by Nella Tyler
The Christmas Box Set
Nella Tyler
Copyright © 2018 by Nella Tyler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
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This Man For Christmas
FIREFIGHTER CHRISTMAS
STEPBROTHER CHRISTMAS
CHRISTMAS BILLIONAIRE
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This Man For Christmas
THIS MAN FOR CHRISTMAS
By Nella Tyler
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Nella Tyler
Banks
Saturday
I couldn’t believe I was stuck in this damned office on a Saturday. Bad enough that I busted my ass for 10 hours a day, five days a week on a normal week—sometimes 12 to 14 hours a day during an out of control week, which a lot of them were proving to be lately—I didn’t want to start making weekend work a normal part of the routine. Things had been rough for the first couple of months after my old man left the family business, but I’d gotten it under control again. It had taken real work, but the rest of the team and I got it done. Now I had the opposite problem—things were going so well that there was literally no end to the work that needed to be completed in a given day. We also had a potential merger with another multimillion-dollar company on the horizon that was looking more and more like a reality as the weeks went on. That meant work, research, and countless meetings with our attorneys.
I was going through one of the accounts on the computer, fingers tapping angrily on the keyboard as I muttered under my breath about the many things I’d rather be doing right now. It was a gorgeous day, all sunshine and clear skies. I could be out driving in my convertible, winding down country roads as the wind whipped through my hair. Actually, if I could get this finished in the next hour or two, there’d still be time to enjoy a little sunshine outdoors. I didn’t hold out a lot of hope for that, but stranger things had happened.
My office phone rang and I let out a string of obscenities before stabbing at the button to simultaneously answer the call and put it on speaker. Very few people knew I was in the office today. Whoever was on the line would likely only add to the amount of work I needed to plow through before I could leave.
“This is Wheaton,” I said, barking the words into the phone. People tended to treat me like some kind of weaker version of my father, especially now that he wasn’t around, so I liked to correct that in a hurry. No one did that around here—they’d known me for years and knew how hard I worked and how much I valued the company—but there had been many situations with clients, attorneys, and other professionals when I’d had to be a lot gruffer than usual, just to earn some industry credibility. If whoever was calling thought they were about to drop a bomb in my lap, I wanted to put an end to that thought before it got too comfortable.
“Banks, you need to come home.”
The annoyance left me instantly. It was my mother, and she didn’t sound like herself. She was normally cool and collected, as though she lived in a realm slightly above the one where the rest of us toiled. But, right now, she sounded scared.
“What’s going on?” I asked, turning completely away from the computer as I straightened in my chair. “Are you okay? Is it Dad?”
“We’re fine, but BJ was in an accident.” She paused before saying the next part, and my stomach dropped, because I knew what she was about to say, though I dreaded it and hoped my initial thought was somehow wrong. “He’s dead, honey.”
My stomach twisted, and for a moment I couldn’t even breathe. I’d known BJ since high school. We’d bonded over our love of classic cars and had built an entire friendship around that, so solid we felt more like brothers than friends. I was supposed to meet up with him tomorrow at his shop to see what different projects he was working on and share a couple of beers. I’d just spoken to him on the phone last night. This couldn’t be happening. There had to be some kind of mistake.
“No,” I managed to say, shaking my head as I sat alone in my office.
“Come home, Banks,” Mom said gently. “And please be safe driving.” She hung up and I pressed the button on my phone to end my part of the call.
I sat back in my chair, feeling deflated and lost, my mouth suddenly much too dry. BJ, dead? It couldn’t be. I’d just spoken to him. He’d found a car he thought I’d like and wanted to give me all the details. That was how it worked between us. I bought the cars and he fixed them. I took them around to shows and sold them, giving him his cut. It had worked that way since just after high school. We did everything together. I’d been the best man at his wedding. I was supposed to be the godfather to the kids he and Maggie would eventually have.
My stomach dropped a little more. My God, Maggie. She and BJ hadn’t been married long, but they’d been so in love. As heartbroken as I felt, she had to be completely devastated. The thought of her suffering helped me to swallow back my own feelings. I needed to get to her, to let her know I was here to do whatever she needed.
I sprang from my leather desk chair and hurried from my office, leaving the computer and the lights on behind me. I wasn’t the only one here on Saturday, so I ducked my head into my assistant Jane’s office to let her know what had happened and that she was clear to go home whenever she liked since I was leaving. I didn’t wait for her reply. I just rushed from the building and into the parking garage where my car was parked right next to the door. I’d driven the Mustang today, this one brand new. I had a few older ones, all of them fixed up by BJ, who had a thing for old Ford and Chevy muscle cars. I preferred the elegance of an older Rolls-Royce or Jaguar, but had slowly come around to BJ’s way of thinking over the years. All of our long talks about old cars, our consistent, playful ribbing was finished. I’d never get a chance to talk to him again, to tell him what he’d meant to me.
