Do Not Open 'Til Christmas by Sierra Donovan (10)

Chloe had never seen so many of the Gazette staff at once.

An e-mail from Bret had pulled them into the newsroom from the various departments throughout the building. She’d come to think of this place as the house M. C. Escher built; it didn’t seem possible that a structure that looked so unassuming on the outside could hold so many departments. But the newsroom, in her mind, was the kernel of the enterprise—not just because the stories generated from here, but because it seemed to lie in the center, judging by the doors and hallways that led away from it on every side.

Most of the thirty or so faces in the room weren’t familiar. She’d chatted with a few people in the break room now and then while she heated her ramen noodles, but most of them seemed in as much of a hurry to return to their own departments as she was to get back to her next deadline.

Bret stood against the door frame of the editor’s office, as if loath to leave his post, and Chloe suspected that was the case.

He’d called the meeting for two p.m. Despite the murmur of voices as people continued to drift in, he started at five minutes after.

“Okay, everyone, I’ll keep this short.” Although he didn’t raise his voice much, it carried easily, and conversation died off. Chloe had a feeling meetings like this were a rarity. “We have a Christmas surprise, or at least it came as a surprise to me. I got word this morning that an executive from the corporate office is coming to town tomorrow. Just in time for the company Christmas party.”

That brought a fresh murmur of voices. Once again, Bret silenced it in the simplest way possible: he kept talking.

“Executive Vice President Lloyd Mossel will be passing through our offices sometime tomorrow. It’s a disruption we didn’t expect. But he’s pretty high on the food chain, so we need to make sure we give the right impression. In our eyes, we’re the only paper this town’s got, and I happen to think we do a pretty fine job.”

A small smattering of applause started.

“But.” Bret cut it off. “In the eyes of Liberty Communications, we are a very small piece on a very big Monopoly board. Their interest in us is limited to how cost-effective we are and how little hassle we are. We need to be viewed as an asset, not a liability. When Mr. Mossel drops in tomorrow, I want him to see an efficient little gem. That means—and I’m sorry about this—tidy desks. Make an effort to clean up your work area before you leave tonight, because we’re not sure exactly what time our executive rolls in for his nickel tour. Also, tidy personal appearances. Some of us do our best work in sweats. But not tomorrow. If that’s you, dig something a little dressier out of the back of your closet.”

That wouldn’t be a problem for Bret. He stood before them today in his habitual gray sport jacket. He went on, “Most of all, at the Christmas party tomorrow night, let’s all be on our best behavior.”

“Define ‘behavior,’” a male voice somewhere behind Chloe interjected.

“I was afraid of that.” Bret didn’t miss a beat. “It means common sense. We’ve all heard stories about company Christmas parties—not necessarily ours, mind you—but let’s keep tomorrow night free of colorful stories. If you drink, drink responsibly. You know your limits. And this should go without saying, but Mr. Mossel is to be regarded as a visiting dignitary. Give him the utmost respect. He’s the Pope, the President of the United States, and Paul McCartney all rolled into one.”

“Paul who?” came a younger voice—once again, somewhere in the back, in the smart-aleck tones of someone who obviously knew better.

Once again, Bret didn’t so much as blink. “Dave Grohl, then.”

Another brief smattering of applause. Chloe was surprised Bret could whip out the name of the leader of the Foo Fighters at a moment’s notice. Bret’s lips twitched with what might have been amusement as he shrugged. “Enough said. We all have work to do, so let’s do some quick housekeeping and get back to it.”

With that, Bret turned away and went back into his office. Five minutes, start to finish. No Q & A.

Chloe considered the surface of her desk. She had a tendency toward clutter, and no matter how often she cleared it, the new piles of folders and scraps of notes started right away. She’d have to make some extra time to clear it.

Eyeing her miniature Christmas tree and decorations, she hesitated. She hated to even consider it. But if anyone in the newsroom ran afoul of the bigwig from the corporate office, it had better not be her.

She waited until Bret passed by on his next trip to the coffee machine. “Bret? What about Christmas decorations?”

