Under the Felt Mistletoe

By Nell Iris

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2018 Nell Iris

ISBN 9781634868204

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

To anyone who loves gingerbread cookies and Christmas music and lighthearted fluff as much as I do.

* * * *

Under the Felt Mistletoe

By Nell Iris

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

Chapter 1

“Good morning, son. What are you doing outside on a dreadful morning like this?”

Grampa’s voice is loud and can probably be heard two counties over. I chuckle. Leave it to him to find someone he can speak to at—I glance at my watch—eight-fifteen on a Saturday morning when it’s raining cats and dogs outside. Frozen cats and dogs.

I cut out more stars from the red flannel fabric printed with tiny white flowers I found at a garage sale. I already have a huge pile of them but need more so I can make plenty of ornaments to sell at tomorrow’s first Christmas market for the season.

“I’m sorry, but the Freemans moved out a couple months ago,” Grampa continues. Apparently, the person had answered Grampa and intends to visit the old neighbors. “Nah, I don’t know. They didn’t care much for me or Finn, so we barely spoke to them.”

“Hah,” I huff with a shake of my head. Ain’t that the truth. The first time Mr. Freeman saw me after Gramps and I moved into the house after Gramma died a couple years back, I wore a black kilt and bright pink over-knee socks. Mr. Freeman’s eyes wandered between my clothes and my face and didn’t seem to think the outfit went with the scruffy beard I was cultivating at the time, because he snapped his mouth shut with a sound that could be heard from our side of the fence, and his big nose curled upward as though he smelled something foul. I told Grampa after that Mr. Freeman probably would have preferred a rotting corpse in his backyard over me.

And if there’s one thing Grampa can’t stand, it’s someone attacking his beloved family, so he agreed with that loud booming laughter that always melts my heart. We kept a polite distance to the Freemans after that first awkward meeting.

“Why don’t you come inside for a second? We have fresh coffee.”

I still can’t hear the other person, but I put down my rotary cutter next to my sewing machine on the desk in the living room I use as a work space and walk to the kitchen. I have yet to meet someone who’ll say “no” to my grandfather, and I better make fresh coffee since I just gulped down the dregs leftover from breakfast.

It doesn’t take me long to make a new batch. Both Grampa and I are equally addicted to the dark bitter brew of the gods, and I can make coffee with my eyes closed. The machine is already gurgling happily when the front door opens, and two sets of footsteps enter the house.

“Finn, my boy, I found a frozen young man on the street in dire need of coffee,” Grampa yells, his voice booming through the house. He’s such a loud man; he can’t whisper if his life—or mine—depended on it.

“Already on it, Grampa,” I call back.

The rustle of clothing reaches me as I get mugs from the cupboard. Grampa’s Santa mug. My cartoon Rudolph with a humongous red nose. And I choose Uncle Ford’s Christmas tree mug for our mystery guest.

“Brrrr. Those raindrops are two degrees away from being ice bullets,” Grampa says.

“Yes, sir. Very cold.”

My ears perk at the unknown man’s voice. He sounds polite. Quiet. And his tone is deep and rumbly, the kind that could make a man’s body tremble and shiver if he were close enough.

“Stop perving on the poor man’s voice,” I mumble under my breath and rummage around the pantry in search for something to serve with the coffee, but all I find is an empty package of Oreos. I huff my annoyance. Grampa is sixty-seven and has yet to learn how to throw away empty boxes. How Gramma tolerated it all those years, I’ll never know.

“The weather outside really is frightful,” Grampa says with a chuckle. “But not in the way Dean Martin meant it when he sang it, don’t ‘cha think?”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir.”

“Please take off your shoes. Finn doesn’t like dirt on his floors.”

I roll my eyes. Way to make me seem like a stereotypical, apron-wearing housewife from the fifties in front of the hot-sounding man. Silly old coot.

Padding footsteps approach the kitchen, and I turn around, curious about the owner of that knee-weakening voice…

And forget how to breathe.

Holy crap, it’s not only the voice that has the power to liquefy the bones in my body—he’s got the looks to back it up.

Dark chocolatey hair falls softly across his forehead, a well-groomed sooty beard surround lips with a pronounced Cupid’s bow, and he has the warmest brown eyes I’ve seen in my life. He stands taller than Gramps—probably somewhere around my own six feet—but he’s more muscular compared to my lanky frame. Not that he’s a gym bunny or anything, but hidden under a tight, soft charcoal sweater are broad shoulders, a drool-worthy chest, and a narrow waist tapering off into hips to die for. His legs look like he’s a runner, and I swear the tight, faded jeans are painted on.

If someone had searched my brain in order to create the perfect guy for me, this is who they would have come up with.

I swallow—where did all my saliva go?—and Grampa’s voice forces me to stop staring.

“There you are, my boy. This is my grandson, Finn.” Gramps’ introduction is made with the usual puff to his chest and warmth to his voice that never gets old. “Finn, this is Nelson…uh…sorry, son, I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Um. Freeman.” He steps closer and holds out a square hand with short, thick fingers and little tufts of hair on the knuckles. “Nelson Freeman.” His handshake is firm, but not crushing, and the expression on his face is serious, but not standoffish.

“Finn Lovett.” There’s a breathiness to my voice I desperately hope he won’t notice, and I shoot him my widest, most welcoming smile. “Please, have a seat.”

His hand lingers in mine for a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary, and when he withdraws, my palm feels cold and empty. I swallow a whimper.

Grampa knits his bushy, grey eyebrows together. “Freeman? Did you say your name was Freeman?” He sits in his usual spot with a discomforted groan. “Sorry about making a blasted noise. The old knees are creakier than they used to be.”

The flicker of a smile tugs the corners of Nelson Swoonworthy Freeman’s mouth and I have to turn away before I squeak or climb onto his lap and stick my tongue down his throat. Instead, I busy myself with the coffee and set Grampa’s mug on the table in front of him.

“Thank you, Finnster.” He lays a work-hardened hand on my check. “I couldn’t manage without him, you see,” he says to our guest. Then he narrows his eyes and pulls off the scrunchy I used this morning to get my unruly hair out of my eyes. My wild curls bounce over my ears and fall over my eyes.

“Don’t wear your hair up like that,” he grumbles. “It looks like a rat’s nest. How many times do I have to tell you?” Grampa turns to Nelson. “Finn has gorgeous hair, dontcha think? He got those lovely ginger locks from his mother’s side. Us Lovetts aren’t anywhere near that colorful.” He chortled. “Don’t you agree he’s lovely, son?”

Nelson lets his eyes wander up and down my body. His cheeks pink under all that fabulous facial hair, making him even more adorable than before. How that’s even possible? “Y-yes, Mr. Lovett. Lovely.”

I try not to squirm under his gaze as I silently curse myself for throwing on my most oversized comfy sweater that reaches halfway to my knees, and thigh-high, knitted socks this morning…and nothing else. In my defense, I had no way of knowing Grampa would rescue the man of my dreams from the cold December rain before lunch.

He doesn’t seem to mind my outfit, though, if the way his eyes linger on my thighs is something to go on. And if I stand a little straighter to make the sweater ride up so he can catch a glimpse of my thighs…well, only I know that.

“Would you like milk or sugar, Mr. Freeman?” I ask as I set down his coffee.

“N-Nelson, please. And no, black is fine.”

“Aaaaah, a man after our own hearts, right, Finnster?” Grampa chuckles, loud as always.

“Right.” I join them at the round kitchen table that’s been the heart of our home for as long as I can remember. “I’d offer you cookies, but someone—” I jab my elbow in Grampa’s side “—ate them all and didn’t bother to throw away the trash.”

Grampa grumbles something deep in his chest and waves away my complaint with a flick of his hand.

