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Oh, Lord no, does he think I’m trying to seduce him?
“I, uh, didn’t put that there.” I don’t know why I say that.I. Don’t. Know.But the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and if I thought sniffing him in the dark was awkward, thenoh boy,is this an upgrade.
The alpha releases me as if burned and takes a step back, his face something resembling stony fury, and I just want the Earth to open up and swallow me whole.
But instead, a merry littleplinginterrupts the palpable tension, and the elevator doors slide open, revealing the ground floor—and two guys in blue maintenance uniforms.Hallelujah, salvation!
“Sir, are you all right?” one of them asks.
I don’t stick around to hear the answer. Without looking back, I spin around and flee McCain Tower.
THREE
IN THE SHADOWS, ONE CHRISTMAS EVE
I nearly don’t go into work the next day. If McCain’s figured out who I am, I don’t want to be anywhere near his damn tower. He can have me fired via email, thank you very much.
It’s only the realization that a busy CEO likely won’t have time to scan every employee portrait in HR’s database to find the annoying woman who snuck a ride on his Elevator of Privilege that makes me get on the train to Mattenburg Central. Well, that and the need to pay my mortgage.
There areno guards waiting in the snow by the entry to McCain Enterprises to haul me up for an ass chewing. I spend the first few hours by my desk flicking between my calendar and my inbox in fear that a meeting with HR—or, horror, McCain himself—will pop up, but thankfully, nothing shows.
By the end of my shift, I’m so worn down from getting screamed at by angry customers that I finally give up worrying about any consequences of my elevator mishap. Looks like the fib about my name worked, and the CEO indeed didn’t have the time or interest in hunting down a lowly employee to punish her for her misdeeds.
* * *
By the timeChristmas Eve rolls around, I’m dead inside.
There is something extra-depressing about seeing the very worst of humankind during the time of year that’s supposed to be filled with nothing but good tidings and love. It’s not that I don’t understand how frustrating it is to have put your trust in our shitty company to make your children’s Christmas special, only to be let down because of a shipping error that you have no control over—but I don’t, either, and it just plain sucks to be yelled at for hours on end.
I bought supplies to bake Christmas cookies earlier in the month, determined to make it happen this year, but I’ve not found the energy. I also had grand plans about making an actual full Christmas spread from scratch, but thankfully I gave up on that more than a week ago and just bought a frozen turkey dinner instead. By eight p.m. on the twenty-fourth, when I finally log off the Unending Stream of Fury, my only consolation is that at least I’m off until January second and don’t have to deal with all the angry calls between Christmas and New Year's. December truly is the shittiest of all the months.
Despite my gloomy mood,it’s impossible not to notice the Christmas cheer all around me as I make my way from McCain Tower to Mattenburg Central. There are twinkling lights around every shop window and strung high across the streets in festive ribbons, and the freezing temperatures that have my breath misting in cold puffs preserve the drifts of snow lining every road.
When I pass by Town Square, where our new Lord Mayor has erected an ice-skating rink along with the traditional eighty-foot tree, I feel a suction in my gut at all the laughing families skating on the ice and admiring the tree together. I’m so envious I have to bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood to will back tears.
I loved Christmas too, once upon a time. I still do, as proven by the fact that I always have some small hope of recreating just a little of the magic it used to have. But every year, I’m faced with the reality that December sucks and holiday cheer is for people who don’t work in customer service, and/or have family who don’t jet off on a cruise rather than host Christmas for their adult child. Yes, I’m a little bitter, but I don’t blame my parents, really. They’ve got their own lives to live, and they like to spend the colder months as far south as they can get.
My home isa small townhouse on a quiet street about fifteen minutes’ walk from the train station. I pop into the store on the way back for a bottle of wine, determined to have at least a half-hour soak in the tub with a glass of red and some candles to wash off a bit of the stress before bed.
The moment I turn down my road and spot my house with the wreath on the door and the chain of twinkle lights around the downstairs windows, I lose a little of the gloom.
I’m exhausted and cranky, and a little sad, but tomorrow there is no work and no demands, and sure, I might be alone, but at least there is still Christmas movies and my cozy little house with the tree I managed to decorate early in the month.
My mortgage eats up most of my salary, but it’s so worth it. My home is the one place I feel entirely safe in the world, and the little jolt of happiness I get when I close the door behind me never goes away.
I put my bag down on the console table by the door and inhale the faint scent of pine coming from my living room.
But… it doesn’t smell quiteright.
I frown into my darkened hallways. It’s definitely pine-y, but there’s another layer to the scent that doesn’t smell like my home. I sniff again as I reach for the light switch. No, there’s definitely something odd there, and though I can’t put my finger on that smell, it does seem… weirdly familiar.
My fingers flick the light switch, but the hallway lamp doesn’t respond.
“Shit.” God, I hope it’s just the bulb. I’m not sure I’ve got any spare fuses lying around, and even if I run, there’s no way I’d make it back to the store before they close.
I fumble farther into my house and make it to the archway to my living room, where the faint light from outside illuminates the Christmas tree and part of the floor. But the twinkling lights wound around the tree that I left on before I went to work are dark. Not a good sign.
My fingers connect with the living room light switch, but any hopes I still harbored are quickly dashed; they’re as dead as the hall lights.
