Jingle Balls: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Anthology

by Dylann Crush

  Part VIII

  Under the Mistletoe

  By Tawdra Kandle

  About… Under the Mistletoe

  Nurse practitioner Darcy Ryan and football hottie Jackson Carmichael spent one magical, sexy summer together seven years ago. Everything between them was perfect until he abruptly broke Darcy’s heart and left her bitter.

  These days, Darcy’s finding romance with a man who seems perfect for her, even if she hasn’t met him in person. She’s finally banishing memories of Jackson . . . until they both end up on a committee to plan the Jingle Balls Gala. Now she can’t get away from Jackson’s smoldering eyes and sizzling smirk.

  When it comes down to a choice between the man who rocked her body and the guy who knows her heart, who will Darcy kiss under the mistletoe at the Jingle Balls Gala?

  1

  We met in an online chat room.

  I know. But it’s true.

  It was a fan group for a very popular superhero movie series. I’m a complete nerd about this world, and I know a lot about the comics, the movies, all the stories . . . but I’m not a dick about it. I don’t go around shoving my knowledge in other people’s faces. I do, however, love discussing and debating with other fans who share my passion.

  But on this night—the night I met CapGuard90—there was a guy in the chat room who was just totally obnoxious. He was the kind of person who seems to thrive on social media these days; he was looking for a place to spew his opinions and pick fights—a total troll. Usually, I can ignore people like that because engaging with them doesn’t do jack. And on this particular night, Obnoxious Guy was spouting off about how my favorite superhero isn’t as noble and heroic as we all believe.

  Those are fighting words to me, partner.

  His point of view isn’t a new one. The argument goes that because in a certain movie that I can’t name without major spoilers Cap may have traveled back in time, he would have had the opportunity to change some pretty terrible things that have happened in the world in the last century. You know, things like crazy world leaders who instigated genocide, terrorist attacks that killed thousands, even natural disasters where people could’ve been saved if they’d been warned in time. But since those things obviously weren’t prevented from happening, the line of reasoning goes that my man Cap made the choice not to interfere.

  A case can be made for the fact that Cap’s sojourn into the past created a whole new timeline—a branch that would be different from what we know in this reality. Actually, there are tons of possible explanations, but the troll wasn’t going to listen to any of them. After a few minutes, I stopped responding. There’s just no point in throwing sense in front of a person who won’t recognize it if it slaps him in the face.

  So I was still in there, ostensibly reading his shit, but I wasn’t really. I was just biding my time before I could gracefully leave without letting him feel like he’d won. Because while I’m not going to waste my time on idiots, I don’t suffer them gladly, either.

  A ding and a flashing icon caught my attention. Someone was messaging me in the private chat area. That wasn’t so unusual—especially when someone’s being a jerk, sometimes others in the room will gather virtually to roll our collective eyes at him.

  But this time, it was just one person in the chat. The user name was CapGuard90, which didn’t tell me much beyond the fact that the owner of that handle was a fan of my favorite, too. My online name is SteveNPeggy4Eva, which is pretty lame, but by the time I got active in this community, most of the truly inspired names were already taken. I didn’t want anything in my handle that pointed to my name, my birth year, my job or my sex. Total anonymity is the way to go to be safe.

  CapGuard90 had pinged me with a single line.

  CapGuard90: I might be totally out of line here, but is this guy for real?

  SteveNPeggy4Eva: Right??? I can’t even engage anymore. He’s not listening.

  CapGuard90: What he doesn’t seem to get is that you have to look at Steve’s character. He does the right thing all the time, no matter what. No matter what it costs him, and it’s cost him plenty.

  SteveNPeggy4Eva: Exactly! Thank you! I want to know what movies he’s been watching if he thinks Steve could, in good conscience, let all the terrible things happen without a compelling reason. Or if he could actually do anything to help it.

