Page 15 of Love Letters to Christmas

Peace, Joy, and Love.

Brian

So. I harbor affections for Amelia Christmas.

What an unforeseen set of circumstances.

I was nearly positive that bringing her to lunch with my parents would result in something of a cure for the odd thoughts and feelings I began dealing with Friday night. After all, what cures emotions better than your parents teasing you about a relationship you’re not in?

Cooties, maybe.

Problem is, Amelia doesn’t have cooties, and the way she reacted to my parents being, well, them was…cute.

Yes, cute.

Adorable, really.

Her eyes got massive and pleading and confused, and the way she looked at me, constantly, searching and begging for help, did something to the primitive, masculine, protector part of my brain.

Everything she does is a fusion of pretty and cute.

She’s elegantly clumsy, as though her body knows the perfect time to misplace her footing so her skirt might sway just so when she catches herself.

In no uncertain terms, she is precious.

Desperately precious.

Cheek resting in my palm, I stare at the closest thing to a love letter Amelia has ever given me. Pinched between my fingers, a perfect frosted letter cookie sits. The white icing with a pink heart seal taunts me.

I must woo her.

But how does one woo a woman?

All throughout my life, nearly every girl I’ve come across has fallen over themselves for me. Amelia hasn’t. Or, rather, Amelia just falls over herself in front of anyone. It’s a side effect, I think, of her upbringing.

Amelia is insecure and cautious and embarrassed easily in front of everyone. She blushes at the drop of a hat. Once, she apologized to Frank of all people. Frank is too tired ninety percent of the time to realize when she’s been slighted, and all Amelia did was her job .

That is to say, she delivered a letter from Norm.

And Frank unleashed the deity of all sighs, before—somewhat merrily—opening the envelope.

Despite this, Amelia stammered out an apology while her face turned red.

If Amelia likes me, I won’t be able to tell unless she tells me outright.

I snap a corner of the cookie off with my teeth and chew, delighting in the buttery flavors.

She’s such wife material.

Makes me want to keep her at home, playing with wax and baking.

The old nine-to-five doesn’t suit her fragile disposition.

If I wouldn’t miss her here, I’d be terribly inclined to suggest she take up full-time housekeeping.

Not to mention that she’s begun to turn heads.

Nearly every single guy in the office watches her a bit more closely than I’m just now coming to realize I’m comfortable with.

I snap off another bite.

Honestly. How dare?

Just because she’s perfect and demure does not mean any other singles should be fixating on the sway of her dress or the way she pushes the strands of hair she leaves out of her bun to frame her face over her ear.

The curling rivulets that fall against her cheeks have an owner, and that owner is me.

My lip juts.

Yup. Decidedly, there’s just one Single for her.

Wooing a woman would be so much easier during a holiday. But noo . Brian isn’t allowed to have another holiday until maybe Christmas.

It would already be Christmas right now if it weren’t for Halloween holding back the floodgates of my cheer.

Just think of all the mistletoe I could plant down here. Mail and white berries, and pretty Amelia caught beneath the sprigs, face crimson, eyes wide, lips trembling as I lean in…

I snap another bite, close my eyes, and sigh.

Cutting a look at my office calendar, I behold June 17th . I’m not even halfway to Christmas, in both a literal and metaphorical sense. I’d write her a love letter if I hadn’t gone on and on concerning how my gratitude letter wasn’t meant to make her uncomfortable.

My passion stamps now would mean absolutely nothing and seem like a cruel game.

Furthermore—I munch, irritated—Amelia lives with me, and I want her to keep living with me, and she does not presently need to live with me anymore.

If I freak her out, she could bounce away like a frightened rabbit.

Dumb dilemma.

Stupid Liam.

We’d already be married if he’d let me have my Flag Day event. The power of the most romantic holiday of the year is unbridled.

According to Mars.

Who should never truly be trusted.

But who am I to deny false information that suits me?

Let’s see, it’s June 17th… What’s my next holiday magic opportunity?

July 4th?

A July 4th celebration would pale in comparison to Flag Day’s romance since there’s nothing romantic at all about independence.

Waking up my desktop, I click my browser search bar and type what holidays are in July?

Then I scroll with a single goal in mind: What might I be able to get away with? Even if it’s just for a week…or a day…or…

I blink, staring at my work computer screen, at a particular holiday listed on July 25th.

Christmas.

In July.

It’s perfect.

It’s flawless.

Liam told me we could reevaluate our capabilities for Christmas . But he never specified which Christmas.

I’d say this is grounds for a presentation if ever I have seen grounds for a presentation.

I need to make the cutest, most manipulative PowerPoint ever .

I need to practice my Brian is pitiful and sad expressions in the mirror.

I need to pack this event with romantic moments that slowly, casually, gently throw Amelia and me toward romantic bliss.

Oh yes. It’s all coming together.

This is going to be great .

“So…” I blink ahead at Liam, who has just told me some wonderful news. “…you’re going to be in Europe, with Amber, for the month of July?”

“We never took a honeymoon,” Liam informs me, fingers steepled.

“Launching a new location for Whirlwind Branding is the perfect excuse to take some time to be together. I work a lot. She works a lot.” Threads of sadness burden his dark eyes before his lashes kiss his cheeks.

“Although she will absolutely just be thinking about how she can use whatever we do in Europe as research for her books, I’m willing to take what I can get. ”

I adjust my position to tuck my laptop with the presentation for Christmas in July primed on it behind my back. “Nothing wrong with a tax write off, right, boss?”

“It’s already a tax write off since we’re going to Europe to launch a new branch.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Liam’s eyes narrow on me.

Possibly because I’m vibrating with poorly-concealed glee.

I am to be unsupervised for the month of July.

I need to order Christmas trees.

I need to assess what decorations we already have on hand.

I need to—

“Come again?” I ask, blinking at my boss, who surely didn’t just say words that should never, ever, be said to me.

“I’m leaving you in charge.”

My gaze flicks off Liam, toward his penthouse windows, which remain covered since my dear boss struggles some with light sensitivity. Finding no camera crew, I tilt myself to peer elsewhere. Still nothing. So. This… isn’t a prank?

Pointing at myself, I say, “Me?”

“Yes?”

“Mailroom Brian. Your favorite mail guy. You’re leaving… me in charge of a branding business?”

Liam nods. “In the context of handling disputes and making emotional decisions, yes. I’m leaving someone else in charge of the business aspect, but you know everyone, probably better than I do.

You care about everyone, just like I do.

I want you to make sure the safe environment we’ve built here persists in my absence. ”

Slowly, I lower my hand. “To…clarify…” I cannot believe the power about to fall into my lap. “It’s my job to maintain the peace and joy?” And, y’know, goodwill toward men, perhaps?

“Yes.”

I beam and wheel myself toward the door. “You got it, boss. I won’t let you down.”

“I’m counting on you,” he says.

A terrible decision, really.

But I am very much not one to argue with information that suits me.