Jingle Balls: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Anthology

by Dylann Crush

  The upstairs, with its lounging spaces and its piano, its indoor foliage and its fountains was encased in conservatory-style glass. A finished rooftop deck extended the space. Though, most would only use the rooftop deck in summer. The greater marvel was the winter garden.

  Some part of Michael couldn’t believe that nearly five years had passed—five years since he’d filled the same suite with a different kind of flower; five years since he had lured Darby there, only to say goodbye; five years since he’d pulled off the most bittersweet of grand gestures—the biggest mistake of his life.

  It had taken a year to fix that mistake—a year for him to return to Chicago, and only slightly less time to profess his undying love. All was well that had ended well, and they were living out their happily ever after. Only, Michael had never forgotten. And the two of them had never returned to that suite, despite having since taken weekend rendezvous in plenty of other hotels in the city.

  “Alright, Michael…” The soft clatter of items on Adrian’s toolbelt announced the man’s approach as he climbed the stairs. Michael looked over his shoulder to regard his general contractor. For projects of this scale, Adrian was his go-to. “I fixed the shower door issue, resealed the bidet in the master, and did a final walk-through. I think now, you ought to be good to go.”

  Michael extended his hand to shake Adrian’s. “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday. Especially at holiday time.”

  Adrian paused and took in the dramatic glass encasement of the upstairs. “It’s the kind of place you have to see to believe. You really outdid yourself this time. Speaking of which…” JC fished in his pocket, pulled out his phone and thumbed it on before raising his eyebrows in question. “Will you take a picture? I want one with me in it for the Instagram feed.”

  Michael took the proffered camera, focused the device, took the picture and handed JC back the phone. Professional photographers had been in earlier, taking advantage of the decor Michael had arranged, and the suite’s festive look. They would shoot it again on Monday after all of his extras had been removed. Not that selling reservations had been a problem—the first guests would arrive on January first. Beyond that, it was already booked out six months.

  “Hey…”

  Michael’s own phone had begun vibrating in his pocket just as he returned Adrian’s. His heart flipped a little upon seeing that the Caller ID read “Home.” It could have been Darby—the cell phone reception in their house wasn’t always great. But it could also be one of the “kids”—an inadequate moniker since most were of age—because all of them were home, too. Michael didn’t know which caller he anticipated more: the woman who would never stop making his heart skip a beat or the seven young and brilliant protégées who had descended upon their family and infiltrated their hearts.

  “Hey Michael.”

  It was Donovan. Don had been their first—the one who had catapulted them from the footloose and fancy-free DINK life they’d embraced to the chaotic life of guardians. At the time, Don had been sixteen—a bright kid from the South Side neighborhood where Michael had grown up. He was bound for Stanford on a full ride. By all accounts, he was a whiz kid—so rare in his extreme achievements that conclusions of his success were foregone.

  But plenty of smart kids who didn’t come from privilege went to places like Stanford and failed to thrive. Half of surviving college was surviving culture. Michael had stepped forward to become Don’s guardian after a pleading call from his friend. Corliss knew Michael well enough to count on the only three things she needed to know: he would say yes because he could afford it; he would say yes because he, too, had been a fish out of water in college and wouldn’t have made it through without the right support; he would say yes because, when it came to kids at risk, he couldn’t say no.

  Asking Darby had been a gamble. Michael would have found a way to support Don either way—financially, morally and as an advocate. But giving him a home and a place to go on summers and holidays was a much bigger ask. Don didn’t have a home to go back to once he aged out of the foster care system. Come winter and summer, they kicked students out of the dorms. Logistically, Michael could have found him a place to stay. Only, what he really needed was a home.

  “You ready for tonight?” Michael couldn’t stop his face from breaking out into a smile. He wasn’t the only one in the family gearing up for a good night. Don was meeting Sam, a guy he had met at college—bringing him to the Jingle Ball on free tickets Michael had scored. Donovan had confessed that he wanted Sam to be more than a friend, right before he’d begged for Michael to help him dress.

  “I’m leaving now. I’m gonna be late. Probably not ’til five, which is when he closes, right? Could you go first? And I’ll get there when I can? Or, you know, pick mine up if he’s closing and we’ll hope for the best? I could always get dressed in the—”

  “Don.” He was already an excitable type by his nature, a condition made worse by his nerves. “We’re fine. Rostislav’s an old friend. He knows we’re coming. He’ll wait.”

  Michael had helped his longtime tailor out of a pickle years before—a predatory landlord situation. Rostislav had been at Michael’s disposal ever since. If there was one thing Michael had tried to instill in his protégées, it was the habit of doing favors—doing them fiercely and frequently and tirelessly if they were for the right cause.

  “Ask him,” came a different voice from the other end of the phone, this one muffled and impatient. Whoever had spoken was standing right next to Don.

  “No!” Don whisper-hissed. “I’m not asking him that.”

  The corner of Michael’s mouth crooked upwards. “Asking me what?”

  He completed his ascent of the stairs and strode toward windows that looked eastward, out toward the lake.

