The Chrismukkah Crisis Read online

  Ryan Taylor and Joshua Harwood

  Wainscott Press

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  THE CHRISMUKKAH CRISIS: A HOLIDAY ROMANCE

  Copyright © 2019 Ryan Taylor and Joshua Harwood. All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the authors, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, schools, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  All trademarks, product names, logos, company names, and brands are the property of their respective owners in the United States and/or other countries. All trademarks, product names, logos, company names, and brands used in this book are for identification purposes only. Use of these trademarks, product names, logos, company names, and brands does not imply endorsement. The authors and publisher are not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  ISBN: 978-1-7923-2224-2

  Written by Ryan Taylor and Joshua Harwood.

  Edited by Kiyle Brosius.

  Cover designed by MiblArt.

  Book formatted by Meg Bawden.

  “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

  Wuthering Heights

  Emily Brontë

  Acknowledgments

  First, we want to thank our mothers, who taught us to love the holidays. May the joy they instilled in us help make things a little brighter for you, whatever time of year you read this book.

  Our friend and editor, Kiyle Brosius, deserves more praise than we can possibly send her way. Her eagle eye, wonderful suggestions, and wealth of knowledge are invaluable, and her generosity, encouragement, and kind spirit are the stuff of which inspiration is made.

  We are also extremely thankful to Steven Clark, Charles Cohen, Gail Lambert, and Emily Muddle, whose gifts of significant time and effort made extraordinary contributions to our work.

  Jerome Clarke is an insightful reader, idea man, and patient cheerleader, and we owe him a lot of thanks. We also appreciate the help of Jesse Bennen, Marcy Davis, Diane Fair, Justine Smith, Lori M., and Marchelle.

  The book certainly wouldn’t be what it is without the talented and kind efforts of Meg Bawden, who did the formatting. Thank you, Meg.

  Finally, we are so grateful to you for reading this book. We thank you from the bottoms of our hearts.

  Monday Morning, December 5

  Washington, DC

  Matthew

  The metallic voice announced Friendship Heights Station. Only six more stops to go. I hated the hard, plastic Metro seats that always felt sticky, as well as the garish light that invariably threatened to give me a headache. The temperature was supposed to top out at eighty-four degrees that day, and the train was already a stinking oven that had wilted my hair and made me sweaty at eight thirty in the morning. If it weren’t for Frank Sinatra crooning “The First Noel” into my ears, I might have thought it was July.

  Thankfully, the guy who’d been sitting next to me yelling into his cell phone had just left, and I glanced up from my book to watch the people filing onto the train. It was always women or older men who came to share my seat, and I tried to guess who it might be this time.

  Of course, a guy caught my eye, and I did a triple take. He must have been over six feet tall, and his broad shoulders filled the door as he stepped onto the train. His boy-next-door face was framed by wavy brown hair that he combed loosely over to the side, and you could see ripped muscles through his perfectly fitted, royal blue pinstripe suit.

  He’s looking at you! He locked his brilliant amber eyes onto mine. I quickly tugged the earbuds from my ears (Sorry, Frank.) and smiled at him. Imagine my surprise when he covered the distance between the door and me in three big steps and pointed at the empty seat. “Mind if I sit?” Deep voice, great smile, built like a Greek god. Matthew’s in lust.

  My smile broadened into a grin. “Please do!” Embarrassing. He probably thinks you’re a weirdo now.

  The Adonis sat down, and I breathed him in, all designer cologne and sandalwood soap. After spending a few seconds getting his bag adjusted on his lap, he turned and stuck out a hand. “Hi, I’m Aaron.”

  I took his hand, and the spark that shot up my arm grabbed my breath away. His deep, soulful eyes went wide, and for a heartbeat or two, I couldn’t speak. A nervous chuckle finally escaped my lips. “H-hey. I’m Matthew.”

  “Good to meet you.” His rich baritone made him sound a little like he was growling. “Okay if I call you Matt?”

  “Sure.” I felt like fanning myself as I took in his broad grin. Although I usually preferred to be called Matthew, I liked the idea of this guy having his own private nickname for me.

  “Very good. Matt it is, then.”

  So it began. Jampacked into the narrow seat next to Mr. Muscle Dude, I crushed on him more by the minute.

  “Where are you from, Matt?”

  It was all I could do not to reach over and trace the cleft in his chin. “Buffalo, New York.

  “No shit? I went to law school there. UB.”

  Of course, he would be a lawyer.

  I wondered how old he was. I was turning twenty-five in a week and figured that he had to be about my age, but I couldn’t think of a way to work that question into the conversation. As we rode along, I mostly listened, answered his questions, and kept thinking that I was dreaming, that this incredible guy couldn’t possibly be talking to me.

  By the time the train got to Dupont Circle, I was taking inventory of my belly, searching for the guts to ask for his number. My stop was next, and I really wanted to see him again—just to talk. Yeah. Right.

  “Where do you get off?” he asked.

