The Holiday Hook-Up by Baylin Crow
One
Finn
My fingers slide across the keyboard as I focus on the financials for the latest client we've acquired while trying to block out the strong scent of warm apple pie drifting from wax warmers scattered all throughout our company floor.
"Finn, may I come in?" My boss, Mr. Waggoner, taps on my office door, snapping my attention from the spreadsheet I'm color coding.
Leaning back in my cushioned office chair, I wave him inside. "Of course."
A wide smile stretches his rosy cheeks as he strolls inside and tosses a small red velvet pouch on top of a carefully organized stack of paperwork. I wince, but he doesn't appear to notice. "You haven't drawn from Santa's sack, yet."
My nose wrinkles as I try to understand my very eccentric boss. "Santa's sac—oh. Oh!"
To be fair, I might have come across a little Santa porn by accident last night. Although I didn't watch it, the preview was enough that I'd never look at the jolly man ever the same.
Secret Santa is my least favorite activity the office engages in for Christmas. Every single year for the five I've been working for Waggoner's Financial Resources I've ended up gifting someone with festive scented candles or a coffee mug with some generic phrase. How am I supposed to know what my coworkers want? It's not like I hang out with them outside of work. It would be nice if they'd add a wish list or something to each name and save me the headache.
I force a smile. "I must have forgotten to draw one on the way out of the meeting."
"You always work too hard." Mr. Waggoner chuckles. The man cuts a clean figure in his black suit, red tie, and slicked back salt-and-pepper hair. Despite his sharp appearance, my boss is a soft-hearted family man with a perky blond wife, five kids and another on the way. Work is simply work. Not life.
He eyes the pouch expectantly until I paste on a wider grin and tug the gold rope to open the bag, reaching inside. There's only one last folded piece of paper left. I pull my hand free and hold the bag out for him to take.
My boss grabs it while damn near bouncing on the soles on his shiny loafers as I unfold the paper. "Well, who is it?"
I read over the name again, hoping it'll magically change, begging for a Christmas miracle. No such luck. I hold back a groan. Of all the people who work on our floor, of course it would be him. I struggle to keep the smile in place. "Hunter Holliday."
If I wasn't a fan of the game before, I despised it now.
Mr. Waggoner's hazel eyes sparkle and he flashes pearly white teeth in a pleased grin. "Oh, that's wonderful. I'm sure you'll find the perfect thing, what with you two being so close."
Close? More like being harassed by the giant ex-professional quarterback on a daily basis. I suppress an eye roll and nod instead. "It's perfect."
He stuffs the now empty pouch in his pocket and turns to walk away, but pauses in the doorway. "Don't forget to bring the present to the party next Friday night. Will you be bringing anyone?"
"Not this year." I offer an apologetic shrug. I never bring anyone, and sometimes I'm sure my boss is itching to set me up with someone. Anyone. But I don't have time to date while I'm focusing on my career. I'd been hired right after graduating college and have goals that are much more important than finding my soulmate.
Mr. Waggoner appears disappointed but quickly hides it behind his usual cheerful smile. "Well, I'll let you get back to work."
When he strolls away, humming to the tune of “Jingle Bells”, I know it'll be stuck in my head all day. I close my eyes and groan in annoyance. What is it about Christmas that makes everyone slightly more insane than usual? I stare down at the slip of paper in my hand and grimace. Literally anyone other than Hunter would have been better.
Sighing, I slide the folded paper under my stapler to deal with later. Just as I turn back to my spreadsheet, a slow thump, thump hits my door frame. I know that knock. I loathe that knock. I don't even need to look up or bother to invite him in because it wouldn't matter if I told him to leave anyway, so I don't waste my breath.
"Can I come in?" Hunter asks as if I have a choice in the matter. Not waiting for a reply, he takes measured steps across the worn carpeted floor, dragging his giant body as if the heavy burden alone slows his movement. Then the chair in front of my desk is slowly dragged backward and his ass drops onto the poor thing as its wooden legs struggle to hold the weight of the six-seven athlete who still has a tanned, toned body ready for game day, although he'd chosen to leave the field. Probably because he couldn't get in enough naps each day.
He yawns. "So, who'd you get?"
Hunter's voice is thick with sleep, deep and husky, except I'm fairly certain he's been awake for hours. The slow drawl makes the hairs on my arms stand at attention, and I want to slap myself for thinking it's infuriatingly sexy. He's also clearly stalking me since he knows what I've just done.
