by Tracy Brogan
I bet he could help. I bet he could lift a tree with just one of those brawny arms and hoist it right onto the roof. Drew Hampton had been eating his vegetables. Or maybe he’d been part of some super-secret superhero experiment and now he had ultra-super-secret powers that only a handful of people in the government knew about. Maybe that goofball hat was just a disguise to cover up his ultra-secret superhero-ness.
Not likely.
But maybe.
“Thanks, Drew,” Erin said when I remained mute, lost in my mental imagery of him taking down a villain with nothing but a perfectly executed karate chop to the neck.
“No problem.” He smiled at me again. “Hope to hear from you, Kelsey.”
“Uh-huh,” I answered, and waved as he walked away.
Erin eyed me suspiciously. Then she nudged me with her elbow. “You all right?”
“What? Oh, yeah. I’m just cold.” But I wasn’t cold. In fact, I was feeling unexpectedly warm.
Drew Hampton
Kelsey Parker. No way. Of all the Christmas tree joints in all the world and she walks into mine. What were the odds? Well, kind of high, actually. Her family lived in Bell Harbor, after all.
I walked back toward my grandfather’s hardware store, my mind shuffling through memories, dusty old memories from way, way back. Back to the days when basketball had meant more to me than girls. I chuckled because that was a long time ago, but even now I could picture the day the Parker family moved into their two-story house on Beachtree Street.
I was on my bike, riding home from basketball practice, and there she was, carrying a box from the moving truck into the house. I’d never really noticed a girl’s legs before, but I noticed hers. They were long and tanned and suddenly the seat of my bike felt uniquely uncomfortable. Then Kelsey set the box down on the porch and turned back around. She wore a clingy little top with a picture on the front. A puppy, or a kitten, maybe? That detail was hazy but two things from that moment remained crystal clear in my mind. One, Kelsey Parker had amazing breasts, and two, basketball was forevermore relegated to second place.
Chapter 2
“CUPCAKE, THESE HOLIDAY DECORATIONS YOU brought are fa-fa-fabulous.”
Fontaine Baker, Bell Harbor’s resident interior designer and party-planning czar, scampered down from the aluminum ladder and stepped back to survey his handiwork. A smile curled the edges of his stylishly crafted goatee as he inspected the cranberry-and-pine-cone-laden garland he’d just placed over a rustic mantle at Jasper’s Pub. “You are a regular sugarplum fairy for pulling this together so fast. Jasper’s place has never looked so festive.”
I suppose it did look festive. I was immune to it, though. Nine years of working at Haskell’s had desensitized me to all things yuletide-y. “Glad to be of service, Fontaine. If I can’t be basking in the Hawaiian sunshine, I may as well be here helping. Besides, Grandma’s home from the hospital and hosting her erotic book club this afternoon. I couldn’t sit there and listen to seventy-year-old grannies discussing blindfolds and riding crops. It’s unseemly.”
“You mean the Fifty Shades of Grey Hair Book Club? Those are some geriatric minxes, aren’t they? Very naughty. But you are amazeballs and I am forever in your debt.” He leaned over and kissed the air near my cheek. “Everything looks splendiferous for tonight’s event, and I bet you a fifth of RumChata that it’s going to be a huge success. Now, where is that banner?” He clapped his palms together twice, gazing around the room. “Once we’ve hung the sign, all we have to do is put on our party clothes and then wait for the peoples.”
The peoples, in this case, were coming to a charity event held at a local pub owned by Fontaine’s brother, Jasper. Since their mother, Dody, and my grandmother, Anita, were best friends, I’d been drafted into helping. All it took was a few phone calls to have some Christmas supplies sent to Bell Harbor. I’d handled much bigger jobs with far less notice than this, but the downside was that now all my coworkers knew I was still in Michigan and not in Hawaii with Blake. That was certain to stir up some office gossip. It also meant they’d be calling me with questions and requests for help. So much for vacation.
Fontaine walked over toward the bar, his red skinny jeans swishing. On top he wore a Christmas sweater festooned with gingerbread men and little gold bells. He jingled like a playful kitten.
“That’s quite a noisy sweater you have there,” I could not resist mentioning.
