Page 1 of A Very Bossy Christmas

Chapter One

DECLAN: You at the office?

DECLAN: Cooper. You there?

DECLAN: Seriously, you need to respond. No matter where you are right now.

DECLAN: But you’d better be at the office.

MADDIE: Yes, Your Highness. I am at the office. Are you on your way in? Because I thought I felt the temperature drop a couple of degrees just now.

DECLAN: Haven’t left home yet, but a lot of women display physical signs of a slight drop in temperature when I’m approaching, Cooper. It’s adorable that you’re so excited to see me.

MADDIE: Please refer to every eye roll I have ever executed in response to half of the things you say because I’m too busy organizing your life to find the emoji.

DECLAN: Set up a quick call for me with Drucker before my meeting with Shapiro so he can update me on the Branson Residences deal. Just a phone call. I don’t want him stopping by my office.

MADDIE: Yes sir.

DECLAN: Please refer to every eye roll I have ever executed every time you call me “sir.” But also keep calling me sir.

MADDIE: Anything else I can do for you before you grace us with your presence, Mr. Cannavale?

DECLAN: Everything else, Cooper. And coffee served with a special holiday smile.

MADDIE: Fa la la la la la la la--be right back with your order, hon.

Two

Declan

FROSTY THE BOSSMAN

The drive up Madison Avenue is slower than usual this time of the morning, but it’s satisfying to lean on the horn when some asshole in an Impala tries to cut in front of me. I flip the driver off as I pass him, and he does it right back, but he looks confused when he sees me. He’s clearly not a tourist, so I don’t know what’s confusing about a driver giving another driver the finger in Manhattan. Then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the rearview mirror and realize I’m smiling.

I have a big dumb grin on my face.

For no reason.

No reason other than I’m on my way to work and I love my job.

Okay, Ilikemy job.

But I love to work.

And I like to work with people who can actually keep up with me.

Okay, I love it.

It’s rare.

It’s almost as satisfying as leaning on the horn when some asshole tries to cut in front of me.

It’s a lot more satisfying than watching women cry after I’ve calmly explained to them exactly what they’ve done wrong and questioning their ability to perform the most mundane tasks.

Not that I enjoy making women cry.

I hate making women cry.