Holiday Hoax: Chapter 2

Georgia Peach.

What kind of parents name their child Georgia Peach?

Were they on drugs?

Did they hate her upon birth?

A small part of me feels sorry for Georgia. I can imagine how badly the kids teased her while growing up.

She’s not a moron. She could have legally changed it.

I would have if I were her.

Her name is as annoying as her perky tits, sunshine attitude, and royal-blue doe eyes.

She looks so innocent.

I bet she’s only dated super-nice guys who don’t know what they’re doing in the bedroom.

I could corrupt her twenty-four-year-old virginal body.

Okay, she can’t be a virgin.

Maybe she is.

Nah. She probably lost her virginity to her longtime high school boyfriend, who came the minute he shoved his small little cock inside her tight pussy.

I should teach her what it’s like to be with a real man.

HR would love that.

I glance through the tinted glass at her long legs crossed under her desk. She twists a lock of her blonde hair around her finger, studying a piece of paper. She furrows her eyebrows, releases her hair, then marks the paper. Her pink tongue shoots out, slowly licking her bottom lip.

I groan, slide my hand inside my pants, and stroke the raging hard-on I’ve had since I ran into her in the lobby. The moment she opened those pouty lips and her southern accent came out, I was a goner.

But I knew if she worked in this building, I needed to stay away from her.

Then she showed up in my office with her little cupcake dreams, compounding my annoyance.

What is the point of an MBA if you aren’t going to use it?

She’s obviously using Cartwright enterprises as a stepping stone until her fantasy operation can come to fruition. Watching our clients eat her cupcakes all day and rave about them only irritated me more.

If Ben Eiler thinks he’s going to have his way with her, he’s got another thing coming.

She’s an employee. I need to stay away from her.

She’s not long-term.

Maybe I should have her sign a contract, tell her I’ll pay her double her salary to service my needs and keep her at my beck and call.

I chuckle, trying to imagine her face if I proposed that arrangement, stroking myself faster.

She rises and walks toward my door. There’s a knock.

I remove my hand from my pants, scoot closer to my desk, and bark, ‘Come in.’

‘Is there anything else you need before I leave tonight, Mr. Cartwright?’ She turns her dazzling smile on me, making my cock hurt more.

Yeah, come over here. I’ll bend you over the desk and fuck that chirpy little attitude of yours right out of you.

The lights are dim, signaling it’s past seven. It’s to save electricity, but I also prefer it after a long day. I glance at the window, realize it’s already dark out, and then refocus on her. ‘No. I’m good.’

‘Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she says and spins.

‘Wait!’ I order.

She freezes, then turns back. ‘Yes?’

‘Why are you here so late?’ I question. The others left at least an hour ago.

She shrugs. ‘I wanted to get a head start on the files Victoria gave me for tomorrow.’

I study her, staring at her tits, covered in her yellow dress and sweater, for so long she nervously shifts. When I pin my gaze back on hers, I state, ‘You’re on salary.’

‘Yes, I’m aware.’

‘There’s no overtime for staying later,’ I point out.

‘I wasn’t staying to earn overtime,’ she claims.

Hook, line, and sinker.

‘No? Then what were you staying late for when everyone else but me has left?’ I ask, just to watch her squirm.

A moment passes, and it’s like watching a lightbulb go off in her brain. Crimson colors her cheeks, and she stutters, ‘I-I told you I wanted to get a head start.’

‘Is that all?’ I ask, enjoying every minute of making her uncomfortable. And there’s no more debating. I’ll have my way with her sooner rather than later. It’ll be a new challenge to see what she’ll allow me to do to her.

Remember HR.

I’ll cover my butt.

‘Well?’ I ask when she continues to gape at me.

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. I have to give her credit. A lot of interns have tried to seduce me. I’m one of Dallas’s top bachelors to snag, and they all want a piece of my fortune. Yet I don’t fancy those offers. What’s the fun if it’s too easy? I can get laid anywhere. Plus, doing it with someone on my payroll is a headache.

I’ll make an exception for her naive ass though.

She reiterates, ‘I wanted to get a head start on tomorrow. Since it’s Thanksgiving this Thursday, I didn’t want to get behind due to the day off.’

I almost roll my eyes. Thanksgiving is just another excuse for people not to work. I snicker. ‘Granny coming to town to cook you a turkey?’

Her eyes glisten and her voice shakes. ‘No. She died six months ago.’

Now I feel like a total jackass. I add, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she states, not waiting for me to reply before shuffling out of the office.

