One Holiday Ever After E-Book

Tere Michaels

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 427

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

The holidays are a time for celebration, discovery, coming home, and maybe even miracles for those who are lucky. From the streets of New York City, to the wintery wonderland of the Maine woods, to the quaint, small town charm of Idaho, the men in these stories have different holiday desires. They're looking for familiarity or fresh starts, but they have one thing in common—their happily ever afters might be waiting in the last places they think to look. Come see what they unwrap in these stories by three acclaimed authors of male/male romance. Holiday Roommates by Tere Michaels As an actor without prospects, Nate Brandywine needs an emergency roommate for the month of December. During a humiliating gig as a Christmas elf at a NYC department store, he meets Sean Callahan, his producer and a man struggling under the weight of a past-due loan. Sean's desperate for a place to stay in the city for a few weeks. A month of sharing a workplace and an apartment with someone you can't stop flirting with? Maybe the holidays won't be so terrible after all. Holiday Sanctuary by Elle Brownlee Chris Declan is trekking through the wintry wonderland of rural Maine, searching for inspiration and himself, when he's literally and figuratively taken by storm. First by the surprise blizzard that finds him seeking refuge in Paul Bak's secluded cabin, and second by Paul. Making the best of being snowed in together soon becomes a comfortable friendship with fireside chats, a quaint holiday celebration, and more. But despite their growing closeness, there's one thing they avoid—what will happen when the snow clears and the holidays end. Holiday Homecoming by Elizah J. Davis Gavin Anderson never thought making it as a writer in LA would be easy, but when his latest project falls through, he gives up on Hollywood and heads to Bonabri, Idaho in hopes that the peace and quiet of his childhood home will help him figure out his next move. Instead he finds Eric Nichols, his parents' cute and charming housesitter who is there to experience the small town Christmas festivities. Gavin's plans for quiet reflection are no match for Eric's holiday cheer, and he soon finds himself swept up in the spirit of the season. Gavin thought his life had hit a dead end, but in coming home he finds what might be a new beginning.

Leseprobe

COPYRIGHT

Published by

DREAMSPINNER PRESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

One Holiday Ever After

© 2014 Dreamspinner Press.

Edited by Tricia Kristufek

Holiday Roommates © 2014 Tere Michaels.

Holiday Sanctuary © 2014 Elle Brownlee.

Holiday Homecoming © 2014 Elizah J. Davis.

Cover Art

© 2014 AngstyG.

www.angstyg.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-63216-577-0

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-578-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951642

First Edition December 2014

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

TABLEOFCONTENTS

Holiday Roommates by Tere Michaels

Holiday Sanctuary by Elle Brownlee

Holiday Homecoming by Elizah J. Davis

HOLIDAY ROOMMATES

TEREMICHAELS

To the Tricorn Girls, for always being amazing!

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THISWAS originally released in 2013 as a fund-raiser, available only on my website. I’m delighted to be able to share it with a wider audience. Nate and Sean broke through a bad bout of writer’s block, and I owe them a lot.

CHAPTER 1

THIS,THIS moment right here, was the humiliation frosting on the shitstorm cake his month had been. Nate Brandywine stood in front of the full-length mirror, oblivious to the chattering cast around him.

Happy Holidays, Nathaniel. You have a BFA in Theater from the Yale School of Drama, you spent two years on Broadway as a featured performer, and now? An elf costume.

From the curled shoes—jingle bells, seriously?—to the top of his pointed hat—a pom-pom, for real?—he was Wiggles the Elf, booked for a five-week stint at the brand new La Kiss Store on Fifth Avenue for their “Holiday Spectacular.”

It wasn’t even Macy’s, for God’s sake.

La Kiss—fake French at its finest—decided, as their US kickoff, to recreate a ’50s-era Norman Rockwell Christmas display, with Santa and elves and other winter-related characters learning life lessons while tucked into a silvery white wonderland, as a doo-wop quartet rotated through classic holiday songs. Nate read the “script” and the requirements—cover your tattoos, no jewelry, no gum chewing, no cursing, no current slang, teeth whitening was recommended—and blessed his poker face, because this was a crock.

It was a Monday night so it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be. Once upon a time, seven on a Monday would have been a time for Nat to chill, enjoying a day off from being on stage as “Thad,” shaking his pelvis and belting out ’60s rock and roll in “Shake and Shimmy.” A show that earned good reviews, nice box office, and then was booted from the theater by the newest Disney production.

Nate was trying not to be bitter. And failing miserably.

Two years employment gone, and now—right before Christmas—he was pounding the pavement with the scores of other un- and underemployed actors in New York City. This was the longest period of time he’d been without a job since he was three, and wasn’t that disheartening. His agent was sympathetic, but she couldn’t conjure up work for all her clients, let alone the low-on-the-totem-pole dwellers. He’d have to wait it out, do what he could to get by.

And not let his mother know he was hanging on by the barest thread.

HEWOULDN’T have considered this role (air quotes) if he wasn’t currently laboring under the added weight of a rent increase that prompted his pot-addicted roommate/ex-stepbrother to pack up and move out. A fact brought to Nate’s attention via a sticky note on the spot where the television used to be when he got home from a networking (more air quotes) event the week before.

Once he paid his December rent with the last of his savings, he would have nothing until this job paid out on Christmas Eve. And no roommate, no long-term job—which meant no apartment come January first. It was almost too shattering to contemplate.

