Three of E.J. Russell’s short and sweet opposites-attract holiday rom-coms together in one collection!
The Probability of Mistletoe
An awkward geek on a mission, a determined extrovert with a plan, interfering female relatives of various sizes, and a statistically improbable amount of mistletoe.
An Everyday Hero
A fish-out-of-water geek (who still manages to get a bit soggy), a stand-up blue-collar guy (who can’t see his own worth), unexpected additions to the holiday festivities (some less welcome than others), and more than one serious discussion about the true meaning of the word hero.
A Swants Soiree
Crafting catastrophes, suggestive sweaters, and an awkward introvert who meets his extroverted match.
When software engineer Keith Trainor decides to start his own company, he knows exactly who he wants as his partner: Parker Mulvaney, his best friend from high school. But in the ten years since graduation, their contact has dwindled to nothing, and it’s all Keith’s fault. If he hadn’t tried to kiss Parker under the mistletoe at the winter formal their senior year, Parker wouldn’t have bolted. At their ten-year reunion, Keith intends to do everything in his geeky power to make amends.
Parker should have known that scheduling the reunion the day before Christmas Eve was a recipe for a headache of monster proportions. But when Keith sends a text that he’ll be attending, the evening doesn’t look so bleak. Can an unnecessary makeover, a nostalgic breakfast, an abortive shopping trip, and dance invitations with only a 50 percent success rate culminate in a long-overdue first kiss?
The Probability of Mistletoe is a short and sweet opposites-attract, friends-to-lovers, second-chance rom-com featuring an awkward geek on a mission, a determined extrovert with a plan, interfering female relatives of various sizes, and a statistically improbable amount of mistletoe.
(This re-release of The Probability of Mistletoe contains no material changes from the former edition.)
A different kind of home invasion…
When Adam Tyler’s sister announced she was pregnant, Adam decided to move from Portland, Oregon, to Phoenix, Arizona, to fully embrace the uncle experience. However, he didn’t count on the move being delayed until three days before Christmas—and three days before his sister’s due date. And he definitely didn’t count on finding a scorpion in his bedroom. Cue the panicked calls to exterminators.
A different kind of knight to the rescue…
Garrett Strong doesn’t consider himself at all remarkable—his ex certainly didn’t think so—and Garrett’s pest-control business is circling the drain. Although Adam is his first new client in months, that isn’t the only reason Garrett goes above and beyond for him. He feels a real connection to the younger man and intends to do everything in his power to make sure Adam feels safe and welcome in Phoenix—venomous intruders notwithstanding.
An Everyday Hero is a short and sweet opposites-attract, age-gap rom-com featuring a fish-out-of-water geek (who still manages to get a bit soggy), a stand-up blue-collar guy (who can’t see his own worth), unexpected additions to the holiday festivities (some less welcome than others), and more than one serious discussion about the true meaning of the word hero.
Why is “fun” always so freaking painful?
Software engineer Brent Levine has always struggled with the life part of work-life balance, but to hold on to his new job, he’ll have to embrace his employer’s dreaded “staff enrichment” events. This year’s annual ugly holiday sweater party will strain his ambition to remain inconspicuous: everyone has to wear their sweaters upside down and converted into pants—aka “swants.”
At six foot eight, Brent has a hard enough time finding clothes that fit him the right way up. And while he’s an ace at coding, when it comes to handcrafts, he’s definitely at the far left end of the bell curve. Luckily he encounters seriously cute theater costumer Jonathan at the Goodwill Outlet. Jonathan offers Brent both an acceptably ugly sweater and his expertise in swants conversion. Attraction sparks on Brent’s side, but how can Jonathan be interested in a nerdy geek like him?
A Swants Soiree is a short and sweet opposites-attract rom-com featuring crafting catastrophes, suggestive sweaters, and an awkward introvert who meets his extroverted match.
The Probability of Mistletoe
Chapter One
When Parker Mulvaney’s email alert pinged at the same time his instant message notification squawked and his cell phone blared “Ride of the Valkyries,” he let his head fall forward onto his kitchen table with a thunk. Whose brilliant idea was it to have the ten-year high school reunion two days before Christmas?
Um… that would be me.
It seemed like a good idea at the time—classmates who’d moved away after graduation would be more likely to be in town to visit families who remained, plus a lot of people liked to take time off at the holidays.
Me again.
