Wreck the Halls

By Jessica Payseur

Business has been good at Paul’s Café in Madison, Wisconsin—until a few months before Christmas. When Nick opens Nick’s Restaurant next door, Paul watches his customers leave for cheaper food and an owner who smiles more. With his livelihood at stake, Paul lashes out, trying to drive away Nick’s customers, but Nick won’t go easy, and escalating sabotage threatens to ruin the holidays for both of them.

Paul thinks all he wants for Christmas is to see Nick’s Restaurant go under, but the more he tries to drive Nick away, the less he’s sure he wants him to go. Nick is everything Paul secretly craves, but by the time he realizes Nick is all he really wants for the holidays, he might have ruined any chance for them to get together. And there might not be a present in the world that can fix that.

“HE’S BACK in the kitchen,” said the breathless waitress as she hauled away the mess of plates and napkins at the abandoned table.

Paul thanked her and turned, tugging on the bottom of his sweater. He hadn’t bothered to throw on a coat since Nick’s Restaurant was just next door to his place. He’d had a moment, so he figured he ought to introduce himself to his rival.

It had only been a few months, but Nick’s business was really eating into the profits of Paul’s Café, and Paul was not happy about it. He had been putting off a potential confrontation for weeks now, but as the calendar turned over into December and Christmas was fast approaching, the time had come to take some form of action. The first step was to get a feel for Nick.

The damned kitchen was loud and busy, like the rest of the place, so unlike Paul’s Café next door. Paul narrowed his eyes and scanned the area for anyone who looked to be in charge while workers wove around him.

A man dressed in a button-up shirt peeled away from the other staff and pasted a warm smile on his face as he caught sight of Paul. He was probably about Paul’s age, midthirties, although Paul never had been good at guessing that sort of thing. His hair was brown and long enough to get in his eyes, which were also brown. His white skin was pale, he was clean-shaven, and Paul guessed he was who he’d come to see even as the man motioned to him.

“Hey, I’m Nick. If you’d just return to your table, I’ll make sure you get your order ASAP.”

“I’m not here for food,” Paul said, not caring how much of an asshole he sounded like. How Nick had so much hair still left on his head annoyed him. Paul had started balding before he hit thirty. He grew a short, neatly trimmed beard to try to make up for it, but it figured his rival would have a full head of hair.

“What can I do for you, then?” Nick asked, smile unwavering.

“I’m your neighbor. Paul, Paul’s Café.”

“Right,” Nick said, the enthusiasm in his voice making Paul want to punch him. He resisted the urge and instead accepted the hand Nick offered. They shook. “I kept meaning to introduce myself, but things got busy here fast.”

“I noticed,” Paul said, releasing Nick’s hand the moment he was able. Nick had a good, solid shake, and Paul hated that he liked that. “Business is good?”

“Business is great! State Street’s the best location in Madison, as far as I’m concerned. Customers have been keeping me on my toes since the grand opening. They especially seem to like the pile of curds, smothered in gravy and bacon. How do you keep up with the crowds?”

“I manage,” Paul said, unclenching his jaw to let the words out. One of his popular items had been fried Wisconsin cheese curds topped with gravy. But apparently Nick’s had a better version available. Maybe Paul should make the bacon a standard topping and not an add-on.

“Good, good. Look, I’m kind of busy here right now, but thanks for stopping by.”

“No problem,” Paul said. The sooner he could get away from Nick’s positive, youthful face, the better. All he’d learned from this venture was that Nick probably appealed to customers more, and his food certainly did. Paul wondered whether the entire menu was similar to Paul’s Café, or just the popular items. He’d have to check on the way out.

Nick ducked back into the kitchen to return to whatever the hell he’d been doing before Paul had imposed on his busy schedule. Paul passed the stressed waitress on the way out and nodded at her. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been hired by an overenthusiastic asshole. Still, Paul glanced over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t paying attention before moving to the door. Like most places to eat on State, Nick had taped a menu in the window next to the door.

Paul ripped it off the pane. It was three pages long and he peeled off every one.

Yes, there it was, he noticed at a glance. Nick’s pile of curds, bacon included, and twelve cents cheaper than Paul’s version. Paul scowled. That was it. Nick could go fuck himself.

Paul took the menu with him and turned the sign on the door to read Closed before stepping out into the cold. He hoped it lost Nick at least one table.

IT WAS two days since he’d met Paul, and Nick was still bothered by the way he’d acted on the way out. At least, he assumed it had been Paul who had stolen his window menu and turned the sign on the door. Nick tapped his fingers on the counter as he waited for his staff to get in. He didn’t think he’d said anything that would provoke such a reaction, and he’d perceived Paul as being polite. He had come all the way over in the cold to introduce himself.

“Stressed at ten in the morning?” Sammie asked as she got in. She was Nick’s dishwasher and was fast as hell at it. “Most people wait until the customers start throwing fits before getting pissed.”

“Why are you in so early?” Nick asked, not wanting to talk about his neighbor. He didn’t want to admit out loud that part of why he felt so betrayed was that he’d liked Paul on first impression. He was put together, a well-groomed white man about Nick’s age, broad-shouldered, no-nonsense mannered. That someone Nick liked should betray him by trying to make him lose business…. And there was no way it could have been an accident. Paul had his own restaurant. He understood what turning the sign meant.

Sammie leaned on the counter. “Got a ride with my roommate, but her shift starts earlier than mine.”

Nick nodded. “If you want to clock in early, the bathrooms could be cleaned,” he said. He was going to do it himself, but if Sammie took care of it instead, maybe he could go over to Paul’s and smooth things over. He didn’t like to think the man hated him, after all.

“Yeah, all right,” Sammie said, not moving. Nick found her to be mostly agreeable, and she was definitely a hard worker, so he didn’t mind paying her. She did well back in the kitchen, too, bantering with the cooks, but she pulled out the deeper conversation for him. It looked like she was about to do that.

“Well?” he asked. “Time clock’s in the basement. You probably want out of your coat.”

Sammie rolled her eyes and took off her coat, which was blue like her hair and eyes. Her skin was white, her face round, and she was making one of those expressions Nick had come to notice meant she wasn’t leaving until he’d told her what she wanted.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “You’re not still pissed that asshole from next door stole your menu, are you?”

“It’s posted online,” Nick said, trying to deflect.

“Yeah, and he probably wanted to mess with you. I’ve been in Madison a while—Paul’s used to do better business. But it’s not your fault you have better food.” Sammie paused. “Actually, it is. But come on, these things happen.”

“I’d rather we get along.”

Sammie examined him a moment, maybe wondering whether he had a crush on Paul. The thought almost made Nick laugh. Sure, he’d broken up with his boyfriend a week after opening, but that didn’t mean he was ready to move on yet. Even if they had only been going out a few months. Nick was happy with how he’d been filling his time. And his feelings of betrayal had nothing to do with desire—he just didn’t like to think he’d pissed off his neighbor.

After a moment, Sammie seemed to decide he didn’t have romantic interest either. She shook her head. “I wouldn’t worry about that. I mean, how good of a person is he, anyway, if he turned your sign first time meeting you? You’re a decent guy, Nick. If the asshole can’t make the effort, he deserves to go out of business.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

Nick was not enjoying this conversation. He definitely needed to go over and have a talk with Paul. There should be enough business along State Street for the both of them—it was a hub of shoppers and tourists, the Wisconsin capitol down the far end as much of a draw for some people as the clothing stores were for others. And when people spent a day out, they needed to eat.

“Okay,” Sammie said, leaning in more. “I didn’t really want to mention this, but I was out back tossing trash while Kelly—she’s one of Paul’s waitresses—was on a smoke break. We chatted a bit, she said he wants to drive you out of business. Scours your menu after closing.”

“Paul’s doing this?” Nick asked, thinking he definitely needed to go over there.

“He wants your place to fail,” Sammie said. “I don’t really like that—hell, you gave me a job—and obviously you don’t either. So just let him stew. I know you’re a people person, but you’re not going to get him to change his mind.”

The back door banged loudly, and one of Nick’s cooks stomped in.

“Bathrooms,” Nick said, and Sammie straightened.