Bret’s eyes narrowed, regarding her tree once again. This would be a golden opportunity for him to play the Grinch. But after a long moment, the corners of his mouth twitched upward again. Just barely.

“As long as the twelve days of Christmas are all in order,” he said, “I think you’re okay.”

* * *

Bret had never gone to the company Christmas party before, and he hadn’t planned to attend this one. Now he was obligated to be here, serving as both host and babysitter.

He sat at a table in the banquet room of Barrymore’s Steakhouse, passing the time with Ned and Debbie. They wouldn’t be here long; it was their first night out without the baby, and Debbie kept sneaking furtive glances at her cell phone. Lloyd Mossel, the high muck-a-muck from Liberty Communications, was perusing the hors d’oeuvres at the buffet table, and for the moment Bret was content to leave him to it. Schmoozing could wait. If one of the guys from the press room started to dance on the table, that would be Bret’s cue to create a diversion.

The banquet room was decorated for Christmas, but they’d gone for understated gold-and-silver elegance, rather than bright reds and greens. Bret had ordered a hot toddy—something he could nurse over a couple of hours without any real effects, but it carried a bite and a sting that had a certain Dickensian flavor.

He thought of his crack to Chloe about the shoe-blacking factory and how quickly she’d picked up on the Dickens reference. So far, he hadn’t seen her here.

“You know,” Ned said to Debbie, “if we leave now, we could stop by the tree lot on our way home. It’ll be easier without the baby along.”

Debbie gave her cell phone another glance to check the time. “You’re right.” She turned to Bret. “Everything gets a little more complicated with a baby. It didn’t hit us until two days ago that we needed to set up a sitter.”

Ned added, “And tying a tree to the car while you’ve got a baby carrier in the backseat—”

“In the cold,” Debbie added.

Bret shook his head. “Go, go. You don’t have to convince me.”

They stood. Deb surprised him with a hug. “Merry Christmas, Bret.” She pulled back and studied him. With a softness in her tone, she added, “Are you doing okay?”

Bret blinked. Plenty of people remembered Helena Radner. Very few thought of the fact that she’d died shortly before Christmas. Millie Bond would remember, yes. But the photographer’s wife?

“Never better,” he said.

“Say hi to your dad for me.”

And there was the connection. Debbie had interned at the town hall, taking minutes at the meetings, when Bret’s mother got sick. His father had stepped down from the council shortly after her death.

Bret didn’t know why he always forgot how intertwined everyone’s lives were in Tall Pine. But he knew Deb’s concern was intended as a kindness, not an unpleasant reminder. He needed to respond with some grace.

“Thanks. I will.” Bret nodded. “Good night, Deb.”

He’d just resumed his seat at the table when, across the room, Chloe walked in. But it wasn’t quite the same Chloe he’d seen at the office a couple of hours ago. She wore a black dress with slender straps at the shoulders, making her look more delicate than usual. Gold hoops gleamed at her ears, and she’d done something different with her hair, creating blond curls that fell loosely around her face. From across the room, her eyes had a look that was somehow smokier.

At the moment, those eyes were directed at Mike from the press room, who’d crossed the room in three strides to reach her. She smiled a greeting, and her lips shimmered faintly.

She was . . . exquisite.

Bret prided himself on finding the right word, and that was the one that came immediately to mind. If he wasn’t smart, she’d catch him staring at her like some love-struck guy from the press room.

He turned away, took a drink, and nearly choked, caught off guard by the burn of the hot toddy. Coffee this wasn’t. His glance skimmed over the room for someone else to chat with and found Randy, the night editor. That would do. Someone who wouldn’t make him choke on his drink.

“Your new reporter seems to be making an impression,” Randy remarked.

Not the conversation Bret had hoped for. “Is that so,” he said, refusing to let his eyes drift toward Chloe and Mike.

“Is she kind of a flirt?”

If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up choking on his drink anyway. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

When Randy didn’t reply, curiosity dragged Bret’s gaze in the direction the other man was looking. No longer standing with Mike—that must have been a short conversation—Chloe now stood by the buffet table. Hugh from the classified section had sidled up next to her, and Chloe was trying to divide her attention between Hugh and the hors d’oeuvre platter in front of her.