Except his boss didn’t understand the concept of “time off”—at least for Parker—any better this year than in the last five.
Sure enough, when Parker answered his phone, his boss barked, “We’ve got a situation.”
Not “Hello.” Not “Happy holidays.” Not “Sorry to bother you.” Straight to the point, that was Frank. Once upon a time, Parker appreciated that directness. Now? Not so much.
He didn’t bother to raise his head off the table. “Frank, I’m on vacation. You know what that means, right? It means I’m not working.”
“Yeah, yeah. But this is important. Crucial. Make-or-break.”
I’ll tell you what’s about to break…. “Seriously? We’ve got no new campaigns launching this week, and Krista is totally capable of handling the ongoing plans.”
“Grayson Harris himself called me from the event venue demanding to know why you aren’t on-site to manage things.”
“Did you tell him I’m on vacation?”
“Of course not. He’s our biggest client. He wants you on deck.”
“We can’t always get what we want.”
Silence on the line except for a staccato tapping. Frank’s pen. Parker counted down, imagining Frank’s teeth grinding in counterpoint. Three… two… one. “Harris Electronics is our most important account.”
“And Mr. Harris won’t go into withdrawal if he can’t talk to me three times a day for the next two weeks. This event isn’t external-facing marketing anyway, for pity’s sake. It’s their office holiday party. The ‘event venue’ is their own freaking building. The caterers are competent to set up and break down, and by the third drink, nobody—including Mr. Harris—will notice if the conference room is on fire, let alone if I’m any closer to the buffet table than Tierra del Fuego.”
“Parker—”
“Frank.” Parker matched his boss’s exasperated tone. “Trust me. I’ve babysat the last four of those parties, and there was no reason whatsoever for me to be at any of them. They’ll be fine. So will you. And so will your agency.”
Frank grumbled, but at least he hung up, thank goodness. Parker heaved a sigh and dropped his cell phone into his lap, head still resting on the edge of the table. He poked at the screen to bring up the email.
As he expected, it was from the reunion committee chair, who always pushed every major decision onto Parker—which didn’t bother him nearly as much as the number of emoticons she added to her messages.
“There should be a law,” he muttered. “No more than one smiley, three hearts, and two winkies in a single email.” Furthermore the quota should be reduced by 10 percent for each exclamation point and 50 percent for every LOL. He responded—politely—thanking every available deity the reunion would be over tonight.
Too bad I can’t say the same about my job.
Before he pulled up the message app, he bet himself a new pair of Chuck Taylor high-tops the message was either from Krista, complaining about Frank, or one of his sisters, freaking out about their family’s annual Christmas Eve bash.
He opened the app—and bolted upright in his chair. Keith Trainor? So what if he lost the bet because holy cripes. Keith.
KT: Hey, Parker. You’ll be at the reunion tonight, right?
His thumbs were trembling so that Parker fumbled his first two attempts at a response. He’d never imagined Keith would be back in town for the holidays. He had no family in the Portland area anymore, and as far as Parker knew, Keith was firmly ensconced in a high-tech throne in some Silicon Valley software company—and they were lucky to have him.
PM: Absolutely!
KT: Good.
Parker waited for another message, another word—heck, anything. From Keith he’d accept giant flocks of emojis rampant on a veritable field of exclamation points, but Keith’s online indicator went gray. Dang it.
Keith. Wow. They were unlikely friends in high school—Keith, the introverted geek barricaded behind banks of computer equipment, and Parker, the extroverted social butterfly with his fingers in every student activity pie. But in the first month of freshman year, Keith helped Parker with a computer assignment, and when Parker got a peek under that shaggy dark hair at the warm brown eyes behind unfashionable glasses, their differences didn’t seem to matter so much. When they discovered they shared the same sense of humor, taste in movies, and social values, the best-friend deal was sealed.
Parker had a lot of friends then, and he had a lot of friends now—but none of them were ever as special as Keith. Yet they’d grown so far apart in the last decade that Parker couldn’t remember the last time they’d exchanged so much as a Facebook like. Sure, they lived in different states and had since college, but this was the age of instant digital communication, for goodness’ sake. How could they have lost touch so completely? Why had they lost touch?
Oh. Right. Mistletoe. Parker groaned and slid down until his butt was on the edge of the chair. Stupid, lousy mistletoe.