Nelson smiles. A real, shy smile, and it makes my belly quivery and bubbly. “I…uh…” He stands. “Excuse me for just a moment. I’ll be right back.”

He disappears from the kitchen and I raise an eyebrow at Grampa, who shrugs. Less than a minute later, Nelson returns, carrying a black tote bag with the words Have you tried turning it off and on again? printed in bold, electric blue letters. With a shy smile, he sits and takes a round tin from the bag.

“I…uh…have cookies.” He removes something from the top of the tin and shoves it in the tote bag, then he holds the tin out to me.

“You do?” Before I can take it, Grampa snatches it away with a happy hum.

I bump his shoulder with mine. “Behave.”

“Hah! Your Gramma tried teaching me that for nearly fifty years and didn’t succeed.” He pries off the lid and lets out an excited whoop. “Gingerbread!” He shoots Nelson a beaming smile, grabs a cookie, and promptly bites the head off the iced gingerbread man. “Fantastic,” he booms with his mouth full of cookie.

I groan and hide my face in my palms but can’t help smiling. “I apologize for Grampa. He is housebroken, I swear.” I look up again, but the rest of my apology dies on my lips as I lay my eyes on Nelson.

The cautious smile from before is replaced with a genuine one and his eyes shine as he looks at Grampa. He straightens his back a little; the movement is barely noticeable, but I can’t take my eyes off him so I see it.

His smile widens even more as Grampa beheads a second gingerbread man with his teeth. I snatch the tin from his hands. I want to be a part of this moment, too. I want that smile directed at me.

The cookies are beautiful. Someone—Nelson?—clearly has icing skills. The cookie I pick has a white beard and a jovial smile, and it’s a pity to eat it. But the scent of ginger, cinnamon, and cloves is too enticing for me to resist, and I take a bite.

I moan. Grampa isn’t exaggerating; they are delicious. Delicate and crumbly and the spices are perfectly balanced, and I feel like the Christmas Spirit takes over the house despite the miserable rain outside.

“I’m sorry,” I say after swallowing the deliciousness in two quick bites. “We’re not usually this uncivilized.”

“N-no. It’s fine. Great, actually. I’m happy you like them.” He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and his gaze flickers away for a second before returning to my face. “You do like them, right?”

“You can’t tell?” I nod in Grampa’s direction.

He’s reaching for another cookie, but freezes with his hand in the tin. “What?” He tries to look innocent.

Nelson and I look at each other and chuckle.

“Did you make them?” I ask, and Nelson nods.

Grampa rumbles in approval as he reclaims the cookie tin from me. “I haven’t had homemade gingerbread cookies since your Gramma died,” he mumbles and shoves his mouth full of cookie.

My heart clenches in my chest and I scoot closer to his chair, throwing my arm around his drooping frame. “Aw, Grampa.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “I miss her, too.”

Grampa clears his throat and rubs his cheek against the top of my head.

Nelson watches with wistful eyes. “Keep the cookies, Mr. Lovett.”

“I can’t do th—”

“Please, sir. It would make me really happy to know I gave them to someone who appreciates them.”

“If you’re sure…?”

“I am.” Nelson punctuates his words with a decisive nod.

“Thank you,” I say, and my knees grow even weaker. I’m grateful I’m not standing at the moment. He’s not only gorgeous and has a voice that makes goosebumps erupt along my spine, he’s kind and generous, too.

“Thank you, my boy. But none of that ‘Mr. Lovett’ nonsense. Call me Fenton, if you must. I prefer ‘Grampa,’ though. Everyone calls me that.”

I nod. “He’s right. Even Uncle Ford does.”

“All right. Grampa.”

Grampa beams at him. We drink our coffee in silence for a few minutes. The rain smatters on the windows and the wind howls, but inside is warm and friendly, and the smell of coffee and gingerbread cookies makes me sigh with happiness.

“Are you related to the Freemans?” Grampa asks, downs the last of his coffee, and throws a longing glance at the cookie tin, but resists.

Nelson’s smile falters and he stiffens. He looks at his mug and twists it around and around.

“You know what? That’s none of my business. I’m sorry I asked,” Grampa says.

“No.” Nelson shakes his hand and looks up. There’s a slight tremble to his chin, but he meets Grampa’s eyes with a bravery that takes my breath away. “It’s all right. You’ve been so kind to me.” He snags a cookie from the tin, but he doesn’t eat it, just keeps looking at it as if he expects it to answer in his place. “They…they are my parents and siblings. The Freemans are my family.”

Chapter 2

“Your family?” When he said his name is Freeman, I expected distant relatives. Not his parents.

“Yes.” He runs his fingers through his hair with choppy movements. “I was going to…” He gestures for the cookie tin. “They don’t want to…I haven’t seen…I don’t…” He tugs on his hair before letting his hand fall to the table. “It’s a long story.”

He looks at me, eyes brimming with sadness, and I want to pull him close and comfort him with my touch. I shove my hands under my thighs to stop myself from hugging a man I literally just met. “Families can be complicated,” I say instead.

“Very,” Nelson says and nods.

Grampa lets out a sputtering sigh. “I don’t understand people.” He stands, fetches the coffeepot, and divides the leftovers equally between us, his mouth set in a grim line.

Nelson looks at me, a curious tilt to his head.

“My parents didn’t want me,” I explain. I don’t have a problem with telling my story even to a perfect stranger. I never had.

“What do you mean?”

Grampa huffs. “My useless son got a girl pregnant because, apparently, neither of them had ever heard of condoms.”

“That earned me a lengthy and detailed sex ed talk when I was twelve.” I grin, trying to lighten the somber mood.

“At least I don’t have to worry about you getting someone pregnant.”

“Nope.” I grin again and shake my head so vigorously, my curls fly everywhere, and a strand gets stuck on my lip. I brush it away, and Nelson’s gaze zeroes in on my mouth. His eyelids are heavy, his interest evident. I shiver as tingles race all the way from the base of my neck down to my toes.

He shakes himself out of his stare. “What happened? With your parents? No, you know what?—you don’t have to answer that. I’m sorry for being nosy.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Gramma and Grampa offered to help with me, and my mom moved in with dad and them. But when I was two months old, my mom took off in the middle of the night without a word. We found out later that she preferred going to college over being a mom.”

Nelson’s hand flies to his throat. “What?”

“It’s God’s honest truth,” Grampa says. “My useless son stuck around for another couple years, but then he took off, too.”

“Oh, my God,” Nelson whispers.

I shrug. “I’m fine. Honestly. I don’t remember him at all and I’ve had a great life with Gramma and Grampa and Uncle Ford and my cousins.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“He does,” Grampa confirms. “Alma, my wife, God rest her soul, took him to three different psychiatrists to work through the trauma, but I’ve never met a happier kid in my life. Not even Fred and Fiona, and they have two parents and a dog and a white picket fence.”

“My cousins,” I tell Nelson.

“Have you seen your parents since?” Nelson rests his hand on the table, palm facing upward, open and inviting as though he offers me to take it.

I wrap my hands around my mug and silently scold myself for delusional thinking. “Not my dad. Uncle Ford paid for an investigator, but we couldn’t find him. Mom knocked on our door the day before my high-school graduation.”

“What happened?” Nelson leans forward, eyes round and big.

“We talked. She wanted to be my mom again, but all I saw was a stranger. If it hadn’t been for her wild, ginger curls, and Grampa’s reaction, I wouldn’t have known it was her. I looked at her and felt nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Nothing. Gramma and Grampa are my family, and I didn’t want her. After, Gramma dragged me to see a shrink again. Mom emails from time to time. Sometimes I even answer.” I shrug.

“Wow.” Nelson reaches over the table and brushes his knuckles over the back of my hand. It’s a quick gesture and he withdraws before I have time to react. “You’re amazing.”

