All She Wants for Christmas. Stacy Connelly

       Chapter One

      “Got some bad news, boss.”

      Clay Forrester looked up as his assistant ducked beneath the painter’s scaffolding and played hopscotch over the electrical cords crisscrossing his office. Wallpaper swatches hung from a wall streaked with paint samples. Drop cloths protected his leather couch and chairs, but a fine layer of construction dust covered his mahogany desk. “What is it, Marie?”

      Marie Cirillo opened her mouth just as the electrician started a high-powered drill. For a brief moment, the earsplitting electrical squeal seemed to emanate from his assistant. Clay choked back a laugh as she shot the construction worker an exasperated look.

      The drilling stopped, and Clay asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you have a promising future as a ventriloquist’s dummy?”

      “You know, walking in here, I felt bad having to tell you this, but I’m feeling better about it now.” She smirked. “Doug Frankle’s sick.”

      His smile faded. “Our office Christmas party is in less than two hours, and our Santa is sick?”

      The company party was being held two weeks before the holiday so it wouldn’t interfere with family gatherings and vacations. The event was the culmination of a long, difficult year, and Clay was determined nothing would go wrong.

      “Tell me we have a backup,” he pleaded.

      “His wife dropped off the costume if you want to substitute,” Marie offered, with a cheeky grin.

      Unfolding his six-foot frame from his leather chair, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Do I look like a fat old man with a beard?”

      “If Christmas was for the naughty instead of the nice, you’re exactly what Santa Claus would look like.”

      “Very funny.” Pulling out his wallet, Clay tossed two one-hundred-dollar bills onto his desk. “Go steal some supermarket Santa.”

      “You dare to bribe St. Nick?” Marie gasped in mock horror.

      “Why not? Good ole St. Nick has been putting the thumbscrews to overworked parents for years. Accepting a bribe would be a step up from consumer extortion and emotional blackmail.”

      “You know, for a guy about to host a holiday party, you don’t sound very festive.” As the electrician left the office, mumbling something about splitters, she added, “You really haven’t been yourself since—” She shut her mouth so quickly, her teeth clinked together. That his outspoken assistant even tried to curb her tongue was proof of her worry.

      “Since my father died,” he filled in for her. “You can say it, Marie.”

      She stepped closer. “You’ve changed, Clay. Back when your father was running the company—”

      “He’s not running the company anymore. I am.”

      Marie drew back slightly. “That’s right. And you’re doing a damn good job. So don’t you think it’s time you start living in the present again?”

      “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

      “You’re locked on the future and where you want the company to go, as if you can erase where it’s been.”

      Clay flinched at the reminder of where the company had been—held tight within his father’s hands. Only after Michael Forrester passed away had Clay realized how ruthless and relentless those hands could be.

      “This is business, son,” his father had once explained. “And business is all about the bottom line.”

      Growing up, Clay had accepted that statement, the same way he’d accepted that his father often missed the big game or the science fair, phoning in an excuse and leaving Clay and his sister to pretend to understand. It was business, after all, and business came first.

      But not