Reuben couldn’t believe his luck. Makeup on the filming of one of his favourite shows. As he found a spot in the studio car park, he felt as if he’d stormed the barricades and at any moment someone would arrive and try to throw him out. And Reuben would say, “Go and have a word with Amy, she’s hired me for the day.”
Reuben had loved Captain Firth since the first series had been shown on television. What wasn’t to love about the flamboyant show full of men in tight breeches and flowing shirts? And the saturnine and sexy-as-hell captain?
Maybe I’ll get to meet him. Maybe I’ll get to say “Draw your sword, sir!” to the man himself.
As a makeup artist, Reuben had met a huge number of actors and celebrities. It was both a perk and a downside of the job—some of the people he’d met couldn’t have been nicer, and some couldn’t have been more nightmarish if they’d tried. Reuben had never been particularly starstruck, but he feared he might be if he actually met Christopher Manners, the man who played the captain.
Once he’d found a spot for his Renault, Reuben tightened his scarf round his neck and headed off into the studio. He’d probably spend the day applying mascara to a chimney sweep’s face or brushing rouge onto a kitchen maid’s cheeks, but when he saw the wall behind the reception desk covered by a huge Captain Firth poster, his heart leapt with excitement.
Christopher Manners, you smouldering bastard.
“Reuben!” Amy appeared from a closed door before he had a chance to approach the receptionist. “You’re a lifesaver! Carrie’s gone into labour and we’ve got literally one day left before we wrap. Reshoots, you know… I’ll tell you on the way. We’ll go straight down. It’s a closed set.”
Reuben nodded. “Hope Carrie’s okay! Closed set, eh? This should be interesting!”
He was probably going to be stood in a room with the coachman boffing the brigadier’s wife, but it paid a wage, so Reuben didn’t care. Besides, he’d been told before on closed sets that he was a joy to work with during intimate scenes, so he would be in his element.
“I’m going to let you look after Bunny,” Amy said as they strode along a grey corridor. It was funny to think that somewhere in this labyrinth, the Napoleonic Wars were being fought by the swoonsome Captain Firth.
Bunny?
“Okay,” Reuben said, trying to mask his disappointment. Definitely one of the less-well-known cast members, then. No naked, lustful Christopher Manners for him.
“Bunny’s a complete peach.” She pushed open another door, dodging past two fully equipped astronauts as she strode on. “But everything that could go wrong this morning has. It’s all a tad tense for our Regency spies today!”
“I’ve got my kit, don’t worry!” Reuben assured her. “And I’m an old hand at love scenes, you know that.”
“Brilliant.” Amy grinned. “Because once we get today wrapped, I can start my proper Chrimble!”
They paused outside another door that Reuben knew would take him into makeup. He was no stranger to the setup at the studio, after all. Amy opened the door a little and peered in, then told Reuben, “Come on in, everyone’s mostly decent!”
Reuben strolled in, nonchalant as he swung his toolbox of makeup. Until he clocked who was standing by the mirrors wearing only his breeches.
His very tight breeches.
Oh fucking hell, no way! Christopher Manners!
“Erm…nice to meet you,” Reuben said. Nice being the understatement of the century.
Christopher turned and raised his teacup to Reuben in greeting. “Hello!” he said as a man knelt before him, face to face with the breeches. For a moment Reuben wondered what was going on, then the man began tussling with the buckle of Christopher’s sword belt.
‘Draw your sword sir!’
Reuben was so tempted to say it. The words were burning his tongue. But he didn’t dare. Here he was, in the flesh. Captain Firth. His toned chest was even more impressive in reality. And those shoulders…that flop of dark-blond hair and…and…his blue eyes. Reuben tried to bring himself to his senses and said, “Just looking for Bunny?”
“You’ve found him!” Christopher Manners extended his arm over the armourer’s head towards Reuben. “Sorry, I’m trapped in my sword belt!”
Reuben wasn’t sure where to look. He glanced down at the armourer and all he could see was Christopher’s groin in the pale-coloured breeches. Then, when he glanced up, his gaze latched on to the man’s chest before moving up the column of his kissable neck and finally settling on his eyes. And even that seemed wrong, somehow.
“I’m Reuben. And you’re…you’re Bunny? You’re on the closed set?”