Grampa nods and puffs out his chest like a peacock. “There’s no one like our Finnster.” He ruffles my hair and stands. “I’m sorry boys, but I need to rest these old bones.” He offers Nelson his hand. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you. Stay as long as you like, and feel free to come back anytime for a visit. Anyone who bakes gingerbread cookies like that is a good person in my book.”

Bright pink spots appear on Nelson’s cheeks. “Thank you, sir.”

“Grampa.”

“Grampa,” he confirms with a giggle.

I’m surprised I don’t swoon right off my chair. A giggle. Happy and bubbly and totally unexpected, and ohmagawd, could he be any cuter? It’s not even ten A.M. on a Saturday morning, and I have a crush on someone I met an hour ago. I’m in serious trouble.

Grampa leaves us and walks upstairs, and his slumping shoulders pull me out of my infatuation freak-out. He tries so hard to keep a brave face, but losing Gramma was hard for him. For both of us. But they were high-school sweethearts and spent all their adult lives together. I can’t imagine what that would feel like.

“I should…” Nelson gestures toward the front door.

“Where’d you park? On the street?”

“No, I walked.”

I look out the window with a wrinkled nose. “In this weather?”

“It wasn’t so bad this morning. And I have an umbrella.”

A shiver racks my body at the thought of stepping even a toe over the threshold and going out in the heavy rain. “You can’t walk in that. I’d offer to drive you, but Uncle Ford borrowed our car this morning.”

“It’s fine. I like to walk. I do it a lot.”

As if though the weather heard his words, the window rattles and the smattering of the rain increases.

“Seriously. Your umbrella won’t help against that downpour. You’ll be soaked before you’ve even passed our neighbor’s house. Please stay. At least until it calms down a little.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not. And if it’ll make you feel better, you can even help me cut some stars.”

“Cut stars?”

I jump to my feet. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

He trails after me into the living room and I throw myself down in my chair. “Make yourself comfortable.” I point to the other chair.

His gaze flits over my desk as he tries to take in my organized chaos. Gramma’s old orange sewing machine. The red flannel and the pile of fabric stars. Scissors, rotary cutters, paper templates, the prototype ornaments, and lots and lots of spools of thread. With big round eyes, he looks at the shelf stuffed to the brim with boxes of supplies and my beloved fabric collection that I would rescue if our house caught fire.

“What’s all this?” he asks as he sits.

“I love sewing. Gramma taught me when I was a kid. It was our thing. I’ve loved it ever since.”

“You a designer or a tailor or something?” He picks up the prototype star ornament, turns it over in his hand, studying every angle.

I chuckle. “God, no. I don’t have a fashion sense.”

He looks at me. At the black, oversized knitted sweater with the cable running down the front. At the thigh-high socks knitted in rainbow colors. He lets his gaze linger on my legs and the slight gap between sock and sweater—where a pale glimpse of my skin is visible—before he averts his eyes. “I disagree. I like what you’re wearing now.” The pink spots reappear on his cheeks and he stares at the star in his hands.

“Thank you, Nelson. I appreciate your compliment.” The pink grows in intensity and I decide to change the subject. “I make stuff. That—” I nod at the star he’s holding “—is a Christmas tree ornament. I’m making a whole bunch of them and I’m gonna sell them at the Christmas Market tomorrow.”

“It’s pretty. Different. Very unlike shiny baubles and glitter and tinsel.”

“Exactly!” My face breaks out in a smile. I’m going to strain my face from all the smiling I do around him if I’m not careful. “I’ve made others, too.” I pull one of the boxes from the shelf and take out a few of my other designs. Christmas trees. Hearts. Reindeer.

His eyes light up when he sees them and inspects them closely. “I bet a tree full of ornaments like these would look very…genuine. Homey.” He hands them back and I stuff them into the box.

“Yes. Hang on.” I grab my cell, open the photo album, and scroll through the pictures until I find what I’m looking for. “Like this.” I hand him the phone and show him our tree from last year. “Grampa wanted rainbow colors. He said he wanted a cheerful tree. It was our first Christmas without Gramma. I made these just for him.”

“Wow. It’s amazing.” He touches the screen with reverent fingers and blinks. “It looks so happy. It’s the prettiest tree I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

He takes one last look and returns the phone. “But what can I do to help? I don’t know anything about sewing.”

I beam at him, then hand him the star template and my scissors. “But I bet you know how to use a pencil and scissors?”

He nods, and I show him what needs to be done. He takes the simple task seriously, drawing immaculately straight lines on the fabric, and cuts out the stars, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. And he sneaks glances at me as I sew two stars together and leave an opening so I can stuff them later.

“If you’re not a designer, what do you do?” he asks after a few minutes of working in a companionable silence.

“I’m an assistant manager at a fabric store. An old friend of my Gramma’s owns it and I’ve worked there forever.”

“That must come in handy.” He gestures to the fabrics.

“Absolutely. Employee discount is the most beautiful word combination in the world.”

“I bet.”

“But I find most of my fabrics in garage sales or second-hand stores or antique shops. You know, where I can find it really cheap. Sometimes I buy old clothes and cut them up.”

“Clever. But what do you sew when you don’t do holiday ornaments?”

I shrug. “Anything, really. Quilts. Blankets. Pillows. Stuffed animals.”

“That’s so cool. I admire creative people. I wish I was one, too.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean? You’re creative.”

He shakes his head. “I could never come up with an idea like this. Or figure out how to carry it out.”

I tut at him. “Those cookies we just devoured like we hadn’t eaten in weeks? They were amazing. Yummy and pretty.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. I can’t bake. Cooking, I can do because I can improvise. But baking is more like chemistry and I don’t have the patience with measuring cups and scales. Besides, your gingerbread men all had a different expression on their faces. How you managed to do that with a piping bag, I’ll never understand.”

“I’ve never thought about it like that.” He keeps his gaze firmly on his task, but a satisfied smile plays on his lips.

“Are you a baker?”

He snickers. “Nope. IT-support. I’m good with computers.”

“That’s a great skill to have in today’s society.”

“It is. And I…didn’t go to college so I’m really happy someone gave me this opportunity.”

“I’m happy, too.”

We continue chatting as we make ornaments. I learn that he’s twenty-five—a year older than me—we both love going for walks, he hasn’t read a book since high school except cookbooks, and doesn’t understand my love for poetry, but he loves watching television and almost falls out of his chair when I tell him that I rarely do.

The atmosphere is light and upbeat, and we have no trouble finding things to talk about. No weird silences exist between us; it’s as though we’ve known each other for years.

Nelson is still here when Grampa returns from his nap. Grampa looks at us with a twinkle in his eye and waggles his eyebrows when Nelson can’t see. Then after giving an amused chuckle, he leaves us alone.

It’s not until Grampa asks if we want lunch that Nelson glances at his watch. He declines, telling us he has an afternoon shift. Luckily, the rain has stopped so he won’t get drenched.

I follow him to the door, trying to keep my face relaxed as my chest tightens with disappointment. I don’t want him to leave. I want to spend more time with him, learn everything there is to know about him, and try to make him laugh. Instead, I say, “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”

He smiles as he pulls on his jacket. Smiling comes easier to him now compared to this morning. “I had a lot of fun. Thanks for rescuing me from the rain.”

“That was Grampa’s doing.”

“Still.” He shoves his feet into his shoes, winds a scarf around his neck, and picks up his umbrella. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, and he can’t stop sneaking glances at me. Is it my imagination, or is he as reluctant to leave as I am to see him go?

I shift my weight from foot to foot. As Grampa turns on the radio and immediately starts humming along to the song that’s playing, images of him and Gramma dancing in the kitchen come to me and give me the courage I need.

