Seven Minutes in Heaven. That was the game kids used to play for a poor excuse to kiss their crush—if they were lucky. The adult version is Under the Mistletoe, and it’s a hyped-up adult version of the same. Same rules apply, but with different props. Instead of hiding in a closet, two unfortunate souls are peer-pressured into standing under a stupid, dangling piece of mistletoe nailed to an archway to share a kiss.
It’s me. I’m the unfortunate soul tonight. I can’t say the same for Niles. He seems pretty damn happy about the whole thing. And why wouldn’t he? He’s been the underdog for as long as I’ve known him, which is in the ballpark of five months, but it’s pretty obvious that he’s the office nerd. No dates, no history of torrid affairs, no drunken stories to tell. The guy is as straightlaced as they come, right down to his pressed slacks and combed back hair.
I have to admit, though, he does have some killer green eyes. One of the lucky two percent of the world’s population, the bastard.
I look up into those eyes now, wondering how in the world I got myself into this mess. Then I remember it happened somewhere between the RumChata and Marisa’s mixed cocktails that were more like fireballs tearing out the lining of my throat as they clawed their way down my esophagus.
Office parties are the shit. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. And if they aren’t, then you’re not working in the right one.
Five years ago, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit in terms of workplaces and people. Then I got fired for making a pass at my boss, and just when I thought I’d never find another Cinderella shoe like that one, I stumbled upon the little diamond called Fairweather Corporation, and while I have no earthly clue what they do or how they do it beyond the paperwork I push, it became an unexpected second home away from home.
So the whole point of this brief walk down memory lane is that there’s no way in hell I can shirk my responsibilities of kissing Mr. Niles Prescott tonight or any night because, at this early stage in my career with this company, I can’t afford to not be a team player. If that means swapping spit with a pasty version of Urkel, then so be it. Bring on the smooches!
Niles stands nervously in front of me, biting a thin lower lip, while our buddies watch on, jeering at us to “do it, do it,” and I know it’s now or never.
I waggle an eyebrow, take a step closer, and Niles takes an audible breath as I reach up to his lofty height and take his gentle face between my hands. “Kiss me like you mean it,” I tell him as I lift onto my toes and bring my mouth to his.
Hosted by Enticing Journey Book Promotions