“On it,” she said.

Nick watched her follow the cook downstairs to punch in before moving to the door and stepping into the chill winter air. He wasn’t going to let Sammie talk him out of going over to Paul’s, and it’d only take a minute. He shuddered in the cold, then breathed out as he entered into the warmth of Paul’s Café, the tinkle of the bell over the door announcing his presence.

“Be right with you,” the waiter said as he moved to put an order in. There were already two tables at Paul’s—unsurprising, since he opened earlier than Nick did. Well, Nick wasn’t here for food anyway. He moved to the back of the café, looking for Paul and not finding him.

“Where’s Paul?” Nick asked as the waiter came back and grabbed a menu.

“Not here. Just the one?”

“I’m here to see Paul, not eat,” Nick said, smiling.

The waiter eyed him and let the menu fall back onto the stack of printed cardstock. “Like I said, not here. Not sure when he’ll be back either. Apparently the guy next door’s a bastard and Paul’s trying to figure out how to get rid of him. Are you here for an interview?”

Nick’s smile faltered. Paul was trying to drive him out? For opening next door, maybe taking a few of his customers? Nick wasn’t sure whether knowing that hurt more, or knowing he’d misjudged Paul so badly that he’d actually liked him the brief couple of minutes they’d spoken.

He focused on keeping his hands from clenching, but Nick was pissed. He’d come over here to patch things up. He’d thought Paul’s actions were part of some misunderstanding, but no, it sounded like he genuinely wanted to drive Nick out.

Well, two could play at that sort of thing.

“No,” Nick said, forcing the smile back. “I’m actually a new hire. Paul told me to come in today. I guess that means you can go home?” He paused when he saw the waiter glance at the tables. “I’ve already had a couple of training days here, so I can handle a few tables until Paul gets back.”

After a moment, the waiter nodded. “All right,” he said. “My girlfriend has the day off today, so I guess that works.”

Nick played up his best newish-guy-on-the-job act as the waiter collected his things and left. He nervously straightened the menus and refilled waters at the tables, careful not to let anyone in the kitchen see him. He waited three whole minutes after the waiter left before heading back to his restaurant.

Maybe Paul would get the hint and back off after he lost a few customers.

PAUL CRINGED at the sound of Nick’s smoke detector going off next door and turned the music up.

“He owns a restaurant and burns all his food—how talented,” he said as he checked his pasta to determine whether it was al dente yet. “And he makes you talk to yourself.”

He glared at the wall he and Nick shared. The last person to own the place next door had rented it out to a quiet woman who Paul got along with well—mainly because he only had to nod at her in passing. But apparently Nick thought living above his business was as good of an idea as Paul had, so not only were they at odds with each other at work, they were stuck with each other after hours.

Maybe he’d be gone for Christmas. Paul liked the sound of that. His own family had more or less moved away, so it was usually just him unless they cared to fly out to visit. He was fine with that—he’d set up a little tree to put gifts from them under and called it good. Christmas didn’t mean much to him anyway, apart from annoying snow and annoying music and an annoying number of people in the stores.

Christmas shoppers down State Street were usually good for business, but this year he was competing. He glared in the direction of Nick’s place again. There was no way this energetic asshole was going to drive him out of business. Paul had been here for seven years. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

He strained the pasta, topped it with vegetables and tomato sauce, and considered turning down his music only momentarily. Let Nick suffer. He sat at the table and ate, looking over applications as he did. Four people had applied to be the new cook, but he wanted them to help him develop a new menu too. Or at least revitalize the one he had now.

“I just want whoever’s reliable,” he said as he shuffled through the papers. He’d been operating with one cook for a while now, so it was a key position to fill, but Paul also wished he had a smarter waitstaff. It hadn’t been a week yet, but he was still pissed about Nick getting his waiter to walk off the job. When Paul had returned from posting an ad for the new position, it was to find the cook handling the customers’ checks poorly and looking sour about it.

Fuck Nick. As far as Paul was concerned, that asshole deserved whatever he got once Paul updated his menu and figured out a few holiday specials. Maybe this would be the Christmas from hell for Paul, but it was possible he could start the New Year with the business next door for sale and the potential for another quiet neighbor in the future.

It was almost a shame. Nick was nearly charming. But Paul couldn’t play nice with a rival.

He finished his meal and switched off the music, thankful Nick had managed to turn off the smoke alarm at some point. Paul picked up his phone.

“Hey, this is Paul from Paul’s Café, I’m calling to set up an interview….”

It took about twenty minutes to contact everyone. One person had already taken a job, but he set cooking interviews up with the others and hoped one of them would be talented—and committed—enough for the job.

When he’d finished, he could hear faint Christmas music coming from Nick’s apartment. Paul gritted his teeth and ran through the list of possible reactions—pound on the wall, shout, turn his own music back on. He checked the time. It was late, but not so late he couldn’t pop out for a drink, so he decided to do that. By the time he had his dishes loaded in the dishwasher, coat on, and keys in hand, the music had stopped.

Paul glanced at the shared wall. Screw that, he was still getting a beer. He descended the stairs and opened the door, only to find Nick in the lot behind the buildings. Paul would have turned back immediately except Nick looked over at the sound of the door and saw him.

He was wearing one of those long coats that didn’t really protect against a Wisconsin winter, but it wasn’t yet the sort of bitter cold that tended to come in January or February. The asshole was fashionable. Paul was still working out an appropriate reaction—and berating himself for momentarily wanting to actually talk to Nick—when Nick took a step forward.

“Going out?” he asked. Nick’s voice wasn’t as cheerful as it was back in his restaurant, and Paul almost felt bad for hating him. But this was the man trying to run him out, so Paul recovered fast.

“I need a drink,” Paul said.

Nick scuffed at the slush on the pavement. “Yeah, what a day,” he said.

Paul wanted to snap at him. If he was overworked, it was only because he was taking Paul’s customers. Paul didn’t care how tired Nick looked, or that he was probably being more real with him at the moment. He was less obnoxious, but he was still Nick. Even if he tried to be friendly now, come tomorrow he would be Paul’s rival again. There was no reason to even try to talk to him.

“You mind if I join you? We don’t have to drink alone, then.”

Paul stared at Nick, who hadn’t bothered to look up as he suggested it. This from the person who’d sent his waiter home? What was Nick playing at? They were too far down the path of hating each other to have a drink. Paul opened his mouth to tell Nick he didn’t drink with enemies, thinking it was too late to care about being anything other than blunt, when his phone rang. He pulled it out. His brother, Mike. Paul had been avoiding talking to him for a couple months, but right now he knew who he’d rather speak to.

“I have to get this,” he said to Nick, holding up the phone. Well, Nick wouldn’t have to hear to his face how much Paul hated him. Today. “It’s my brother.”

“I can wait—”

“Don’t bother,” Paul said, turning back to his door. “He’s a talker.”

Paul answered as he trudged back up the steps to his place. He had a few beers in the fridge, and if Nick was going out, at least it would be quiet. He winced as Mike asked how he was, children screaming in the background.

Mike had been the son who’d done everything right. He had a wife, four children, two dogs, one house—and an obnoxiously successful career. Despite Paul being the one to open a business, it was Mike who was the adored son. After their sister, of course, who was the favorite.

Paul made awkward conversation and drank his beer, stiffening when Mike stopped talking about himself and started prying into Paul’s life. He should have seen it coming when the kids had been called away to get ready for bed, but Paul’s day had been long and he was only half paying attention.

“What’s new with you? Mom said the business next door filled.”

“That’s about the extent of the excitement around here,” Paul said, bracing himself for the inevitable.

“Any chance we’ll see you sometime?” Mike asked.

“No.”

Mike laughed like that was too fast of an answer.

“Seeing someone again?”

“None of your business,” Paul said, annoyed that he’d been single long enough for even his brother to notice. He ended the conversation fast and was considering another beer when he heard the strains of Christmas music again.

Fuck that. He was just going to bed.

“YOU’RE REALLY putting a tree up. In here,” Sammie said after punching out. She’d just finished up the last of the dishes and was texting for a ride. Nick’s Restaurant was wiped and swept down and most of the lights were off, but Nick was assembling a small fake fir in the few feet of window ledge space he had by the door.

