Not Much of a Christmas Miracle
Yolande Kleinn
Published by Yolande Kleinn, 2020.
Copyright 2020 Yolande Kleinn
ISBN 978-1-946316-19-6
LICENSE NOTES
Thank you for purchasing this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Not Much of a Christmas Miracle
Cover Design
Sign up for Yolande Kleinn's Mailing List
Also By Yolande Kleinn
About the Author
Not Much of a Christmas Miracle
by Yolande Kleinn
By the time he reaches his destination, Eric is thoroughly winded. He's lightheaded, panting with the exertion of his sprint from the nearest bus stop. Frigid air chills his chest as he drags in uneven breaths.
He stops on the topmost step without ringing Vincent's doorbell.
He needs a minute. He needs twenty minutes. Between the physical toll of running so many blocks in the cold, the relentless fall of snow now turning to sleet from a sullen sky, and the emotion-panicked hammering of his ridiculous heart, he can barely think. He had the entire public transit route to get his head on straight, but he hasn't figured out what he's going to say. Hell, he doesn't even know where to start.
He's here, though. That has to count for something.
There are lights on inside the house. Too many lights, he realizes. Nearly every window along the front of the big blue facade shines bright and warm, and fresh confusion furrows Eric's brow. Vincent isn't a wasteful man. No matter how gloomy the winter night is, surely he wouldn't fend off bleak weather by deliberately wasting so much energy.
As the pounding of Eric's pulse quiets a little, he hears a flicker of music and laughter on the air.
Shit.
God damn it.
Fuck. He forgot what day it is. Christmas Eve. He didn't notice all the decorations during his frantic rush to Vincent's doorstep, but his awareness expands to take them in now. The entire front of Vincent's house is a tableau of holiday cheer, understated compared to some of the light shows along the block, but still bright and brazen. A string of icicle lights hangs along the edge of the roof and the top of each individual window frame. A big glowing star sits high on the wall, at the very center of the lineup, so bright it hurts to look at directly. The front door itself has been hung with a wreath full of ribbons and bells and fake red berries.
It occurs to Eric that all this should have reminded him even before the ambient festive noises.
Most of the street is similarly bedecked. There are strings of colored lights, garlands draped along fences, giant candy canes lining snowy sidewalks. He doesn't see any menorahs in windows, but now that awareness of the season has returned to his head, he's pretty sure Hanukkah ended sometime last week. One yard in particular has not just an inflatable Santa, but an entire sleigh being pulled by squashy-looking reindeer, all lit from within. The effect is more creepy than charming. He hopes it looks friendlier in the daylight.
His own ambivalence toward Christmas might excuse him forgetting, if not for all of these inescapable reminders. Somehow they flew right past him unnoticed, and Eric feels downright foolish for his lapse.
Tonight is also the evening of Vincent's yearly Christmas party, which means there will be dozens of guests crowded into this house tonight. Friends, colleagues, family from out of town. Now that he's absorbing his surroundings, Eric sees a couple of cars where Vincent's winding driveway disappears behind the house. If the whole rest of the drive is full, there must be a truly staggering number of vehicles parked around back.
It's just past eight o'clock, which means the party is probably at maximum capacity. Eric would be among them if he'd convinced himself to accept the invitation.
But beyond how spectacularly he fucked up on Friday, he's never dared to attend this annual event. Given his heart's stubborn refusal to stop being in love with Vincent, Eric knows better than to socialize with his boss.
His former boss, after today. At least, that's what the paperwork in his back pocket would have him believe. It galls him that Vincent didn't even deliver the news in person. He left it on Eric's desk like a coward, where it should have been discovered only after a longer delay.
What a fucking joke. Eric's always been a workaholic. Vincent, of all people, should've known he would find the documents almost immediately. He tries to imagine an alternate timeline where he didn't sneak back into the office for one last task, and he can't even picture what that reality might look like.
Maybe Vincent hoped doing things this way would spare them both the inevitable argument. A foolish theory, if so. Eric has never let a fight pass him by unacknowledged. He's got too much pride bubbling inside him, too much ambition, and way too much to prove. For the past several years, what little self-restraint he possesses has been tied up in not broadcasting his crush. Now that he's burned that bridge behind him, what is there to hold him back?
This is why he's here tonight. It's probably why he forgot about the party.
Fuck. His hackles are still up—he's still spoiling for a fight—but he can't set off this confrontation now. Calling his boss out for being an unprofessional asshole is a desperate gambit under any circumstances, but doing it at a Christmas party is a recipe for disaster.
It doesn't help that Eric can practically hear his best friend's voice at the back of his mind demanding to know, What are you even doing here, dumbass? There's a fond, protective edge to the imagined tone, because even at his most self-deprecating he can't figure out how to make Angie sound cruel. He didn't tell her he intended on coming here tonight. He hasn't communicated with her today beyond texting to make sure her flight left on time this morning. He sure as hell didn't tell her about stopping into the office, or about the small packet of papers he found on his desk.
Eric definitely did not tell her about Friday. The kiss that brought this whole standoff out into the open, where he can't pretend it away anymore.