I rush toward the door and call out, ‘Hey!’

She spins, puts her hand on her hip, and asks, ‘What?’

‘I didn’t mean to be a dick about your grandma,’ I claim.

‘Yes, you did. Goodnight,’ she replies, then practically runs to the elevator.

Her response shocks me. Most people don’t call me out on my bullshit. I stare at her pert ass, fisting my hand at my side, feeling a tad guilty. It’s what happens every now and then—the guy who used to care about hurting people’s feelings shows up.

I watch her disappear in the elevator, reprimand myself for apologizing to her, and try to shake him away. My days of caring about women are over. Every time I put my heart on the line, it got squashed. After my fourth fiancée, and last failed attempt to find love, I vowed to use women for my physical needs and stay single forever. All of them were just using me for the Cartwright name and money. It didn’t matter if they were from the small town I grew up in or Dallas. Every time I got used, it cut me deeper.

Ms. Peach is lying about not knowing who I was before this morning.

She seemed genuinely shocked.

It’s an act.

The last five years, I’ve stuck to my rules, and I no longer get emotionally attached. It’s easier, there aren’t any surprises, and I don’t become a lovestruck fool.

I pace my office, wishing I hadn’t thought of my past romantic failures and trying to no avail to get Little Miss Sunshine out of my head. So I decide I need to work out again. I go home, change, and step into my gym, sweating for several hours. But nothing gets her voice, with her southern phrases and accent, out of my mind.

Plus, her round ass and long legs were made to torture men.

I finally get into the shower, jack off, and toss my pre-packaged, macro-balanced meal into the microwave.

A vision of her gourmet, sugar-scented cupcakes pops into my head.

I mumble, ‘Who eats cupcakes in today’s age anyway?’

More annoyance fills me thinking about all the clients who ate and raved about them while my mouth watered as I resisted trying one.

A few times, I had to check myself. Georgia would say something in the meeting, and I couldn’t help but scowl to cover up my attraction toward her. From time to time, Victoria gave me her ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ expression.

Nothing I did seemed to faze Little Miss Sunshine, which only irritated me further. And every time she ran her pink tongue over her lips, my cock ached.

The microwave dings. I eat my food without tasting it, then slide into bed.

All night, I toss and turn, thinking about the mergers and acquisitions I have on my plate and the contracts that need to get renewed. Eventually, the never-ending question rears its ugly head.

When will my father finally retire?

He keeps saying he’s going to, but he puts it off another twelve months every year. So I’m not going to hold my breath that come January, I’ll be the new CEO of Cartwright Enterprises.

To distract my thoughts, Georgia pops back into my mind. I get another hard-on and jack off to visions of her sucking me dry with her plump, pink lips.

By four thirty, I give up trying to sleep. I go back into the gym, run several miles on the treadmill, pump a few weights, take a shower, and start to feel a little bit better.

I glance at myself in the mirror. Trying to convince myself it’s true, I state, ‘It’s coming soon. I know it’s coming soon.’ The anxiety I’m constantly battling while trying to show my father I’m ready to take over grows bigger the closer I get to January. I’ve tried to tap into the ‘the universe will give you what you ask for’ mentality, but so far, it’s not working for me.

After my pep talk, I go into the kitchen, prepare the same protein shake I drink every morning, then guzzle it down. I brush my teeth and step outside to the parking garage.

I get in my truck, and I’m halfway to the office when my father’s name pops up on my dashboard screen.

Something inside me makes me hesitate. He only calls when something isn’t to his liking or there’s a problem. It rings again, and I answer, ‘Dad, what’s going on?’

‘Well, good morning to you too,’ he says.

I grunt. ‘Didn’t know you called to exchange niceties. What’s going on?’

‘Jesus, it’s barely dawn, and you already have an attitude for the day, huh?’ he comments.

‘Dad, can you get to the point of whatever this conversation is?’ I demand.

‘Why aren’t you coming home tomorrow?’ he questions.

I grip my fingers on the steering wheel tighter. ‘I told Mom I have a lot of work to do. I don’t have time to come home for one day.’

‘It’s Thanksgiving. You should be coming home for the weekend, not just one day,’ he says.

I tug at my hair, claiming, ‘I don’t have time for that, and you know it. I’ve got a lot on my plate. Remember what it was like when you were running things?’

