The TV over the soda fridge played highlights from last night’s game, complete with closed captions that lagged by half a play. I scrolled through social media, then glanced up right as the guy called my order.

  I snatched up the warm wax-paper bundle, my tray of fries, then scanned the room. Finding a table here was like getting a seat at Hamilton. Most were crammed with duos or groups, all sprouting red noses and laughter.

  Somebody stood, vacating a two-top next to the radiator. I pounced, grabbing the spot so fast you’d think there was gold buried under the plastic tabletop. My ass hit the wooden seat with all the grace of a sack of laundry.

  I was halfway through unwrapping my sandwich when someone cleared their throat. I looked up.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  Right away I recognized two things. One. The voice was low, pleasant, and confident, with the kind of cadence that turned heads, and two, it was attached to a man who looked like he’d been air-dropped in from a Banana Republic ad, but with a better jawline.

  He smiled, flashing even, white teeth. His suit wasn’t just tailored, it was sculpted, like he’d gotten fitted by a revenge-driven ex. Dark hair, not too short, perfect stubble, eyes so clear and blue they knocked everything else out of my field of vision for a second.

  He waited, one brow up, hands careful, as if I might be the kind of person who got territorial over deli seating.

  In that moment, I was very much not that kind of person.

  “Sure.” I scooted my sandwich and dignity closer to my side of the table. “It’s all yours.”

  He grinned, shrugged off his coat, and slid into the seat across from me. I caught a whiff of something fresh and crisp, maybe juniper, maybe expensive aftershave, but nothing like the old cologne samples I used to steal from department store flyers and call “date ready.”

  He set his sandwich and bottle of sparkling water on the table.

  “Thanks. I’m Aaron.” he said, in a voice that wasn’t putting in any effort, but still had me ready to sign up for a twelve-step program.

  “David,” I replied, then immediately regretted not adding something clever.

  Aaron’s gaze tracked over my face, and then landed briefly, unapologetically, on my coffee-stained shirt. “You look familiar.”

  My mouth, never one for subtlety, almost said, “We met in a dream.” Instead, I just shrugged and tried not to look like the awkward gay guy with half a sandwich in his hands. Which, to be fair, was exactly what I was.

  “I know,” he said, pointing. “Accounting. You work at Megalith Data, right?”

  I blinked, surprise trumping the last dregs of self-doubt. “Yeah. Second floor. Cubicle ghetto.”

  He laughed, a warm, easy sound that made it suddenly okay to be eating a sandwich with mustard and pickles. “Small world. Though, technically, it’s more of a hopelessly inefficient corporate maze than a world. I’m up on six most days. I’m Aaron Rothe.”

  My brain did a triple take.

  Aaron Rothe. The name felt like a hand grenade rolling under my end of the table. CEO, infamous for not owning a single plain tie, rumored to have once fired someone over a bad pun in a presentation. Okay, maybe not “fired,” more like “gently reassigned,” but office legend had him walking on clouds and swinging a scythe.

  He didn’t act like a cloud-walking scythe enthusiast. Up close, his eyes crinkled in a way that broadcasted genuine interest. Not a pre-programmed script. I felt my face go pink, which for me meant somewhere between “mildly embarrassed” and “nuclear meltdown.”

  I tried to recover. “I’m…surprised to see you here. Thought CEOs only ate in mahogany-paneled rooms with hand-carved roast beef. Or at least, you know, not at this place.”

  He shook his head. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried their turkey. Besides, I needed some space from boardroom politics. Here, it’s just sandwiches and questionable soup.”

  Fair point. I hadn’t met a turkey sandwich that judged me for getting quarterly reports wrong.

  He unwrapped his lunch and took a bite. Even the way he chewed looked efficient, like he was maximizing flavor and minimizing small talk. I gnawed on my own sandwich, suddenly aware of crumbs on my hands and probably mayonnaise on my face, even though I’d specifically ordered without it.

  Aaron watched me for a moment, then grinned again, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Rough morning?” His gaze flicked to my shirt.

