I know how it happened.
Forgetting, not falling for a completely inappropriate man. Knowing how that happened will take copious amounts of chocolate and plenty of self-reflection.
But the forgetting, that’s easy.
When I was in a rush last night, loading the van with everything for the design, I grabbed the present on accident.
I realized my mistake as soon as I brought it up to the offices. It looks almost identical to the faux, empty-wrapped presents I use for staging.
But it’s not the same. It’s special.
So, I put the present aside, tucking it in an empty cupboard in the break room for safe-keeping. I figured I’d grab it when I brought the thermos and cookie trays down to the truck.
I forgot it. Obviously.
“I just need to run up quickly and grab it,” I tell the security guard at the entrance for the third time. “I forgot it this morning when I was taking the decorations down.”
The guard stands behind a tall half-circle desk, which looks a bit like a fortress. His arms are crossed in front of him, and he shakes his head, his steel gray mustache twitching as he frowns at me.
To be honest, I’m getting a bit desperate. This present…it’s special. It can’t be replaced. It just…I can’t ever replace it.
I hear heels sharply clicking on the marble floor in short, mincing steps. These are the steps that belong to a no-nonsense sort of person.
I turn and stare into a pair of ice-cold blue eyes. The woman, auburn-haired, gorgeous, sweeps up in a cloud of icy air and perfume that smells like violets frozen in snow.
“Is he here?” she asks, ignoring me.
The security guard shuffles and I think he’s about to tip his hat. “Yes’m.”
She stalks past, her heels click-click-clicking.
“Please,” I say again, trying to take advantage of the guard’s change in demeanor. “Mr. Cavanaugh won’t mind. I just need to grab this one thing.”
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” the guard says in his gruff voice, “called down this morning to say you are not welcome back on the premises. Ever.”
I rub my hand over my face.
Of course he did.
Heaven forbid anyone try to spread Christmas cheer.
I imagine I’m on the blacklist right next to the top-hat charity guys, Tiny Tim, and Santa Claus.
The clicking of the heels stops, the woman turns, her eyes sharp. She’s elegant, really. Not the kind you get from hours at the salon and expensive clothes (although she has that), but the kind that comes from the way you move and stand.
Me, I’m too bouncy and energetic to be elegant.
“Did you say Gabe barred her from the premises?”
The guard’s ears turn red and he scowls at me, like it’s my fault she overheard.
“Yes’m.”
She smiles then. It’s a warm, inviting smile.
“Lovely.” She wags her fingers at me. “I’ll bring you up.”
I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. I hurry across the lobby, ignoring the glare of the guard.
In the elevator her icy scent wraps around me, filling the small space. Now that we’re on the elevator she doesn’t seem to want to chat. That’s okay.
A-okay.
“Thank you,” I say as the doors slide open at Cavanaugh and Sons.
The offices are back to their drab, soulless look, made worse by the darkness. The cubicles stand empty, the computer screens are black, and the only light is the emergency exit sign glowing red over the vast room.
Well, there’s a light on in Gabe’s office.
I can see him through the glass, his head bent over his desk, his dark hair messy, his black suit jacket thrown over the back of his chair—but otherwise, the office is chillingly dark.
The woman ignores me, her gaze catching on Gabe like a bird dog that just spotted a downed duck in the water. She stalks toward him.
I shrug and hurry toward the break room. When there I flick on the lights. The break room is spotless again. Just a watercooler and an empty fridge. No cookies. No hot cocoa. It even smells empty and sad, like generic dish soap and dusty cupboards.
I squat down and pull open the door of the cupboard next to the sink. And yes, thank goodness, there on the bottom shelf is the present.
It’s red. Silky, glossy red paper, with a beautiful, large gold bow.
I grab the present, a box, the size of a fat book, and pull it out, clasping it to my chest.
Then I notice the voices, slightly raised and…aha…I know that tone. The woman who let me in? It’s Delilah.
“You have nothing to say?” she asks in that throaty, angry voice. “I return your precious ring and you have nothing to say?”
“I find in these instances, nothing is often the best thing to say.”
I stand still, debating whether I should wait out the argument or duck behind the cubicles and try to leave unseen.
Go or stay? Go or stay?
The thought that this might end up as a make-up sex session has me leaning toward go.
Then there’s the crash of shattering glass, and peeking around the wall, I see that Delilah has thrown a glass decanter against Gabe’s office wall. It’s shattered, and liquid drips down the white paint, staining it amber and gold. Glass shards litter the floor.
Delilah’s chest heaves and she glares at Gabe.
Then she stalks from his office and jams her finger against the elevator button. The doors sweep open immediately, and then she’s gone.
Okay.
So.
I’m just going to wait a few seconds and then I’ll slowly tiptoe out of here. I clutch my present and start counting. Thirty seconds ought to do it.
One—
Two—
“What the devil are you doing here?”