by Aston, Jana
I'm ruining my life.
"I like it when you smile," he says, after a long pause. A long pause in which I'm staring at his chest and thinking about my life choices, the smile already gone from my face.
It's dark outside. It's still tonight—and I'm making the most of tonight. I run my hands up his chest as I slide myself on top of him until our chests touch, until our lips meet and I put everything else but right here and now out of my mind.
"No talking," I remind him, slapping my palm across his mouth in a ridiculously childish gesture. I catch myself and shrug, sliding my hand behind his neck. He just stares at me as if I'm a complicated puzzle he's trying to figure out.
Then his eyes drop, trailing across my breasts in a slow indecent caress, and I'm torn between wanting to cover myself and leaning into it. I settle for examining him while he has his fill of looking at me. I run my fingers along his jaw, feeling the stubble against my fingertips. Dragging them up to his ear and running them through the close-cut hair at his nape. I'd always wondered if his hair would feel as good as it looked. It feels better. Thick and dark, chocolatey brown and delicious. He's delicious. I press my fingertips into the back of his neck, reveling in the strength and feel of him.
Nick groans and pulls me closer, kissing me before shifting me up on his lap to capture a nipple between his lips.
Now we're both groaning.
"Don't stop," he says. "Don't stop touching me." So I don't. My fingers are eager to trail along his shoulders and wind themselves in his hair, my tongue equally eager. Eager to lick and taste and suck every bit of Nick I can reach. Added to the list of things you shouldn't know about your boss? What he tastes like. Heaven help me.
When he flips me over and kisses his way down my stomach I'm sure I'll expire from pleasure and embarrassment. I try to stop him once his destination is clear. Not sure I'm ready for that burned into my memory. Surely I'll never be able to focus on anything again, distracted by the memories of Nick’s head between my thighs. But Nick shushes me with my own words. "No talking, right?" And then he spreads my thighs wide enough for his broad shoulders to settle between and I decide that none of this counts. I might as well enjoy the full Nick Saint-Croix experience before the clock strikes midnight and I turn back into myself and he turns back into a jerk.
That's what I tell myself anyway. For the ten or so seconds I still have rational thought.
* * *
Nick's second visit to the inn is even better than his first, which sounds like a ridiculous thing to say, but it's true. Sexually, he's ideal.
"Holly," he starts after it's over and I'm resting my head on his chest. I feel a conversation coming on so I place a finger over his mouth and shush him. Talking right now would be like starting a New Year’s diet the day after Christmas instead of waiting until January first. Premature. Unnecessary. A very bad idea.
"I'm sleeping," I tell him and keep my eyes pressed shut. I don't stop using him as a pillow, however.
He exhales underneath me, his breath tickling the top of my head, but he remains quiet, playing with the ends of my hair until I'm not lying about being asleep.
Chapter 11
The next day I'm weirder than usual. I know this to be true because Nick tells me so.
"Why are you suddenly being weirder than usual?"
This comes during the car ride on the way to a meeting he has with Friedrich Trains. The company is located about an hour outside of Nuremberg so Nick has rented a car to take us there, a fact I should be grateful for because it means we're having this conversation in private instead of in front of a cab driver.
It's the first chance we've really had to talk, as this morning he kissed me on the forehead as he slipped out of bed, telling me he'd meet me in the lobby in an hour. He turned on my shower on his way out, with a, "Fifty-five minutes, Miss Winter," on his way out the door.
The forehead kiss is the worst of all the kisses, don't you think? It's like a breakup kiss. Gah! Not that we were together. Of course not. See, this is why sleeping with your boss is always a bad idea. Sexual relationships are tricky enough all on their own without the added complications and confusion of adding a weird power dynamic into it.
"Because we had sex, Nick! And you're my boss," I add, in case he doesn't realize how weird that detail makes this for me. He blinks, the movement a flinch, as if I've just called him an asshole to his face. "And we're never doing that again, obviously. And now it's weird."