Facing eviction from your beloved apartment—and possibly having to move in with your mother and take her back as your manager—was enough to convince a man to take any role. Any role. If his penis were bigger, he would have considered porn.

So La Kiss’s gig it was. Nate owed his former castmate Carin a fruit basket for the recommendation. And he would send her one as soon as he could afford it. Currently, however, the full amount of rent due in seven days would leave him with seventy-four cents in the bank. Oh God, he had to stop thinking about it, or he would start screaming in the middle of this crowd of meandering elves.

“Looking good!” Astrid, the “elf wrangler” chirped as she floated by. “You are the perfect height for this!”

She could have kicked him in the nuts. It might have hurt less.

ASTRIDHERDED them together in the lobby of the tiny office rental they were mingling at in the heart of midtown. Everything was gray—walls, carpets, furniture—and Nate started to feel woozy with depression. Who could work in a place like this?

“Okay gang. Gang?” she said, increasing her volume as the elves ignored her. “If anyone has costume issues, please see me. If not, take them off—carefully.” Astrid gave them all a look. “Put them in their original bags, check that your name is on the label, and we will see you tomorrow for dress rehearsal at the La Kiss location.” She glanced around, as if trying to discern which of them was ignoring her. Spoiler alert: all of them.

Nate raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“How long is dress rehearsal tomorrow?”

Astrid drew herself to full height. “As long as it takes. There were no time specifications in the contracts.” Another sharp look. “Be prepared to stay around for a while, thank you, and we will see you tomorrow at ten a.m. At the La Kiss store! Don’t come here!”

The quiet grumbling of angry elves followed them back to the dressing area. Nate lollygagged and fussed with his buttons, waiting until he could strip in peace. Probably another reason porn wasn’t a good idea.

In the end, he was the last one out, having fought to remove his contacts for a distressingly long time. He won the battle—barely. Glasses on his nose and his regrets stuffed in his backpack, Nate headed into the empty lobby. Outside the city raced, shrill and eager to get to the holidays—or through them, dependent on their relationship with family. Nate, on the other hand, held his breath and tried to focus his mind on making things happen.

What did his mother always say? Manifest your dreams? Well, he was manifesting like Adina taught him right now. He wanted to stay in his apartment. He wanted to find a job that supported his need to live indoors and eat food. And he wanted to figure out why he was still hauling his ass all over creation, trying to convince people to hire him, when he hadn’t been inspired by a part in years.

Twenty-four years old, in show business for twenty-three years and two months. He was a veteran—but no longer a cute little round-faced baby, not a precocious kid with a lisp, not a sulky teen with good diction. There was nothing particularly attention-grabbing about a guy a little too short, a little too slender, a little too polished. Auburn hair, freckles, and fine bone structure signaled fifteen—his deep voice said twenty-four. The disparity aged him out of roles older and younger. He was one amongst the starving masses, with a bunch of underwear models his competition for each and every role. Did he really want to sell real estate until he was forty?

Manifesting purpose seemed the hardest thing he was wishing for this holiday season.

THENEXT morning, Nate felt grudgingly better. Four beers and a showing of It’s a Wonderful Life will give you perspective. Or enough of an emotional hangover to get you to work on time.

The cast milled around the set, as their dressing area had been commandeered to hold newly arrived pallets of merchandise. Nate was trying to imagine how this place would look when the doors opened for the first time on Thanksgiving Day, and their little production made its debut, but all he could see was chaos and some sales associates who looked like he felt: questioning their life choices.

They were at almost forty-eight frantic hours out from their Holiday Spectacular Kick-Off on Thanksgiving morning, and Nate leaned against an iron lamppost to watch everyone scurry around. A welcome distraction from everything else going on with his life at La Kiss.

The fake French brand had recently made a splash in the United States the year before via their website, and their goal to dress everyone like an extra in a French movie from the ’60s was seemingly coming true, as an American millionaire scooped up the brand to milk it for all it was worth. Given their hip clothing, the choice of an American ’50s Christmas made little-to-no sense, but Nate a) didn’t care; b) just wanted a paycheck; and c) didn’t care about anything but a paycheck.

Maybe no one would notice the disparity while trying on $85 silk geometric print scarves, striped shirts, and tight high-waisted pants.

One of the associates kept catching Nate’s eye: an assistant manager or something, because the guy looked four seconds away from a nervous breakdown, but damn, the coiffed hair was perfect. All piled high, sprayed, sculpted, and the color of spun gold. Probably a dye job, considering the strands of wheat highlights woven through. Between that and the way the guy filled out the killer gunmetal gray suit (shoulders, hips, ass—praise and bless his genes), Nate had something to keep his eyes occupied during brief moments of downtime.

At least he’d spend the month looking at something sexy.

DRESSREHEARSAL consisted of Astrid—wearing a Christmas reindeer sweater (apparently without irony), a tan skirt, and librarian bun—going over the rules, giving call times, and passing out sheet music for another sing-along previously not included in the list of humiliations they were calling a script. Since people were already miserable, and Astrid was clearly a sadomasochist, they were divided up and asked to “sing a few bars” in order to be grouped into sections.

Nate had a fabulous voice, an ego, and a long history of performing next to his mother’s piano at dinner parties and holiday extravaganzas. A jazzed up version of “Winter Wonderland” was no sweat—weird to sing in front of other elves, but no sweat. Unfortunately his need to show off and impress the masses had him going a sliver overboard, and after the last held note, Astrid swarmed him joyfully.

“Oh! Oh, Wiggles, that was stunning. You just earned yourself a promotion!”

