The Billionaire's Boxing Day Bargain

by Ava Hayden

“Eight?”

  “Not allowed?” the woman asked.

  Chill. “Definitely allowed. Sorry, I was just surprised. I’ll carry these to the cash register for you.” He couldn’t spend the day suspecting customers of nefarious Pulp ’N Gulp purchases.

  “I guess eight is kind of a lot,” the woman said as she shuffled alongside Milo. “But I run a bed-and-breakfast, and these are perfect for my guests.”

  Milo dropped off the case and then restocked the Pulp ’N Gulp display.

  “Milo.” Missy waved at him from the door to the stockroom. “Why don’t you take a break now. We’re likely to get busier after lunch. A lot of people don’t start their Boxing Day shopping until the afternoon.”

  True. “Okay.” Milo needed a better cup of coffee than he could brew in the staff break area. He navigated the restricted-access hallway that led to the mall’s public space and made his way to the food court, weaving through the crowd and dodging the shoppers wielding overstuffed shopping bags like bludgeons. The food court was packed, as expected.

  On second thought…. He bypassed the food court and headed to Oilton’s Finest Coffee. Once he had his drink in hand, he scanned the coffee shop for an empty seat. Nothing. Of course. Why did people voluntarily subject themselves to this? What bargains could possibly be worth the noise, the hordes, the chaos…? He shook his head and retraced his steps.

  A television camera crew filmed for the evening broadcast—the usual sort of holiday feel-good piece. A teenaged girl took a selfie next to a pair of shoes marked down 75 percent in a store window. On the floor beside her was a bag from the store. She tapped her phone screen. Milo inferred that she’d bought a pair of the shoes in question and was snapchatting or posting to Instagram or Facebook or some other social media.

  Before he’d passed the girl, another raced up, phone in hand. “Oh my God, those shoes are so cute! I want them!” They disappeared into the store.

  AT THE food court, he spotted a single seat behind a bow-bedecked planter the size of a Smart car, and he dropped into it, grateful to get off his feet.

  He checked his phone. A text from Lance.

  Any news on when you’ll get off?

  Milo thumbed in a reply. Sorry, no.

  LANCE SCOWLED at the phone and then dropped it onto his desk. Time to drive into the city anyway. Milo would meet him at the condo.

  Lance ached for Milo when they were apart. He wanted to find Milo waiting when he arrived home, but Milo wasn’t interested in moving in together. Except sometimes Lance wondered if that was really true. Milo often seemed as reluctant to go home to a separate residence as Lance did after an evening out. They stayed over at each other’s places. (Lance made sure he spent as much time at Milo’s apartment as Milo spent in his residences.) Why not just share a place? Giving Milo a key to the condo next door was a gamble. It wasn’t what he really wanted, but it was all he dared ask for. The couple of times Lance had pushed, Milo had gone all shields up like the starship Enterprise.

  Their first date had gone well. Lance took Milo to Pierrot, an intimate French bistro. During the get-to-know-you phase, Lance described himself as a businessman. When asked where he worked, he replied with the name of one of his conglomerate’s subsidiary businesses.

  “You’re successful, obviously.” Milo smiled knowingly.

  Lance pinked. “I do all right.” It wasn’t exactly a lie—not mentioning his financial position.

  Milo was open about the fact that he’d lost his previous job. “The economy crashed and the firm closed the Oilton office.” He shrugged. “I know I’ll find something eventually.”

  At the end of the date, Milo tried to pay half, but Lance wouldn’t let him.

  Their next date had taken place at Milo’s apartment. Lance walked the circumference of the large open-plan living room while Milo fetched wine. Milo had framed and hung prints of a few of the ad campaigns he’d worked on. The works were like visual jazz, some with a cool, classy vibe, others more mellow, and one edging on raunchy, like a wailing sax reduced to art and words.

  Milo’s dinner, featuring melt-in-your-mouth roasted salmon, had been followed by enthusiastic making out on the couch. Lance finally took a reluctant leave, but it was too soon for more. Not that his gonads agreed, but Milo didn’t know everything about him yet. He shouldn’t get more intimate under false pretenses. If what was between them stayed this good—kept growing—Lance was afraid to risk losing it. He was going to have to.