“Um…what…are you…” I take a deep breath and try again. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“No. I have tomorrow and Monday off.”

“If you like, you can come to visit me and my little booth at the market. Have you been there before?”

“Never.”

“Then you definitely should come! It’s great!”

“T-that would be fun.”

“Awesome.” Giddiness bubbles up inside me like a geyser erupting in the pit of my stomach. I barely manage to restrain myself from whooping with joy, but I can’t stop a smile splitting my face in two. I give him the details on when the market opens and where to find me, then I hold out my hand for a goodbye shake.

He carefully wraps his fingers around my hand and looks me in the eye. His touch makes my palm tingle and my stomach buzz, and he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, and I want to throw my arms around him and…I take a deep breath before I make myself faint.

With a final squeeze, he lets me go. I follow him onto the porch and watch him leave. Before he turns left on Oak Street, he looks back at me. He raises his hand and gives me a happy wave, and this time I can’t help it. I let out a loud whoop as I wave back.

When I join Grampa and help him with the cooking, I am not counting the hours until I’ll see Nelson again. I’m not. No matter what Grampa says.

Chapter 3

Sunday arrives with clear skies and no rain, but instead, the temperature has dropped overnight and hovers in the low thirties. I arm myself with a thermos of coffee and dress accordingly: long johns under my orange bellbottom corduroy pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a turtleneck layered under my windbreaker, a fluffy scarf wound around my neck and a beanie that makes my hair look ridiculous. It flattens everything under the hat, but at the ribbed cuff, my curls explode in every direction with a vengeance.

A lot of people attend the first market of the season, and despite the cold pluming my breath in front of me, everyone is in high spirits and full of holiday cheer. My neighbor to the right, Mrs. Winterbottom—yes, that’s her real name—is dressed as Mrs. Santa and sells magnificent hand-crafted fir wreaths. On my left, Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers sell gold-brushed chocolate pralines that are too pretty to eat and taste even better.

Every vendor plays holiday music, greets the shoppers with a jolly “ho-ho-ho,” and a comment on the weather. The shoppers, in turn, have deep pockets and are eager to acquire the merchandise. People love my ornaments, and my stuff flies off the table. I will be cleaned out completely before the market closes if this continues. I need to spend more time sewing so I can bring lots more next week.

After a couple hours, huge powdery snowflakes start sailing leisurely from the sky, adding to the holiday feeling. The only downer on this fabulous day is that I ran out of coffee early. Mrs. Winterbottom forgot hers at home, and I shared mine with her. I wouldn’t let my worst enemy go without coffee if I could do something about it.

But in a lull between customers, a savior arrives.

Nelson. Carrying two paper cups in mittened hands.

Warmth flashes in my chest at the sight of him; his shy smile and brown eyes are warm enough to thaw the thin layer of ice from the pond in the middle of the park where the market is held.

“Hi,” he says, sounding out of breath. “I know you like coffee, but I thought maybe hot chocolate would be nice in this cold.” He holds out one of the cups, and if we weren’t separated by the table, I would show my gratitude by hugging the stuffing out of the man. New acquaintance or not.

“My hero!” I accept the offering, tear off the lid, and inhale. The sweet, slightly bitter aroma makes my mouth water. I take a small sip, but it isn’t too hot to drink so I have some more. I hum in happiness and smile at him. “This is awesome. Thank you so much.”

Nelson’s gaze is glued to my mouth, with eyelids heavy and lips parted. “You’ve got…” He sets down his cup and pulls off his red and white mittens, then he leans forward and swipes the pad of his thumb along my upper lip.

I draw a stuttering breath.

“You had chocolate on your lip,” he rasps, his voice so deliciously rumbly I feel it all the way in my bones. “There. All gone.” He does a final sweep before withdrawing.

I can’t help it; my hand flies to my mouth and I finger my lip as though I’m trying to stop the lingering warmth from evaporating.

“Thank you.” My voice is hoarse. Our eyes lock as he puts on the mittens. My breathing grows shallow and the Christmas music cacophony and loud buzz of the market-goers fade into the background. All I see is him. All I hear is his breathing.

“Finn. I—”

A loud clearing of a throat interrupts whatever he was going to say.

“Excuse me.”

I tear my gaze from Nelson and smile at the elderly man checking out my merchandise. Nelson grabs his cup and steps to the side as I serve the customer and send him away with all my remaining star ornaments and a solemn promise to bring more next Sunday.

When we’re alone again, I gesture for Nelson to join me.

“Your things seem popular,” he says as he walks around the table and stands next to me.

“Mmm. I didn’t expect it, to be honest.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. Means I have to make a lot more for next week.” I down the rest of my chocolate, giving a happy moan. “That hit the spot.”

“I’m glad.”

We watch the people milling around and checking out the wares, standing close enough that our shoulders brush against each other.

“Have you already checked out the market?” I ask.

“No. I bought the chocolate from a nice lady by the entrance to the park, but I walked right here.”

“You should. There’s lots of cool stuff.”

“I…yeah. I guess you’re stuck here for the rest of the day?”

“At least until I’ve sold everything.”

“If…if you run out of stuff before closing time, would you like to walk with me and show me your favorites?” He refuses to look at me but takes a small step closer.

My heart somersaults in my chest. “I’d love that.”

“Mmm.” His mittened hand brushes against my bare one, and on an impulse, I tug off the mitten and lace our fingers together. I glance at him from the corner of my eye to make sure it’s all right. His cheeks are bright red, and he smiles from ear to ear.

That’s a “yes,” then.

It doesn’t take long before every last ornament is sold, and Nelson helps me pack up my boxes, the hand-painted sign bearing my name—Finn’s Fabric Frills—and the important things referring to money, and carry everything to the car.

Then we turn back to the market. We walk slowly, weaving our way through the gathered masses, stopping at every vendor and checking out their goods. By a table full of snow globes in all shapes and sizes, he hooks his pinky in mine. It’s a careful move. Hesitant. As though he worries that I’ll reject him.

I don’t, of course. I’m not stupid. Instead, I take his hand in a firm grip and give it a squeeze. He bumps my shoulder with his and shoots me a smile, and I refuse to let go of his hand as we keep strolling through the park.

We walk past a table full of wooden toys and another selling stockings on which the customer can get their name embroidered while they wait. We resist the urge to stop and gorge ourselves at every divinely smelling food cart.

By a booth selling gingerbread cookies, I pull Nelson to a stop by tugging on his hand. I lean in and whisper in his ear, “They’re not as pretty as yours. Bet they’re not as tasty either.”

“Shush. She might hear,” he whispers back but beams with pride as we continue.

The chill nips my cheeks and I’m sure my nose glows in an unattractive red, but I don’t care. All I care about is his hand in mine. Accidentally brushing up against him. Sneaking more glances of him than of the merchandise.

He’s so clearly enjoying himself. His eyes shine with enthusiasm, he smiles a lot, and he has a kind word for every seller, even when he doesn’t purchase anything. All he buys are two pairs of fuzzy socks in dark gray color. “My feet get cold,” he explains.

On a whim, I pick up a pair of baby blue and a pair of hot pink, and after I’ve paid for them, I stuff them into his bag. “Your feet need some color,” I say, and he giggles. That shy, bubbly sound that makes my heart forget how to beat.

“You cold? Want something to warm you up?” I ask as we pass by a cart selling hot cider. He nods, and I buy us a cup each. We find a secluded out-of-the-way spot, where we huddle close as we sip the cider. The tartness of the apple and the spiciness of the cinnamon fills my mouth with happiness and I let out a sigh.

We don’t talk for a few minutes, just stand close enough to share body heat. His dark hair is dotted with fat snowflakes and some are even stuck to his beard. His eyes are bright, his cheeks rosy, and the hot cider has made his lips bright red and even more kissable than usual.