  I glanced down and shrugged, playing it casual. “My alarm apparently took the day off. Also, my coffee’s goal in life is to ruin my wardrobe. I’m told it’s a good look. Very ‘damsel in distress,’ if you’re into that.”

  He laughed, deep and resonant, like he actually found me funny. “Some people pay big money for custom designs. You’ve got natural talent.”

  I dragged a fry through the edge of my mustard and tried not to stare at him. He brushed a crumb from his lower lip, and it was possible that everyone else in the deli vanished for a second, replaced by just that dimple and his easy, unhurried smile.

  He leaned in slightly. “So, do you usually eat here? Or is this the last resort for lunch emergencies?”

  I snorted. “Today, definitely the latter. Normally I bring leftovers, but this morning was more Die Hard than Good Housekeeping. I’m lucky I left the apartment with pants on.”

  His gaze lingered, interested, like he saw straight through the self-deprecating jokes to the guy trying desperately to be seen but playing it cool.

  Aaron took another bite, then tilted his head. “Are you going to the Christmas party?”

  The question hit a little sideways. I didn’t expect a CEO to care which lowly accounting minion showed up to the annual parade of awkwardness and themed mocktails.

  I hesitated, then shrugged. “Apparently there’s a contest for worst sweater? Trying to decide if I want to lose on purpose or actually put in effort.”

  He wiped his mouth, then grinned. “It’s legendary. Last year, someone glued tiny working lights to their vest and nearly set the breakroom on fire. I think Janet’s still traumatized.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. I heard Laura’s going full sequined suit.” Suddenly the idea of showing up looking like an off-brand Hobo Santa seemed less alarming.

  Aaron’s gaze dropped back to me, more serious now, but not in a way that made me want to flee the deli. “You should come. I’d like to see you there.”

  Did he mean that? Or was this just CEO-level morale boosting? His eyes said yes. Or maybe I’d finally snapped and was hallucinating flirtation after one too many Friday-night rejections.

  I nodded, first slow, then with a little more conviction. “Guess I should shop for a sweater that screams ‘emotionally available.’ Maybe with those little pom-poms.”

  He laughed, the sound rolling over the tabletop, warm and inviting. “Make sure it’s ugly enough to be banned by the UN. Otherwise you’ll just blend in.”

  I pretended to consider, chewing thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll hot glue some googly eyes to mine. Very modern art. Tie it in with the coffee stains, you know, for brand consistency.”

  He nodded, approving. “Now you’re thinking like a CEO.”

  The conversation drifted, easy as breathing. He told me about the time he’d been late to meet his own boss and spilled soup on his laptop. I countered with my story of getting locked in the stairwell and missing Janet’s birthday sheet cake by two hours. He claimed to have the world record for worst karaoke version of “Jingle Bell Rock.”

  I believed him. Not because he looked like a liar, but because, sitting across from him, I suddenly wanted him to be good at karaoke. Or at anything, really. The man was magnetic.

  I couldn’t remember when lunch had felt so simple. Or when I’d last talked to someone who actually made me want to stick around, even after the sandwich was gone.

  Halfway through, I realized I was no longer watching the clock. For once, I didn’t care if I went back to work smelling like deli pickles and defeat.

  Aaron glanced at his phone, then at me. “Gotta head back. I have a call with Tokyo in fifteen. But I’ll see you at the party?”

  My mouth answered before my self-preservation instincts could intervene. “Definitely.” I tried to sound cool. Not sure I succeeded.

  He gathered his coat, reached for his trash, and paused, like he wanted to say something else.

  Instead, he tapped the table with his knuckle. “Glad I ran into you, David. See you soon.”

  With that, he strode out, head high, carving a path through the crowd, a little larger than life. I watched him go, feeling simultaneously like a middle schooler with a crush and a forty-year-old on his third divorce.

  The deli suddenly felt colder, the noise a little sharper. I finished my sandwich, staring out the window as blizzard-like snow blew sideways down Clark. Somewhere in my closet was a sweater that had only ever fit ironically. Maybe it was time to make it famous.