Merry Christmas, Reuben!
“I hope so, or my agent’s not doing her job!”
He seized Reuben’s hand and shook it as Amy said, “Bunny, I’m going to leave you in Reuben’s capable hands today. Linda’s a bit shy and I think she’d prefer a gal, so…you boys’ll be okay together, won’t you? We need Bunny to look nicely battle-worn and beddable, smouldering basically. Dust down on torso and shoulders, all that.”
Reuben blinked. Battle-worn and beddable? But wasn’t that one of the main reasons people watched Captain Firth? Well, one of the main reasons Reuben watched it, at least.
And Reuben would help to bring the magic alive.
“Okay, could you take a seat and I’ll…” Reuben turned to Amy. “So just torso, arms, shoulders, we’re keeping the breeches on?”
She nodded. “They’re due to come off round about lunchtime, but for now just torso.”
“Arse out before lunchtime,” Bunny lamented as the sword belt finally came free. “Thank God for that! Can’t do a love scene strapped into a sword belt.”
Reuben put his toolbox down on the worktop. He caught sight of his own reflection and saw his cheeks were pinker than usual.
I’m going to see Christopher Manners’ bum. I’m going to sponge it and brush it. Dear God, this is a beautiful day.
“Okay, we’ll deal with the bum when we come to it,” Reuben said. He selected some of his creams and powders and laid them out on the work surface. “Could you take a seat, Christo— Do I call you Bunny? Or Christopher?”
“If you’re powdering me from head to toe, we may as well go straight to Bunny,” he replied with a smile. “Skip the formalities?”
Straight to Bunny?
“Dare I ask why you’re called Bunny?” Reuben asked.
“Because I earned my Equity stripes playing the Easter bunny in a rather anarchic pantomime.” Bunny gave him a dazzling smile. “And now I brood manfully on Cornish cliffs for a living.”
Amy patted Reuben on his shoulder as though to say thanks for being a sport, then headed towards the door with the armourer in tow. As she reached the threshold she paused and turned.
“Reuben, I forgot to tell you to bring your baby oil. You’ll need it after lunch!” She shrugged. “I’ve got some in my kit, shout if you need it.”
Baby oil. On Captain Firth’s chest? I’ve been waiting for this moment forever.
Reuben had a quick rummage in his toolbox and held up the bottle. “Never fear, I come prepared!” He gave Bunny a wink. “Post-coital gleams are a speciality of mine.”
“I hope so.” Bunny settled into the chair, returning Reuben’s wink with one of his own. “Captain F’s known for his post-coital gleam!”
Reuben remembered one scene in particular where Captain Firth had lain naked on a bed, only a very small, convenient piece of sheet sparing his blushes. Reuben had always envied the makeup artist who’d worked that scene.
Reuben dabbed some foundation in different shades on the back of his hand, then took a sponge and tried them out on Bunny’s shoulder. Bloody hell, he’s toned. “Just finding your shade… So…I wasn’t expecting to be doing your make up today. Carrie’s having her baby, Amy was saying?”
“Isn’t it great news?” Bunny beamed. “Thanks for coming in at such late notice. You’ve really saved the day.”
“It’s no bother,” Reuben said. “I had a magazine shoot booked in for today with some politician bod, but it got pulled because of some Whitehall drama. I’d much rather be doing this!”
Reuben decided on the shade for Bunny’s chest, poured out the foundation on a palette and got to work with a large sponge. “Tell me if it’s too cold,” Reuben said, aware that Bunny’s nipples had pebbled. Nipples that he’d be stippling with rouge later.
It’s a tough job but someone’s got to do it.
“It’s fine.” Bunny took a sip of tea. He was cold, though, Reuben was sure, just too polite to say. “You haven’t worked on our show before, have you? I’d have remembered.”
Reuben smiled. He was glad that Bunny wasn’t one of those actors, the kind who saw everyone backstage, including any actor who had lower billing than them, as anonymous, entirely forgettable minions.
