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The Boss Who Stole Christmas (Reindeer Falls #1)
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Please bring me a new boss for Christmas. Mine is the worst. The worst, hidden in a six foot tall package of male perfection. It’d be easier if he looked like an old Scrooge, wouldn’t it?
Nick Saint-Croix doesn’t look like an old scrooge. He’s hot as-
Um, never mind. Just bring me a new boss. Please.
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My boss is the Grinch. A Scrooge. A Dursley amongst Harrys.
I’m sure of it, even if he doesn’t live on a cliff overlooking Whoville or own a dog named Max. Even if he doesn’t have an orphan named Harry living under his stairs. Even if he hasn’t cancelled the company Christmas party.
I bet he considered it.
He’s a misanthropic, mean-tempered jerk with a piece of coal where his heart should be. Confirmed Grinch. Mr Ebenezer Scrooge himself.
The worst, hidden in a six-foot-tall package of male perfection. It’d be easier if he looked like an old Scrooge, wouldn’t it? We’re predisposed to liking things that are pretty, to giving them the benefit of the doubt, like feral kittens. No matter how much they hiss or scratch, they’re just so darn adorable we still voluntarily pick them up and attempt to cuddle.
Nick Saint-Croix isn’t adorable.
He’s hot as—
“Miss Winter.” My thoughts are interrupted by none other than the Grinch himself. His voice is just as disarming as his looks. Smooth and confident. Seductive, like a plate full of your favorite Christmas cookies. The kind that take too long to make but they melt in your mouth and remind you of your childhood. If there was any justice his voice would sound like he swallowed a frog, but no. He’s got a warm baritone that tempts you to lean in, until the moment your brain catches up with your eardrums and reminds you that he’s awful and you’d give anything to make him stop talking. With a cookie or a sock or that ball gag you looked up online specifically for your make-him-shut-up fantasies.
“Were you planning on attending the ten o’clock meeting?” he continues without waiting for me to acknowledge his presence. “Or will you require the rest of the morning to finish reading my email? It can’t be more than a few hundred words and yet you can’t seem to tear yourself away from staring at it.”
For the record, it’s nine fifty-six and the conference room is a ten-second walk from my desk. And Nick Saint-Croix moves like a cat. I’d have heard him coming if I hadn’t been staring at his stupid email indulging in my fantasies about him developing a pot belly and turning green.
Please, Santa. It’s all I want for Christmas.
I turn in my chair and drag my gaze up to his face. He has the kind of looks that make women stop in their tracks. I know, because I’ve seen it happen time and again in this very office. There isn’t one particular feature that I can blame for his perfection, it’s all of them. Broad shoulders, narrow hips. Thick dark hair and brilliant green eyes. His eyes are the worst—the most annoying, attractive, mesmerizing shade of green. They remind me of Christmas itself, of evergreen trees and brightly wrapped packages. Until they narrow in one of his trademark cold glances.
Tall. He has me by half a foot when I’m in heels. Without them I’m reduced to the approximate size of one of Santa’s elves when standing next to Nick, not a feeling I enjoy, so I’ve taken to keeping heels in my desk drawer so I can change out of my practical boots and into heels the moment I got to work.
Designer suits, expensive watches. Arrogance he wears like a sexual call to arms. Whenever he makes direct eye contact with me I’m sure he’s capable of reading every last errant thought in my head. The ones I have about what he looks like under those designer suits blended together with the fantasies I have about him eating bad sushi for lunch.
A hot Grinch.
And with less than a month until Christmas he’s become extra Scrooge-like. Hence the email. The one demanding the presentation for the Friendly Llama campaign today—a full three days before the deadline. As if schedules and deadlines are of no interest to him and I can simply produce presentations from thin air.
I can, because I’ve become used to dealing with him, and staying two steps ahead of Mr. Saint-Croix has become my primary life goal. Both personally and professionally.
Speaking of my career, there’s one more thing you should know. I work at Flying Reindeer Toy Company. Which means my scrooge of a boss runs a toy company.
Actual toys, not sex toys.
Oh, the irony. A mean-tempered, childless man at the helm of the very toys that result in endless smiles and laughter and shrieks of joy amongst the tiny humans. He seems more suited for corporate finance. For the kind of takeovers that put mom-and-pops out of businesses and drain retirement accounts.
I’d never have taken this job if I’d met him beforehand. I worked for his uncle for three years. Lovely man. Not a clue how Nick turned out the way he did.
I bet he doesn’t even put up a Christmas tree.