Chapter Eleven
At precisely 10:30 the next day, Gem burst into the foyer wearing a flashing Santa hat and a long, silver beard.
“Santa! Is! HERE!” She boomed.
Bailey looked up from the book she was reading, blinking at the spectacle before her. There was a moment of silence. And then she said, “Your beard is falling off.”
With a huff, Gem pulled down the elastic and let the long, silver curls hang around her neck. “The bloody thing’s too big for my face,” she griped.
“It looks better as chest hair anyway.”
“Shut up. You are now my elf! Insubordination will not be tolerated.”
With a resigned chuckle, Bailey slipped a pen between the pages of her book—Sister Mine—and pushed it aside. “I assume you have a task for me, then, Santa?”
“Indeed I do.” Gem took off her rucksack and plonked it on the desk. It was partially unzipped, a profusion of scarlet and gold tinsel spilling from its depths. “Today, we decorate the office!”
“Oh, Lord.”
“It’ll be just like this.” Gem swept her hand grandly about the room. “But better! Because I got more tinsel!”
The woman’s enthusiasm was almost enough to make Bailey forget the dark cloud hanging over her head. Almost, but not quite. “Um… Did you ask Cash about this?”
“No.” Gem shrugged. “He won’t care. He loves Christmas! Where is he, anyway?”
“He’s not in yet.” Thank God.
“Weird. Well, whatever. We can do it now! It’ll be a surprise. Come on!”
“I don’t think I should leave the phone…”
“It’ll be fine! If anyone calls they can just leave a message.” Gem skipped around the desk to grab Bailey’s hands, dragging her up. “Please, please, please?”
An unwilling smile curved Bailey’s lips. “Fine. But we have to be quick.”
“Yay!” Gem turned to scurry up the stairs, her beard bouncing and her rucksack emitting suspicious jangling sounds.
With friends like this, who had time to waste thinking about confusing, arsehole men? Or their wide, firm lips? Or the scruff of their stubble, or the heat of their big hands, or—
Oh.
Oops.
∞∞∞
Life was full of little blessings. For example: having a whole morning free the day after you fucked up your chances with the sexiest woman on earth.
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Not always in that order.
Cash had planned on sleeping in, but his brain wasn’t down that with that idea. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep all night, and the sunrise didn’t make things any better; his mind was running like Usain Bolt on speed. Every time he closed his eyes, snapshots flashed up like something out of a film. Bailey. Bailey. Bailey.
He refused to draw her again.
But hanging around the house glaring at the furniture wasn’t helping the situation. He needed to know how she felt. If she’d be furious or cold. Sharp or dismissive. The anticipation of pain was always worse than the pain itself, right?
So he decided to go to work early. He could get some admin done, anyway. He was being responsible, really. And he didn’t have anything better to do.
Or anyone better to see.
But when Cash arrived at Fallen, his heart stuttering in his chest, he found the front desk empty. Suddenly terrified, he walked over, searching for some indication that Bailey had been here—that she was just out for an early lunch, or brunch, or some such nonsense—that she hadn’t abandoned him completely. That he hadn’t driven her away.
When he saw the book resting on the edge of the desk, he sighed with relief. Its cover was a psychedelic swirl of colour, interspersed with a guitar, a skull, and a pair of women who hovered like ghosts. He had no idea what the fuck it could possibly be about, but it was definitely the kind of thing Bailey would read.
Hope blooming from the wasteland in his chest, Cash headed up the stairs. She hadn’t left. She wouldn’t leave. He’d have a chance to fix this somehow—to take them back to the easy, unspoken attraction that had existed between them when she was just a barista and he was just a customer.
That old, simple sweetness had nothing on the memory of her lips beneath his. But it was a hell of a lot safer.
As Cash drew closer to the office, he heard voices: Gem’s babbling chatter, the kind that came out when she was truly comfortable and carefree; Steve’s wry mutterings, a little more confident than usual; and finally, Bailey’s laughter. That was quickly becoming his favourite sound.
A grin spreading across his face, Cash pushed the door fully open and barrelled into the room.
Bailey was directly opposite him, facing the window, balanced precariously on his chair—his wheeled chair—as she wrapped a length of tinsel around the curtain pole. The chatter paused as Gem and Steve noticed his arrival, and the silence made her turn.
He knew exactly what would happen. He saw it all before his eyes like some kind of vision. And then, before he could do a damned thing about it, premonition became reality.
“Cash,” she said, the same way you might say, “Chlamydia?!” after the doctor read out your test results.
And then she faltered, and the chair wobbled, and her feet got caught up in the stream of scarlet tinsel, and she fell.
Cash dashed across the room, mounting his desk in a leap he barely felt, so that he was kneeling on the scarred wood when Bailey landed squarely in his arms. Her hip slammed into his gut with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and her outstretched arm smacked him square in the face, knocking little shreds of tinsel loose from the bunch she held in her fist. One gleaming, gold piece wedged itself between his lashes, irritating the fuck out of his eye.
But all he could do was stare down at her face. She was panting, gazing up at him with parted lips, and he thought he saw that look again. The look that said, My hero. And he’d been ready to see Bailey pissed, or scathing, but not like this. He’d never be ready to see her like this.
His movements brisk, he pushed her off of his lap, holding her steady as she regained her feet. “You okay?” He asked tersely.
She nodded.
Cash blinked the tinsel out of his eyes and clambered awkwardly off the desk, glaring at nothing and no-one in particular.
Nobody spoke. Gem stared. Steve stared. Bailey looked firmly down at the floor. And Cash felt his temper flare.
“What the hell is going on in here?” He said tightly.
“We’re decorating,” Gem near-whispered.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Cash took a deep breath. The last thing he’d ever do was shout at Gem for doing something he wanted her to do. But Jesus fucking Christ. His fury bubbling over, Cash turned on Steve.
“Why the fuck are you letting the girls climb on chairs?”
Steve held up his hands. “I wanted to help. But they wouldn’t let me.”
“We’re not children,” Bailey said, finally speaking. But her wide-eyed admiration was all gone. She was firmly back to disgust. “Steve doesn’t let us do anything.”
“Gem is an apprentice,” Cash said, clinging to the edge of his patience. “You are a receptionist. Steve is a senior artist. And half a foot taller than both of you.” He felt his voice rising to unacceptable levels; reigned it in; controlled the beast. His next breath felt like barbed wire dragged over raw skin. He took another. And another. When he spoke again, he sounded a hell of a lot calmer than he really was. “In future,” he ground out, “please use a stepladder.”
There was a pause. And then Gem said, clearly astonished: “We have a stepladder?”
With a groan, Cash threw up his hands and stalked out of the room.
So much for charming his way back into Bailey’s good graces.