Charming Co-Worker: Holiday RomCom Standalone

by Lauren Runow

Apparently, no points are awarded.

  Hunter serves next. The ball hits the wall, bouncing twice before Branson can get to it. He rallies it back with such force that Hunter has to dive and slams his racket into the wall so hard that I fear it will break.

  A man nearby makes a sound as if that was a tough move.

  They volley until the ball is out of bounds again. Branson gets to serve again. The men grunt as they swing with all their might. Hunter trips over his feet as he dives and misses.

  Point to Branson.

  My boss turns around and smiles at me. I give him a thumbs-up and then put it down when Hunter glares at me.

  The ball is now Hunter’s, and something has changed.

  Like a ping-pong on steroids, the ball is throttled across the room. It must take a lot of trust to trap yourself in a small room, behind a glass wall, with a torpedo coming at you at rapid speed. The pounding sound slams over and over along with the slap against the racquets and the men’s loud sounds of exertion.

  Hunter gets a point on Branson with a smirk on his face.

  The two men seem to have tunnel vision, each of them playing as if there’s more than just a gym championship title on the line. I can’t imagine their weekly games are like this.

  It’s mean. It’s primal.

  It’s an all-out war that needs to stop, or someone’s going to get hurt.

  “Fuck!” Hunter yells as he falls to the floor.

  I spoke too soon. Branson slammed into Hunter, and now, they’re both on the floor with Hunter clutching his ankle.

  I open the door and rush to his side. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m good.” He tries to stand, but by the painful expression written all over his face, anyone can tell he’s hurt.

  Branson leans down to give him his hand. “Sorry about that, bloke.”

  Hunter reaches up to take it and stands up, his right foot hovering in the air.

  “Can you put any weight on it?” I ask him.

  He tries to and winces in pain.

  “Come on. Let’s get you home and get it iced and elevated.”

  “No. I want to finish the game,” Hunter demands.

  “How? By hopping across the court?” I ask.

  Branson lets out a laugh and then rights himself. “Forfeiting is admirable.”

  Hunter shakes his head with a laugh as he pushes his hair off his sweaty forehead. “For now, Ford. Just remember, if it wasn’t for my ankle, I’d kick your ass.” Hunter’s carefree personality is back.

  Branson shakes his hand and then grabs their bags, putting Hunter’s racket away. After Branson is declared the victor with little pomp and circumstance, Hunter puts an arm around my shoulders and lets me walk him out the door.

  Branson is at our side. “Do you need me to bring you home, Katherine?”

  I turn to Hunter, who’s scrunching his face. I tell Branson, “We’re gonna take a cab to my place. See you in the morning.”

  Branson’s brows pinch as we walk out the front door, and he turns toward the locker rooms.

  Hunter has a mischievous grin on his face. A puzzled expression covers mine.

  “You certainly handle losing pretty well,” I say.

  “There’s always next time. Besides, I get to go home with the girl.”

  He kisses my head as we walk out the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I open the door of my apartment and guide Hunter toward the couch. He has his arm slung over my shoulders like he needs the support. Really, I think he just likes the attention … and the occasional boob graze.

  We remove his shoe and sock and get his foot propped up to get a better look.

  “It’s a little swollen,” I say after examining it closer. “Let me get you some ice.”

  I reach for a bag of frozen peas from my freezer and head back with the bag and a paper towel to put on his foot.

  He repositions himself on the couch, settling in comfortably. I place the towel and bag on his ankle.

  “I have Tylenol for the pain,” I say.

  Before I turn toward the kitchen, he reaches up and takes my hand, stopping me in my tracks. He pulls me down to him and crashes his lips on mine.

  The kiss is brief but meaningful, taking my breath away.

  “Thank you for taking care of me like this,” he says as he plays with the end of my ponytail.

  “Of course I’d take care of you. You’re hurt. Do you mean to tell me the throngs of women who throw themselves at your feet haven’t coddled you before?”