  On their next date, they saw two Oilton Fringe Festival shows and had dinner, but they made an early night of it because Lance had to travel the next morning.

  The following Saturday they had brunch, but Milo had a work shift afterward. Sunday Lance went to Milo’s apartment for dinner. Lance was working up the courage to tell Milo who he was, when his phone exploded with texts and calls. Business crisis. He had to leave immediately to take care of it.

  On their next date, after a dinner out, Lance brought Milo home to one of his properties for the first time—the sixth-floor pied-à-terre he kept in the city, for those snow-dump days when he didn’t want to try to make it to his house on the outskirts of town. Milo assumed the condo was a primary residence, and Lance didn’t correct him.

  “How about a movie?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Lance nodded toward a shelf filled with DVDs. “You pick. I’ll open a bottle of wine.”

  When he returned with two filled glasses, Milo looked up at him with a teasing smile. “The Downton Abbey boxed set?”

  Lance flushed. “I love the time period.”

  “Hmmm. Howards End. A Room with a View. The Remains of the Day. Le Divorce. Oh my God, you’re a Merchant Ivory queen.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Lance tried to look offended instead of self-conscious.

  “You totally are.” Milo grinned up at him and then returned to the DVDs. “Maurice. I don’t know this one. Is it good?”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “Well, then…. Let’s watch it.”

  Milo gave Lance a sidelong look during the cricket scenes, and he resisted the impulse to cross his legs or hug a pillow by way of camouflaging what they did to him.

  As the credits rolled, Lance clicked off the player and television, and relaxed against the sofa’s high back with a contented sigh. Milo pulled a leg up and half turned to face him.

  “What is it you like so much?”

  Lance frowned. “You didn’t like it?”

  “No, I did. I’m just wondering what makes it your favorite.” Milo braced an elbow against the sofa back and propped his head on his hand. He gave Lance that same shy smile Scudder gave Maurice.

  Lance couldn’t stop the words. “You look just like him. Scudder.”

  Milo laughed. “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. Same hair, same eyes, same smile. I can imagine you in the gamekeeper’s clothes. Or that suit he wears. Or….” He swallowed. “The cricket flannels. That white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into those trousers. With that black cap.” Lance’s cock tented his pants. He held Milo’s gaze. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  Milo scooted closer. “Did you notice how Maurice moved when he went to bat? So graceful, but still masculine. And that look he gave Scudder was almost… predatory. In a good way.”

  “Yes. Exactly. Graceful but predatory. You have a way with words.”

  Milo grinned. “I’m a marketing guy. We have to.” He moved even nearer. “Your hair is cut like James Wilby’s. When he’s playing cricket. Is that deliberate?” He reached for a wavy lock and pushed it back.

  “You don’t like it.”

  “Just the opposite. It suits you.” He wrinkled his nose. “But that mustache on Clive….”

  Lance shuddered. “Horrible. Probably the only time I’ve ever thought Hugh Grant wasn’t attractive. And Clive has the nerve to call Maurice’s mustache revolting.”

  Milo chuckled. “Well, it was. And did you notice the timing? Clive
has a mustache when he marries Anne, and Maurice doesn’t have a mustache at the wedding.”

  “You think it meant something?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Lance ran a hand down Milo’s arm, and Milo slid closer, fitting himself to Lance. When Milo turned his face, their lips almost touched. “I never thought about it. But you’re right. Clive suddenly looks ten years older, and Maurice looks ten years younger.”

  “And ten times more handsome.” Milo ran a thumb along Lance’s upper lip. “This is sexy,” he whispered, and Lance felt the heat of his breath and shivered. “Sometimes you’re so sure of yourself, but other times you get all nervous and adorable. Such a mixture of bravura and vulnerability.” He replaced his thumb with his tongue and ran it along Lance’s crease, then smiled against his mouth. “That makes me hot.”

  Lance spun Milo and pinned him against the back of the sprawling couch, the way Maurice flipped Alec in the old-fashioned bed. Milo’s eyes darkened and he laughed, his expression a mix of delight and arousal. He tilted his face to Lance’s, his chin up—a challenge. Like Scudder.