She made it sound amazing, while Nate felt his stomach sink to the floor. Was this what Miss Congeniality or Most Photogenic felt like in a Miss America Pageant?

HISPROMOTION was a vest covered with candy cane decals and the new name of “Nugget”—Nate was now Santa’s head elf. The only part that didn’t create despair was the one-dollar-an-hour raise that went along with the honor.

“Pft, he wasn’t that good,” the new Wiggles bitched from behind Nate as he warred between being glad he was the best and the despair that came from being named the best elf.

Think about your bank account, he reminded himself. Think about your apartment, which you love and want to keep. Think about having to move in with your mother again and let her be your agent, and how that would ruin your life and destroy your soul.

“NUGGET!” ASTRID said, skidding over to his side two hours later. Her perfectly pinned bun and neat makeup had taken a hit, possibly because Santa’s giant chair kept making groaning noises when the big guy sat down. “I need you.”

Nate heaved himself off the iron post he’d claimed as home base.

“Sure.” He followed her around the giant puffballs of glittery white chemical fluff that represented snow, through the façade that was Santa’s front door, and into a back section that was their staging area for the next few weeks. The folding table, four chairs—for about forty people—and a water cooler were a nice touch.

“Nugget, I have a favor to ask.” Astrid pulled up one of the chairs, her face utterly serious.

“Nate.”

Her head ticked to one side.

“It’s my na—never mind.” Nate took a deep breath and sat across from her, ignoring his jingles and crinkles and the way the vest felt like a straitjacket. “What can I do for you, Astrid?”

“You’ve already been promoted once today, and I know I keep heaping more and more on your shoulders, but I’ve read your resume and you are by far the most experienced and trained person in this little production,” she said in a breathless rush.

The compliment and the slap.

“Thank you.”

“And I feel terrible for asking you to take on more when I can’t pay you much extra….” Her voice trailed off, a note of passive-aggression he recognized from being raised by his mother. “But I realize you do this for more than just money. It’s for artistic fulfillment.”

His tuition clearly well spent, because Nate’s face didn’t move even as he swallowed the urge to laugh hysterically.

“What do you need me to do?” Nate asked again, because Astrid’s big brown eyes were threatening to spill tears, and due to biology and a lifetime of emotional manipulation, he could not say no to a damsel in distress.

Thank God he was gay.

Regardless, this was how he found himself with a script, a blue and silver costume, more sheet music, and a two-dollar an hour raise, as he was now to be “Jack Frost,” star of the skit that opened the festivities. He was then to roam the set and crowd for the rest of the show, encouraging festive holiday cheer.

“The other Jack Frost scored a national commercial,” said Former Wiggles/New Nugget, who had decided to be Nate’s friend. Standing behind Nate was becoming a surefire way to get promoted.

Nate stood in the middle of the madness, hands full of Jack Frost, still jingling and crinkling but slightly less poor and not homeless. So still winning. Though he was slightly concerned with how this manifestation was going.

CHAPTER 2

“ASTRID!”SOMEONE yelled from behind Santa’s still creaking throne, now being attended by two confused men in coveralls. “Astrid! I need to get a rehearsal going!”

Astrid—with her hair disheveled and her makeup now more suited to a walk of shame—came jetting around the corner and nearly collided with Nate. “Are you ready for rehearsal?”

Nate tried not to gawk at her. “You gave me the script ten minutes ago.”

“Mr. Callahan! He’s not ready yet!” Astrid yelled, and New Nugget gave him a tsk tsk headshake.

“Mr. Callahan” apparently didn’t like this, because three seconds later, the entire set shook with fear as a man in a suit—the regular kind, not Santa—emerged.

No, Mr. Callahan was not Santa. He was the pretty thing occupying Nate’s gaze earlier that evening. Nate’s boss.

And in that gunmetal gray suit and skinny black tie, the well-coiffed Mr. Callahan—apparently starring in this production of a Holiday Train Wreck as the Angry Hottie—stomped around the milling elves and that stupid not-snow, arriving in a puff of residual glitter.

Astrid sneezed.

“I thought you said he was a trained actor,” Mr. Callahan ground out, completely ruining his good looks with a tight line where his mouth should be.

“He is a trained actor, but he also saw the script for the first time ten minutes ago,” Nate said, unable to keep his mouth shut.

Silence.

Mr. Callahan blinked, and the anger seemed to dissipate, like this guy was a pricked balloon. Instead of just being a prick. His shoulders dropped about six inches, and the sour puss turned resigned.

In another time, another place—say a bar, about three drinks in—Nate would be plying a tall hot blond, with pale blue eyes and a swimmer’s build, with drinks in an attempt to get lucky. Right now, he wanted this guy to go away, so he could sell another sliver of his soul in the quest to not be evicted.

“Fifteen minutes, meet me behind the throne,” Mr. Callahan said, still frazzled but with less bellowing. He gave Astrid a sideways glance and then retraced his route through the chemical snow and back around the Santa’s Throne Disaster.

“I bet he says that to all the boys,” Nate mumbled under his breath. Life was so unfair—his eye candy dreams tainted by the fact that the aforementioned hottie was Nate’s cranky boss. Life was so unfair.

PREPARATIONSHIT a fevered pitch, as people frantically stocked shelves and made last minute repairs, and the company decorating the store for Christmas descended one last time to loop evergreen garland on anything that wasn’t running in the other direction.

There were ten people currently studying Santa’s seat, like they were trying to dismantle a bomb.

