know he’s not pissed. I grab the lifeline he’s thrown and hoist myself back into the meeting. “No, but I am suggesting we start a line of sparkly shirts. Everything is better with a little bling.”

I reach for my tablet inside my purse and unlock it, then show him my presentation on the growth of our merch and the bennies of sparkles, flicking through studies on human behavior that show how we’re naturally attracted to shiny objects.

I stop momentarily when Shay knocks on the door and brings us two cups of coffee. Wilder and I thank him, and when he leaves, I return to the presentation. “It’s the peacock effect. We’re all drawn to that iridescent plumage. But here’s the issue with glitter.”

“It sticks to everything?” he asks wryly.

I smile and nod, taking that on the chin. “Yes, but it’s also a microplastic,” I explain.

He nods in immediate understanding, then adds, “Which means it gets swept down drains and blown by the wind.”

“Exactly. But this glitter—on both the Fondle with Care shirts and the one I’m about to show you—is sustainable. It’s made from mango skins and coffee grinds.”

His lips twitch in amusement, then delight. “I do love mango. Much more than…eggnog. But not as much as mint.”

I grin. That eggnog conversation with Wilder before we stacked dishes was the best part of Thanksgiving. “After we give these out as a holiday gift, we can continue to produce merch in the new year that’s eco-friendly and seriously cool. Would you like to see the shirt?”

He scoots the chair back a few inches, then smirks. “I’m ready now.”

I did it! I’ve steered this meeting plane out of a tailspin. Problem averted. I reach for my purse to retrieve the shirt I meant to show him, but as I stretch, something scratches me from inside my own top. I don’t want to scratch myself in front of him—I’m not a monkey—so I subtly sort of wriggle around to relieve the itch—when a wad of leftover paper towel falls from inside my shirtsleeve. Down to the floor. Landing on his plush blue carpet, like a stain, and making my point for me—I can’t win today.

For a brief second, or fifty, I’m hoping he didn’t see me shed, but he’s actively trying to avert his eyes.

The gentlemanliness of the gesture makes my chest ache. It reminds me of my terrible weekend and my dread of seeing my ex at my sister’s wedding. With shame coursing through me, I pick up the used paper towel, stuff it into my pocket, then lift my chin and try to play it down. “I’d like to ask Santa for a do-over on this meeting, please,” I say with a too-bright smile. Never let someone see you sweat.

But Wilder doesn’t bite on my low-key attempt at humor. His insightful eyes search my face as he asks, “What’s going on, Fable?”

It’s said with such genuine care that words rush to my throat. I don’t usually share the more emotional parts of myself, but the injustice of the Thanksgiving incident fires me up. “It’s just…when I went to replace Brady at Thanksgiving?” I prompt, reminding him of that moment.

“Right. When he went to the wrapping room and returned with the caterer, he looked a little chagrined,” Wilder supplies. I shouldn’t be surprised he remembers every detail, but I’m surprisingly touched.

“They were enjoying some pre-dessert dessert⁠—”

Wilder growls. He actually growls. I haven’t even said what Brady was doing, but the man is feral. “While he was with you?” He says it like Brady’s committed the crime of the century by cheating on me.

“Yes. In my defense, I ended it with him right then and there…Well, she swallowed first,” I add. I try to make light of the awfulness of what they were doing in the wrapping room. I don’t want to relive that mortification. I’m not missing Brady—he’s no loss. But I feel like his doormat, and I hate that. When I was in high school, I vowed to never let someone walk over me, like my father did to my mother. I don’t want Wilder to think of me that way.

But he’s on my side, clearly, and he’s breathing fumes. “He’s a prick, and he never deserved you. Ever.”

Well, sir. His outrage is kind of hot. “But that’s not even half of it,” I say, fueled by his ire and my own.

“What is it?” Wilder asks, his jaw ticking. “What’s the other half?”

I bite my lip. Should I tell him this? He is the boss.

But he seems keenly interested. He’s leaning forward in his chair, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt again like he’s ready to go into battle for me, a warrior CEO. I pause, momentarily distracted by his inked forearms. Abstract black artwork travels up his muscular wrists. His complexion is fair but a shade darker than my very pale self, since I’m allergic to sunlight. Suddenly, I don’t want to stop staring at those arms, but once he finishes adjusting the cuffs, I tear my gaze away.

Then, since he seems like he’s on the edge of his seat, I let it all out. “He’s bringing her to the wedding. They’re teaming up for the Evergreen Falls winter games. And I’m going⁠—”

I snap my mouth shut before I utter solo. I don’t want to sound like I’m angling for a teammate for the contest or even a plus one for the wedding.

But Wilder seems to easily read between the lines.

“You want Brady to be jealous?” Wilder asks, and his hands have knuckled into fists against his thighs. The muscles carving his forearms flex, and I try not to notice because don’t think inappropriate thoughts about your boss.

Correction: don’t think any more inappropriate thoughts about your boss.

“No. That’s not it,” I say truthfully. I think of Mom once more. She took my dad back again and again until she finally kicked him out for good. I was sixteen then, though, and watching the door swing open for him more times than he deserved has stayed with me. Especially since he went on to do the same thing to his next wife and the next one. There’s a lesson there, for sure.

Deciding that it’s not the worst thing for Wilder to know I’m still a little fiery, a little salty even, about how the eggnog went down, I square my shoulders and say, “It’s because people treat you the way you let them, and I want to show Brady how I deserve to be treated.”

Wilder nods slowly. “You deserve to be treated with respect. With adoration. With real affection.”

From someone else, the lines could sound trite—but Wilder doesn’t bullshit. He’s genuine. I know that from working with him. He’s not the cold-hearted, unapproachable boss. He’s, well, he’s real. And the compliments feel like they fit.

But I also like the way he looks right now. Fierce and protective. Like it’s against his very nature to do anything but protect me from my awful ex.

This is why he owns a winning football team in this city. Why he runs luxury hotels and a green business. Why he commands a boardroom. The man does not suffer fools.

If this were a movie and Brady worked for him in it, he’d call the philanderer into his office and replace a way to fire him on the spot.

To make a point. You don’t treat my top designer like that.

Instead, there’s a knock on the door, and a warm, husky voice calls out, “Wild child, I come bearing Christmas joy.”

It’s my turn to fight off a grin since my first thought is that Aunt Bibi has an adorable nickname for Wilder.

But when he sighs heavily, my second thought is—why is he so perturbed that she’s interrupting us?