  Lance accepted. They kissed until they were needy and sweaty, and then they decamped to the bedroom. Later they lay sticky and replete, until Milo pushed off the bed and went into the en suite bathroom. Lance stretched against the sheets, relaxing into the high-tech Italian import mattress that felt like a caress. He replayed the encounter—Milo groaning in pleasure, Milo’s face contorted in ecstasy, Milo’s teasing gaze as he straddled Lance, twined their fingers together, and licked up Lance’s neck. Always Milo. Never Scudder—until now, his go-to fantasy. I didn’t think of Scudder once.

  Milo didn’t return right away, and when he did, he looked puzzled. He handed over a damp washrag and lowered himself onto the bed. “I thought you installed your smart shower already. You said you liked it.”

  Oh shit. “Yes.” Lance wiped himself down and scooted up against the padded headboard. “I haven’t actually installed one here yet.”

  Milo frowned. “You don’t live here?”

  “I stay here when I don’t feel like driving home or when I can’t because of the weather.”

  Milo stared for a moment. “When you dropped six thousand bucks on smart showers, I figured you were in oil and gas,” he said, his voice level. “Because oil and gas millionaires in Oilton are like Canada geese in Riverside Park. You can hardly move without stepping on one.” He glanced at the spacious bedroom’s cathedral ceiling, the french doors leading to a wide balcony that wrapped the corner of the building and fronted onto the side of the dining area, and the spiral staircase that led to a reading nook with a view of the city skyline. “But this condo didn’t go for under two million. And you’ve got a whole other house somewhere.”

  “Is that a problem?” Be careful. Don’t sound confrontational.

  Milo pushed up from the bed and retrieved his phone from jeans discarded earlier on the floor. He stabbed at the screen as Lance watched, silent. “I googled you. Do you have any idea how many Lance Smiths live in Oilton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one are you?”

  The one who would prefer to remain anonymous. “You should probably add Smith Energy Corporation to your search.”

  Milo’s eyes widened. “You’re one of those Smiths? I’ve never read anything about you.”

  Lance shrugged. As billionaires go, I’m practically unknown. Nothing is named after me. I don’t grace the society pages. I make my charitable donations anonymously. My social media is all about the company, not me. That’s the way I want it.

  Milo’s jaw dropped as he stared at the screen, and then he read aloud. “Lance Smith has parleyed a one-billion-dollar stake in Smith Energy Corporation into five billion dollars through judicious investments in alternative energy sources and clean power, a bold move to position Smith Energy Corporation—long focused on traditional oil and gas production—for a post-fossil-fuel world while still leveraging legacy infrastructure and assets.” Milo stared at Lance. “Five billion?”

  Lance shrugged again. “It’s easier to make a billion if you start with one.” What are you thinking? I can’t get a read on you. He searched Milo’s face for clues, but Milo’s careful, neutral expression told him nothing.

  “Founder Algernon Smith formally handed over company control to his grandson, Lance Smith, after the death of his son, Reginald Smith, father of Lance Smith.” Milo looked up. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Lance couldn’t hold his gaze. “It was a while ago.”

  Milo set the phone aside and scooted closer to Lance. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Things have been going so well with us.” Lance pushed Milo’s hair back from his face. “I didn’t want that to change.” He brushed his knuckles along Milo’s cheek and dropped his hand. And money changes everything. “I meant to tell you before”—he gestured toward the bed—“this, but we sort of got carried away. You’ve heard of beer goggles?”

  “Yes?” Milo’s voice held a question.

  “Lots of people… when they know who I am, it’s like they put on billionaire goggles. I wanted you to know just plain me first.”

  Milo wrapped his arms around him, and Lance relaxed, his head on Milo’s shoulder. “Tell me.”

  So Lance told him. The boyfriend of two years who stormed out when Lance refused to fund his (really dumb) idea for a start-up. The occasions when he took a date to a bar to meet friends and ended up paying everyone’s tab for the evening when it became clear it was expected. The blind dates who seemed to think they were talking to a cardboard cutout instead of a human being and the suspicion that he was valued—or perhaps tolerated—only for what he could do for them. Hostile digs thinly disguised as jokes. Even worse, sycophantic fawning.