Their senior year, Parker was on the committee for the winter formal—because of course he was. He was on the committee for everything. When the original DJ fell through, he asked his dad to step in at the last minute. He knew it would be a tad awkward having his father as a sort of quasi-chaperone at the dance, but he didn’t realize exactly how awkward things could get.
Because under the twinkle lights and mistletoe boughs next to the punch bowl, in full view of the stage, Keith had squared his shoulders as if he were about to ride into virtual battle and leaned in for a kiss.
And Parker bailed.
Not only because his dad was staring at him right that second. I did it—or rather didn’t do it—with the best intentions. Parker had been trying to overcome his impulsiveness. He’d finally learned making short-term choices that limited his long-term opportunities was a really, really, really bad idea. If he’d kissed Keith—and God, he wanted to, had wanted to for years—it could mean limiting them both in ways that were totally unacceptable. Because Parker knew Keith—knew him better than Keith knew himself—and once they crossed the line from friend to boyfriend, Keith would be steadfast and loyal and focused on Parker to the exclusion of his own best interests.
So Parker dodged the kiss and scampered off to chat up some other random guy—God, now that he thought about it, it was Todd Bolton, of all people. But he glanced back once and saw the slump of Keith’s shoulders, the way he shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged out of the room, his gaze fixed on the floor.
Their friendship wasn’t the same afterward, which was exactly what Parker had been trying to avoid. But when Keith announced he’d been accepted at Stanford with nearly a full ride—which he totally deserved—Parker felt vindicated. If he’d given in to the temptation of that kiss, Keith probably would have turned it down to stay in Oregon since Parker was heading to UO.
Is that why their friendship had faded in the ten years since graduation? Because Keith still held Parker’s reaction to that almost-kiss against him?
Well, no matter. Tonight he’d see Keith again and, dang it, he wouldn’t waste the opportunity.
An Everyday Hero
Chapter One
“Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God-oh-God.”
Adam squealed. He could admit it. He absolutely, positively squealed because there was a freaking scorpion in his new house.
He raced across the room and out the sliding door onto the patio, kicked off his flip-flops, and waded into the pool.
Scorpions couldn’t swim, right? He stumbled a bit but caught himself before he fell, rescuing his cell phone from a watery, chlorinated grave.
Okay. Now what?
He blinked in the bright sun. Oh. Sunglasses. He pulled them off the top of his head and jammed them on his face, wiggling his toes, so dark against the pale aqua pool bottom. Maybe I should become semiaquatic. However, spending the rest of his life underwater would seriously cut into his social life, such as it was, not to mention being really bad for his business. Computers were notoriously intolerant when it came to full-body immersion.
So instead, he googled exterminators, only to discover that Phoenix had a veritable shit-ton of them. I should have checked that before I moved. Anyplace with that many exterminators—especially ones that specialized in scorpions and, OMG, rattlesnake removal? I can’t even….
At least back in Oregon, all he’d had to deal with was moss and the occasional opossum or raccoon. And last he checked, moss wouldn’t sneak into your shoes and kill you.
Adam picked the first company in the list. “Hello, there’s a scorpion. In my house. I need to—”
“Yes, sir, we can schedule a technician for a week from Thursday.”
“A week from Thursday? The beast is in my bedroom this very instant.”
“It’s Christmas week, sir. We can’t—”
“Never mind. I’ll try somewhere else.”
But it was the same story with the next six companies. Nobody could come out and rescue him right now, and even though it was pushing eighty degrees, his toes were starting to prune up standing in the pool. Besides, Christmas was mere days away, for pity’s sake, and he hadn’t strung a single light or hung a single mistletoe bough. That’s because the movers have been delayed. Again. So I don’t have a single light or mistletoe bough.
He’d known in his gut that moving the week before Christmas was a lousy idea. He should have waited until the holiday frenzy died down in January. But his new niece was about to make her first grand entrance, and Adam wanted to fully embrace the uncle experience. That’s why he’d decided to move here when Candace told him she was pregnant.
But then he’d landed a big web design project and delayed putting his condo on the market, and then the first sale had fallen through, and then the second sale had fallen through, and when he’d finally gotten the thing off his hands, the buyers had wanted a long escrow, and God. He’d been damn lucky to find a house that was vacant in Candace and Luis’s subdivision.
Vacant except for a freaking scorpion.
