Page 4 of All About Christmas

With an ice-cream cone in my hand, I sit on a bench somewhere among the trees.

About fifty metres away, people are showing their best moves on the dance floor, which is surrounded by wavy ribbons of white lanterns.

Steven and Maud are positioned in the middle of the dance floor, rapidly spinning around.

At least, by my estimation, they are. Actually, at this moment, everything is spinning around.

I run my tongue over a scoop of vanilla ice cream and lean back a bit. The chirping of crickets blend into the music and laughter.

The ice cream is deliciously creamy and provides a welcome coolness to my overheated body. Though I can also feel my stomach protesting slightly with each bite that slides down my esophagus.

I look up and the leaves above me gently sway back and forth in the cool breeze that occasionally blows across the lawn. I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh, and another, trying to get rid of the lousy feeling.

I don’t actually drink very often, which is probably why the glasses of champagne I just consumed hit me extra hard. Again, I am overcome by a fit of intense nausea. I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale again through my mouth.

Some leaves rustle and twigs snap, but I pay little attention to the sound. It’s probably only a bird or a squirrel. Right now, I need all my attention to keep from dumping my stomach contents all over my favourite summer dress.

“Is this spot free?” A deep voice interrupts my “breathe in, breathe out” mantra.

My eyes fly open. A metre in front of me stands Mister Handsome with a glass of champagne in his hand and a napkin full of goodies in his other. Up close, he looks even more attractive than from a distance. It’s as if someone has photoshopped away all his blemishes.

Although it could also be due to the haze in front of my eyes. My God, I’m never going to drink again.

When I don’t answer immediately, he gestures to the bench. “Can I sit for a minute?”

Again, it takes a few moments before my foggy brain has fabricated an answer and my mouth cooperates enough to formulate it. “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.”

He smiles a row of snow-white teeth and plants his butt on the wooden boards next to me. “Does your ice cream taste good?”

“Sure,” I say. Although I feel my stomach contents creeping up further and further, I hastily lick up the melted droplets that now run over my fingers. His eyes flash to my hand.

“Have you had one yet?” I ask him.

He chuckles. “Yeah, of course.”

“What flavour?”

He takes a sip of his champagne. “Rocky road.”

“Hm. Nice.”

A silence falls during which I take another bite of my ice cream and peer at the dance floor. I’m pretty sure they can’t see us. That’s the advantage of being in the dark.

After I decide to dump the rest of the frozen dessert in the trash, I look at him again.

“How do you know the bride and groom?” I ask, the question a typical opening line for strangers at parties such as these. It’s the perfect icebreaker.

“Steven and I used to be on the executive board of the same fraternity.” He fishes a puff pastry from his napkin and brushes away some crumbs that fall from the crispy snack onto his shirt as soon as he sinks his teeth into it. “I think he invited the whole board. What about you?”

I have to try my hardest not to become uncomfortable with the smell of the snacks. I breathe in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth again.

The man looks at me with a tinge of concern. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” I say, smiling. It wouldn’t do well for me to scare away an attractive guy just because I may have had a little too much to drink.

“I know the bride from work,” I reply. “And the groom...” I wipe my sticky hands on my dress, something I will undoubtedly regret tomorrow. “The groom I may have dated a little.”

The walking gene jackpot coughs out his champagne. “What?” he wheezes. “Dated?”

“Just once, mind you,” I say airily. “Nothing happened. In fact, Maud was there.”

His eyes widen. “Maud was there?” Then something seems to dawn on him; his eyes widen and his perfect lips form a soundless O. “Wait a minute, were you the one he was on a date with when he met Maud?”

I look at him in surprise. “How do you know?”

It takes him a moment to respond, but then he shakes his head incredulously. “Oh, wow. I do remember him telling me that. He felt pretty guilty about it, I think.”

I make a scornful sound. He felt guilty about that? “Could have fooled me.”

“Then don’t you think it’s crazy to be here?” he asks curiously.

I shrug my shoulders as casually as possible. “Ah, well, there’s an open bar. That makes up for a lot.”

Mister Perfect Smile emits a laugh and assertively holds out the napkin with snacks to me, but I shake my head. My stomach somersaults again at the savoury whiff of the undoubtedly delicious snacks.

“That open bar, huh? You made extensive use of that, didn’t you?” he grins.

“Oh, well, you would too if you found out your boss is going to give the promotion you worked very hard for to some nepo baby, right?”

His knee scrapes along mine as he sits up slightly. His arm finds support on the bench’s armrest. He studies me intently with his dark eyes. “This isn’t quite your day, is it?”

“Nope. I think I’m going to resign on Monday.

Or going to demand that promotion. I’m not quite sure which of the two yet.

” Right now, I’m leaning toward the first option, but that courage may also be the result of the fact that I now consist of enough alcohol to be used as a disinfectant in the emergency room.

Besides, I’m guessing that such a demand would be in vain.

If Olivier Wolfs wants my job, it’s a done deal.

It’s silent for a moment and I shiver from a surprisingly cool breeze that suddenly brushes past my skin. Mister Handsome shakes his jacket off his shoulders and offers it to me.

“Oh, thank you,” I say and drape the fabric over my knees.

“You can, of course, demand that promotion first while threatening to resign,” he says helpfully.

I let that advice sink in for a moment and look at him thoughtfully. “Yes!” I exclaim. “That’s another good idea.”

He chuckles and, shaking his head, takes another sip of his champagne. His hair dances lightly with the movement. “Do you have a nice job?”

“Oh, I love my job,” I proudly proclaim. “My boss and the coffee not as much, but my job is fun, yes.”

“The coffee?” My unnamed companion gives me a lopsided grin and that damn dimple reappears in his cheek. “What’s wrong with the coffee?”

