Page 5 of Erotic Temptations 1
Aaron took another bite, then tilted his head. “Are you going to the Christmas party?”
The question hit a little sideways. I didn’t expect a CEO to care which lowly accounting minion showed up to the annual parade of awkwardness and themed mocktails.
I hesitated, then shrugged. “Apparently there’s a contest for worst sweater? Trying to decide if I want to lose on purpose or actually put in effort.”
He wiped his mouth, then grinned. “It’s legendary. Last year, someone glued tiny working lights to their vest and nearly set the breakroom on fire. I think Janet’s still traumatized.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. I heard Laura’s going full sequined suit.” Suddenly the idea of showing up looking like an off-brand Hobo Santa seemed less alarming.
Aaron’s gaze dropped back to me, more serious now, but not in a way that made me want to flee the deli. “You should come. I’d like to see you there.”
Did he mean that? Or was this just CEO-level morale boosting? His eyes said yes. Or maybe I’d finally snapped and was hallucinating flirtation after one too many Friday-night rejections.
I nodded, first slow, then with a little more conviction. “Guess I should shop for a sweater that screams ‘emotionally available.’ Maybe with those little pom-poms.”
He laughed, the sound rolling over the tabletop, warm and inviting. “Make sure it’s ugly enough to be banned by the UN. Otherwise you’ll just blend in.”
I pretended to consider, chewing thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll hot glue some googly eyes to mine. Very modern art. Tie it in with the coffee stains, you know, for brand consistency.”
He nodded, approving. “Now you’re thinking like a CEO.”
The conversation drifted, easy as breathing. He told me about the time he’d been late to meet his own boss and spilled soup on his laptop. I countered with my story of getting locked in the stairwell and missing Janet’s birthday sheet cake by two hours. He claimed to have the world record for worst karaoke version of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
I believed him. Not because he looked like a liar, but because, sitting across from him, I suddenly wanted him to be good at karaoke. Or at anything, really. The man was magnetic.
I couldn’t remember when lunch had felt so simple. Or when I’d last talked to someone who actually made me want to stick around, even after the sandwich was gone.
Halfway through, I realized I was no longer watching the clock. For once, I didn’t care if I went back to work smelling like deli pickles and defeat.
Aaron glanced at his phone, then at me. “Gotta head back. I have a call with Tokyo in fifteen. But I’ll see you at the party?”
My mouth answered before my self-preservation instincts could intervene. “Definitely.” I tried to sound cool. Not sure I succeeded.
He gathered his coat, reached for his trash, and paused, like he wanted to say something else.
Instead, he tapped the table with his knuckle. “Glad I ran into you, David. See you soon.”
With that, he strode out, head high, carving a path through the crowd, a little larger than life. I watched him go, feeling simultaneously like a middle schooler with a crush and a forty-year-old on his third divorce.
The deli suddenly felt colder, the noise a little sharper. I finished my sandwich, staring out the window as blizzard-like snow blew sideways down Clark. Somewhere in my closet was a sweater that had only ever fit ironically. Maybe it was time to make it famous.
* * * *
The rest of the week passed with minimal disasters, unless you counted Carla’s epic meltdown over misfiled TPS reports, or Marnie’s failed attempt to bake gluten-free brownies for her secret Santa. They tasted like drywall. I tried to be polite. I failed.
Each morning was a rerun. Each night, I went home, made dinner for one, and tried not to think about how every other apartment in my building had blinking red and green lights. I briefly considered getting a tree, but the idea of vacuuming pine needles out of my carpet until July was enough to kill the impulse.
The impulse I couldn’t seem to kill was replaying my lunch with Aaron. I wouldn’t let myself anticipate seeing him at theparty, convinced myself he was just being polite. Even though a tiny kernel in me hoped the interest was real.
The sweater in my closet looked like it had lost a battle with moths.
Thursday afternoon, I found the kitten sweater in the Lost and Found Marnie told me about. It was even worse than she’d described. Red and green, with a pattern that gave me a low-level existential crisis. It wasn’t clothing. It was a cry for help in acrylic form. Bells. Jingle bells. Actual working bells. My only hope was that the noise would drown out my dignity.
I stuffed it into my backpack and resolved not to overthink it.
Friday, the day of the party, I woke up to a fresh coat of snow. The kind that made everything look deceptively clean. I pried myself out of bed with the motivation of a salted slug, ran a hand through my disastrous hair, and made a halfhearted attempt at breakfast.
I tried to tell myself not to think of Aaron, but my brain flipped me the bird and kept right on torturing me with images of his face and the way his voice simultaneously made me nervous and swoon.