by Liv Rancourt
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
About the Author
By Liv Rancourt
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
A Holiday Homecoming
By Liv Rancourt
Ten years ago Jon’s passion for the piano took him across the country to New York, where a demanding concert career consumed his life and left him no time to look back. His father’s stroke is the only thing that brings him home to Seattle. The sickroom makes for a dreary holiday until Jon runs into Bo, whose inner light can make anything sparkle.
Bo loves the holidays: the food, the crafts, the glitter! A fling with an old school friend—who grew up to be his celebrity crush—makes a good thing better. The season turns sour, though, when Jon is offered a gig he can’t refuse. He wants Bo to share the moment, but Bo doesn’t fly. Anywhere. Ever. Is this goodbye, or will a handmade ornament bring Jon home to Bo?
I wish all families—biological or chosen—happiness and peace in the holiday season. Merry, merry!
Acknowledgments
WRITING FOR Dreamspinner is a dream come true, and I’d like to thank Tricia Kristufek and her editorial staff for making my experience so positive. This story wouldn’t have come together without Irene Preston’s honest and direct beta-read feedback. You’re not mean, sweetie, you’re right. I also need to thank my husband for his ongoing support and encouragement. His commitment to following his musical dream gives me the inspiration to follow my own… and he cooks dinner while I’m stuck at the laptop. Thank you all for reading, and I hope you have a very happy holiday season.
Chapter One
THE WOMAN’S shriek rose above the burble of talk and laughter, fading away in a cascade of giggles. The spray of glitter that prompted it, however, would last a little longer.
Bo slipped between tables, the bells on his Christmas sweater jingling. “You okay, Miss Lady?” To be honest, this student’s little accident had only added a sheen of gold to the chaotic mix of glitter, sequins, and fabric scraps already covering the floor. Oh, well. It’s that time of year. “I’ll sweep it up later.”
Bo’s favorite time of year. Christmas. When everything could be a little extra. Even if he did have to face it as a single man. Again.
“Thank you, Bo. You’re an awesome teacher.”
The woman’s smile was contagious, catching him before he could dive too deep into his own navel. She was one of a dozen students in Bo’s class “Glue Guns and Glitter: Making holiday decorations on the fly.” The class was being held in the workroom at Bonnie’s Fabrics, Crafts, and Yarn. The dozen students had spread out at the six tables, helping themselves to the overstuffed supply shelves lining the walls.
Bo didn’t so much teach them anything as give them permission to play and the toys to play with. He might have made a few suggestions, but most of the inspiration came from the students themselves, which was how he liked it.
A glance at the big wall clock prompted Bo to move things along. “Ladies and gentleman”—there was only one man—“we’re almost out of time, so if you haven’t finished your project, start gathering what you’ll need to work on it at home.”
The owner of the fabric store was a guy named Rick—the original Bonnie’s son. Bo and Rick went back about ten years, since they both turned up in the theater arts program at Seattle Central College. They’d known each other long enough to have cycled through at least two attempts at making their relationship more than friends before deciding to quit before someone really got hurt.
Rick was too sharp, too shaggy, and too wry. Bo liked a man with some mystery.
Though the true mystery might be why he could never settle on a man.
Almost 2:00 p.m. He’d have the students out and the room cleaned up by two thirty or so, which would give him enough time to bake a panettone. And the cookies. And—he tapped his palm, momentarily distracted—he’d promised Aunt Patty he’d throw together a vegetarian lasagna for the family hipsters. Was there anything else…? He hated saying no, so people were always asking for this or that, and he prided himself on his ability to remember.
Bo squinted at the doorway, and the voices around him faded. His dark-framed glasses might be nerd chic, but they didn’t help his nearsightedness unless he got the right angle.
A man stood outside the workroom, maybe eight feet away from the door, staring in as if he had an agenda. His black wool coat put Bo’s nerd chic to shame. This guy was the real thing.
But did he look familiar?
“Hey, Bo, can you take a look at this?” One of his regulars, Maggie, held up a wreath, the Styrofoam base encrusted with “ivy” leaves cut from felt in different shades of green, along with red satin blossoms, sequins, and beads, all of it brushed with glitter.
With one more glance at the man in black—who still stared at him through the doorway—Bo jingled over to Maggie’s table. “Oh, doll, that’s gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” Maggie might not be thin enough or polished enough for fashion, but her thousand-watt smile warmed Bo all the way through. She held a bow made of scarlet ribbon at the bottom of the wreath. “What do you think?” Moving the bow to about three o’clock, she wrinkled her nose. “Or maybe here?”
The clash of reds made Bo’s eyelid twitch. “Hang on, Mags.”
He strode directly to the shelves on the rear wall. Rick claimed the supplies were a total mess, but Bo knew exactly where everything was. The beads on the wreath were mix of colors; all of them were jewel tones. He picked out a spool of gold ribbon, and another of deep green.
On his way back to Maggie’s table, he definitely did not glance through the door again to make sure the Man in Black had moved on. The doorway was clear, but that was just incidental information. Bo didn’t fall for random men in the store, and he had not spun a web of fantasy involving what might be under that elegant black coat.