He looks at me from under sooty eyelashes. “Thank you so much for telling me about the market. It’s amazing.”

“I’m glad you enjoy it.”

“I do.” He averts his eyes. “And the company.” The last part is little more than a whisper.

“Me, too,” I whisper back. Just then, a snowflake lands on the tip of his nose, and without thinking, I kiss it away.

His eyes widen, and he looks at me, his mouth shaped like the letter O.

“Snowflake,” I say, giving half a smile and a shrug, as though that explains everything.

He lifts his hand and runs his fingers through the curls sticking out under the beanie. “Lots of snowflakes,” he says with a crooked smile.

“Not surprising. Lots of wild craziness for them to cling to.” I make curling motions with my hand to illustrate.

“It’s not crazy.” He keeps touching my hair with reverent fingers. “It’s vibrant. Lively. Just like you.” He lets his hand fall to his side and looks away.

I step into his line of vision. “Thank you. That’s a lovely compliment.”

“I mean it.” His voice gets even growlier when he’s emotional.

“I know.”

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth. “Good.”

We finish the rest of the cider in silence, with our free hands tightly clasped together. His palm pressing against mine is my new favorite sensation.

Did I meet him only yesterday?

When my phone goes off in my pocket, I groan. “Who decided it was a good idea to be available twenty-four-seven?” I dig out the offending object. A picture of Grampa’s smiling face flashes on the screen and I show it to Nelson. “I have to take this.”

“Of course.”

Grampa usually has brunch with his two best friends on Sundays, but their plans got canceled because one of them came down with a nasty bout of the stomach flu, leaving Grampa feeling chatty and lonely. As soon as I answer, he starts talking and doesn’t stop. He asks about the market and if I’ve sold anything but doesn’t give me time to answer. He rattles off a list of groceries he wants me to bring home but doesn’t breathe enough for me to acknowledge him. He complains about the cold, but at the same time argues with himself that yesterday’s icy rain was worse.

When he finally draws breath long enough for me to get a word in, I hurry to tell him I’ll stop by the store and be home shortly. Reluctantly, he hangs up.

I’m sad to cut short my time with Nelson, but Grampa rambles like that only when he feels the loss of Gramma especially hard. She was his best friend and confidante, and life without her is hard for him. So I try my best to be there when he needs me. Even if I’m walking hand in hand with a lovely man in a snowfall that’s too romantic even for a postcard.

Nelson is understanding, of course. Slowly, we make our way back to my car, where I convince him to let me drive him home since he walked to the market. When we reach his apartment building, he seems as reluctant to leave as I am to see him go. But then he gathers his courage and asks for my number with that adorable stutter he gets when he’s nervous.

We exchange numbers with a promise to keep in touch, then he steps out. I idle the car outside his building until he’s safely inside, giving him a smile and a wave. At the store, I add a few of Grampa’s favorites to the list of groceries, to try to cheer him up.

Then I drive home, thinking about Nelson the entire time.

Chapter 4

I’m hiding in the women’s bathroom.

I stare at the text I just sent Nelson as I pull up my feet on the toilet so they won’t be visible from under the stall. Not that anyone is using the ladies’ room this evening since it’s gay karaoke night at The Donkey & The Crown—my friend Billy’s favorite Irish pub—which is the whole idea behind hiding here. But just in case the huge handsy idiot oaf I’d met tonight has brain cells enough to think to look here, I don’t want him to see me.

I wish I’d stayed at home like I wanted to and not let Billy drag me out. I could have made more ornaments and daydreamed about Nelson. Or I could have read a book and daydreamed about Nelson or played cards with Grampa and daydreamed about Nelson. But nooooo. I had to be a good friend and go with Billy.

When a sigh slips out, I slap my hand over my mouth. And when my phone soundlessly indicates a new message, I have to stop myself from yelping with joy.

Nelson: I feel like I missed half of the story. Where are you? And why are you hiding in the ladies’ room? And what do the ladies think about this?

Finn: No ladies, it’s gay karaoke night. My BFF Billy informed me he needed to get laid, and if I loved him the tiniest bit, I had to come along and be his wingman. Billy’s very good at emotional blackmail.

Nelson: That doesn’t explain the hiding.

Finn: I ran into a guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

And isn’t that the understatement of the year. First, he wanted to buy me a drink, and I said “no.” Then he asked me to sing a duet with him, and I said “no.” Then he wanted to dance, and I said “no.” After that, he stopped asking and thought he’d just take what he wanted.

I shiver at the thought of his huge paw on my ass, his wet grunt far too close to my ear, and his hardening cock pressed against my hip. That guy needs a lecture from Grampa about consent.

When I finally managed to wring myself out of his grip, I ran further into the pub instead of running for the door. Like a stupid blonde in a horror movie.

Hence, hiding in the ladies’ room.

Nelson: Are you all right?

Finn: Yes. Except that I’m insulted by his bad pickup lines. “You wanna be the twink to my bear?” What’s up with that? I’m not even a twink.

I try to keep it light, even though I’m seriously rattled. He was just…so big. And persistent. I’m no shrimp, but standing next to him made me feel like a short, skinny twig. I’m not even wearing anything that usually provokes that kind of reaction. Regular jeans and a sweater, perfectly boring and appropriate for a pub night.

Nelson: You’re right, that was terrible. Are you sure you’re okay? He didn’t hurt you?

Finn: No, I ran away. I’m quick.

Nelson: Can’t you sneak out now?

Finn: Maybe. But don’t have my car. I came with Billy and he’s not answering his phone. I suspect he’s getting his cock sucked by his “I Got You Babe” duet partner. They had their tongues stuck down each other’s throats before the song was even over.

Nelson: Do you want me to come get you?

I wind my arms around my shins and hide my face. He’s too nice. If we lived in medieval times, he would have been an honest-to-goodness knight in shining armor.

I really want to take him up on his offer. I’d much rather spend time with Nelson than be here at the stupid pub anyway, and in the ladies’ room specifically. But it’s getting late and I don’t want to take advantage of him.

Before I answer, I try calling Billy again, but all I get is his voicemail. “Where are you?” I hiss, hoping Handsy Oaf isn’t listening for sounds from outside the door. How long can Billy get his cock sucked anyway? It’s not like there are a lot of places to hide. And if he left with that guy without telling me, I will never be his wingman again.

I want to scream in frustration.

The door to the bathroom opens, and I suck in a breath and hold it. What do I do if Handsy Oaf finds me here? Scream from the top of my lungs and hope someone comes to my rescue like I’m a damsel in distress?

But no one enters, and after a few seconds, the door closes again.

It’s enough to make up my mind and I let out a noisy breath as I type a reply.

Finn: If it’s not too much trouble?

Nelson: No! Where are you exactly?

I text him the details and he replies he’ll be here in twenty minutes. After a brief hesitation, I send him another text, telling him I’ll wait in the ladies’ room. I add a winky face emoji even though I feel anything but smiley right now.

Being curled up on a toilet in an abandoned women’s bathroom has a way of making me feel small and pathetic. Cowardly. I’ve never been the bravest of men or someone to seek out confrontation, but this is a new low.

Something about that guy got to me even though he didn’t hurt me. He looked at me as though he had the right to touch me. As though he already considered me conquered. And that’s what makes it impossible for me to unfurl my limbs and march out to the pub like I own the place, with head held high and a scathing remark ready on my tongue if he continues harassing me. So I’m staying right here.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opens again, but this time someone steps inside. “Finn? It’s me. Nelson.”

Nelson’s raspy, concerned voice lifts the heavy weight that’s been pressing me into the earth, and I almost fall off the toilet in my eagerness to stand, throw open the stall door, and scramble across the floor into his embrace.