“No, I haven’t. But I love the show. It’s so exciting to be here. And it’s so exciting doing your makeup.” Reuben took a breath and the words of Captain Firth’s catchphrase rang loudly through his head, as intrusive as an insistent earworm. ‘Draw your sword, sir!’ He bit it off just before it erupted from his mouth. “Yeah, good ol’ Captain Firth…”
Bunny’s face was on a bus that went past Reuben’s shared south London flat every day, the features brooding and chiselled alongside the words, Draw Your Sword This Christmas. And like the rest of the country, Reuben would be glued to the screen at his family’s festive gathering.
It was that special time of the year.
Cookies with faces.
Sleigh bells.
Bulb-shaped lights playfully chasing each other around the perimeter of every suburban rooftop.
Magical flying reindeer.
Gingerbread. So much gingerbread.
Mall Santas.
And there stood Daniel, right in the merry middle of it all.
“Excuse me,” he said as he tried to make his way through the busy store.
But his voice was so meek, no one actually ever excused him. In fact, he doubted anyone even heard him.
It was okay. Daniel was used to being invisible.
“Pardon,” he begged as he tried to get between two stout men who blocked his way down the aisle. But the bearded men were too busy gossiping about each other’s wives to hear him, soon bent over with deep-throated guffawing, their eyes teary with laughter as they slapped one another’s backs and continued chatting.
That was okay, too. Daniel simply chose a different aisle.
When he finally had chocolate treats picked out for all the kids in his family (as he had already gotten gift cards for the adults), he headed toward the cashier, only to find himself at the back of a very, very long line.
Daniel hugged his big shopping basket full of gifts, tired-eyed, and waited.
It felt like an eternity before he was, at long last, next in line.
But then: “Oh, no, no, no,” complained the older woman behind him, fretting as she checked the time on her wristwatch. “At this rate, I’ll never make it to the kids in time. Why me? Why today, the day before Christmas Eve??”
Daniel glanced wearily over his shoulder, observed the sad grandmother (he could only presume) and her cartful of household snacks, cookies, and a premade butter cake, then said, “You can go ahead of me, if you like, ma’am.”
The woman’s face exploded with elation at once. “Oh, you’re an angel, kind young man! Thank you, thank you!” She rushed ahead of him with her cart, then peered back and added, “Merry Christmas to you. You deserve everything you asked Santa for.”
Daniel gave her a tiny smile.
He was sure she meant it in humor, seeing as he stood before her as a thirty-year-old man. Still, the fact was, Daniel never asked Santa for anything, even when he was a kid.
That was due to the simple fact that he stopped believing in Santa Claus at an early age—earlier than most.
And he certainly didn’t believe in Christmas miracles anymore, either.
Or magic.
Just as the woman ahead of him finished up, a wrapped chocolate reindeer managed to fall out of Daniel’s basket. He let out a tiny sigh and crouched down to retrieve it off the cold, reflective tile of the store.
When he stood back up, someone else had gone in front of him.
“Oh, excuse me, I was next,” said Daniel.
The man’s broad, muscular back in a tank top gave no response.
Daniel was normally a far more patient person. But today had been especially trying—and especially long. “Excuse me,” he tried again.
His voice was so soft, however, it was lost in the cacophony of noise all around him—screaming children, chatter, squealing shopping cart wheels—and his words went unheard.
He hugged his basket once again, resigning himself to waiting just a touch longer. What was one more person, anyway?
Until a voice came from that broad, muscular back: “You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”
Daniel flinched. For a moment, he wasn’t sure who the man was talking to.
“I’m talking to you, cute stuff.”
Daniel blinked, confused. “I’m … I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
The man turned to face him completely. “Really? You’re apologizing to me? After I cut ahead of you in line?”
Daniel’s gaze fell upon the man in wonder.
And he found himself frozen to the bone.
And not because of the weather.
Rugged, handsome, brawny, beautiful—the words barely touched how astonishingly gorgeous the man was in every way. His striking face was instantly punishing to the heart. Stunning at first glance. So good-looking, it hurt to gaze on him. The man had an immediately and permanently impressive air about him.
It was as if Daniel was certain he’d never again gaze on anything more beautiful.
He was every and any word Daniel could possibly think of in such a paralyzed state of mind.
And racing state of heart.
“You look flustered,” observed the man. “Are you alright? Or should I call the supermarket doctor?”
Daniel came to at once, the spell broken. “There … isn’t a supermarket doctor.”
“Ah, so he does speak!” he exclaimed confidently, chuckling.