  He laughs, and then his face relaxes, looking almost sentimental. “Not with a bag of peas.”

  “I’m hap-pea to help,” I joke, not feeling the least bit silly for my pun.

  “You’re cute, kid.” His use of the nickname he always calls me makes me gnaw on my lip. He raises a thumb and pulls it from between my teeth. “What did I say that worries you?”

  It’s silly really. The endearing term of kid is something I’ve gotten used to. Except that was before we slept together. Now, I feel like I’ve been demoted.

  With a shake of my head, I play it off. “Nothing. It’s just—”

  He kisses me again, and this time, it’s not brief. It’s firm and long, and it comes with a hand grab of my hair that’s not rough or possessive yet sexy as hell.

  I sigh into his embrace. “Why do you call me kid?”

  “I already told you. It’s a Casablanca thing.”

  “Are you going to make me watch the movie in order to understand?”

  He grins. “Maybe someday. Just know, it has nothing to do with your age or the fact that you’re so adorable that it’s beyond sexy.”

  “Sexy is cute.”

  “If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.”

  I almost fall onto my knees in surprise. “Hunter Johnstone! Did you just make a pun?”

  His gorgeous grin brings his dimples out, and the tiny laugh lines around his eyes appear. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

  I lean down and kiss him. “It’s my pleasure.” The words are an innuendo, but he’s hurt; we might be kissing, but I’m not sure exactly what will come next for us. I stand up and take a breath. “Now, what sounds good to eat?”

  “Word on the street is, you make a raspberry cheesecake that’s better than sex.”

  He waggles his eyebrows, and I have to laugh.

  “You’re in luck.”

  I walk into the kitchen while Hunter sits up and looks around my place. It’s not very big, but it’s sweet. Sofia and I have cream-colored walls with a light blue sofa and the peach carpet the place came with. The couch is pushed over to accommodate the tree in the corner.

  “You get a real tree,” he states, looking at the four-foot pine that is way too big for the room.

  “I love the smell. The superintendent of the building almost killed us because we dropped a thousand needles, trying to carry it up here by ourselves. I’ll bake something extra for him. He likes my oatmeal raisin cookies.”

  “You bake a lot?”

  “Yes,” I say as I open my refrigerator and see the cheesecake I made after Hunter dropped me off at home yesterday. “It helps soothe my nerves. I tend to overthink a lot, and baking is my Zen.”

  I hold the cheesecake up for him to see, and he raises a brow.

  “You made that last night?”

  I nod my head and then realize I just gave away a lot of myself in this one dessert. Yes, Hunter, I baked because I’m crazy about you, and I’m not sure what that means.

  He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he rises from the couch and starts looking around my apartment. He takes in the Santa throw pillows and then smiles when he sees the snow globe he bought me resting on the table near the couch.

  I put the cheesecake on the counter and watch him. I feel so comfortable with him here; it’s like he’s been here a thousand times before.

  I don’t normally invite people into my personal space because it’s just that—personal. You can learn a lot
about a person just from seeing how they live. Is their place clean or dirty? Are there family photos or meaningless prints on the walls? What kind of food do they eat? In my apartment, there’s no hiding things in closets or behind closed doors.

  “What’s with all the castles?” he asks when he sees the art gallery on the wall.

  From Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy, France, to the Neuschwanstein Castle in southwest Bavaria, Germany, I have pictures of the most famous castles in the world, hung up in a beautiful display.

  “My dad used to read me fairy tales when I was a child. Most parents were telling their daughters they could be doctors or lawyers or the next president of the United States. He was firm on me having a fantasy. A little magic in my life, if you will. When I got older and became interested in the world around me, we started a yearly trip. Just the two of us. Every year, we’d visit a different castle. This one”—I point to a photo of a historic fortress set on the top of a mountain—“is from our first trip, the summer before I started college.”

  Hunter tilts his head, and a soft grin crosses his face. “He’s the reason you believe in romantic love?”