Nope. No. Hell, no.
By the time he and Maggie had agreed on a ribbon—they picked the dark green because the gold was tacky—it was time to wrap things up. “All right, everybody. Throw your scraps into the bushel basket in the front and unplug your glue guns. I’ll come around and pick them up after they’ve cooled.”
The students wrapped their creations in tissue and stored them in the paper bags Bo provided. Everyone got a hug and a Merry Christmas on their way out the door to make up for the fact that Bo had circled the room muttering tidy, tidy, tidy while they were cleaning up.
As the last student departed, Bo surveyed the room. It was already—he glanced at the clock—two fifteen, and he needed to get home and get baking.
Halfway through the tables, Bo was deep into planning the choreography for his baking campaign when a knock at the door made him jump. The Man in Black stood just outside the work room, all long lines and hard angles. Bo bumped his glasses higher up on his nose. There was something familiar….
“I hope I’m not… uh… disturbing you.”
Bo recognized the way the guy’s stick-straight hair fell into his face. The cute little midsentence pause rang a bell too. Who is he? “Not at all. Can I help you?”
The guy lifted a hand, showing Bo a sheet of paper scribbled with notes. “My mother wanted me to pick a few things up.” He lowered the note. “She’s sprucing up our Christmas stockings, and I probably could have asked one of the salesclerks for help, but I think I know you, so….”
“Yeah.�
� Bo gave him a head-to-toe going over. He was taller than Bo by five or six inches, the well-made—read, expensive—black jeans and coat emphasizing his lean form. Bo’s own self-assessment went quicker: decent haircut, ugly sweater, nice jeans. It’ll have to do. Offering his hand, Bo closed the distance between them. “I’m Bo Barone, and you look familiar to me too.”
They clasped hands. “I think we went to school together.”
Bo’s memories clicked into place. “Middle school, right?”
“Right. I’m Jon Cunningham.”
Jon Cunningham? The coolest cat in the sixth grade? “Oh my God.” Bo loosened his grip. Dude was a pianist. He probably had his hands insured. “You must be in town for the holidays.”
If Jon had noticed Bo’s attempt to crush his probably insured hand, he didn’t mention it. “More or less. My dad’s been sick, so….”
Bo blinked. Stop staring. Good friends back in the day, Jon had unknowingly given Bo his first clue that a wife wasn’t in his future. He shifted his weight, ready to retreat, but Jon didn’t seem flustered by getting up close to a gay man. Either he hadn’t figured out Bo’s orientation—and ffs there were bells on his sweater—or else Jon was gay too.
Bo stomped down hard on that thought. No point in getting his hopes up. “So, let me see your list.”
Jon retrieved the sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out.
“Fabric glue, half a yard of gold cord, sequins… yeah, it shouldn’t be hard to pull this together.” In fact, the list was so straightforward Bo wondered if Jon was using it as an excuse to talk to him. As flattering as that idea was, Bo still had panettone to bake. “Come on.”
Leading the way to the back of the store, where racks with trims and ribbons covered the wall, Bo settled his salesman smile in place. “We’ve got quite a selection. Do you know what size you’re looking for?”
He glanced up at Jon. Mistake. The intensity in Jon’s eyes, partly hidden by the fall of his dark hair, unnerved him. Unsettled him. Intrigued him. A mystery!
“Cord comes in sizes?”
Cheeks heating, Bo reached for a spool at random. “There’s skinny little two-millimeter cord, like this.” His salesman’s smile morphed into something sly. “Though some men prefer something more substantial”—he pulled out a second spool—“like this eight-millimeter.”
“Hmm….” Jon inspected the spool of cord with the same intensity he’d given Bo.
Because not everybody comes to the fabric store to flirt. Bo gave himself a mental smack.
“Sometimes bigger is better.” Jon’s tone had just enough heat to make Bo fake a cough into his fist to cover a laugh.
“Agreed.” Bo couldn’t quite stifle a grin. “How big do you want it?”
Jon gestured toward a spool still on the rack. “For the cord, something in-between, I think, and”—his gaze drifted down Bo’s body—“let’s get together for dinner while I’m in town.”
What panettone? “Sure. It’d be great to catch up.” Bo closed his lips and bit the tip of his tongue to keep himself from babbling. Jon effing Cunningham had asked him out, and by God he wasn’t going to act the fool.
“Really?” A much younger—and more innocent—look flashed through Jon’s eyes. “I suppose tonight’s too soon.”
Brow creased, Bo ran back through the calculations of how much he had to accomplish and the time he had left. “Today’s the twenty-first, and I’ve got….” way, way too much stuff. “How about tomorrow? If I get most everything checked off my list, I can relax.”
Jon had dropped back into his brooding, intense persona. “Right. It’d probably be better for me to give Mom a little warning too.”
“So, tomorrow at six?” Bo picked a time out of the air, to see if it’d fly.
“That’d be great.”
They grinned at each other for a couple of beats. The overhead speaker asked someone to cut fabric in the upholstery section, bringing Bo back to the present. “So, um, the rest of your list.”