“Really,” he said. “It’s two weeks until Christmas, and I’m actually behind with decorations.”

“Uh-huh. Is this because Paul’s put up lights and stockings?”

“What?” Nick asked, fluffing up the branches. Maybe Sammie would believe that he wasn’t walking past Paul’s to peek in every now and again. He wanted to know what Paul was doing—he seemed to be Nick’s nemesis now, and as such, it was Nick’s responsibility to keep an eye on him.

Also, decorations were a good idea. Nick had put a few things up in his apartment, but he had plans for this fake tree. Good plans. Christmas giveaway plans. He just needed to make a stop at the store to buy a few small items to put under the tree when he was finished. He’d probably make it a drawing, unless someone else on staff had a better suggestion.

“You’re competing with Paul still.”

“I was thinking of picking up a few prizes, tossing in a few gift certificates, and entering everyone who spends more than twenty dollars into a drawing.” Nick finished sprucing the fir and plugged it in briefly. The lights still worked well, even though the tree was a good five years old now and had been sitting in storage.

Sammie looked up from her phone. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “But make it thirty. Two for over fifty. And I don’t think you’re over him turning the sign on you.”

“That was weeks ago, and I messed with his waiter, so we’re even.”

“Right. That’s why you peer through his windows like he’s up to something, and he glares at me every time he’s around when I’m taking the trash out. You two are obsessed.”

Something about that annoyed Nick. He was used to his obsessions being sexual or romantic interests—someone he wanted to fuck, someone he wanted to get to know. He wasn’t sure he liked Paul being referred to as his obsession, not after how he’d almost hoped they could get to know each other the first time they’d met.

He’d told himself he was trying to figure Paul out that night in the parking lot, but really Nick wasn’t too sure if he’d wanted to have a drink with the man in order to learn what he might be plotting—or because he was intrigued by Paul. Grumpy as he was, Nick could see there was someone stubborn and loyal beneath that, and Nick liked those qualities. He himself had trouble settling. This was his third business in about a decade, more because once he’d gotten far enough, he got bored with everything and moved on to something new.

Generally this fucked up his relationships too. He was the best boyfriend—at first. Exciting and motivated, his boyfriends tended to enjoy time together so much, they decided they wanted further commitment, and then Nick was screwed. He just wanted to live, move from one thing to another, one place to another, as the mood took him. Still, he craved the kind of cool stability Paul had, but Nick could never seem to grasp it.

Sammie was staring at him. He leaned back and grinned at her.

“What do you think? I have gold and red ornaments to match the paint in here, or….” He reached into the bag and pulled out a package of glittery orbs. “Rainbow.”

“Red and gold,” Sammie said. “Unless you’re trying to send a message to Paul. I’m in the kitchen too much to notice—does he glare through our windows too?”

“I hadn’t noticed. I’m always running around,” Nick said, but he had seen Paul, on occasion, frowning inside. Sammie was right, though—the red and gold was more appropriate. He’d use the rainbow ones on his own tree, which already had a mismatched assortment of ornaments from his mother’s travels. She seemed to think they were good gifts, and despite it ruining any potential uniformity his tree had, he’d been hanging them so long that it would look strange to have something coordinated in his home. The rainbow orbs would go fine with the rest of it.

“My ride’s here. See you tomorrow.”

Nick said goodbye to Sammie and let the silence of the empty restaurant press in on him. The tree rustled as he placed ornaments, and the sounds of people and cars lurked faintly outside, but he decided the restaurant felt eerie at night. He hadn’t bothered to ask whether it was haunted when he bought the place, and he laughed at himself for thinking such a thing. But he still got up and turned the music back on.

It was Christmas music, of course. Upbeat, happy, nostalgic—a great way to block out the bubble of silence here and the noise of people along State. Nick could imagine Paul glaring at him if he heard it—Paul seemed like the kind of guy who loathed seasonal music—and almost laughed. Maybe if he was still feeling petty, he’d take a gift certificate over and give it to Paul as an insult disguised as a truce. He imagined Paul would hate twenty dollars of free food at Nick’s.

When Nick was finished, he decided he’d walk the long way around the block, more to peer in Paul’s windows than anything. He should be home by now, cooking something that smelled good and playing classic rock. Nick shoved his hands in his pockets to avoid putting on gloves and shook his head. It would figure Paul played music he liked.

To his surprise the lights were all on in the back of Paul’s Café, and only one small glow came from the windows of the apartment above, probably a night-light from the bathroom. Nick was confused. Paul’s closed half an hour before his restaurant did, and Nick had stayed late to put up the tree. He leaned in toward the window, almost pressing his face to the cold glass.

The front of Paul’s was dark, chairs stacked on tables, fake evergreen garlands and a series of red-and-white stockings visible even in the low light. But the kitchen area was flooded with light, and Nick could see movement. Paul’s silhouette emerged from the door to snatch a couple tableware rolls from a workstation and darted back into the kitchen.

Something was going on. Nick pulled back, suspiciousness gripping him more firmly with every step back toward his apartment. Paul was up to something. Nick didn’t know what it was, but he knew it had something to do with him. It had to.

Paul was still at war with him. He’d have to be wary.

“I GOT them,” Paul said, bursting into the kitchen and waving the new menus he’d just had printed. They had been a rush—but then, everything had been a rush. He’d had the new cooks in for working interviews, and although only two showed up, one was exactly who he wanted. He’d offered Erica the job immediately.

“Great,” she said, pulling away from prep to take a look at her work. Erica was young, trans, and always smiling. She had taken his cheese curd dish to the next level, and if it didn’t put Nick out of business by New Year’s, then Paul figured his café was doomed to fail anyway.

“There’s no way he can compete with this,” he said, laying out a menu. Erica leaned forward to peer at the listed food, Paul feeling smug. The fried cheese curds were now part of a chicken and waffles dish, waffle topped with fried chicken and curds, gravy, bacon, and green onions. It was more expensive than whatever Nick was serving—but it was better.

“Think I can take one home?” Erica asked, and Paul handed her a menu. Considering she’d done most of the reworking of the dishes, he couldn’t really tell her no. “So, are you two exes?”

Paul stiffened. “No,” he said, so quickly that Erica laughed.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s my first day, and I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on here.”

“Good food is what’s going on here,” Paul said, tapping the menu. “Nick’s been trying to drive me out for months, and I’m not going to let him.”

“Well, pork ’n’ curds omelets and kitchen-sink burgers are going to bring you business, even if they aren’t that healthy for you, that’s for sure,” Erica said. “You want me to stay away from him?”

“And his staff,” Paul said. “He tricked one of my waiters into walking off about a week ago.”

“Sounds like you’re at war.” Erica turned back to the kitchen. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you win.”

It was fairly easy for Paul—all he needed to do was advertise his brand-new menu and let word-of-mouth and Erica’s cooking do the rest of the work for him.

Two days after he switched over his menu, his place was full again, Christmas shoppers dropping in from the cold for rich comfort food. On the morning of the third day, Paul walked by Nick’s window to see how decreased his customer base was, noting there were definitely fewer people than normal eating there. By the afternoon he caught a glimpse of Nick himself peering in, none of his usual smile on his face.

Paul waved. His mood had definitely improved. He watched Nick turn and walk back to his restaurant as though he hadn’t seen Paul, and for the first time since Nick’s had opened, Paul felt like the place wasn’t a threat.

Well, it wasn’t anymore. Merry fucking Christmas to him.

The problem now seemed to be people mistaking his place for Nick’s.

“How many entries does this get me?” asked a customer as he brought over their bill. Paul liked to stay engaged with his customers—something he noted Nick also did, but he liked to think he was more professional about it.

He stared at the woman. “I’m sorry, what?”

He listened as she went into a story about a clerk in a store telling her about this place on State Street that served great food and gave you an entry into prize drawings for spending a certain amount on a meal. Paul focused on not frowning as she spoke, finding himself increasingly pissed as her tale went on.