  * * * *

  The rest of the week passed with minimal disasters, unless you counted Carla’s epic meltdown over misfiled TPS reports, or Marnie’s failed attempt to bake gluten-free brownies for her secret Santa. They tasted like drywall. I tried to be polite. I failed.

  Each morning was a rerun. Each night, I went home, made dinner for one, and tried not to think about how every other apartment in my building had blinking red and green lights. I briefly considered getting a tree, but the idea of vacuuming pine needles out of my carpet until July was enough to kill the impulse.

  The impulse I couldn’t seem to kill was replaying my lunch with Aaron. I wouldn’t let myself anticipate seeing him at the party, convinced myself he was just being polite. Even though a tiny kernel in me hoped the interest was real.

  The sweater in my closet looked like it had lost a battle with moths.

  Thursday afternoon, I found the kitten sweater in the Lost and Found Marnie told me about. It was even worse than she’d described. Red and green, with a pattern that gave me a low-level existential crisis. It wasn’t clothing. It was a cry for help in acrylic form. Bells. Jingle bells. Actual working bells. My only hope was that the noise would drown out my dignity.

  I stuffed it into my backpack and resolved not to overthink it.

  Friday, the day of the party, I woke up to a fresh coat of snow. The kind that made everything look deceptively clean. I pried myself out of bed with the motivation of a salted slug, ran a hand through my disastrous hair, and made a halfhearted attempt at breakfast.

  I tried to tell myself not to think of Aaron, but my brain flipped me the bird and kept right on torturing me with images of his face and the way his voice simultaneously made me nervous and swoon.

  The clock blinked 7:40. I was technically on time, but still managed to bang my shin against the coffee table, spill half the cereal, and spend a full three minutes looking for my keys. At least the sweater was packed, mocking me from its plastic bag.

  If there was a patron saint of men who looked like they were being held hostage by their own wardrobe, I was ready for canonization.

  * * * *

  It was officially party time.

  I’d nearly made a break for the exit an hour ago. No doubt pictures would be taken, immortalizing me in a fuzzy kitten nightmare not even a cat-loving granny would wear. I yanked the thing out of my backpack like it might bite me. The bells were volume-maximized, probably detectable by satellites.

  Was I really going to wear this? The sweater practically screamed, “Give this man a reindeer trophy and also a psychiatric evaluation.”

  Looking at it one last time, I put it on, hoping maybe I’d have a medical emergency before the party and get out of this alive. As soon as the fabric hit my skin, I itched in places I’d previously considered invulnerable, and clung in others like polyester barnacles.

  No way someone would think I’d worn this on purpose. I slid my phone from my pocket and snapped a quick picture in the mirror, mostly for proof that I hadn’t been held at gunpoint.

  “Can’t hide in here all night. It’s not like everyone else won’t look equally hideous,” I said to my reflection for a boost of confidence. “You’re doing this for a trophy.” Liar. “Fine. You’re doing this for a guy. Happy?”

  Fantastic. Now I was arguing with my reflection. I needed a drink. Or laid. Both?

  The bells announced my bathroom exit. It was like being trapped inside a toddler’s musical toy.

  Janet took one look at me and clapped. Actual applause. “There he is. The winner of the Reindeer Trophy, folks.”

  Carla simply blinked. “You look you’re being held hostage.”

  I tried for bravado, which was difficult with the bells jingling every time I shifted. “It’s a bold statement piece. I hear jingle bells are very slimming.”

  Janet walked a slow circle around me, hands on hips. “I have to give you credit, David. You’re committed.”

  Guys usually were if getting laid was even a remote possibility.

  We walked down the hall to the conference area. Everyone had gone into overdrive with the whole company on hyper-holiday mode. Everywhere I turned, someone was slapping up more garland or stringing more blinking lights.

  Even the elevators were wrapped in ribbon. The conference room—which Janet had rebranded “The Winter Wonderland Zone” per her company-wide email, complete with clip art snowmen that actually gave me nightmares last year after too much party punch—was transformed. Real pine in the air. Fake snow on the floors. Cardboard cutouts of Santa grinning from every corner, all equally threatening.