  We went on like that for a few minutes, and then we branched off into our other favorite characters, favorite movies, favorite scenes . . . you know, the kind of stuff that requires another true fan to appreciate.

  When we both finally signed off, I was shocked to realize we’d been chatting for two hours. It was the coolest conversation I’d ever had with a complete stranger.

  For the next three weeks, CapGuard90 and I talked online almost every night. I’d gotten the vibe almost right away that my new friend was a guy, and by the end of the first week, that was confirmed. When we hit the two-week mark, I knew that he was a cisgender male who lived on the west coast of the USA and was single. I’d shared with him that I was cisgender female living on the east coast—also single. Both of us were cautious in the way of people who’d heard all the warning stories about those who give out too much info online.

  We’d been chatting off and on for nearly a month when he asked if I’d be willing to move our conversation over to a private room. The chat areas attached to the group rooms were fine, but once we ended our interaction each day, the thread was gone. Plus, other people could request to join us there. A virtual room was a place for just the two of us, and the thread was perpetually saved.

  There wasn’t any reason for me to say no, except that maybe I was beginning to enjoy my time with CapGuard90 way too much. A man who lived across the country, who didn’t know my real name or anything about me, with whom I shared only a love for all things superhero? CapGuard90 was the very essence of the safe choice. I said yes.

  That was six months ago. Now, if anything, I’m even more deeply involved with this dude. I love talking to him so much that sometimes, I force myself to put off logging in just to savor the anticipation a little longer. I have resisted adding the app to my phone that would let me check in at any time during the day, because I know that would be crossing a line, too.

  We still don’t know much about each other, except that I’m aware his job involves security of some kind—hence his handle—and he knows that I work in healthcare. We don’t even exchange first names because I don’t want him to be able to find me on social media.

  What am I hiding? Nothing, really. I’m not hideous looking, I don’t have a secret husband or child, and my job isn’t really sensitive—I’m not a super-spy, just a nurse practitioner working at the hospital in her hometown in south central Florida. But for some reason, it’s important for me to be the one controlling what CapGuard90 knows about my life.

  It occurs to me that he might feel the same way. But even if it turns out that he’s lying to me about everything, it won’t matter, because we’re never going to meet in person. This is the ultimate in safe dating.

  I’m almost late to work on one sultry July evening, and it’s all because I broke a personal rule and spent an hour chatting online before work. I share shifts on the oncological wing at St. Agnes Memorial Hospital with Jenny Ward, the other NP on our floor. We organize our own schedule, and we try to keep it even, so neither of us is working too many overnights each week.

  When I make it to the nurses’ station tonight, Jenny’s sitting there along with Emma Carson, who’s the naturopathic doctor on this wing. They both look tired, which isn’t surprising. It’s been a rough year for our little team on the cancer floor, and Emma, Jenny and I have been pulling extra duties since the doctor who’s responsible for making this unit a reality has been overseas for seven months now.

  “Hey, Darcy.” Jenny greets me with a smile. “Hope you got some good sleep today. Tomorrow’s switch day.”

  I nod. On the days when Jenny and I flip our schedules, we each work an e
xtra six hours to make the transition smoother. That means I’m on duty from now until tomorrow at two in the afternoon.

  “I’m ready,” I tell her. “How was everything today?”

  “Pretty uneventful. No one died, no new admittances. Everyone’s holding steady.” That’s a relief. On the cancer ward, stability is a fragile thing that no one takes for granted. And we never, ever, under any circumstances, use the word quiet to describe the day or the night or the state of the floor in general. We all know better.

  I circle the counter and sit down with my huge cooler cup of water in front of me. I notice that Emma has shadows under her eyes, and I feel bad for her. There were rumors that she and Deacon had been dating before he took off last year. I caught them sharing long, heat-laden glances more than once. They used to fight with a crazy amount of passion, sometimes even in front of the rest of us, so I can only imagine that passion spilling over into something . . . else.

  But tonight, she seems extra worn out. Before I log in to check the patient charts, I lean over to pat her shoulder.

