by Logan Chance
Chapter 1
Holly
I don’t hate my job. I don’t hate my job. I so hate my freaking job. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that I have a job at this time of year. But, I really hate it.
Ok, not so much my actual duties of the job. But I do really despise my boss. He’s gorgeous, talented, and a ruthless prick. That’s not why I hate him though. Today is Christmas Eve and instead of being extra generous to the employees that have busted our butts off (I have legit dropped twelve pounds) over the last four weeks to get the last leg of holiday retail sales (quite literally) in the bag, he has decided tonight we are going to work. All. Night. Long.
That’s right. There will be no sleep. No eating. No breaks. No going home to wake up on Christmas morning to the ones we love. Scrooge bastard. There aren’t even any Christmas cookies in our shop. Speaking of our shop, did I mention I work for the Caspian Wondrous Emporium? Sounds fun, right? Surrounded by toys and cool gadgets all day long? Well, it’s not.
This shop is basically the gateway to hell, because it’s where every celebrity and big-time somebody shops for gifts for their brattylicious ankle biters. I have nothing against kids, I actually like them, but the parents...holy tricycles.
The demands are as high as the prices in our store. And what they demand of the shop, North Caspian demands of his “little elves” slaving away to bring the most exclusive, fresh and high-end toys into our store. Every item we sell is uniquely made. No copies, and a large array from all over the world.
North is actually kind of like Santa, but without all the jolly, saintly shit. He goes away for long stretches of time, and when he comes back, he’s loaded down with a trunk full of goodies. Today is one of those days. He always saves the night before Christmas for his most exclusive items.
As a seasoned veteran of this store, I should know that tonight is hell night, but somehow it still takes me aback to hear him stand before us with his Gucci shirt pressed to perfection, arms crossed like the boss he is, handing out orders and expecting complete compliance...or else. There was actually a time I wanted to test the ‘what else’ to see if he was bluffing. But after watching ten of my fellow coworkers fleeing from him after they disobeyed orders...I’m good. I believe in the ‘or else’ as if it were Santa himself.
I’m setting up a display of twenty-four karat baby pacifiers (Ok, some things we sell are just freaking ridiculous, I’ll admit.) in the window when I notice a shadow passing over from behind me. I turn my head to see if it’s the paparazzi (we get a lot of that) or some protestor who wants us to donate all of these finds to a museum (get a lot of that too) but to my surprise it’s him. The North Caspian. He’s not one to be hanging around outside his shop (see above reasons) so I’m actually curious about what the hell he’s up to as he stares at me with this unreadable expression across his chiseled perfect babyface.
He’s dripping in black from head-to-toe which I find hilarious since it’s the night before Christmas, one of the happiest holidays of the year and he basically dresses like the Grim Reaper. I mean, a really attractive version in a Gucci shirt and tie, but still.
North grimaces, and then he slides away from the window to enter the shop. I expect him to say something horrible about my display and bark out a long string of expletives, possibly even fire me on the spot, but he heads straight to his office upstairs without a word.
It’s pretty much against everything in my being to go to him, he is not the kind of man you want to interrupt, or put yourself in front of, without warrant. It would be like purposely walking out into traffic and trying to take on a bus speeding my way at sixty-five miles per hour.
But it’s also the season for giving and maybe I’ve choked down way too many sugar cookies and hot beverages sprinkled with pumpkin spice, but it appears that even the most evil and wicked people of the world should find joy on Christmas. Even if it means I have to step in front of a damn speeding bus. That’s possibly on fire. Maybe some sharks swimming inside of the bus that’s on fire speeding my way. Sweet Baby J, help me.
He doesn’t answer when I knock the first time.
“Mr. Caspian...” I push the door open. Apparently for Christmas I want to be shark food.