  “I’ve never thought of that. I think he just wanted me to know that there was something special out there, waiting for me.”

  “That’s not a bad idea to give to your daughter. Unless you spend too long, waiting for a prince to rescue you when you could just climb down the tower yourself.”

  I raise a brow. “What do I need a prince for when I have a huntsman?”

  He runs his thumb along his lower lip as he takes in the rest of my place. Everything is out in the open to see, and when it comes to Hunter, I actually want him to see it.

  I open the fridge and tap my foot. A lot of my meals are frozen dinners, bowls of cereal, or yogurt and granola. Feeding a man on the simple things I have here seems impossible.

  “Well, unless you are in the mood for an Amy’s Spinach Pizza, we’re going to have to order in,” I say over my shoulder as I search the freezer.

  “Do you like it?” he asks.

  “Well, yeah, that’s why it’s in my freezer,” I tease as I take out two boxes. “There’s no meat or anything on them. But they’re good.”

  His grin is the cutest when he says, “If you enjoy it, then it’s good for me.”

  “Spinach pizza it is!” I point to him, narrowing my eyes. “No complaining if you don’t like it.”

  His laugh rumbles through his chest. “I promise.”

  I pour him a glass of whiskey and hand him the remote to choose whatever he wants to watch. “It’s no Bushmills, but it’s all I’ve got.”

  We clink glasses while the oven heats up.

  “Who’s this?” Hunter asks, drawing my attention to the hallway coming from my room.

  Mittens is walking into the kitchen. His tiny paws strut in a determined manner, as he seems eager to see who the intruder of his domestic domain is.

  “Hunter, this is Mittens,” I introduce the two as Hunter kneels down to the ground, where the cat stands. To my surprise, Mittens doesn’t scurry off like he usually does when someone other than me approaches him. “You probably shouldn’t do that. He doesn’t like people.”

  With his eyes level with Mittens, Hunter speaks rather frankly to my cat, “Hello, Mittens. I’m Hunter. I heard you’re a rescue. Kinda like me. I was a lost cause before Katie here straightened me up. Now, I hope you don’t mind me hanging out with her, but you see, I happen to think your mom is really pretty, and I kind of got my ass kicked today. So, how about you and I have a man-to-man agreement that we’re cool with sharing her for the night? Sound good?”

  With his beady eyes half-hooded, Mittens growls from in his throat and then turns his head away from Hunter, who rises to a standing position.

  “I don’t think that went very well,” Hunter explains.

  As if to prove his point, Mittens walks over to Hunter’s sneaker on the ground and coughs loudly, as if spitting up a hairball. Then, he saunters into my room with his tail waving in the air like he just doesn’t care.

  “Yeah, your cat’s a dick.”

  I can only nod. “Yeah, I’ve been told that before. He’ll come around.” I shrug so he knows there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Since we just got back from the gym, I take a quick shower, coming out with my wet hair combed through. I slide on a new pair of yoga pants and a tank top as I head to the kitchen to put the pizzas in.

  Hunter goes next, his foot seeming better than it was when we got here. I take a seat and sip my whiskey.

  When he comes out, he’s wearing nothing but his basketball shorts.

  His chest is broad and glistening from the moisture, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a rogue drop of water still dripping down his chest and over the ripples of his abdomen, disappearing down the V that leads under his low-hung shorts.

  I gulp down my whiskey as he looks back at me with darkened eyes. He brushes his hair back, the tendrils curling at the ends. I’ve had this man. I had carnal sex with him in front of a fire. I know what it feels like to come undone from his mouth. I know what it feels like to have his ass in my palms. And yet I’m staring at him like I’m dying to know what it would be like to see him naked for the first time.

  I pop off the couch and take a much-needed breather. It could be the endorphins from working out earlier, the whiskey going to my head, or just the fact that Hunter is so damn sexy that it should be illegal, but I’m really hot and bothered right now.