Astrid found Nate a quiet corner, or rather quieter. In what turned out to be the little room where they keep shoplifters, he had settled into a silver chair (fairly comfortable for thieves, he thought) and began working his way through the new material. It was innocuous, and the songs were standards, but all the skill in the world couldn’t erase the tiny room or the uncomfortable elf suit distracting him.

He was used to costumes, weird and sublime and uncomfortable and sexy. He had done Oh, Calcutta for God’s sake, where his costume was nudity. But the elf getup seemed to be an itchy reminder of the situation he found himself in, and it was messing with his head.

Concentrate, he told himself. This was a skit where Jack Frost learned the meaning of Christmas thanks to Santa and doo-wop. What was his motivation?

Not getting evicted.

The blue and silver Jack Frost costume looked slightly less uncomfortable, so what the hell was he still doing in elf gear? Why not get into the character’s headspace? Maybe stop jingling every time he breathed.

A few minutes later, Nate was stripped down to his festive elk-wearing-Christmas-lights boxers, sorting through the piles of clothing. Pale blue pants—acceptable; long-sleeved tee in a sparkly white—passable. Another vest, this time a slightly darker hue—not a candy cane in sight. It was still shit but slightly less so. A bit of a gay ragamuffin look.

A knock at the door caught him right as he was trying to maneuver into the sparkly blue socks.

“Come in!” he called, leaning against the far wall and wiggling his ankles. Jack Frost had smaller feet than Nathaniel Brandywine.

The door opened with a creak and was immediately followed by the appearance of Mr. Callahan’s artfully elevated blond hair. And his frown.

“Are you ready?” he asked, doing a head-to-toe appraisal that made Nate feel a little cheap. “That costume is terrible.”

“Yes, I am, and yes, it is.” Nate wrestled the stiff material over his heel and pulled the sock up. Yep, the itching was going to drive him bananas in about ten minutes. “Quick question? If this is your little production, I’m curious as to why you are surprised by how ugly this outfit is.”

The door widened, and Mr. Callahan stepped in all the way. He straightened his jacket and tie, pulling his shoulders back in a haughty fashion.

“I’m Sean Callahan. I am the president of Callahan Productions.”

Nate rubbed his hands through his riot of curls, victim of the late hour, that ridiculous elf hat, and some gel that had failed him. Someone was getting a strongly worded e-mail. He would have to buy some extra strength cement for tomorrow—on wishes and dreams—because he currently had seventy-four cents as his budget. Right. That.

“So wait—does that mean you’re not in charge of this hideous costume?”

Mr. Sean Callahan—of Callahan Productions—took a deep breath, letting it out with a wavering sound. Nate recognized an act of confidence when he saw it and knew when it was coming apart at the seams. Underneath that fashionable young professional thing was someone who needed a good stiff drink. Or a sledgehammer. He knew the feeling.

“We were brought in late on this production, too late to fix the costumes, after the other firm was uh—let go.”

“Because their idea was stupid and didn’t fit the theme of the store?”

“No, because they mentioned to the CEO that the idea was stupid and didn’t fit the theme of the store. And the idea was the idea of the CEO’s daughter, which made it a bad thought to share. So we got the job.” Sean shrugged and unbuttoned his jacket. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

“Technically, you yelled at Astrid.” Nate gathered up his mess—the costume, the script, and sheet music. “But it’s okay. I can’t imagine how much it wears on your nerves to wrangle elves for a living. Let’s rehearse so I can go home and imbibe tequila until I forget this is my life until Christmas.”

“Same,” Sean muttered behind him.

Well—maybe he and Sean Callahan were destined to at least be misery buddies for the next four and a half weeks.

THEDOO-WOP group—Black Caddies—were all nice guys, approximately the age of Nate’s Great Uncle Morris and as bald. Their candy cane striped leather jackets were an atrocity against humans with sight. But their harmonies were boss, and Nate won them over in about ten seconds flat by complimenting their sound, coupled with his superior musical knowledge. They spent a few minutes humming through the arrangements and discussing cues, while Astrid—having abandoned all pretense of having it together—flitted around, arranging Santa on his reinforced throne, a throng of bitterly angry elves in a semicircle, and Mrs. Claus, who somehow managed to look Zen and composed.

“She’s been toking up for an hour,” New Nugget mentioned to Nate, as they lined up for their first run-through.

“And a one, two, three,” Astrid trilled, and they were off.

FIVEFULL run-throughs and Astrid finally dismissed them for the night. “Be here at nine for final wardrobe and makeup and promotional photos!” she called out as the talent practically ran into the cold November evening.

With tears in their eyes, the workmen and staff—still fixing and stocking—watched them go. No freedom for them.

Nate trudged to the backroom after everyone left; he wasn’t all that interested in stripping down in a crowd, and there was the matter of nailing down his exact hourly wage after being promoted twice in three hours, and by God, he was going to speak to Sean Callahan of Callahan Productions about getting a raise. His hourly wage was upped an extra dollar and then two extra dollars so that was three dollars. Right? It was a math problem from a very sad textbook, but he didn’t have time for pride.

He was clearly elevating this production. Why, the Black Caddies said he was a much better Jack Frost than the first guy!

“Hey,” a voice called, and Nate turned around. Speak of the devil.

“I was just getting changed,” Nate said, hands on his vest but not moving, and Sean gave him a nod.