  “And why do you think I’ll be any different?” Milo pulled back far enough to hold Lance’s gaze. “Now that I know.”

  Lance tried not to smile and failed as Milo looked on, puzzled. “The fact that you can ask that question.”

  LET’S HAVE a riot

  From Milo’s vantage point at the tiny food court café table, he watched the streaming hordes of shoppers and sipped his drink, deep in thought. He was in love with Lance. And he had no idea what to do. From the beginning he’d policed himself, never accepting too much or taking advantage. He paid for as many dates as Lance did—his less expensive, of course, but enjoyable nonetheless. Lately Lance had seemed more frustrated with Milo’s scrupulous account-keeping.

  Milo wasn’t tracking dollars spent. He knew relationships weren’t always equal. He could never afford private box seats to watch the Oilton Ospreys play, but Lance was happy to shell out for them, even though he didn’t like hockey all that much. But Lance knew Milo did. So Milo sat through many foreign films he could have done without—because Lance loved them.

  Lance wanted him to move in. But what if I accept and living together turns into buying me a car, and the espresso machine I admired, and the trip to Japan I said was on my bucket list, and then I’m just another guy taking his money?

  Milo slumped against the plastic chair back. What if I’m trying so hard not to kill what we have, I end up doing just that?

  He glanced around, not really seeing, until his gaze fell on the enormous vertical scrolling LED sign, known as the Dealboard, mounted high on the food court wall.

  Show store receipts totaling more than $100 and get registered for a free drawing for an all-inclusive holiday in Varadero! One entry for every $100 spent. Sign up at the north entrance info kiosk *** Chloe’s Cosmetics. Boxing Day Only! Buy two, get one free! Anything in store! Chloe’s Cosmetics *** Shop at Roman Holiday Women’s Fashion and register to win a Vespa! *** Boxing Day Only! Purchase a signed Oilton Ospreys team jersey at Ospreystop, get it framed for free!

  Milo dropped his face into his hands and rubbed. I’m so tired of nonstop commercials. Buy, buy, buy. Spend, spend, spend. Their gift exchange was starting to feel like a minefield. What if Lance doesn’t
like his present? What if it’s the most stupid idea I ever had in my entire life? He sat up and scanned for a trash can. Too late now. Time to go back to work.

  Milo returned to the store and let himself in, making sure to catch the door so it wouldn’t bang. As a result, Missy and Connor didn’t hear him enter.

  “I want you to go back to school and get your graduate degree the way you planned.” Missy planted her fists on her hips and stared up at Connor over her rounded tummy.

  “Missy, we have been over and over this.”

  “Yes, and everything I’ve said up until now is still true. I don’t want to sit at home. I can run this business perfectly well. I have a business degree. I grew up working in the family’s stores. I am capable.”

  “I know you’re capable. But the baby—”

  “Will. Be. Fine.” Missy leaned in, her tummy threatening to overbalance her. “Not to mention a lot better off with two happy parents.”

  “Your father already thinks I’m a waste of space who can’t provide for you.”

  “Aaahhhhhhh!” Missy grabbed her hair with both hands. “God, I am soooo….”

  Connor’s face went white. “Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

  “No, it is not the baby! It is you!” Missy jabbed a finger into Connor’s chest. “Why do you care what Daddy thinks? Fuck Daddy! I am so over this. I love you and I’m sick of seeing you look miserable, and the hell of it is, you’re not even doing it for me. You’re doing it for Daddy.” Missy burst into tears and disappeared into the staff washroom. Over the bang of the door and the clatter of something metal (like a trash can being kicked by a furious hormonal pregnant woman), Milo let himself out silently. He waited a few seconds and then entered, making sure to make lots of noise. Connor was nowhere to be seen, so Milo headed to the front.

  Connor stood by the back register, pale and grim.

  Milo shoved his hands in his pockets and walked over. “Hey. Need a break?”

  Connor’s eyes were red. “No, I’m good. Sorry you had to hear that.”