Jingle Balls: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Anthology

by Dylann Crush

  My feet tend to spend way too much time in my mouth, so my only Christmas wish this year is to get through this charity gig without running into my longtime crush and favorite ball player.

  Too bad the fates—and my bestie—have other plans.

  A valuable auction prize has gone missing, and now it’s up to me and the father of my fantasy babies to save the day. But it’ll take a Christmas miracle to find the prize without my big mouth sending this hottie running.

  Gunner Nix would have to be nuts to fall for a girl like me, but sometimes the craziest ideas are the best kind a girl can get.

  1

  “Everyone is nuts about this party.”

  Skye releases an impatient groan at my observation while I scan the room full of guests.

  “You’re not having fun?” My smile threatens over the rim of my champagne glass. “I’m having a ball.”

  “Enough, okay, Lizzie?” Her lips quirk despite her tone. “It is pretty, though. I’ll give you that.”

  Our eyes skip around the ballroom, taking in the festive atmosphere and elaborate decorations adorning every possible surface. Skye doesn’t do subtlety—in her manner nor in the events she plans. And this fundraising soirée for testicular cancer awareness is possibly her most extravagant yet. Hundreds of glittering icicles hang in gathered bunches from the ceiling, looking so real I half expect drops of water to sprinkle our hair. Between the icicle clusters, tinted lights dance, reflecting off metallic stars of various sizes and bathing huge swaths of sheer silver ribbons that sweep to the farthest corners of the room. It’s all topped off by dozens of high, flower-laden tables surrounding the massive dancefloor at the center of the ballroom. It’s a giant holiday glitter explosion—all for the sake of balls everywhere.

  “Oh, come on. I have like twenty more all stored up.” Testicle puns are way too irresistible to waste.

  Skye cocks her head at me, her glossy red lips set in a line. “I let you have the tree ornaments, didn’t I?”

  A not-so-delicate snort-laugh escapes at her reference to the shiny red and silver testicle ornaments I painstakingly hung last night from every one of the dozen Christmas trees bordering the dance floor. “Those are classy. And, besides, I heard two ladies questioning why all the ‘heart ornaments’ were hung upside down. I knew I should have added pubes for realism; nobody even knows they’re crotch nuggets.” My disappointment is audible.

  Skye chokes on the mouthful of champagne she just sipped and shoots me a glare as she brings a napkin to her lips. “Tell me, why didn’t I anticipate this?”

  “I think that’s a question we’re all asking ourselves.” I nod gravely in her direction before gulping down more champagne. Damn, this stuff is good. I’d ask what kind it is, but my bank account mostly favors alcoholic beverages in cans—or boxes.

  Skye’s head drops back, exposing the length of her neck and drawing my eyes to the ruby choker resting there. “I might have to fire you if you keep this up.”

  “Is that real?” Completely ignoring her comment, I extend my fingers to stroke—and possibly steal—the red stones. They’d match my dress perfectly, and I forgot to put on jewelry tonight. Skye smacks my arm away with surprising speed. “Ow.” I snatch my hand back like wounded prey. “Watch the nails, Cardi B.”

  “Hands off the merchandise.” Skye’s crystal-embellished fingernail threatens to impale my chest. “Bronte gave it to me, and his hands are the only ones allowed near any of this.” She circles her décolletage with a graceful hand, making it impossible for me to avoid looking her over and drawing comparisons between myself and the goddess that is Skye.

  She has about six inches on me, not to mention twice my muscle mass and three times my hair. But even on her sloppiest day, Skye draws men to her like a magnet; unlike me, who has a habit of driving men away the moment I open my mouth (see previous reference to man pubes). I suppose her complete and utter commitment to a lifestyle of fabulousness doesn’t hurt either.

  So it’s no surprise that she’s managed to steal the heart of the owner of Asheville’s own Arrows baseball team. Bronte adores how extra Skye is, and the two of them are a match made in diamond-encrusted heaven. Meanwhile, I linger down here in cubic zirconium land with my frizzy hair and closet full of paint-splattered overalls. Despite the number of times Skye has attempted to drag my ass to her “sorcerer of beauty” to spruce up my dirty blond locks and teach me how to wield an eyelash curler, I know a makeover won’t do the trick.

