The Boss Who Stole Christmas: Reindeer Falls #1 Page 2

  Nick taps the pen in his fingers against his lower lip while he thinks. The room is silent as we wait on him to ruin my day in one way or another.

  "The Jack Frost Candle Company is closing in January," Nick announces. "They currently occupy the space adjacent to our new Teddy Bear Café. Let's grab it and add a takeaway business. We'll create a passthrough in the back rooms of both units so they can share kitchen and refrigeration space. We can add a few tables and an additional merchandise counter on the takeaway side. Holly will accompany me on my trip to Germany next week and meet with the management of the original café in Nuremberg. See how they operate during their peak season and what ideas we can implement for our version."

  Wait one minute. Did he just say travel with him?

  "Oh, my God, no!"

  Every eye in the room turns to stare at me.

  "I mean, um…" I stall, brain racing. "The Jack Frost Candle Company is closing? Wow, they've been in business forever." I shake my head sadly, looking anywhere but at Nick. My friend from accounting gives me a sympathetic grimace. "I'll, uh, need to stock up on Candy Cane candles before they close. It's my favorite scent. ’Tis the season." Jiminy Christmas, Holly, stop speaking! "How do you know they're closing, by the way?" I straighten the screen of my laptop and bounce my foot nervously under the table. "I haven't heard a word about it."

  "I'm friends with their daughter, Taryn."

  Ugh, Taryn. She was a senior at Reindeer Falls High when I was a freshman, so she's two years younger than Nick. She was the kind of girl who made fun of your favorite Christmas socks when you accidentally-on-purpose wore them in March. The kind of Christmas troll who shuts down a beloved local candle company—

  "She's taking over her parents’ shop and moving the store to a new location at the River Place Shops," Nick says, interrupting my thoughts. "She needed more space to add candle-making workshops and it seems someone beat her to the vacant spot located next to their original location."

  Oh.

  Okay, that was me. I'm the one who beat her to that empty retail space for the Teddy Bear Café. And she's not closing the business, she's expanding it, so maybe she's not on Santa's naughty list after all. I stare at Nick, wondering what kind of friends they are. Wondering if they're naked friends.

  Gross.

  "Will the kitchen design accommodate the additional workload required to support the takeaway business? Can we make the needed adjustments now before construction is completed?" Nick glances up from typing on his laptop.

  "It will." I know it will because I had the kitchen layout reviewed by three separate pastry chefs and they all indicated the workspace was sufficient for double the projected output. I'd wanted to ensure we were covered if we decided to expand or add a catering component.

  "You'll double-check?" Nick says as he continues typing. He says it like it's a question but it's not. It's an order. I'll have to reconfigure all my numbers to include the additional takeout quantities and then show him my work and then he'll question why we have twenty percent more refrigeration space than I'm projecting we need and I'll spend ten minutes explaining that refrigeration space is not custom but comes in predetermined cubic feet and a twenty-percent overage is a better option than the next size down, which will only provide us with a projected two percent of excess refrigeration space.

  And he'll stare at me the entire time. Silent and brooding.

  It'll take me a week to revamp my entire financial plan for the Teddy Bear Café to include the additional rent costs of the unit next door, additional construction costs, and additional staff costs. Then I'll have to redo all the estimated sales forecasts. Hire a designer to create a design for to-go containers and bags and cups. Then I'll have to source all those items, get samples. No, it won't take me a week, it'll take the rest of the month.

  "Send me a report when you're done," Nick adds as if this is all a foregone conclusion simply because he's tossed out the order. I mean, I understand he's the boss. I do. But this isn't how his grandfather ran things, let me tell you.

  His grandfather didn't wear a single suit that made me wonder what he looked like naked, for starters.

  Gah! There is no way I'm going on that trip with him. None. Not happening. Maybe he's already forgotten about it? I fidget in my chair and glance at Nick out of the corner of my eye while he grills the warehouse manager on the costs of cardboard. I've never been on a business trip. I wouldn't even know how to go about scheduling it. Am I supposed to book my flight and hotel and then submit an expense report? Or will his assistant book me? Perhaps… perhaps I can just ignore the situation until it's too late? He's leaving in less than a week, it's probably already far too late to book an extra airline ticket. In December for heaven’s sake. I exhale and relax into the conference room chair.