The man wore black, low-hanging jeans that hugged a set of tight, thickly muscled thighs, and the black boots on his feet kept the man solidly planted in front of the cashier. He wore nothing on top but a loose white tank, which hung off a tapered, muscular form. His broad, tanned chest was dusted with dark hair, and his arms were thick and veiny with corded muscle.
And atop his head sat a Santa hat.
Red with that signature fluffy white trim, and a cute, fluffy white ball at its end, dangling off to the side.
A Santa hat.
“Oh,” Daniel muttered, his eyes dropping to his own basket as he realized. “You were joking. About the doctor. Right.” He blushed, feeling dumb.
The man seemed to appraise Daniel for a moment before nodding at his basket. “What you got there? Bunch of chocolate, from the looks of it. You planning to eat yourself into a chocolate coma for Christmas?”
Daniel watched as the cashier rang up the man’s items. Was he supposed to merely gloss over the fact that this man cut in front of him and continue to carry on a conversation? Thankfully, he didn’t have much to ring up. “They’re gifts for my nephews and my niece.”
“Hmm. You’re braving this big store just to give some kids cavities?”
Daniel shrugged.
The man considered his shrug as though he’d given a monologue, then leaned toward the cashier and whispered something as he handed her his money. He took his bag of items. “Well, I hope you’ve got something in that basket for your cute self, too. Merry Christmas.” He gave him a wink.
Daniel glanced away, uncertain.
Then the man was gone, and it was as exquisite a torture to watch him leave as it was to stand in his presence. Daniel couldn’t help but run his eyes down that broad back to that tight, jeaned butt, which danced with hypnotic invitation as the man sauntered confidently away.
What Daniel wouldn’t give for that kind of confidence.
And a man like that to keep him warm this miserable holiday season.
“Sir?”
Daniel flinched, then faced the cashier apologetically. “Yes, sorry.” He placed his basket on the counter, his thoughts still lingering with the man and that charming wink he was thrown.
He was brought out of his daze when the cashier said, “How interesting.”
Daniel glanced up at her. “What?”
She rang up the receipt, then handed it to him. Daniel was confused, as he hadn’t yet paid, when the cashier said, “That man paid for your items, and somehow knew exactly how much they’d cost, to the cent. Not even off by a penny.”
Daniel stared at his receipt, baffled, then glanced up at the curly-haired cashier. “He … what?”
She smiled with compassion, her face warming, and gently pushed his bag of chocolates toward him. “Guess someone ‘paid it forward’ for you this holiday season. Have a nice day, sir.”
Daniel couldn’t make sense of it.
He was still wondering about it as he got in his car, then left the parking lot in a daze. His mind still turned as he inched his way along the freeway, which had a section under construction and was consequently reduced to one lane of traffic. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and focused on the bumper of the car ahead of him, still obsessing over why a random stranger would do such an act of kindness.
But he even knew exactly how much to pay. Daniel glanced at the bag of chocolates sitting in the passenger’s seat, wondering if the prices were showing on the outside of the boxed chocolate Santas or reindeers. They weren’t.
He squinted suspiciously at them, unable to work it out.
Even when he took the exit and was patiently crawling down the winding country roads that led to his parents’ house, he was still puzzling it together—unsuccessfully. Could it have been something the cashier and the man worked out with each other? Like a little act? Or a “pretend” thing? He bit his lip, frustrated.
There was a loud and sudden pop.
His car swerved.
His eyes flashed with alarm.
Thump, thump, thump—The car went off-balance as his tires grinded the gravel.
Slowing, he pulled to the side of the road. When he stepped out to confirm his fear, his lungs deflated like a popped party balloon.
He could have cried right there. This was the last thing he needed to top off an already terrible day.
Half an hour passed, and Daniel was at the end of his thin, frayed rope. He had already pulled out the jack and spare from the trunk, figuring this ought to be something he could do himself, despite never having changed a tire before. But after getting his car raised with the annoyingly insufficient jack, the spare donut still sat on the side of the road, untouched, while Daniel negotiated feebly with the stubborn lug nuts, which he could not seem to figure out how to remove. Wasn’t that what one was supposed to do first? Lug nuts? The instructions he googled were no help.