Why do you make everything so complicated? her phantom voice prods with exasperated gentleness. She sounds kind and comprehending, because Angie knows every single one of his secrets. She knows how he feels, and exactly how long he's been trying to rewire his heart. She knows he has tried and failed to hunt for a different job, bailing out at the last second each time, torn between a need for distance and a desperation to stay close to Vincent in any way he can. He's chosen to stay so many times, because he is helpless to choose anything else.
Even though Angie's not actually standing here arguing with him, Eric wants to bite back, It's not my fault. I didn't choose to fall in love. I didn't mean to kiss him. I can still fix this.
He's not entirely confident this is true. The mess he's made might not be fixable. He only knows he has to try, never mind the contradictory whirlwind of guilt and anger spinning behind his ribs.
But it looks like he won't be confronting anything tonight. Not like this. Not on Christmas Eve, in front of a house full of strangers and acquaintances, with eggnog and cookies and John Denver serenading the Muppets on a stereo he can just hear through the walls.
He's turning to retreat the way he came when the click of the front door freezes him in place. There's a faint creak of hinges behind him, and a rush of warm air, as the little bells in the wreath shake and jingle. Eric has half a mind to keep moving. His boot has already touched the next s
tep down. Sleet and heavy snowfall continue to pummel the sidewalk, but he can clearly discern the path that brought him. There are perfectly placed dents in the icy snow, tracing dark wet shapes along the pavement. It would be easy to follow them away from here without raising his eyes, get on the next bus whether it's the route he needs or not.
"Eric?" Vincent's voice sounds startled and confused.
There is something uncharacteristically gruff in the tone, and Eric freezes mid-step. His eyes close, just for a moment. Then he turns to meet his boss's wide, incredulous stare.
No matter how many times Eric looks at Vincent, he will never get used to how strikingly handsome the man is. Tonight, Vincent wears a soft sweater striped with understated blues and greens. Somehow the fuzzy edges do nothing to diminish his stern stature. He stands nearly a foot taller than Eric, skinny shoulders tight with surprise. His sienna brown skin is flushed warm at the cheeks, and snow is already beginning to catch in the tight coils of his closely trimmed hair.
He's so gorgeous the sight of him makes Eric's chest hurt.
One hand continues to hold the doorknob, but the other hangs restlessly at Vincent's side like he's not entirely sure what to do with it.
"Jesus, Eric, you're soaked through. Come inside." Vincent opens the door wider. The gesture is expectant, and Vincent's eyes seem sincerely worried as he tracks Eric's progress across the threshold. "Let me get you a towel and a mug of cider."
"You don't have to—" Eric starts, but Vincent is already gone. Vanished deeper into the house too suddenly to hear any answer.
At least the front hall is empty. For all the cheerful ruckus Eric can hear, the noise remains at a reassuring distance. No one comes to investigate his presence as he shrugs grudgingly out of his sodden winter garments. His skin, always pale, looks white as death from the cold when he removes his gloves. His knit hat is indeed soggy all the way through, and Eric suddenly wonders how he'll survive the trip home without giving himself frostbite. Maybe Vincent can loan him some dry things, if Eric overcomes his own mortification enough to ask such a favor.
Fucking hell, he didn't think this through at all.
He's still blessedly alone when Vincent returns, and Eric allows himself to be guided into the first room off the main hall. It's a confused sort of space. Part study, part library, part piano room—he wonders if Vincent actually plays—and also apparently the place where all of tonight's guests have deposited their coats. Still carrying the outer layers he shed by the door, Eric sets them down now, as close to the radiator as he can manage without dripping on anyone else's things.
He reluctantly accepts the soft towel Vincent hands him—using it to scrub the icy rivulets from his hair and nape—and then more willingly takes the steaming mug offered next. He inhales the crisp aroma of cider and cinnamon, savoring the way heat thaws back into his numb fingers. After hauling his ass through sleet and snow, the warmth feels so good he could cry.
He doesn't drink the cider.
"What are you doing here?" Vincent asks, and the softness of his bafflement makes Eric bristle. There's caution in the tone. And kindness. And after working himself up into a froth on his way here, these things leave Eric even more confounded and irate than he was before.
He doesn't want Vincent's pity. Even worse, if Vincent isn't angry about what happened the last time they saw each other, why pull Eric's job out from under him with no warning and no explanation?
Looking into Vincent's eyes now, Eric doesn't know what to think. He's spent the last two days in a tumult of self-recrimination, playing and replaying a moment he can't undo. He hasn't gotten any real sleep since Friday—even less than his usual fragmentary patchwork of exhausted rest—and up until this moment, he thought he possessed some idea what to expect out of this conversation. But instead of all the worst case scenarios he's been conjuring, he finds Vincent peering at him with an earnest intensity that makes his face flush hot.
Or maybe that's just several blocks' worth of windburn hitting him all at once.
Continuing to hold the cider in one hand, Eric withdraws the crumpled bundle of paper from his pocket and brandishes it in Vincent's face. "What the fuck is this supposed to be?"