  Nick's eyes flicker in my direction while the warehouse manager explains the costs of the holiday boxes. I sit up a little straighter and wonder how loud I sighed.

  A moment later a new email pings into my inbox.

  The subject line reads Travel Itinerary.

  Chapter 3

  "I can't go to Germany next week."

  I announce this with confidence and a steady voice. I spent all evening practicing my get-out-of-traveling-with-Nick speech in front of my bathroom mirror and I think it's solid. I think I've predicted any arguments and prepared an appropriate rebuttal for each.

  "I'll coordinate with my contact at Bavarian Bear on the takeout business via email," I add without waiting for a response. Nick was frowning at something on his monitor when I finally summoned the courage to enter his office to speak with him and I purposely didn't wait until I had his attention before I launched into my speech. Side note: I'm surprised his pretty face hasn't already frozen into a permanent scowl. I bet he'll have scowl lines before he's forty. "It'll be tantamount to me being there, but easier for everyone."

  "Tantamount?" He leans back in his chair, turning his attention fully on me. The scowl is replaced with a look I'd call curiously skeptical. He rests one hand on the armrest of his chair, his other hand moving to straighten his tie. His uncle wore Christmas ties the entire month of December. A different one each day, he had so many.

  Nick's tie is the color of coal.

  "Virtually the same," I say with a little wave of my hand.

  "Tell me, Miss Winter, what part of my direction that you'd travel to Germany sounded like it was optional? It wasn't."

  I hate speaking to him in his uncle's office. Nick's office now, I know that. I'm not in denial. His aunt and uncle have already relocated to Key West and gotten themselves half a dozen chickens. Pet chickens. They wander around the yard and dodge in and out of a custom-made chicken coop. I don't really understand it either, but Mr and Mrs Saint-Croix seem thrilled with retirement and I'm well aware they're not returning.

  But speaking to Nick in this office is disorienting because he didn't redecorate. I expected him to replace the framed posters of toys with cheesy motivational posters or the skyline of a big city or his diploma from Dartmouth. I expected him to replace the old wood desk his uncle sat behind for nearly forty years with something sleek and modern and new.

  But he didn't. He did nothing but replace the chair and the computer. And one other thing.

  He added a bulletin board. A giant oversized thing framed with a wide expanse of oak and attached to the wall next to the door, in direct view of Nick's desk. It appeared as if by magic over a weekend a month or so ago, and it has remained empty ever since. It drives me nuts, being empty. What’s the point of hanging a bulletin board if you’re not going to attach anything to it? It’s weird.

  He’s weird.

  "I'll never be able to complete the changes to the Teddy Bear Café by the end of the month if I miss a week to travel to Germany."

  "Who said the changes were due at the end of the month?" He drops the tie and taps his fingers on the desktop.

  "I assumed you'd want—"

  "I wish you'd stop assuming,
" he interrupts, his words sharp but his voice unexpectedly soft. It throws me off. And there's something in his expression, something I can't quite pinpoint. A rankled irritation which is so unfair. He's constantly got me on my toes, demanding reports, challenging me in meetings, sneaking up on me at my desk to ask me questions I've already answered via email.

  I'm the one who should be annoyed, I think with an indignant burst. Not him.

  "Nick, it's Christmas," I say, and I know my voice sounds a bit like I'm begging, but I can't help myself. December in Reindeer Falls is my favorite time of year. Everyone knows this.

  "It's December third," he replies drily, clearly unimpressed with my plea.

  "You know what I mean. It's the holiday season," I retort, spreading my arms as if to indicate the entire month is a holiday. It is. This shouldn't require explanation.

  "It's the holiday season in Germany too," he counters. "I'd have thought the idea of seeing the inspiration for Reindeer Falls at its most magical time of year would appeal to you."

  He's not wrong there. It should. It does.

