Santa’s Pucking Hat Trick (The Forbidden Reverse Harem Collection)

5. Rachel

5

RACHEL

“ I ’m gonna murder Bria,” I hissed between my teeth as I trudged back inside the house after a long day. I threw down my purse and flopped onto a bar stool in my mother’s kitchen, where she seemed to be organizing all of her different festive Tupperware containers so she could decide which ones she’d overused and needed to throw away. It was a tradition every year before she started to plan her Christmas cookie deliveries to all of the locals. She was getting started far earlier than usual.

“Did the interview not go well?” Mom asked without looking up.

“She literally had me interview for a freaking elf position at the Santa’s workshop thing at the mall,” I explained. “No wonder she kept emphasizing that I should ‘keep an open mind.’”

“Oh, honey, you know she’s just trying to help,” my mom said breezily as she whisked a newly organized stack of containers off the counter and into one of her soft-close kitchen cabinets. “Steve, did you clean out the gutters like I asked?”

My dad’s voice came closer as he walked into the room, looking chipper. “Of course, dear. Spic and span.” He passed me at the kitchen counter on his way to the fridge, and he stopped to give me a kiss on the top of my head. We fell into a newly revitalized habit of chatting about our days, with me having to relay every terrible detail of the interview that had been a complete waste of my time, until my brother came bursting into the house like a happy little tornado.

“Rach, you’d better stay sitting, because I have amazing news,” he gushed as he came in to give our mom a hug. Mom beamed in satisfaction that she had her son trained so well, and then a slightly out of breath Michael flopped onto the bar stool next to mine. “I found you a job. Well, an interview for one. It’s perfect, but you can thank me later.”

I blinked at him, too spiritually exhausted by the past few days since I’d been home to share his excitement. He huffed, then continued.

“You’ve got an interview tomorrow morning for the marketing and PR director gig with the Santas.” His grin was half wicked, and my stomach sank as my parents started to buzz with happiness about this new development.

“See, honey? You’d be perfect for that gig, hockey knowledge notwithstanding,” my dad asserted. “I knew it’d all work out. Mistletoe has more to offer than you used to think, huh?”

Ugh, not this again. My dad was a born and bred Mistletonian, and he never understood why I’d dreamed of moving to a bigger city, someplace with museums and better shopping and more appeal than a little permanent Christmas town, when I was a little girl. I remembered working with him on minor repairs to our family cars and regaling him with my future travel plans while he tried to share fun facts about the town I’d lived in all my life. As if I didn’t already know about the famous Mistletoe specific candy cane variety or the annual export of Douglas fir.

As my parents and brother all expressed their excitement about my inevitable landing of this job with the Santas, I kept my mouth shut and faked a smile, using every bit of mental energy I had to make sure none of them suspected how I really felt. That I had no interest in working with the Santas, or any sports team, really. That the thought of having a job that could turn into an actual career here in Mistletoe terrified me that I’d never abandon the safety of that to follow whatever dreams I may have. And that I was sure this marketing gig would involve at least some interaction with the obnoxious hockey bros I had no interest in seeing again. If Roman Jett flashed me that annoyingly hot fucking tongue ring again, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.

“That’s…amazing, Mike. Thank you,” I told my brother.

“So you’ll take the interview?” he asked, and he cheered and swept me into a hug when I told him yes.

Luckily, with the quick turnaround of Michael’s nepotistic efforts, I didn’t have too long to stew on the prospect of the Santas’ job. The next morning, I arrived a minute past the hour to my interview—I’d worked too hard at school and everything for most of my life to really let myself throw my chances, but this felt like a small rebellion. At least Lulu in HR was sweet as the team manager and some other suit lobbed me softball questions about my experience in marketing.

“You’ll see on my resume that I just recently finished a prestigious internship back in my college town,” I said almost robotically as I handed copies of said resume to each of the interviewers. “While I don’t have specific athletics experience, I think my skills speak for themselves.”