Years ago, he moved back to the ranch. He used to commute between Dallas and home, but he put me in charge of running the operations so he could back off a little. It’s where I wanted to be anyway. I can’t stand the small town I grew up in. There’s not a lot going on, too much gossip, and memories I’d rather forget. And I’d rather work for a week with no break than put up with all the country-girl-turned wannabe Dallas socialites who’d love to sink their claws into me.

‘It’s a holiday. You’re meant to be with family,’ my father restates.

I remind him, ‘Dad, you know what’s at stake. I’ve got to renew these contracts. We also have the new acquisition to close.’

‘I thought you wanted to be the new CEO,’ he challenges.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I angrily accuse, ‘Let me guess. You’re not retiring again.’

‘Didn’t say that,’ he declares.

‘I’m tired of you waving the carrot in front of me, then holding it out another twelve months,’ I admit.

He chuckles. It’s loud and riles me up more. He replies, ‘Well, I guess your patience is about to pay off.’

‘Bullshit,’ I utter.

‘Watch your language.’

‘Dad, I don’t have time for this. What are you going to hold over my head now?’ I inquire, not convinced he’ll actually retire.

‘I’m not holding anything over your head, son. But you’ve got two choices.’

‘Here we go,’ I say and turn onto the main road where my office is located.

‘Son, your mother’s upset. It’s the holidays. You should be here with your brothers and sisters and us. Plus, you haven’t seen your nieces or nephews in a while. You need to come home every now and then,’ he states.

‘I don’t like it there. There’s nothing in your small town I need,’ I tell him for the millionth time.

He sighs. ‘The oil wells are here. So are the cattle and all the employees who run the ranch. Seems to me like you need that to run the corporation.’

I point out, ‘They do their job, and I do mine, so they still have one.’

‘Sebastian, you have to come home for the Christmas holidays. You’re going to be here December 1st, and you aren’t leaving until January 1st,’ he informs me.

My gut dives. ‘No way!’

‘Did I stutter?’

‘I’m not coming home for a month. That’s ridiculous.’

He drops another bomb. ‘Then I guess I’ll name Alexander as the new CEO on January 2nd when I announce my retirement.’

I can feel the blood draining from my cheeks. I seethe, ‘So this is what you had up your sleeve? You know Alexander isn’t anywhere near capable of doing what I do here in Dallas.’

‘Maybe not, but your brother understands family values. And Cartwright Enterprises was built on family values,’ my father says matter-of-factly.

I sarcastically laugh. ‘So I don’t have values because I don’t like to come home?’

‘Part of family values is spending time with your family. And especially on the holidays.’

‘Dad, a lot is going on here. I can’t do my job if I’m there instead of in Dallas.’

‘That’s not true. There are video meetings and all sorts of technology nowadays, as you always point out,’ he throws in my face.

My gut dives further. ‘These meetings are better handled one-on-one.’

‘You can go back to Dallas for a meeting or two if I approve it. But my guess is you won’t have to,’ he claims.

‘You can’t be serious,’ I mutter, cringing at the thought of having to spend a few days, much less a month, in the small town.

‘I’m not making your decision for you. It’s your choice. But, Sebastian, come home for a month and spend time with your mother and the rest of the family, or I’m naming your brother as CEO.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I protest again.

‘Don’t test me on this, Sebastian,’ he threatens.

‘Dad—’

‘Call your mother today and let her know what your decision is,’ he orders, then hangs up.

I slap the steering wheel several times, miss a red light, and run right through it. A siren wails, and I glance in the rearview mirror. I groan and pull over.

A cop parks behind me, gets out of his vehicle, then gives me a ticket and a stern lecture.

I barely hear a word. When he releases me, I drive another block, enter my office building, and step off the elevator on the top floor. I turn the corner toward my office and groan inside.

I forgot about her.

Georgia’s at her desk. She crosses, then uncrosses her legs. The pencil skirt she’s wearing hits mid-thigh when she’s seated. Her blouse is buttoned up, but a peek of her cleavage shows through.

My raging hard-on returns, and that’s before she looks up at me, beaming.

She drawls, ‘Good morning, Mr. Cartwright. How was your night?’

‘Fine,’ I grumble, then go into my office and close the door. I step toward my desk and freeze.

Goddamn her.

I reach for the gold-frosted cupcake that has a plastic turkey stuck in it. The scent of sugar flares in my nostrils, and I almost cave before I toss it in the trash.

Don’t need empty calories, I tell myself.

Doesn’t she know sugar and carbs only turn to fat?

I don’t need to add time to my workout to work off her baked goods.

