Page 26 of Mistletoe Face Off
“Where had he been at school before?”
“He transferred from out of state. I don't remember.”
“Find out,” she says simply. “That could be your story. Watch out. Shark circling.”
“Shark circling” is our code for Stephen, one of my least favorite people on the face of the planet, but regrettably, Selena’s and my boss.
He sidles up to my desk, and I look up at him with trepidation.
“You caused quite a stir last night, it would seem,” he says with a salacious grin on his face.
“About that,” I begin, only to be cut off by him.
“You're meant to write about the story, not insert yourself into it. As a journalist, you know that, right?”
“I’m really sorry, Stephen. I won't let it happen again,” I say hurriedly.
He purses his lips, sizing me up for what feels like at least two minutes, but in reality is probably only a couple seconds, and I squirm in my seat, wondering whether he's going to demote me or fire me or worse. Although what is worse than firing me, I do not know.
“You've got visitors,” he says, taking me completely by surprise.
“Excuse me?”
Who could be visiting me at work for an unscheduled meeting?
“They're in the boardroom. I suggest we go there right now,” he replies.
I leap to my feet. “Sure thing, boss,” I say as I grab my laptop, hating myself for calling him “boss.”
I trail after him, through the buzzing office, and into the boardroom where, to my utter astonishment, is none other than Fake Santa himself, Harrison Clarke, only without the Santa suit and padded belly.
He’s accompanied by the team coach and a pretty young woman in a navy blue skirt suit.
My first thought is, why the heck are these people here to see me, but it's quickly eclipsed when Harrison’s sharp green eyes lock with mine. They’re highlighted by a green shirt and charcoal suit, making him look both confident and in control in a very buttoned up and formal way.
Against my will, my breath hitches in my throat.
Why does Harrison Clarke have to be so dang hot? He was clearly first in line when God was handing out good looks. I feel bad for the other men out there. It's not fair on them.
“Thanks for waiting,” Stephen says. “This is Holly Coleman.”
“Hello, everyone,” I say uncertainly.
“It's nice to see you again, Holly,” Harrison replies, as though the last time we saw one another we weren’t hurling insults at each other much like the way him and his teammates whack pucks into nets.
“It's nice to see you again, too,” I mumble, heat flaming in my cheeks.
“We didn’t meet formally last night. I’m Trevor Newton, Blizzard Team Coach,” the other man in the room says with his hand extended. “And this here is Abbigail Sinclair, the team’s new PR person.”
“It's great to meet the woman at the center of the furor out there right now,” Abbigail says with a pretty smile as we shake hands. “And call me Abby.”
“Abby. Sure,” I reply. “But is it really a furor? More like a storm on a teeny tiny teacup, as far as I can see.”
I’m trying to downplay it, but Abby’s having none of it. “Oh, it’s a furor all right.”
Worry tightens my belly.
Stephen suggests we sit around the large oak table, which we do, while my mind fires on all cylinders, wondering what is about to happen—and fearing the worst.