"Obviously," he repeats, and my heart sinks even though he's repeating my own words back to me. So he agrees? That it's never happening again? Well, good. We're on the same page then. That'll keep this from being messier then needed.
Except I suddenly feel like crying, which is ridiculous. I don't even like him.
"Right," I agree.
"Right."
Okay then. I guess all Nick has to add to this conversation is repeating whatever I say. I stare out the window and watch the landscape pass. I hate to admit it, but foreign gas stations and supermarkets and the like are still charming to me, even in the midst of my angst. Esso, Rewe, Aldi. Okay, yeah, we have Aldi at home. Not in Reindeer Falls, but there's a couple in Saginaw.
"I can't believe I slept with you. You're my boss. My hot Grinch, amazing-at-sex boss."
"Twice," he points out, after a short pause. "You slept with me twice. And you came four times."
Well. That was a humblebrag if I've ever heard one. True, but still. I wonder if he'll think about it in the office. During the Monday meetings when I'm on the hot seat being grilled about profit margins, will his mind flash to memories of me asking him to make me come? Begging him for more? Demanding it faster and harder and deeper.
Just kill me now.
Because even if he's not remembering it, I will be. And then I'll wonder if he's wondering if I'm remembering.
"Well, don't worry about it. The night is over and today it's like nothing ever happened. Okay?" I slice my hand through the air like that's some kind of clean slate. "We're good. I'm good. I'm cool. I'm a professional. I realize this can't happen again. We were temporarily insane. We'll never mention it again. What happens in Nuremberg stays in Nuremberg."
Nick shifts in his seat, his left hand moving to straighten his tie, trapped under the seat belt, before he speaks.
"Holly." He pauses and I think he's not going to say more but then he does and it's worse than anything else he's said. Probably in the history of my knowing him. "You should talk to human resources if I've made you uncomfortable." His tone is calm. Resigned even, as if I'm some kind of an issue to be dealt with.
"You mean your aunt, Nick? You want me to tell your aunt that I've seen your penis? Because that's who runs the human resource department. At your uncle's company. Where you're my boss. Or would you prefer I discuss this with the other employee in our personnel department? Which just happens to be"—I pause here for dramatic effect even though we both know exactly who I'm referring to—"your sister."
"Technically you report to Sam," he points out. As if this is the time or place.
"Technically that makes you my boss’s boss."
"Yeah, Holly, it does." He sounds peevish now. "Reindeer Falls isn't exactly a big city. Sorry we happen to work at the same place," he adds dryly.
Oh, my word. Did he just imply there's not enough women to choose from in Reindeer Falls? Am I a default lay? I may not be European sophisticated but I am a former Miss Candy Cane Princess, and that's a very big deal.
Also, yes. That sounded ridiculous even to me in my own head. I cross my arms across my chest. Peevish with Nick. Peevish with myself.
He could have just hooked up with an old naked friend in Nuremberg last night if he's so particular about his selection pool. Jackal.
The rest of the ride—and the day for that matter—doesn't go much better. We're both more irritable than two people who had that much great sex the night before have any right to be. Nick is back to his Scrooge-like self. He spends the rest of
the ride leaving voicemails for people back in the States, where it's barely morning. Once we arrive at the meeting, I feel sort of useless because the Friedrich Trains account isn't one of mine so there's no point in my being at the meeting. Not really. I'm only along for the ride because I came to Germany for the Bavarian Bear meetings and it's not like Nick was going to leave me in the hotel to relax all day. A fact he confirms when we arrive at Friedrich Trains and he tells me I can take notes to pass along to Sam. Which of course I would, but it just makes me feel secretarial to be told to do it.
I hate feeling secretarial.