  The bottom line is Skye makes men feel like men. I, on the other hand, make them feel like asexual aliens who mistakenly landed on the loser planet. “Retreat, my extraterrestrial brothers! This species shrinks penises and smells like corn chips!” Can I just say for the record here that it’s not my fault Iggy Moskovich chose to deliver my very first kiss on the same day the cafeteria served Frito salad? I’m still holding out hope the nickname “Frito Kahlo” will peter out one day. You’d think the adoption of an aggressive eyebrow regimen would have done the trick but, sadly, no.

  “Well, pardon me, your royal highness.” I fake a curtsey as well as one can without spilling bubbly everywhere. “And, by the way, you can’t fire a volunteer.”

  “Watch me.”

  I gesture to the guests tipping back glasses and sampling goodies from the trays being passed around by uniformed waitstaff. “Who’s going to clean this mess up at the end of the night if you kick me out?” Truthfully, I don’t mind helping Skye and Bronte out at all. It’s for a good cause, and there’s enough Arrows-player eye candy to occupy me well into the night. My plan is to find a comfy corner and a bottle of champagne while I take in the view and wait for my instructions.

  “Hmm. Good point. You may stay.” She shoots me a sly grin. “But I might not introduce you to Gunner if you keep this up.”

  It’s my turn to choke on my champagne. “He’s here?” The room threatens to spin as all the blood in my body rushes to my head, and the sudden need for more oxygen has me sucking air as if I’ve just surfaced from a ten-minute free dive.

  “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you sooner.” I don’t have to focus to know that Skye is shaking her head in exasperation. “He’s just a man.”

  My responding laugh is just this side of hysterical. Gunner Nix isn’t “just” anything. He’s scruffily handsome, infinitely sexy in an unassuming kind of way, and one of the only people in this world who can tear me from my studio on a summer evening. Watching the man field balls with his tight pants and tall frame has become something of an addiction in recent months. But I never—not once in all the evenings I’ve watched him play from my couch or even from Bronte’s owner’s box at the Arrows’ stadium—intended to actually meet the man in person! Uh, uh. No way. He belongs right where he lives in my lustful fantasies, not in reality.

  “We’ve already been over this, Skye. Everybody knows fantasy is better than reality.” I raise a quick finger in triumph as I continue, “It’s like the time I walked into the unisex bathroom at One World Brewing right after Liam Hemsworth used it, and I found a turd floating in the toilet bowl. I haven’t been able to look at him the same way since.”

  “That wasn’t Liam Hemsworth.” Skye blinks at me in disbelief. “It was Greg the bouncer.”

  “Says you. I know what I saw.” We both know that all my arguing is just a front, but I still believe in what I’m saying—just like Skye believes if she keeps trying, I’ll eventually get over my lying, cheating ex-boyfriend, Evan, and give dating a chance again. But choosing Gunner Nix to break the seal? She’s got to be smoking some strong stuff. The guy dates glamourous models and famous actresses, not local painters who hold Bugs Bunny in higher esteem than the pope and sometimes go grocery shopping in their pajamas.

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.” Skye’s head shakes in frustration. “Just meet the guy, for pity’s sake. I promise he’s just a normal person, and there will be no bodily functions involved.”

  “Except my vomit
that’ll probably land on his shoes when he speaks to me. You know I have a nervous stomach.” I cover my belly with a protective hand.

  Skye eyes me with impatience. “Again, tossing your cookies at your eighth-grade talent show had very little to do with a nervous stomach and very much to do with the four cheese dogs you ate before going on stage.” Damn! I always forget how sharp Skye’s memory is.

  “Whatever. I know myself, and I know I don’t need to meet Gunner Nix to live a perfectly happy life. End of discussion.” I swipe a hand through the air and down some more champagne while Skye shakes her head again in what resembles pity.

  I expect her to argue, but she narrows her eyes at something over my shoulder instead. “Speaking of fantasy, someone is living in a fantasy land of her own if she thinks this is happening.” At her strangely intense tone, I glance behind me to see Bronte being chatted up by a tall, leggy brunette. “This will only take a moment.” Skye sets down her glass and glides past me in her size eleven heels like she’s preparing to take her turn on a runway.