“One more time. Please, Mr. Exterminator, save me.” Adam closed his eyes and stabbed the screen with one finger. He peered down at the random choice: Strong Pest Control. “Strong. Strong is good. I need strong. So let’s hope the company lives up to its name.” He repeated the number several times to memorize it, then keyed it in, since the listing didn’t even have a live link. Their web developer should be shot.
After five rings, he was about to hang up, but then the call finally connected and a deep, rather breathless voice said, “Strong Pest Control. This is Garrett. How can I help you?”
“There’s a scorpion. In my house.”
“Is this the first one you’ve seen?”
Adam’s belly clenched in horror. “You mean there might be more?”
Garrett chuckled, a warm burr that would have tickled Adam’s interest if it weren’t for the freaking scorpion. “Could be. When was your last service?”
“Never. I mean, I just moved in. I only got the keys today, but the house has been vacant for several months.”
“Hmmm. Chances are, the previous owners didn’t keep up with treatments. It’s kinda necessary around here. This is the desert, you know.”
Adam glared at the golf course beyond his chain-link fence, green and rolling and a total, complete liar. “Is there any possible way you could come over right now and save me—I mean, treat the infestation? I know it’s close to the holiday and all but—”
“Sure. Give me your address.”
Adam held the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Seriously? Seven no-time-until-a-week-from-never and then sure-give-me-your-address? He narrowed his eyes. What’s wrong with this guy?
“Just like that? Three days before Christmas?”
“I have to pick up work where I can. The exterminator business is a little slow.”
“That didn’t seem to be the case with the other seven companies I called, none of whom could fit me in.”
“Let me rephrase. My exterminator business is a little slow.”
Adam’s business consultant mental alarms clanged. Danger! Danger! Why is this guy slow and everybody else is slammed? “Um… I don’t suppose you have a website?”
“No website. I’m not really a computer guy. But I’ve got an ad in the Yellow Pages.”
Yellow Pages? WTF? How old was this guy? Sixty-three? His business wasn’t just slow—it was probably comatose. And there’s probably a good reason for it.
Adam took a breath to say thanks, but no thanks, when he glanced at the house. Oh my God, I left the door open! His resident scorpion could be inviting all his frat brothers over for a kegger right freaking now.
“Never mind.” Adam gave Garrett the address. “How soon can you be here?”
“You’re over in Ahwatukee and I’m in Tempe, so it’ll take me about half an hour at this time of day. Although the last-minute shoppers might tie up traffic a bit. But within the hour for sure.”
An hour. He could handle an hour. Couldn’t he? “Sounds perfect.”
“See you then.”
As soon as Garrett hung up, Adam thought of sixteen other questions he should have asked. Can scorpions jump? Will they charge if you get too close? What’s the land speed of the average scorpion? How long do I have to get to the ER after an attack?
Jeez, why hadn’t he done more research before this move? He could have been prepared with the appropriate protective gear, instead of dancing around in shorts and flip-flops because the temperature difference between here and Oregon was so great.
Just keep remembering the reason you’re here. His sister. His brother-in-law. His niece. Adam had the ultrasound pictures Candace had sent him already stuck to the refrigerator with Santa magnets. Family. That’s why he was here. Surely he could face the local fauna with fortitude if it meant being on the spot from the first minute he officially became an uncle.
At the moment, though, his fortitude was seriously lacking. He heaved a sigh and looked around his backyard. It wasn’t that big, and most of it was taken up by the patio and the pool with its concrete surround. But there was some natural landscaping against the fence between his house and the golf course. The lower part of the fence had some kind of ugly green mesh. Well, that has to go. The succulents looked more or less harmless, but the spines on the rotund cactus were longer than his fingers. Jeez, even the plants are out to get me.
But as Garrett had pointed out, this was the desert. He couldn’t expect the more or less benign foliage of Oregon.
This is home now. Not Portland. Get used to it.
After Candace had landed that great job here in Phoenix, Adam had thought he’d be okay staying behind in Oregon. Arizona wasn’t that far away. But since their mom had passed, Candace was his only family. He missed her. Even though he had lots of Portland friends—but no boyfriend, not since the Christopher debacle—they didn’t make up for his sister, who’d been there for him his whole life. She was his best friend. And now she was about to sprout a new member of the family. Adam was damned if he’d be an absent uncle.
So he didn’t regret moving. Mostly. If only she’d warned me about the wildlife.