She wasn’t flirting. She was dishing up cubes of cheese. Bret turned away again and resolved not to worry about it anymore. Chloe wasn’t doing anything wrong, and even if she was, it wasn’t his business unless she started dancing on the table.

So, for the next hour, he concentrated on circulating. Working a room didn’t come naturally to Bret, but thankfully, he knew most of the people, at least in passing. And thankfully, everyone did seem to be on good behavior. He’d better find Lloyd Mossel, in case their guest decided to make an early exit.

Where had the stuffed suit gone?

At last he spotted Mossel at a table by the back wall, a martini glass in front of him, seated across from a very cornered-looking Chloe Davenport.

* * *

She was pretty sure the guy was trying to look down her dress. Which would be difficult, because her dress didn’t show much cleavage, and she didn’t have much cleavage to show.

“Deregulation opened up a whole new set of opportunities in media,” Lloyd Mossel was saying. “In the early nineties, the company expanded into broadcasting properties. . . .”

Heaven help her, he was only up to the nineties.

Chloe sat up a little straighter and held her chin with one hand, trying strategically to position her arm in front of her chest. She kept a smile in place and did her best to feign interest. Friendly, but not too friendly. The iron gray of his hair was streaked with black. Chloe suspected it came from a healthy dose of Grecian Formula. She wondered if he’d scheduled his midlife crisis to coincide with their Christmas party.

Awkward. This was the boss from corporate, the one Bret wanted them to make a good impression on. Offending him wouldn’t do. But she didn’t think Bret had meant to offer her up as an hors d’oeuvre.

On the other hand—where was Bret?

He hadn’t gotten within ten feet of her all evening, and at ten and a half feet, all he’d done was give her a brief nod. He didn’t appear to notice the dress.

And that made her realize she’d worn it hoping he would notice. She knew better than that. Crushing on the boss was the most god-awful cliché in the book, and she wasn’t going to do it. Couldn’t afford to. She had her reputation, and her deadlines, to think about.

“. . . and then I saw the opportunity to acquire more newspapers on the West Coast. . . .”

Not to mention, Bret had left her to deal with this.

“Chloe.”

Suddenly her absentee boss spoke at her elbow, sending a wash of relief through her. She turned.

Bret had traded in the customary gray jacket she’d been eyeballing at the office for a sleek black dinner jacket. The black looked more than fine on him, emphasizing his dark hair and eyes, and she couldn’t help but drink it in just a little bit. What was wrong with her tonight? All she’d had was a ginger ale.

Bad idea, she reminded herself. No, letting herself think about Bret that way was worse than a bad idea. If she made it obvious, it would be a great way to keep people from seeing her as a professional. Bret included.

“You don’t have cell phone reception in here, do you?” Bret asked in his usual blunt, cut-to-the-chase manner.

She frowned. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” He handed his phone to her. “Someone sent a text for you. On my phone.”

That didn’t seem likely. Cell phone reception was notoriously spotty in Tall Pine; the Gazette was one of the few places she knew of with decent reception.

Chloe read the words on Bret’s screen: He probably wouldn’t do more than bore you to death. But if you want, now’s your chance to make a break for it.

A smile started to curl at the edge of her lips. Quickly, she pulled it down and took her cue.

“Holy cow.” She rose to her feet. “What time is it?”

She met Bret’s eyes. He returned her look with a perfect deadpan.

“About nine-thirty,” he said.

She closed Bret’s message, handed the phone back to him, and turned apologetically to Lloyd Mossel. “I’m so sorry. I totally lost track of time,” she said, as if she’d been rapt at his every word. Now that she was making an exit, she could afford to give him her widest smile. “My boyfriend’s down the hill, and he told me he was going to call at nine. After his kickboxing match.” She backed up a step. “He gets really possessive.”

Bret caught her eye. She usually had trouble reading his expression, but this time she was pretty sure she heard him loud and clear: Don’t overdo it.

“Excuse me.” She smiled at them both this time.