Jon laughed, a touch of pink in his pale cheeks. “Sequins. Glue. I’m on it.”
“The glue’s over here.” Jon could probably have found the stuff on his own, but Bo figured he’d take advantage of the opportunity. “So are you in town for long?”
Jon followed him close enough to send prickles along his shoulder and back. “I’m not quite sure. Dad had a stroke a couple of weeks ago, so I came out to give Mom a hand.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He still needs help with walking and stuff.” Jon shook his head with a distracted frown.
They’d reached the aisle with craft supplies. Bo pointed at the fabric glue. “I’m sure they appreciate having you around. Where’s home for you now?”
“New York.” Jon reached up and rubbed the back of his own neck. “My manager had to cancel some gigs so I could be here, but….”
Bo gave a little shrug. “Family.” There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for family.
“Speaking of, I should probably get back.” Jon picked up a small bottle of glue. “Text me your number?”
They exchanged numbers, and Bo pointed Jon toward the sequins.
“Thanks for your help, man. I’m glad I ran into you.”
“For sure.”
“Since you’re the local, you choose the place. Just, um, text me tomorrow and tell me where to be.”
Again, the familiar little hitch in his speech, almost a stutter. It added a note of vulnerability to Jon’s sophisticated reserve.
Bo watched him walk away, a little shell-shocked, until Jon turned down the aisle with the sequins. Bo blinked. Stalker. He hurried back to the workroom, and if his attempt at cleaning up was half-assed, at least there wouldn’t be another class until after the first of the year.
Unfortunately, Bo had to walk past the register on his way out of the store. Worse, there weren’t any customers around to make Rick behave. The store owner leaned against the counter, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised to better emphasize the snark.
Bo could have said goodbye and walked out, but where was the fun in that? Instead, he zipped up his down jacket and struck a pose. “Bitch, what is your issue?”
Rick’s eyes widened and he fluttered his lashes. “I believe you asked a customer if he liked it big.”
With a groan, Bo covered the last couple of steps to the door. He swung it open, blinking at the cold winter wind, and grinned at Rick over his shoulder. “I’ll have to let you know his answer later.” He turned and finger-waved with both hands. “Bye, doll. Merry Christmas.”
Chapter Two
BO BARONE. Bo Barone. Jon’s grin flickered in and out, reflected in the dark windshield of his mother’s Volvo. Willy had said he should look up some old friends from school, but Jon was pretty sure his manager hadn’t meant he should throw himself at the first guy who remembered his name.
He parked the SUV in the driveway. The windows of his parents’ brick Tudor were dark and streaked with rain. It might be snowing in New York, but the Seattle damp had a way of seeping into his bones.
Would it have killed them to leave a light on?
The engine ticked, settling down. Soon the thin heat would fade, and the cold would try to immobilize him. The sun would set by around 4:00 p.m. Already it was nearly dark.
Inside, the dining room table had been replaced by a hospital bed, his father only able to walk to the restroom with help. Mom did her best, but Jon got his height from his father. Mom’s petite five-foot-nothing body couldn’t counter Dad’s weight. If he fell, they were both going down.
Jon gripped the steering wheel. He hated seeing his parents so helpless. He should go inside, turn on some lights, make them something for dinner.
He’d rather imagine having dinner with Bo Barone.
Bo Barone.
They’d been friends in middle school, before the current of Jon’s calling had swept him away from anything close to normal. Was it a current or a riptide? At any rate, Bo had made him laugh. In truth
, thirteen-year-old Bo had been the closest thing thirteen-year-old Jon had had to a crush. And damn, but he’d grown up pretty. From the swoop of his hair to the bells on his sweater, he’d radiated life, vitality, humor.
Qualities Jon craved.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out with a man. He had friends in New York, and there was always Grindr. He lived in one of the biggest cities in the world, but there was one thing he lacked.
Time.
Between practice and rehearsal and gigs, the demands he’d set on himself didn’t leave time for something as prosaic as dating. He wasn’t unhappy, just busy. There’d been a guy for a while, Kevin, a cello player, but when he’d taken a teaching job in San Francisco, it had ended with no drama and only a little regret.
Jon hadn’t spent Christmas in Seattle in years, and it had taken his father’s stroke to rearrange his performing schedule. For a moment, guilt dimmed his anticipation at seeing Bo again. He couldn’t afford the time. He should be in there right now, showing Dad he cared.
Dad. The only person on earth who had been unimpressed by Juilliard, by the recordings, by the concerts, regardless of venue. The bitterness was old, distant, a faint flavor that never really left his mouth. Jon had long believed he could call home and tell them he’d be playing Carnegie Hall, and Dad would have had a bridge match that night so he couldn’t use the tickets.
Enough.
Jon swung out of the car and slammed the door. There were steaks in the fridge, or he could order out. He could practice. His fingers flexed at the thought. He needed to run scales at least, and it might be fun to dig through his old lesson books to see how much he could still play from memory.
Jon had to jiggle the key to get the lock to turn, but finally the front door opened. “Hello? It’s me.”
A cool white light shone through the door to the kitchen. A disembodied “shh” gave a warning he didn’t need.
