That Mistletoe Moment (13 page)

They came back to reality at the same time. She hugged her stomach. He rubbed the back of his neck. Awkwardness sat between them. Seconds pushed into a minute. Daniel rose from the couch. He collected their paper plates and bottles. Crossed to the kitchen. He turned on the television beneath the cabinets. The screen was fuzzy, and the meteorologist's words were choppy. They listened intently.

“Zero visibility. Thirty inches of snow. Gusts up to eighty miles per hour. Wind chill minus fifty. Stay indoors.”

The lights blinked. Held. Daniel moved down the counter to the Keurig. “K-Cups,” he offered. “Colombia coffee or salted caramel hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate.” Warm and comforting on a snow-blown night.

The Keurig brewed quickly, and he soon handed her a red and white mug, striped like a candy cane. “My father wasn't always home during the holidays, so my mother brought Christmas to him at Landmark Tower.” He poured his steaming Colombia Roast into a mug with a melting snowman on the side. The heat of the coffee liquefied Frosty down to his black top hat, charcoal eyes, and carrot nose.

Whimsical, she thought. She leaned back on the sofa, crossed her legs. She had a question for him. “Does your staff decorate for Christmas? Their offices? The hallway? The elevator? Outside of the wreath on the door of Personnel, the floor is pretty stark.”

Glaringly bare, Daniel agreed. He was pleased the conversation had shifted to decorating. Minutes ago, he'd been stunned silent by how strongly they'd connected on a child's train set and sense of family. He liked her perspective. He was certain her children would be free-spirited. There would be laughter in her home. A loving warmth. Her little ones would bounce through summer, barefoot and hugging sunshine. Winter, they'd dress like Eskimos for sledding and snowball fights.

Once again, he thought Andrew Reynolds a lucky man.

“I have a tentative schedule for you, from now until the first of the year,” he informed her.

She sat up straighter, alert, interested. Staring.

“I'll need five dress suits before week's end,” he said. “I'm leaving for London next Saturday. An upcoming international conference. I'll return the following Wednesday.”

“Not much time for tailor-made. You'll travel off-the-rack.”

“I'm fine with that.”

“Your sizes, measurements?”

“I have a binder with all my info.” His thoughts shifted. To having her touch him. He would've enjoyed her measuring his chest, his inseam. He had watched her watch him when he'd unwrapped the statue in the conference room. She'd stared at his hands, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, as if imagining his fingers on her skin. He'd gone purposely slow. Tightening her arousal. Until she'd jerked in her chair, embarrassed by her own wayward thoughts. He continued with, “Judith kept a wardrobe journal. One she left behind. The only thing she didn't destroy in her temper tantrum. I'll get it for you.”

He set his mug on the coffee table, crossed to one of two doors on the far side of the room. “Bedroom, bathroom,” he cast over his shoulder. He entered the bedroom, eased back the pocket doors on an empty walk-in closet, and located the journal on a top shelf above the shoe rack. He brought it to Riley. Sat back down. A bit closer to her on his return. Despite his cold.

She weighed the journal on her palms, then fanned the pages with her thumb. “Thick as a dictionary,” she commented. “There's long lists of designer contacts, phone numbers, web pages, photos from fashion shows—Saint Laurent, Michael Bastian, Vivienne Westwood Men's Collection—along with seasonal updated trends, and page after page of your personal likes and dislikes.”

She drew a breath, scanned a section. “Shoes and sandals. No, to flip-flops, slide sandals, Crocs, or clogs. Yes, to shoemakers John Lobb, Berluti, and A. Testoni.” She gave a soft whistle before lowering her gaze to his wingtips. “Royal Black Berluti, according to the catalog picture. You paid a king's ransom.”

“I pay for comfort.”

She slowly closed the journal. “You in a binder. Very helpful. I'll get started on Monday.” She hesitated. “Will I have a desk?”

“I thought you might work from the elevator.”