Bret took possession of her freshly abandoned chair. “No problem. I’ve been needing to catch up with Lloyd anyway.”

“Thanks.” She started her escape, then remembered her alibi. She rested her hand on the shoulder of Bret’s jacket. “Where would I be able to get cell phone reception around here?”

Bret’s mouth tipped up in a faint smile. “Probably the parking lot.”

The fabric of Bret’s jacket felt smooth under her hand, and a little volt raced up her arm. What the heck had been in that ginger ale?

“Right.” She turned away for good this time. “Have a nice evening.”

With nowhere else to go, she retreated for the parking lot.

* * *

As Chloe departed in all her splendor, Lloyd Mossel asked, “How is it you have cell phone reception in here?”

“It wasn’t easy. Tall Pine is full of cell phone dead spots, so I finally found a carrier that works most places in town. I ran into too many incidents when I needed it for work when it was important.”

Mossel’s expression looked both sour and dubious, as though Bret had taken his candy away. Sorry, bud, Bret thought. We don’t provide that kind of business entertainment.

On that note, as Bret tracked Chloe’s progress toward the exit, he noticed good old Mike from the press room drifting in the same direction.

Chuck came to their table, either to brown-nose the exec or to share the chore of keeping him entertained. Knowing Chuck, Bret bet on the latter.

Mike was still halfway across the room from Chloe, but his strides put him on a direct course toward her path. That one, Chloe might not mind so much. Bret wasn’t sure. But . . .

Bret asked Chuck, “Could you do me a favor? It looks like Mike’s headed for the parking lot. Would you check and make sure he hasn’t had too much to drink?”

Chuck gave him a quizzical frown. “Mike?”

Bret nodded in Mike’s direction. “Over there. Navy blazer. He doesn’t look too steady on his feet to me.”

Chuck tilted his head hard, and now it was his turn to give Bret a dubious look. But he said, “Okay.”

Fortunately, Chuck had long legs. Bret watched his colleague catch up, then turned back to their guest of honor.

“Who is it?” Mossel asked as Chuck accosted a puzzled-looking Mike.

“Mike Pellegrini. Nice kid. He just might not—”

“No. Your cell phone carrier.”

Oh. That. “I never tell anyone. Tall Pine may have lousy cell reception, but in a lot of ways, that’s a good thing. Not only does it force tourists to stop being hyper-connected for awhile, our teenagers have the best test scores in San Bernardino County. I did some research and found out there’s a direct correlation. Students who live in areas like this tend to do better in school.”

“How’s that?”

“Less distraction, better attention span. I wrote an article about it.”

As if to vouch for him, Bret’s phone sounded with a text notification.

* * *

Once she got outside, Chloe hugged her arms against the December cold. It hadn’t snowed in over a week and the weather had been mild, so she’d decided to forgo lugging a coat around for the brief walk to and from the restaurant. She just hadn’t planned quite so abrupt an exit.

Bret had bailed her out, but where did she go from here?

She strode toward her car, heels scraping against the asphalt. She could wait a suitable amount of time and go back inside. But for what? Given the way she’d been thinking about Bret tonight, it was probably just as well. Tomorrow she’d put on her work clothes, and she could go back to business as usual. Without even a memory of how he’d looked in that sleek black dinner jacket, or how warm and solid his shoulder had felt under her hand.

She slid behind the steering wheel of her little white car, started it up, and turned on the heater. But before she drove away, she had to satisfy her curiosity on one point. She pulled her cell phone out of her little black bag and sent a text to Bret.

As she turned up the volume on the Christmas CD in her car, Bret texted her back:

With Bing Crosby and David Bowie for company, she drove away.

* * *

The next day, Bret stepped out of his office to brave a cup of late-afternoon coffee. He had the place to himself, so he hadn’t bothered making a fresh pot. He took a sip, grimaced, and added more creamer.

As Bret stirred in the powdered stuff, Mike Pellegrini came in from the lobby entrance and sauntered oh-so casually toward the rear door that led to the press room. It was far from the most direct route, and he’d certainly never cut through the newsroom before.

