The Mistletoe Inn Read Free

lemon-yellow sweater, and a pink Polo golf shirt that stretched over his ample belly. He also wore a beret, which failed to cover his bald spot. His forehead was beaded with sweat that he constantly wiped with the handkerchief he carried. I couldn’t believe that Rachelle thought this guy was my speed. No, actually I could. She had always treated me as a wallflower.
    The man sat down in one of the vinyl chairs in front of my desk while Bart, the salesman who had sold the car, introduced us.
    â€œKim, this is Mr. Craig, the proud owner of a new GX 460.” He turned back to his huffing client. “Kimberly is one of our finance officers. She’ll take good care of you.”
    â€œI do hope so,” the man said in a thin, whiny voice.
    â€œI’ll run to service and make sure they’ve got your car ready to drive home,” Bart said to the man, then left my office.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Craig,” I said. “I’ll get your information typed up and get you out of here to enjoy your new vehicle.”
    I was entering the purchase information when the man suddenly blurted out, “Is it hot in here or is it just . . . you ?”
    I looked up at him. He was gazing at me with an insipid grin.
    â€œIt’s a little warm,” I said. “If you like I can turn down the heat.”
    â€œNo,” he said, a little thrown that I hadn’t fallen for his line. “I like it hot.” Then he started to hum that song, “. . . some like it hot, some sweat when the heat is on  . . .” He was definitely sweating.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “What’s your phone number?”
    â€œMy phone number,” he repeated. “My phone number.” He pretended to look through his pockets. Then he said, “I seem to have misplaced it. Can I have yours?”
    â€œExcuse me?” I said.
    He just looked at me.
    â€œYour phone number?” I repeated.
    â€œIt’s 555-445-3989.”
    I typed in the number. I hoped that the awkwardness had successfully dissuaded him but it hadn’t. A few minutes later he said, “Your name is Kimberly?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMay I call you Kim?”
    â€œYes, you may,” I said, continuing typing.
    A beat later he asked, “What time?”
    I looked up. “What time . . . what?”
    â€œWhat time may I call you, Kim?”
    I breathed out slowly. “Okay, Mr. Craig . . .”
    â€œTim.”
    â€œI’m flattered, Tim, but I’m not in the market right now, so you just hang on to those gems for some other lucky gal.”
    He slightly blushed. “Sorry.”
    â€œNo need to be sorry,” I said. “Now, if you’ll just fill out your insurance information.”
    He silently filled out the paperwork. When he finished he said, “Are you almost off work?”
    I looked up from my computer.
    â€œBecause, if you are, I’ll take you for a ride in my new car. Maybe we could go to dinner. Or something .”
    â€œJust a minute,” I said, standing. “May I get you some water?”
    â€œI’m not thirsty.”
    â€œI meant to cool you off.”
    â€œNo, I’m good,” he said.
    â€œAll right, I’ll be right back.”
    I walked into the employee break room and grabbed myself a ginger ale. My manager, Steve, was sitting at a table working on his iPad. Steve was a good guy, and one of my few real friends at the dealership.
    â€œJust kill me now,” I said. “Please.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œMr. Beret is. He thinks the car should come with a dealer-installed woman.”
    â€œThat would increase sales,” Steve said. “I wonder if it’s ever been done.”
    â€œYou’re not being helpful.”
    â€œSorry. Is it the GX?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWasn’t that Rachelle’s?”
    â€œWas. She asked me to take it