Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,112

But I need you here with me.”

“I’m not going to leave you,” she said, stroking my face.

I kissed her hard, feeling elated.

She pushed me off. “Your holiday party is soon,” she reminded me, tapping the watch on my wrist.

“We could skip it.”

She raised one black eyebrow. “You can’t skip your own company holiday party.”

She didn’t even let me shower with her as she scrubbed down then washed her hair. Afterward, she combed it out, parted it, and put it up in an updo. Then she shimmied into the dress.

I ran my hands up along the sides. “I want to fuck you in this dress.”

“Don’t you dare ruin this dress,” Morticia warned me, tapping me on the nose.

The party was hopping when we walked across the street to the distillery offices a few minutes later.

“How are you late to your own party?” Carl asked loudly, clapping me on the back when he saw me.

“Har har. You want a drink?” I asked Morticia. On offer was a variety of Christmas-themed cocktails made with my company’s product. On a large screen was a graph of our sales chart. People cheered and took shots every time the numbers jumped.

I handed Morticia a dark-red cocktail with a candy cane stirrer. “Merry Christmas,” I toasted.

She stretched up on her toes and kissed me hard.

“Holy shit. I thought you didn’t want me to rip you out of your dress,” I said, reeling slightly.

She pointed upward. “Mistletoe means you kiss. Fun fact,” she continued, “if you make tea out of the berries, you can die a terrible death.”

“There goes my idea for a mistletoe-infused alcohol,” I said, taking a sip of my drink.

I followed Morticia to the snack table, where Belle and Dana were selecting from the variety of savory pastries, mini quiches, and other appetizers.

“You ready for the bake-off to be over?” Morticia asked them.

“I was ready for it to be over a month ago,” Dana replied.

“Our ratings are through the roof,” Belle remarked. “We’re getting a lot of interest in sponsorship deals for next year.”

“You can’t just toss another of your little brothers into the fire?” Dana joked.

“I’ll have you know I participated of my own free will,” I said. “We’re even thinking about making a cookbook based on the various alcohols that were used in the dishes on the bake-off. You know,” I said to Morticia, wrapping an arm around her, “that may be the perfect project for you when you come work for me.”

“She’s working for you?” Greg asked as he approached.

Belle narrowed her eyes at him.

Greg grabbed my arm to haul me away. “We’re going to discuss business,” he told her.

“Well then,” Belle drawled, “I guess we should let the men discuss business.”

“Did you convince Morticia to get on board with our vision?” Greg asked in a low voice once we were safely across the room.

“I’m working on it,” I lied.

“I will not spend money turning a chunk of that real estate venture into free studios for artists,” he reminded me. “You better read her the riot act, or this deal is not happening.”

“Are we talking about the Hamilton Yards development?” Dorothy piped up from under my elbow. Another older woman stood next to her wearing a colorful kaftan and a turban. “I was just telling Zarah about the development and the artist retreats we’re going to have on my property,” she said. “Zarah’s big into art—very involved with the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. She even has a scholarship that she gives out to interns every year.”

Greg gave me a pointed look. “We do look forward to working with you to create a successful development, Dorothy,” he said smoothly. “Excuse me. I need to talk to Owen.”

Dorothy watched Greg head across the room to talk to my older brother. “He needs to get with the program,” she said.

“I’m sure once he sees all the pictures of the pretty naked yoga girls,” Zarah drawled, “he’ll be throwing money at this project.”

Dorothy snapped her fingers. “This lady is super smart. Greg!” Dorothy called, power walking through the crowd and waving her phone. “Oh, Greg!”

Zarah turned her gaze to me. “And Morticia, the artist, will be involved in Hamilton Yards as well?” the older woman asked.

“Definitely,” I said. “Very heavily involved. She’s going to be working for me doing marketing and then, obviously, locking down this development.”

“Hm.” Zarah furrowed her brow. “That will be a lot on her plate then. She applied for a prestigious internship at the Getty Museum. It starts at the beginning