Page 1 of Erotic Temptations 1

Jingling Bells

One eye popped open then the other. My gaze landed on the alarm clock next to my bed, blinking twelve o’clock repeatedly in angry, red numbers.

What time was it? Before my brain even had a chance to wake up, I was out of the bed, snatching my phone from where I’d left it on the kitchen counter.

Two minutes after eight. I had exactly thirty minutes to get to work and my apartment was twenty minutes from my job.

Cursing under my breath, I dashed to the bathroom. Flicked the light, and squinted at the shape in the mirror. A man with bedhead that looked personally offended by gravity. My hair had achieved new and unsanctioned angles overnight. Sticking up like frostbitten grass, which, coincidentally, was exactly what the landscaping outside my building looked like this morning. Toasted. Icy. Haggard.

Not unlike me.

A quick toothbrush pass, maybe ten percent as recommended by my dentist, then a too-fast shave that would haunt my jaw with tiny red marks until noon. I yanked a shirt from the laundry basket—who was I kidding, it was the “needs folding” basket, which, in this apartment, doubled for “still plenty clean, come on” basket—and a pair of navy slacks that were only wrinkled if you got closer than, say, five feet.

A splash of icy water. I regretted that immediately. Water hit the floor, but I left it, a present for future David with my socked feet. Priorities.

Twenty-four minutes until I was officially, and possibly irredeemably, late.

Coffee. Needed it. Coffee was non-negotiable. I stabbed the “brew” button on my ancient Mr. Coffee. The red light flickered a few times like it was disappointed in me—join the club—before producing half a mug of sludge.

Perfection.

Burned my tongue on the first sip, then immediately sloshed some coffee onto the aforementioned clean shirt. It wasn’t just a drop. It was a Jackson Pollock interpretation, right in the middle. Maybe if I walked hunched over, nobody would notice. Or everyone would notice, and Janet would bring it up loudly enough to alert Homeland Security.

“Wonderful,” I muttered. A quick glance at my phone. Nine minutes to get out the door, down the elevator, and sprint to the bus stop. I shrugged into my peacoat, two buttons missing, wrestled my hair with a dime-sized glob of gel—now it looked marginally less like a rooster’s comb—and crammed my feet into boots.

Outside, snow had transformed the sidewalk into an obstacle course for fools. I was, evidently, the Olympic champion of fools this morning. The wind smacked me right in the face. Cold, sharp, personal. Was it possible for winter to have a vendetta? I wouldn’t put it past Chicago.

I speed-walked past Mrs. Engle from the third floor, who was walking a dog that resembled a fuzzy igloo on a leash.

“Morning,” she chirped in her terrifyingly chipper way.

“Morning.” I probably sounded like a malfunctioning Alexa.

The bus. I could see it, blue-and-white and waiting, its lights bright against the gray. I managed to slip twice, caught myselftwice, and sloshed more coffee on my hand. Dignity: zero. But hey, I’d made it.

The doors hissed open. I climbed aboard, tried to tap my transit card with some hope in my heart. The machine beeped three times in the universal language of, “Nope.” I flipped it over and tried again. Success! Only three people I’d held up gave me dirty looks.

The bus was packed. Every seat was filled with people scrolling on their phones, earbuds in, determined not to make eye contact. I wedged myself next to a guy who smelled like onions and existential dread and tried not to think about how, technically, I could’ve just called in sick and gone back to bed.

But no, I was a grown-up. That was my story, and I was sticking to it.

Five blocks later, the bus hit every red light in the county. I checked my phone compulsively, as if time might’ve slowed down out of sympathy.

It hadn’t.

I was going to be at least five minutes late, assuming the elevator at Megalith Data wasn’t still “undergoing emergency maintenance” like yesterday. Because nothing said “cutting-edge tech firm” like a janky elevator and breakroom vending machine that only sold off-brand energy drinks and Funyuns.

The bus lurched to a stop. I hurried off, surrounded by snowflakes whirling in the air like confetti. Bracing myself, I made the short, icy trek to the glass doors of the office. Ten minutes late. Maybe eleven. Maybe fifteen. I could fudge the numbers if anyone asked.

Inside held no relief. The lobby heater was apparently broken, which meant the arctic air followed me through security. The security guard, Tim, looked me up and down like I’d just returned from the apocalypse.

“Rough morning?” he asked.

“I don’t even want to talk about it.”

Tim smirked and buzzed me in. “Hope it improves, David.”

Me too. A hand thrown over my head was my only reply.