Snow and Mistletoe(4)

My options are running out. No, not running out. I have none. Zero. I’m screwed. Maybe I can call and explain and make him understand. I decide to give it a shot. I call Alex. It’s something I’ve never done before because he always calls me. The phone rings six times before going to voice mail, making me wonder what he’s doing. I roll my eyes, thinking it’s none of my business.

He’s probably sitting in front of a fire with his family or girlfriend, eating cookies and having an oh-so-perfect Christmas. I’m sure it’s like one of those sappy romance novels I’ve narrated before.

Plopping down on the couch, I begin mourning the loss of the best contract I’ve ever had. Screw that. It isn’t the job I’m sad about losing, it’s him. He seems to have this weird hold on me. How have I latched myself onto someone I barely know? Someone who never shares anything personal about themselves, even when I try to pull things from him. Sometimes I feel like it is there on the tip of his tongue, but it just never comes.

When my phone rings, it makes me jump off the couch and hurriedly pick it up without looking to see who it is.

“Alex?” I say into the phone, hating the way my voice comes out all breathy like I just ran a mile.

“Who’s Alex?” my mom chirps into the phone, making me drop back down onto the couch.

“No one, Mom.” The lie easily rolls off my tongue. I don’t want to get into it with her about an imaginary relationship with a man who is essentially my boss. She’d ask me what he looks like, how often we went out, on and on. All things I couldn’t answer, and that’s when she’d really start in on me about being more social and how I should maybe talk to a head shrinker to see what was wrong with me.

Nothing is wrong with me. I’m just a homebody. I haven’t found a person who wants to be a homebody with me yet. The future isn’t looking too great on me finding one either. Not when I’m daydreaming about a man I’ve never even met.

“Doesn’t sound like nobody,” she says, poking again, but I know she means well. I may not click with my mom and dad, but they love me.

“Just a client. I’m working on a last-minute project, and I need to talk to him, but can’t get a hold of him.” I give her a little honest information, hoping it will end the questions and we can change the topic. I reach for one of the cookies on the plate I’d set out on the coffee table and take a bite. The sweetness does nothing to make me feel better. I’m going to need cake for that.

“He’s probably with his family like you should be. Is this project the reason you decided not to join us? I bet you took on a job just so you couldn’t come this Christmas.” The huff in her voice is one I’m all too used to. It works better on my father than me.

“I wasn’t invited.” I don’t mention that I don’t even know where they are right now. Since I moved out, my mom stopped with the big parties and moved on to spending Christmas in random places in fancy hotels.

“You’re always invited.” The hurt in her voice makes me feel instantly guilty. I know I’m always invited, but it still burned I didn’t get a call or something. “Didn’t you get my card?”

“Ahh,” I muddle, dropping the cookie back onto the plate and heading towards the front door entryway. I keep a basket on the table there and always throw my mail in it. I’m looking at the pile as my mom tells me what they’re doing and how she wishes I was there.

I never go through that basket until it’s practically overflowing. Most of it is normally junk anyway. All my bills are paid online. Who needs mail? If it doesn’t come in an Amazon box, I’m not interested. It goes into the mail basket. I go through it about once a month when it starts to overfill and spill onto the table, leaving me no choice.

Digging through it, I search for cards, pulling out a sad total of three, while my mom continues to rattle on about Paris. Most people get tons of cards that they line their fireplaces with or cover their refrigerator with. The first card is a generic one from my dentist, but the second one stops me dead. His name is handwritten on the top-left corner. No stupid stamp or printed-out label. Alex Lockwood.

Even his writing is sexy and masculine, making me warm all over.

“Mom, I’ve got to go. Merry Christmas. I love you.” I rudely cut my mom off as she lists off the people she and Dad are seeing tomorrow. I didn’t have a clue who any of them were anyway, and I’ve got more pressing matters on my hands.

I open the card, careful not to rip the envelope too much, wanting to keep it as perfect as possible. The front of the card shows a pretty snow scene—a simple cabin with snow falling all around it. Above the picture-perfect wintery image is Merry Christmas, written in a rustic font.

Printed inside is a simple May all your Christmas wishes come true. But below that, written in that distinctive handwriting, is what grabs my attention.

To the sweetest voice I know.

xoxo

Alex.

My heart starts to race at the simple words, and I trace my finger over the xoxo. Maybe he was just being nice, but was it normal to tell a woman she has the sweetest voice he knew and add hugs and kisses, or was he flirting with me? Or am I once again making too much out of this? There were just as many hugs as there were kisses. Of course he’d comment on my voice. That’s what I do for him, after all. Maybe he did cards for everyone at work, like the stupid dentist card I got. For all I know, he has a secretary who does them and he just signs them.