  “You okay, Emma?”

  She manages what passes for a smile. “Yeah. Just a long day. Not so much with patients as administratively.” She taps a red and white square of paper on the desk in front of her. “And this was a finishing touch I didn’t need. I had to go to the board meeting tonight. It was news to me, but I guess the hospital—specifically, this wing—is a sponsor of the annual Jingle Balls Gala in St. Pete Beach. It’s a benefit to raise money for testicular cancer research and support.”

  “Cute,” I smirk. “Jingle Balls. That’s a fun name.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Emma grins. “Because we need to supply a representative to the planning committee, and the board wants us to send someone from this floor. Jenny and I were just talking, and congratulations, I think we’re nominating you.”

  I’m about to groan and come up with reasons why I don’t want to do this, but then I stop and think. First of all, if I don’t take the volunteer gig, someone else will have to cover it, and it might end up being Emma, who already is juggling way too many balls. Uh, no pun intended. Second, over the past couple of months, I’ve become a virtual hermit. If I’m not at work or asleep, I’m checking in on my chat room with CapGuard90. This isn’t healthy, and I have to be proactive about getting out more. Helping to plan a Christmas ball might be just the ticket.

  “All right, I’ll do it.” I take a sip of my water and turn to the computer screen. “Just email me the details, okay?”

  “Oh, my God. Are you serious? I mean, Jenny and I were hoping . . . but we expected to have to convince you to do it.”

  “Nope. I’m happy to help.” I scroll down, frowning as I focus on Mr. Zingler’s last lab results.

  “That’s awesome.” Jenny comes up and hugs me from behind. “And if you need me to cover some shifts when you go to meetings, I can totally do it. Oh, and if you’re put in charge of food, Nico might have some connections over there who could be helpful.”

  Jenny’s boyfriend Nico is a chef at a popular St. Petersburg restaurant, and he’s such a great guy, I’m sure he’d be eager to do whatever he could.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell Jenny. “I guess I’ll know more after the first meeting. When is it, by the way?”

  Emma wrinkles her nose, which I know means I won’t like her answer. “The day after tomorrow at eleven in the morning, over in St. Pete Beach. All the meetings are at the Don CeSar, the hotel where they’re holding the ball.”

  Ugh. This does not excite me at all. It’s at least a ninety-minute drive from Harper Springs to the coast, and it’s not something I enjoy, particularly after I’ve been up all night at work. But I swallow a groan and soldier on.

  “It’s okay,” I assure my friends. “I can get some sleep in the break room, and I’ll bring my clothes so I can drive right from here. Don’t worry about it.”

  Emma and Jenny don’t look convinced, but then Stephanie, one of the nurses, comes over, and the conversation goes in another direction. And that’s a good thing because I don’t want anyone to notice that I’m not really worried about the sleep I might miss later this week; I’m more concerned that this volunteering deal is going to seriously cut into my time with CapGuard90. And while getting me out of the house to interact with real people is sort of the point of me agreeing to do it—in my mind, at least—the fact that it’s happening so fast doesn’t make me happy.

  2

  Jenny must have rounded up all the nurses on the overnight shift and explained about my meeting because the night before I have to drive to St. Pete Beach, Stephanie and Cindy are both extra helpful. They’re also pushing me into the breakroom to sleep whenever there’s a lull in the action of the evening.

  As a result, I end up catching about four hours of shut-eye here and there. Once Jenny clocks in at eight and takes report, I hightail it back to my breakroom bunk and manage to get another hour before I have to get up, jump in the shower and dress in my fancy, meeting-real-people clothes.

  The drive from Harper Springs to St. Pete Beach is uneventful. I turn on the radio and sing along to my eclectic playlist, including songs from the 1940s that remind me of Cap as well as music that was written in my lifetime. The tunes keep me awake and make me think about CapGuard90, too, since he and I have traded song suggestions.