He checked the time on his phone. Only twenty minutes? Jeez, he was going to be completely waterlogged by the time the Luddite exterminator arrived. So he still had plenty of time to call his sister. Yes, he loved her. Yes, she was his best friend. But she could have fricking warned him!
“Call Candace.” He started to shiver as the call connected. Standing in the water, even on a day that would qualify as borderline hot back in Portland, wasn’t doing much for his core temperature. That’s what happens when you have no extra body fat—and not many muscles either.
The call went to voicemail, damn it. He waited for the beep and then—pow.
“I cannot believe you didn’t warn me about the possible scorpion infestations, Candace. How can you reconcile bringing my niece into a house with deadly predators? I mean, scorpions? They’re only one step away from velociraptors. What if she sees one and mistakes it for a toy? Or worse, food? And yes, yes, I know it will be some time before she’ll do anything but eat, poop, and cry, but there’s such a thing as preparation! As safety! As parental responsibility! If you think that I—”
Beep.
Dang it. Just when he was building up a good head of rant steam. On the other hand, he didn’t want to alienate his sister when he’d gone through the trouble of uprooting himself and moving to the Hellmouth just to be with her.
His shivering had kicked up a notch, even though the sun was almost directly overhead. He crept over and climbed to the top step. This is stupid. You’ll have to get out of the pool to let the Luddite in anyway.
He bent down and peered at the concrete around the pool and hot tub. He didn’t see anything moving. Are scorpions related to chameleons? Maybe they’re cunning, like their velociraptor ancestors. Maybe they hunt in packs.
He could look it up on his phone, but he was afraid of what he’d learn.
When he heard the distant chime of his doorbell, a weird mix of relief and trepidation washed through him. Rescue was at hand! But first he had to make the trip through Mordor to open the door.
You can do this. He placed one foot on the pool ledge, holding on to the handrail in case he had to leap back again. When nothing swarmed him, he stepped all the way out and stared down at his wet legs. Great. I don’t have a towel.
The bell rang again. He padded across the patio, peering at the ground to make sure he didn’t discover new intruders with the soles of his feet, and slid into his flip-flops. A third doorbell chime goosed him into the House of Horrors, because what if the Luddite left before vanquishing the demon hordes?
You can walk through the great room. The venomous intruder is in the bedroom. Where Adam was supposed to sleep as soon as the movers delivered his bed. Oh God. Thank goodness his suitcase was over at Candace and Luis’s place. He was staying in their guest room until his house was habitable. Will it ever be? For that matter, could their house be infested too?
Since it would be rude to web surf in front of the man who was here to rescue him from certain death, Adam ditched his phone on the breakfast bar on his way past. He raced across the room, his flip-flops thwapping on the tile floor of the foyer. Bracing his hands on the front door, he steadied his breathing and prepared himself to face the Luddite. Don’t stare at the inevitable beer belly and jowls. You’ll look like that someday too, even if you’re a ringer for a beanpole right now.
He smoothed the front of his blue button-down, donned his best smile, and opened the door.
And nearly butt-planted from shock.
No beer belly there. Or jowls. Oh no, that right there would be freaking square-jawed perfection. The man on his doorstep was a good two inches taller than Adam, who topped six-one, and probably twice as broad through the shoulders. Not the hips, though, be still my heart. Ruddy cheeks, blue eyes, close-cropped light brown hair that might be slightly receding, but that was the only flaw Adam could detect.
“Adam Tyler?” Mr. Square Jaw grinned, and Adam’s knees might have wobbled. “Garrett Strong.”
More like Garrett the Strong, craggy, seasoned warrior. Really, all he needed was a kilt to be Adam’s dream man come to life.
“Yes. Um…. Please come in.”
Garrett held a clipboard—an honest-to-God clipboard, which made Adam’s eye twitch—and had a squarish padded bag slung over one shoulder. “From our phone call, it sounded like you were most concerned about the interior. You want to show me where you found the specimen?”
Specimen. That made it sound more like a urine sample than a potentially deadly predator. Maybe that was Garrett’s way of talking his clients off the ledge. His professional bedside manner. I wouldn’t mind having him at my bedside. Or closer.
Adam gave his libido a stern down, boy. Besides, he didn’t have a bed yet. And thank goodness for that. Otherwise the scorpions might be in it right now, lounging around while they watched Jurassic Park on Netflix.
“It was in the master bedroom. Through here.” Adam led the way from the foyer and across the great room, although he couldn’t make himself enter the master suite. “In there. By the door to the patio.”