“I’m afraid you’ve gotten Paul’s Café confused with Nick’s Restaurant,” he told her when she finished. “We’re the place with the good food. Next door has the prize drawings.”

“You’re not the same restaurant? I thought this was all the same place.”

“Sorry, we’re not,” Paul said, hoping she wouldn’t insist.

She insisted. She hadn’t gotten what she’d expected, and she apparently didn’t care to leave without something. Paul offered her a free dessert instead, glad when she refused and left anyway. He didn’t want to have to start handing out free food because Nick’s was somehow screwing him over again. He was annoyed the rest of the day and dealt with similar questions a bit more shortly than normal.

“Last table?” Erica asked at the end of the night.

Paul was taking a few dishes back, and he nodded at her. She’d been working nearly as many hours as he had every day, and he was hoping she was teaching the other cook what to do. He needed to reduce her hours back to something normal when he could. She’d said she was happy with extra work until Christmas, but Paul needed to be looking ahead constantly.

“Yeah, we’re all seated for the night,” he said. “Table eight?”

“I have the ticket here,” Erica said.

“Great. One last thing—could you make up a curds and waffles to-go after that?” Paul didn’t want to cook tonight, he wanted to eat delicious shitty food and drink. He’d pull out whatever last piece of pie was lurking in the cooler and call it a meal.

“Make that two,” said the last waitress on shift, sliding another slip over. She shot Paul an apologetic glance. “I got a to-go called in and figured you’d be all right with it. I mean, this table’s not getting up yet anyway.”

Paul nodded. He didn’t care. He stalked around the restaurant, righting things, then pulled out some paperwork and got to work at an empty table. By the time table eight had left, he was ravenous and more than willing to eat the last piece of apple pie even though it was a boring flavor. He pulled it out, boxed it up, and noticed two to-go bags sitting on the food counter.

“Sorry about that,” the waitress said as she walked over, pulling on her coat. “He just called again, said he was waiting in the parking lot.”

Erica flicked off the kitchen lights as she and the dishwasher headed out.

“I’ll take it,” Paul said, and she nodded. He scanned the inside of his now-quiet café before following his staff out back. They dispersed almost immediately, moving quickly through the snow currently falling. It was coming down hard; large, wet flakes taunted Paul with more work. He didn’t look forward to shoveling it tomorrow.

He saw the last customer walking toward him through the snow and pulled up short when he recognized who it was.

“Thanks,” Nick said, the word warm, but Paul noticed he wasn’t smiling. He had the money for his food in cash and extended it without meeting Paul’s eye.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The words were out of Paul’s mouth before he could really consider them, but he was pissed. Nick ordering his food felt like he was trying to steal Paul’s secrets. He’d only changed the menu this week—no way he wanted Nick to change his too.

“Getting dinner,” Nick said. “Who’s the last takeout for?”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Paul said. “What’s your problem?”

“Right now? I’m hungry.”

Paul was not amused. “You’re spying on me,” he said. He blinked snowflakes out of his eyes. “You’re trying to figure out what makes my food so good.”

“Mine’s still cheaper. Look, I was hungry. You’re the nearest place. I didn’t want to go walking in this.” Nick shoved the money at Paul again, but he wasn’t done being suspicious.

“You have your own fucking kitchen.”

Nick shrugged, smiled a little. “I’m curious.” He paused. “Do you want my money or not? The tip’s good.”

No, Paul didn’t want his money, he didn’t want his business, and he didn’t want to be stuck out here in the snow arguing with him. What he wanted was for Nick to be gone. He wanted to go home, get out of his work clothes, and eat. And the only way he could see that happening quickly was by giving Nick what he wanted.

Erica was a good cook. Even if he gave Nick this one dish, there was no way he could figure out how everything was made. Paul gritted his teeth, held out the to-go bag, and grabbed the bills Nick offered. Their fingers brushed, cold and damp in the snow, and Paul felt himself flare with heat.

Another burst of anger. Had to be.

“Enjoy your food,” he said, hoping it sounded like, “Fuck you.”

“Thanks,” Nick said, then indicated Paul’s bag. “You too.”

Paul turned and walked back to the building to open the door to his place before Nick could say another word. He didn’t want Nick suggesting they eat together like he’d suggested that beer.

“YOU JERKING off?” Brandon asked.

“Eating,” Nick said. “Fuck, this is good.”

He tried to tilt the phone away from his mouth a little as he dug into the curds, chicken, and waffle monstrosity in the foam container. It was growing cold, and it was going to kill him, but it was delicious. Fuck Paul. This just wasn’t even fair.

“’Kay. I was saying I’m going to be in Madison for New Year’s if you wanted to get together.”

“Mmmmyeah.”

“Seriously, put it down for a minute.”

Nick set the food aside and leaned back into the couch. Everything was quiet from Paul’s apartment next door, and he wondered if Paul was on his own couch right now, eating the same meal too. No, Paul was more of an eat-at-the-table person. He didn’t have enough fun with life. Nick was almost jealous. The normalcy of eating at the table was tempting—his own was covered with papers, junk mail, the box of rainbow ornaments, and the few Christmas cards people sent him, unopened.

“You currently single?” Nick asked. He and Brandon tended to hook up whenever their paths crossed. He couldn’t even remember when it started, just that it was normal to let off a little steam together. And Nick definitely felt himself getting wound up around Paul—he had a lot of steam he’d need to let off by New Year’s.

“Are you?”

“When am I not?” Nick asked. He eyed his food again, thinking he could microwave it if Brandon decided to chat for the next twenty minutes.

“There was that one time—”

“You’re dodging my question. Are you single?”

Brandon paused, and Nick got up and took his food to the kitchen. He pulled out a plate and tried to slide the gravy-topped pile of food out of the foam and onto the ceramic with one hand.

“It’s complicated,” Brandon said.

“And you still called and asked.”

“I thought we could catch up otherwise,” Brandon said. “Besides, like I said, it’s complicated. A couple of weeks and everything might be different.”

“Then maybe you should call closer to New Year’s.”

Nick managed to get the food onto his plate. He grabbed the fork he’d been using and scraped out the gravy that had pooled at the bottom with some of the bacon.

“Everything okay with you?” he asked. “You’re normally more into this. How’s the business going?”

“Great. Mostly. I’m locked in a battle with the next-door eatery. It’s all very epic.”

“You want to fuck him,” Brandon said without waiting for him to go on.

“How do you even know it’s a him?” Nick asked.

Brandon laughed. “I think I can tell by now. Just get it over with. Look, I’m not going to be mad if your two weeks of going out with this asshole completely overlaps when I’m there. There’s always next time. You know, six months or a year from now.”

“This isn’t something I can solve by sleeping with the guy. He’s not interested. We’re actually stuck in some sort of battle of the wits.” Nick decided he didn’t care; he was hungry. He shoved the plate in the microwave and heated it.

“Yeah, sure. I’ve seen you flirt. You’re an asshole.”

“Really, Brandon. First day I met him, he ripped my menu off the door and turned my sign to Closed.”

“He sounds perfect for you,” Brandon said, and Nick cringed. He didn’t like the tingle that shot along his spine at hearing that.

“So I convinced his waiter to ditch and go home.” Nick grabbed the reheated meal and returned to the couch, too annoyed at relating everything to make noises of joy at the food. “Now he’s hired a better cook and completely changed his menu. It’s taken some of my business—the food is that good.”

“That’s what you’re eating.”

“I have to know my enemy.” Nick stabbed a little of everything onto his fork—waffle, chicken, curd, bacon—and then ran it through the gravy. Food like this might put him out of business if he didn’t find some way to deal with it. Or a way to deal with Paul.

“Well, how are you going to fuck him over next? Assuming you don’t want to do it the normal way.”

“Brandon, I could barely get him to accept money from my hand. I don’t think the guy wants to touch me.”

“I just want to know how you’re going to fuck with his menu. I expect a good story when I’m there visiting after all this.”

“Sure,” Nick said.

Brandon made a small noise of annoyance. “Actually, I have to go. Call me when you have an idea when you’ll be free over New Year’s. And good luck fucking your guy, one way or another.”

