“Great,” I say. “The food should be here in five minutes. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

“You’re more than welcome to work here with us,” Alexander says. “There’s plenty of room.”

“I wouldn’t want to get in the way.” I force a smile.

“Aw, c’mon.” He leans back in his chair. “We’ll work quickly and then you can come to a party with us. It’s definitely tiny pajama shorts casual.”

“A party?”

“You were personally requested.”

“Requested?” The only person I want requesting my presence at a party is Harry Styles.

Or Beyoncé.

Or Jonathan Van Ness.

And the only reason they should be requesting me is because they saw one of my legendary karaoke performances on my Instastories.

“Levi’s having a holiday party at his place in Tribeca,” Alexander says. “He told me that I’m not allowed to come unless I bring you wearing that festive little getup…”

“Most people just bring a bottle of wine,” says a voice.

Asher is standing behind me. He looks cold and miserable with wind-chapped cheeks and a Rudolph-red nose. He’s holding two paper bags and a cup of coffee.

“Ash, you’re still here,” Alexander says. “What a surprise.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

“Roman Rafferty got arrested,” Alexander explains.

“I mean, it was only a matter of time,” Asher says. “Did someone order food?”

“I did,” I say, taking the bags from him. I set them on the round table and begin to unpack. I make sure to keep my three rolls in the bag along with my cheesecake. If I’ve learned anything over the past eleven months of this internship, it’s that any food on the table is fair game.

And I’d sooner die before watching someone else eat my cheesecake.

“The offer still stands, Liv,” Alexander says. “We can finish here quickly, and then head to the party.”

“I think I’ll pass,” I say, clutching the paper bag to my chest. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

I don’t go to my desk. I sneak into Asher’s office and sit down at his desk like I own the place. And boy, if I owned this place it would be a much less hostile environment. Asher treats his office like an extension of his apartment—cold, bare, and lifeless. It’s just a desk, a few chairs, and a coat rack.

He needs a mini Christmas tree.

And tinsel.

And an animatronic snowman that dances to Jingle Bell Rock.

I resist the urge to bypass my email inbox and go straight to Amazon. I have press releases to write before I can next-day-delivery Asher some Christmas spirit.

“You better not be getting soy sauce all over my desk.” Asher’s scowling at me while I try to simultaneously chew and smile at him. He does not find it endearing.