  “Hey!” I halt her with a hand to her elbow. “Before you go stick your flag in Bronte, you never told me what you think of the painting?”

  She turns, giving me only half of her attention. “Honey, I haven’t seen it yet. Which reminds me, you’d better set it out soon. The fundraising auction starts in an hour.”

  My head jerks back at that. “What do you mean? I set it up first thing when I got here.”

  This snaps her attention back to me. “That can’t be. I came straight from the auction room before talking to you just now, and it wasn’t there.”

  A prickling sensation starts beneath my skull. “But…” This can’t be happening. The painting is irreplaceable. Not only that, my students will be absolutely crushed if they find out our collaborative piece never made it to the auction. They worked so hard on it all month and were so damn proud. I was so damn proud. “There must be some mistake.”

  Without another word, I turn and weave my way between party guests and testicle-adorned holiday trees to the anteroom where all the auction items are on display. Row upon row of gift baskets, jewelry, sports memorabilia, artwork, and gift certificates lie before me on long, white-clothed tables. But I find myself grabbing the edge of the nearest one to catch my balance when I see the empty spot where our painting was sitting less than thirty minutes ago.

  “Elizabeth!” A deep voice penetrates my stress haze, and I look over to see Bronte striding into the room, looking like a perfect half of a wedding cake topper come to life. “Skye said your painting is missing too.” He stops in front of me and runs an uneasy hand over his silver-tipped hair.

  I manage to nod. “Yes. I don’t know where it could have gone. It was just here.” I throw a hand out toward the table with the painting-sized gap, realizing too late that it’s the same hand that still holds my champagne glass. Thankfully, it was mostly empty.

  Like the dreamboat he is, Bronte doesn’t even flinch before removing a crisp white handkerchief from his breast pocket and extending it to me. “This is very concerning. Who would steal from a charity auction? Granted, it’s tempting to pilfer something so valuable, but it’s quite unconscionable, given the circumstances.”

  His comment has me halting as I wipe the spilled champagne from my arm and hand. “Well, that’s kind of you to say, Bronte.” I muster a small smile. “If I’m being honest, I always figured you said nice things about my work because Skye and I are friends—and you’re always so polite.” Bronte raises a brow. “But I can’t have you feeling too bad about the painting. I doubt it would have raised as much as you might be thinking.” Having Bronte stressing out too won’t help matters. I’m perfectly capable of freaking out enough for the both of us.

  But his raised brow morphs into a confused pucker at my comment and, not knowing what to say, I shove the soiled handkerchief back into his hand with a muttered, “Uh, thanks.”

  I’m rescued from the awkward moment when Skye’s voice sounds from behind us. “Bronte!” We both turn to see her rushing into the room, hair and hips swinging like she’s on a mission from Heidi Klum.

  But she’s not alone.

  My gulp is audible, spurring Bronte to extract yet another clean handkerchief from his seemingly magic pocket and place it in my hand. “Just in case,” he murmurs before moving to hold his hand out toward the new arrival.

  “Gunner. Nice to see you.” The genuine pleasure in Bronte’s voice is clear.

  The two men exchange a firm shake as the object of my many dirty fantasies replies with, “You too, sir.”

  All it takes is the sound of those three words to have me internally fangirling and hating myself for it. Be normal, you maniac! I send a quick glare to my ex-friend—which she pretends not to see—before pasting on my best casual smile and counting backwards from one hundred while the two men engage in small talk.

  “Getting ready for Spring Training? It’ll be here before you know it.”

  Gunner’s lips spread in his signature crooked smile, and my grip tightens on the table as I increase my counting speed. 83, 82, 81, 80. “I’m always ready, sir.” God, why does that sound so deliciously dirty? 79, 78, 77. I want to tell him I’m always ready too, but I refrain. Barely.

  “Okay, I realize it’s difficult to stray from the topic of baseball, but we have a bit of a crisis on our hands, boys,” Skye cuts in, drawing everyone’s attention.

  I can feel my cheeks begin to burn as I realize Skye is about to say something about my painting in front of Gunner freaking Nix that will likely require me to speak actual words—if not to him, then at least in his presence. 76, 77, 80. Shit! Balls! Dammit!