"I don't know what you're talking about." I glance at him, a mistake I quickly realize I've made countless times. When I connect gazes with Hunter, he slowly blinks his deep-set brown bedroom eyes framed with thick black eyelashes and runs his fingers through his chestnut-colored hair that hangs in short loose waves that frame his face. Although he's only a few years older than me, his rugged features give him a look that makes him appear older than twenty-seven. Thanks to my baby face—rounded pale cheeks, small nose, dark brown hair that's kept neat, and light blue eyes—I'm often mistaken for a guy still in college.
Irritated, I jerk my attention to my computer, pushing my square framed glasses up the bridge of my nose, and trying to ignore the reaction my body betrays me with every damn time he's within a ten-yard radius. I hammer my fingers on the keyboard harder than necessary, pretending to do something productive and hopefully send the message that I'm busy. He doesn't need to know I'm unable to focus on the numbers across the screen. His ego is big enough without my help.
Hunter hums as if he doesn't believe me and leans forward with the speed of a sloth. When he starts moving things around on my polished desk where I have everything meticulously organized, I swat his hand and glare. "Paws off, Holliday. For the last time, leave my shit alone."
Hunter ignores me as usual, and before I can stop him, he snags the paper with his name written on it. A lazy grin slants across his stupidly handsome face, making a deep dimple pop beneath dark scruff that should have been shaved at least two days ago. "You got me."
Why does he look so happy about that? "I'm aware because I can read."
Hunter leans back in the chair, crossing his jean-clad ankles and resting his hands over his t-shirt covered stomach, a far cry from the smoke gray suit I've worn today. He cocks his head. "Aren't you going to ask what I want for Christmas, Finn?"
"Can't say it has crossed my mind." I straighten my tie while glaring, which only makes the overgrown oaf's grin broaden.
"I got Janie in marketing. Probably just get her a gift card," Hunter tells me as if anything he does might interest me in the slightest.
Buying a gift card would be easy enough, and I consider doing the same for Hunter. Although it's frowned upon by Mr. Waggoner, who thinks deep thought should go into gift giving, I decide if Hunter is allowed to break the rules then so can I. The less thinking I do about Hunter, the better. "That's probably what you'll get too."
He shakes his head. "I don't want a gift card."
Rolling my eyes, I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest. Hunter won't leave until he drains the life from my soul anyway. "You don't get a say, Hunter. You shouldn't even know I got your name in the first place. Hence the Secret part of the game." He shrugs, and if possible, slouches further down in the chair, causing a squeak I'm sure will eventually turn into splintered cracks that will have his ass landing on the floor. While he gets more comfortable, I get more exasperated. "Don't you have work to do? Wait... Do you actually have a job here, or do you just hang around to drive me crazy?"
"You're cute." His lips kick up on one side, and I scowl. "I'm finished for the day."
I glance at the time on my computer. It's only two in the afternoon. "How did you manage that?"
Hunter yawns again. "I'm a fast worker."
I sputter a laugh, and even he chuckles. "You aren't a fast anything."
"Damn right," he gloats, and I feel like I've missed something, but he seems in no hurry to elaborate on the comment.
I sigh. "I need to get back to work. Some of us don't have whatever magical powers you possess that make work vanish without lifting a finger."
He doesn't reply so I glance at him and find his eyes closed while his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Did he really just fall asleep? I snap my fingers. "Hunter, wake up you lazy jock."
"I am awake," he mumbles and I squint. Sure enough his eyes are open, barely noticeable. "But I do like it when you're bossy."
I suppress the urge to rub my temples to relieve the forming headache that always ebbs and flows when Hunter is around. "You have problems, you know that, right?"
Hunter struggles to his feet and stretches his back as if he's been in the chair for more than five minutes. "Fine, I'm going. Some of us are getting together tonight for a drink. You should come."
"I'll think about it," I lie. I'll probably end up working late before dragging myself home for a glass of wine while I catch up on whatever work I hope will get me ahead in life. Lame.
Hunter places his giant hands on my desk and leans down, whispering, "I'll be disappointed if you don't show."
Scoffing, I avoid his gaze. "Well, it is my mission in life to keep you satisfied."
Hunter hums in approval. "Cool. So, I'll see you..."
Seriously? I glare up at him. "No, Hunter. That was sarcasm."
"You say sarcasm. I say suppressed honesty with oneself." He blinks slowly and my frustration escalates.
It takes everything in me to keep my ass in the chair instead of hopping over my desk in an attempt to… Well, I'm not sure, but it wouldn't be pleasant. "Do the words that come out of your mouth actually make sense to you? I'm not suppressing anything."