Fontaine flashed his pearly whites. “Thank you. These horrendous sweaters are all the rage, you know. I guess I have officially donned me now my gay apparel. Ah, here it is,” he said, grabbing a three-foot-long cardboard tube. He pulled out the white vinyl banner from inside.
“What’s the charity du jour this time?” I asked. The fine ladies of Bell Harbor were constantly hosting events for some such cause or another. Orphaned otters, saving an old building, raising awareness of the debilitating effects of coccinellidaephobia, which, as everyone knows, is fear of ladybugs.
“We’re raising money to buy new playground equipment for the day care center next to the library, but since we’re holding the event in a bar, guess what we’re calling it?” He unfurled the banner across the tabletop with a flourish and a big grin.
There in big red letters was the answer.
Shots for Tots.
“Clever. Who came up with that one?”
“I’m sure it was me,” he said, climbing back up the ladder. “And it’s all for a good cause, so bring your debit card. Plus there’s the auction. Maybe you’ll see something you’d like to bid on.”
“Mm, maybe.” I loved finding unexpected treasures, but I doubted there’d be anything worthwhile at tonight’s event. I didn’t need a gift basket full of bubble bath, tickets to the local movie theater, or some cheap piece of jewelry from Tillie Mason’s jewelry store. Still, if it was for a good cause, well, I guess I could bring an extra twenty bucks and bid on something. Who didn’t need a crocheted toilet paper cover, right?
We hung the banner and moved a few more things around. Fontaine kept saying it looked spectacular, and I guessed it did, but for me there was nothing special about any of it. It was just more mass-produced holiday waste. Instead of lifting my spirits, I was drowning in a tsunami of glitter and garlands. I guess I felt that way about Christmas in general this year. More dread than anticipation. Not only were my parents going to be gone, but I wasn’t in Hawaii with Blake. Any hopes that our relationship would be buoyed by the waves and moonlight had been dashed. He’d been gone for three days and had yet to try to contact me. I could blame jet lag. Or I could just blame Blake.
“Listen,” I said to Fontaine after we’d moved the same holly-berried centerpiece to five different locations, “I’ve gotten some e-mails from work that I need to take care of, and I told Grandma I’d pick up a few things for her at the store. She said she needs a fruitcake, a fresh wreath for the front door, and shotgun shells. No idea what the ammunition is for, but I hope she plans to shoot the fruitcake. Anyway, if you’re all set here, I’ll head out now and be back in a bit. Sound good?”
“Sounds fab. Toodle-oo, Cupcake, and thanks for your help.” Fontaine fluttered his fingertips at me as he stared at said centerpiece for another moment. I needed to make my exit before he made me move it again.
A few hours later, after fielding no less than five phone calls from my office, responding to a dozen e-mails, and explaining to Grandma why I’d decided to not buy her bullets, I was back in Jasper’s Pub, along with forty or so other people who were dressed in varying levels of holiday garb. There were the ubiquitous ugly sweaters, of course, and garishly sparkly tops, ill-advised red-green combinations, and lots of seriously awful ties. Ties with snowmen and reindeer and diminutive Santas. Ties that lit up and played music. The kinds of ties that could be purchased at novelty kiosks in the mall. And Haskell’s. Haskell’s, of course, had an entire aisle devoted entirely to ties that no one should ever wear.
Instrumental Christmas music played softly thro
ughout the dark-paneled pub as everyone milled around being generally sociable and sipping wine or peppermint martinis. Jasper’s place was enchanting, homey, and relaxing with an eclectic décor and furniture so perfectly mismatched it matched perfectly. Distressed woods mixed with stainless steel light fixtures, and sepia-toned photographs of old Bell Harbor adorned the walls. I loved this style of rustic meets modern where everything old is new again. My apartment back in Chesterton was full of flea-market finds and vintage treasures.
Yet in spite of the cozy atmosphere, I was feeling out of sorts. Erin and her husband had bailed on me at the last minute because two of their three children decided to throw up just as we were leaving. That meant I was flying solo tonight. I had a handful of old friends in town but hadn’t really kept in touch with anyone in particular. I lived an hour away, and the Haskell family kept me busy most of the time. So as I surveyed the room, I didn’t see many familiar faces. Or the ones I saw belonged to people I didn’t want to get cornered into conversation with. Like kooky Dody Baker, who, if my guess was correct, had come to the party wearing a velvet tree skirt festooned with silvery dancing snowmen.