  I focus my energy on getting the pizzas out of the oven.

  Since I don’t have a kitchen table of any sort, I walk the plates into the living room and place them on the coffee table. It’s dark outside now, so Hunter plugs in my tree. The lights cast a sweet glow over the room. I’m going to miss it when I have to take it down next week.

  He makes room for me on the couch instead of having me sit on the chair next to him. He clicks on Nightly Pop on E!, and surprisingly, it’s exactly what I would have chosen. I kick my feet up and take a bite of the pizza as we both laugh at the same joke.

  “I’m surprised you watch this,” I say. It’s become my guilty pleasure and the only show I look forward to.

  “Morgan Stewart is hot. That’s why I started watching. But I’ve gotten to enjoy it beyond just seeing her.”

  I roll my eyes at his total guy comment.

  He sits up to see me better. “What? You don’t think Hunter March is good-looking?” he asks about the other cohost.

  I smile at him, more playful than not. “I like his name more than anything.”

  “Ha-ha.” He takes another bite, turning his attention back to the screen.

  Once we’re done eating, the show is over, and I get up to put our plates in the kitchen.

  “Here, let me help you.” Hunter moves to sit up.

  I place my hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. “You don’t move. I got this. You’ve put too much weight on that ankle already.”

  He gives in and checks on his ankle.

  “How is it?” I ask when I come back into the room.

  He circles it around. “I think it’s going to be okay.” He scoots on the couch, so he’s on the edge, and then he stands up.

  I head toward the kitchen to refill my drink and grab the plate of cheesecake. When I return, he’s staring at the other side of my apartment, where my bedroom door is.

  I hand him the plate with a fork balancing on the end. He doesn’t waste any time in diving in. The way the food enters his mouth is sinful to watch. He French-kisses it and lets his tongue glide along the bottom of the fork as he savors every bite.

  He groans, “Better than sex.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” I beam.

  “Except with you.” His brow quirks as he takes another bite and does that sexy licking thing.

  I take a sip of my whiskey. As the drink burns my throat in the best way, I let out a shaky breath.

  “You’re nervous,” he says.

 
“Not for the reason you probably think.”

  I lean over to place my glass on the table and end up setting it down on top of a magazine, spilling a little bit before I set it upright. Getting up, I head to the kitchen to get a towel from the drawer. When I take it out and turn around, Hunter’s there with me.

  He moves closer, placing his finger under my chin and forcing my head up to look into his eyes, and steps toward me. As my back becomes flush against the counter, he pushes his weight into me. Then, he lifts my body up and sets me on the cold surface. My legs part, and he settles himself in between my thighs, his firm groin hard against my yoga pants. I want to yank off the thin fabric between us and feel more of him.

  All of him.

  “You make me nervous, too, Katie,” he says. His lips are just millimeters from mine. “In the best fucking way.”

  His fingers glide over my lips before he leans in to kiss me, diving deeper in a matter of seconds.

  I wrap my legs around his ass and pull him in. His hands glide over my breasts, and I let out a moan that’s way too loud for him barely touching me.

  Hunter lays his forehead against mine. Our breaths are ragged.

  “What are you doing to me, Katie?” he asks, almost pained.

  “I should ask you the same thing,” I whisper. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, and I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.”

  “It’s bad. Nothing that feels this good can be right,” he says, his hand holding the side of my face.

  I want to laugh at his line, but I don’t because he’s dead serious. “Why do you say that?” I ask in earnest.

  He swallows, and his jaw tightens. “Because I’m not the man you originally wanted. I want you to want me more than you want him.”

  “I already do.”

  “That’s the part that scares me the most,” he says with a growl, his voice raw, as he wraps his hands under me and lifts me up.

  “Your ankle,” I say as I wrap around his shoulders and suck on his neck.

  “Fuck it. I’ve got another one.”

  His lips crash onto mine, and my hands are in his hair, gripping the ends while taking every ounce of passion he’s giving me in this kiss.