He pushes away from the desk with a lazy grin. "Let's agree to disagree."
I shake my head vehemently. "Let's not do that. How about you just get it through that thick skull that not everyone drools at the first word you say to them?"
His lips tilt in a crooked grin. "I don't care what everyone does. Just you."
"Because you get off on torturing people?" I suggest, and he chuckles as if we are just two friends discussing whether he likes to inflict pain on someone for shits and giggles.
"Lucky for you, I'm not into the whole torture thing. Now ask me what I want for Christmas, Finn." He's still grinning, and I'm still annoyed.
I groan and tug my hair before pointing at the door. "Out."
With a rumbling laugh, he casually strolls to the door, pausing to glance back with his stupidly sexy smile in place and brown eyes, that fuck with my head, lowered half-mast. "you. Just one night in my bed. Think about it."
I freeze and stare at the empty spot where he stood only a second ago. There was no way he meant what it sounded like, even if it wasn't the first time Hunter had tossed a flirty comment or two my way. But that's just how he is, hitting on anything that moves.
That was, however, a pretty obvious invitation, which...doesn't sound terrible. I frown and rub my eyes beneath my glasses. There is no way I'm sleeping with Hunter, and besides, he definitely had to be joking. I hate him. He knows this, although it never seems to bother him.
Giving my head a solid shake, I look back at my computer screen and let loose a deep breath. At least I have numbers to distract me from thoughts of Hunter and me tangled in the sheets while he hovers above me, thrusting...
I huff. No. Definitely not. I will never sleep with Hunter fucking Holliday.
His Accidental Christmas Omega by Ava Beringer
1
DREW
A sound; Plunk. A whisper; Drew. Wake up.
“Not yet. Five more minutes, you drill sergeant,” I groaned. A laugh. Come on, I wanna get some of those tamales at the farmer’s market and they sell out early.
“Not yet.” Plunk. Drew! “Five more minutes, then we’ll get your special tamales.” Plunk. Drew! Wake up. He grinned and shook me. “Drew! Wake up!”
I shot up in bed, expecting darkness, instead hell was waiting at my door.
My neighbor Helga was under my window, throwing rocks and screaming frantically. The air was thick with smoke, billowing all around.
“My house is on fire,” I said out loud, dumbly. “Help!” I yelled, but the roar of the flames, trying to break through my door, swallowed my voice.
“Don’t open a door when there’s fire on the other side,” Jimmy used to say in his serious, soldier-y way. “When it gets more oxygen it’ll really go up.”
“I got it, I got it,” I would tease. “I promise not to get cooked in a house fire. Thanks, baby. I’m keeping that promise. But if I couldn’t go out the door, how did I get out?
I cradled my belly, big and round with my husband Jimmy’s baby, thirty-seven weeks along. I have to save our baby.
“The balcony.” I leapt out of bed, tripping on the sheets wrapped around my legs, uncoordinated because of my size and precious cargo. I paused a moment, grabbing Jimmy’s working parka and slinging it around my shoulders as I ran. Some nights I liked to put it in his spot and pretend he was still with me; luckily, I did it tonight.
I burst out of the French doors onto our balcony. Its view was nothing special, just the cul-de-sac in our quiet, sleepy little neighborhood in the hills beyond the state park. There was pandemonium in the street as my neighbors screamed and fires raged all around. I truly had woken up in hell.
A late season wildfire. The park rangers usually did an excellent controlled burn; what could have possibly happened to cause this? I had to get down from this balcony. I was low enough that if I jumped I would live, but it wasn’t gonna be pretty.
I had a choice to make. The heat cooked my back and more smoke poured out of my room as everything my husband and I had worked for went up in smoke. The fire ate through my door and crept up behind me.
Helga and a couple of my other neighbors gathered beneath my balcony.
“Drew, you have to jump! We’ll catch you! Jump, we have to get out of here!” Fire engines screamed in the background. Help was on the way, but how far were they? Not close enough. The fire finally ate away at the door and smoke poured out of the windows on my lower level.
“The fire’s eating through the house!” Helga yelled, hands cupped around her mouth. “The walls aren’t gonna hold!” My baby. With a final rub of my belly, I lifted a leg over the railing, then the other one. I held myself out over the open air, my heroic neighbors waiting for me with their arms outstretched. Gripping the railing for dear life, I slid down into a crouch. The railing groaned and heated up; it was starting to warp and melt; I didn’t have much time. I let my feet dangle, then slid off, still holding on. I went too fast, the angle nearly wrenching my shoulders out of their sockets when my arms were extended. My neighbors gathered below me.