“You look va-va-voom in that sexy red frock, Kitty Cat,” Fontaine said as he popped up next to me and handed over a flute of pink champagne. “It brings out all the auburn highlights in that brunette hair of yours. Well done.”
“Why thank you.” I treated Fontaine to a little toss of my head, sending the waves of my hair over one shoulder. “Too bad I borrowed this dress from Erin and I can’t breathe.”
I tried to take a deep breath as if to prove my point, then I looked across the room and my breathing difficulties doubled. Because there was a man. In a tuxedo. A gorgeous man in a tuxedo. He turned my way and . . . what the hell? It was Little Junior Hampton.
“Why is Little Junior Hampton wearing a tuxedo?” I blurted out loud, holding the champagne glass halfway to my lips.
Fontaine followed my gaze, his sigh floating on the air with a singsong quality to it. “Because I am effin’ brilliant, that’s why. You’re welcome.”
“What?” I looked around the bar and realized a few other guys in tuxedos had arrived, and three more were coming in the door just then. But none of them were as tall or looked nearly as good as Little . . . as Drew Hampton.
“Close your mouth, Sweet Pea,” Fontaine whispered. “You look like a grouper.”
I took a sip of champagne and was about to ask him what all those brawny lads in tuxedos had to do with him, but Drew caught me staring. He smiled and walked our way, giving me a thorough and appreciative once-over. “Hey, Fontaine. Hi, Kelsey. Nice dress. You look great.”
My cheeks went fire-poker hot, surely as red as Rudolph’s nose, but my reaction made no sense at all. It was only Little Junior Hampton. Right? But he was wearing a tuxedo. And the floppy-flappy hunter’s hat was gone so I could see his chestnut-brown hair. It was a little on the longish side, flipping up at the collar of his shirt, and his sideburns were just obvious enough to be trendy but not so much that he looked like he cared.
I tried to breathe again and realized I should not have let Erin talk me into wearing this dress. My boobage was more substantial than hers and my lungs were suffering for it. This must be how Santa felt stuffed inside a chimney. Lucky for him he didn’t have boobs.
“Hi, yourself,” I said to Drew, my voice a little too gaspy. “You look great, too. Nice tux.” My lashes may have batted of their own accord. I’m not really sure. That might have just been a well-timed speck of lint landing in my eye.
Drew adjusted his bow tie. “Thanks.”
Fontaine nodded emphatically, resting a hand on Drew’s forearm. “You do look dashing, darling. Very James Bondage. I daresay you’ll leave our bidders both shaken and stirred.”
Drew cleared his throat. “It’s all for a good cause, right?”
“Abso-tootly. It’s for the children. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see a few young ladies over there who need their eggnog spiked so they’ll be primed for the auction. Pardon me.” He dashed away like Prancer and Vixen on their way to the reindeer games.
I took another sip of champagne. “So you’re helping Fontaine with the auction?”
Drew’s smile was slow and sheepish. “I guess, but it’s against my will. I lost a bet with some of my coworkers and so here I am. Up for sale.”
“Up for sale? Wait a second. This is a bachelor auction?” I couldn’t hold back my laughter. In fact, I didn’t even try.
“Thanks for not making me feel even more humiliated.” He took the glass of champagne from my hand and drank it down in one swallow. That was kind of bold to swipe my drink. Kind of bold, and kind of sexy. My superhero theory was taking root again. I bet if I pulled open that tuxedo shirt of his I’d find some kind of crest underneath. Like Superman. Hell, even if I ripped open his shirt and just found his bare chest, it was a win for me either way.
Wow, that champagne must have gone straight to my head.
“From what I heard,” he said, handing the empty glass back to me, “this auction was all your grandmother’s idea. Her and Dody Baker. Didn’t either of them mention it to you?”
“No, but it certainly sounds like something they’d come up with. And come to think of it, my grandma did try to give me a hundred-dollar bill as I was leaving her house tonight. She said I should tuck it into my bra in case of an emergency.”
