Page 6 of Erotic Temptations 1
The clock blinked 7:40. I was technically on time, but still managed to bang my shin against the coffee table, spill half the cereal, and spend a full three minutes looking for my keys. At least the sweater was packed, mocking me from its plastic bag.
If there was a patron saint of men who looked like they were being held hostage by their own wardrobe, I was ready for canonization.
* * * *
It was officially party time.
I’d nearly made a break for the exit an hour ago. No doubt pictures would be taken, immortalizing me in a fuzzy kitten nightmare not even a cat-loving granny would wear. I yankedthe thing out of my backpack like it might bite me. The bells were volume-maximized, probably detectable by satellites.
Was I really going to wear this? The sweater practically screamed, “Give this man a reindeer trophy and also a psychiatric evaluation.”
Looking at it one last time, I put it on, hoping maybe I’d have a medical emergency before the party and get out of this alive. As soon as the fabric hit my skin, I itched in places I’d previously considered invulnerable, and clung in others like polyester barnacles.
No way someone would think I’d worn this on purpose. I slid my phone from my pocket and snapped a quick picture in the mirror, mostly for proof that I hadn’t been held at gunpoint.
“Can’t hide in here all night. It’s not like everyone else won’t look equally hideous,” I said to my reflection for a boost of confidence. “You’re doing this for a trophy.” Liar. “Fine. You’re doing this for a guy. Happy?”
Fantastic. Now I was arguing with my reflection. I needed a drink. Or laid. Both?
The bells announced my bathroom exit. It was like being trapped inside a toddler’s musical toy.
Janet took one look at me and clapped. Actual applause. “There he is. The winner of the Reindeer Trophy, folks.”
Carla simply blinked. “You look you’re being held hostage.”
I tried for bravado, which was difficult with the bells jingling every time I shifted. “It’s a bold statement piece. I hear jingle bells are very slimming.”
Janet walked a slow circle around me, hands on hips. “I have to give you credit, David. You’re committed.”
Guys usually were if getting laid was even a remote possibility.
We walked down the hall to the conference area. Everyone had gone into overdrive with the whole company on hyper-holiday mode. Everywhere I turned, someone was slapping up more garland or stringing more blinking lights.
Even the elevators were wrapped in ribbon. The conference room—which Janet had rebranded “The Winter Wonderland Zone” per her company-wide email, complete with clip art snowmen that actually gave me nightmares last year after too much party punch—was transformed. Real pine in the air. Fake snow on the floors. Cardboard cutouts of Santa grinning from every corner, all equally threatening.
Being alone during the holiday season left little desire to celebrate. For me, it was just another day in another month in another year. Which was why I’d wanted to skip the party. But I had to admit, the warm glow of lights from the tree, the laughter, and the music put a smile on my face.
More people started to filter in, most of them wearing sweaters that clearly had origin stories. Homemade disasters, thrift-store finds, a few that looked like they belonged to someone’s grandmother.
Coworkers milled around, eyes bright from too much sugar and office gossip. Between the garish sweaters and the constant jingling, the place felt almost unrecognizable. People who barely looked up during the week were suddenly sociable, drawn together by peppermint bark and the promise of an open bar.
The crowd seemed to grow. Every time I moved the bells accompanied me like a drunken marching band. I tried not to shift too much, but apparently the only way to keep the sweater silent was by not breathing.
Then he walked in.
For a second, everything else disappeared. He strolled through the main doors like an event planner’s fantasy—black jeans, a green sweater so ugly it might have been a war crime, decorated with sequined cats wearing tiny Santa hats. Therewere pom-poms on the sleeves. Blue eyes gleamed as he caught my stare.
He looked good. Unfairly good. Like he could model embarrassing sweaters for a living and still sell out.
I watched as he weaved his way toward me through the crowd with easy confidence. I tried to pretend I wasn’t dying inside, but there was no hiding the mortification. The bells alone performed a symphony announcing my presence as I stepped forward.
“Wow,” he said, eyes sweeping over me and not bothering to hide the smile. “You outdid yourself.”
He meant the sweater, but something about the way his gaze paused at my mouth made my skin prickle. If being mortified was a kink, I’d have been in heaven.
“Don’t pretend you’re not jealous,” I said. My mouth had gone dry.
The corners of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t dare.”