Jingle Balls: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Anthology

by Dylann Crush

  Lost in her thoughts, Tiffany blinked in surprise when someone shouted, “LOOK OUT!” Her brain was still registering the words were a command, not part of a Christmas carol about watching for Santa, when something smacked her in the back of the head. She stumbled and reached for the podium but missed, falling forward, vision blurring as the stage floor rushed up to meet her.

  Tiffany winced, the back of her head throbbing. She didn’t think she’d blacked out, but maybe she had. There were voices, a lot of voices. Several people were shouting, but nobody was singing.

  “Is the show over?” She mumbled, rolling to her side.

  “Don’t move.”

  The sharp command rose above the other sounds swirling around her and Tiffany stilled, eyes squeezed shut as the lightshow behind her lids began to dissipate. A flurry of footsteps approached, the wooden slats of the stage floor rumbling beneath her cheek.

  “Can you open your eyes?” The voice asked, closer now. It was a pleasant voice, rich and smooth.

  Tiffany blinked. A face appeared before her. A man’s face, brilliant blue eyes boring into hers. She blinked again. The face was still there. She realized the man was crouched on all fours, face pressed close as he studied her.

  “Hi,” she said.

  The face broke into a grin. “Hi.”

  Her fuzzy brain latched onto the familiar features. The hair, the eyes, the grin. “I know you.”

  “You do?”

  “Mm-hm.” Tiffany smiled dreamily. “I have a poster of you on my wall.”

  “Damn.” The man swore under his breath. “I must have clocked you harder than I realized.”

  “You hit me?” She asked, struggling to sit up. “Why would you do that?”

  “Relax,” he ordered, voice gruff. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he added. “I lost control of my candy cane.”

  “Sounds like a personal problem.” She giggled, then groaned, collapsing back onto her elbows and wincing at the twinge of pain.

  “Hurts?” His blue eyes darkened, sandy brows creasing with concern. “May I touch you?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  He leaned closer, fingertips brushing her temple. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Sort of.” His hands sifted through her hair, carefully probing the back of her head.

  “Let me guess. You play one on TV.”

  “Ah, no.” He chuckled low in his throat.

  The sound did funny things to Tiffany’s insides. She tried again to sit up, wanting to get a better look at him.

  “Stay still, please.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, pressing gently. “Follow my finger but try not to move your head at all.”

  He held up a finger and waved it back and forth in front of her. Tiffany did as he asked and tracked the movement.

  “Do you feel dizzy?”

  She started to shake her head, then stopped, taking careful stock of her body. “No,” she answered honestly.

  “I think it’s safe for you to sit up now.” He grasped her hands in his and deftly pulled her upright.

  Tiffany glanced around, blanching as she took in the rest of her surroundings. The show had come to a compete stand-still. She was sprawled on her butt downstage left, the singing sort-of doctor standing over her while the other singers huddled in a nervous circle. The stage crew waited in the wings, wide-eyed and anxious as the seconds ticked by. Worst of all, the audience sat waiting in the dark, a hushed mass of whispering figures.

  “Any nausea?” The man asked, ignoring everyone and everything else as he continued his examination.

  “Aside from wanting to puke from embarrassment?” She muttered.

  “I’m the one who should be embarrassed.” His full lips quirked in a rueful smile and he nodded toward the oversized red-and-white striped peppermint stick lying nearby. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, it slipped out of my hands and went flying.”

  She got to her feet and glared up at him. “Are you telling me you bonked me with your giant candy cane?”

  “Ah…” his mouth twitched. “That’s one way to put it.”

  Several Bucking Hams snickered.

  Holy Mary save me from juvenile men. Tiffany ground her teeth, repressing the urge to kick the obnoxious plastic prop, or one of the obnoxious singers. “I effing hate this time of year.”

  “Oh, come on, you don’t mean that.”

  “I most certainly do.” She insisted, refusing to be charmed by his happy, bright as a star on top of a Christmas tree grin. Tiffany didn’t trust anyone with that much holiday cheer. “Listen, Mister-sort-of-a-Doctor, I feel fine now, so why don’t you go back to your caroling cronies and finish your set so I can wrap this up and go home.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said calmly. “Not unless it’s to a hospital.”

  “Excuse me?” She fisted her hand on her hips.

  “You could be concussed.” He crossed his arms. He was tall, but with just enough muscle on his lean frame to cause his shirt to strain across his chest and biceps.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, ignoring the sudden spike in her pulse.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he countered, jaw clenching.

  Hm. So Mister Holly Jolly had a stubborn streak. Well. So did she.

  “Look,” he continued in a gentler tone. “I feel awful about what happened, and I want to make sure you’re not seriously injured. Okay?”

  Acutely aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on them, Tiffany nodded. This debacle had gone on long enough. “Okay,” she huffed.

  He sighed in relief and turned to speak quietly with the other singers for a moment. Then he wrapped an arm around her back, leading her offstage.

  “Don’t you have to finish the set?” she wondered.

  “My ‘caroling cronies’ can go on without me.”

  Tiffany’s cheeks heated. “My choice of words may have been a bit harsh.”