North sits at his desk. It’s a grand thing—mahogany wood with drawers that lock away all his secrets, shoved up against a large expansive window that overlooks the busy streets of New York, cloaked in white from the light fall of snow earlier. His dark hair and clothing, a ghostly silhouette to the backdrop of it all. He’s like an onyx inkblot on a stark white page.
North’s hands roam through his jet-black hair as if he’s thinking of jumping out the window.
“I really need a hot dog,” he mumbles.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He whips his head back and stares at me with the fire of fifty dragons. “What are you doing in here?”
“I knocked.”
“I didn’t answer. So, back to my question, what are you doing in my office without an invitation?”
“I was...worried about you, sir.”
“You only need to worry about keeping your precious ass employed. Get back to work, Winterbourne.”
I nod. He turns back to the window. “Um...” I toy with the doorknob. “Do you need me to get you anything, sir?” Like a hotdog that has you feeling extra cranky.
North is silent. His chair twitches back and forth like his legs want to say what his mouth refuses.
I try to gently suggest, “Something to eat, maybe?”
It takes several seconds before he answers me back. “I want a hotdog. All the fixings. From that cart just on the other side of the street.”
I want to smile. But there’s no such thing as smiling inside the gates of hell. I don’t wait for money because I know he won’t offer it up, so I just quietly duck out of his office and head for my coat. I’m buttoning up as Meg comes over to me in a huff. “You’re allowed to go home?”
“I’m just getting Mr. Scrooge some lunch.”
“Why not me?” she cries, flailing her arms in the air. Her long shimmery blonde hair is so light-colored it looks like snow falling around her head as she continues on her tirade.
I don’t blame her. I’m quite happy to get to flee this circus for a while, despite the fact it’s freezing cold outside. I guess Hell has its highs, too. I mean it is very toasty in here, no hat or gloves required. But also, out there? No pretentious baby pacifier displays to be built. Just good people doing good things, like selling good food at a low price. That’s a bit of Heaven on Earth if you ask me. Joy to the freaking world ala weiners on a warm toasty bun for under two bucks.
And for some reason, North Caspian wants one.
Meg grabs her coat and hurries to shove it on. “I’ll get him food. You stay and get my noon appointment commission sales. Buy your family something nice with the money.”
I yank the crap outta her sleeve as she tries to book it to the door. “I don’t want your noon. Your noon is worse than Caspian. I’m getting the wiener.”
“I’m getting the wiener,” she protests as we struggle.
By struggle I mean we are flat out having a miniature brawl in the middle of Wondrous Emporium where A-list celebrities and alike are trying to browse the best place to toss thousands of dollars on baby gifts.
“Girls,” a firm voice calls from behind.
Meg and I stop instantly as if we’re small children.
North has his hands in his pockets. His face is serious as he looks down at both of us and says, “You both can get my wiener.”
I blink. Meg stares stupidly at him.
North nods. “Matter of fact, I’ll sweeten the task. Whoever gets my wiener first gets to go home.”
Now, I’m not saying that I’m proud of myself for shouting at the top of my lungs that Mason Lamoa—one of the hottest male celebs on the planet—is ten feet to our left browsing toy trains, which is also the farthest spot from the door, but I am saying that Meg is his biggest fan and
there is nothing that I wouldn’t do to get to leave purgatory all in the name of grabbing a cheap hot wiener.
Chapter 2
North
When I was a boy, Christmas was not very exciting. In fact, it was quite nonexistent in my childhood. To the outside world, I’m sure it seemed as if I had it all because my father was the owner of one of the most amazing stores for kids to find all kinds of trinkets and games, things to explore and grow your imagination. You could walk into Wondrous Emporium and sail to the moon on a rocket ship you built with your own two hands. On one aisle you could explore the depths of the sea, and just a blink away, a fifty-foot dinosaur fossil stood ready to destroy anything in its path. There were looking glasses from far away lands made from real gold. Maps found in bottles at the bottom of the ocean. Gold coins filled up old wooden crates.
