“Nope. Worked here for ten months.”

“No shit.”

“Not surprising really.”

“Why do I feel like you’re constantly talking in riddles?”

“What floor were you heading to?” I ask, needing to jolt myself back to reality and stop this school girl crush that is blossoming.

“Fifteen.”

I snort. “Exactly.”

Mail girls don’t mix with executives here at Garters & Lace. That’s the first rule you learn when you start working here.

He squats down on his haunches so that he’s eye level with me. That gaze causing my pulse to race and the space around us to feel like it’s shrinking. “There’s those riddles again, Jules.”

2

Archer

“You have the most peculiar eyes?” I murmur and earn a startled shake of her head.

And they are peculiar as they narrow and look at me. Dark blue outlines her irises while a light gray fills their center. They are loaded with about as much distrust as there is curiosity.

She snorts.

It’s fucking adorable.

Almost as adorable as her in her black Doc Martens and sparkly tights beneath her peacoat. Not someone I would look twice at on a normal day—call me a dick for the admission—but there is something about her, something about the look in her eyes and the sarcasm in her voice that has me taking a second look.

Other than her reindeer antlers now thrown to the ground beside her packages.

Like the chocolate colored hair that is pulled up in a top knot. The full lips painted a pale pink and her eyes . . . they’re almost too big for her face but they are so stunning framed with thick, dark lashes that they pull you in.

“I’m not talking in riddles, you’re just not someone who notices a girl like me.”

I open my mouth to refute her but know damn well she’s right . . . and for the first time I hate it. But more than that, I hate hearing her opinion about Garters & Lace. About working here.

“I beg to differ,” I assert. “I know quite a lot about you. Prick. Asshole. Shitty ice. Fucking boss. Twizzlers. See? I know a lot more about you than you think I do.”

Don’t smile, Jules.

I dare you not to.

Ah, there it is. Those lips of hers turn up at the corners and soften the sadness on her face.

Her cheeks flush pink as she starts to pull her jacket off like claustrophobia has just hit. And, hell yes, I should be worried about her sudden moment of panic but I’m too busy noticing the roadmap of curves she just unearthed beneath the shapeless coat.

Wow.

One word. That’s all I have time to think as I take in the swell of her tits and the curve of her hips beneath the form fitting crazy Christmas sweater that makes me want to say ho-ho-ho.

Wow.