Chapter 1

The polish on Dan’s left shoe had dried in streaks, and he’d missed a patch near the heel. Carson noticed it immediately when he walked into the kitchen, humming some half-remembered Christmas tune and adjusting the knot of his tie for the third time.

“You look like a used car salesman who accidentally dressed up,” she said, stirring her coffee without looking up.

Dan snorted, tugging at his collar. “Used car salesmen wish they had this much charm. Besides, it’s company policy—look presentable, get drunk, and pretend you like people.” He paused, glancing at Carson’s oversized sweater and ripped jeans. “You’re really wearing that?”

Carson shrugged, swirling her spoon in lazy circles. “I’m the designated eye candy. If I show up in anything nicer, Greg from accounting might actually combust when he ‘accidentally’ brushes against me again.” She mimed gagging into her coffee cup.

Dan sighed, rubbing his temple. “Just ... try not to make anyone combust tonight, okay? Last year’s fire extinguisher incident was bad enough.”

“I’ll try not to,” Carson said, rolling her eyes as she set her coffee cup down with a deliberate clink. “Though I do have a new dress for tonight. Bought it specifically to watch Greg’s soul leave his body when he realizes it’s backless.”

Dan groaned, already picturing the HR paperwork. “You’re a menace.”

Dan’s wife, Jacky, had passed away when Carson was only 5 years old; he had done his best as the only parent. But Carson, with blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes that would make any man do whatever she wanted, and nice-sized breasts, was a handful. Even Dan would get a hard-on when she walked around the house half-naked, and he had jacked off several times thinking about her.

The office parking lot glittered with snow under the streetlights, and Carson’s breath curled in the air as she stepped out of Dan’s aging Ford. The company building loomed ahead, windows glowing yellow against the December dark sky. Muffled laughter and Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You already bleeding through the glass.

Carson had changed into a short dress—very short with no back to it. Dan hadn’t even noticed until they were halfway across the tinsel-strewn foyer, too busy wrestling with his coat buttons. Then he did a double-take so hard his neck cracked. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, yanking her behind a potted fern. “Where the hell did you get that dress from?”

She grinned, spinning just enough to make the hem flare. “You think I’d let Greg from accounting have all the fun?” The dress was black, clinging in ways that defied physics, and very short.

Dan opened his mouth—probably to deliver some variation of his standard “you’re grounded until menopause” speech—but Carson was already stepping past him, her heels clicking against the marble floor with the finality of a judge’s gavel. The party hit them like a wall of heat and cheap cologne. Carson immediately spotted Greg from accounting near the punch bowl, his toupee wilting under the fluorescent lights. He wasn’t even looking at her yet—too busy explaining pivot tables to a glazed-eyed intern—but she could already see the moment he’d notice her, like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Greg’s head swiveled toward Carson so fast his toupee lifted like a startled bird. She watched, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple bobbed twice before he abandoned the intern mid-sentence. The punch ladle trembled in his grip.

Dan groaned beside her. “You’re enjoying this.”

Carson tilted her head just slightly, letting her blonde hair fall over one shoulder as Greg stumbled toward them, punch sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup. “Enjoying this tremendously,” she murmured to her dad, her lips curving into a smile that was all teeth.

Greg arrived. “Carson.” His voice cracked on the second syllable. “You—you look—” His gaze dropped to her hemline, then snapped back up as if burned. “Cold.”

Carson arched an eyebrow. “Cold?” She let the word hang in the air, watching Greg’s ears turn the same shade as the spiked punch. Behind him, the intern seized the opportunity to flee toward the safety of the shrimp cocktail platter. “I look cold. I think you meant, I look hot.”

Dan cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Greg! How are the—uh—quarterly reports coming along?” He clapped Greg on the shoulder a little too hard, making the punch slosh onto his already-stained tie.

Greg blinked at Dan’s hand on his shoulder like it was a misplaced piece of office equipment. “Quarterly—right, right,” he stammered, his gaze darting back to Carson. She leaned against the punch table, idly swirling her finger in the bowl’s rim. The ice cubes clinked together like dice in a cup. “Reports are—you know. Numbers.”

Dan sighed. “Fascinating.” He shot Carson a look that screamed behave, which only made her grin wider.

Greg’s fingers twitched around his punch cup, his knuckles whitening as Carson plucked an ice cube from the bowl and pressed it to her collarbone. “Warm in here, don’t you think?” she mused, watching the water trickle down her skin in slow, deliberate rivulets. Greg made a noise like a deflating air mattress.