I don’t answer, and instead continue to stare at his beautiful rows of teeth. They’re straight, but not in that Hollywood way where you’re practically blinded when the leading man smiles. His teeth look nice and natural.

His grin turns into a genuine smile when I don’t respond immediately.

Oh, yes, the coffee.

“Well...” I continue as casually as possible, as if I hadn’t just spent thirty seconds analyzing his teeth as if I needed to fit him with braces.

“It’s really, really strong.” I pull a disgusted face.

“But...” I shift back and forth a bit, looking for a better position in an attempt to push back down my stomach contents that are rising a bit again.

“I’m actually pretty sure that I’m the one who broke the coffee maker.

” As soon as the words roll over my lips, I slap my hands in front of my mouth and look at him, wide-eyed.

Not even Noor knows that I’m responsible for the fact that our department collects stomach ulcers as though they were commemorative stamps.

The handsome man throws his head back and bursts out laughing. It’s a deep, warm sound that does strange things to my belly. Although that could also be due to the champagne.

“How did you do that?”

“Okay, so I don’t really know.” I throw my hands in the air in a helpless gesture. “I think I accidentally changed something on the settings, but I couldn’t quite manage to undo it. Some equipment is complicated, man.”

At first, I did want to report it, but I kept putting it off until I had put it off so long that it had become a huge thing and I no longer dared.

He sits a little closer to me and I’m suddenly very aware of my knee almost touching his. “That should be easy to fix,” he says. “Why not call a repairman?”

My cheeks fill up with air that I then blow out. “I think my boss gets off on the fact that his staff can’t possibly doze off during working hours.”

“Ah, yes, your boss...” He tilts his head a little, like a puppy hearing a bag of kibble being torn open. “What was wrong with him again?”

I moisten my lips and look ahead. “Well, he always taps his pen on the tabletop when I give a presentation. Super irritating to me. It comes across as disinterested and it distracts me.”

“Hm. And beyond that?”

“He has absolutely no integrity,” I huff.

“I mean, how can you possibly give someone such an important job just because he happens to be the son of John Wolfs?” I spit out the name as though it tastes like cooked-through mealworms. “That man has had everything handed to him his whole life. Of course that position would go to him if he showed any interest. His daddy will take care of the whole thing.” With every word that rolls past my lips, I get angrier and angrier.

Something bubbles up to my diaphragm and the nausea I had just regained some control over returns.

All of this is just so unfair. “My boss doesn’t care that I’ve worked my ass off for the past few years and am more than capable.

” I look at him and see how the corners of his mouth have dropped back down a little.

He shifts back a bit and now there’s about ten inches of air between our legs again, something I find a little unfortunate.

His gaze changes. A hint of reservation shines in his eyes.

“John Wolfs’s son?” he repeats.

“Yep. He’s that Dutch media mogul,” I explain.

When he looks at me, still a little confused, I continue: “I thought everyone knew of him. He’s in the Quote 500 list of wealthiest people, wears out wives faster than Primark’s socks, and is the puppet master of just about every show on commercial television.

” I fidget a bit with the luxurious fabric of his jacket that is still over my knees.

“Oh, him,” he murmurs.

“But yeah, that’s kind of how the world works, isn’t it? Being born well-off often works better than working hard.” I feel some air creep up through my esophagus and I try to let it out as unobtrusively as possible.

I think the last time I drank this much was during my first date with Steven, which from the point Maud joined us provided the perfect excuse to test the resilience of my liver.

A brief silence falls over us after my cynical statement, and the man shifts again. “Well, I do certainly believe it helps. However, though it may be easier for them to get in somewhere, I think doing a good job is just as important.”

I laugh scornfully. “No. Getting in somewhere is just about the hardest thing in the world to accomplish. A good network gets you much farther than something as banal as talent.” I look at him and notice a thin line appearing between his eyebrows.

“I’m lucky I got to stay after my internship, but the TV world is filled with people who got in because of their good connections.

Nine times out of ten, they can’t do a damn thing. ”

Okay, that’s not quite true, but I’m angry. Very angry. And then I tend to say things I don’t mean.

My conversation partner is suddenly very still and peers into the distance.

The muscles in his jaw move incessantly and his skin trembles.

He puts his hands on the bench, on either side of his hips, then presses himself up so abruptly that it startles me.

In an equally swift movement, he straightens his shirt.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” I ask, a little perplexed.

He turns and gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Shit. Did I offend him somehow? By this point, the alcohol has reduced my social filter to a piece of flimsy chicken wire. In my head, I revisit all I’ve said, but my thoughts feel like a tangle of words that I’m having trouble untangling in this state.

“No, you didn’t say anything wrong.” He looks at the ground for a moment and then up again. The amused twinkle that lit up his eyes a few minutes ago is gone. “I’m going to get some more champagne. Would you like something to drink, too?”

Confused, I tilt my head slightly to the right. My mouth feels dry, and since my stomach contents are still acting like I’ve been aboard a rocking ship for the past two hours, champagne is about as good an idea as it was to go on a date with Steven. “Um... yes. A glass of water, please.”

“Okay, coming right up.” He turns around, the fabric on the back of his shirt pulling a little tighter as his shoulders hang down slightly. He slips his hands into his pants pockets and strides toward the partygoers.

I watch him dissolve into the crowd. What a strange reaction. For some reason, I expect him to stay away, but then my gaze falls on the expensive fabric hanging over my knees. I still have his jacket. The Armani label on the collar does seem like a guarantee that he will return.

I bend over a bit to inspect the garment a little better and it is a big mistake. After another wave of nausea, my body decides enough is enough and I relegate the beautiful blazer to a barf bag. I watch as bits of half-digested waffle drip down along with my ice cream and close my eyes in shame.

Why isn’t there a Ctrl+Z function for life?