  I’m on back roads for a while, and then I merge onto the highway, where I hit the tail-end of morning rush hour traffic. Happily, though, right on time, I cross the bridge that takes me over the strait of the Boca Ciega Bay Aquatic Preserve and into St. Pete Beach. The apex of the small bridge offers the prettiest view imaginable: the Gulf of Mexico, shimmering in shades of turquoise before me, and my destination, the pink hotel positioned perfectly on the beach alongside the water. Maybe this won’t be such a tough job, after all.

  I have an email from the committee chairperson with instructions on how to gain access to the hotel since I’m not a guest. The guard nods when I give him my name, and the valet executes a small bow as he relieves me of my keys and points me toward the lobby. I make a quick stop in the restroom, since it was a long drive during which I consumed a large cup of coffee. Before I venture out again, I swish out my mouth with water and pop a breath mint. I still look okay, I decide; my curly red hair is neatly pulled back from my face, and the tiny bit of mascara I put on this morning isn’t smudged. The cotton capris and sleeveless blouse are slightly wrinkled, but I can’t help that. I guess I’ll do.

  I take the elevator to the floor where the meeting is being held and follow the signs to the appointed room. I’m a little early, and there are only two other people at the table. The older gentleman rises and introduces himself, explaining that he’s representing a local television station that’s sponsoring the ball. The woman at the head of the table is the chairperson, Mrs. Lockhart. I take a seat at her left, with my back to the windows. I’m afraid that if I have a view of the beach in front of me, I’ll end up daydreaming, zoning out and missing the information I need.

  “You’re from Harper Springs, aren’t you?” inquires the chairperson. “You had quite a commute this morning.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a problem,” I assure her. “There’s nothing more fun to do on a hot day in July than think about Christmas, right? And balls, too, of course.” When Mrs. Lockhart raises one eyebrow, I add hastily, “Dances. Galas. You know . . . I mean, yeah, it’s all about the balls, but . . .” I’m digging myself in deeper. Next to me, the older man hides a chuckle with a cough.

  Two other women join us, one from a department store and the other a rep from the hotel. Mrs. Lockhart peers at her handwritten notes and clears her throat.

  “Well, I think we’re all here, except . . .” She squints at the paper in front of her again. “Oh, the committee member from the Tampa football team . . .”

  At those words, I have what my granny would call a presentiment. No, it couldn’t be. I mean, the chances are infinitesimal, right? There are
. . . criminy, how many men on a football team? Lots, right? And it’s probably someone in management, anyway, since—

  “Sorry I’m late.” I hear his voice, and I know before I even turn my head to glare at the man walking through the doorway.

  “Ah, you must be Jackson Carmichael.” Mrs. Lockhart sounds amused, not at all put out. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Hope I didn’t delay you. Traffic coming in from Tampa was a real—Darcy? Is that—what are you doing here?”

  My stomach clutching, I lift my eyes to meet those of the last man I ever wanted to see . . . for the rest of my life.

  The meeting begins without any further ado. Jackson manages to smooth over his shock at seeing me, explaining briefly that we were old friends who haven’t caught up with each other in a long time. No one seems to care about that, which is a relief because I have zero desire to explain my relationship with Jackson.

  Well, I imagine myself saying to the committee. You see, we practically grew up together. I was in love with him from the time I was fourteen. We spent one mad, magical summer together seven years ago, during which time he took my virginity, and then he left me without a word. I haven’t seen him since. Now . . . what color tulle should we use for the tree accents?

  All of that is true, even if it is harsh. Jackson has been part of my life for as long as I can remember, although we aren’t related. When he was five, his mother went to rehab for drug addiction. His father had long since vanished—Jackson never knew him—but my grandmother was acquainted with the family from church. When Father Marcus called to tell Granny that Jackson needed a temporary caretaker, she hadn’t hesitated; she’d taken in Jackson, loving and caring for him for nearly a year before his mom got back on her feet.