She sagged against the wall. “There’s a fatal flaw in your reasoning, Bren. If I had a desire for Santa Claus and his magic, why would I be opposed to working on Christmas? I’d love Christmas. But you are partly right.”
Kim pressed the hair back from her face and continued. “Secretly, I’ve always wanted to dump the darkness and embrace the holiday celebrations. I’ve wanted that for as long as I can remember. It’s been my secret heartache.”
More to the point, she couldn’t stand anger and blame and insidious hatred, and had missed a good portion of her childhood fantasies because of her mother’s take on those things. The idea of a real Santa Claus had been her one ongoing illicit passion from early on. A dream. A ray of light in the dark world she’d grown up in.
She had never disclosed this secret longing to anyone. What good would it do? What child didn’t want to lighten the load and share celebrations with her friends, in spite of the fact that some things were forbidden?
Guilt was a desperate emotion. Its tentacles ran deep and clung hard. Nevertheless, contrary to her mother’s feelings, she had never wanted to commit her father to the fires of Hades for making her mother’s life miserable. For Kim, there had only been sadness, emptiness. Little girls needed their fathers.
She had grown up desiring the ability to absorb pain, table it and move on. She wished to fill the emptiness inside her with something better than loss. Creativity had done that for her. This job had done it. She made other peoples’ fantasies come true on a regular basis. Just not hers.
Not that one specific fantasy, anyway.
“I want to participate in the holiday festivities and be really truly happy,” she confessed. “I just don’t know how to go about it, or where to start. I’m afraid my mother might roll over in her grave if I did.”
As for the theory of cheating men, wrong men...that image seemed to fit the new boss, Chaz Monroe. Although she’d had tingly feelings in his presence, and her heart rate had skyrocketed, all that proved was that her pattern of choosing inappropriate males hadn’t ended. She was attracted to flighty men caught up in their own needs. If she went down that particular path, led by Chaz Monroe, she’d regret it.
“I’m considering shock treatment,” she said. “I don’t rule it out.”
“To my way of thinking, a little therapy now might save you a load of trouble in the long run,” Brenda agreed. “Please don’t be mad that I’m telling you this. Friends have obligations.”
Way too much time had been spent on this. Kim could hear her watch ticking.
Brenda sighed. “There is always plan B. If you don’t want to discuss this tonight, you could distract him. Throw Monroe a curveball. A sexy new outfit and some killer shoes worn as a talisman against unwanted negativity might work. At least it might give you another day or two to decide what to do.”
“I didn’t know shoes could repel negativity.”
“They can if they’re the red stilettos in the window of the shop next door.”
“Those shoes cost more than my rent.”
“Won’t they be worth it if they work?” Brenda pointed out.
“If they don’t, will you pay my bills?”
“I have a little cash saved up,” Brenda admitted.
Kim tried not to choke on the Tree In A Can spray coming from Brenda’s cubicle. She didn’t want to bring Brenda down with her. The fact was that this new boss was likely going to create some havoc, and she’d have to wiggle her way out of the situation in order to prolong her employment. Chaz Monroe hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy who was used to compromises.
Was Monroe a jerk? Maybe. He’d wanted to make her uncomfortable with all that forbidden closeness, and his method had scored. Worse yet, he had seen her squirm. If he got close to her again, though, she’d cry foul, in public, where she’d have witnesses to his behavior.
Oh yes, Chaz Monroe, playboy, would be trouble, all right.
“He has big blue eyes,” she said wistfully, then looked to Brenda, hoping she hadn’t just announced that out loud.
“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” Brenda concluded. “Because real demons have red eyes. And tails.”
A chill trickled down Kim’s spine, messing with the heat left over from her meeting with Monroe. Misplaced heat waves aside, the real question was whether she wanted to keep this job, and the answer was yes. No one wanted to find out how long the unemployment lines would be in December. Plus, she truly liked most of the people she worked with.
So...could she afford to allow Christmas to be a deal breaker, or was she willing to fight for what she wanted?
“A sexy dress and some shoes, huh?” she said.
Brenda nodded. “It’s a bit aggressive, but it’s been done for ages. Think Mata Hari.”
Kim tilted her head in thought.
“Uh-oh,” Brenda said, disappearing from behind the partition and appearing in the entrance to Kim’s cubicle. “I don’t think I like what I see in your eyes.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You wouldn’t do anything stupid, right, like trying to seduce Monroe out of his title?” Brenda advanced. “You wouldn’t play the harassment card, if it came to that? Seduce him and then blow the whistle to get him out of the way? That would be a terrible plan, Kim. It would be desperate, and unlike you.”
Kim nodded. “In any case, I’m thinking I might have to get plastered before that meeting in the bar.”
“You don’t drink. You never drink.”
“Exactly.”
“Fine,” Brenda said doubtfully. “But if it goes all haywire, please leave me the red shoes in your will for when this is all over, and the comfy chair by the window in your apartment.”
Kim grabbed her purse and headed for the door. Brenda was right. Revenge wasn’t like her. Not even remotely. However, if Chaz Monroe continued to play the intimidation card, and if he proved himself to be another unreliable male adversary, she’d have to find the strength to enact Plan C. Char his ass.
“Cover for me, Bren,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going shopping.”
“May the force of Mata Hari be with you,” Brenda called out conspiratorially as Kim headed for the door.
Chaz had pegged the bar scene perfectly. Young people were expensively turned out. Women in chic attire carried neon martinis and threw air kisses. At thirty-two and in a sports coat, he felt like their slightly out-of-it older brother, though women eyed him up and down with avid interest and unspoken invitations in their eyes.
Half of these people probably worked for him in some capacity or another and didn’t yet recognize him by sight. By the end of the month, he would know each and every name on his payroll, and all ten of the building’s janitors. Just now, however, he needed to remain incognito and observe the scene while he waited. For her.
He chose a table in a dark corner and sat on a stool with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door.
“Big Brother is watching you,” he said beneath his breath.
He didn’t really like chic bars where the young and the restless gathered to prance and preen. He preferred quiet corners