The Spirit of Christmas

Her laughter seemed to really confuse him.

He glanced at Cheryl, who pressed her lips together as if she were afraid she’d join in the giggling, and asked, “Who is this?”

Mary Paige swallowed her laughter and struggled to fold her legs under her, praying the man wouldn’t spot her modern version of a girdle. Her heels failed to make traction so she looked even more awkward and her skirt rode even farther up her thighs.

Damn it.

His gaze zeroed in on the stretchy nude fabric, cutting into her white legs—yeah, her summer tan was long gone—and she saw the question in his gray eyes. He didn’t say anything as he made eye contact with her and extended a hand. She grabbed hold and let him haul her to her feet.

Again he asked, “Who are you?”

Creighton wore a bemused smile as she pointed to Mary Paige and said, “I think that’s your ten o’clock.”

Mary Paige pulled her hand away and jerked the skirt down where it should be—just above the knee. The elevator opened and Creighton gave them all a little finger wiggle and a cat-full-of-cream smile as she glided inside. The doors slid closed as Mary Paige, Cheryl and the grumpy sex god watched.

Mary Paige smoothed her hands against the shiny fabric of the chair and tried to smile, hopefully distracting him from the fact she’d wallowed like a sow on the floor of the lobby. “Um, slick chair, huh?”

The man bent and scooped up her checkbook, tube of lip gloss and cell-phone charger that had spilled from her purse when she’d taken her epic tumble. He passed them to her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She wasn’t sure if it was legitimate concern or more of a legal thing. “Yeah, my dignity’s a little bruised, but otherwise, I can walk.”

His stormy eyes perused her and it made her feel squirmy, not necessarily in a pervy way, but more in a crackly way. The man may have been fierce-looking, but he was abnormally handsome. If not a little scary. It wasn’t his size because he was a little over six feet, but it was the way his confidence oozed. No, not oozed. Conquered. The man conquered a room, demanding attention by his sheer presence.

She stuck out a clammy hand. “Hi, I’m Mary Paige Gentry. I’m to meet with Mr. Malcolm Henry, Jr.”

The man took her hand. “So you are our ten o’clock?”

She shrugged. How was she supposed to know who his ten-o’clock appointment was?

His touch was warm and dry, which was good considering her hand had started sweating. Coming here wearing a too-tight skirt for a meeting about two million dollars then sprawling onto the floor and showing her “light” support girdle didn’t inspire serenity in a gal. She waited for an introduction.

A little tremor went through him—subtle but noticeable—before he dropped her hand. “I’m Brennan Henry, Malcolm’s grandson. I’m also the VP of acquisitions, and I’ll be sitting in on this meeting. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see if I can find where my grandfather is hiding, and we can get down to brass tacks regarding this…venture.”

She nodded. He didn’t sound very pleased about this…venture, but she wasn’t so sure about it, either. When Mr. Henry had helped her from the icy pavement—thus establishing a habit of Henry men hauling up clumsy blondes who fell on their asses—he’d explained his idea for bringing the true meaning of the holiday season to the city. And it had sounded sweet but implausible.

After all, how could she be the Spirit of Christmas?

She was an accountant…not even a certified one at that. She had nothing special that would mark her as the epitome of, well, anything. She had blond hair that she highlighted herself every two months to save a buck, she shopped at bargain stores and grew her own herbs under a growing light. And not those kind of herbs. Basil, thyme and rosemary. She skipped to the end of books to find out if there was a happily ever after before she read them and her bottom was a little too big for her frame. She was plain ol’ Mary Paige from Crosshatch, Louisiana. Well, not even Crosshatch, considering she’d grown up on an organic farm five miles from the town-limit sign.

So how was she supposed to inspire the citizens of the city to be kinder, gentler and more loving as they enjoyed the holiday season?

Uh, yeah. Sounded like a really weird idea, but for two million dollars—money that could help more people than herself—Mary Paige supposed she could at the very least hear the man out.

Brennan held open the door from which he’d emerged minutes ago.

Well, at least he was a gentleman.

