I clear my throat, wiping the lone tear that escaped my eye with my shoulder. Anytime I think of them, no matter how many years have passed, it’s always hard.
My dad died when I was twelve. He was already well on his way to the grave before I was conceived from his long years of smoking and a poor diet, but he held out for as long as he could. And my mom... Well, she passed away the year I started college, two days before Christmas. I think living without her soulmate took a toll and she waited until she knew I’d be okay.
And I am okay. I mean, I’m as good as I can be. There will always be so much I wish I could ask her, and even more that I want to tell her. I still sometimes forget how I like my steak, or which generic detergent is as good as the name brand. And since my mother and me had totally opposite personalities, I know she’d have some good advice about my current situation. She was the calm wind to slow my raging waters for so long.
She’d tell me exactly what the hell I’m supposed to do to combat the vicious man who signs the checks that pay my rent.
But she’s not here. And when I talk to the stars at night, they don’t answer. So while I’d normally think I'm left to navigate the horrible waves his winds cause and hope for the best, something’s different today.
The snow. It makes me recall something she’d said when she saw through my fake smile about the terrifying snowman.
Things aren’t always going to be pretty, dove. Some things we get excited about, and work very hard to create, don't always match up to our expectations. Sometimes, it’s even a little scary. But at the end of the day, as long as you did the best you could, be proud. Because I’m sure as heck proud of you. And who knows, maybe one day, you’ll move somewhere where the snow is soft, and you can make a real snowman.
Without working for Roman, I wouldn’t have met Charlotte, and without her, I wouldn’t have been brave enough to do something I’ve wanted for a long time.
This place. It’s my icy snowman that gives me nightmares. But one day, I’ll get to make one like Frosty.
Until then, I guess it’s a good thing I’ve learned to love scary movies.
I love pissing people off.
Always have, and probably always will. It’s been a long-time fascination of mine how someone can let another person affect them in such a way, that it dictates their entire mood. For most people I encounter, it’s a funny occurrence, something I forget the moment I leave them. But there is one person who I make it a point to aggravate and think about her tuffy expression long after she storms away—the redhead, my little personal assistant, Miss Presley Cartier.
Garnering a reaction out of her is something like a hobby of mine. Or perhaps more like a running record I have, where I add an invisible tally mark every time I successfully piss her off. And then when I become bored, doing nothing more than swiveling in my chair at my desk, I contemplate what I can do next to invoke the best responses out of her.
Why? Because I’m an asshole. It’s how I was raised—by my asshole father.
It’s a toxic cycle I find too time consuming to break. It is what it is, and I am what I am. I don't dig deep into my past childhood traumas to figure out why making my PA’s life hell gives me more pleasure than landing a big client. I don’t psychoanalyze how when her pale cheeks turn pink, my dick gets hard. Or when she stomps out of my office, her ass jiggles obscenely and I picture it bent over my knee, wiggling from my hand slapping across the smooth surface.
I don’t care why I do it because I don’t plan to stop anytime soon. It’s not as if I can sleep with an employee, especially in the way I’d want to with Presley, so riling her up is the next best thing.
It could also be because I have a thing for getting a smart-mouthed and strong-willed woman to submit. A dangerous affliction, but worth it a million times over. And though Miss Cartier puts on a pretty good front, I can see behind her faux exterior. She’s nothing more than a brat looking for a little guidance.
“Sir.” The secretary’s sweet, maternal voice comes over my phone’s intercom, putting a halt to my wayward thoughts. “I have a list from Tabitha on what else needs to be done for the staff holiday party.”
A grin splits across my face, the idea formulating before I even mutter my thanks.
My hands twitch at my sides, eagerness sweeping through me at the thought of sending my assistant the new list. But watching the way her face contorts as both defiance and submission fight for control is too good a thing to not witness in person.
Still, I wouldn't mind warming her up.
I grab my cell from the glass desk and type a quick message. Around this time, I’m sure she’s getting my lunch, and now that I’m thinking about it, I’m more in the mood for chili, thanks to the weather.
After I press send, I turn back to the computer, tapping the spacebar to bring the screen to life. I click through a few marketing reports and potential deals, then scroll through a few influencers’ pages.
Though I have an obsession with enraging the small woman, I can say she does a damn good job at what I initially hired her for. She delegates everything to the right departments and inflicts deadlines shorter than the ones I give her to allow for accuracy checks. Her reports are always perfect, too.
Which leaves me nothing to do.
I steeple my hands, leaning my elbows on the armrest, then turn my chair to gaze out the window. It’s darker now, the sun hidden under a vast sheet of clouds, and a steady stream of flurries has begun to fall. From the looks of it, we’ll have a thick sheet of snow when Christmas rolls around in a few days.
Mom and Dad will probably be miserable. They hate the cold, always venturing off somewhere warm and sandy when the first wave of chilly weather flows through. As soon as I was old enough to be left alone with the nanny for weeks on end, they were on the first plane to the Bahamas or Jamaica. Sometimes Barbados and Grenada.
My nannies were left to feed me, take me to school, ensure I did my work and made my soccer games. With so much idle time, and nothing to keep myself busy in-between the lax schedule, I learned a thing or two about people. I became overly observant about their mannerisms, their habits, and their tells. It was then I figured out they could be ruled by their emotions—controlled even, when enraged.
My nannies let me frustrate them with my experimental defiance or with my foul mouth and stubborn palate. I pushed about six of the women to quit over the next few years, and it was then I realized I wasn’t a fan of completely compliant women. They weren’t much fun.