Garrett glanced at him, a decided twinkle in his blue eyes. “It might be best if you stay back.”
“No problem.” I’ll just stand here and hyperventilate.
But as Garrett passed by and Adam got a good look at his ass in those very nicely fitting chinos? He couldn’t resist creeping down the short hallway and peeking in the bedroom door. Because Garrett might bend over and Adam didn’t want to miss that.
There had to be some bright spot in this whole fiasco.
A Swants Soiree
Chapter One
“Ba-dum.”
Beyond the glass wall of Brent Levine’s office, the corner of a cell phone rose above the edge of his privacy panel.
“Ba-dum. Ba-dum ba-dum. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. Bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum.”
Brent sighed and finished typing a line of code. “Okay, land shark. What have you got?”
His one and only work friend, Riki Chan, peered around the panel, grinned at him, then zipped over to the doorway. “I found my ugly holiday sweater, and it’s awesome.” She waggled her phone at him, and he obediently took it to check out her selfie.
“Uh…. Jeez, Riki, that is the most appalling thing I’ve ever seen.” He peered closer. “I get the reindeer and the menorah. But what’s the cake for? And the burning ring of fire?”
“That’s a king cake, of course. For Three Kings’ Day. And that’s not a burning ring of fire. It’s a candle wreath, for St. Lucia’s Day.”
“The apple humping the butternut squash?”
“Kwanzaa.”
“And is whatever’s being dumped out of the goblet supposed to douse that flaming log?”
She poked him in the elbow, which, given his ridiculous height and her petite frame, was as high as she could reach. “That’s a bonfire and libations. For the solstice.” She pointed at a bowl of what looked like earthworms. “Udon for Ōmisoka, a wren for St. Stephen’s Day, and of course, the Festivus pole.”
Brent raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Hey, it’s an inclusive holiday sweater. Something for every denomination.” She leaned against his sit-to-stand desk, which hit her in the middle of her shoulder blades. “What’s yours like?”
Brent’s gaze shifted to the three code windows spread across his dual monitors. He was on track to meet his deliverable deadline this afternoon, but it had been a tough problem to solve. “I’ve been a little busy. I haven’t had time to—”
“Brent. The party’s on Monday. People snap up the best sweaters starting on Black Friday, so if you haven’t gotten one by now—”
He patted the air in a calm-down gesture. “I’ve got one. Don’t have a cow.”
She snickered. “‘Have a cow?’ You really are old-school, Grandpa.”
“Shut up.” At thirty-seven, Brent was the oldest employee at HubPilot. Hell, the CEO was only twenty-four. He’d started the company when he was nineteen, for God’s sake. Way to make a guy feel like an ancient failure.
“Uh-huh. So come on. How ugly is it?”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Well, it’s red.”
Since patience was not one of Riki’s failings, she waited approximately six point two nanoseconds before jabbing his elbow again. “And?”
“Um… it has a V-neck?”
She stared at him, her face perfectly blank. “You were going to wear a plain red sweater to the ugly sweater party?”
“I figure ‘ugly’ is relative, right? I never wear red, so it counts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Maybe it’s the atheist’s holiday sweater.” He handed back her cell phone. “Yours represents a bunch of other traditions. Where’s the respect for people who don’t have any traditions at all?”
She pursed her lips, one eye squinted. “That’s not why you picked it. You’re just afraid of looking weird.”
Can’t argue with that. Brent could never be completely unobtrusive—at six foot eight, that ship had sailed when he reached his full height at sixteen. For some reason, his being ridiculously tall tended to bring out the belligerent posturing in some people, even when his inches were paired with a beaky nose and a physique that rivaled the average flagpole. So he’d made a career out of being otherwise as nondescript as possible.
Keep it bland, do your job superlatively, but fly under the radar. That had led to others—his ex, for one—taking credit for Brent’s work for years. He’d used the split with Christopher as an excuse to leave his old company and landed at HubPilot within two weeks.
He still wasn’t entirely sure why they’d hired him.
“It’s highly improbable that my participation or lack of it will ruin the party for everybody else.”
Riki propped her hands on her nonexistent hips. “That’s not the point. You’re an awesome coder, but you hold yourself apart.”
“We work together, Riki. We’re not married to each other. A little distance is a good thing.” Brent wouldn’t have gotten so trashed with Christopher if he’d kept that maxim in mind.