  It's the idea of being in his company for the better part of a week that makes me uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in all the wrong places.

  I drop my gaze to his desk before launching into the next excuse on my list.

  "You probably don't know this, but the Food Network is filming The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off in Reindeer Falls this year, and my sister has an excellent chance of winning. I have to be here for that."

  "The finale's being filmed live on Christmas Eve from the town square," Nick counters without hesitation. "I assure you I'll have you home before then." His fancy chair makes nary a squeak as he bounces in it, just an inch or two while he watches me. He's loving every moment of this.

  But also…

  Son of a nutcracker, how did he know that? How does he know anything about The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off? I was counting on him not having a clue about the local holiday calendar. I quickly move on to my next argument.

  "I don't have a passport," I announce. I even manage to add a little fake sadness to this fake news.

  Nick stares at me for a long time, the silence hanging heavy in the air between us until I'm nearly fidgeting with the lie. Jittery from his attention. Hours pass. Eons. Cookies for Santa are baked from scratch, cooled, and plated in the time Nick spends staring at me, waiting for me to crack.

  "Should I assume then," he finally asks, his words slow and deliberate, "that you snuck in and out of the country illegally last month when you needed three days off to attend your cousin’s wedding in Mexico?"

  My eyes widen and I flush. I'm positive I never told him that wedding was in Mexico. I look at the wall behind his desk. The floor. The framed poster of a wooden toy set the company introduced in the ‘70s. It's one of our most popular toys, still in production. Mostly I look anywhere but at Nick.

  "My boyfriend has a very important Christmas party I'm meant to attend," I blurt out. This is a little off script, but to be fair I wasn't expecting to have to dig this far down my excuse list and I'm flustered.

  "You don't have a boyfriend," Nick replies, and when I risk a glance in his direction I see his eyes have narrowed and the fingers on the arm of his chair have tightened.

  "You don't know that!"

  "What's his name?" he asks, tearing my attention from the carpeting back to his face.

  Um, think, Holly, think. A man's name. Anything but Nick.

  "Sant… ana. Santana," I recover. "Like the band."

  "What does he do?" I think I detect the hint of a smile on Nick's face but it's hard to be sure because he so rarely smiles.

  It could be a grimace. Or gas.

  "He's in a band." I want to die. I did not just say my fake boyfriend Santana is in a band. But dealing with Nick is like dealing with a killer dog. It's best to show no fear. I place a hand defiantly on my hip and hold my ground. I bet Santana is really nice to me and smiles all the time.

  "Holly." Nick says my name on what is nearly a sigh. His eyes close briefly, his head tilted toward the ceiling as if he's summoning strength from the overhead lighting. He doesn't often use my first name, instead having some kind of a weird preoccupation with calling me Miss Winter. I sort of prefer it to be honest, because when he says my first name he always says it in a tone that makes me think about sex.

  Sex with him.

  Which is disturbing on so many levels. So, so many. Why would anyone want to have sex with someone they don't like? With someone mean? He'd probably critique the way I lifted my hips or demand I come on command. He'd probably request a spreadsheet with pivot tables documenting my range of flexibility by limb. He'd want sketches showing exactly how close my knees could get to my head.

  Goodness, the idea of that is sorta hot though. The bendy part, not the mean part.

  I wonder if Ebenezer Scrooge was attractive when he was a young man? If he caused turmoil in the hearts and loins of sweet young ladies as he snapped orders and scowled. If young Ebenezer was a hunk with great hair and a lean body. If he smelled subtly of Christmas trees and freshly fallen snow.

  Ebenezer was probably terrible in bed. I bet it was what turned him into such a grump. He probably came really fast and had no idea what to do with his tongue.

  "We're done with this conversation," Nick finally snaps, looking resigned even though he's won. His eyes drop to my feet before he turns back to his monitor, an obvious dismissal. "Pack sensible footwear," he tosses out. "It's all cobblestones and uneven steps and the last thing I need is to carry you when you break an ankle."

  I don't say anything more. My hand falls from my hip in defeat as I pivot on my inappropriate-for-cobblestone heels and walk to the door of Nick's office. As I reach the threshold my eyes snag on the bulletin board. Something has finally been tacked to it. I slow my exit long enough to see what it is.