Bret sipped his nasty coffee and watched with a touch of wry amusement as Mike surveyed the half dozen desks, all unoccupied at the moment. “Can I help you?” Bret asked. “Or don’t you have something to press?”

Mike responded with a sheepish grin. “I came in early. Do you know where Chloe is?”

The guy wasn’t exactly leaving tongue marks on the carpet, but his intentions were pretty clear. “Out on an interview, I think.”

“Oh.” Mike shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his wheat-blond hair hanging a little over his ears in a careless look that made Bret think of the cool kids in high school. “Do you know if she’s seeing anybody?”

Bret fought the urge to say he’d heard Chloe mention something about an intensely jealous kickboxing boyfriend. It wouldn’t even be a lie.

Bret shrugged. “You’d have to ask her.”

But he didn’t like where this was going. For no reason, really. Based on limited observation, Mike seemed like a good-natured enough sort, although Bret suspected he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box.

He gave Mike a brief nod and went back to McCrea’s office before Mike could ask him any more questions, like Chloe’s favorite color. And when Bret glimpsed a blond figure coming into the newsroom from the corner of his eye, he closed the door behind him. Stay out of it.

Intending to do just that, Bret settled behind his keyboard and pulled up the file he’d been working on. But of course, the door of the editor’s office was glass, which gave him a perfect view of the silent movie playing out in the newsroom.

Chloe walked in. Smiled at Mike. And had to step around him to get to her desk, where she stashed her purse in the drawer.

Bret busied his fingers typing. Chloe hadn’t sat down, but stood talking to Mike with what Bret would have described as a diplomatic smile. He took stock of the nonverbal cues: Mike’s shifting feet, Chloe’s straight posture, then a slight tilt of her head. The dimple below her smile deepened. No, don’t encourage him. Just send him on his way.

At least, that was what Bret hoped was happening. Not that it was any of his business. Yet something in his chest felt strange, like a wet rag being wrung by invisible hands.

Still smiling, Chloe backed into her chair, and Mike backed away in the other direction. With a nod and a smaller smile of his own, he made his way past Bret’s office toward the door that led down the hall to the press room.

Nothing in the universe had really changed. Just another afternoon at the Gazette.

But while Bret couldn’t be a hundred percent certain of the outcome, he relaxed slightly after he witnessed Mike’s exit. He sat back and read what he’d just typed:

Chloe pounded out the story, her seventh of the week. With all the interruptions—like the reactions to Aaron’s article, straightening up for Mr. Bigwig’s visit, and now, the drop-in from Mike—she’d been running behind. Three articles tomorrow would get her caught up. If she did some writing tonight at home, she could make it.

Mike. She felt a little bad about turning him down, but she couldn’t work up much interest. He seemed nice enough, probably lighter on the ego scale than most good-looking guys. But when someone asked her out before he knew anything about her, it tended to go the same way: they just didn’t have a lot to talk about. She didn’t have time for that right now. With her current workload, she couldn’t afford the distraction.

She filed her story on the local real estate market and glanced over at Bret’s office. He sat behind his screen, a familiar sight. They hadn’t really talked since the Christmas party last night. She had something to pass on to him, and she decided now was as good a time as any. After all, she wouldn’t be second-guessing every trip to Bret’s office if he was Frank McCrea, or Chuck, or Hal from the diner.

The glass door was closed. A little unusual.

She nudged it open and stepped inside. “Got a present for you.”

He raised his head. Chloe held up the ledger-size booklet. “This lovely desk planner from Robert Quinn at Bluffs Mortgage.”

She handed him the brown faux-leather ledger, helpfully emblazoned with the mortgage company’s name and logo. Other than that, it was pretty nice, really.

“Thanks.” Bret took the book from her, hefting it in his hand. “I actually do use these.” He riffled the pages. “I have seven more just like it. Stack them all up, and you’d have a condensed version of my career at the Tall Pine Gazette.”

He looked bemused. To Chloe, seven years sounded like a long time to be anywhere. Bret looked as if he might be thinking the same thing.