And I'd run the hell out of the Friedrich Trains account if I had it. It belongs to Harold at the moment. He's one of the product managers who objected the loudest over the gender bias reporting we were asked to submit a few months ago. Not surprisingly, he believes that boys are the primary user of toys by choice, not because the advertising has historically targeted boys. I don't agree. Everyone loves trains. If the account was mine I'd develop a train set called the Reindeer Falls Express and market it as a family heirloom item—meant for everyone. A set that would be taken out each Christmas when the tree went up, the track laid in a perfect circle at the bottom. And then I'd develop a toy version made out of wood to appeal to younger parents seeking toys with a vintage feel. And I'd market it to boys and girls.
Something I tell Nick when we're on our way back to the hotel late that afternoon. After twenty minutes of silence I can't take it anymore and I burst forth with all of my ideas. Not only because I'm passionate about everything the Reindeer Falls Toy Company does, but because I'm passionate about alleviating awkward silences.
"I know you would," is his response. That’s it. The entirety of his response.
I want to kill him. What the hell does that mean? That he wouldn't? That my ideas are terrible? That he thinks trains are for boys too? Urggggh!
I slump back in my seat and plot his demise. I'm overreacting. I know it. I know it.
"They're good ideas," I finally manage through clenched teeth.
"I never said they weren't," he replies like he hasn't a care in the world.
We don't say anything for the rest of the trip. That evening we have a work dinner with a local vendor. It's a blessedly large dinner, so I beeline for the opposite end of the table from Nick when we arrive. I end up stuck between a boring guy who wants to talk to me about American baseball on one side and a woman who wants to talk to me about Nick on the other. It's still worth it because I need the distance from Nick.
Worth it—and horrible all at the same time. Because I catch him glancing in my direction a few times when I'm glancing in his and it's torture.
"Is he seeing anyone? Do you know?" This from the woman beside me. The one clearly enamored with him, based on the focus of her every question.
"Engaged," I tell her, before I even know what's coming out of my mouth. But really, is it my job to find him a hookup for tonight? I don't think so. "To a nice girl in Reindeer Falls. He talks about her nonstop. Spring wedding. Totally whipped."
"Whipped?" The woman's brows rise and I contemplate that the meaning of the word may not have translated in the way I'd intended. The woman's English is flawless, but her native language is German. I glance over to Nick. He's staring at me, his head bent so he can hear what the man next to him is saying. "Yup," I reply, doing my best to keep the smile from my face. "It's always the quiet ones, right?"
"I suppose," she agrees and with one last lingering, but now slightly puzzled glance at Nick, she turns her attention to the person sitting on the other side of her.
I take a sip of wine and smile. It's a smug smile. Sue me.
* * *
"You looked cozy with Hans," Nick comments as we walk back to the hotel after dinner. The restaurant we met at is only just around the corner from our hotel so we've not bothered with a cab.
"Who?"
"The guy looking down your shirt at dinner," Nick replies drily.
"Oh, him. Sure, he was lovely." Lovely, if you enjoy that sort of thing. "Maria wanted your number," I offer, against my better judgement. Why am I telling him that? Do I want to see what he'll say? Do I care?
"Maria?"
"The woman sitting next to me at dinner eye-fucking you all night."
"Hmm. Did you give it to her?"
He's stepped behind me a bit to give room to a couple passing us in the opposite direction so I can't see his face. I refrain from jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow before responding.
"No. I told her you were impotent and not to waste her time."
"Hmm," he murmurs, the tone giving me nothing. "Interesting."
"Did you want me to run back and give it to her?"
"No, you were right. It would be a waste of her time."
"Can't squeeze her in before our flight in the morning?"
We've entered our hotel and I've turned to face him. He's not looking at me, his focus instead on the large Christmas tree decorating the lobby.
"Is that what you think of me?" he finally says, meeting my eyes. I'm tempted to reach out and run my fingertip over his bottom lip, just to feel him against my skin in some way again, but I stop my twitchy traitorous hand from moving. Just barely. "That I'm happy to fuck anyone who offers?"
"She's hardly just anyone. You've met her, she's quite pretty." Honestly, I should have told her he was impotent in addition to the dominatrix insinuation, just to cover all my bases.