I roared the engine, backed out of the space, and left the garage. The traffic wasn’t bad, considering my office was in New York City. The drive back to Danbury, Connecticut was one I could do with my eyes closed, as I drove it every day. Right now I was mostly on autopilot, my eyes focused on the road as my mind fired off in all different directions, each one circling back around to BJ. The two of us meeting by chance in school—we ran in different crowds, but ended up in detention together during the middle of our sophomore year. He was thumbing through a car magazine. I asked if he was a motor head. He said hell yeah he was, and we talked for the remaining hour, the teacher not really giving a shit that we were supposed to spend the time quietly working on our homework assignments. Once we were free to leave, we went out to his car—a Stingray held together with Bondo and elbow grease—and talked for another two hours before going our separate ways. That weekend, we hit a car show upstate, taking my car, which we wouldn’t have to worry about coming apart underneath us. The rest was history. We were inseparable after that. Our bond grew as we did, our friendship evolving as we aged. We were men now, with jobs. BJ had the beginning of his own family—Maggie, a sweet girl he started dating three years ago and fell in love with faster than he or anyone else expected. She made our twosome into a threesome, but it was so natural. She fit right in. Now she was alone. BJ had left both of us so suddenly. I just wanted to get to her, to make sure
she was okay.
I kept my foot on the accelerator, pushing it nearly to the floor when I had the open road to do it. I could afford the speeding ticket if I got one, but I needed to get back to Danbury. I didn’t let myself consider the possibility that this was all one big mistake. Mom wouldn’t have called me unless she was sure. BJ was gone. It seemed impossible. Memories flooded my head of us in high school. College. The mechanic’s shop he started with a business loan and some money from his dad, which he paid back in less than a year. I tried to give him money but he wouldn’t take it.
There was no traffic, and I managed to get to Danbury in under an hour, which was unheard of. Somehow, I didn’t end up with a ticket for reckless driving—it’d pushed it more than 20 miles an hour over the speed limit for most of the highway travel, zipping around other drivers and ignoring their beeps and hard looks. I tore through town, running a few red lights and flat out ignoring stop signs once I turned into BJ and Maggie’s neighborhood. The houses in here were nice, but small, nothing at all like the house my parents owned. I lived in an upscale condo on the other side of town, not wanting the trouble of taking care of a yard—or paying someone to take care of it. I was a bachelor. What use did I have for a house?
I pulled into the driveway of the Bowling house. I’d been here so many times—for barbecues, birthdays, dinners, brunches, football games. I loved BJ and Maggie. I felt at home when I was with them. All of that was over now.
Maggie was sitting on the front step, surrounded by her mom and Brian Sr., who was like a second father to me. They were all huddled together, their heads bent in sorrow so deep, I couldn’t move for a moment. My breath jammed in my throat and my heart tried to thud out of my chest. BJ wasn’t inside the house. He wasn’t anywhere. The horror of never seeing him washed over me, hurting more now that I could see other people I cared about hurting right in front of me. My friend was gone, but so was Maggie’s husband and Brian Sr.’s son.
I got out of the car on shaky legs, and went to Maggie. Ms. Brent looked up at me, one arm draped around her daughter and tears on her pretty, made-up face. Brian Sr. stood to shake my hand and give me a hug, like he would his own son.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, tears choking my voice and suddenly stinging my eyes.
He choked back a sob but didn’t say anything in response. There were tears in his dark eyes too, and his entire face was red with emotion.
I went to Maggie next, sitting down next to her on the porch step. She fell into my arms immediately, weeping into my shoulder, her sobs shaking her entire body as I held her, crying myself, but more quietly.
“Oh, Maggie,” I said, and couldn’t finish. I just pressed my forehead into her hair and let her cry.
Maggie
Wednesday
I still felt fragile, like I might break if I pushed myself too hard, but I was here, at the funeral home like I was supposed to be, not curled up in my empty bed at home like I wanted to be, like I’d been for days. I’d rather be anywhere else right now, but I allowed the funeral director to position me next to the door so I could greet people as they streamed into the open room to pay their respects to BJ. None of this felt real. Last week at this time, BJ and I were talking about how long we wanted to wait to have children. I wanted them right away, but he wanted to wait another few years to see how things were going at the mechanic’s shop. We were young, he argued. We didn’t have to rush. I smiled slyly and told him that we should probably practice to be sure we knew what we were doing once we finally decided we wanted kids. He agreed, and we practiced all night long.
I wiped at my eyes, which felt like dry sockets in my skull. I’d been crying nonstop since last Saturday. I woke up from dreams of BJ and cried into my pillow. I wept in the shower, at meals, in front of strangers. It was incredibly embarrassing and demoralizing. Now, here I was, at his funeral. I was 26 years old. I shouldn’t be a widow. BJ and I hadn’t even had the chance to build a real life together. The three years we’d had felt simultaneously like too little time and also like a lifetime. We’d been so happy together, so full of hope for what the future would bring. But that was all over now.
