“I see.”
“Okay, so back to me,” she says. “It’s a total pleasure working for West Media, and I must say that I’m so honored by the generous opportunities that you—”
I hang up the phone when she’s mid-sentence. I have more important things to do.
Sighing, I walk over to the coffee table and pick up the card from Savannah’s re-gift to reread it.
Happy Holidays!
Since you’ve always wondered what it’s like to ride your boss’s face, I decided to be a bit more proactive and help you out!
THIS will take care of all that tension that radiates off the two of you. I even had his name engraved on the side of it since you talk about him so much.
This is also more than perfect for all those times when you wished he would just “shut the hell up and just fuck [me] against the wall.”
(You said that in Punta Cana when we were drunk last year, BTW. I remember!)
Love, Georgia
(& your Boss! Bahahahaha!)
(I still got you a sweater, FYI. I’m sending it after New Year’s, though.)
I know there’s no way she initially realized what she gave me, but something tells me that she knows at this point. And she has to see that I’m more than onboard for this.
I always have been.
Beyond aroused and impatient, I send her a text message.
Me: It’s 10:20, Savannah. Are you on your way? I’d still like to discuss some things with you.
S. Grey (Mine): No. Something came up.
I know. Come here so you can see it. Those are the words I’m about to send, but a series of text messages from an unknown number cross my screen first.
555-8709: These text messages never happened. I do not know you, Mr. West, and you do not know me.
555-8709: **But** someone we have in common accidentally re-gifted something that you were never meant to see.
Me: I’m aware of that, Georgia. Hello. Hope you’re well.
555-8709: No comment on the name you assume belongs to me.
555-8709: I just want you to know that I totally made up whatever I wrote for Savannah in that card. (If it’s not too much to ask, can you kindly send me a picture of it? I really don’t remember, and she’s panicking, and I promised her that it’s not that bad. Actually, can you try to rewrite a different message in my handwriting if it is bad so I can use that instead?)
I laugh and snap a picture of the card, honoring her request.
She responds within seconds.
555-8709: Um, yeah. So, I’m never going to show her/own up to writing this.
Even better.
TWELVE
Savannah
This Christmas
Manhattan, New York
“Have a great trip, Miss!”
“You too, sir.” I step out of a cab at LaGuardia International, brushing snowflakes off my coat. The fact that I was in this exact spot a year ago en route to Punta Cana isn’t lost on me, but I can’t focus on that right now.
My mind is still spinning in a million directions, and I can’t focus on a single thought to save my life.
Hometown for the office party. Grandma Hattie. Parents won’t be there. Georgia’s vibrator. Garrett.
GARRETT.
I walk through security and find a seat at the gate. I decide to get a pretzel before takeoff, and stop walking when I see Garrett coming toward me.
“Do you have some type of tracking device on me?” I ask.
“No, I just know you.” He smiles. “The only thing I don’t know is why you’re not at the private airport with the rest of the team. Can you explain that to me?”
“Yes, I uh—” I try to look away from him, but it’s no use. He looks more devilish and tempting than usual, and the sinful scent of his cologne is making me want to lean in closer.
“You uh, what? Where’s the rest of your sentence?”
“I decided that it would be best if I flew commercial for this trip. I figured I could save you three hundred dollars.”
“Three hundred dollars?” His lips curve into a smirk. “On a five-million-dollar budget?”
“Well, it’s actually three hundred and twenty-four dollars, but I’m rounding down for effect. Every dollar counts, you know. Companies can easily go broke by losing a few cents over time.”
He stares at me for several seconds, looking amused.
“Savannah.”
“Mr. West.”
“Okay, Miss Grey.” He pauses. “Although I truly appreciate your concern for my multi-million-dollar budget, but I can assure you that you don’t need to fly commercial for this trip. I’d prefer that you didn’t so we can have the conversation we were supposed to have in my condo two days ago.”
“I’ve already purchased the ticket on the company card.”
“I’ll call and get a refund.”
Silence.
“Did you book this place on purpose?” I ask. “You know that I hate going home, and you know how I feel about my family. I’m pretty sure I’ve told you that they hate me for not coming around for eight years…They hate me.”