“A day of ups and downs.”

She had a sense of humor. “You'll have an office.”

Her eyes closed, and he swore she sighed. Looking at him again, she said, “A small space would be amazing.”

“It won't be a suite like mine, but you'll be comfortable.”

“I don't need much.”

“You'll have whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. Sincerely.

Her appreciation touched his heart. His chest warmed.

She licked her lips, asked, “Do I check with you first on all wardrobe purchases?”

“Not necessary. Just don't take off for New York Fashion Week without letting me know first. Judith went last year, without a word.”

“No travel plans.”

“I do, however, leave shortly. Have a suitcase packed and ready to go by next weekend. Professional attire. Five suits.”

“Will you have downtime?”

“Minimal. A dinner possibly with the representatives from our London office. I keep entertaining to a minimum.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

He was honest with her. “Socializing crosses the line between professional and personal. My father taught me to keep my distance, not to become too friendly. I don't need to be anyone's best friend. I avoid wives and children's names. I prefer it that way. My primary concern is that each man upholds his position to the highest standards.”

He heard her mumble. “I didn't hear what you said.”

She dipped her head. “Best you didn't.”

“Don't be shy, Riley. I won't fire you for speaking your mind.”

She blew out a breath. “Good to know, since I've only been on board three hours.”

“So?” he pressed.

“You could let it go.”

“Not if your comment concerned me.”

She clutched the journal to her chest, as if protecting herself from him. Meeting his gaze, she spoke formally. “Very well, Mr. Hayes. I said, ‘How sad for you.' ”

“Sad? How?” He didn't fully understand.

“To have executives and staff busting their butts for you, making financial history, and you don't have time to know one personal thing about them.”

He was stunned by her assumption, however true. He had worked with these people for ten years. They'd sat in boardrooms all over the world for days straight, discoursing on immediate and far-reaching economic issues. He was aware of their qualifications, but he knew nothing about them beyond the facts on their résumés.

She faulted him for that. He set his jaw, irritated by the fact.

“I didn't mean to offend you.”

“I'm not offended, but I do feel judged. I'm in charge, and can't let my guard down. I don't have the freedom for friendships.”

“Detachment is your friend.”

Detachment? He cared. In his own way. “Tell me about your boss at Baby Gap,” he said stiffly. “Were you buddies?”

“Baby Gap is a world apart from global capital. We're very human there.”

And he wasn't?

“My manager was an older woman,” she said with feeling. “Myra Ronan shared pictures of her grandchildren with everyone who entered the store. There was no separation of company and clientele. Being personable, caring, built our sales.” She next rattled off Myra's husband's name, listed all her children and grandchildren. The schools they attended. Their teachers and grades on report cards. Their extracurricular activities. She covered the dogs and cats, and a goldfish named Glimmer. “The assistant manager—”

He held up his hand. “One big, happy family. I get it.”

“We were close, no denying. That closeness made for a comfortable work environment.”

“You think I'm a stuffed shirt?”

“More of a tight ass. You wear pants well.”

He blinked. Riley jumped topics so fast, it took him a second to catch up. She'd censured him, then complimented his butt. He didn't have a comeback.

“I'd never criticize you, Daniel.” Her tone was apologetic, sincere. “You are who you are. You're aloof, and I'm open, a people person.”

“There's not a lot of socializing here, Riley,” he cautioned, not wanting her feelings hurt. “Don't be offended—”

“If I'm ignored? Should someone blow me off?”

“We have a lot of work to accomplish each day. My executives pack sixteen hours into a ten-hour day.”

“I'm grateful for my job. I can fade into the background. I won't approach anyone for coffee or conversation.”

He felt like a heel, discouraging her from making friends. But he liked things the way they were. He prided himself on organization. The offices ran smoothly. Everyone kept his nose to the grindstone. He sensed there might be something about Riley that would prove disruptive. He suspected she had that kind of personality. Positive and personable, she would touch lives. Look what she'd done to him with the train. She'd recognized his youth. Made him feel like a young boy. Intuitive, she saw people from the inside out.

