Page 25 of Miss Christmas

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“You’re late,” Fran said as he walked past her desk. “Again.” He stopped. She stared at him.

“Contestant number 2 is waiting in your office. Emily Long of the Longest bloodline in the Upper East Side, albeit on the left side of the street.”

He raised a brow and said, “Thanks.” His voice sounded rusty. He put out a hand for the files she held, but she didn’t give them over.

Instead, Fran surveyed him from head to foot. It was her habit, but it took an effort for him not to squirm this morning. Finally, she said, “I won’t even ask.”

“About what?” He’d been proud of his calm demeanor considering his last twenty-four hours of Scarlet-sex. She was in her own category.

“Well, for one, you’re wearing the same suit as yesterday, only slightly rumpled this time around.”

He looked down and decided no explanation was better than any he could come up with in the next breath, though he acknowledged that leaving it to Fran’s imagination was a dangerous prospect. She nodded after the beat of silence.

“That’s what I thought.” Handing over the files, she said, “I scheduled four more interviews for this morning. Shall I put the espresso machine in your office? Or shall I get you a second bottle of Knob Creek?”

“You shall do both,” he said. This was why he paid her twice the market rate for assistants. Before he moved on he added, “And if Scarlet Jones calls, put her through right away.” He had no idea why he said that. It was an archaic thing to say. As if he were a mooning teenager. If a teenager had an assistant that answered calls for him. Meanwhile, Scarlet would most likely call his cell, if she was to call him at all.

Damn it. He needed to get his head off his pecker and onto business fast. Looking like a dick with Fran was one thing, but the rest of the world didn’t need to know he’d returned to his adolescent state of out-of-control hormones—and over Scarlet Jones, would-be actress, pageant contestant and the hottest, most confusing and inappropriate lover he’d ever had.

Still, if she called, he needed to talk to her.

Why the hell do you care if she calls? Get her out of your head, Will. Concentrate on your real life. Like doing your job. And finding someone who was right for a serious relationship.

With the determination to introduce a newly minted potential fiancée to grandma at Christmas Eve dinner, and the mantra that it could absolutely not be Scarlet Jones, he stalked into his office. He hoped the expression on his face, whatever it was, didn’t scare Emily off.

The young woman stood and turned as he strode forward and he almost stuttered to a stop. She was a classic beauty. Long, straight, glistening golden hair and perfect blue eyes. Her smallish mouth drew up in a cupid bow smile. Lovely. That’s the word Grandma would use to describe Emily. The name had a pleasant, yet unsatisfying ring.

He heard the word knockout come to mind when he thought of Grandma meeting Scarlet. But that was because someone would end up on the floor. Likely him. He pulled out the smile he knew was hiding inside him, put it on his face and put out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Emily. I’m William Regal. Call me Will.”

“I know who you are. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Her eyes held a mischievous twinkle and he took heart. After shaking her small warm hand, he went around his desk and sat, ready to begin. Sort of. His dick was mostly deflated.

Whatever interview questions he was supposed to ask flew from his head and though the paper on his desk likely had the list typed out neatly for him, he found himself slipping the sheet from his desk and into the trash. This young lady would make an excellent contestant.

“Tell me about yourself, Emily. Why do you want to be Miss Christmas? You’re not another starving actress, I hope?” Damn his distracted brain. Those were the wrong words to say aloud.

Emily, the blessedly gracious lady, did no more than raise her brows and give a small laugh.

“No, I’m a not-quite starving editorial assistant at Millhouse Publishing. Did you know it’s now the largest publishing house in New York City?” She beamed with pride, probably at her accomplishment of having landed a job there.

“Do you live in the city?” He knew that would be impossible unless she had other sources of income or at least a roommate—like Scarlet had. She probably made less money as an editorial assistant than Scarlet did as a waitress. And why the hell was he comparing her with Scarlet anyway?

“Yes, I have a cozy little studio on Fourth Avenue. My parents wouldn’t let me live anywhere but in a doorman building. They’re very protective.”

“That’s nice. What do they think of you entering the Miss Christmas pageant?”

“Shhh. It’s a secret. I’m not sure what they would think, but that’s part of the fun in entering. It’s a daring adventure.”

“Ah.” She thought she was a naughty girl with a defiant streak in spite of the so-called naughtiness barely registering on the defiance meter. He liked that she made the attempt though. It kept her a hair above being a vanilla cookie. But she was practically invisible, compared to Scarlet.

Damn. Damn. Damn. It was well past time he made Scarlet invisible.

“So the contest is a lark for you. What would you do with the ten thousand dollars in prize money?”

Her brows furrowed and she got serious fast.