“Yeah sure, absolutely. I wanted to thank you for stepping in. You have a great voice.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He could do a “dealing with adults who controlled his desperately needed paycheck” tone of voice. Soothing and polite. “Not a problem,” Nate added graciously.

“Well, I appreciate it. A bunch of people quit when the other production company was fired, and then people quit for no apparent reason, except to seemingly fuck with me….” Sean blew out a breath, his hair sagging worse than his posture. “Sorry. I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Please remember your gratitude when you’re writing out my bonus check.” He tried to make it sound like a joke.

Sean blanched slightly but covered with a smile and a nod. “Will do.”

Nate’s gaze narrowed. “What?”

“What what?” Sean’s eyes went comically wide.

“I cannot stress enough how I need the money from this job,” Nate said slowly. “There’s not a problem, is there?”

“It’s fine, it’s not that, I swear.” Sean put both hands up, as if to stop the imminent rage charge that was about to occur. “You will get paid, as promised, on time.”

Nate banked his terror back to just terribly concerned. “I’ve been promoted twice today. The Jack Frost part is three dollars more an hour than the elf gig, right?”

Sean paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”

“And there’s no problem with payroll?”

“Listen, my entire future is riding on handling this mess and making something wonderful happen. If I don’t pay the talent, I could wind up getting sued.” His voice cracked a little. “And besides that, it’s also a pretty shitty thing to do.”

“I will also take this to the Internet chat rooms. And Twitter,” Nate warned.

“Exactly. No one can afford that kind of problem. So—it’s fine. I swear,” Sean repeated the declaration, all exhaustion and sincerity.

Nate gave him another sharp stare. “Fine.”

Sean gave a little wave as he backed away slowly. “Night.”

“Mmmmm.” Nate ducked into the room to put on his own damn pants. Now it wasn’t entirely about getting a raise—he was a little concerned about the solvency of this production.

CHAPTER 3

SEANWATCHED the last of the talent and crew leave the store. Security locked the door behind them, and the thunking of hammers began in earnest. The maroon and silver-pink color scheme actually blended nicely with the green, gold, and silver of the Christmas set—he could see the vision coming together. He had hopes that, in the end, when the last of the crews were done and the finishing touches were applied, everything would be perfect.

He needed this to be perfect.

Begging his ex-boyfriend’s sister for this job was the lowest moment of his thirty years; he had no pride, very little money, and almost no time left before his father pulled funding for Callahan Productions and called in his loan.

Then Sean would be called to fulfill his end of the bargain.

That would become the lowest moment of his thirty years—packing up and returning to Philadelphia to work at his father’s investment firm as low man on the totem pole.

The very thought made him want to lie down on the floor of this frantically buzzing store and wait to be stepped on. Somehow that felt more desirable than pretending to care about hedge funds, while watching his sister be a superstar and his father acting all… proud father.

It wasn’t a job. It was a nightmare he had frequently.

Sean had relied on his former prep school boyfriend having a big heart and a pleasant memory of their two years together. Sentiment had won—though Tony warned him repeatedly about the insanity of the situation. Tony’s sister Lola was crazy, their father was crazier, and this store was potentially the Titanic with sailor-striped tees. But there was money, and possibly even some press. All Sean had to do was manage the Christmas program; the rest was up to the La Kiss folks.

Just a simple Christmas program.

That eleven production companies had signed contracts on and then fled from. Eleven production companies, each a little less successful, until Callahan Productions, with its five employees and three-event resume, came along.

Lola wanted someone to yes her.

Sean was very good at saying yes.

HESPENT another six hours at the store, nearly hobbling because his fancy dress shoes had turned torture device at about hour twenty, and they were long past that. He went over every corner of the set, until he was sure it was both sturdy and artful. He went over the racks of costumes, lamenting their low quality. He tested the sound system and the lighting and path of egress for navigating the space and moving about the store.

Sean—tone deaf and born with two left feet—performed the entire show, huffing under his breath and keeping an eye on every corner of the set.

It was as good as it was going to get.

Astrid was long gone, having been deposited into a cab. Sean found the manager of the store, a harried young woman named Sylvie, who was clearly reconsidering her life choices.

They exchanged updated information, terse with each other as the countdown to the opening had begun, pleasantries spent. He gave her a punch list, promised to be back in a few hours and then—finally—staggered out the door.

HISAPARTMENT was actually a tiny bedroom rented from a nice family in Bensonhurst. He had a microwave and an electric kettle, which meant a fancy meal of frozen macaroni and cheese and a cup of tea at two in the morning. Sean stripped out of his clothes while he was waiting for his meal to heat up, shoving everything into his dry cleaning bag. The attached bathroom was a sink and a toilet—he showered at the gym—so there wasn’t much to be done. Washing up in a tiny sink wasn’t ideal, but God, it felt nice to get a layer of sweat off his skin.

These were usually when the dark moments set in—questioning how this was his life, when he’d grown up in upper middle class niceness, with heated floors in his private bathroom, and a nice lady named Susa who did his laundry. Sean could go home, work at the firm, live at his parents’ house again. Thirty wasn’t that old, not really. It would be temporary.

Sean sat on the edge of his bed, balancing dinner on his knees. Discouraging events at every turn made that temporary solution more and more appealing.

Until reality set in and he examined the price of accepting his father’s offer.

He poked at the yellow pile of pasta and cheese in its little bowl. It would be nice to have an apartment of his own. It would be great to have friends over and cook real food. It would be lovely to have a boyfriend again.

Bringing a guy home and taking him through the Chow’s living room was the least sexy, conducive way to a second date imaginable.