I glance through the glass.

How does she keep those curves, baking all the time?

I spend hours burying myself in work, trying to forget about the conversation earlier with my father, until he texts me.

Dad: Why haven’t you called your mother yet?

Me: I’m working.

Dad: You have ten minutes to call her, or I’m going to tell your brother he’s the new CEO.

What the fuck is his problem? My brother doesn’t even want to be CEO.

Maybe he does.

What if things have changed?

And all of a sudden, now he wants extra responsibility?

My inner demons fight me. New anxiety explodes within me like fireworks.

My father texts me again.

Dad: Two minutes.

I cave and pick up the phone, calling my mother.

She answers, ‘Sebastian! How are you, dear?’

I lie, ‘I’m good, Mom.’

‘Are you calling to tell me you’re coming home for Thanksgiving?’ she asks wishfully.

I grimace, unable to believe what’s about to come out of my mouth. ‘No. I still can’t come. I’ve got a lot of work to do here.’

Disappointment fills her voice. She lays on the guilt. ‘Oh, honey, I really wish that you’d make time for us. Please tell me you’re coming home for Christmas.’

I take a deep breath and stare out at the Dallas skyline, forcing myself to reply, ‘That’s what I’m calling to talk to you about.’

Hope fills her tone. ‘Oh?’

My irritation peaks. I swallow it down, informing her, ‘I’m coming home for the month.’

‘A month!’ she shrieks.

I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘Yeah. I’ll be there on December 1st. I’m leaving on New Year’s Day.’

As soon as that clock strikes midnight, I’m out of there.

‘Oh, Sebastian. I’m so happy to hear this. Everyone will be so excited,’ she declares.

Sure they will.

One thing I can always count on is being the black sheep of the family. I prefer the excitement of the city to the dull quiet of the country. The family gatherings I wouldn’t mind, if everyone in town wouldn’t try to pry into my business or point out my failures when they indulge in their gossip.

So I prefer to be by myself. It’s easier that way. I reply, ‘Alright, Mom, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later. Let Dad know what’s happening.’

‘I sure will. I’m so excited. Are you bringing anybody this year?’ she inquires.

Here we go…

I answer, ‘I haven’t thought that far.’

‘So you aren’t dating anyone?’ she asks.

‘I didn’t say that,’ I claim, then regret the words.

‘You are?’ she pries.

‘Mom, I have to go. We can discuss this later,’ I say, to buy myself some more time.

She blurts out, ‘There are a couple of women I’d really like to introduce you to if you come alone. I know you’re super picky, but I think—’

‘Mom, do not try to set me up,’ I warn.

‘Honey, you’re getting older. I need some more grandbabies,’ she tells me for the millionth time.

‘Mom, please.’

This is going to be such a disaster. Why did I agree to do this?

Because I’ve worked my ass off to become CEO.

I quickly state, ‘I’ve got a meeting and need to go. Love you. Bye.’ I hang up and put my forehead on the desk, groaning.

What am I going to do for a month?

Go nuts.

She’s probably already inviting all the single women in town to hang out at our house and attend the parties.

How many parties will they have?

I count the family birthdays in December plus holidays in my head and groan.

Too many.

I rack my brain about what to do. I debate about bringing home a fake fiancée, but then I cringe.

All the gossips will be placing bets on if I make it to the altar or not. I should have learned after the first, at the very most, the second time. Four times was asking to give them extra ammo.

I kept thinking each one would never hurt me.

I thought they were different.

I’m an idiot.

Why do I care what the gossips say?

I don’t care.

Yes, I do.

God, I hate my life sometimes.

There’s a knock on my door, pulling me out of my thoughts. I sit up straight at my desk, answering, ‘Come in.’

Georgia bounces into my office with her little perky tits waving in the air like two flags telling me to come hither.

Jesus, she’s got a killer body.

She smiles, and her eyes widen, bustling with that innocence that I want to corrupt.

To hell with human resources. I should shut the door and show her what Sebastian Cartwright’s really about.

She strolls to the side of my desk, and her rose-scented perfume flares in my nostrils. And I swear she bathes in sugar, which only adds to my torment. She puts a file on my desk, then opens it. She says, ‘I found a—’ Her eyes lock on my trash can.

My chest tightens.

Hurt fills her expression. She blinks hard, then pins her blues on me. ‘There’s a big error in your spreadsheet. I think you can negotiate a twelve percent increase at your two o’clock meeting.’ She taps the highlighted column, then spins and walks out.