Jennifer LaBrecque - Mistletoe Madness

With so few gifts still on the table, he quickly spotted his. He carried the gold gift bag embossed with silver evergreens back to his seat. He pushed aside the tissue. What the…? Laughter welled up inside him and erupted.

He pulled out a huge oversize bib, and the department laughed along with him.

“I’m sure it was someone who wished they got Tatiana’s name and was hoping I’d loan this to her,” he said.

The rest of the department opened their gifts-more of the same tasteful, boring stuff. Soon enough the group dispersed and Cole stopped by Tatiana’s office.

“I wanted to stop by and offer you the bib.” He held the gift bag in the air.

She acknowledged his salute by arching her eyebrows over her cat-green eyes. “How thoughtful, but no, thank you.”

“Just trying to be helpful. What time is dinner tonight?”

“I made reservations for seven-thirty.” She pushed the Idiot’s Guide to the edge of her desk, toward him. “Feel free to borrow it. You’ve got enough time to read a couple of chapters. Every little bit should help.” She treated him to another pretense of a smile.

“Generous, as always.”

She had the absolutely sexiest mouth on the planet. A hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with her full lower lip gnawed at him. Just once.Just a taste. He didn’t need to eat an entire crème brûlée to appreciate the mastery-or lack thereof-behind it.

Cole found it amusingly paradoxical that of all the millions of women inhabiting the greater island of Manhattan and the areas immediately beyond, the viper-tongued Tatiana was the one who revved his engine. Or maybe it was simply getting to be a tendency to want what was deemed off-limits. First the job.Now the woman?

He planted his hands on her desk and leaned over the sleek expanse of glass that showcased her legs in those boots. Any other woman would have shrunk back as he blatantly invaded her space. Tatiana didn’t budge. Dammit, she brought out the absolute worst in him. He leaned closer still until her breath, warm and minty, mingled with his own. He glanced down through her glass desk. “Are you going to wear those boots?”

“Do you want me to?” Jesus, the way she’d said it left him aching. Her voice was low, husky, seductive…and he wasn’t fooled for a minute.

“Hmm. I suspect you don’t play fair.”

“And you do?” She looked pointedly at his hands braced on her desk, his blatant encroachment of her personal space.

Well, there was that. He straightened, leaving behind the tempting proximity of her full mouth and her scent. “If I say I want you to wear them, you’ll be sure to leave them at home. If I say no, you’ll be sure to wear them. Surprise me.”

Genuine amusement lit her eyes.

“Always. Close my door on the way out, would you?”

Let the battle commence.

Tatiana gave the cab driver the address and pulled out her compact to check her makeup. This was work. Not a dinner date. Not an assignation. Work, plain and simple. But, really, she didn’t show up for dinner looking like a hag, regardless of whether it was work or play. And she was not “prettying up” for Cole Mitchell.

She took care of a mascara smear beneath her right eye and refreshed her lipstick even though it looked pretty good, all things considered. Long-wearing lipsticks were a woman’s best friend.

Her hair? Well it was just there. She’d hated the tight corkscrew curls and the dark red color that had plagued her during adolescence. She’d longed for a fall of straight honey-blond hair like that of Rena Pitman who’d sat ahead of her in freshman algebra. Rena’s mane had taunted her relentlessly through complex equations. The same way Rena’s pert little nose had taunted her. Rena’d pretty much embodied every physical trait opposite of Tatiana’s-which was, of course, exactly how Tatiana longed to look.

That was many moons ago, and while she knew she was no great beauty, she’d learned to embrace the traits that were hers alone and set her apart. Or, in the words of Grandma Rumasky, making the most of what God gave her, crazy hair and big nose included. She’d finally stopped being intimidated by the Rena Pitmans and Elles of the world.

She snapped the compact closed and slipped it into her purse. She was within a block and a half of the restaurant.

“Hey, let me off at this corner,” she instructed the cabbie and gathered her shopping bags. She’d walk the rest of the way. It wasn’t hip to admit, but she adored Christmas in New York-all of it. The rampant commercialism, the crowds of shoppers, Santa wannabes clogging the corners, the bell-ringers seeking donations for those less fortunate, the decorations. She simply got too caught up in her obligations sometimes and forgot to enjoy the season.

She paid the driver, pocketed her receipt and turned west toward the restaurant. She shivered into her wool coat and skirted an icy patch on the sidewalk. It was a little colder than she’d thought, but she’d warm up in a minute.

Half a block down, a big yellow school bus sat at the opposite curb loading what must’ve been at least thirty Santas milling about on the sidewalk. It struck her as an only-in-New-York moment. Where were they going, night school for St. Nicks?

She was still smiling when she spotted Cole outside the restaurant. A tremor ran through her. There was something about a man in a black winter coat, even if it was Cole Mitchell. He looked up, and for a split second an unguarded moment shimmered between them, devoid of hostility.

“Hi.” His breath hung like smoke in the cold air.

“Hello,” she said, her breath mingling with his. “Why aren’t you inside where it’s warm?”

“I didn’t want to miss you and I didn’t want you to get here and wait outside, thinking that I hadn’t arrived yet.”

No. This was wrong-and dangerous. She didn’t want to discover any underlying gallantry in Cole. He could save it for someone else. She didn’t like him. She wasn’t going to like him. End of story. “Whatever. Before we go in, I’m Tempest Altman.” Some food critics didn’t use pseudonyms when dining out, but she felt she couldn’t do her best job without anonymity. Once she’d written a less-than-flattering piece when a chef refused to take back an overcooked fish. After the piece came out, the chef remarked he’d have taken it back had he known who she was. Case in point. How could she write an honest piece if restaurants afforded her preferential treatment?

“Tempest suits you.”

“It’s my middle name.”

“Your parents must have been psychic.”

Ha. She was one of the least tempestuous people she knew, except when it came to him. “Apparently I kicked a lot when my mom was pregnant. And I was breach.”

“Why doesn’t this surprise me?” He snapped his fingers. “Maybe because you’re the most contrary woman I ever met.”

Tatiana had a mental image of vacant-minded beauties parading through his past. “From you, I’ll consider that a compliment. I’m sure your ideal woman is a twit.”

“Twit? You wound me, Tempest. Truly.” He clutched at his chest, and it was so ridiculous that had it been anyone else, she would’ve laughed at his melodrama. But he wasn’t anyone else. He was Cole, whose dad had wrangled his esteemed position at Connoisseur, the same position she’d worked her ass off for. “And for your dining pleasure tonight, I’m Mitch Coleman.” He grinned and added under his breath, “It’s easy enough for my simple mind to keep up with.”

“Well, that is a consideration. If you’re done with the theatrics, I’d like to go in before my feet turn to ice.”

He bowed mockingly from his waist and opened the door for her. “After you.”