1230007106989_

On a scale of one to ten, how much holiday spirit are you feeling?

Atthe unexpected question from my boss, Savannah Rose, I glance from my calendar to where shes camped out at her own desk. What do you think? I ask, gesturing at the bookcase behind me with a thumb over my shoulder. A bookcase whichfull trans-parency herelooks like the Hallmark Channel vomited Christmas all over it. Reflective tinsel is draped along the frame while Nut-cracker figurines sit on bookstacks . . . to say nothing of the life-size, plastic Santa Claus.

Is he creepy? Yes.

Have I figured out where to put him, so that he wont terrify my coworkers? Almost. Maybe . . . okay, not at all.

This is what happens when you drink too much champagne at the Christmas-party-turned-utter-disaster. One minute youre at home, nursing your emotional wounds with some online retail ther-apy, and the next thing you know, youve ordered the one version of Santa Claus guaranteed to spark fear into even the darkest of souls.

Turning him around to face the wall hasnt helped.

Is he creeping you out? I lower my voice like theres a very real chance that Santa will come to life, resurrected like a zombie out of Dawn of the Dead, and strike me down with a fireplace poker he stole from someones chimney. Because Im having buyers regret.

Savannahs dark gaze flicks to Santas backside, which is only marginally less traumatizing than his face. I didnt want to hurt your feelings, but . . . Georgie, he has horns, like Krampus. She pauses, her eyes retreating from Santa back to me with unnerved ur-gency. What in the world were you thinking?

I barely refrain from letting my forehead fall to my desk in defeat. I wasnt thinking. Which, on that note, heres your civil service re-minder to not ever let me drink so much champagne again. Tell that to your other half, too, I mutter darkly. He was all, you look like you need a pick-me-up, Georgie, and within an hour, Im the drunkest one at the Christmas party and bad decisions are on the horizon.

Owen Harvey is a sweetheart. A tatted, Prince of Darkness sweetheart who wanted to ease my embarrassment when he saw me ask the one and only Jean Dufrene for a dance. Never mind that no one was dancing. Never mind that this is Jean-frigging-DufreneCa-jun, blue-eyed, the ultimate hot shot executive chefwhos barely noticed Im alive for the three years that weve both worked at the Edgar Rose Restaurant Group.

I mean, hes noticed mein the way that humans notice pesky flies before swatting them into oblivionbut me as a woman? Me as a potential love interest? Yeah, thats never been the nature of our relationship.

Lucky me.

Champagne gets to the best of us, but . . . Savannah trails off, issuing a kind smile that soothes my ruffled feathers. After her stint

as bachelorette on the hottest new dating show, Put A Ring On It, earlier this year, my boss should be bitter. Angry. Thats simply not reality. Despite being ripped to shreds by the media, Savannah is still so goodeven when Ive brought in a terrifying Santa Claus, simply because I couldnt bear to be alone with the damn thing in my apartment.

Boss of the year, right there.

Though Im sure Owen is mostly responsible for her ever-present glow. Savannah pre-Owen Harvey was sweet and ambitious; Savan-nah post-and-forever Owen Harvey is thriving and so giddy that I often want to do the whole office a favor by telling the lovebirds to get a room.

Their affection is nauseating.

Its also so lovely that I cant help but feel the tiniest bit envious.

Im a romantic at heart, sue me.

But? I echo, rolling my wrist in a let-me-have-it gesture. Just tell me.

Which part?

There are two parts? I cast a furtive glance at my empty coffee cup, immediately regretting draining the first round like it was a do-or-die-trying rodeo. Maybe start with the one that, you know, is least likely to make me curl up in the fetal position.

Tilting her head to the side, Savannahs long, dark hair drapes over one shoulder. Santa has to go, Georgie. I had a meeting with Jorge yesterday, and he shrieked when he walked in.

At the mention of ERRGs social media manager freaking out, I wince. Its bad but not that bad. Even as I say the words, I dont exactly turn around. Seen it, been there, regretted every moment. When Savannah slips me a side-eye, I lift my hands, palms out. But Ill get rid of himSanta, I mean, not Jorge. I have no idea where Ill be

storing a five-foot-ten plastic Santa Claus, but my dad didnt raise me to be a quitter. In the dumpster, you go. Next thing, I tell her, lay it on me.

Right. So. Savannah shifts her weight, fingers drumming a rhythmless beat on her desk. Considering your, um, shall we say inebriation last weekend

Lets forget it happened, I interject, sliding down in my seat like thatll be enough to strip the memories from my brain. It wont, ever. Because they have imprinted. What happened at the Christmas party, stays at the Christmas party.

this is going to be an awkward assignment, but I dont have time to tackle it all myself which means

No.

Savannah blinks. I havent even told you what I need.

Ive worked for ERRG long enough to know when shes hem-ming and hawing. As the former VP, Savannah never dabbled in bullshit. Now, as the head director of ERRGs food tours and histori-cal exhibits, all of which relate to the Rose familys impact on New Orleans cuisine over the last century, its nearly impossible to get her out of the proverbial trench. But when it comes to delivering news that she knows will be upsetting, Savannahs sweetheart tendencies tend to spike.

Shes a mama bear without kids, unless you count Pablo, her gray-and-white spotted cat, whos earned the well-appointed nick-name of The Antichrist. Currently, the little demon is eyeing Santa like they might be kindred spirits.

Without preamble, I lean forward to whisper-hiss, Theres no coming back from the Christmas party, Sav. Not today, not tomor-row, not ever.

Oh, come on. Youre being dramatic.

Am I? I point to the cell phone thats positioned by her elbow. Call Owen right now. Unlike you, he saw the whole thing go down literally.

Clearly not needing any excuse to call her fiancé, Savannah picks up the phone and taps the screen. A second later, the callback is ring-ing on speakerphone and Owens New Orleans drawl is rumbling through our office. Hey, sweetheart, he greets, his voice gruff but underlined with unmistakable warmth, missed me already?

Savannahs expression practically melts as she shuffles the phone closer, like that alone will close the distance between her and Inked on Bourbon, the tattoo shop Owen owns down in the French Quar-ter. When dont I? But Im actually calling because Georgie and I are having a debate.

Not quite a debate when theres no mistaking my enthusiastic fist colliding with Jeans groin. I clear my throat. Your fiancée doesnt believe me when I say that theres not any coming back from what happened with Jean.

Theres a small pause on the other end of the line, and then, Let me put it this way, Georgie, you make me look like Patrick Swayze.

Everyone knows Owen cant dance worth a damn.

In defeat, my forehead collides with my calendar, the paper stick-ing to my skin. Back in high school, the musical theater director cast me as a tree so I wouldnt mess up the choreography. Let me repeat: I was a tree. I barely scraped by, and that was with me completely sober.

Wait, Savannah demands, clearly shocked, is that why Jean was still limping after the dessert course?

I nod into my calendar, misery personified. Right in the balls, yall. Right. In. the. Balls. He yelped. Martha over in tech stared at

me like I was a sugarplum fairy on speed. And I wished the ground would just open up and swallow me whole.

Owens failed attempt at swallowing his laughter rings loud and true. Is it too soon to make a Nutcracker joke?

Too soon, I mutter forlornly at the same time Savannah vows, Never.

...

Kissing the Gentleman (Put A Ring On It Book 04)

Comentarios