Unwrapping Mr. Roth

All preschool teacher Gillian Wright wanted was to pick up a third job so she could buy her students Christmas gifts. She didn’t think she’d be the one getting picked up instead. Her new boss, Nicholas Roth, is the big man in charge at Santa Incorporated—what Gillian thought was a seasonal staffing agency. But the sexy CEO has a holly jolly secret. He’s an equal opportunity employer and most of his staff are elves.

Santa has another secret. When he’s not delivering toys for his charity, he’s contending with political unease in the magic realm. To take his father’s throne as king of the elves, he has to get married…and only magic-proof Gillian will do. Gillian agrees, thinking Nick will cut her loose after the busy Christmas rush, but he has other ideas.

Nick wants a permanent Mrs. Roth and thinks he’s found his true mate in Gillian. Too bad Gillian doesn’t agree.

The longer Gillian Wright sat in the uncomfortable aluminum folding chair, the less confident she felt about the legitimacy of the part-time job she was applying for. She’d seen the ad in her small town’s weekly paper, and being broker than a wagon with one wheel, she’d wanted to be first in line to be interviewed. Unfortunately, having to show up for her other two jobs had foiled that ambition. Jobs didn’t stay open long in her town—especially not seasonal ones. Everyone and their mamas went out looking for work so they could plug the gaps in their holiday budgets, and openings tended to be filled first come, first served.

That was why she’d been shocked that when she’d finally showed up at five-thirty at the former Happy Panda Number Four restaurant, she hadn’t been turned away.

“This has to be some kind of scam,” she muttered to herself as yet another local padded up to the counter and accepted an application packet from the surly lady behind it. Gillian had been waiting two hours and had yet to be called.

She was getting annoyed with waiting, and hungry from staring at all the food posters the previous leasers of the space had left behind. The hiring company, referenced only by the initials “S.I.” in the ad, had temporarily leased the old Happy Panda space in North Main Street’s strip mall. The restaurant had gone out of business five years ago. They’d made the best egg rolls in eastern North Carolina, and at that moment, she would have cut someone to get even just the whiff of one.

Her stomach growled indignantly, and she let her lips sputter with an exhalation.

The squat, gray-haired woman behind the counter who’d introduced herself only as Agnes pushed her glasses up her bulbous nose, narrowed her eyes, and called out the next person waiting to be interviewed. It was someone who’d arrived an hour
after
Gillian.

Indignant, Gillian raised her hand. “Um, excuse me?”

“Also, you.” Agnes pointed to a guy in the corner. “You head on back, too.”

Gillian waved her arm wildly. “I know for sure they got here after me.”

Agnes walked away without responding.

Gillian scoffed and dug into her purse in search of a roll of mints or stick of gum—anything to push back the gnawing hunger for a while longer. She’d give them fifteen more minutes, and that was it. She might have been broke, but she refused to sacrifice her dignity. She did that enough already while teaching Zumba, where she had to shout encouraging tidbits to her students like, “If your booty ain’t popping, you’re not sweating. Twerk it harder, ladies!”

At around eight o’clock, she stood, planning to leave with quiet dignity, but Agnes’ reproachful stare made Gillian square her shoulders and lift her chin. “Thanks, but no thanks,” Gillian said through clenched teeth. “You can move whoever’s next in line into my space.”

As if the hag needs permission.

Agnes worked her bottom jaw left then right, and reseated her dentures into their correct positions. “Never had anyone leave before. Must not work on you. That’s interesting.” She tapped one short finger against the countertop contemplatively.

“
What
must not work?” Gillian asked.

“Whadda ya talkin’ about?”

“You just said something must not work on me.”

Agnes scanned the remaining waiting applicants in the room warily, then locked that steely gaze on Gillian once more. “Ya hearin’ things. ’S’all right, a little crazy is okay at Santa Inc. You’ll fit right in. It’s your turn, anyway.”

Gillian opened her mouth to make some rebuttal about that ‘crazy’ part, but before she could get it out, Merle Evans emerged through the staff-only door at the right of the counter and pushed his camo hat back onto his greasy head.

He sauntered over to Agnes, the striking heels of his work boots against the laminate floor sending dull echoes through the emptying room. “They said I start tomorrow,” he said. “They said you’d set me up.”

Agnes pushed her glasses down her nose and stared at Merle over the rims. “Hauler?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You got your own truck?”