Dan pinched the bridge of his nose. Carson’s plastic cup hit the floor with a wet splat, spraying punch across his loafers. The ice cube Carson had been toying with slipped from her fingers and disappeared into the neckline of her dress, making her yelp. “Christ, that’s cold—”

Dan seized the distraction like a lifeline. “Right! Cold! Let’s all get some fresh air!” He herded Greg toward the emergency exit with the efficiency of a nightclub bouncer, ignoring Greg’s weak protests about fire alarms. The door swung shut behind them with a metallic clang, cutting off Mariah Carey mid-chorus.

Greg’s loafers squeaked against the concrete steps as Dan guided him toward the landing, one hand planted firmly between his shoulder blades. “Listen, Greg,” Dan said, his voice low and measured, like he was explaining printer jams to a particularly slow intern. “Carson’s eighteen. She’s also my daughter. So unless you want HR to have a very detailed conversation about your pension plan—”

Greg’s toupee had fully detached from his scalp, now fluttering like a distressed flag in the draft from the exit sign. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—” He swallowed, his throat clicking. “She started it.”

Dan’s grip on Greg’s shoulder tightened just enough to make the older man wince. “She started it?” His voice was dangerously calm, the kind of calm that precedes tornado sirens. Behind them, the emergency door creaked open, and Carson leaned against the frame, the cold night air curling around her bare legs. She held a fresh cup of punch in one hand and Greg’s abandoned ladle in the other, swinging it lazily like a pendulum. “Oh good,” she said, sipping from the cup. “You’re teaching him about boundaries. Should I fetch the whiteboard?”

Greg’s eyes darted between them, his collar damp with sweat despite the December chill. “This is a misunderstanding,” he squeaked. Dan released him with a shove that wasn’t quite subtle enough to be accidental. Greg stumbled back, catching himself on the railing. His toupee, now fully airborne, drifted toward the parking lot like a sad, oil-stained parachute.

Greg’s hands flapped at his bare scalp as if he could somehow coax the lost strands back into place. The toupee landed in a puddle near the dumpster with a wet plop, and Carson snorted into her punch. “You know, Greg,” she said, twirling the ladle between her fingers, “bald is in. You could lean into it. Become one of those guys who polishes his head and tells everyone he does CrossFit.”

Dan shot her a warning glance, but Greg was too busy mourning his lost dignity to register the jab. He clutched the railing like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “I—I need to go home,” he muttered, his voice thin with panic. “I think I left my oven on.”

Dan opened his mouth—probably to argue—then snapped it shut with a click of teeth when Carson leveled him with a look that could curdle milk. “No,” she said, “stay.” My dad has to learn I’m not sixteen anymore.”

The words landed heavier than she meant them to. Dan’s jaw worked silently for a second, and Carson watched the realization crawl across his face like a slow-motion train wreck: the dress, the ice cube, Greg’s unraveling toupee—all of it calculated. She hadn’t just been torturing Greg. She’d been proving a point.

Carson tilted her head. “Greg,” she said, sweet as spiked eggnog, “would you like to go to another room with me for a couple of minutes?”

His gaze flicked to Dan—who had gone very still—then back to Carson. “I—uh—”

Greg’s mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on a dock. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing as if unsure whether to reach for Carson or the emergency exit.

“Another room?” he repeated, voice cracking. His eyes darted to Dan again—who had taken a single, deliberate step forward.

Carson leaned in close enough that Greg could smell the peppermint on her breath. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear—a whisper so deliberate it wasn’t meant to be missed. “Any room where we can be alone,” she murmured, “so I can give you my free Christmas blow job.”

Greg made a sound like a deflating balloon. His entire body stiffened, knees locking so abruptly that his loafers squeaked against the concrete. His pupils dilated to the size of nickels, and for a terrifying moment, Carson thought he might actually pass out. His mouth opened, but only a thin, reedy whine escaped.

Carson took Greg’s hand and pulled him toward the stairwell door, heading to the third-floor conference room with the casual confidence of someone leading a dog to its vet appointment. Greg stumbled after her, his loafers squeaking in protest, his free hand fluttering near his vanished toupee as if hoping to find it magically reattached. Behind them, Dan stood frozen, his expression caught somewhere between paternal rage and reluctant pride.

The door swung shut behind them with a metallic clang, cutting off the muffled strains of All I Want for Christmas Is You. Carson didn’t let go of Greg’s hand. She dragged him up the concrete steps, her heels clicking with each step, the sound echoing like a countdown. Greg’s breath came in shallow gasps. “Carson,” he wheezed, “I—I don’t think—”

Greg’s protest died in his throat as Carson shoved him against the conference room table with surprising force, her knee pressing between his thighs before he could blink. “You don’t think?” she echoed, tilting her head. “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all night.”