“Drew, let go!” Helga called. I let go and fell…it felt like forever, but I was caught by four pairs of waiting arms. My ankle hit the ground at a bad angle and I rolled it, but the pain didn’t register. A fire engine roared up my street, calling for us to evacuate. My car was in my garage, already gone up in flames. Firefighters burst out of their engines and red-painted SUVs.
“In the truck, let’s go!” The closest fireman roared. He didn’t need to tell me twice. He jumped down to help me into the cab, his hands strong but caring. Everyone loaded in, slamming the doors. It was a tight squeeze, but the truck immediately did a three-point turn and raced out of our cul-de-sac.
“Who’s missing?” The driver, a muscular alpha woman, demanded.
“My wife,” One omega man piped up.
“My son and my dog.” Another voice said.
The firewoman got on her com. “Echo, we’ve got at least three missing. Woman, man, dog. Stand by for addresses…”
“We’re taking everyone straight to the hospital.” The fireman said, with the kind of authoritative voice that put you at ease. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. I’m Jamison and this is Kelly with Primrose Keep Fire and Rescue, and we’ll be taking good care of you.” He turned to me. “Sir, are you hurt?”
I blinked stupidly. “I, um…yes?”
“Kel, radio it in. Pregnant omega male incoming, priority…” He started talking again, but it was like I was walking down a tunnel and couldn’t hear him. “Sir? Sir?”
“I think he’s in shock, Jamie.” The sound was far away. All the voices faded. I turned my head to look behind me. The last thing I saw was the home I shared with my deceased husband being swallowed by raging red flames.
Everything went black.
A few hours later, I woke up in the hospital under a mountain of pain, hacking and coughing from my battered lungs. The white lights were too bright and the sterile smell irritated my nose. My ankle throbbed and my shoulders were killing me, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the black hole inside my gut.
Knock, knock. A woman’s head poked into my emergency bay. The curtain hissed as she pulled it back.
“Mr. Darling, I’m Dr. White. I’m glad to see you awake and alert.” I tried to speak, but my voice wouldn’t come. I could only stare at her face, haggard from the frenzied rush and lack of sleep.
She took a step inside. “You’ve got a sprained ankle, but it isn’t broken. You suffered mild smoke inhalation. Other than that, a few scrapes and bruises-”
I found my voice then. “My baby?” My throat was raw and sore from the smoke. She offered a soft smile.
“Initial signs say perfectly healthy.” I let out a long, whistling breath from my inflamed lungs and laid my head back on the bed. The most important thing was safe. My precious child, healthy and whole. “We called your emergency contact; your grandmother in Augusta, Georgia, correct? Do you have any relatives or friends you can spend the night with?”
“No.” All I had was Jimmy and he was gone. I lifted my arm. His coat was still on me, but it was torn, singed, and streaked with smoke.
I broke down and wept again, but this time with an audience.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Darling. Truly, I am.” She patted my hand, and in that moment her genuine sympathy made me angry, because what was I supposed to do with it? Was it going to fix my ruined life? “We’ll be able to discharge you soon. Survivors like yourself are generally being sent to the Omega Center, and if not there than to one of the center’s trusted host families. You’ll be safe and warm and get good food and adequate care for your baby. It’s a safe place to start to make sense of all this.” There is no sense to this, I wanted to say, but all I could do was cry harder. The doctor set a box of tissue down by my side and tucked a couple in my hand.
“Zach Morrey’s on his way. He runs the center and as my kids would say, he’s the chillest guy I’ve ever met. You’re in good hands with him, you’ll see.” After another couple of arm rubs, she took her leave, probably to take care of the next wretch who’d lost everything tonight.
The baby stretched out inside me, turning my belly into a funny oblong shape, more like an oval. I let myself smile and ran my hand over the little bulge that I took to be their hand.
“Not everything,” I whispered. “I have the most important thing.”
Knock, knock. I jerked my head up. There was a man in the doorway; an omega with a backwards PK Thorns snapback and blond hair that reached the nape of his neck, wearing a t-shirt with the collar cut out. He was broad-shouldered and had some muscle on him, and along with a relaxed half-grin, looked more like a guy I’d see on a skateboard riding along the beach.