He gave his flat tire a sad look. After working on it for the last while, the tire was now something like a sulky friend whose issue he was trying to figure out. “Did I do something to upset you?” he asked it sweetly. “Is that why you’re being difficult?”
The flat tire, expectedly, did not reply.
The next minute, he abandoned his attempts at changing the tire himself and began pacing around his vehicle, gently waving his phone in the air in search of any decent signal, which he lost the moment he exited the highway. Every attempt to call AAA had failed, and none of his texts to his family were going through.
And there was about a one percent chance that anyone would be straying off the highway as far as Daniel had, taking the lesser-known back way to his parents’ countryside home. The road was lined with tall, daunting trees on one side and an endless plain of grass and corn on the other. There wasn’t a building for miles. He couldn’t even see the highway across the field.
His phone buzzed with a sudden text, startling him. He breathed a sigh of relief, then noted that the text was from his big brother. “WHEN ARE YOU GETTING HERE? MOM AND DAD ARE GETTING ANTSY AND YOU ARE OVER AN HOUR LATE! FOOD’S ALMOST READY!” the text read in all caps, forcing Daniel to imagine his bodybuilder brother shouting the words in his usual aggressive rage—even if he typed the text as calmly as counting sheep.
Just as Daniel began replying with a cry for help, he noted the battery percentage on his phone.
1%.
His eyes flashed with alarm. When did that happen? Wasn’t it 40% just a moment ago? What the hell drained it so swiftly? Did it actually read 4% and he misread it?
Then before his eyes, the screen went blank, and his half-typed reply vanished.
“No!” he whimpered with deep frustration, shaking his phone like a neck he meant to strangle to death. Maybe he could dislodge a few more percentages of battery from some unseen corner of it if he shook the thing violently enough.
The effort, of course, proved fruitless.
He kicked his flat tire—clearly no longer friends with it—then hopped in place as he nursed his now-stubbed toe.
Even a flat tire was too strong a beast for Daniel to vanquish.
Today was simply not his day.
He threw his back against the side of the vehicle with a disconsolate sigh, then crossed his arms and stared into the nothingness ahead.
“I need a miracle,” he sighed toward the sky.
Just then, a gentle breeze crashed over his face, tossing his hair. It was a breeze that felt strangely cool, as if brought by a nearby opened fridge, or the North Pole itself—inviting, soothing, and surprisingly rejuvenating. It even made Daniel close his eyes and smile with a moment’s relief, despite his mounting frustration with his car and his phone.
And stray thoughts of his stressful job downtown, and his evil boss who treated him with no remorse or compassion.
And all the urgent emails that would await him when he returned from his weekend at his parents’.
And that growing list of tasks left on his kitchen counter under a cherry-shaped paperweight he would have to attend to.
And the crushing sense of indefinite, inevitable lonesomeness he fought within his chest every day of his adult life.
Would any of it end? Or was this all he had to look forward to the rest of his life?
Just then, the noise of a rippling engine cut through the gray gloom. Daniel opened his eyes with a start and tracked the sound. It came from down the road, far away. He watched for a while, squinting curiously as the noise drew closer.
It was a man on a motorcycle.
Daniel bit his lip. He’d hoped for a kind old gentleman, or a farmhand, or some bored fatherly type—a neighbor of his parents, even—to be the one to drive down this road and offer some help with the tire.
And not a bad ass on a motorcycle who’d probably sooner laugh at him and speed off than stop and help him.
Daniel turned away and pretended to check his phone, only to be reminded anew of its depleted battery. Perhaps if he stared at it long and hard enough, it would miraculously turn back on.
It didn’t.
He heard the man’s bike slow as it grew near, then with several obnoxiously loud claps of its engine, it came to a stop.
“Got a flat?” the man called out.
His voice was surprisingly pleasant to the ear—smooth, clear, and confident—and it carried a hint of an accent Daniel couldn’t quite place. The man’s question didn’t carry the tone of condescension he was, perhaps unfairly, expecting from the rough-and-tough kind of guy who might ride a motorcycle.
Daniel finally gathered enough courage to turn and face his visitor. “Actually, I was just—” he began to say.
Until his eyes fell upon the man. All his words and thoughts fled his brain at once, and his heart dropped straight out of his mouth.
