My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  “Then a ginger ale, please.”

  Moments after, he put a tall can in front of her. “Help yourself.”

  “Why did you follow me?” William gave her a dirty look.

  She didn’t miss how pale and sweaty his face was. Even his eyes drooped abnormally.

  “If this is a drinking party, I should get to come. Not fair for the boss to get all the fun.”

  “I’m not your boss anymore.”

  “That’s not what it sounded like to me.”

  He snorted, glass at his lips. “Not sure what rock you were under then.”

  “This isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “I am. And, as myself, as Lucy Carpenter, I’m telling you that there’s a silver lining.”

  “Only to my father’s coffin if he has his way.”

  Her hand wobbled while pouring soda into a glass. She slammed it down. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “And, he did a terrible thing to me.”

  “What makes you think it was to you that he did it?”

  Ticking his lips, he turned to stare. “Were you not in the room?”

  “What he did was a business decision. An investment. You said he buys small publishers all the time. He would have done the same thing even if you didn’t work there. Honestly, it was a smart move.”

  “If you’re my cheerleading squad, I’m going to shoot myself.”

  She looked at herself in the mirror behind the snack bar, frowning at her frazzled hair spilling out from a knot. One thing stood out that he said in the meeting. A key to what all of this was really about.

  You’ll never stop punishing me.

  For what?

  Whatever baggage he had was ruining his life. Did she dare to unpack it?

  “I don’t have to take that job,” she suggested.

  “Whatever you do or don’t do has nothing to do with my problem.”

  “Would you prefer I don’t?”

  “You’d be crazy not to. It will get you up the ladder fast.”

  “I don’t want you to resent me or—”

  “Lucy!” he snapped, smacking the polished wood counter. “You couldn’t possibly understand this, so please just stay out of it.”

  “I see, so you’re that type.”

  “What type?”

  “The type that pushes everybody away when he’s upset so he can be a big strong man. Well, I’m not falling for it. I’m not leaving you alone, Mr. Harcourt, and that’s just that.”

  “Then how about more drinking and less talking?”

  She sipped her zippy drink. “Very well.”

  “Please, just leave me alone.”

  “Yet, you’ll confide in Bibi being nearly a stranger?”

  “That’s different. She understands me.”

  “How could she? You only met her once.”

  “I’ve had a more intimate connection with Bibi Roquette than I ever did with my ex-fiancé.”

  Ex-fiancé? What was that all about? Jealousy washed over her.

  “Then practice on me and pretend I’m her. What would you say?”

  “Please, I’m not feeling well at all.”

  “Try me anyway.”

  Shoving caramelized pecans into his mouth, he replied. “She’s different in person than in her emails.”

  “Many people are. You’re different with employees than with Bibi.”

  “She’s compassionate, insightful, kind, caring. Her imagination is like a kaleidoscope into her soul, and I’ve been lucky enough to get a peek. I’m drawn to her.”

  “Because of the book?”

  “Because of who she’s shown herself to be in our emails. And, sure, the book.”

  “Well, Out of Africa moved me more than any book I’ve ever read. I was in love with it and read it three times. Yet I didn’t build a time machine to go back and fall in love with Karen Blixen.”

  “Bibi doesn’t judge me,” he confessed, proudly. “She understands, then I feel better.”

  “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I asked her to be my date at the Christmas party. She’s playing hard to get.”

  “She has agoraphobia, remember?”

  “Truth is, I’m not even sure I’d like being with her in person again. Sure, she’s nice to look at, but talk about scatterbrained. I can’t tell if it’s nerves or real. All I can say is in politics, the man with the most money wins, and she’ll be rich and famous soon enough. I’ll just be a bleep from her past.”

  Lucy decided to focus on her drink. If only he knew how wrong he was.

  He ranted on a little bit slurred. “If you can buy yourself a presidency with a large bank account, you can easily buy a small publisher and squash the little man like a crusty snail.”

  “I understand why you’re upset.”

  “My life in a fat nutshell.” He spewed ice into his glass. “Three steps forward, two steps back.”

  “Why do you love her book so much?”

  “I guess it reminded me of a time in my life when I had hope. When love and happiness and magic were still possibilities. We were a family then, you know? Christmas made us a family.”

  “Christmas makes tradition.”

  “The only time I ever saw my father was around the holidays. He’d show up on Christmas Eve and read The Night Before Christmas. We’d watch Alistair Sim’s version of A Christmas Carol and make cookies for Santa. Christmas morning, he made cherry chocolate-chip pancakes. He even made a Santa hat out of whipped cream and a little strawberry. After presents, we walked in the snow. Sometimes, we went sledding since we lived in Connecticut. At night, my grandparents came and we played Christmas Scrabble and ate a five-course dinner to a row of two-foot-high candles with Frank Sinatra’s records in the background.”

  Lucy practically drooled at the images. “Sounds wonderful.”