And because of all of this, I was both the best known child at school and the loneliest. Most kids only wanted to be my friend because they wanted a shot at owning or playing with something from my father’s store. And most of their moms wanted a shot at my father because of his riches and high dollar trinkets. My mother died when I was born. It had always been just the two of us, plus whatever nanny I had that year. They usually didn’t stay long, since most of them found their way into my father’s bed, and then soon after, the front door.
Once I turned into a teenager, I was roped into the family business and was forced to deal with the shop and all of its demands, including the clientele. At first I thought it was great, getting to sleep with super models and actresses and pretty much anyone who walked through the door needing something...but when all people want from you are material things, the magic wears off quickly. I felt reduced to nine-years-old again—the kid everyone wanted to hang out with all because his dad was cooler than he was.
Six years ago my father died and I was left everything in his will, including this horrible store and all of its ghosts. Every time the bell on the door chimes, I expect him to walk in and start barking orders at me. To remind me of everything I’m doing wrong. But instead, all I hear is my own voice echoing back at me as I yell at the people who now work for me in this place. They think it’s some kind of joke and I kind of understand because that’s how I felt for such a long time. But quitting now, just giving up on this place, that would feel like the final nail in my father’s coffin. Like I failed him. Like I failed myself.
I stare out the window of my office and watch as all of New York moves so quickly, like everything in life is such a race to the finish line. They don’t even know where they’re going. They have no idea what happens next. And yet, they’re in such a hurry to get there.
That’s the joke, isn’t it? Hurry up to get nowhere fast. This is nowhere. This is nothing. Shit, they look so damn happy.
A small child catches the last falling snowflakes on her tongue and she smiles like she found the secret key to unlock Heaven’s gates. A man buying a hotdog from a cart walks away with such a bounce in his step, completely unphased by the fact that it’s below freezing temps outside. He’s just enjoying a shitty New York hotdog.
Ok, that’s a bit of blasphemy, I’ll admit. There’s no such thing as a shitty New York hotdog. Even a shitty hot dog in New York is still better than the best hot dog anywhere else—but the point is, we are smack dab in the middle of a food mecca and he chooses to be out in the freezing cold just to enjoy something he could get any time of the year—and honestly, that man could have ducked into an eatery and grabbed a dog in the protection of four warm walls where he could sit down to enjoy his meal. But he picked a cart outside. He braved the brutal weather and hellish traffic of nonstop people and taxi cabs to grab that hot dog from that hot dog cart.
I want that fucking hot dog, too. That hot dog is a magical thing of happiness. I want it now.
Fuck, listen to me, I sound like my father, just fucking like him, except instead of hunting down buried treasures and exploring the nine wonders of the world (Yes, that number is the accurate one.) I’m sitting in the comfort of my toasty ultra-plush fucking office longing for a damn footlong while contemplating the purpose of my life.
And of course that’s exactly when the hottest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, Holly Winterbourne, catches me at my most vulnerable.
Did I happen to mention that she’s my employee? And not just any kind of employee, but a damn good one. Holly’s dedicated and meticulous. She’s the kind of girl my father would have flown around the world on his private jet and given multiple orgasms to.
Holly’s not just some person you work into the ground and force to hate the holidays. I could barely stop myself from ripping her from the display window as she stacked stupid fucking gold pacifers. I want to yell at her but not all of the cruel words that my father yelled at me. No. I want to yell at her in a way that reminds her that her life is worth so much more than dollar signs and trinkets. I want her to smile like that lady outside my office window as she watches her husband offer his hand so she can board the sled of the Clydesdale horse cart and go on a truly magical adventure through a tangible New York wonderland.
And even though I have ruined her holidays for the last five years, worked her like a dog, and never once treated her as if she were more valuable than the items in this shop, she still comes to care for me.
And that just breaks me down to my core. Like the good person she is, not a few minutes later, I’m treated to that damn hot dog I’ve longed for, complete with all the toppings and a drink and plenty of napkins and even some damn Tums because she is always on top of everything.