“Yep. I’ve had my CDL since I was twenty. My rig’s paid off free and clear.”

“Super.” Agnes had apparently been standing on a crate because she suddenly lost a foot of height when she stepped sideways. All Gillian could see was the very top of her tightly curled granny set.

Agnes rooted around in something below the counter and then handed a bound manual about an inch thick to Merle. “You go home and study that. You need to be on the road first thing in the morning. We run a tight ship, you understand? Don’t be pickin’ up no truck stop prostitutes on the clock, neither. We’ll hear about it. We always know.”

One side of Merle’s moustache-shrouded mouth twitched, but to his credit he recovered quickly from the admonition and smoothed his expression to a blank. He nodded his understanding and started reading the tome as he walked out the door.

Agnes turned her critical gaze back to Gillian. “Well, what are you just standing there for? Go on back. He don’t like waitin’ around.” She made a shooing motion at Gillian that was the final straw on the figurative camel’s back. What was left of Gillian’s daily supply of fucks to give evaporated like water on a Californian sidewalk.

She put both hands on her hips and turned her head
just so
to give Agnes her patented schoolteacher side-eye. It worked on her preschoolers, but Agnes didn’t seem affected one way or another.

“He don’t like waitin’ around,” Agnes repeated.

“I’m going to tell your boss about your attitude.”

“Go for it.” Agnes resumed her chore of attaching applications to clipboards and started whistling
Santa Claus is Coming to Town
.

Gillian adjusted her festive snowflake sweater, pushed open the staff door, and walked through it, muttering as she went. “’T’is the fuckin’ season, I guess.”

The hall was dim, and the overhead fluorescent lights were buzzing and flickering. The laminate tile floor was filthy, probably thanks to people like Merle who’d tracked in more than their fair share of Carolina mud on their soles. Gillian was in her good leather boots—built more for fashion than function—so she tiptoed around the slick spots, passed the kitchen entrance on her left, and rubbed her arms briskly when a cool chill passed through her from front to back.

“Brr.”

She shook off the disconcerting chill, figuring it probably had something to do with her lunchtime consumption of the preschool chicken nuggets. Besides, she couldn’t afford to be sick, so she wasn’t even going to let her brain
think
it. Her insurance policy would probably cover a trip to urgent care…after she paid the deductible. If she had cash for a deductible, she wouldn’t have been tromping through the backend of Happy Panda on the least professional job interview she’d ever attended, and she’d had a
lot
of shady-as-hell jobs. It was a consequence of being descended from a legacy of starving hustlers.

As she walked on, the lights became a bit whiter and brighter, and the floor transitioned from ripped and filthy vinyl to impeccably glossy marble.

She scratched her head and, looking at one floor then the next, wondered why the Houangs would have spent money on such an upgrade when they hadn’t even owned a car.

She approached the door marked
Office
and paused to straighten her campy Christmas sweater before knocking. It had been a clearance-rack purchase. It was ugly as sin and probably not so professional, but the preschool kids seemed to like it.

She rapped tentatively, expecting the supposedly impatient manager to bark at her. Instead, a silky-smooth, deep male voice called out, “Please come in, Miss Wright.”

Turning the brushed nickel knob and letting the door swing inward, she gaped at the spectacle.

The office had to be the size of her entire apartment. It was painted a clean, pure white with metallic silver snowflakes engraved into the wood trim. The floor was glossy cherry wood. It was so shiny that she could see her haggard refection in the places that weren’t covered with one of the antique Oriental rugs.

Sheesh.

To her left was a seating area with immaculate white leather sofas and a coffee table the same hue as the floor. To her right was a full-sized kitchen, the counters of which were crowded with premium liquors and crystal glasses.

She focused last on the polished wood desk and the blond man sitting behind it with his feet up on top. He was pretty damn polished, too.

Jesus.

“Come in, please,” he repeated.

Gillian stared. She didn’t how anyone could do anything
but
stare, except perhaps to gape a little more. He was drop-dead gorgeous with pale eyes, sinful lips, and long white-blond hair that should have made him look like a punk rock reject, but somehow didn’t. He looked like a dream…of a certain sort.

“Miss Wright?” His voice was positively molten—practically an aural caress that made every muscle in her body tighten at its imagined touch.