But then again, a boyfriend was how he’d ended up in this closet, listening to the radiator whistle and Mr. Chow snore through the wall. Note to self: Don’t move in with a guy you’ve only been dating six months. And if you do, put your name on the lease. Because otherwise? When he dumps you for his study partner? You find yourself literally on the street, with your belongings in a box, perilously skirting homelessness.

Sean ate, brushed his teeth, then he climbed under the covers. A bone-weary exhaustion claimed him quickly, despite the hamster wheel of his brain.

He dreamed of being chased by Christmas elves, brandishing shivs carved out of candy canes.

SIXHOURS of sleep did a little bit of good—he woke to a clear head and a resolution to make his New York dreams happen. Sean went to the gym to lift weights for a while, until the place began to fill up with the prework crowd. He ducked into the showers, going through a mental checklist. Another quick rehearsal, a run-through of the Jack Frost skit. Photos for the website and e-mail blast. Sean scrubbed his hair, massaging his skull under the press of water. Nate—the kid they had doing the lead role—had actual talent; it made Sean feel bad about the shitty script and worse costumes.

Also? He was easy on the eyes. Even in a hideous Jack Frost costume. The conversation about payday made him slightly nervous; he didn’t love that Lola’s people were handling payroll, and he didn’t love that control over said money was with her office, not his. He promised the kid that everything would be fine, but right then, Sean and his staff were existing on petty cash and prayer.

Later, in front of his locker, Sean toweled off and slid into yet another stark, simple gray suit. He did his hair in his signature sweeping pompadour, a bit more hairspray than usual. It was going to be a long damn day, and he needed to look his best.

There was no excuse for yesterday’s hair catastrophe.

Sean pinched his cheeks until he got some color, smoothed over his brows. A silent pep talk (You can do this; believe you can do this) and Sean was off.

He counted out the money in his pocket and decided between breakfast or a cab—the latter won, because he didn’t want to bother with the subway from Brooklyn to midtown. It was a guarantee he would end up rumpled.

“HEY,”A voice called. Sean stopped and turned around, nearly knocked off his feet by hurrying New Yorkers and a gust of wind.

It was Jack Frost. Nate, his brain provided.

“Hey.”

In street clothes, Nate looked even younger, all tight amber Shirley Temple curls tucked back by sunglasses and weirdly pale gray eyes. And freckles, so many freckles—those Sean had missed in the weird store lighting last night. He wore a ski jacket and slouchy jeans; with the backpack slung over one shoulder, he was the epitome of a college student. No, actually, a high school student.

“Your hair doesn’t move in this wind—how do you do that?” Nate asked, coming to stand closer to Sean. They were waiting for the door to be unlocked.

“Industrial strength hair spray. And sheer will,” Sean deadpanned. “Your hair….”

Nate sighed as he pushed a curly sprig sprung free by the wind. “I know, I know. Israeli mother and Irish father. Somehow that combination produced this.” He gave it a wave. “I’ll tame it down, don’t worry.”

“Not really worried. You have such a good voice, I’m not sure anyone is going to pay attention to your hair.”

He leaned his head to one side, scrunching up his nose. “Thank you?”

“No, I mean—they’re great,” Sean said, a little flustered. He hadn’t meant it to come out sounding uncomplimentary. In fact, he meant exactly the opposite. “You look good with it… free.”

“So says the man with the unmoving hair. Irony,” Nate teased. “But thank you.”

Sean smiled as the security guard unlocked the door.

“You’re welcome.”

NATEDODGED the construction workers at La Kiss, their numbers down to about a third—hopefully a good sign. Decorators rushed to and fro. All the rest rushing around were production people, helmed by Astrid, who looked a lot more put together today. She was in yet another Christmas sweater; yellow stars over a moonlit meadow of trees covered in snow. The snow was puffy. The stars blinked. Nate didn’t understand its existence.

Sean disappeared soon after they ducked inside—and Nate missed the visual, because damn, his boss was wickedly hot when he smiled. And the view spectacular as he was walking away. Nothing could happen, but yeah, he was letting his gaydar run free. And it was about 70% to the friend of Dorothy side at this point, mostly due to the hairspray.

Stereotyping was sometimes helpful.

There were also his shoes, and Nate had a personal algorithm involving eye contact, cologne, and the width of one’s tie. Nate was good, and his algorithm was rarely wrong.

Of course, conversely, he felt like people misread his own situation often enough. First, the assumption he was underage—which made bars an exciting and sometimes creepy adventure. Second, that a guy on Broadway who was short, slender, and clean-shaven must be gay, so he probably wasn’t.

He felt like every day held potential for having to come out to someone.

In any case, the chances that his attractive boss Sean Callahan of Callahan Productions knew Nate was gay were slim to none. And it was probably a bad idea to hit on the guy who signed your paycheck.

NUGGETTHE head elf was up first. A photographer took shots of the setup, everyone posed around Santa, whose throne now appeared to be able to withstand an actual tornado. Astrid ran a rehearsal of their song that was to be featured at the top of every hour between opening and closing. Jack Frost had his own time with Santa and his still-blissful wife, then solo shots and a round with the Black Caddies.

They posed with finger guns, much to Astrid’s displeasure.

Nate glanced around at the salespeople straightening up their sections. God, the associates were going to hate the talent so much.

Santa and Mrs. Claus had some “couple shots” to do, so the elves—and Nate—were sent off to lunch, held in the changing area. Nate showed up in time to rustle up a warm ginger ale and two slices of pepperoni.