“I imagine you got one, too?” he added. “He’s pretty liberal with those. I think it’s eighty percent of his marketing budget for the year.”

“I did.” Chloe hesitated. She should go. But before she did, she said, “Thanks for bailing me out last night.”

Bret shook his head. “Sorry about that. I hope he didn’t have you buttonholed for too long.”

“No. It only felt like three years.”

He grinned faintly, his eyes going back to his screen. “For a minute I wondered if maybe you could use another rescue today.” When she didn’t answer, he glanced up. “Looked like you might have had a visitor from the Chloe Davenport fan club.”

“Oh.” Her face warmed; she tried to cool it with a deep breath instead of fanning it. “No. Mike’s a sweet guy. He wasn’t being pushy or anything. Just—” She groped for a short-form explanation. “Maybe a little young.”

She lowered her eyes to Bret’s desk, wondering why she found herself trying to explain when Bret hadn’t even asked.

Or had he? He’d certainly been the one who brought it up. Any reason?

Her glance landed on an oversize postcard on Bret’s desk, with a photo of a familiar face, upside down. With a quick intake of breath, she picked it up. “This is my freshman composition professor.”

“Do you mind?” he asked dryly.

Her face flushed hotter as she realized she’d grabbed a piece of mail right off Bret’s desk. Fighting the urge again to fan herself, she held it out to Bret instead. “Sorry. I didn’t think.” She pointed to the square black-and-white photo. “Elizabeth Macias. She taught my freshman comp course at Long Beach. She kept telling me I ought to take her journalism class.”

Bret took the postcard and studied the paragraph next to the photo of Dr. Elizabeth Macias. He nodded, as if to confirm she was telling the truth. “Impressive. She’s the keynote speaker at a journalism awards luncheon this Saturday.”

“That’s great.”

“So why didn’t you take her journalism class?”

“I was going to save my writing skills for something creative, remember?”

“I think you’ve figured out by now that news writing can be pretty creative.” He’d sounded teasing a moment ago. Chloe searched his face, but he looked serious now. “I’m sure she’d be proud.”

Holy moly. If there was one thing she knew by now, it was that compliments didn’t come easily to Bret.

He surprised her further by adding, “Would you like to go?”

That sounded like an invitation. Or maybe he was just offering her a ticket. “Are you going?”

“I have to. I’m speaking at it. One of McCrea’s parting gifts. He was scheduled as a speaker before he got called to Chicago. He had them put me in his spot.”

She stood in silence, trying to focus on Bret’s practical words instead of the absurd step-up of her heart rate. An awards luncheon wasn’t a date. He didn’t mean it that way. But it would be good to see her old professor. . . .

“It’s in Barstow.” Bret pulled her away from her thoughts. “About a two-hour drive. It’d kill your Saturday. But if you’d like to come along, I’m allowed one guest. And you could let your old prof know what you’ve been up to.”

Okay, that made it clearer. She weighed the question. Bret’s eyes looked perfectly direct and matter-of-fact. In other words, pure Bret.

She remembered her silly disappointment when Bret hadn’t paid any attention to her at the party. She had nothing to worry about. Bret was a level-headed individual.

That made one of them.

What could it hurt? They were colleagues. It was a business event. She’d just remember to think of it on that level, no matter what her heart rate told her.

She smiled. “I’d like that. Thanks.”

* * *

After Chloe left his office, Bret stared down at the postcard. Printed up before his boss’s surprise assignment, it still had McCrea listed on the lineup, along with two other guest speakers.

He couldn’t remember his mouth getting so far ahead of his brain in—well, maybe ever.

He suspected the visit by Mike-from-the-press-room had a little to do with it. Or a lot. Bret had gotten territorial, which wasn’t like him. And it wasn’t smart. Now, suddenly, he’d booked himself an entire day alone with Chloe. Outside the office.

Where he’d have to remember to maintain those professional boundaries.

But hey, he’d gotten good at keeping people at a distance, even when he wasn’t trying. As his recent dating record could attest. No reason to believe he’d break form now.

Still, he’d be lying to himself if he pretended he wasn’t looking forward to it.