  “He’d help me put my new toys together. We’d read some more from one of my Mom’s books, usually The Gift of the Magi. And, every year my dad made me a special book he’d give to me that night.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “A little story he’d write, like a children’s book, but with me as the character. He’d have his publishing house print up a single copy and write a special note to me in the cover. Then the day after Christmas he was back to work. I hardly saw him again until the next Thanksgiving other than for church.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’ve never been good enough for him.”

  It seemed all the sorrow of his life were packed into that one sentence. One more reminder why the man had snagged her affection so quickly. Underneath the layer of gills, was the billowy wound of a gentle man in need of love.

  Somebody came into the arcade. They both looked.

  A UPS delivery.

  Lucy put a hand on William’s shoulder. “Why does he get to be the judge of what’s good enough?” Then she lowered her voice when the owner started bantering over a package. “You only need to be good enough for yourself. Don’t let him have so much power over you.”

  Her words were hypocritical at best. Now, if only she could apply them to herself.

  “His buying of your company doesn’t mean you’re less.”

  William argued glibly, “He stole my idea, my success. He knew what I was doing.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. And, even if, it’s called business.”

  More drinking.

  “Then his business can go jump off Mount Everest without a parachute. He waited to steal the company until I was done making the deal with Bibi, the producers, the developers, knowing I have better closing skills.”

  She had to admit, he sounded like a rotten apple. “He bought it; not stole it.”

  The bells dinged again. They were alone.

  “I have a feeling it will be okay,” assured Lucy.

  “He’ll take all of the credit from my efforts, and I’ll be nothing more than the
kingmaker. He stole my success because he couldn’t do it himself.”

  “That means you’re already better than him, doing something that he can’t do.”

  Another snort. All he did is stare cross-eyed at his glass that he held in the air.

  She took it from him. “You don’t have to work there.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Anywhere I go, he’ll buy me out.”

  “There are publishing houses everywhere. Big ones, like in Chicago.”

  He chuckled, now licking his glass that was empty. “I like your thinking.”

  “You know when my father left us, I had no idea I helped him. That day I came home from school, he didn’t greet me at the door. I found him sitting vacant on his bed. He asked me to get out his suitcase and instructed me one thing at a time to pack. Said he was going overnight to Jersey City for a gig.”

  “A musician?”

  She nodded, swiveling her stool his way. “I even walked him to the door. He turned around and gave me his grandmother’s book. Told me he wrote something in it for me. Then left. I never saw him again.”

  If he wasn’t so smashed, likely he’d say something nice.

  Instead, he snorted and pointed at the glass across the bar. “Men are beasts.”

  Another line he took from Bibi.

  Like reading her mind, he said, “They’ll never let Bibi hide behind a computer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father’s no-nonsense when it comes to marketing. She’ll have to do her forty hours a month of publicity to keep the contract or they’ll stop paying her, but they’ll still own the book rights.”

  Everything tightened inside of her.

  Not going there.

  She hopped to her feet. “Let’s play pool.”

  “I’m really not feeling well.”

  “What, afraid you’ll lose?”

  Together they looked around the arcade, which was cleaned out now considering it was in the middle of a day. Only the owner remained, who now swept the floor as the last player dinged bells as he left.

  “I’m no good,” he replied with a slur.

  “I’ve never even played, so I have you trumped.”

  “Snap with it.” He gulped the watery soda in one swoop. “Let’s do it.”

  At least the game would get him away from wallowing. She put some money down on the counter and left her purse there. Followed him to the pool table on the far side near the jukebox now playing a country western Christmas song that nowhere felt like the holidays.

  “Let’s just forget all the ninnies in the world,” she suggested.

  He stomped the pool cue like a staff at his side. “This here’s a ninny free zone.”

  With the balls already set up, she had no clue how to proceed. “You first.”

  “Gladly, my dear. Bomb’s away.”

  With a salute, he leaned over the table and shot the white ball at literally nothing. The good news being that he shot it hard enough to make it bounce back and splatter the balls all over the place. Two made holes.

  “Touch down!” He raised his arms in the air like a champion.

  Her brow went up as she pushed her belly into the side of the table. If there were witnesses to his spectacle, she’d have turned red with humiliation. Instead, she stifled a laugh.

  She took the shot. The balls rushed across the table toward him. He whooped, punching them back with his cue, unable to make contact. “Are we playing this right?” she asked.

  “Irish coffee and pool; can’t expect much.”

  He went back to the bar for a Coca Cola bottle. Came back, and started pushing the balls with it. Like if he could at least make one pocket, he wouldn’t feel like such a failure. As if trying to prove he still had sharp precision and the ability to achieve success. It hurt something in her core seeing him so defeated.

  “I think we should stop,” said Lucy, touching his arm.

  And, was he crying?

  She went to him then, wedging herself between him and the table, gripping his hand over the bottle. “Give it to me,” she coaxed, pulling it away gently, looking up at him. “This isn’t going to help you right now.”

  He could hardly keep his footing.

  “I’m dizzy.”

  She touched his forehead, surprised that it nearly fried her fingers. “I think you have the flu.”