Vincent's expression instantly shutters. "The details of your promotion."
"Promotion," Eric echoes incredulously. Yes, he's spent years asking Vincent for increased responsibility. He has always craved more ambitious opportunities to show what he is capable of. But this is something else entirely. It may technically be a step up the corporate ladder—a major step up—but it's also a step away from the powerful nerve center of the company. Away from Vincent. It is uninvited distance.
Promotion or not, under these circumstances it can only feel like punishment.
"The research and development department needs new direction. Your name was put forward by several senior executives, and I thought it was time to—"
"Bullshit," Eric snarls, and the vehemence of the interruption clearly takes Vincent aback. It ends the pretense of an explanation, at least.
Eric closes his mouth, closes his eyes, forces himself to breathe slow and deep. He calms himself by force of will, until he feels less like destroying some valuable piece of decor. He lets the anger simmer away, and in its wake he finds something closer to guilt. He's fucked up on the job plenty of times, even in the years he's worked for Vincent. His temper doesn't always lead him to the wisest judgment calls, and it doesn't take much to make him overreach. But he's learned better strategies—largely from the man standing in front of him now—and Vincent has always supported him. He must have well and truly fucked up, to earn such permanent professional consequences this time.
When he opens his eyes Vincent is watching him, still wary but a little less guarded than before. Patiently waiting for Eric to continue.
"This isn't about my qualifications," Eric says more evenly, though a casual listener would never mistake his tone for tranquil. "This is about what happened in your office on Friday, and that's not fair. You can't just reassign me without giving me a chance to apologize."
Vincent's maddeningly handsome brow furrows. "Apologize?"
Disorientation swirls around Eric at the startled incomprehension he can suddenly feel trained on him. None of this lines up with his expectations for this conversation. He spent the entire commute preparing himself to burst in all guns blazing. Aggressive and confident and steady as a rock. He intended to make it clear exactly what he thinks of being brushed aside. Call Vincent out for being conniving and unprofessional, and dig his heels in. Whatever his own personal shortcomings, he deserves a chance to prove his feelings won't affect his work.
But now he's here and Vincent isn't even angry. Meanwhile Eric can't seem to reroute past the roadblocks of his own sheepishness and sullen guilt.
Unbidden, his mind presents him with a vivid fragment of memory. Friday night, the entire wing of the enormous office building empty but for himself and Vincent. It's a normal enough occurrence. Neither one of them is any good at packing up and going home when the work day is supposed to end, and that Friday they both stayed later than usual. Eric can't remember why, though it felt urgent at the time. He'd been overtired and undercaffeinated, desperate to finish whatever-the-hell it was before all their professional contacts closed up shop through the end of the year.
He doesn't know why Vincent was still there. Surely he could have delegated whatever dire task commanded his attention. Eric was already working late, and he couldn't complain about the overtime pay. He would happily have taken on one more task for the sake of the team.
No. He needs to be honest with himself. He didn't give a single damn about the team, but he would have volunteered for anything if it might take some of the weight off Vincent's shoulders. This admission earns him a pointed arch of eyebrows from the imaginary Angie in his head. She's been telling him for years to stop overextending himself.
Even now Eric has no explanation for the moment Friday went wrong. He remember
s consulting Vincent about... Vendor contracts? New hires? The tech support team? Something brought him into Vincent's office, and the pretext didn't matter nearly as much as the fact that Vincent was near enough to touch. Eric remembers raising his eyes from a handful of printouts and realizing just how close they were standing, and then the work falling from his hands. A kiss. Or maybe he kissed Vincent and then dropped the file from uncaring fingers. Hell, for an instant he could have sworn Vincent kissed him.
But that can't be true. There's no way that's how it happened. It could only have been Eric who stumbled across that irrevocable line. Without speaking a word he confessed years of guarded feeling, a spillover too blatant to clean up after the fact.
It was Vincent who broke the kiss and jerked away. Eric had never seen him look so astonished. His face, usually set in an expression of measured calm, contorted with shock. Vincent's mouth opened, his lips—every bit as soft as Eric had always imagined—parting as though he intended to speak, but no words emerged. For several seconds there was only a helpless sort of silence between them, and Eric couldn't move.
When Vincent fled the office, Eric's heart tore right out and followed. Even now he aches with the sting of rejection. The feeling is so powerful it competes with the humiliated guilt of what he's done.
"For God's sake, what can you possibly have to apologize for?" Vincent's voice cuts through the fog of embarrassment and memory. Eric snaps into the present with a jolt, shaken and unsteady. He doesn't know what to make of the sincerity behind Vincent's question.
It feels like a trap. Or a test. A cruel, pointless test.
But Vincent has never been cruel, and Eric squares his shoulders to stand as tall as he can. "I kissed you. And you're upset enough that you're sending me away." He pauses just long enough to draw a breath and steady his next words. "I'm here to tell you that's not fair. I'm good at my job. My feelings for you have nothing to do with it, and if you let me stay long enough to prove myself, I won't disappoint you."
Not Much of a Christmas Miracle Page 1