I wind my arms around his waist and hide my face against his shoulder. And when he hugs me in return—one hand splayed on the small of my back and the other on my neck—that unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach finally evaporates.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“For what?”

“For not being brave enough to manage on my own. For making you come here at this hour. You hardly know me. You didn’t have to.”

“Oh, I had to.”

“Why?”

“Because you needed me.” He makes it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.

I allow myself to cling to him for a while longer. He doesn’t ask any questions, just holds me. His breathing is regular and steady. His presence is calming and feels safe. His acceptance helps me regain some confidence.

Finally, I straighten and step away. “Thank you,” I say again with a small smile.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” He knits his eyebrows together and looks at me, his gaze wandering from my face, down my neck, and over my body as though he’s trying to make sure for himself.

“I promise. I was just…I don’t know…I didn’t feel like coming here in the first place and then that guy…” I shudder. “And I didn’t have my car…and Billy…” I shrug, hoping he can make sense of my incoherent words that I hope don’t sound as rattled to him as they do to my own ears.

“You don’t have to explain.” His eyes are warm and concerned, and dammit, I’m gonna break down in a sobbing heap if he keeps looking at me like that and I don’t even know why.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

He grabs my hand in a firm grasp and doesn’t leave my side when I finally step out of the ladies’ room. My eyes flit around the pub, but I don’t see Handsy Oaf anywhere. Unfortunately, I don’t see Billy either.

“Want me to take you home, or do you want me to help you find your friend?”

I take another look around the place, but still no Billy. “I’ll text him and tell him I went home.” Or leave him a voice mail with a few choice words.

Nelson nods, we pick up my jacket, and then we’re out of there. It’s a relief.

“Do you want to go home right away, or would you maybe like a cup of tea and talk for a bit?” he asks when we’re safe inside his car, pulling away from the pub.

“I’d love a cup of tea.”

“I know just the place.”

* * * *

Later, we’re sitting in a red vinyl booth in a classic style diner. The last place I’d go looking for a nice cup of tea, to be honest, but it turns out I’m wrong. The green tea with pieces of dried strawberry and pink rosebuds Nelson suggests is lovely, and I relax even more.

“Thanks for this,” I say. “If I’d gone home right away, Grampa would have noticed something was wrong. I could never fool him, and I don’t want to worry him.”

“Your Grampa is…” Nelson shakes his head with a fond smile. “He’s great.”

I hum in agreement.

“Did he…how did he…?” He huffs and shrugs and takes a drink from his tea.

“It’s okay. You can ask me anything.”

He traces his index finger around the rim of his cup, a faraway look in his eyes. “How did he react when you told him you’re gay? I mean, he’s obviously fine with it now. I guess I’m just wondering if he always was.”

I chortle. “He probably knew before me. I’m one of those people who’s never really been in the closet. One who people always say ‘Oh, we always knew’ about. So he just…the safe-sex talk covered both sexes, and he didn’t raise an eyebrow when I introduced my first boyfriend to him without warning him he was gonna meet a boy. He…they…just loved me.”

“Oh.” Nelson’s shoulders sag and he blinks rapidly.

I get up and join him on his side of the table, making him scoot over a little before I sit. Without looking at him, I say, “I’m guessing that’s not how it was for you?”

“No,” he whispers.

“I’m so sorry.” I lay my hand on the table, palm up, offering him to take it if he wants to.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about it?”

“We don’t know each other that well. And you have no obligation to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But if you want to talk, I’m here to listen.”

He takes my hand then. “But you told me about you. The first time we met, too.”

“That’s different. I know everyone thinks it’s weird that I’m not more upset about my parents, but I’m really okay. Gramma and Grampa are my parents. The best parents anyone could have. My past isn’t painful for me like yours clearly is for you.” I turn slightly toward him.

He closes his eyes for a second. “I want to. Get to know you, I mean.”

“I want that, too.”

He turns to me. “W-would you…like to go on a date with me? A real one?”

I lift our clasped hands and press a feather-light kiss on his wrist. “I’d love to.”

His eyes crinkle in a smile.

“When?” I ask.

“I work late this week. I just got home when you texted. Saturday?”

“I have to finish up the stuff for Sunday’s market first.”

“I could come and help.”

“That’s not a real date,” I say.

“I don’t care what we do, as long as I get to hang out with you.”

I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Really? You liked cutting stars that much, did you?”

He rests his head on my shoulder. “Sure, I did.”

“Nelson, Nelson, Nelson. Are you too good to be true?”

“I don’t think so. But I guess you’ll just have to find out.”

“I look forward to it.”

“So do I.”

Chapter 5

On Saturday, Nelson arrives after breakfast. Neither of us wants to wait any longer to see each other again, so at eight-thirty on the dot, he rings the bell. He greets me with a shy smile and a soft kiss with cold lips on my cheek. Grampa joins us and welcomes Nelson with his usual loud enthusiasm.

Soon, we’re sitting at my desk and I give him the scissors, three paper templates for different sized leaves and a yard of green felt. “Go to work, slave,” I order him with a grin and a wink.

He lets out an amused huff, but he’s a very obedient slave. After a quick glance at the florist wire, green-colored tape, and a box of tiny white pom-poms laid out in front of me, he starts drawing leaves on the fabric. “What are we making today?”

“Mistletoe.”

His eyebrows disappear under his bangs. “How can you make this stuff—” he gestures at the supplies with his hand “—into mistletoe?”

“Easy-peasy. Hang on.” I grab the already assembled twig from the shelf where I’ve stashed it so it won’t be crushed and give it to him. I fiddle with the wireless speaker and the music app on my phone, and soon, Mariah Carey belts out how all she wants for Christmas is “you.”

“Wow. It’s beautiful.”

My chest fills with pride. It did turn out even better than I hoped when I spotted the felt in the half-off bin at work yesterday, and I’m happy with it myself. Ideally, I would have wanted to have more than a day and a half to make them, but the hard part—translating a vague idea into something real—is done and I can always make more for next week.

Or maybe I won’t make all that many at all. That way they’ll be more exclusive, and I can price them higher.

We make a great team. He cuts the leaves, I attach them to wire, and then I make mistletoe branches with the help of more wire and green tape. When the branch has twenty leaves or so, I add a few of the pom-poms as berries and twist everything into shape. Then I start the whole process from the beginning.

We chat the whole time. I tell him about how Billy begged my forgiveness for standing me up on Tuesday, but that I haven’t made up my mind on whether he deserves it or not. Nelson offers to help hide the body if I decide against forgiveness, and we both laugh.

When I channel my inner George Michael and start singing along to “Last Christmas,” Grampa yells from the kitchen. “I love you, Finn, but you know you’re allowed to sing only on Christmas Day. Don’t scare the crows!”

The scissors clank loudly as they fall to the floor when Nelson doubles over with laughter. “Oh, my God, I wasn’t going to say anything,” he chokes out.

“Hey. Stop ganging up on me, you two.” I try giving him a mock glare, but the joyous sound of Nelson laughing makes me too happy for any such endeavors. I bite my lip to not give him the satisfaction of seeing me smile, at least.

When I have five branches of mistletoe—besides my prototype—I decide to go for exclusivity and give Nelson another task.

The hours fly by, and I can’t believe it’s already lunchtime when Grampa herds us into the kitchen and stuffs us full of my favorite dish: spaghetti and meatballs in tomato sauce.

Nelson fits right in with us like he’s already a part of our little family. He and Grampa get along like a house on fire now that Nelson has lost some of his initial shyness around us, and they talk and laugh like two people who have known each other for years, and not a week.