Mom and Brian Sr. had been with me for everything today—and all the days since we learned the horrible news—but now the first real guests began to arrive. I put on my best welcoming expression despite the fact that it felt as fragile as cracked porcelain and shook hands as our friends, family, and coworkers entered. By the time the last person walked into the room, most of the chairs were taken. It was good to see how many people BJ had touched in his short life. A few guests had let me know the ways that my husband had made a difference in their lives through his kindness and humor. It was good to hear those stories. I knew how good BJ was, but it was wonderful to hear how incredible everyone else thought he was as well. It didn’t help the fiery anger burning in my gut at the fact that he’d been stolen from me, from all of us. That raged a little more with each passing day, leaving me exhausted when night finally fell. BJ should be here right now, teasing me or hugging me or talking nonstop about cars. But instead, here I was, alone.
I walked to the front of the room, doing my best not to meet anyone’s eyes. They all felt so sorry for me, just looking at someone made me feel like I was suffocating on their pity. I sat down in between Mom and Brian Sr., who each took me by the hand, steadying me the way they had all week. I didn’t know how Brian Sr. was finding the strength to comfort me, considering he’d lost his only son, but I was so grateful for him. Mom had been through this twice before, so she knew how hard it was to become a widow. I couldn’t help how hard I was leaning on both of them. I just felt lost without BJ. We’d only just begun our lives together, and now everything was over.
The priest began the service, drawing everyone’s attention and ending the hushed conversations going on around the room. I’d chosen to hold the service at a funeral home instead of the church where Mom and I attended services. It just felt right to do it this way. I didn’t want to stain a place where I felt such solace, where BJ and I had exchanged vows, with a ceremony that would mark the end of my husband’s life. Father Hammond had been very understanding and had agreed to come to the funeral home if that was what I wanted.
Father Hammond was talking about the afterlife now, and that we could all expect rich rewards in heaven at the end of our lives if we’d lived in the service of others. BJ had done that. He’d been a good, honest man. Just looking at him made me smile. And I’d been so anxious to see him as a father to our children. I bitterly wished we hadn’t waited, that I had some small piece of him to nurture and watch grow into a man or woman that would forever be a reminder of the sweet, funny person he was.
I stopped listening to Father Hammond, choosing the inside of my head where my thoughts were moving in a cyclone of pain and loss. I didn’t want to face what was going on now—saying my goodbyes to BJ and putting him into the ground. I wanted to stay in my head where I could sometimes pretend that this was all one big mistake. That BJ hadn’t been the one to die in that car accident. We were at home right now, talking about having kids or what was for dinner. We were planning what we’d do over the weekend after he was done at the shop for the day. We were throwing around ideas for the trip to Europe we wanted to take in the next few years, finally seeing the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower in person. We were young. We had our whole lives ahead of us. This shouldn’t be happening. It wasn’t fair.
When Mom squeezed my hand, I blinked and came fully back to the present moment. The service was coming to a close, and we were being led in a prayer for BJ’s eternal soul. I dropped my head, my eyes moist and stinging. I wasn’t praying, though. I was cursing the man who’d felt the need to cross a double yellow line to pass the driver ahead of him illegally on an incline. He’d crashed head-on into BJ’s car, killing them both instantly. I was trying not to hate that man, but, so far, was failing. I’d never felt the bitterness that I was experiencing now. I could see how this could fester and destroy every
aspect of my life if I let it. At Mom’s insistence, I’d already made an appointment to speak to a therapist. My first appointment was tomorrow afternoon. I didn’t want the hate to grow in my heart, but it also felt right to experience the full brunt of it, that fuel further feeding the furious fire burning within me.
I crossed myself after the prayer, more out of habit than true feeling. I couldn’t find solace in prayer right now. I hoped it would come again soon, but for right now, I was completely alone inside my own head.
I stood with the help of Mom and Brian Sr., and the three of us walked down the aisle as everyone watched. There was a car waiting outside to take us to the cemetery on the other side of town. Father Hammond was going to say a few things at the burial site as well. I didn’t trust myself to give a eulogy, leaving that instead to Banks and Brian Sr. I knew I’d buckle under the stress and sorrow, which would make it impossible for me to do anything but cry a river of tears.
We drove the 15 minutes it took to get to the cemetery in complete silence, the three of us huddled in the back seat while the driver made sure we made it to where we needed to go. It felt like I hadn’t let go of Mom or Brian Sr.’s hands since I found out about what happened to BJ. I was in terror of a time when they would go back to the lives they’d lived before this tragedy, leaving me alone in this overwhelming misery, but I was also looking forward to a time when I could slide into the warmth of that sorrow, stretching out in it and making myself as comfortable as I could, because it was where I planned to stay for the long haul. I didn’t want to get over BJ. I didn’t want to move on. I wanted to drown in the flood of memories of happier times. I wanted to drink them in until I was drunk on them.