  Oh my God! Did he really just ask me that? Heat flooded my cheeks as the train started moving again. “Uh… what?”

  He grinned, and the glint of mischief in his eyes was way too enticing for a Monday morning. He knows exactly what he said.

  “The train.” He nudged me with an elbow. “Where do you get off the train?”

  “Oh.” Duh! “Farragut North, the next one.” Now or never. “I was wondering if—”

  “Cool, me too.” He slapped the top of my hand. “We can walk together.”

  My heart did a drumroll, and I wondered what happened if you had a coronary on the Metro. “Sounds good.” Excellent, Matthew, you managed not to gush. Mostly.

  Aaron

  I made a point of staying behind him while we walked up the left side of the escalator, so I could admire his very fine ass in action. Matt was thin but fit, and his artfully messy auburn hair, ivory skin, and hazel eyes were exquisite. He was a few inches shorter than me, and I was broader than he was. For the tenth time that morning, I thought about how nicely he’d fit up ag
ainst me. He wasn’t pretty; he was absolutely, categorically, unconditionally beautiful, and I would have his number before we parted ways.

  Up on L Street, I wondered which way he was going. I needed to turn left, toward 19th, but I’d decided to walk whichever way he was going, my meeting be damned. Wouldn’t be the first time somebody was late. He looked at me and I spoke up fast, afraid he was about to say goodbye. “Matt? You want to hang out sometime?”

  A peach blush crept up his cheeks. He took a couple of quick breaths and grinned like a little boy who’d just gotten his favorite toy for Christmas. “Yeah, that’d be great. Anytime, actually.”

  “Awesome.” I whipped out my phone before he could change his mind. “Let’s trade numbers.”

  When that was accomplished, I asked which way he was going, and he pointed in the direction of 19th.

  “Me too,” I said, and we started walking. “Meant to ask, what do you do?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Paralegal.” He laughed, a tinkly chuckle I definitely wanted to hear again. “I guess we can always talk about the law.”

  “Maybe.” I waggled my eyebrows at him. “But we can probably come up with some better topics for conversation.”

  He blushed again and my pants got a little tighter, but when he stopped walking, I wondered if I’d pushed too hard.

  “I need some caffeine,” he said. “Interested?”

  I looked at the sign in the window and realized that we’d stopped in front of a coffee shop. Shit! “I, um… I can’t.” Was that a flash of disappointment that crossed his face? Explain, quick! “I have a client meeting, and I’m almost late now.”

  “Oh.”

  That was definitely letdown in his eyes. That’s good, though, right?

  “Get your coffee,” I said. “I’ll call you, for sure. Tonight, okay?”

  He nodded, flashing a shy smile. “Tonight’s perfect.”

  “I promise I’ll call.” I gave a little grunt of frustration. “I’m sorry, I’ve really got to jet.”

  “Go,” he said, laughing. “We’ll talk tonight.”

  I took off down the street, hoping that he wouldn’t have second thoughts.

  Matthew

  He’s going to call me!

  I watched him hurry off down the sidewalk under DC’s anemic Christmas decorations, thoroughly enjoying the view of his butt pumping away. Now there was some nice imagery to keep me going through the day. He seemed to be the kind of man I dreamed about regularly, warm and sensitive, with a great sense of humor and a take-charge attitude. His killer looks and workout-boy physique practically had my tongue hanging out.

  Nonetheless, I had to be cautious. I’d fallen for a pack of lies way too often, and had been hurt a lot, most recently a couple of months back. My heart was still healing, so Aaron had to be for fun, only—if he called at all. That would be the first test. If he didn’t keep his word and call me that night, I would block his number and move on.

  The line wound all the way around the inside of the coffeeshop, but I couldn’t face a Monday morning without a caffeine bump. The office coffee varied between colored water and kerosene, so I waited. Fifteen minutes later, I had my twenty-four-ounce, triple shot, half-sweet, nonfat caramel macchiato in hand while I trudged down the sidewalk toward my building.

  It was eleven minutes past nine when I walked into the offices of Craig Swan, LLP, and of course the elevator took forever. I was a little frantic by the time I got to my desk on the seventh floor.

  “Murphy was looking for you,” Suzanne said. She was the secretary who sat in the cubicle adjacent to mine. The woman was a little cocoa bananas but usually okay to talk to.

  “What did he want?” I asked, taking off my jacket. Murphy was the partner she and I both worked for.

  “No clue.” The way she was craning her neck around the corner of the cubicle made her head seem suspended in midair. She had touched up her dye job over the weekend, so now she sported I-Love-Lucy-Redder-Than-Ever. “He said to tell you not to move when you showed up, that he’d be right back.”

  “Where would I go?” I turned on my computer.

  Her snarky laugh grated on my sleepy nerves. “All right, give it up.”

  “Give what up?” She was still peering around the side of the cubicle at that weird angle, and I got a little worried about her neck.

  “You’re smiling, which you haven’t done for weeks.”

  Come to think of it, my cheeks were getting a little numb.