The moment Brandon hung up, Nick dug into the rest of the food, thinking. He leaned over, grabbed his laptop from where he’d left it at the far end of the coffee table, and went to Paul’s Café’s website. It had been a few days since the food had changed, and the menu online was updated. Nick scrolled through as he ate. This was definitely a better selection than Paul had a week ago. Most of it looked better than what Nick offered too.

He was screwed. Unless he could update his own menu quickly enough… but Christmas was in a few days, and he didn’t think he could change everything that fast. And for some reason, Nick felt he had to retaliate before Christmas.

He frowned. Brandon had mentioned fucking with Paul’s menu, not updating his own. It seemed a shitty thing to do, but overall there would be no harm done if Nick made a few changes to the listed food. And printing up a bunch of fake menus was definitely within the time frame Nick could manage.

He set aside his now-empty plate and sat back with Paul’s menu. He’d probably even have fun changing everything.

PAUL BEGAN to hope soaps or candles would move in next door when Nick went under. He wouldn’t even complain if someone wanted to open a smoothie place there. Really, anything that replaced annoying Nick with something laid-back would do. He wanted everything to go back to the way it was before Nick had shown up. Steady, predictable. Not giving him weird emotions and strange dreams.

Because that was exactly where he was now. With his café in no threat of folding, having Nick’s place next to his felt different, almost more companionable, and that worried him. Also, the dreams where Nick was randomly in his kitchen, placing parsley garnishes on every dish, even the pies.

Paul hoped Nick was going out of town for Christmas. A little privacy would do him good.

“Can you believe how much sun there is today?” Erica asked when Paul descended the stairs and entered the café.

He stared at her. “Yeah,” he said. He hadn’t bothered to open his curtains, but he probably should—his sister had given him a houseplant a few years ago. He hadn’t managed to kill it yet, but it probably could do with a little sunlight.

“After all the gray and the snow, I’m a little sad I don’t get to enjoy it.”

“We need to talk about reducing your hours,” Paul said, and Erica opened her mouth. “After Christmas, I know. How many presents are you buying if you have to put in sixty-hour weeks?”

“It’s closer to seventy and you know it. You’re here too. Got a long list?”

Paul didn’t bother mentioning he was here all the time because he owned the place and lived above it. It actually sounded kind of pathetic, even in his head. Instead, he invoked Mike. “I have more nieces and nephews than you can count.”

“What’s that, like, three?” Erica asked.

Paul rolled his eyes. There really was a lot of light coming in through the café windows; he pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “I left the windows closed. If I let the houseplant my sister gave me die from lack of sun… she probably won’t actually know.”

“What is it?”

“Spider plant, I think,” Paul said. Erica nodded, but he didn’t want to get into a discussion with her about house plants. He liked his ignorance about it, and he suspected she’d have too much information. “Be right back.”

Erica was right about the sun. When Paul pulled the curtains back, it flooded in, such a contrast to the past two weeks or so of gray skies and snow that he got caught up staring around his place for a moment. It wasn’t cluttered, but it still felt depressing to him. Nobody ever visited, so his walls were still blank and unpainted. He’d gotten himself nice furniture, but the house plant really was the only thing that gave his space any life.

Maybe he should get a cat. Not a gray one.

He wondered what Nick’s place was like. He seemed to have done a bit of reworking when he’d moved in—at least, Paul had seen empty paint cans out by the dumpster, a discarded bookcase box, and a few other such indications that Nick had done up his place a little. If Paul dropped by with a beer, Nick would probably let him in. He’d wanted to go for one anyway.

Paul caught and berated himself. The fuck was he thinking, assuming he and Nick could be anything approximating friends? To envision himself going into Nick’s apartment—no, more than that, wanting to see what Nick had done with the place, his couch, his bedroom. Wanting to see Nick’s bed? Paul definitely needed a break. This business competition was obviously wearing on him.

He returned to the café, which was bordering on panic. Erica was arguing with the waiter, who seemed to be accusing her of whatever it was they were both pissed about. Paul blinked, shocked that he could be gone for twenty minutes and everything could go to shit in that amount of time. He moved to split them up.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from a glaring Erica to a grimacing waiter.

“You could tell me when you update your menu,” the waiter said. “I didn’t realize it changed every couple days.”

“And I told him it was just the one change,” Erica said, gesturing with gloved hand. “One new menu, no further changes. Instead, he’s ordering five-star fish and risotto with truffle oil.”

“We don’t have any of that,” Paul said.

“That’s what I told him,” Erica said. “But he insists.”

The waiter, looking about ready to walk off, shoved a menu at Paul. “I just take the orders and serve. Tell me what I’m supposed to think with shit like this?”

Paul blinked, motioning for him to calm down, as a frowning customer came up to him.

“Excuse me, is there something wrong with our order?” he asked.

Paul stifled his building anger and put on a helpful expression. “We’re sorting that out now,” he said. “If you would just have a seat….”

“I need to know now if we need to pick a different place to eat. My wife and I have an appointment—”

“And I’ll be right over in a few minutes,” Paul said, gesturing for the customer to retake his seat. He waited until the man had returned to his table before looking down at the menu. It felt like it was supposed to—the right font printed on the right paper, Paul’s Café in the top corner even—but this was not his menu.

“The fuck?” he muttered, running his eyes down it. This was all food he’d expect to see in a nicer restaurant than his—bruschetta made with hydroponic tomatoes, bisque, steak with bleu cheese sauce. “What exactly is freshwater paella?”

“It’s what table four ordered,” the waiter said. “Also, the chicken-fried lamb.”

Paul gaped at Erica.

“I didn’t do that,” she said.

He shook his head. He didn’t believe she did either—she was far too overworked to have developed a new menu, and beyond that, she wouldn’t have needed to when she’d just finalized the replacement recipes a few days ago.

“Where are the old menus?” Paul asked, waving the one he was holding at the waiter. “I’ll go talk to the tables, but I have to have something else to offer them.”

The waiter started shuffling through the entire menu stack. When he came up empty from that, he went to check the one taped in the window.

Paul glanced at Erica.

“It does sound like good food,” she said, shrugging. “I mean, I’d like to have stuffed lake trout or crimini risotto. And the flourless chocolate cake with fresh berries and whipped cream? Sounds like the perfect dessert and breakfast.”

“Until we get the menus back, you don’t think there’s any way you could…,” Paul began, but Erica laughed.

“Hell no. We don’t have any local freshwater anything to put in a paella, and last I checked, we don’t stock lamb either. Do you remember buying hydroponic tomatoes or that nice a cut of steak? I sure don’t remember adding it to the vendor list.”

“I was worried you’d remind me of that,” Paul said, pushing back his anger again as the waiter returned, shaking his head. “All right, clear away all these menus. I don’t want any more people confused by this.”

“What are you going to say to the tables?”

Paul pulled out his phone and sighed. “That they should order based on what’s posted online. At least the clever prankster who went through the trouble of giving us new menus didn’t fuck up the site.” He paused. It figured that on the one sunny day of December, something shitty like this would happen. “Wish me luck.”

PAUL AT least waited until there was a dip in customers around two before making an appearance. Nick hadn’t really expected him to stay away, so he was ready when Paul came storming over. Or at least he’d thought he was. But one glance at Paul’s face, flushed from the cold and anger, his eyes alight, did something strange to Nick.

Shit. Maybe Brandon was right about Nick wanting to get in bed with him.

Maybe that was why Nick hadn’t just let everything drop after the menu change. Maybe that was why he had to push it with Paul, see how much he could be provoked, soak up his reaction. Well, it was a bit late for that kind of introspection now, with Paul stalking toward him in the back of his restaurant, waving a large piece of paper at him.

“Where are my menus?” Paul asked, voice surprisingly low. But then, he did seem to be growling.

Nick put his hands up. “What?” he asked, feeling gloriously like an asshole. He realized he liked pushing Paul’s buttons—so Paul wouldn’t have a drink with Nick, but he would come right over if he was irritated. And Nick liked being that important.

“You did this, now put it right.” Paul’s growl stirred something at the back of Nick’s skull, and he swallowed, smiled awkwardly, and took the menu. Paul stepped closer as Nick loosened his collar a little and made a show of examining the menu.