I lean back in my chair with my hands clasped on my belly and just look at them. My beloved Grampa. My rock and very best friend. And Nelson, with his open gaze and genuine smile, thrives under Grampa’s attentions. As though he’s collecting laughter and old-man wisdoms for a later time when they’re not available to him.

My heart turns into a gooey puddle in my chest. I just wish Gramma had been here, too. It saddens me that she’ll never meet Nelson. They would have bonded over baking, and she would have tried to fatten him up since she declared me a lost cause on that front a long time ago.

I try to blink away the tears that threaten to leak out of my eyes.

“Finnster. What’s the matter?” Grampa pats his calloused hand on my knee.

“I wish Gramma was here.”

“So do I, my boy. So do I.”

But not even the mention of Gramma’s absence dulls the mood. Nelson smiles at Grampa and says, “Tell me about her.”

And he does. He entertains us both with stories from their long life together. I’ve heard them all before—or lived through them—so I take care of the cleanup after lunch and smile at Nelson’s gentle encouragement of Grampa. He’s genuinely interested in every word that falls from Grampa’s mouth, and I’m in deep, deep trouble.

Deep!

After a while, Grampa shoos us back to work and goes for a walk.

We work in contented silence, with the cheerful Christmas music keeping us company in the background. Nelson cuts small triangles out of red fabric with golden stars, and I sew them on a long ribbon, making Christmassy pennants to put on the tree instead of a garland. I try to keep from singing along to the music, but every time I fail, Nelson giggles a little.

If someone looks up “holiday cheer” in the encyclopedia, they would see a picture of us.

But then, out of the blue, without taking his eyes off his task, Nelson says, “My parents threw me out on my eighteenth birthday.”

My foot slides off the foot control at the casual way his words slip out, and I jerk up my head to look at him.

His face is blank, and he cuts and cuts and cuts as though he hasn’t just thrown a metaphorical bomb into the room. “My baby sister outed me by mistake. She caught me kissing my boyfriend and casually let it slip at dinner that evening. She was ten. It wasn’t malicious. Our family always talked about our days at dinner and she told us about this thing she’d never seen before, two boys kissing. She didn’t even say it was me at first, but our dad made her tell him. I was seventeen. They hardly spoke to me after that, and when I came down for breakfast on my eighteenth birthday, I was informed that I was required to move out that same day.”

My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, no.”

“Cathy, my sister, was devastated. We were very sheltered. Only allowed friends approved by our parents. We went to Christian private schools. TV only under supervision. We had a computer because they believed it would be a good career choice, but very limited internet access. She had never seen gay people before. Because even though our parents thought homosexuality was wrong, they didn’t talk about it to someone as young as her. Our church was of the fire-and-brimstone kind, but they lumped all deviants together and didn’t specifically point fingers at gays. She was such a curious child. I wouldn’t be surprised if her first word was ‘Why?’ Nothing our parents said ever lessened her curiosity.”

I kneel next to him and rest my hand on his thigh. “She sounds like an amazing person,” I whisper.

He nods, but it’s as though he’s not really here. “She is. I miss her. I wasn’t very close to my parents or my two older brothers. The feeling that you’re different from everyone on a fundamental level makes closeness difficult. But she was my constant shadow from the day she could walk. I adore her.”

His story is far too common—Billy was also shunned by his family when they found out—but the thought that someone could treat anyone like that, especially kindhearted, wonderful Nelson, makes my heart ache in my chest and rage burn in my stomach.

“The cookies I brought when I was here last week were for her. Gingerbread was her favorite, and I give her a tin every year. The first year, I made the mistake of knocking on the door and asking for her, but after that, I just left them on the porch.” He grimaces. “I don’t know if she ever got them. Or maybe she threw them away if my parents had poisoned her. But I used to imagine that she took them and ate them and thought of me. But this year, she’s not here. I don’t know what to do.”

I inch closer to him, snake an arm around his waist, and hide my face on his thigh. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He gently rests his hand on my head. Runs his fingers through my hair. Twirls a curl around his finger. “I’m so grateful for what you and your Grampa did that day.”

“We didn’t do anything special.”

“You made me feel like a part of your family, even if it was for only a short time. I needed that.” He rests his hand on my neck, and I shiver. “I’m okay, Finn. Mostly. I promise.”

I don’t understand how he can be, but I’m not questioning him. Nobody ever believes my feelings about my own fucked-up family story, and I won’t do the same and disrespect him or his feelings. “I know,” I murmur and rub my cheek on his soft, faded jeans. He caresses his thumb over the pulse point on my neck, and the touch sends tingles down my spine.

After a few minutes, I untangle myself, stand, and brush a kiss on his forehead before I take my seat and return to my sewing. “What…how did you…how…?” I make an irritated huff, not knowing how to finish the question.

“What happened to me after they threw me out?”

I nod.

“I was going to go to college, but my parents refused to pay for it, of course, so I couldn’t go. Luckily, I had some money saved up and a summer job. And the company I worked for—owned by an acquaintance of my father’s, by the way, that’s how I got the job—liked me and let me stay on after the summer. He even let me rent a room over his garage, but we never spoke about my parents.”

“That was very decent of him.”

“Yes. I suspect my father wasn’t happy about it, but I wasn’t stupid enough to question it.”

“Thank you for trusting me with your story. I’m honored.” Rage still burns hot in my chest, and I clench my teeth so I won’t spew out obscenities about his parents. That won’t be helpful at all. Instead, I breathe in through the nose, hold my breath and count to ten, then let it out through the mouth, trying to calm my anger.

“Have you tried to find your sister?” I ask when the fire has faded.

“No.”

“Shouldn’t she be eighteen by now? Away at college?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe your parents could forbid you access to a computer back then. But a college kid these days has at least an email address and access to computers at the library or in school. Maybe she’s on Facebook or Instagram or any of the other social media platforms. You could start looking for her there.”

“What…what would I do?”

“Write her a message. Tell her you miss her and ask her if she wants you in her life now that she’s old enough to decide for herself.”

He looks at me with eyes full of vulnerability and a slight tremble to his chin. “Do you think that would work?”

“I don’t know. But you said she was curious and eager to learn. If she managed to hold on to that quality, I think she would at least hear you out.”

Hope sparks in his gaze. “W-would you help me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” He puts down the scissors, flings his arm around my neck, and gives me a fierce, one-armed hug. “You’re great.”

I bury my nose in his hair and inhale. Mmm, bergamot. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I murmur.

* * * *

When Grampa returns from his walk, we’re hard at work. Both of us singing loud and proud to “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”

Grampa stares at us, shakes his head, and booms, “Dear lord, Nelson. You’re as bad as Finn.” He crosses the floor to inspect our work, clasps his big hands on our shoulders, and squeezes. “My boys,” he mutters. Surprisingly low for Grampa. Then he snatches one of the mistletoe branches. “We’re keeping this, Finnster. They’re amazing.”

Whistling along to the cheerful music, he fetches some tools and a stepping stool from the kitchen, places it in the doorway leading into the living room, and climbs on top. He hammers a nail over the door and hooks the mistletoe on it. Afterward, he admires his handiwork with a satisfied smile. “It looks pretty darned good there, Finnster. Pretty darned good.”

His praise fills me with joy and I walk over to him and fling my arms around him. “I love you, Grampa.”

He hugs me, slaps my back a couple times, and steps away. “You, too, my boy.” With a mischievous glint in his eye, he picks up the stool and walks away. “You’d better try it, though. Make sure it works before you sell it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask his retreating back.

“I mean you should kiss Nelson under that thing, what did you think I mean?” His cackle echoes through the house as blood rushes to my face so quickly I swear I can hear it whooshing in my ears.

I’m mortified. My face is burning, my ears are burning, my neck is burning. It’s not that I don’t want to kiss Nelson. I just don’t want my sixty-seven-year-old Grampa being the one to suggest it.