The elves were milling and getting in the way of stock people, something Nate didn’t want to do. These people were already sending them dagger looks, and the talent had weeks to go before this was over.

He ducked out onto the sales floor, remembering that tiny shoplifter jail. An eye out for anyone trying to horn in on his quiet, pizza in hand, he dodged humans until he made it to the door.

The room was already occupied.

Sean sat in the lone chair, napkin on one knee, phone on the other, and a large Cobb salad in his hands.

“Oh sorry,” Nate said, almost hitting his head on the door.

Sean had a mouthful of lettuce so he shook his head until he could swallow.

“No, no, come in. I guess you’re looking for some quiet.” Sean gestured to the empty space. “I can find another chair….”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Nate shut the door behind him, then slid down to the floor with a thump. “This is fine. So long as you don’t mind the company.”

Sean shoved in another mouthful. Another headshake.

“Only thing is, there’s not enough oxygen for more people in here—so don’t tell anyone okay?”

Sean put the fork in the plastic container, and made a Scout’s Honor gesture.

“Okay, cool. Because if I don’t have a quiet space for the next few weeks, I’m going to snap.”

With a sigh, Sean nodded. “My quiet time is in the cab from Bensonhurst, but I’m pretty sure I can’t afford to be doing that every day for the next few weeks.” He leaned over to pick up a bottle of water on the floor.

“Bensonhurst! Are you crazy?” Nate tried to keep from dripping oil and cheese on his costume. “Take the subway.”

“It’s an hour if I’m lucky. Two if it’s a regular day. Time undetermined during the holidays.” Sean sighed. “I have never regretted my real estate choices more than right now.”

Nate tried to stop the careening thoughts—his beautiful apartment he loved, the expiration date on him living there, the lack of money in his bank. He shoved more pizza in his mouth, chewing loudly. He sighed when he swallowed—and caught Sean looking at him curiously.

“Sorry.” Nate licked his fingers.

“Everything okay? I meant what I said—you’re absolutely getting paid. On time and everything.” Sean was big-eyed sincere, his forkful of lettuce paused midway to his mouth.

“It’s fine. I have some real estate issues of my own.”

“Sorry.”

Nate shrugged. “A hotel is out of the question, I guess.”

Sean gave him a pointed look.

“Right, December, New York City, hotels. What about a friend you can stay within the city?”

Sean chewed through some more salad. “I seem to only know people with studio apartments,” he said finally. “I could sleep on someone’s couch, but with my hours for the rest of the month and the fact that I actually need to sleep….”

A little nudge pushed against Nate’s brain. But no—that would be a crazy suggestion. He didn’t know this guy well enough to offer.

But.

He had a free room in his apartment. He was closer to this place than Bensonhurst was. He needed someone to help with December’s rent until a roommate solution presented itself. He would like to eat. He would like not to feel like his stomach was going to eat itself before Thanksgiving.

Also?

If Sean lived in his apartment for the month, it would guarantee Nate’d get his paycheck. There. He thought it. Hopefully the karma of helping Sean would balance things out.

Manifestation? An offer from the universe falling into his lap?

“Okay, crazy question—do you have a television?”

ITWAS a crazy idea. Absolutely nuts. This guy was a stranger, and it was completely out of character for Sean to entertain the idea.

Except.

The rent money would be almost the same as the cost of cabs and food eaten on the go—not to mention the fact that this would add literal hours to the time Sean could spend sleeping. It was all so reasonable and helpful and….

“I’m gay,” Sean said suddenly, interrupting Nate’s description of the room he’d potentially be renting.

Nate stopped, nodded. “Right, I knew that.”

“And that isn’t a problem?”

“Why, are you concerned you’re doing it wrong?”

Sean sputtered out a laugh. “I’m actually very good at it.”

Nate rolled his eyes. “Funny enough, so am I. Is that a yes?”

“Oh.” Oh. “Okay, cool.”

That settled—it would make Sean’s life much easier. He could be here as much as possible, keeping on top of all the potential issues. There was a running list that included blizzards and hurricanes, because, at this point, nothing would surprise him. The idea of not having to take the train back to Bensonhurst in the dead of night, or showering at the gym—it gave him new life.

“That’s a yes. Thank you so much. Really.”

“It’s not a charity thing, believe me. I need someone to help me cover rent for next month.” Nate finished up the last of his pizza, as he leaned back against the door. He looked at his hands as if debating between greasy hands or wiping them on his costume. “You wanna move in before the first?”

“Yeah—that would be great actually. Maybe I can run back to Brooklyn and pack a bag today.” Sean handed over his second napkin, trying to keep his balance between the salad and his phone.

Nate smirked as he took it. “Thanks. Does this mean you’re a clean freak?”

Sean resumed his attack on his salad. “I like a clean space. My room is so damn small, I don’t have much of a choice.”

“I’m not cleaning-challenged, but if you are overly strict about clothes being confined to drawers and hampers, we might have a fight or two.”

“Oh no, that’s fine.” Sean poked around the final pile of lettuce, looking for something hiding under it. No such luck. “Was your former roommate easy to get along with?”

Nate snorted. “Only when he was smoking weed. Then he’d lay on the floor and not speak. The rest of the time was a lot of passive-aggressive silence.”

“Then why’d you keep living with him?” Sean closed up the container, tidying up with the remaining napkin.

“He was my stepbrother for three years.”

Sean’s eyes widened. Nate raised his hands to the ceiling.