“Looks like I did something good if you’ve updated your menu again. This is way outside my ability.”

“Mine too, you bastard,” Paul said. He wrenched the menu from Nick’s hands. “Why the hell do you keep screwing with me?”

Nick couldn’t help it. He grinned.

Paul’s face twitched, and for a moment, they locked eyes, staring at each other. Nick desperately wanted to know just what Paul was thinking, but he seemed to be working through something. Nick’s own mind was running wild, and he searched for the right way to respond.

“You started it,” he managed at last.

Paul crushed the menu in his hand and pulled away. Nick watched as he ran a hand over his beard, wishing he could get Paul back in his personal bubble again. They’d been so close, Paul with his charged anger, Nick prodding him nearer.

“I’ll end it too,” Paul said. He threw the menu to the floor as Nick’s smile vanished. That didn’t sound good.

“That’s not a threat, is it?”

“Why, do you get off on that?”

Nick opened his mouth, then shut it.

Paul breathed out hard through his nose. “Stay away from my café,” he said, then stormed out onto the sunny sidewalk.

Nick watched him walk back to his café and enter, then noticed Sammie had come out of the kitchen to stare at him. She was standing behind him, and he turned as she spoke.

“Damn. You ought to give him those menus back.”

“You think it’s me too?”

Sammie made a face at him, nearly rolling her eyes.

Nick shrugged. “I don’t have them here.”

“You do get off on making him mad. Damn, Nick.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Nick said, not wanting her to misinterpret things. Not wanting her to think he was that bad. He liked having fun. He wanted to get a reaction out of Paul. But this probably had been too far. Considering he’d had to spend a decent amount of his own money on printing the new menus and had stayed up late creating them in the first place—

“—something for you to wrap it in.”

“What?” he asked, realizing Sammie had continued the conversation without him.

Now she did roll her eyes. “I said, if you’re going through all this trouble and money, you might as well just get him a gift. It’s Christmas—you can find an excuse. Mend things between you or whatever. If you don’t have any paper, I probably can find something for you to wrap it in.”

“Right,” Nick said. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I’ll manage.”

“You going to give him his menus back?”

Nick hesitated and glanced in the direction of Paul’s Café.

“You didn’t throw them out,” Sammie said.

“No, I have them. I think I’ll give him a chance to cool down first.”

Sammie shrugged and returned to her dishwashing.

Nick waited an hour, getting nervous as the time passed. Paul had sort of told him not to drop by the café, and while Nick could ask one of his staff to take the menus over, he did want to see Paul again.

But Paul probably didn’t want to see him. It was dawning on him he’d probably blown whatever chance he hadn’t originally realized he wanted. Shit. Well, he could apologize when he dropped the menus off. He wondered whether he should make an offering too. No, he shouldn’t overthink it.

Despite that, Nick found himself outside Paul’s apartment door after their restaurants had closed for the day, menus tucked under the same arm that held a six-pack. It was too much, Nick knew, to hope Paul would forgive him and invite him in to share the beer, but Nick had always been the kind of person to do what he wanted regardless of how slim his odds were.

He knocked and waited. Nick thought he heard Paul on the other side of the door, probably peering through the peephole, but he held back from saying anything. He’d pretend this was normal as long as he could. Long minutes passed, and Nick decided to knock again.

He gave up after twenty minutes, disappointed Paul wasn’t going to open the door for him. He really had fucked up if Paul saw he had the menus and still wasn’t responding. That meant he didn’t want to talk to Nick. He glanced at the beer, tempted to take it back and drink it all alone, but eventually decided to leave it too. Nick propped the menus against the wall, set the beer down in front of them, and left.

Sammie was right. The next step would have to be a real gift.

“I’LL GIVE the fucker lake trout,” Paul said as he typed in an online search. He was sure he could find a supplier who would sell him one of those miserable fishes on short notice. He’d have to wake up earlier than usual, which was an annoyance, but it meant he could be through with everything in time to ruin Nick’s day.

And after the stunt he pulled with the menus, Paul really wanted to ruin Nick’s day. They’d be even. He looked forward to watching Nick cope with the hell Paul was about to put him through. Assholes like Nick should learn to back off, or there’d be unexpected consequences.

He glanced at the stack of menus he’d thrown on the other side of the table. At least Nick had kept them in good condition—apart from the fact that he’d kept them for a fucking half an hour under his arm. Paul hoped the smell of Nick’s soap would wear off by the time he opened tomorrow. Paul had gone back to the stack several times to sniff it, and decided he’d take the top few and bottom few off and set them aside for now.

Paul reached over, pulled the menus to him, and inhaled. It wasn’t a bad smell, whatever Nick used, and seemed to compliment him, but Paul didn’t want that on his menus even if he didn’t personally hate it. He pulled away the offending sheets, trying not to think about what it meant that the smell of Nick didn’t immediately piss him off.

Didn’t matter anyway. He was dealing with Nick, lake trout style, regardless of what the asshole smelled like.

Paul had left the beer where it was, and when he left his apartment the next morning, he discovered it was still there. So maybe Nick wasn’t spying on him that closely. Either that or he was still hoping Paul would take it. Screw him. Paul didn’t need apology beer. He had a fish to pick up.

“The menus, great,” his waiter said when opening came around and Paul hauled down the stack—minus those that still smelled like Nick—and passed them over.

“New policy—have a look at the menus every morning before you hand them out,” Paul said.

“Yeah, sure,” the waiter said, and moved to go seat the people who just entered.

“I’ll have a look if he won’t,” Erica said from the kitchen.

Paul thanked her and then ducked out the back. The lake trout was sitting in his car, and he knew he only had a small window of time to get in and out of Paul’s Restaurant if he wanted his plan to have the full effect.

It was a bit of a thrill, Paul realized, sneaking about with schemes. Probably why Nick couldn’t seem to quit. Paul imagined sneaking into the café and swapping the menus had been exciting—well, he was about to get a little excitement of his own. Paul had observed Nick’s staff’s movements and figured he had enough time to duck in, sneak into the basement, and place his fish before Nick showed up.

Paul waited until one of the cooks went out into the snow for a smoke break, walking halfway across the parking lot like normal and turning his back on the door. Then Paul sneaked in the back entrance, located the door to the basement, and darted down it as quietly as possible. It took one glance to locate the heating unit. Once he’d place his lake trout in there, the fish would do the rest. By night the air in Nick’s Restaurant would be reeking and Nick wouldn’t know why.

He half expected to be caught—for the cook to come back, maybe, or the blue-haired dishwasher to show up, or even Nick himself to appear at the top of the stairs—but Paul deposited his fish and made his way back outside unnoticed. He felt a rush that couldn’t just be the shock of the cold air, and smiled a little to himself. That was a bit exhilarating. And strangely, he almost felt bad for Nick.

He snorted at the thought. Feel bad for the asshole who was trying to ruin his café? It had to be the thrill of the game they were playing. It was like a petty chess match, and Paul secretly enjoyed it. But he had to give nothing away, so he straightened his sweater and returned to his café to wait and see how the lake trout situation developed.

By noon customers were abandoning Nick’s for Paul’s. A few people mentioned the smell when they came in, and Paul imagined Nick rushing about, frantically searching for the source of the terrible aroma of warm fish. If he could last the day, Paul decided he’d go over and right the situation for him. He wasn’t a complete bastard, after all, and Nick had returned his menus.

“Uh,” said a waitress at about five. “There’s a guy glaring through the window. I think he’s from next door.”

Paul looked up from where he was running a credit card and saw Nick in the front window, silhouetted against the streetlights and the rapidly declining winter sun. He felt a jolt in his stomach and didn’t know whether it was guilt or fear, or something entirely different.

“Thanks, I’ll handle it,” Paul said, and headed over once he returned the card to the correct table. When it became clear Nick wasn’t coming in, Paul went out.

Nick stood on the sidewalk without a coat, his glare as cold as he must have been.

Paul put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. “How long you been out here?”

“Not long enough to cool down,” Nick said, but his white face was flushed red from cold. “Not long enough to stop smelling it either. There’s no customers.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Nick said. He did not seem amused.