That’s it. I will walk out that door and emigrate to Europe. Grampa doesn’t like flying, he won’t follow me and humiliate me there.

Two soft hands on my waist bring me back to the here and now. “He’s right, you know,” Nelson whispers in my ear. He turns me toward him and takes my hands in his.

“He is?”

His gaze falls to my mouth. “Mhm. You don’t want dissatisfied customers, do you?”

“Umm, no?”

He drags his hands from my wrist up my arms, over my shoulders and rests them on my neck. His pink tongue darts out and he licks his lips. “Finn?”

“Yes?”

“I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

I grip his hips, finally daring to touch him. When his groin presses against mine, I almost faint. “Yeah.”

His eyelids fall to half-mast. His nose nudges mine. His exhales puff against my lips, making my body tingle and buzz and shiver. I hold my breath in anticipation, and surely my knees will buckle if he doesn’t kiss me soon.

And then he does.

It’s the lightest touch of his lips against mine. His beard prickles my skin and his fingertips flutter against my neck.

It feels so right. As though angels will start singing any second now.

The kiss is over as quickly as it started, and he rests his forehead against mine. “I’d say that was a pretty successful first test.”

I close my eyes. “Mmm.”

“Want to make sure it wasn’t beginner’s luck?”

I nod.

So we try again.

And again.

Epilogue

One year later

Me and Nelson, cutting fabric and sewing, racing to finish as much stuff as we can for tomorrow’s market, the last for the season. Mariah Carey singing about Christmas on the stereo. Steaming cups of coffee keeping our spirits up.

From the outside, everything looks like it did last year. But it’s completely different.

I’m not just saying that because Grampa’s no-singing-unless-it’s-Christmas-Day rule is being completely ignored and both of us are wailing along with Mariah, even though Grampa swears he heard a dog howling in terror when his owner walked him past our house. It’s not even because Nelson is in tentative contact with his sister now.

No, it’s because Nelson’s chair is so close to mine, we bump into each other constantly, and when that happens, we sneak a kiss or five. It’s because of lingering touches and heated glances and Nelson’s irresistible giggle. During this last year, Nelson has become such a vital part of our family, of my life, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with my heart in my throat, fearing that he’s a figment of my imagination. Too good to be true.

But a quick look at my phone and our texting history always calms me. He has yet to forget a “sleep well, we’ll talk tomorrow” message since we decided we were dating exclusively, which was embarrassingly short after we first met. Or no. I’m not embarrassed, I don’t care about that. I’m ready to scream out my love for him from the rooftops for everyone to know. I just have to say the words to him first.

We see each other most days of the week unless he works late, but don’t have nearly as many sleepovers as we would like. And I know he loves me even if he hasn’t said the words yet.

His actions tell me every day. His slow, reverent caresses on my skin when we’re naked in bed. His wet, hungry kisses and the way he gasps my name in my ear when we make love. The constant touches, the soft smiles, and the way he devours me with his eyes the moment he sees me.

But also, the way he helped me take care of Grampa when he got pneumonia in March. The way he embraces the rest of my family, my uncle and cousins. The way he’s there for us, all the time.

He makes me feel like I can fly. Like I’m the luckiest person in the world.

Now, I bump his shoulder on purpose, and he turns to me and ghosts a kiss on my lips. We try to keep the PDA Grampa-friendly whenever he’s around.

Speaking of Grampa. “Hey boys.” He folds the newspaper he’s been reading and gets on his feet.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

Grampa draws a noisy breath and scratches his neck, grimacing. “Finnster. You tired of living with your old Grampa yet?”

I glare at him. “What? No! Why would you even ask that?”

His shoulders fall from his ears and his troubled expression disappears.

“Why? Do you want to get rid of me?”

“Don’t be an idiot! That will never happen. Never. You hear?” I’ve never heard such fierceness in my life.”

“Okay, okay.”

He grunts. “Since that is cleared up, I was thinking…Nelson. Isn’t it time for you to move in with us?”

I stamp on the foot control and my body jerks, pulling on the fabric I’m sewing so the seam veers off in the wrong direction. I kick away the control, squeeze my eyes shut, and rub my forehead before turning to my boyfriend.

He’s frozen. Suspended in mid-air in the middle of a cut. His eyes take up half his face and his eyebrows have disappeared somewhere under his hair.

Gently, I take the scissors from his hand and put them on the desk. Then I lace my fingers with his and whisper, “Breathe.”

He nods and does as he’s told.

“Did you…?” I turn to Grampa. “Did you just ask my boyfriend to move in with me?”

“I did.” He crosses his arms and raises his head in defiance.

“Did you ask my boyfriend to move in?”

“I already said I did.” He puffs out his chest.

“Don’t you think that’s something I should discuss with Nelson?” I’m calmer than I would have thought I’d be if someone had told me a year ago that this would happen. I can’t even say I’m surprised. Or annoyed or offended. Grampa is a straight-shooter, has never had a filter, and always, always tells it like it is.

But oh-my-God-and-everything-that’s-holy…don’t let him scare away the man of my dreams!

“Well.” The unrepentant old coot slaps his hands on our backs. “I just introduced the subject. Go ahead and discuss it, I’m heading up for a nap.” He shoots us his most innocent grin, slaps our backs again for good measure, and leaves the room with a merry whistle.

My mouth is dry when I turn to Nelson. “Please don’t leave me because my Grampa is crazy.”

He presses his lips together and starts shaking, and I fear that he’s having a shock-induced seizure. After a heartbeat, he explodes in a fit of giggles, the sound reminding me of the pop of a cork followed by the fizz of overflowing champagne. Tears stream from his eyes and he stomps his foot on the floor.

“Nelson, please. I’m mortified.”

He fights to swallow his mirth and wipes away the moisture from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Then he leans his elbows on his knees and grabs my other hand, too. “I guess we should be happy that he wasn’t the one deciding when we should start having sex.”

I didn’t think I could feel worse, but Nelson’s words make me want to tear my brain out of my head and suspend it in bleach. “Don’t even joke about it,” I whine.

“I couldn’t help it.” Another burst of giggles erupts.

I turn away, trying to hide my flaming face against my shoulder, but he cups my cheek and nudges me until I look at him again. He still radiates glee, but his eyes are pools of molten chocolate and he gives me a tender smile.

“Do you think we should mentally prepare for him bringing up the subject of marriage next Christmas?” Nelson asks.

“Probably.”

“Don’t feel bad. He loves you.”

“I know. I just wish he weren’t so meddlesome.”

He cups my cheeks again. Letting his fingers toy with my hair. Nudges my nose with his. “Maybe he’s right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe I should move in. If you want to, of course.”

“Do you…do you want to move in?”

“Oh, Finn. Surely you know that I love you?” His words break.

I nod solemnly. “I do. And I love you.”

“I know.” He kisses me, and his soft, smiling lips against mine are pure happiness. After a few moments, he breaks the kiss, grabs my hand, and pulls me to the doorway. He points at the mistletoe twig I made last year and pulls me in for another kiss. I grab his waist so hard he’ll probably have bruises tomorrow.

“Nelson?” I hide my face in the crook of his neck.

“Yes, Finn?”

“Would you…maybe…like to move in with me?”

“I’d love to.” His voice rumbles deliciously and sends shockwaves of tingles and happiness down my spine.

“Yeah?” I dare to look at him now.

“Yes.”

This time I kiss him.

Sealing the deal under the felt mistletoe.

THE END

ABOUT NELL IRIS

Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies’ room), loves music (and singing along but, let’s face it, she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (“Make it so”). She loves words, poetry, wine, and Sudoku, and absolutely adores elephants!

Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender, or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.

Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love.

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

For more information, visit nelliris.com.

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!