“Mr. Darling?” I nodded and he took a slow step into the room. “I’d ask you how it’s going, but that’d be a pretty dumb question, huh, man?” I snorted a bitter laugh. “I’m Zach from the Omega Center. We’re gonna get you down there and get you some hot food and rest. How’s that sound?” He smiled like he didn’t have a care in the world, one of his front teeth slightly overlapping the other, and I wanted to escape into that world. He held a hand out for me and I took it. He treated me carefully and gently, and I wondered how many times he’d done something like this, and for how many years.
It was a short drive to the center as we were already downtown. Smoke smothered the city like a sinister brownish-gray blanket. The building was nothing special, just an older seventies-era elementary school that had been repurposed. It was the energy that hung over it that bothered me.
Inside, I was greeted by misery and grief.
“I didn’t know the fire took so many homes,” I whispered.
Zach nodded as he led me through the cafeteria. “Yeah. Too many families suffering tonight.” It was mostly omegas and tons of children, but a few alphas were sprinkled here and there, huddling with their families. So many empty eyes stared back at me as I checked out the scene.
“Can I get a hot plate out here, boss?” Zach called into the doorway, like he wasn’t the boss. Food. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten in ages. Zach chuckled. “Two plates.” Zach took the plates of what smelled like pasta from the cook and carried them for me.
“Why don’t we go straight to your room so you can have a little more quiet time?”
“That would be great, thank you.” The sadness, the weeping, and the boisterous kids were frying my nervous system after I’d already been traumatized. There was a massive Christmas tree, maybe twenty feet tall, in the corner of the cafeteria.
“Just put that up yesterday.”
“It’s nice.” It was a beacon of hope for me, a bright spot in all the gloom.
“Perfect timing, then. I’m gonna have you in a room with three other pregnant omegas. I apologize for having to squeeze you in like this.”
“I’m just happy to have food and a place to sleep. I can’t thank you enough, Zach.”
Zach shrugged, the half-smile on his face. “I’m just a guy who wants to help. I’m looking for host families and I’m prioritizing pregnant omegas and those with little babies. I’m hoping to get you someplace where you can be at ease real soon.” He stacked a plate on his wrist like a waiter, so he’d have a hand free, and opened a door into what probably used to be an office. There were four beds crammed inside. A pregnant woman was sleeping with her back to the door and the other two beds were empty, those omegas probably in the cafeteria. Zach set my plates down on a little side table and straightened up to leave, giving me a little smile.
I didn’t know why, but suddenly I was hugging Zach. He didn’t act surprised, just held me for a long time. I sniffled and a few tears fell, but I pulled myself together when the baby moved and the smell of lasagna and garlic bread called my name.
Zach left to go run other parts of the center and I inhaled both plates of food, trying to keep my lip-smacking and fork-scraping quiet.
Belly full, I laid down and rested a hand on my side. Grief, misery, shock, and terror for what the future held for me and my unborn child overtook me. I wept again, big, sopping tears that stained my clothes. My sore chest shook and an ugly whine snuck out of my mouth. “I have my baby. I have my baby,” I chanted. I curled up around my belly, determined to protect them from any harm that could befall them. “We’ll be alright. Me and you, we’ll be alright.”
I wrapped Jimmy’s coat around me tighter and cried myself to sleep.
On a Midnight Clear by Lily Morton
I stare at the builder who is sitting opposite me. His florid face glows in the light, and even as I watch, he runs his handkerchief over his forehead, mopping up the sheen of sweat. Then he folds his arms and directs a belligerent glare at me.
“Listen, Lord Greenwood. I have the utmost respect for you, but the time’s come to stop playing silly games.”
I wonder idly why people always say they have respect for you and then go on to prove the direct opposite but put a polite smile on my face as he carries on with his tirade.
“I want King’s Wood, and I mean to have it.”
I spread my hands and lean back in my chair at my desk. The leather creaks warningly, but like so much about my house, it just squeaks through. “Then we have a problem, Mr Thompson, because I own that wood, and I have no intention of selling it to you. You want to bulldoze it and build housing on the land.”
He glowers. “So? Is there something wrong with building new houses for people who need them?”
“Not at all,” I say mildly. “Only the people you build them for don’t need them, per se, as they are all rather rich. You build mansions and not social housing. Roughly translated, they’ll be clogging up the country lanes with their huge cars, speeding everywhere, and being appallingly rude to the local people as if the simple act of possessing three cars and holidaying in the Maldives automatically puts them out of the reach of politeness.”
He scoffs. “It’s not exactly your business.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It sort of is, Mr Thompson. That wood has been in my family’s possession for thousands of years. It directly abuts my gardens. My father entrusted it to me with a solemn undertaking to keep it safe. Do you know anything about King’s Wood?” He shakes his head crossly, but I continue. “Druids worshipped there. There is still a circle of ancient stones in the centre about which we know very little.”