“Not at HubPilot. Don’t you think it’s a tad ironic that one of the lead coders on a product that’s supposed to promote engagement won’t participate in any of the job-enrichment events?”
“I hardly think—”
“Nope. You don’t. But you’d better start. People have already noticed how resistant you are to our corporate culture, and that won’t look good during your next performance review.” She tugged him away from his desk. “So come on. It’s time for the party theme announcement.”
“What’s to announce?” he groused, although he let her pull him through the floor’s common space to the staircase leading to the lower floor. “Wear an ugly sweater. Drink eggnog. The end.” When the HR director had told him about HubPilot’s commitment to staff enrichment, citing the regular celebrations that occurred to coincide with virtually every national or cultural holiday, he’d nearly turned the job down. He just wasn’t a party kind of guy.
“You haven’t been here long enough to know,” Riki said, dodging one of the work-lounge pods that dotted the commons, “but there’s always a twist.”
As they walked down the stairs amid a leaping shoal of other employees, Brent felt every minute of his age. He wasn’t exactly old enough to be anyone’s father—well, other than the two whiz-kid interns who showed up for three-hour shifts twice a week after their middle school classes, for Chrissake—but he was at least a decade removed from most of his coworkers.
“A twist. Wonderful.”
They emerged from the stairwell into the flexible meeting area that encompassed the whole floor. All its moveable walls were pushed aside to create one big room, with a temporary stage backed by a giant white screen at the far end. Madison, the HR director and total corporate cheerleader, was already onstage, adjusting the microphone pinned to her collar. A dozen cardboard boxes were stacked next to the stage. Madison lifted the flaps on the top one and peeked inside, her Julia Roberts–sized smile breaking over her face.
“Oh God,” Brent muttered. “She’s gonna say the f-word, isn’t she?”
Riki frowned, puzzled. “What are you talking about? The strongest language Madison ever spouts is ‘Holy guacamole’—and then she apologizes.”
“Not that f-word. The other one.” Brent shuddered. “Fun.”
“Stop being so… so thirty-seven. If you’d only—”
“Hello, everybody!” Madison said, her hands clasped under her chin. “And welcome to our holiday party theme announcement!”
Everybody—except Brent, of course—hooted and cheered.
“Can you believe it’s our fifth annual party? I can’t! And thanks to you, HubPilot is the fastest-growing social engagement and collaboration tool in the market. You should all be proud of our accomplishments!”
This time, Brent joined in the applause, although he couldn’t bring himself to cheer—that just invited attention. But he truly was proud of the company’s mission and product excellence, grateful yet again that he’d found a place here.
Madison turned to one of the interns. “Ashley, would you join me, please?”
As the impossibly young intern stepped out from behind the screen and mounted the stage, Madison clicked on a slide that displayed the front and back of a long-sleeved black T-shirt, identical to the one Ashley was wearing. The front had the HubPilot logo on its breast pocket, and the back listed the company’s major milestones by year, with an appropriate icon for each one. “Ashley is modeling this, our five-year-anniversary T-shirt, designed by our own graphics guru, Riki Chan. Riki?”
Riki lifted both hands in the air as everyone cheered again.
Brent leaned down to murmur, “It’s a great design, Rik. Fabulous job.”
She grinned at him. “I know. I’m awesome.”
“In these boxes,” Madison continued, “we’ve got a T-shirt for each of you, which you’ll wear to our holiday party on Monday.”
Relief washed through Brent. Thank God. No ugly sweaters. And if we’re all wearing the same thing, I won’t stand out as much.
Everybody else groaned, though, and someone shouted, “But I’ve already got my sweater! It was bound to win this year.”
Brent looked down at Riki. “Win?”
“There are prizes,” she whispered. “We call ’em the Uglies.”
Dodged that bullet too, thank goodness.
Madison made settle-down motions with both hands. “Don’t worry, people. I would never cancel our favorite holiday tradition. Everyone can still wear their most ridiculous, out-there holiday sweater. But in a twist—and you knew one was coming, right?” She grinned, then clicked over to a new slide. “You’ll be wearing your sweater sleeves on your legs instead of your arms, because this year, our holiday bash is our first ever Ugly Swants Soiree!”
“The what?” Brent muttered. The slide showed a group of people—some standing upright, some doing handstands, some squatting in pliés—all of them wearing ski sweaters on top and extremely peculiar knitted pants on their legs.