  It's a handwritten letter.

  From a little girl.

  Made out to the Flying Reindeer Toy Company and written in a curly childish print with purple ink. Katlyn from Conroe, Texas wants us to know that our Dog Detective board game is her favorite game in the whole wide world but she also wants to know why all the dogs are boy dogs and wonders if we could please add a girl dog named Chloe? She also suggests that Chloe should be the lead dogtective.

  A few months ago Nick went on a warpath during a weekly meeting about gender stereotypes and then demanded a detailed analysis from every product manager, for every toy. Reports were required to include the targeted age range of each product, the implied gender of the toy and a five-year history of the marketing materials flagging any gender bias.

  "Send your data to Holly," he said, even though I wasn't in charge of anyone. He wanted me to organize the data on one spreadsheet. With pivot tables.

  I was annoyed, to be treated like a secretary responsible for compiling everyone's work, but I am a bit magical with an Excel spreadsheet and he’s the boss. So I did it, of course. Besides, two of the product managers are a bit… set in their ways. By which I mean they're nearing retirement and not real savvy with technology. Or open to gender-neutral toys. There was some grumbling about the gender of robots that week, believe me.

  The Dog Detective game was updated just in time for the new version to hit retailers for the all-important fourth quarter. We also spent a good deal of money having the new edition featured as a Black Friday deal at the nation’s largest retailer, KINGS.

  The new edition included two lead dogtectives, named Chloe and Katlyn.

  I chance a look over my shoulder at Nick. He's not looking at his monitor, he's looking directly at me.

  Chapter 4

  "I can't believe you're complaining about a free vacation to Europe with your hot boss. You're a disaster, Holly." My sister Ginger is scowling at—you guessed it—a slab of gingerbread.

  "It's not a vacation, it's a business trip!" I protest. "With the Grinch of Reindeer Falls!" I add, because clearly she's missing the most important and worst detai
l.

  "The acidity of this dough is off. Something is off." Ginger swipes at her forehead, leaving a streak of molasses across her skin. "I can't let Keller James win. My entire future is at stake and you're complaining about a trip to the North Pole. Unreal."

  "It's not the North Pole," I grumble. "It's Nuremberg, Germany." Which, to be fair, is probably even better than the North Pole on account of all the charming Bavarian architecture. Plus there's really nothing to do at the North Pole, what with it being located in the midst of the Arctic Ocean and all.

  "Doesn't Keller James have his own show on the Food Network?" Noel asks from her perch on a barstool at Ginger's kitchen counter. She asks the question around a mouthful of gingerbread. We're a few batches into this night.

  "Yes," Ginger sighs before repeating the words the Food Network, as if she's in church and they're meant to be revered.

  "I don't care how many TV shows he has. Nobody makes gingerbread like you, Ginger," I console. "He doesn't stand a chance."

  "I need the prize money to open Ginger's Bake Shop. Keller James doesn't need the prize money! Why are they making us compete against professionals?" Ginger wails as she plunks another five-pound bag of flour on the counter. She's the youngest and she's been passionate about baking for as long as I can remember. While Noel and I were content to play with an Easy-Bake oven, Ginger was whipping up real cupcakes in Mom's real oven and packing them in boxes she'd repurposed by writing ‘Ginger's Bake Shop’ across the sides. She tied them closed with a never-ending assortment of old ribbons she'd collected. From everywhere. You know how some grandmas collect all the used bows at Christmas to be reused? That was Ginger. When she was twelve.

  "You're a professional too," I point out. She does all the baking for a local inn but her dream is to open her own bakery. Here in Reindeer Falls, of course.

  "It's hardly the same! He's a jackal!" Ginger huffs. "I wonder if he's using a Ceylon cinnamon," she mutters to herself while digging frantically through her spice rack. At least I assume she's muttering to herself. She can't possibly think Noel or I have a clue about varieties of cinnamon. "Subtle but refined. Haha! I'm onto you, jackal."