He leaned closer. “Did you take it? Because I think this qualifies as an emergency. At least for me it does. I feel like a hooker.”
I shook my head, trying to stifle a giggle and failing miserably. “I’m sorry that the fine ladies of Bell Harbor are about to objectify you, but what exactly are the parameters here? I’m guessing your obligation stops short of prostitution.”
He chuckled then, too, and I realized he was not all that traumatized.
“From what I understand, the parameters are three hours of platonic company. Every bachelor gets a sealed envelope that tells us where we have to take our date. I can’t decide which I’m more worried about. No one bidding on me at all, or selling my dignity for the chance to take Trina Bartholomew to Applebee’s.”
My laughter erupted again. This town never did change. “Trina from high school? The girl who talked like Yoda and never stopped humming the Star Wars theme song? That Trina?”
“Yes, that Trina. She got divorced last year and she’s been stalking me ever since. Listen, I have fifty dollars in my pocket. If I give it to you, will you bid on me?”
I wiped a tear of humor from my eye. “I’m sure you’ll get lots of bids.”
He signaled for a waiter. “Bid on me anyway, just to make me look good. And win. Come with me to Applebee’s.” He nodded his head encouragingly, as if Applebee’s was just the thing to sweeten the pot. His eyes sparkled as he smiled. I told myself it was just a reflection from the twinkle lights decorating the bar and nothing more. And I told myself his dimples had always been that deep and had done nothing to my equilibrium in the past, so there was really no reason to be so captivated by them now. And technically I had a boyfriend so I shouldn’t be hyperventilating just because Drew Hampton would rather spend three hours with me instead of Trina Bartholomew.
“But what if some sweet young thing wants to buy you for the night?” I asked.
His answer was immediate. “There are no sweet young things around here.”
I crossed my arms and frowned, dangling my now-empty champagne glass from one hand. “Um, hello?”
“Oh, I mean, except for you. You look amazing in that dress. You really do. So win the auction and I promise I’ll make it worth your while. It’s all for a good cause, right? Do it for the children.” The sexy-sweet glint in his eye remained, tempting me. Plus I liked Applebee’s. Sort of.
A skinny, freckle-faced waiter wearing a shiny green vest arrived with a tray full of assorted drinks before I could respond. “What can I do you for, folks? Plenty to choose from here.” He pointed to the shot glasses as he spoke
. “We have the Drunk Gingerbread Man, the Tree Topper, and tonight’s house specialty, Zuzu’s Petals. Name your poison. Two bucks a shot.”
Drew pulled out his wallet and nodded to me. “Pick one. It’s the least I can do. Hell, pick two.”
“I haven’t agreed to bid on you yet.”
“I know. That’s why I need you to drink a couple of shots.”
A couple of shots later and Drew and I were thoroughly into reminiscing mode. We’d found a semi-secluded booth back in the corner of Jasper’s Pub, and although he was supposed to be mingling, drumming up bids, he’d been sitting with me for over an hour. And I liked it.
“So you’re a science teacher now?” I said. “I never would’ve guessed that for you.”
“Why? You don’t see me as the teacher type?”
Actually I could totally see him as the teacher type. The “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” kind of teacher who all the teenage girls were giggling about behind their textbooks. “It’s not so much the teacher thing as the science thing, but I guess I should take that as a compliment,” I said.
“A compliment?”
“Yes, since I was your biology tutor. I must have done a pretty good job.” Yay, me.
He gave a soft laugh and looked down at the beer he was slowly turning around in his hands. “Ah, yeah. You were a good tutor.”
I could tell there was something he wasn’t saying. “What? Tell me. Was I actually a lousy tutor?” The likelihood was pretty high. I was more of a math girl. And a mall girl. The only reason I did any tutoring at all was because we got academic credit for it.
“No, you were a fine tutor. It’s just, well . . . I’ve always been really good in science.” His expression said he was apologizing but I didn’t understand why.
“So I was a good tutor then, right?”
“Yes. I guess. I just never really needed one.”
Maybe those shots had made me dense. Or maybe plain old density had made me dense. Odds were even. “I don’t understand.”