Paul wished briefly he could return one of Nick’s cocky asshole grins to him, but he felt shitty seeing Nick this way. He sighed. “Nick, I—”

“Just tell me where you put it. In the ceiling?” Nick looked him in the eye, but Paul refused to back away. “I gave you back your menus and left apology beer. I thought we were done with this shit.”

“Apology beer,” Paul said, not caring that he sounded angry about it.

“I would have apologized in person if you’d have answered your fucking door.”

“What makes you think I wanted an apology from you?” Paul asked. He didn’t care that he was supposed to be telling Nick where he’d put the fish—he was getting pissed about past grievances. Nick had a lot of nerve thinking a few beers would set right the shit that kept piling up between them.

“What makes you think I wanted this to keep going?”

“I don’t know, Nick, maybe the way you gave me the most fucked-up grin when I confronted you. Or how you didn’t just give me the menus back immediately. Or—”

“Am I interrupting anything?” asked Nick’s dishwasher, the woman with the blue hair. She was standing just outside the door to Nick’s, examining them.

Paul turned to fix her with a hard look, but Nick deflated.

“If you prefer to tell Sammie instead where the fish is—are?—I’m not stopping you,” said Nick.

“Just one lake trout,” Paul said. “And I want it back.”

“So you can shove it somewhere else tomorrow?” Nick asked.

Paul glared at him. “So I make sure you won’t.”

Paul followed Sammie inside and immediately started gagging. The smell was terrible—a hot, scaly fish sure was potent. He actually felt guilty he’d done this. Maybe this was a bit far. He glanced at Nick, wondering if he’d try to make a police report about this. Paul hoped not.

They both trailed him as he descended into the basement and used a plastic bag to remove the lake trout from the heating unit. Nick motioned for Sammie to clean the stinking liquid under the fish and then marched Paul up the stairs. The back door was already open, letting in cold air to flush some of the smell out, and Paul noticed there were presents under the tree in the window now as Nick led him to the front door.

Outside, Paul turned to apologize to Nick, only to find him shutting the door in his face.

“WHAT DAY are you getting in?” Nick asked, pacing across his apartment and back again.

After Paul had removed the fish and he and Sammie had opened everything that could possibly let in a little air, Nick had gone up to his apartment to see how bad the smell was there. His nose was so full of the terrible fish that he couldn’t tell, so he’d opened up his windows anyway. Then he’d called Brandon. At the moment Nick wasn’t sure what he wanted more—to break something or to fuck someone.

“Didn’t I just talk to you like a day ago?”

“And now you’re talking to me again,” Nick said. “When are you getting in?”

“You sound pissed. What’s up?” Brandon asked, and Nick clenched his free hand into a fist.

“I need to know when I have to clean my apartment,” he said, cringing as Brandon laughed.

“You never clean. We’ll use my room. You make a pass at that guy?”

Nick gritted his teeth. This was not helping. “No,” he said. “He put a fish in my heating system.” At the pause he added, “It’s not a euphemism, Brandon. He fucked with my restaurant. Drove away my customers.”

Brandon whistled low. “Going to report him to the cops or something?”

“No,” Nick said. As angry as he’d been a moment ago, he felt spent now. Maybe it was being in the cold air for so long. He flopped onto his couch and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to take it that far. But I am frustrated as hell right now—”

A knock on his door frame made him look up. Sammie stood there, holding the six-pack Paul apparently still hadn’t accepted and wearing her matching blue coat. When Nick looked over, she hoisted the six-pack higher.

“You know, Brandon, I think I’ll call you back,” Nick said, and Brandon spluttered. “Nothing you can do about it until you’re here anyway. Have a nice night.”

He hung up, and Sammie crossed to him, set the beer on his messy coffee table, and fell onto the cushions next to him. She had a bottle opener as a keychain and pulled it out now.

“Sammie—”

“You gave him these, right? Well, he’s not going to drink them,” she said.

Nick didn’t care to argue further, so he accepted the stout and took a drink.

“Not wearing your coat?”

“Winter air is good for you,” said Nick.

Sammie rolled her eyes. “Keep telling yourself that. The cook and waitress you didn’t send home are still in the restaurant in case someone comes in, but I’m guessing no one’s going to be eating here the rest of the night. You looked like you could use a drink.”

Nick certainly could. He drank, not responding, wondering whether he should do something to get back at Paul. He could only see it escalating from here, though, until one of them really did have to report to the police.

“This has to end.”

“Don’t retaliate, then,” Sammie said. It sounded so simple coming from her, Nick snorted. “I’m serious. It’s about time you two made up and moved on with your lives.”

“We’re not a children’s special.”

“I get it, I do—you’re in competition. And really, you pay me, so fuck Paul’s. But someone’s going to get hurt if you keep this up. If you’re not a children’s special, you can act like an adult, Nick.”

Nick finished his beer and used her keychain to open another. “You know, I was just thinking things could get out of hand.”

“Be the bigger person, Christmas spirit, blah blah blah,” Sammie said. She took another drink. “I’m really helpful, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Nice place,” Sammie said, gesturing with the bottle around the apartment. Nick had turned a couple lamps on, too annoyed to be bothered with much light when he’d gone around opening windows, and the result was vaguely like mood lighting. The richness of the blue-gray paint on the walls was highlighted, but most of his other shit was buried under random crap. “Too bad you’re a slob.”

“I don’t have time to clean.”

“Uh-huh. What color’s the bathroom?”

Maybe Sammie was finished with the Paul-related conversation, but Nick wasn’t. His mind was still turning everything over, trying to make sense of all that had happened, how it had escalated so fast. They’d been one-upping each other in nastiness. If only—

“Green? Yellow? No—pink!”

“Why don’t you go look?” Nick asked.

Sammie shrugged, finished her beer, and got up. Nick opened another for her, trying to grasp whatever thought she’d just interrupted and failing. It frustrated him, which, if he was honest with himself, was just what Paul was doing to him right now.

Brandon was right, of course. Nick did want to fuck him. Paul was so put together, professional, and Nick—well—Nick wanted to show him a good enough time that he cracked and grinned. Showed off genuine happiness, a real smile, a hearty laugh. The fact that Paul was smart and quick enough to keep up with Nick, too, was more than he could tolerate. If they were lovers outdoing each other, Nick could imagine that would get pleasurably intense.

He swallowed as Sammie returned. Maybe he should confront Paul. No—that was too much. He had to find another angle. Getting along without trying to put each other out of business was the place to start.

“Tan,” Sammie said, flopping onto the couch and picking up her fresh beer.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“Don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. All coordinated with the cream and green towels. Not so much nice with the hair all over the toilet and sink. I refilled your hand soap for you, but it’s up to you to get that dangly crusty thing off the pump.” She shook her head and took another drink. “You’re disgusting, Nick.”

“But coordinated.”

“Yeah, that would count for more if you cleaned.”

“What’s the point?” Nick asked, and Sammie groaned.

“No,” she said. “We’re not having that conversation.”

“What conversation?”

“The Sammie-help-I’m-single conversation. I don’t want to hear about it, and I don’t want to help with it.”

“It’s Paul,” Nick said, then grinned when Sammie turned to glare at him. “What if I said please?”

“You’re seriously interested in the guy you’ve been trying to screw over for the past month?” When Nick’s grin widened, she sighed and took another drink. “You are. You haven’t learned by now messing with people is a shitty way to get them to go out with you?”

Nick blinked.

“You just want to sleep with him?”

“No, I… I’m not sure, actually,” Nick said. “I never really thought about it until now.”

“Well, you’re shit out of luck, whatever the case.”

“What if I—”

“Doubt it. And I’m not talking about this with you, remember?” She tilted the bottle back and finished the beer. “Nope. You think I can go early?”

Nick set his beer down as she grabbed her keys and took out her phone. Now that she mentioned it, he should really let everyone go home and just close the restaurant for the night. It was hours from closing time, but Sammie was right—no one was going to be eating at a place that reeked of lake trout. He might as well give the restaurant a chance to clear up—and himself a chance to clear his head. Figure out where to go from here with Paul. He almost had an idea.