“Fun, right?” Madison beamed at the crowd as Riki poked Brent with her elbow, mouthing f-word. “When our CEO saw a performance by a local dance company featuring swants as costume pieces, he pointed it out to me because he said it reminded him of us. That our success is likewise built on thinking outside of the box. So get out your needle and thread, and sharpen those scissors. You’ll find instructions in your inbox on how to convert your ugly holiday sweater into swants! After our in-office party on Monday afternoon, we’ll all walk over to Small Plates for dinner, so we’ll display HubPilot pride to the Pearl District, just as we always do.”
Brent’s belly clenched as the crowd headed back upstairs, chattering excitedly. “You mean, we not only have to wear something less dignified than a toddler onesie to work, but we have to go out in public?”
“Chill, Brent. Everyone else’ll be wearing them too, so it’s not like you’ll stand out.”
“Do I need to remind you that I always stand out, whether I want to or not?” Few people in the company—or anywhere for that matter—came up much higher than Brent’s chin. He glanced back at the screen, which still displayed the dancers in their swants. And I thought eighties leg warmers were unfortunate. “I don’t suppose you can buy those in a store.”
Riki gave him the stink eye. “What do you think?”
“Oh God.”
“Madison said she emailed instructions to everybody. I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out.”
“Yeah? I’m a coder, not a tailor. Can I beg for a special dispensation? Claim handicraft-impairment?”
“No. It’s time you really joined the company, Brent, so suck it up and make your swants.” She gave him another narrow-eyed glare. “Although you’d better score a truly ugly sweater, or… or….”
“Or what?”
She stuck her snub nose in the air. “You don’t want to know. But remember—I’m responsible for the company’s social media branding, and my powers can be used for evil as well as good.”
“Fabulous,” Brent muttered as she marched back to the glass-walled studio she shared with the rest of the graphics team. Why is “fun” always so freaking painful?
Brent had been hired just before Halloween, and he’d endured the traditional holiday sock exchange. His Secret Great Pumpkin had given him orange socks dotted with bats and featuring drooling purple zombies. That would have been bad enough, but the damn things had a chip embedded in them that played the same ten seconds of “Monster Mash” every time Brent moved his feet. He’d given his assigned Secret Great Pumpkin pal, Miri from Accounting, some black knee socks with a tasteful narrow pumpkin-pie-colored scroll border. He’d thought anyone would be glad of something a bit more dignified, but Miri had looked oddly disappointed.
Thanksgiving had been easy to navigate—just an office potluck on the afternoon before the two-day holiday. Brent had left early. He’d heard from Riki the following Monday that he’d bailed before the traditional group sing-along and dance-off to “Turkey Lurkey Time.” He counted that a narrow escape, but everyone acted as if he was to be pitied for missing out. Now that he knew Riki better, however, he didn’t doubt her ruthlessness if she decided his sweater didn’t meet her ugliness standards. He glanced at the clock. He’d been in early all week to finish this module. Once he checked it in, he’d be ready for the code review on Monday morning. Since HubPilot embraced flexible work schedules, work-life balance, and results rather than timecard minutia, he could justify leaving an hour or so early on a Friday afternoon.
Besides, Riki was right. As a HubPilot development lead, he needed to fully engage—with his team, with his coworkers, with the company.
So he shut down his workstation, grabbed his jacket, and headed downstairs to the sidewalk. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he studied the storefronts along Twelfth Avenue. He doubted that he’d find what he needed in the trendy Pearl District shops, so he walked toward downtown.
But two hours later, having exhausted every store between City Hall and Pioneer Courthouse Square, he was getting desperate. When a store did have a holiday-themed sweater, it didn’t approach his size—being six foot eight with most of his height in his legs was a disadvantage for last-minute shopping at the best of times. Which these definitely aren’t.
He finally found something on a bargain rack at Target—but it was a Halloween sweater. He shot a desperate text to Riki:
Halloween is a holiday. Does this count?
She didn’t bother to respond with words, but her emoji explosion was quite explicit.
He sighed. At least he had tomorrow and Sunday to scour the outlying towns. He caught a MAX train and headed home, reconciling himself to losing the entire weekend to searching for a dog-ugly sweater.
Then he remembered—finding the sweater was only the first step. Then he had to convert it into something approximating pants.
I’m doomed.
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
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