“Mom’s second husband. We moved in together after graduation because they were subsidizing the rent in an attempt to get us to bond. Then they divorced, stopped helping with the rent, and Dylan decided he liked pot more than working.”

“Wow.”

“Right. So long as you’re not worse than that….”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not worse than that.”

CHAPTER 4

FROMTHERE, Sean’s day became markedly better.

It continued ticking upward. Astrid reported everyone showed up as requested, rehearsal was not a nightmare, and no part of the set swayed or creaked or shook at any point.

Could this happen? Could he pull this off?

He was estimating how much time it would take to get back to his room, pack, drop things off at Nate’s, and get back there when his phone rang and things ground to a halt.

Dad.

“Hey,” Sean said, trying to sound upbeat and successful—if that was, indeed, an inflection you could put in your voice. “How are you doing?”

“Sean.” He imagined his father sitting in that giant leather chair, behind a huge desk, a window displaying downtown Philly over his shoulder. Tie, suspenders, disapproving look.

“What’s up? I’m actually right in the middle of the final run-through for the show,” he said breezily—with a touch of desperation.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Anthony Callahan sounded anything but sincere. “But your mother wanted to know when you were arriving for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Sean held his breath until he could wind his way around the chaos to a quiet corner. “Dad, as I’ve told Mom repeatedly, I won’t be able to come tomorrow. It’s the opening of the production. I have to be here.”

“Surely you have an assistant who can handle—”

“As the head of Callahan Productions, it’s my responsibility to be here and make sure everything goes smoothly,” he said, as sternly as he could manage. “And since it’s the opening, the owners of the store expect me to be here.”

His father gave a tremendous, disappointed sigh.

“Your mother won’t be happy.”

“And I’m sorry about that.” Even though she knew for weeks. “I’ll send her some flowers and make sure I call to say hello to everyone.”

“We’ll expect you at Christmas. You and I need to go over the financials and wrap things up. We can discuss… your future.” His father’s last word sounded ominous.

Sean bit the inside of his lip, rolling flesh between his teeth. “I need to go. I have to supervise some last minute details.”

His father made a sound that clearly meant “good-bye” and “I’m serious, you’re in trouble,” and the line went dead. Sean managed to keep his cool and not throw his phone across the room.

Taking deep gulping breaths, Sean rejoined the store’s bustle and buzz. He followed the sounds of singing.

Grouped around the iron streetlamp, the doo-wop group was doing a chirpy rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” with Nate harmonizing in strong tenor. Even the most frantically busy associate and worker slowed a bit to appreciate the sound.

Sean tucked his hands in his pockets and continued to take relaxing breaths, letting the music wash over him. Once upon a time, the holidays were an exciting time, something he looked forward to—from cheesy songs to plastic reindeers to the throngs of people, always seeming to triple around this time of year. A few years ago, the chance to organize a holiday show would have been Sean’s biggest joy.

Now? Now he was spending the next five weeks trying not to lose everything.

But for this moment, Sean was just going to listen to the music.

NATERECEIVED a round of high fives from the guys after they finished the song—and the smattering of applause didn’t hurt either. Even some of the sulkier elves were impressed. It elevated the ridiculousness of the costume and this production and everything else for a little bit. Hey—paychecks and applause. The life of an actor—couldn’t ask for more than that.

He noticed Sean off to the side, pale and rocking on his heels, a frown marring his face. When Astrid announced one last quick meeting before they could head out for the night, he moseyed over—a fact that would have been covert if he hadn’t slid on those uncomfortable sparkly socks.

“Hey so—I get out of here in about thirty minutes. You wanna bring your stuff over?” Nate said, trying to look cool as he leaned on a rack of patchwork vests.

“Yeah, thanks.” Sean gave a thin smile. “I have to stay a bit later so is uh… is eight okay?”

“Eight is uh… great.” Nate winked at Sean to soften the tease of his words, watching as his shoulders hitched down a bit. “You have my address, right?”

Sean nodded. “I’ll call you before I show up so as not to interrupt anything.”

Nate’s face scrunched up. “Unless you’re uncomfortable with watching someone stare at the wall where his television used to be, you won’t be interrupting anything.”

Nate and Sean went their separate ways after that—Nate to stand in formation with the increasingly restless cast, and Sean to do whatever it was that cute producers did.

Damn, Nate thought. He was back in “sexy boy I’m watching” category again.

They were done fairly quickly. Astrid gave them all a stern talk, her face grave and serious, as she gave them their call time for “opening night, except it was morning.” Then there was a moment of silence as she stink-eyed each of them individually.

“Seven,” she said. “If you’re late, you’re going to be let go.”

Nate resisted the urge to salute—professionalism versus rebelling against people who sounded like his mom was a constant battle—and then broke with the group. He wanted to hurry up and get to the apartment, tidy it up before Sean arrived. Boss and the guy staving off his eviction for a month—he owed him a clean bathroom.

He didn’t see Sean before he left, bundled up and hurrying out into the pre-Thanksgiving traffic. The store was only a few blocks from the Macy’s Parade route, which meant the crush of revelers and tourists was exponentially increased. It would bode well for business, but it also meant a serious audience for their first day.

A tiny hint of nerves played in a field with the excitement of performing for a crowd.

It was a stupid gig, done for money, but God, Nate’d never turn down the chance to sing and perform in front of a crowd. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him he craved attention and affiliated applause with approval and that approval with love.

Thank you, Adina, for setting him on this path.