Another small attempt to not get hired for this gig—I knew it was a bad idea to directly draw attention to any ways that I wasn’t as knowledgeable as some other candidates may be. But to my dismay, all three of the interviewers just nodded and looked down at my resume with matching impressed expressions, and I had to swallow down my desire to start lying. Oh, I also have a heavy drinking problem and it’s against my religion to work on Tuesdays, Fridays, or any other day that ends in Y. Hope you understand!

It was a nice fantasy, but honestly, by the time the interview was wrapping up, I feared it may not be enough to keep them from picking me. There was an air of desperation in all of their eyes when Ray Parker, the team manager, told me gruffly, “I know this isn’t the most traditional way to go about things, but with the season starting soon, we’d really like to get the ball rolling. Or the puck, so to speak,” he chuckled and my heart started racing, my inner monologue saying, Please don’t do what I think you’re doing .

“We’d love to offer you the position, Ms. Henning. When can you start?”

Fears: validated. And hell, what was I supposed to do? Turn down a job in my preferred field that paid pretty well and would make my entire family happy?

“Um … thank you. I—I accept.”

For now, at least. I was more determined than ever to make sure this was just a temporary thing, though I hadn’t had the guts to tell them that while they were interviewing me. Maybe then I wouldn’t be in this situation.

Half in a daze after the quick turnaround of everything, including the conversation where we established that I’d start Monday, I started to walk out of the office. One of the interviewers—Jerry something, whose title I forgot the second it came out of his mouth—graciously went with me.

“We’re so excited to have you, Rachel,” he said, finally using my first name as I’d asked them all to do. “And the timing is perfect because we actually already have your first big assignment lined up. Of course, you don’t start until Monday, but if you’d like to start brainstorming a bit, I’d love to let you in on what that will entail.”

I may not have been excited to work for my brother’s hockey team, but I had always liked a challenge, and it would be good to have a project for my idle post-grad brain to focus on.

“Sure,” I agreed, and then we were in the hallway, and Jerry destroyed any hope that this job could be better than I thought.

“Ah, Roman! I was just telling our new marketing director about you,” he said to someone over my shoulder, and sure enough, when I turned around, Roman Jett was leaning against the wall, his nearly black hair falling just so over his forehead, his sculpted arms on display as he crossed them over his toned chest.

“Rachel Henning, meet your new project, Roman Jett. We’re working on rehabilitating his image to one that’s more in line with the family-friendly Skatin’ Santas’ brand.”

There was literally no worse first assignment I could think of. Dealing with this gorgeous fuckboy, trying to convince the town of Mistletoe and hockey fans across the country that he wasn’t the absolute worst…now I had a suspicion about why they’d been so eager to hire me. Clearly, this was a job no one else wanted. A job everyone else was too smart to take on.

I never thought I was stupid before, but damn, I guess my dad was right: you really did learn something new every day.

“I’ll give the two of you a moment to get acquainted. Lovely to meet you, Rachel, and I look forward to working together.”

Then Jerry what’s-his-name was striding off in the opposite direction, and I was left face-to-face with Roman. Again.

“Couldn’t resist the urge to see me again, huh?” he asked me at a low purr that annoyingly went straight to my lady bits. Those eyes of his, a unique shade of gray green with dark lashes, were devastating, especially with the sinfully flirtatious expression he always wore. “Welcome to the team, baby. I look forward to us getting to know each other for real.”

I wanted nothing more than to snap back at him for using such a familiar, clearly lascivious tone. To tell him to fuck off, that I never wanted to see him the first time, and I certainly had no interest in working as closely with him as this job would entail. But now I was employed by the team, and professionalism came first. I held my tongue, keeping my spine straight and my gaze directly on his, saying nothing.

And the worst part about it? Something about him calling me baby in that low voice, about the way he was looking at me—because of course he disregarded all sense of professional politeness and raked his eyes down my body like he could see straight through my clothes to my overheated skin—was hot enough that I felt a surge of heat. There was even embarrassing wetness pooling between my thighs.

Jesus, how could I last working in the same building as this man every day? It wasn’t even my first day on the job, and I already hated it here.