  “A bit.” He smirked, voice tinged with mirth.

  Onstage, the group had managed to reassemble and continued with the candy cane song.

  A crew member approached with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel.

  She reached for the bundle. “Thanks.”

  “Here,” he said, intercepting it. “Let me take care of that.” He gingerly felt around for a moment before placing the makeshift ice pack against the back of her head.

  “How bad is it?” she asked.

  “A slight bump, mild swelling.” He gazed down at her. “How bad does it feel?”

  “Sore,” she admitted. “But only a little. I don’t have a concussion.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said again.

  “What does ‘sort of’ mean anyway?”

  He blinked.

  “When I asked if you were a doctor, you said ‘sort of’.”

  Understanding lit his boy band baby blues. “I am a doctor but not the kind you were probably thinking of. I’m a therapist.”

  Tiffany quirked a brow.

  “An occupational therapist,” he added quickly. “And yes, I do have basic medical training.” He nodded toward the stage where his group had launched into another song. “Two more after this and the set is done.”

  “You sure you don’t want to get back out there?” she asked.

  “If you’re feeling all right, then maybe I’ll jump in for the finale.” His smile was ninety percent cocky, ten percent modest, and one hundred percent adorable. “I’m usually lead vocals on that one.”

  “Are you?” Her mouth quirked, it was almost impossible to resist returning his smile. “In that case, I’m definitely feeling better.”

  He chuckled.

  Again, the throaty masculine sound made her insides perk up and take notice. Tiffany realized she didn’t know her hot singing doctor’s name. But before she could ask, he was handing her the ice pack.

  “Last song is about to start.” He adjusted his wireless mic then turned back to her
, brushing the sexy swoop of blond hair out of his eyes. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

  “I’m the emcee, remember? After your performance I have to give the closing remarks. Let people know the bar is open and remind them to spend lots of money at the silent auction.”

  “But after that,” he insisted. “Promise you’ll stay.”

  Her breath hitched in her chest. Usually, she couldn’t wait to escape a gig after her duties were over. She hated the meaningless mingling. The polite chitchat. Schmoozing was part of her job and Tiffany was good at it when necessary, but she preferred to avoid it whenever possible.

  Tonight, however, she could make an exception.

  “I’ll stay,” she agreed. “I promise.”

  Forget the top of a Christmas tree, the smile he gave her could light the Hancock tower.

  Tiffany leaned against a prop cabinet and watched as he moved to the center of the stage for the final number. As with everything else about this holiday, she hated most Christmas songs. But there was one tune she loved despite herself. One that was as sappy and sweet as high fructose corn syrup, but for some reason she adored it. Couldn’t resist it any more than she could resist gummi bears.

  Of course, that exact song just happened to be the one her hot doctor performed lead vocals on. As he sang about all he wanted for Christmas, his husky voice wrapped around her, drawing her in.

  As if aware of the effect he was having on her, he glanced her way and proceeded to sing the chorus straight to her. And Tiffany knew—if this song hadn’t been her favorite before—it was now.

  2

  NOT SO LITTLE SAINT NICK

  As the applause following the end of the Bucking Hams’ set died down, Tiffany returned to her spot at the podium and thanked the performers for donating their time. Then she thanked the audience for coming and encouraged everyone to hit the bar and spend some money for a good cause. These events almost always had an open bar. In her experience, the expense paid off. When booze flowed freely people tended to spend freely. Open bars usually led to open wallets.

  Sure enough, by the time she cleared the stage and entered the gala’s banquet hall, the line at the bar snaked around the room. Those who’d been lucky enough to snag a drink before the rush were already stalking the auction tables, glass in hand. Tiffany smiled and nodded, responding politely to inquiries about her head, careful not to linger too long in one spot. Lingering gave people the impression you wanted to talk, and she most certainly did not.

  Well, maybe she wanted to talk to one person. Enough that she was willing to linger at the gala when usually she would have been long gone. Habits died hard though, and Tiffany itched to leave. To go home. To kick off her fancy uncomfortable shoes, slip out of her fancy uncomfortable dress, and peel off her fancy uncomfortable underwear.

  But she’d promised hot singing doctor she’d stay. The thought that if she kept her promise, it was possible he might be the one to slip off her dress and peel off her undies had crossed her mind. More than once.

  She glanced around the room. No sign of him yet. Tiffany wasn’t the most patient person in the world. She’d give him five more minutes, then she was out of here. She thought of his brilliant blue eyes and that mega-watt smile. The way she’d quivered when he laughed, low and sexy. Fine. Maybe she could wait ten more minutes.

  Twelve minutes later Tiffany was ready to leave for real. She had circled the banquet hall twice, eaten three teeny tiny cocktail weenies (yes, she’d caught the juvenile humor of eating wieners at an event supporting testicles), and even purchased some handmade felt ornaments from one of the sponsoring vendors. She tapped her foot in irritation while she waited for the very sweet but very ancient woman who was in charge of the craft table to finish wrapping them.

  “There you are.”

  Tiffany glanced up, not sure if she was more pleased or annoyed to see hot singing doctor. She’d been here the whole time. He was the one who’d been missing.