When she didn’t respond, he canted his pretty head and tented his fingers. “Why don’t you come in and close the door? Have a seat.” He indicated one of the armchairs in front of his desk.

She stepped in, swallowing hard, but made no movement toward the chairs.

She’d never been a shy sort. Shy kids got ignored in her loud Rudari family. She’d learned to speak up for herself pretty damn early on, but she hadn’t had practice in making good sense in front of a creature like him. He was something out of her late-night, tequila-fueled imagination come to life.

He smiled more broadly and the crinkles next to his eyes deepened. His eyes were a silvery blue that gave her a hint of what the sky would look like if it were made of Christmas tree tinsel. The rest of his face was nice, too: elegant nose, chiseled chin with a slight cleft, and pouty bottom lip that just begged to be bitten. He wore his platinum hair long and held back with a simple silver clip. He was prettier than Gillian generally liked her men to be, but something about his devilish expression held her in thrall.

She closed the door softly and made purposeful steps toward the chair.

He took his feet off the desk and leaned forward to shake her hand. “I’m Nick Roth.”

“Uh…Gillian. But, you knew that, I guess.”

His palm was rough, but his grip was gentle. Holding her hand, he smoothed his thumb over hers and smiled at her as if he were some sort of rogue angel—like he knew all her secrets and was going to call her out on them. Seeing as she had many, she squirmed uncomfortably and drew back her hand.

Nick raked back an errant swath of hair and tucked it behind his ear. As he drew attention to the aforementioned part, Gillian’s gaze honed in on the side of his face, and for just one second the tops of his ear appeared to be
pointed
.

She rubbed her eyes and stared again, thinking her prolonged sleep deficit of the past five years was finally catching up to her.

Nope.

It—as well as the ear on the other side—was
definitely
pointed.

“What the—”

“Hmm, what could I ask you?” he purred.

The points went away.

She blinked a few times and ogled him when he stood.
Sleep. I need sleep.

He clasped his hands together behind his back, and paced in front of the large, curtained window behind him.

He was tall—six feet, give or take—with a body categorized somewhere between athletic and muscular. He looked strong without being bulky and seemed to have expensive tastes. He wore a slim-fitting, gray button-up shirt of fine cotton with honest-to-God cufflinks. The shirt was tucked into flat-front black pants cinched with a black leather belt that was adorned with what looked like a custom buckle. It had a relief of holly leaves on it.

Gillian may not have been a connoisseur of
pretty
men, but she had sampled her fair share of well-dressed ones. There was just something so hot about a man whose clothes were well tailored and suited for his physique. The cinch of the waist, the taper of the legs, the snug fit of the crotch…

She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. There weren’t many men like Nick in her neck of the woods. They had farm boys and golfers. Nick didn’t seem to be either.

She opened her eyes to find that Nick had turned to face her and was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

“So, tell me about your qualifications,” he said, his stare intent.

“My…qual…um.”

His gaze seemed to lap against her like warm ocean water, relaxing her and making her skin prickle wherever it touched. As it raked down her body to where her legs crossed, her pussy gave an entreating clench.

Oh God.

It’d been so long since she’d dated that apparently she’d gone right past ‘horny’ to ‘so damn thirsty.’ Thirsty was a pretty pathetic place. Desperate, even.

Swallowing hard, she straightened up and pressed her skirt down. “Well, it’s hard to tell you what my qualifications are since I don’t know what the position I’m applying for is.”

He nodded, put his hands on his hips, and started to walk around the shiny desk. “Right. Well, what do you
want
to do?”

“What do I want? I…” Convinced the whole ordeal was some kind of elaborate scam or a trippy dream triggered by undercooked chicken nuggets, she gave her head a shake and narrowed her eyes at him.
Business. This is business.
“Look, I’ll cut to the quick, and I don’t care if it sounds desperate. I just want to make some extra money for gifts. I’ve got a bunch of kids in my preschool classes and I want to do a little bit better for them than coloring books from the super-center dollar bin.”

Nick perched against the edge of his desk in front of her and folded his arms over his chest. “How interesting.” He didn’t
sound
interested. His voice was flat. His gaze was warm enough, though. He looked at her as if she were a long-awaited meal comprised of decadent things like caviar and foie gras and not just the cold Happy Meal French fries she felt like at the moment.

Gillian dragged her tongue across her dry lips and shrugged. “They’re cute kids.”