She slid by, praying she’d remembered to put on deodorant that morning. She really couldn’t recall, and she could feel the anxiety seeping from her pores. Like literally.

“This way,” he said, his voice all rich and yummy, like a vanilla cupcake—a particular favorite of hers and one of the reasons her bottom was a little jigglier than it should be. He might be aloof but his voice had a warm timbre, the kind made for reading bedtime stories. Yes, naughty bedtime stories.

She dashed the thought of Brennan in her bedroom from her mind and followed him to a room labeled Boardroom B, where Mr. Malcolm Henry, Jr. stood holding something aloft. Below him sat an adorable red dachshund, balancing on his back legs with front paws waving in begging fashion. Mr. Henry tossed the dog something, which it caught neatly, then turned to them with a sparkle in his bright blue eyes. “Miss Gentry, my own sweet Spirit of Christmas. You came.”

The older man looked much different than he had last night. The dapper navy suit with a whimsical red bow tie complemented his tanned skin, and the cordovan loafers had to be Italian—only because that’s what they always were on the wealthy men in the books she’d snuck from her mother’s bedside table.

“Good morning, Mr. Henry,” she said, moving close to the little dog looking up at the older man with expectant, beaded black eyes. “What a precious pup.”

She bent and held out a hand and the dog trotted to her, sniffed her hand and allowed her to pet him.

“Her name is Izzy,” Mr. Henry said, bending down and bestowing a kiss on the animal’s head. “She’s a good girl, aren’t you?”

A full minute was spent in admiration of Izzy, who rolled over and gave them her belly to scratch.

“I love dogs,” Mary Paige said, dutifully scratching Izzy’s satiny chest. “I had a golden retriever growing up. Toby was the best dog ever. He’s buried under our pink dogwood because he always loved that tree best.”

“Ahem.” The sound came from above them.

Mary Paige stopped prattling and glanced at Brennan Henry.

He appeared disgusted. “Do you two mind?”

“Sorry,” she said, standing and tugging her skirt. Again. “Never could resist a sweet face.”

Brennan pulled a chair out from the table for her as his grandfather headed around to the armchair at one end. The dog loyally trotted after him, curling at his feet with an adorable doggy sigh.

“Brennan isn’t fond of dogs,” Mr. Henry said with a secret smile.

“Well, you wouldn’t be, either, if you’d been humiliated at your tenth birthday party by a clown’s dog.”

Mr. Henry laughed. “That dog went to town on your leg, didn’t he?”

Brennan glowered. “I don’t think we need to bring that up. This is a meeting, right?”

Mary Paige sat—glad the chair had armrests to cling to—and hid a smile as she pulled hand sanitizer out of her purse and squirted some in her palm. She rubbed them together as Mr. Henry retold the story of his meeting Mary Paige, to which his grandson said a grand sum of…nothing.

As he’d finished talking about the check, the boardroom door opened and an older woman wearing an ivory suit entered. She carried several folders and a travel mug. “Apologies for being late. Don’s barking up my tree on these reports.”

The woman set her things opposite Mary Paige and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Ellen Bivens, vice president of communications and community relations.”

Mary Paige shook her hand and introduced herself, glad to have another woman to break up the testosterone oozing from one end of the boardroom table. Ellen looked to be around fifty years in age with a long face and quick smile. Mary Paige liked her on sight.

Mr. Henry cracked his knuckles. “Okay, time to talk turkey. This young woman is exactly the kind of person we wanted for this campaign. We’re pulling out the stops for this—TV, radio and print. Hell, we’re even using that social media everyone’s talking about. It’s time to bring goodness back to Christmas. Rip down the sparkly tinsel and self-serving commercialism. I want the world to know that Henry’s embraces the spirit of service as part of the season.”

Ellen nodded, flipping through a folder. “This campaign is brilliant. With so many other companies embracing ‘me,’ it’s a good strategy to focus on this season being a time of sharing with others, reveling in the spirit of community, a time—”

“For making lots of money,” Brennan added.

Mary Paige glared at the sexy grandson with his fingers tented in front of him.