  “Quite right, darling.” Bronte squeezes Skye’s arm and turns to me, drawing all eyes my way. My smile threatens to crack as a half-whimper / half-laugh slips past my lips and I wring the life out of Bronte’s handkerchief. Skye narrows her eyes at me, and I flash a glance over my shoulder, pretending the sound must have come from somewhere else in the empty room. Bronte and Gunner don’t seem to notice, thank God.

  “I thought Gunner could help us look around,” Skye says, releasing her eyes’ hold on my rapidly disintegrating composure. “I checked with the security guard, and he didn’t see anyone come in or out of the room.”

  “Happy to help,” Gunner replies, proving that he’s not only super hot and amazing at baseball, he’s generous too. That means our babies would be hot, athletic, and nice. Sigh. I silently command the powers that be to not do anything to ruin my fantasy.

  And maybe it’s because my mind has already taken us to the baby-making part of the non-existent relationship, but I open my mouth without remembering I’m terrified. “I’m sure it will turn up. You should all be enjoying the party, not hunting the hotel for a runaway auction prize.”

  “No way.” Gunner gives his head an adamant shake, one that’s echoed by both Bronte and Skye. “We’re talking about a top-dollar item here. We can’t just let somebody steal from charity. Not to mention, I feel as if I have a bit of a personal stake in this now.” He nods my way.

  My blush goes from passably charming to outright mortifying at his words. Is it possible that Gunner Nix is a fan of my work? I mean, I’m unquestionably a fan of his—not just anyone can be a highly-sought-after left fielder with a smile so sexy it could melt the polar ice caps—but it never once crossed my mind that he knew I even existed.

  “Oh.” My mouth pops open. “Well. I mean, that’s so flattering. But it’s merely a trifle, I assure you.” I wave a dismissive hand as my voice inexplicably takes on a British accent. What the fuckity fuck are you doing, Elizabeth? My fingers needlessly tuck my hair behind my ears as I attempt to reel in my crazy. “But thank you. I enjoy your work too—as well—also,” I manage to say without the accent. Okay, maybe I’ve salvaged this little situation.

  Their three expressions tell me I haven’t. In fact, I’m now certain I’ve Lizzie-d the shit out of everything, as usual.

  Gunner looks
like I’ve just asked him to explain why Porky Pig wears a jacket and bowtie but no pants, as he responds with a confused, “Uh, you’re welcome?” Meanwhile, Skye does a shit job of hiding a smile behind the back of her hand while Bronte clears his throat and looks down at his fancy-ass shoes. Assholes. Well, not Gunner, of course. But the other two can shut their stupid faces. I’m going to kill Skye when this is all over.

  Clearly searching for a way out of this uncomfortable lull, Gunner raises a finger with exaggerated emphasis. “It probably fell on the floor!” He then proceeds to fulfill one of my many fantasies by getting down on his hands and knees to show me his ass. Damn, that man fills out a pair of suit pants like nobody’s business. He surveys the carpet beneath the auction tables while I survey his booty and wonder if he’d notice if I bounced a couple quarters off his butt. Yes, I’m aware I’m a hot mess.

  It takes an elbow to the boob from Skye for me to snap out of it and return to reality. We all duck our heads down as well, without quite Gunner’s level of commitment, but it’s no use. The painting is nowhere to be seen. “Um, well, that was a good idea, but I don’t see it.” I feel it’s only right to offer a little encouragement to the father of my unborn babies.

  “We’ve hardly started looking,” Gunner responds from under a table on the far side of the room, and I have to reconcile myself to the fact that our babies will be fit, good-looking, and kind, but they won’t be all that bright. Oh well. You can’t have everything.

  “I thought ball players had good eyesight?” I glance at Bronte, whose lips I notice are twitching. Then I raise my voice so Gunner can hear. “It’s almost three feet by four feet. I think you would have seen it by now.” Poor guy. Poor dumb babies.

  Gunner’s head pops out from beneath a tablecloth and he has the most adorable befuddled expression on his scruffy face. It hits me in the belly and makes me want to drop a kiss on the crease between his brows and then pull him into the nearest maintenance closet to discuss how I’m suddenly just fine with what reality has to offer. And, by the way, Evan who?