  “If you don’t ask him, I will,” came the again-muffled and doubly impatient voice that had to belong to Chris. The eighteen-year-old Chris was also on holiday break, from his Sophomore year at Notre Dame.

  “Come on. I don’t bite.” Michael said it with irony he couldn’t help but to enjoy. For as well as Michael was known for his charm, he was a man who one did not trifle with.

  A brief struggle ensued, likely Chris wrestling away the phone given the clarity of his voice as it spoke next. Now it was Don in the background, his protests impatient and muffled.

  “What Donovan here is too timid to ask you...” the perpetually dramatic Chris began. “…is whether he can borrow your car.”

  3

  Darby

  “You let Don take the Maserati?” Darby asked the question in amusement the second she picked up the phone.

  “Don’s a responsible kid.” Michael’s smooth baritone was always calm and easy. It never failed to arouse her a little, even while discussing the mundane.

  “It’s not Don I’d be worried about. It’s the other six who are gonna want to borrow it next.”

  The sounds of his footfalls and a creaky door closing prompted her to imagine where he was and whether he and Don had finished at the tailor. Before she could ask, an alert on her phone showed that Michael wanted to switch from a voice call to Face Time. She accepted with anticipation and he came into view. If his voice never failed to arouse her, neither did his face. Michael was ten kinds of gorgeous.

  “It’s just a car, cupcake.”

  Michael’s dark-blue eyes were the first thing she always noticed. They were so striking against his olive skin, they were the first thing everybody did. Their hue was unusual and their starburst brightness was complex. Darby had dived headfirst to swim in the depths of those eyes more times than she could count. Even through the flawed lens of a cell phone camera, they were magnificent. She couldn’t wait to feel their weight upon her shoulders as he took her in, in her dress.

  “They’ve got you wrapped around their seven little fingers…you know that, right?”

  “Takes one to know one.” His cupid’s bow lips drew into a smirk. “I heard you took the girls shopping yesterday.”
/>   “How’d you know?”

  “I got a call from American Express. You tripped the spend limit for a fraud alert.”

  Darby chuckled, not at all minding how much she’d spent the day before. Shopping sprees with the girls were ridiculous fun. They reminded her of jaunts she’d taken with her mother when she’d been alive.

  “Every woman deserves to be spoiled. Isn’t it you who told me that once?”

  “And I’ve delivered on it.”

  Darby murmured, “Indeed, you have.”

  The way his camera angled up toward his face gave her views above his head and shoulders. The decor was all medium-tone carved wood. An old chandelier hung from an ornate ceiling. Michael settled down in a chair that looked familiar. A dressing mirror was visible from behind. Michael was downtown, at his tailor.

  Darby had never been there personally, but Michael’s tailor’s shop was like his second home. She’d seen its decor before, peripherally, on video calls like this. Darby owed Rostislav a priceless debt for how good he made Michael look in a suit.

  “I was hoping to spoil you in the limo, but I’ve got some bad news.” He threw her a repentant look. “I won’t make it back up to Glencoe in time to get dressed at the house. There was a problem with Donovan’s tux. They’ve got him in it and they’re working on it right now, but it’ll be six-thirty before I get him into the high-rise. I won’t be able to come get you in the car.”

  Darby didn’t bother to hide her pout. “But we were going to have so much fun in the car…”

  Timewise, it made no sense for him to ride from the event hotel all the way back up to their house just to get dressed and pick her up. But impractical gestures were what Michael did. He always went out of his way to escort her—to be with her in any way, even if only for a short time. His preference to always be near her if possible was one of his most genuine, endearing traits.

  “You know we always find a way to have fun,” Michael murmured in the lowered voice of someone conscious that he wasn’t alone, even though the dressing rooms were large and private and Rostislav himself was elsewhere, busy at work. It was less a testament to any danger of being overheard than it was to the fact that his attention had shifted.

  His repentant look transformed into something wicked. “What are you wearing?” he wanted to know.

  Owing to their months in a long-distance relationship—him in Sydney while she was in Chicago—his phone flirtation was strong. If Darby wouldn’t have him sooner rather than later, she could punish him with a tease.

  “Right now or tonight?” she murmured.

  All of her that was visible were her shoulders against a backdrop of textured white. From his question, he hadn’t put together that she was in the tub. His eyes were no longer on the camera. They’d floated to the bottom of the screen. Slowly—so slowly—Darby lowered the angle to show more.

  “I meant tonight but if you want to show me right now…”

  She said nothing—only let the camera keep angling down at a pace that was painfully slow. She liked how his eyes lingered and swept over the skin she had enticed him to see. She sat up a bit in the tub, until the tops of her nipples peeked out from over the bubbles. It was a long few seconds before his gaze returned to her face.

  She didn’t miss the motion of his arm—the way it crossed his body and stopped in the middle to give a little push. The gesture was familiar—one that arose frequently when their conversations veered off in this direction. Michael was adjusting himself.

  “Down, babe. Don’t forget…you’re in a public place.”

  “You’re not,” he came back with a cheeky smile. “And that’s never stopped us before. Dressing rooms are kind of our thing.”