  Being alone during the holiday season left little desire to celebrate. For me, it was just another day in another month in another year. Which was why I’d wanted to skip the party. But I had to admit, the warm glow of lights from the tree, the laughter, and the music put a smile on my face.

  More people started to filter in, most of them wearing sweaters that clearly had origin stories. Homemade disasters, thrift-store finds, a few that looked like they belonged to someone’s grandmother.

  Coworkers milled around, eyes bright from too much sugar and office gossip. Between the garish sweaters and the constant jingling, the place felt almost unrecognizable. People who barely looked up during the week were suddenly sociable, drawn together by peppermint bark and the promise of an open bar.

  The crowd seemed to grow. Every time I moved the bells accompanied me like a drunken marching band. I tried not to shift too much, but apparently the only way to keep the sweater silent was by not breathing.

  Then he walked in.

  For a second, everything else disappeared. He strolled through the main doors like an event planner’s fantasy—black jeans, a green sweater so ugly it might have been a war crime, decorated with sequined cats wearing tiny Santa hats. There were pom-poms on the sleeves. Blue eyes gleamed as he caught my stare.

  He looked good. Unfairly good. Like he could model embarrassing sweaters for a living and still sell out.

  I watched as he weaved his way toward me through the crowd with easy confidence. I tried to pretend I wasn’t dying inside, but there was no hiding the mortification. The bells alone performed a symphony announcing my presence as I stepped forward.

  “Wow,” he said, eyes sweeping over me and not bothering to hide the smile. “You outdid yourself.”

  He meant the sweater, but something about the way his gaze paused at my mouth made my skin prickle. If being mortified was a kink, I’d have been in heaven.

  “Don’t pretend you’re not jealous,” I said. My mouth had gone dry.

  The corners of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  I fingered the sleeve, his steady gaze on me. “I feel like a Christmas crime scene.”

  He leaned closer, lips hovering close to my ear. “You’ve got the confidence for it. I’m impressed.”

  God help me, I actually blushed.

  Janet materialized out of nowhere, holding an enormous plastic cup of punch.

  “Boys, you look like a pair of candy canes. Love the matching kitten theme.” She sized up Aaron’s sweater then mine. “I am so proud. This is what the holidays are all about.”

  She twisted, stage-whispering to Aaron. “If you get tired of the bells, I have scissors in my desk.”

  Aaron grinned back at her. “I like the bells. Adds drama.”

  I shot him a sidelong look. “What about your cats? Shouldn’t they be yowling?”

  He pointed at his sleeve. “Press the paw.” It meowed, tinny and faintly disturbing. The guy had one-upped me.

  Janet cackled. “Aaron, you’re a man after my own heart.”

  And mine, if I was lucky.

  He winked at her, then turned back to me. “Open bar?”

  As if there had ever been a more beautiful phrase.

  Somewhere behind us, Marnie squealed. “Those sweaters are going to break the ugly meter!” She was wobbling, glass tilted, two steps beyond tipsy.

  Janet snorted. “David’s going to win, easy. I put twenty bucks on it with legal.”

  Aaron’s hand brushed my wrist. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

  “You can wear it next year if I win.” My mouth just said things sometimes.

  “I’d rather see you out of it,” he murmured. “No offense to the kittens.”

  My brain failed to process for a second. I took a drink of my wine, then nearly choked as people started up a debate about who had the worst sweater. Every time someone pointed at mine, I considered billing HR for emotional damages.

  The decorations looked even brighter with the punch flowing. Lights reflected off Aaron’s sweater, making the sequined cats shimmer and dance. He stood close, real close, so nobody else could wedge between us.

  People started wandering toward the buffet, loading paper plates. Every now and then, a bell from my sweater rang out above the music.

  I’d always been background at these things. The forgotten face. Yet here was Aaron, CEO, standing at my side and smiling like he’d been waiting for me.

  I risked a glance at his face. He looked at me like I was the only man in the room.