  “Matthew Kennington! You spent the weekend with somebody!”

  I rolled my eyes and scrolled through my email while she stayed right there in my peripheral vision. Satisfied that nothing urgent was waiting, I looked at her again. “What would make you think that?”

  “Because you’ve been cranky since you found out what’s his ass was already shacked up with another guy and was cheating on him with you.”

  She would have to bring that up. I sighed and shook my head. “I didn’t spend the weekend with anybody. I curled up on the sofa with Netflix and a book, plus about three gallons of ice cream.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She drummed her mile-long fingernails against the wall of the cubicle. “Spill.”

  I held out for another minute—well, at least five more seconds. “Okay. I met somebody, on the Metro this morning. He probably won’t even call.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “On the train? Seriously?”

  I nodded.

  “He asked for your number?”

  “Yes, and I gave it to him.” I heard the excitement in my own voice, and when my chair creaked, I realized I was rocking back and forth.

  The disembodied head vanished, and footsteps thudded around the cubicle. The reek of stale cigarettes announced Suzanne’s presence, and she stood beside me with her arms crossed and her red hair clashing horribly with the mustard-yellow dress she wore. “Tell me you did not give your number to a stranger you met on that train. For all you know, he’s a crazy perv, or even a serial killer looking for his next victim.”

  I laughed at her. “He is not a serial killer, and I sincerely doubt he’s a perv, either.” No such luck. “What he is, is so handsome he made my eyes hurt. And he’s hot. As in scorching.”

  She twisted her garishly orange lips into a condescending smile. “You never know. Just promise me that if he calls, you’ll meet him in a public place.”

  “I already met him in a public place, but yes, we’d do coffee or something so I could get to know him better.”

  “He’s handsome?” She raised her eyebrows, the prospect of fresh gossip apparently more exciting than continued skepticism. “What does he look like?”

  I closed my eyes and grinned while I thought about Aaron. “Tall, over six feet. Brawny—really built. Brown hair, deep-set amber eyes, prominent brow….” I opened my eyes and remembered the way he sounded. “A voice to dream about, low and sexy.”

  “You deserve someone nice, Matthew.” Her smile seemed genuine, but you could never be sure. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I prom—”

  “Kennington!” Murphy appeared behind Suzanne. “HR wants you. Now.”

  What the hell?

  “You’re being transferred, effective immediately.” Earl Liswell, the director of HR, was a paper-thin man with lifeless eyes and a feeble, gray mustache, whose stiff posture and grating voice always made me nervous. He had on a white shirt and frayed bowtie, and his old-fashioned gray suitcoat was buttoned way too far up his chest. With his pointed nose and sour attitude, he made me think of Ebenezer Scrooge. I’d always figured him for a closeted gay man who took out his unhappiness on everybody around him.

  “Transferred where?” My brain was a little preoccupied, trying not to think about Aaron. “New York?”

  His horselaugh sounded more like Uriah Heep than Ebenezer Scrooge. “Alas, only to the twelfth floor.” He took a long sip from the bottle of water on his desk and eyed me curiously. “Your work is excellent, and they’ve lost their l
ead paralegal in Trusts and Estates.”

  “I don’t know anything about T and E.” And I don’t want to have to learn. “Isn’t there someone else who—”

  “Don’t waste my time. Do you honestly believe there is any possibility I will change my mind?” He gave one of those snorty snickers I hate. “You may not know much about T and E, but you’re a good paralegal and the world of Westlaw is at your fingertips. For whatever reason, people like you, and I have every confidence that you will do well up there.”

  I huffed and sighed. I may have even rolled my eyes in-between. “Today?”

  “Immediately. Facilities is moving your personal things as we speak. Get up to the twelfth floor and check in with Lidia Hart. She’s the staff supervisor up there, and she will brief you on your new duties.”

  I sighed again and must have waited too long.

  “Now, Mr. Kennington.” Liswell flicked his hand impatiently toward the door. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

  I dragged my feet to the elevator, pouting all the way, and may have even pushed a few extra buttons to delay getting to the twelfth floor. Meeting Lidia Hart made me feel a little better. She turned out to be a thirty-something, buxom blonde with a charming gap between her front teeth, and I liked her immediately.

  “I hear you’re the best paralegal in the office, which is exactly what we need. Herbert Townsend and his associate are the busiest people in our department, and they’ll certainly keep you occupied.”

  “I’ve never worked in T and E, but I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be great.” A notification sounded on her computer, which she ignored. “It’s a good job, Matthew. Mr. Townsend is a partner, and he’s very nice. You’ll also work with Mr. Roth. He’s a first-year associate who has only been with the firm since September.”

  I nodded, hoping for the best. “I guess it’s now or never.”

  “Yes.” She started to get up but checked herself. “Oh, there’s a legal secretary who works in that office as well, but she’s out on maternity leave until February. Another secretary is covering for her, but I’m afraid some of that work may get put on you until she gets back.”