“Under the Mistletoe,” I murmured quietly, studying him from afar as I tentatively sipped on the bitter-tasting wine, glass cool against my red-painted lips.
“I can get him over here,” my friend suggested, eyes wide with characteristic mischief.
“I don’t know…” I trailed off, shoulders slumping as I discerned the number of people flocking to him as if he was a glorified celebrity wrapped in an expensive Armani suit that probably cost more than my entire paycheck.
“You won’t ever know until you try,” my friend, ever the walking cliche, informed me bluntly, tsking quietly as her eyes wandered the decorated living room of my apartment. “This was a good idea though.”
“The clean-up won’t be,” I muttered, especially if my real motivation became unrealized, and time was ticking faster and faster as the annoying Apple Watch on my wrist lit up with another notification.
“I can handle this,” my friend said, ignoring my faint protests as she paraded through the crowd of our co-workers with enviable confidence.
And my response? Well, I simply retreated into my safe haven, ensuring the kitchen door had closed behind me before I minded the cookies baking away in my new oven. It was an easy distraction, playing the part of the perfect hostess, to distract my mind and heart from the real reason I had volunteered to host the company dinner. At first, it seemed like a glorious idea, a perfect opportunity to insert myself into conversation with the object of my affections.
“Shit!” I cursed as I quickly pulled back my finger, frowning at the reddening skin courtesy of a scalding-hot tray.
“Are you alright?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin, pivoting around precariously on the heels of my off-brand shoes. “Jack?”
He came closer still and my heart nearly stopped from his proximity. “I saw you come in here.”
I swallowed hard and glanced up, shivering when I finally noticed its presence.
Mistletoe.
Our eyes met at the same time. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah?” he continued, leaning down to accommodate my height. My lower back roughly met the edge of the counter. “You look good tonight.”
A careful brush of our lips, slightly chapped but the friction was satisfying. “R-really?”
“You always do,” he said, a familiar smirk etching across his features.
More pressure. Eyes closed tightly together.
“This was a great idea,” I whispered against the parted seam of his mouth, seeking the attention I had always craved.