“Druids,” he says in a tone of disgust. “Are they those funny folks who run around in their nighties?”
“I’m so glad you could sum up our ancient pagan history in just a few words.”
He blows his nose belligerently. “I don’t hold with any of that London nonsense.”
I blink. “Well, it’s actually local business. King’s Wood is sacred land.”
“Bloody ridiculous. It’s prime building land, Lord Greenwood, and I want it.”
“Well, as my old nanny used to say, we can’t always get what we want.” I pause. “It was either her or Mick Jagger.” I smile politely at him. “I feel we are at an impasse.”
A smile crosses his face that instantly makes me nervous. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
“What do you mean by that, Mr Thompson?”
He shrugs, standing up and pulling on his coat. “It means that Mr Watson and I play golf together.”
“You play golf with my bank manager? I’m unsure why that was said in such a threatening manner unless he cheats or steals your balls.” Despite my flippancy, anxiousness stirs in me, and by his smug smile, he knows it.
“Him and me, we’ve had some very interesting chats.”
I sigh. “Spit it out, Mr Thompson. I think we’re finally coming to the point after months of these chats of ours.”
“Mr Watson says that you’re in danger of losing all this.”
He waves his hand to encompass the room, and anger boils inside me at his careless gesture.
“Oh really?” I say silkily. “That’s what he said, is it? And did Mr Watson have any more gems to impart in his quest to break all the rules of confidentiality?”
“He says you’ve got until the middle of January to pay the money that is owed to the bank, or he’ll be foreclosing on you.” He smiles at me again. “He confidently expects that you’ll never be able to do that. And when it happens, I’ll be first in line to buy everything lock stock. So, you see, Lord Greenwood, I will own the wood and the house.” He looks around assessingly. “I wonder how many houses I can get on the plot when this old monstrosity is torn down.”
I get to my feet. “I’d like you to leave,” I say in a cold voice, and he has the grace to flush, but he stays where he is.
“I’ll offer you fifty grand more than my first offer,” he says urgently. “Sell me the wood, and you can clear some of your debts with the bank.” I stare at him, my mind racing, and he shrugs. “I still think you’ll lose this place eventually, but it’ll buy some time, and I’ll get what I want. I usually do in the end.” He pulls on his gloves. “I’ll let myself out, Lord Greenwood, and leave you to think about it. Don’t wait too long. I’ll be back on Christmas Eve to know your answer.”
The door slams loudly behind him, and a book falls off a shelf in a puff of dust. I collapse into my chair, hearing the leather creak again, and stare at the pile of paperwork on the worn wood surface of my desk. It was my father’s desk before me and his before him. Generations of Greenwoods have sat here running the estate and probably doing a much better job than me.
I groan and rub my eyes, but the paperwork is still there when I lower my hands. I prod it with my finger, and the papers separate, revealing bills all with the words “final demand” stamped on them. Bank statements are stapled neatly together, telling a story of a chronic lack of funds and a house and grounds that consume money faster than I have a chance to make it. Let’s face it. If I owned the Bank of England and could print my own money, I’d still never make enough for Greenwood Hall.
Snow on the Roof by Sean Ashcroft
1
“How many times do you want me to say I’m sorry?” Grant asked, staring out of his office window. “I can’t make an airline put another flight on. I just can’t.”
He hated himself for forgetting all about Thanksgiving, but he’d been so buried under work lately that he’d been wearing the same shirt for three days. He wasn’t coping with anything.
“I’m not mad,” Julia said, sighing on the other end of the line. “Just disappointed. And it’s not me you need to apologize to.”
“I know,” Grant flopped down at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you think she’ll talk to me?”
“She’s dying to talk to you,” Julia said. She was trying to sound disapproving, but there was still fondness in her tone. Still warmth.
That was why it’d been so easy to love her. She was the most caring, patient person Grant had ever met. Even with him. Even though he was kind of a walking disaster sometimes.
“Are you gonna let me talk to her?” Grant asked.
He knew Julia would never, ever take his child away to punish him, but he was on edge. He wanted to be as patient as she was, as composed and able to face anything without so much as blinking, but he didn’t have it in him.
Stress had left Grant going grey at forty-two, Julia could still have played a teenager on TV at the same age. Nothing ever seemed to touch her.
Not because she didn’t care. Because she had better coping skills than Grant could ever hope for.
“Of course. I’m just letting you squirm,” Julia said. “I’ll put her on.”
