Or that of his sidekick, Phil B. To Mrs. Sanford and Mimi S., your hearts are fashioned from gold.
To Beth B., for two decades you’ve listened—I call that a true friend. And to a lovable curmudgeon of a husband and two rascally sons—when the world is upside down, thank you for hanging in there and giving me the time to write.
Readers, because all these incredible people, my daughter, Afton—like Madison in my story—is moving towards her own happy ending.
Contents
Chapter One
Dominique Holliday jammed the pink slip into her pocket and strode into the elevator, immediately punching the sixth floor button. This made no sense, none at all. She’d gotten nothing but glowing reports from her supervisor. There had to be a mistake. There had to be.
Ten minutes ago she’d tried to talk to Carol, her supervisor, but the woman had looked sheepish—even uncomfortable—and turned away saying, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do, Nicki. Really. I got in trouble for hiring you in the first place.”
A cold, hard jolt of reality sent a shiver down Nicki’s spine, rattling her composure. She’d stood in the employee dressing room, wondering what she could have possibly done wrong. She’d volunteered to work overtime…she’d even taken two split shifts. There had to be a reason, but because she was a temporary employee, she knew no one had to tell her why they were letting her go.
It occurred to her there was only one person who could strip the power from her supervisor and hand down such an ultimatum: Jared Gillette, president and owner of Gillette’s Department Store. She’d never met Mr. Gillette, but she’d heard the rumors claiming he was the “Little Napoleon” of retail, the tyrant who ruled with an iron hand. Salesclerks quaked in their shoes when they spoke of him, merchandise buyers broke out in a sweat at the mention of his name.
When the doors of the elevator opened to the plush executive offices, Nicki tamped down her trepidation and sternly reminded herself she didn’t have a choice. She had to face him. Her pocketbook demanded a little cash flow, her landlord demanded the rent.
The offices were empty. It was late, almost five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and because the store was located in downtown Winter Park, Gillette’s closed at six on the weekends.
Nicki’s trepidation grew. She felt uncomfortable for being there, as if she were trespassing.
The ominous door of Jared Gillette’s executive office stared her right in the face.
So how long could it take to get this straightened out? she asked herself. Three minutes? Five? Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she marched over to the mahogany door, and raised her fist, poised to do battle. With her knuckles, she rapped three times on the satin finish.
“Yes? Come in,” a deep, no-nonsense voice invited.
Nicki practically fell over backward with nerves. She grabbed the handle to steady herself, and the solid wood door rattled in its frame.
Her composure was shredded, but there was only one thing left to do: enter the chamber of horrors and have her say. She’d beg, plead, or bargain if she had to; she had to have that job.
Pushing the door a little too hard, Nicki stumbled into Jared Gillette’s office. She swayed, tugged on the hem of her sweater, and tried to make her feet cooperate. When she looked up, it was into the most perceptive, deepest, darkest eyes she’d ever seen. For a split second, when Jared Gillette’s inquisitive gaze collided with hers, she couldn’t tear herself away. Something needy and profound spiraled right down into the pit of her soul.
He was younger than she’d imagined—maybe thirty-five—and far too handsome. His hair was as shiny and polished as onyx, and his wide forehead and high cheekbones appeared sculpted of alabaster. His mouth was full, and his nose was straight and wide. Impeccably dressed in a dark, pin-striped suit, Jared Gillette’s scarlet tie was perfectly knotted between the points of a crisp white collar. At his wrists, gold cuff links winked at her.
Nicki imperceptibly closed her eyes and shook herself, as if she could fling his disturbing features from being imprinted on her memory.
“Mr. Gillette…” she began unsteadily, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
“Yes,” he confirmed sharply, setting aside a sheaf of papers, “I am. And you would be?”
“Dominique Holliday. I—I work for Gillette’s Department Store…or at least I did until an hour ago.” Nicki fumbled in her pocket, to find the termination letter. She extended the crumpled paper in his direction. “I’ve tried to talk to my supervisor, but she says there’s nothing she can do…so I thought, maybe you could—”
He scowled at her, waiting.
A feeling of helplessness surged through Nicki. “Look,” she said defiantly, “I was hired two weeks ago by Carol Whitman as a Santa Claus because she knew I could work with kids, and I’ve bent over backward to do my job. I’m the best Santa Claus on the floor, and I don’t understand this. Not at all.”
“Oh,” was all he said. The