"Holly," he murmurs and I'm flustered. Because hearing him say my name instead of Miss Winters has always sounded like sex to me and now I have all the accompanying visuals to confirm it.
"I don't know." I look away, uncomfortable with his stare. "No. That was rude. And unprofessional. I apologize."
"It's fine." He jabs his hands in his pockets in a grumpy gesture I've become familiar with. "My language was unprofessional as well."
"No worries."
And that's how we end it. No worries. Who even says ‘no worries?’ Old people. Old ladies with cats, which is exactly how I'm going to end up because all other men are ruined for me now. None of them will ever measure up. And worse, I'll never look at an Advent calendar the same way again. Or Christmas lights. Or the scent of cinnamon and cloves.
Bavarian Bears. The taste of mulled wine. The entire nation of Germany.
It's all crap now.
Chapter 12
"So he told you how he felt and you rejected him."
"I did not. That did not happen." I'm shaking my head before Ginger has finished speaking.
It's the week before Christmas and I'm at Ginger's house delivering the gingerbread I bought her in Nuremberg and recapping my trip with Nick. Nick, who I haven't seen since we returned to Reindeer Falls. He took off on another business trip on Monday. An unscheduled business trip. My Advent calendar is sitting in a drawer filled with unopened doors because he was supposed to be in the office this week.
"Holly, are you nuts? What exactly did you want him to say? That he's borderline in love with you? You asked him why he kissed you and he said because he wanted to. He told you he'd been wanting to kiss you since the first day he met you. WAKE UP, HOLLY," she adds in a shout.
"You're very tense about this gingerbread competition."
"I'm very tense about your idiocy."
"Well. Somebody has the Christmas spirit." I slump over her kitchen table, chin in palm, pouting.
"Was the sex awful? The sex following the most romantic kiss on a church balcony that's likely ever occurred in the history of time?" Then just in case I forget her stance on the topic she mutters, "You blind bat," under her breath but loud enough for me to hear.
"Why are you swearing at me like an old woman from the 1940's?"
"Holly." Ginger sighs my name as she loads a loaf of ginger something or other into her oven and joins me at the table. "Let's go over this again. In detail."
"I'm not totally romantically inept, you know. I am older than you," I point out. "Bossy brat."
"So he kissed you on a church balcony," Ginger starts, ignoring my jab. "You swooned."
"I did not swoon!"
She levels me a look. "Holly, I'm swooning and it wasn't even my kiss."
"Fine," I huff. "There was swooning. He's a great kisser. He's even better in bed. He's attentive and generous and… fun." And maybe, just maybe, he's not as big of a jerk as I'd thought.
"Okay, so." Ginger waves a hand in the air like she's getting ready to make a case. "He kissed you on the balcony." She holds up one finger then takes it back, frowning. "No, wait. Let's back up. He took you to a Christmas market, Holly! He took you to a freaking Christmas market, which is exactly how I'd seduce you if I was trying to seduce you."
"Um, that wasn't creepy at all."
"Making my point. Don't sidetrack." She holds her finger back up in the air, ready to start her finger checklist. "He took you to a Christmas market. He walked around with you while you went shopping." She pauses here to wave a hand at the pile of gingerbread items scattered across her kitchen table and give me a pointed look. Then she holds up a third finger. "Then he walked you up the steps of an old church to show you the view and kissed you." Ginger drops her hand to her heart and makes a dramatic swooning motion in her chair, slumping over until I'm afraid she'll hit the floor.
"Okay, enough," I grumble. She sits up immediately, waving four fingers in my face.
"Then instead of saying ‘thank you for the kiss, sir,’ you asked him why he kissed you."
"‘Thank you for the kiss, sir?’ Are you serious?" I laugh. "Who talks like that? Does your oven have a gas leak or something? Are you okay in the head?"
Ginger ignores me. "And then he said because he wanted to. Because he wanted to kiss you, Holly Mistletoe Winter."
It's true. My middle name is Mistletoe. Even I have to admit my mom may have taken her Christmas fetish a bit far with that one.