  He held out a glass of wine. “I hope red is okay.”

  “Red is fine, thanks.” She accepted the glass and tossed back a healthy swallow.

  “And thank you for supporting the cause.” He nodded at the ornaments the elderly woman was painstakingly gift wrapping. “Some people get weird about the idea of putting a dick on their tree.”

  “What?” Tiffany coughed, wine sputtering in her throat. “No. I bought elf hats.”

  “Elf hats, huh?” He eyed the ornament display. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’m buying these for my nieces and nephews. Why would I buy penis ornaments for my nieces and nephews?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied mildly.

  His too-polite tone gave her pause. Tiffany set her wine glass down and reached for one of the ornaments that hadn’t been wrapped yet and held it aloft. Maybe it was the power of suggestion, but as the felt shape dangled from her fingers, she saw what she’d missed before. And once she saw it, she couldn’t unsee it. “I bought penis ornaments for my nieces and nephews.”

  “Yep.”

  Tiffany grabbed her wine glass and took a long pull.

  “I am curious—” he began.

  She held up her hand, palm out. “I really thought they were elf hats, okay?” She pointed at the ornament, gesturing at what she realized now was the shaft. “I thought that part was the hat.”

  “I see,” he said. Mouth twitching as she held up the ornament. “And this part?” he asked, pointing to the twin mounds at the bottom. “What did you think this was?”

  “The elf’s chubby little cheeks,” she mumbled.

  He laughed so hard, tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

  Tiffany spun on her heel and stalked off.

  “Wait,” he called after her.

  She stopped and waited for him to catch up.

  “Here.” He thrust the bag of ornaments, finally wrapped, at her. “Don’t forget your…elves.” More snickering.

  “Haha, very funny.” Tiffany crammed the bag inside her purse. “Yes, I thought a scrotum was a cute little elf.” She glared at him. “Maybe if you hadn’t taken so long, you could have pointed that out to me before I bought half a dozen of the damn things.”

  “At least it’s for a good cause,” he offered. His lips quivered.

  Her eyes narrowed in warning. “Don’t you dare laugh again.”

  “No more laughing.” He held up his hand, making the Scout’s Honor signal. “And I’m sorry I kept you waiting. A few fans had lined up outside the green room asking for autographs and pictures, that sort of thing.”

  “You have fans?”

  “You don’t need to sound so skeptical.” He straightened his bow tie. “The group does, yeah.”

  She eyed him over the rim of her glass. “I bet a few of them were there to see you specifically.”

  “Perhaps a few,” he admitted, turning the same shade as his wine.

  “You’ve got groupies lining up for photo opps and I don’t even know your name,” she teased.

  “It’s Nick.” He paused, a playful grin spreading across his handsome face. “But I thought you already knew that.”

  “How could I possibly know that?”

  “Didn’t you say you had a poster of me on your wall?”

  Now Tiffany was the one blushing. As if the scrotum elves hadn’t been embarrassing enough. Her face felt as hot as if she were still standing under the stage lights. “Can I blame that on the candy cane concussion?”

  “Do you think you have a concussion after all?” He frowned. “Maybe the wine wasn’t a good idea.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “And you’re not taking away my wine.” She gulped greedily, needing to fortify herself. “I did have a poster. Several posters. But not of you. Just someone who looked like you.”

  “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow.

  She nodded. “He was a singer too.” The wine was working its magic, easing her nerves, loosening her tongue. “In a boy band.”


  He cocked his head. “How old were you when you had these posters?”

  “Ten,” she admitted. “I guess I was thinking about how much you looked like that guy right before I got walloped in the head and then…” she waved a hand, indicating the rest.

  “And then you blacked out and when you came to you thought your childhood crush had come to rescue you?”

  “I didn’t say he was my childhood crush,” she protested. “But yes,” she added. “Something like that.”

  He was silent for a moment, studying her.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, nervous and fidgety under his intense scrutiny.

  “I’m thinking I should take you to the emergency room.”

  “I do not need my head examined,” Tiffany declared, getting annoyed now. “Your concern is admirable, but I’m telling you. I. Am. Fine.”

  “I don’t think you should be alone tonight,” he insisted.

  “Then don’t leave me alone,” she shot back. Oh, boy. Yep. She’d just said that. Tiffany set her glass down on a side table. No more wine for her. But she didn’t regret what she’d said. She wouldn’t mind spending more time with him. She wouldn’t mind spending the night with him, either. “It’s kind of funny, your name being Nick.”

  “Because it’s Christmastime and I’m like Saint Nick?”

  “Ha.” She smirked. “No, because of the boy band I crushed on back in the day. The lead singer, the one I had posters of? His name was Nick too.”

  “Maybe I secretly am this other Nick, all grown up now.” He suggested.

  “Maybe.” She grinned, knowing he was messing with her. “I’m Tiffany, by the way.”

  “I know.” He winked. “Your name is in the program.” He paused, then added, “And I might have seen you on TV a few times.”

  “A few times, huh?”

  “More than a few times,” he admitted. “Like most Chicagoans, I wake up with ChiChat every weekday morning.”