Page 37 of A Cozy Kind of Christmas

THIRTY-FOUR

JOHANNA

After interviewing the high school ski team, Johanna found a seat in the press section and froze her ass off for the next hour, hammering out an outline for a potential story, dusting off her résumé, and watching snowmobile after snowmobile practically slingshot through the sky.

Nothing about the sport should appeal to her, but she loved it—the thunderous roar of the engines, the machines doing death- and gravity-defying feats, and the constant hum of nervous cheers and collective gasps.

She was on the edge of her seat for the entire race, screaming and clapping right along with everyone else.

Johanna was so far removed from the field, sitting behind her desk and staring out onto the New York skyline, that she’d nearly forgotten how much more connected she felt when she was immersed in the scene.

No wonder Meg’s writing and storytelling touched such a tender note and endeared her to viewers—that and her quirky, klutzy personality.

Johanna was even more resolved that it was time for something radical.

A new network?

Starting her own network?

She mapped out her pitch while the race progressed. This weekend was worth it; Connor aside, she was gaining momentum.

The network was going to regret their decision.

Johanna knew how to crush the competition.

She’d been doing it steadily, exactingly, for a decade.

Connor Howard and his bros had better watch out.

Once Johanna set her mind to winning, there wasn’t an ounce of room for anything less than success.

She deserved the promotion. She worked harder, longer, and smarter than any of her other colleagues.

In part because she’d put her career advancement above everything else.

She’d watched as co-workers got married, had babies, and took long sabbaticals.

Not Johanna. She practically slept at the office, keeping a fold-up cot and toiletries on hand for late nights, covering breaking news with the weekend anchors.

The promotion should have been hers. It would have been hers if it weren’t for freaking Connor. Why had she ever slipped into his bed? One mistake. What should have been a one-night stand? His pathetic, dewy eyes and lazy smile had lured her in.

That and his bed.

Memories of his soft hands sliding down the small of her back, massaging her skin with a light tenderness that made everything else melt away, came rushing forward.

God, no.

She shook her head and shuddered, trying to refocus her attention on the spectacle of dizzying lights, sounds, and flying snow as the other journalists huddled in the press tent scribbled frantic notes and shot footage on their phones.

Connor is an ass.

And a master manipulator.

That’s how he’d done it. Buttered her up with leisurely breakfasts in bed—sourdough waffles smothered with lemon curd and fresh blueberries, a cappuccino, bacon, and buttery eggs with a single flower in a tiny vase.

She never should have uttered a single word about the promotion.

That was her mistake. She rubbed her arms, trying to keep warm as the high-powered vehicles from the back of the pack came screeching past.

Her fatal error.

Her ultimate undoing.

Connor had never been into her.

She wasn’t special.

She was a convenient hookup who came with benefits—information.

While he’d been whispering sexy, sweet nothings in her ear, he’d been listening for anything he could use as leverage—her strategy, her pitch, and all those details about the job that she should have just kept to herself.

She knew better.

And yet, somehow, she’d let herself believe that Connor had an ounce of decency.

Now, he was walking away with her job.

Meg had it all wrong—Connor hopping on a plane wasn’t a romantic gesture.

It was his attempt to feel better about what he’d done.

He could fly a thousand miles and try to win back her good graces with every flower and expensive box of holiday chocolate on the market, but the only thing it would serve would be to empty his bank account faster.

There was nothing Connor could do that would make her forgive him. She had zero intentions of absolving him of his guilt. He’d made his choice—he would have to live with it.