Grant breathed a sigh of relief, tapping his fingers against the dark wood of his desk, the leather of his chair creaking under him as he shifted his weight.
Explaining to Julia was one thing. She understood how the adult world worked.
Explaining to Hope…
“Daddy?”
“Hey, baby,” Grant said, a smile spreading across his face as he heard his daughter’s voice. As nervous as he was about how she was going to take the news, it was impossible not to be happy to talk to her.
Hope was the person Grant loved most in the entire world, which he figured was how it should be.
“Mom says you need to tell me something,” she said.
Grant wasn’t sure whether or not that was intended to help him, but it was good not to have to bring it up on his own or dance around it.
“I need to apologize to you,” Grant said. “I can’t make it to Thanksgiving this year. I’m sorry, I screwed up, and I will make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Good apology,” Hope responded.
Despite his own disappointment, he found himself smiling again. Julia had been big on teaching Hope how to apologize, and how apologies were supposed to sound.
She’d taught Grant how to apologize, too. She’d put up with a lot of his crap. More than he deserved.
“You’re not mad?” Grant asked, unsure how to react now that Hope didn’t seem upset.
“I wanted to see you,” Hope said, her voice tiny.
Sometimes, he forgot she was only twelve. Other times, it felt like yesterday that she’d been small enough to hold with one arm.
“I know, honey. Believe me, I wanted to see you, too,” Grant responded, tears stinging at his eyes. Hope was the person Grant loved most in the world, and he missed her so much.
The last eighteen months had been tough. Grant had been so used to living close by, to being able to see Hope every day.
He’d also been used to having people around him to remind him of things like Thanksgiving coming up, or to bring him a homemade lasagna when they got the feeling he hadn’t had time to eat properly for a while.
Now he had… a really nice apartment and a better job, but no one to share it with.
The tradeoff was starting to feel less and less like a good one, even though his old job had disappeared from under him.
He needed to work to give Hope the best chance in life. She deserved that. He just wished he didn’t have to do it so far away from the people he loved.
“Hey,” Grant spoke up before Hope could respond. “You know I’m gonna make this up to you, right?”
“Okay, daddy,” Hope said.
Like she didn’t believe him. Like she was just… disappointed. Not mad.
Like her mother.
It was even worse coming from his daughter.
“I’m serious.” Grant paused to decide how he was going to make it up to her, and then remembered something she’d said years ago.
“You always wanted snow at Christmas, right? Well, this year, I’m gonna give you snow, okay?”
“In California?” Hope asked, as incredulous as Grant would have expected her to be.
“No, I’m gonna take us all somewhere really nice, where it snows, and we’re gonna have a real tree and hot chocolate by the fire and a snowball fight. Seriously. This is a promise.”
Grant didn’t promise things lightly. It was his policy to never break a promise, no matter what it took to make them happen.
He’d get Hope snow for Christmas. He had to.
She deserved a better father than him. She deserved the world and the moon and all the stars. But this was something he could do, and he was going to.
“Really?” Hope asked, her tone changing a little. She sounded as though she almost believed him.
“Really. I never break a promise.”
“I know,” Hope said. “I love you, daddy.”
A weight lifted off Grant’s shoulders. He was forgiven. He might not get to see his little girl for another few weeks yet, but at least she didn’t hate him for this.
“I love you too, sweetheart. You wanna tell me about your day?” he asked.
If he couldn’t see her, at least he could talk to her. He talked to her almost every day, but he’d been letting that slip lately, too.
He needed help. He couldn’t manage his job and his life on his own. Pretty much everyone else at his level had a PA.
Grant had held out against it, not wanting to admit to needing anything, but this incident was forcing his hand. A PA would have gotten him a flight.
He smiled as he listened to Hope describe what she and her friends had done at school, laughing whenever she did, glowing with joy at getting to talk to her.
Accepting help would give him more of this, so he needed to accept some help.
Your Christmas by SJ Coles
“I got it,” Nick said as he stepped into the icy December wind. “I only bloody well got it.”
“Congratulations.” Nick could hear the smile in Seph’s voice, even though the mic on his friend’s pay-as-you go mobile made him sound like he was at the bottom of a well. “I knew you’d smash it.”
Nick also smiled as he hailed a taxi. Seph always made him feel good, even at times like this when his other emotions were harder to call. “Well, they couldn’t exactly pass me over after my big win last month.”
“You gonna phone your dad?”