She set the journal beside her on the sofa. “I will have you packed and ready to travel, easy-peasy.”

Easy-peasy. He'd never heard the expression. He assumed she'd accomplish the task.

“What are my responsibilities while you're gone?”

“How do you feel about Christmas decorations?” He awaited her reaction.

She told him what he hoped to hear. “They make the season bright.”

“You were hired as my personal shopper, but there might be additional duties.”

“Whatever you need.”

He appreciated her enthusiasm. “The firm hasn't decorated for years. Do you have any experience?”

“I did the store windows at Baby Gap.”

He pictured garland-wrapped strollers. Ornaments hanging from the rails of a baby's bed. Holiday sippy cups. He hoped for a more mature theme, but refused to discourage her before she even got started.

“Meet with Georgia once I'm gone. You'll be starting from scratch. Buy whatever you need. There's friendly competition between the floors, so let's let everyone know that the best decorated floor wins a catered deli lunch. George in Security is the impartial judge.”

“I'm already tasting pastrami on rye. Those big deli dill pickles.” She pursed her lips, had one final question, “Any restrictions?”

“No live animals.”

“So much for the reindeer.”

He nearly smiled. Nearly. They were back in sync. It felt good. Outside, the world disrupted them. The windows shuddered with the force of the wind. Snow plastered the glass. The electricity flickered, held, failed. They sat in darkness.

Daniel didn't hesitate. He reached across the coffee table, found the book of matches. He began lighting the candles. Flames jumped, then settled into an intimate glow. The room was cast in gold and orange hues.

“The television's off,” he said.

“Too difficult to read by candlelight.”

He relaxed enough to say, “Care to play a board game?”

She shut him down. “Not Monopoly, you'd kick my butt. I don't want to spend the blizzard in Jail.”

“How about Daytrader?”

“I'm not familiar.”

“Monopoly meets
The Wolf of Wall Street
.”

She scrunched her nose. “Financial markets?”

He nodded, rubbed his hands together, and gave her an idea of what to expect. “You get jobs and make money, then start trading in the companies you work for to accumulate enough cold, hard cash to retire. When it's time to cash out, you try to make it to the bank for the win before the volatile market sets you back.” He let the concept soak in. “Care to play in my world?”

“The game's right up your alley, not mine. You'd have an advantage.”

“Give it a try—what do you have to lose?” He retrieved the boxed board game from the bottom dresser drawer in the bedroom. He'd played the game often as a kid. He'd only beaten his father once.

“We'll use the coffee table as our trading floor.”

“I can hardly wait.” She was less than enthusiastic.

He laid out the game, then ran through the rules with her, keeping them as simple as possible. He finished with, “You'll need to make fast decisions. Don't get greedy and overtrade. As far as money management, beware of the volatility of stocks. Got it?”

“I'm processing.” Her eyes were glazed.

They both leaned forward, ready to play.

Thirty quick minutes passed. She fell back on the sofa, her face pinched. “You won.”

That he had. She hadn't proved much of a challenge. It was the quickest game he'd ever played. “You came in second.”

“There were only two of us playing.”

“The game was new to you. You'll do better next time.”

“If there is a next time.”

“Surely you'll want a rematch.”

“My game next time.”

“Whenever.”

“Now.”

She reached for her envelope purse. “How about Connect Four? I carry a miniature version with me. I haven't emptied my bag since Baby Gap.”

He'd played so few kids' games, and wasn't acquainted with her choice. “A brain game?”

“You have to think fast.”

He had a quick mind. “I accept your challenge.”

He soon learned Connect Four was similar to tic-tac-toe. The object of the game was to connect four of a player's colored discs so they formed a line in a horizontal, vertical, or diagonal direction.