Today she’s wearing a sweater that is so white and soft I’d imagine it feels better than the hyde of a rabbit even though she’s cruelty free—but that’s just the kind of magic she works. She makes everything better than it’s intended to be—most days that means me. Yes, even though I’m this big of a mess, I’m still better than I’d be without her.
“Anything else, Mr. Caspian?” Her doe eyes lure me into a trance. The blue is so clear and light it’s like looking into the ocean. I remember a trip to the Greek Islands with my father in Mykonos as a boy. The water was like looking into the reflection of Heaven, so clear and strikingly beautiful. That water has nothing on Holly fucking Winterbourne’s eyes. She has the lips of a She Devil and the smile of a saint. A heart of gold and laughter that would make fairies the most plentiful creatures in the universe. Why do I torture her? Why do I keep her here? Because I guess I am like my father—I collect precious things and keep a price on their heads.
“Sir?” she tries again.
I snap from my thoughts and shake my head to free myself of the struggle. “This will be fine.” Normal people say thank you.
Say it.
Tell her.
Two little words.
They won’t make you less than you are, they’ll make you more. Go ahead. “I… um.”
She’s already turned around and headed for the door. Holly pauses at my stuttering and raises her perfectly groomed brows. “Excuse me, Mr. Caspian? Did you say something, sir?”
Sir. She needs to stop calling me that. It’s an instant erection.
“North . . .” I take a deep pull of air through my nose to center myself. “Just call me by my first name. I’m not my father.” Why does that feel so cleansing? I roll the words around in my head once more, silently. I’m not my father. Damn, that feels quite good.
“North,” she says it with a smile. Fuck, I still get hard. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a boss who preferred to be called by his first name.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Uh, no. No, not at all.” She debates by the door. I try not to make my ogling so obvious but she shifts in a way that says motherfucker, you are way too obvious. But she also doesn’t run away. Fuck knows there’s plenty of work to be done. Does she want to be here? With me?
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “This is a lot of food for just one person. Two big wieners to swallow down.”
“Uh...I tol
d Meg I’d help her with her noon client.”
“It’s Tessica Salba,” I say. “Meg can handle it.”
“What about the window display? The other customers?”
“We are fully staffed today. Do you want my weiner or not?”
Her brows spike again.
I sigh heavily. “It’s a joke. A really shitty one. Just take a seat, won’t you?” I push out a chair beside mine with my foot. I don’t watch her walk my way because it’s all too much. Instead I pretend to read the paperwork on my desk, but truthfully, I’m hyper aware of what she’s doing in my peripheral view.
She pulls off her coat to reveal that soft fucking white wanna-be bunny sweater. Her chest juts out as she wiggles her arm free and I take a deep, deep fucking breath to control myself.
“I have a confession,” she says.
I watch as her legs cross before I look over, paying full attention to her face. “Please don’t tell me you spit in my food.”
“No. Of course not, sir.”
I hold up my hand. “You never know.”
“I was going to say...“ She curls a section of her hair behind her ear. She has no earrings on. I’m stuck on that detail for a moment. “Sir?”
I blink. “North.”
“Right. Sorry. Is everything ok?”
Ignoring her, I say, “You were saying you had a confession . . .”
“Yes. I don’t eat weiners.”
We both stare at each other for a moment.
Holly smiles. “Bad joke.”
“Horrible joke.”
“I’m a vegan,” she admits. “At least I try to be.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“It means, I can’t eat your wiener.”
I laugh a bit. “We’ve established that.”
She smiles bigger, a light blush forming on her cheeks.
And I’m hard as fuck as we talk about hot dogs. Fuck my universe.
“Well, if I’m truly making a confession, then I guess I’d have to admit to all of the Christmas cookies I ate that were made with real butter and eggs. I really fell off the vegan wagon super hard for a few weeks there.”