  Darby chuckled. “And elevators, and limos, and supply closets and any other small place with a closing door.”

  “I get creative…” he began haltingly, something serious coming into his expression, “…because you instigate. You get me to where I can’t wait ‘till we get home to fuck. So, really, I blame you.”

  A flush came over Darby upon hearing the only word they every used to describe what they did. For however epically they loved one another, the word “lovemaking” seemed too soft. Even in their slowest, most tender moments, they shared a desperate intensity that could not be denied.

  “Besides…” he continued in a low rumble, his best voice that was meant to persuade. “When was the last time we did it like this?”

  “London?” She remembered clearly.

  “You screamed loud enough to wake up the Queen.”

  Darby’s nipples tingled at the memory. Phone sex with Michael was epic. There was no denying, she was tempted. And relieving a little tension now would do nothing to dampen what fun was certainly to come.

  But she had a plan that involved a dress and—apparently—not a limo anymore, but a seduction that was sumptuous and slow.

  “Sorry, babe. I’ve got my own errands to run, but I’ll see you soon enough. Tell Rostislav I said hi.”

  4

  Michael

  Michael’s heart raced in anticipation as the limo holding Darby pulled into the rounded drive, coming beneath the awning that announced the grand hotel. The Drake was at an odd bend of Lake Shore Drive, its doors angled north and open to Lake Michigan. Even with gas heaters flanking the carpet that paved their way to awaiting warmth, the December night was cold.

  The carpet wasn’t red, but there were paparazzi. Several noted Chicagoans would attend, including a Lakers player who Michael had known for years. Stacks Malone had grown up in his neighborhood on the South Side, played ball and risen to mega-fame. He was dating a big actress who would also be there.

  It was part of Michael’s strategy: he didn’t just throw a good party—he filled his fundraisers with people who donors wanted to meet. He gave people more than just an expensive steak dinner and a chance to support the cause. Michael wasn’t in the business of throwing parties or even raising money—he was in the business of creating experiences. Through architecture or fundraising, he did it better than anyone.

  Michael slipped the driver a few bills as he came around to open the door for Darby. Tipping early and well was another thing Michael did. He’d let the limo company know to be discreet about not needing the car for their return. Apart from Andrew and the driver, no one who Darby would see that night was in on the surprise.

  And then the door opened and there she was—at least the parts of her he could see: the soft skin of her extended forearm, her bejeweled wrist, elegant hands with shining fingernails painted the color of sugar plums. Her hand was warm when it slipped into his and he bowed with ceremony as he steeled a steadying arm for her to use as she stepped out of the car.

  Michael was halfway to speaking words of welcome when some instinct stopped him short. He always liked to take her in from toe to head. This time, his appreciative gaze took on a twinge of intrigue by the time it reached her knees. The strappy sandals on her lickable ankles…something about the architecture in the lines of her dress…all of it tripped some strange déjà vu.

  None of his wayward thoughts stopped Michael from bowing long enough to brush his lips across the tops of her fingers. And nothing could stop the skip of his heart as his gaze swept up over the rest of her and he met her eyes. She was as always, mysterious and lovely. Her reddish-brown hair that illuminated in any light contrasted eyes on the lighter side of amber. High cheekbones defined her symmetrical, ovular face. Her skin—susceptible to temperature and emotion—colored in fascinating ways. She hadn’t aged a day since he’d met her. In his mind, he didn’t think she ever would.

  “Remind me to send Rostislav a fruit basket.” She said it with a subtle eyebrow raise and absolute mischief in her eyes. He liked how much she liked him in a tuxedo.

  The smile on her lips was camera-ready. As a politician’s daughter, she’d been in front of enough cameras to know how to give them every angle. Since the second the door of the limousine had been open, flash bulbs
had been going off.

  “Remind me there are people here.” Michael countered, ghosting his nose down her jaw and breathing in her jasmine-and-roses scent, dipping to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. He didn’t need to tell her how ravishing she looked. They spoke in their own subtle code—tiny gestures too slight to be picked up on by anyone else. To the bystanders and the cameras, it was a sweet show of affection. But Darby would understand from the exact spot where he kissed her—a spot that did things to her—his kiss was anything but sweet.

  “Let’s get you inside. You’re shivering.”

  His hand touched the small of her back and they began their walk toward the door.

  “Who says it’s from the cold?”

  “Isn’t it?” He flashed his own camera-ready smile as they climbed the final steps.

  She gave them some teeth and another angle. “Maybe I’m shivering in anticipation.”

  “Oh, yeah? Anticipation of what?”

  He ushered her into the lobby first as the doorman opened the door for both of them. She looked over her shoulder.

  “Beating you at The Game.”

  The moment she said it, another wave of déjà vu set in—something about Darby walking across that threshold, her dark auburn hair swept up off of her shoulders to show the stunning plunge of the back of her dress. The base of her V fell so low it would have dipped below the line had she been wearing panties. It reminded him of how she’d looked on a different night.

  That dress.

  Michael stopped short just as he was expected to walk through. His eyes followed Darby as she walked, remembering now with perfect clarity. The Frigg Foundation Gala. Their first date.