“I’ll tell him Monday,” Nick said as he climbed into the taxi, wincing at Smooth Christmas blasting from the driver’s radio. “Mate, can you turn that down?”
The driver gave him a look and turned Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody down by one notch. Nick sighed. “Kensington please, pal. This is finally it, Seph. A shot at a partnership. The chance I’ve been waiting for… You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Got something to share?” Nick said after a heartbeat.
“Why would you say that?”
“I know your silences, Seph. Come on. Spit it out.”
Seph sighed. “I dunno, Nick. Just last week you were telling me how you never have time for yourself—to have fun, to meet anyone. Won’t this promotion mean even less time for those things?”
“Yeah, but I’ll finally be getting paid enough to make it worth it.”
“Fair enough.” Seph’s neutral tone didn’t fool Nick, but he continued before Nick could retort. “So, did you make a decision yet?”
“About what?” Nick asked, gritting his teeth as Slade ended and Michael Bublé’s crooning filled the car.
“About this weekend,” Seph prompted. “You know…Christmas?”
“I can’t come. Gotta get caught up on my new caseload.”
A pause. “Not to be that guy, Nick, but your dad—”
“Dad wants to sit on his arse getting pissed. It will be no different from any other day, except on Saturday he’ll be drinking sherry.”
“He wants to see you, Nick. I know he does.”
“He told you this?”
“I can just tell. He’s lonely.”
“Stop with the guilt-tripping, Dr. Rose,” Nick muttered. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Nick, Christmas is a time to be with those you love—even if you hate them at the same time.”
“I don’t hate Dad,” Nick said, loosening his tie. “I’ve just got too much on.”
“Even more reason to come. You need a break. Besides, didn’t it occur to you…?”
“What?” Nick prompted when Seph didn’t continue.
“Didn’t it occur to you that I might want to see you?”
“We just saw each other,” Nick protested, wincing when his work phone started buzzing in his pocket. His new secretary was emailing his schedule for the following week and requesting confirmations. He fought the sinking feeling when he saw the back-to-back court dates, meetings and corporate networking events. “What did you say?” he said when he realized Seph had said something else.
“I said my conference was eighteen months ago. And you’ve not been here to Littleton in, what? Christ…years.”
“Look… I’m sorry, Seph,” he said, opening the app to accept the appointment invitations. “There’s just nothing for me up there.”
Another pause, longer this time. But before Nick could decide what it meant, Seph spoke again.
“Come on, Nick,” he cajoled. “Even Charlie Kearney is spending Christmas at home this year.”
Nick started. “Charlie’s back?”
Seph swore under his breath. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”
“Charlie Kearney is going to be in Littleton for Christmas?”
“Yeah,” Seph said, a little tightly. “He’s having some big look-how-famous-I-am party at Arnold House on Christmas Eve.”
“And you’re invited?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He didn’t tell me…”
“Shit, Nick, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no. This is a good thing,” Nick said, pocketing the work phone and smiling.
“It is?”
“Think about it. I’ve just got my new place, a new job. What better time to see him again? It’s, like, fate or something.”
“You really think it’s worth it? After all this time?”
“Things are different now,” Nick said. “I’m different.”
“His fiancé will be there.”
Nick snorted. “That designer he picked up in Paris? They’ve only been together for three weeks.”
“They’re still engaged.”
“I don’t care if they got married at Notre-Dame. Mega-star or not, it’s still just Charlie being Charlie. This feels like a chance, Seph, a second chance, and I’m gonna take it.”
“I just…”
“What?” Nick said, his friend’s tone sending irritation rippling over his skin.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Nick insisted. “I’m not saying we’ll get back together. But there’s unresolved shit there. You know I don’t like loose ends.”
“Well, that’s romantic.”
“Fine. You want romantic?” He drew a deep breath. “He’s the one who got away, Seph. I’ve never stopped thinking about him. I deserve the chance to at least tell him that. Right?”
“Of course you do. But do you really think you’ll have anything in common anymore?”
“He’s a Littleton success story,” Nick said, swiping the steam away from the window to try to see what progress they’d made down Brompton Road. “So am I.”
“Well, can’t argue with that.”
“Too right.” Nick frowned as they passed Harrods’ festive shopfront display—plastic snow, garish ornaments, a smiling family in matching jumpers digging into mince pies in front of a blazing log fire that had to be a set in some studio somewhere. “Might as well get something out of this god-awful weekend.”
“So…you’re coming?”
“I’m coming.”
“Great,” Seph said, the warmth in his voice starting an unfamiliar tingling in Nick’s toes. “That’s really great, Nick.”