  “It’s…the drinks…maybe stress or…”

  “Hold onto me,” she said.

  So, he did.

  And, not in the way she had in mind. His entire body wrapped around her in the biggest bear hug known to humankind. Oh, my word, his smell. It was like nutmeg and Old English and spice mixed together in the most comforting holiday beverage. Her head buzzed against his chest, where she felt the abnormal ferocity of his heartbeat.

  “You feel incredible,” he whispered.

  “You’re sick.” Into his shirt, she mumbled, “Maybe we should call a cab.”

  “I’m good right here.”

  “We can’t stay like this.”

  “I say we can.”

  When she pulled her face back to look up at him, he nudged her into the side of the table. Scanned her eyes with his own before moving them down to her lips. “Have you ever thought about me, Lucy?” he whispered. “Because I think about you all the time.”

  She swallowed hard; nodded barely.

  His arm latched around her waist. A hand spread over her back that stirred up sensations in places she didn’t want to think about in the middle of an arcade. Yet, somehow the owner seemed to disappear.

  They were alone.

  His mouth came to her neck just enough to breathe warm puffs over her skin like a ghost passing by. Hairs spiked on the back of her neck as he teased the sensual zone that made her swoony every single time a man did that.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said an inch from her mouth. “Beyond lovely.”

  “Too much Irish coffee is all.”

  “No, I thought that the first day I saw you.”

  “A year ago? You hardly spoke to me.”

  “Of all my manuscript readers, why do you think you’re the one I chose to make the private presentation each month? I’m crazy about you, Lucy.”

  Her pulse thrummed down in her throat. “But, I thought you wanted Bibi.”

  “She has nothing on you but words.”

  “Words are important.”

  “But, not real. You, my cherry tart, are very real.”

  Lucy had no clue if it was the illness talking or his genuine heart. She wondered if it even mattered considering she felt the same way, and hadn’t experienced genuine attention from a man since Mark.

  His hand, warm, strong, cupped her neck. “So sweet,” he breathed into her mouth.

  She kissed him then, knowing he had the intention anyway. Knowing she’d soon contract whatever winter virus he currently battled. Knowing she didn’t care a wit about either.

  His lips were hot and soft and masculine.

  At first, she thought it was a dream.

  Liked it.

  Then she realized it could be the spiked Irish coffee.

  Didn’t like it.

  Yet, there was a painful ache to feel even closer to him.

  “This isn’t smart,” she warned.

  “We’ll keep it between us.”

  He picked her up light as a feather and set her gently on the pool table. Kissed her soft and sweet at first, before progressing to a deeper taste that she couldn’t remember ever noticing with Mark. The kisses transported her to a place where there were no pool tables or board meetings or looming launch parties.

  “Not here.” She pulled her face back despite a swirly head. “We’re in public.”

  “We’re alone.”

  “Not for long.”

  “Kiss me anyway.”

  Kissing her boss on a pool table in an arcade was something Heather would do. Then again, Heather had boyfriends coming out her nose, so maybe she had the right idea.

  H
is hand buried in her hair. “My sweet Lucy.”

  She locked her arms around his corded neck and met his mouth, tasting the alcohol and soda mixed with salt and the manliness that could only belong to William Harcourt. When he placed a hand at the curve of her hip, she felt her back cave slightly, allowing herself to succumb to the lovely moment that left her tingling all over.

  Then it got real.

  He trailed his kisses down her neck in a long line. The bells over the door dinged and jolted her from it. When he didn’t stop, she shoved him back with all of her might. He stumbled back into the jukebox.

  Two people came in.

  Lucy fixed her hair and went to William, who slid to a glob on the floor. He bopped his head to Burl Ives’ A Holly Jolly Christmas with his palms over his eye sockets while bawling his head off.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, kneeling down. “People, you know.”

  “Lucy, I don’t feel…”

  Then he was out.

  Like a candle that slowly lost its light with a glass lid put on top, he fainted. His torso tilted to the side and hit the wood floor before rolling flat on his back. Out cold.

  What to do now?

  She pulled out her phone and dialed frantically. The owner watched them as he poured drinks for the two ladies at the bar with a raised brow. When Heather didn’t answer, she went to the man with slow steps.

  “Excuse me?” she prodded.

  All he did is smirk while wiping his hands on a towel.

  “Pardon me, but I’m not usually an arcade frequenter. Could you please tell me the proper protocol for what a girl should do when her boss who she was drinking with passes out like an epileptic after a seizure?”

  All three of them looked at her.

  Then to him.

  Laughed.

  And, kept on chatting.

  Chapter 12

  “You can always choose to binge watch TV, but a Christmas party has free cocktails.”

  With Love, Vivien

  * * *

  “Have you seen Mr. Harcourt?” Lucy shouted over the festivities.

  “He’s out sick.”

  “This is his party. Are you sure he’s not here?”

  The assistant editor shrugged her shoulders while spooning plum pudding down her gullet. The caroling troupe grew louder, tapping down into their lace-up Victorian boots to a jig Lucy had never heard.