“Might as well. You’re already drinking. You have a ride?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Sammie said, standing and moving toward the door as she texted. “Thanks for the beer.”

HE HADN’T expected to feel so shitty for putting the fish in Nick’s, but Paul did. He tossed the lake trout in the dumpster and went back to work, but the guilt gnawed at him all night. When he closed up, he walked past the restaurant only to find it too was closed, and he didn’t want to think about how much business he’d lost Nick, maybe even taken from him.

Paul’s eyes fell on the Christmas tree in Nick’s window. He didn’t want to be such an asshole, and certainly not at this time of year. By the time he was climbing the stairs up to his apartment, he decided he’d give in and invite Nick over to drink those beers after all. But when he reached his door, he found that Nick had taken them back.

It stung more than it should. Paul told himself Nick had every right to take the beer, but it sent a strong message. Paul had really fucked up.

And he realized now he wanted to make that right.

He debated on how to do that for a few days, while business picked up as everyone rushed to get their last-minute shopping done. Snow fell again, and the cold stayed, and there were no more incidents in his café. He did nothing to bother Nick either, and they settled into some kind of unspoken truce that only made Paul feel worse. He realized now that he had kind of liked clashing with Nick. But not enough to risk starting everything up again.

He’d been stupid to turn down that beer with Nick all those weeks ago. Still, Paul figured the holiday afforded him the opportunity to apologize without necessarily having to talk to Nick, and without it being too weird—all he had to do was find a small something to give him. He raked his brain and went out before work a few times until he had it. The last day Paul’s Café and Nick’s Restaurant were open before Christmas, Paul brought his wrapped present down from his apartment and waited for the appropriate time to sneak it over.

“What’s that?” Erica asked as he set it down and took a glance at the menus. Nothing wrong with them, which was good, but also meant Nick was avoiding him.

“Present,” Paul said, then, when she wouldn’t stop staring at him, added, “A cookbook.”

She kept staring until he explained it in more detail, then smiled and rolled her eyes. “I’ll let you know if I see him leave,” she said.

Paul passed a nervous few hours waiting, the cookbook lingering underneath the stack of menus. Erica was as good as her word, though, appearing midafternoon to pull him aside and say Nick had run up to his apartment. Paul used the front entrances, out his place and into Nick’s, and darted to the tree before anyone could tell him to take a seat.

The wrapping paper on his book was entirely different than the red and gold stuff Nick had used on the items under the tree. Well, if the green stood out, then it would only mean Nick would find it sooner. He wasn’t going to stick around and wait to get caught. Paul darted back into his café and did the rounds on the three tables currently full, asking whether everything was all right.

He didn’t notice his stockings were stuffed until closing.

“What is this?” Paul asked, but the waiter only shrugged and wished him a good vacation. He clearly didn’t want to stick around.

Most of the other staff left too, but Erica came out of the kitchen with a whole pizza loaded with toppings. She slid it on the counter, grabbed plates and forks, and served. “Food?” she asked. “I used a bunch of stuff that wasn’t going to last. Bacon, curds, chicken, fries, onions….”

“Sure, thanks,” Paul said, then reached his hand into a stocking and pulled out a small giftwrapped rectangle. “Do you know anything about this?”

Erica shoved a forkful of pizza in her mouth.

Paul sighed and unwrapped it, finding a chocolate bar underneath. Seventy percent cocoa. Not bad. Although damned suspicious. “You think it’s poisoned?”

Erica motioned to him. “Sit, eat while it’s hot.”

Paul relented, but only after pulling out the other items in his stockings, all also wrapped. There was something that seemed to be a small jar, another rectangle, something soft and squishy, and what had to be a bottle of wine. He left them on the counter and ate. “This is delicious, thanks. Now come on. What’s with the presents? It’s not you?”

Erica shook her head. “No, and I don’t want to get involved,” she said. “Judging by this, though, I’d say you have an admirer. One who maybe wants to stuff your stocking?”

Paul decided to drop the subject. He and Erica chatted about families and pizza and holiday traditions for a little while, and then Erica took off, leaving half the pizza for Paul. It would make a decent couple of lunches over his vacation.

Alone in the café, the silence pressed in on him. He couldn’t unwrap these here. He gathered everything up, turned off the lights, locked up, and climbed the stairs back to his apartment. Nick’s place was eerily quiet too, and Paul ended up turning a random movie on just for the background noise. He picked up the squishy gift and unwrapped it, but he already knew what it was.

Socks. A nice pair, stripes but no strange pattern. The jar turned out to be honey from a local farm, and the rectangle turned out to be a softbound pocket-sized notebook. Paul sat back, staring at the last gift. He’d figured out who this was from, and he didn’t know how to feel about it.

He unwrapped the wine to reveal a pinot noir from a local vineyard and a small note folded on itself. Paul set the wine aside, then hesitated. It was strange to be getting gifts like this, with such a personal flair, delivered into his store where no one but he would find them. He almost didn’t want to ruin the feel of this with a note—no one had ever treated him like they’d secretly admired him, and Paul couldn’t deny it felt good.

But he had to know for sure. He picked up the note, unfolded it, and read:

Thanks for a lively end to the year.

-Nick

PS: Sorry for being that asshole.

HE LEFT the book, still wrapped, on his cluttered coffee table. Nick had been a little surprised to see it there, lying under his tree, with the rest of the gifts he’d been giving away at the end of the day. But though everybody picked up their prizes, the book in its holiday-green paper remained.

At first he’d told himself it would go under his personal tree with the gifts he’d been getting in the mail from family and friends, and the couple of things he’d gotten himself. But when he got home, Nick had thrown it on the coffee table, rattling the beer caps he hadn’t picked up yet. It was still there in the morning when he got up, made himself coffee, and sank onto the couch to have a look at the weather.

Snow tonight, merry Christmas Eve—the meteorologist thought he was very funny. White Christmas and all that, just what everyone wanted to hear. Nick mostly needed to see how much time he had to get to the grocery store before he decided to wall himself in completely for a few days. He knew at least one of those gifts under the tree was a new game—he got it for himself, after all—and he intended to play through as much as he could before his restaurant opened back up after the holiday.

He set his coffee down and eyed the present again.

“Shit,” he said. He leaned over, picked it up, and put it back down again. There was no mistaking it for anything other than a hardcover book, and a large one at that.

This was either from Sammie—very likely—or Paul. And Nick very badly wanted it to be from Paul, even though he knew it was ridiculous to hope. Sammie was probably trying to cheer him up. Paul hadn’t drunk the beer and hadn’t come over yesterday, even though Nick was sure he must have found the presents in his stockings.

Nick sighed. He was usually not this moody. But putting this off would only allow him to hope for another day, and if this was from Sammie, he wanted to know now.

Nick set aside his coffee mug, picked up the gift, and ripped off the paper. “A cookbook,” he muttered. It was a big one too—one of those has-all-the-basic-recipes kinds that you’d give someone who was just starting out or couldn’t cook worth shit. Well, Sammie was right—Nick couldn’t cook worth shit. He very much doubted a book would help with that. He opened the cover to see whether Sammie had written anything in it and instead pulled out a Christmas card depicting a snow-covered town at night. Nick opened it and read.

This probably doesn’t make up for the fish, but I hope you’ll take it anyway.

The card wasn’t signed, but Nick could figure it out. Now he wished he had saved it for Christmas morning—waking up to a gift from Paul sounded like the high point of his time off. He stared at it for a full minute, trying to figure out what to do.

Nick couldn’t spend Christmas next door to Paul without speaking to him. He slid the card back into the book, picked it up, and went over to Paul’s door without bothering to change out of his pajamas. He was surprised when Paul opened the door. He was still in pajamas too, and he couldn’t look Nick in the eye, instead glancing down at the cookbook in Nick’s hand.

“You?” Nick asked, breaking the awkward silence. Paul nodded as Nick swung the cookbook up. “Am I supposed to be insulted or appreciative?”

“I was hoping…,” began Paul, then pulled the door open wider. “I have coffee.”

Nick couldn’t stop himself from shooting Paul a grin as he entered. He was being invited into Paul’s place. In his pajamas. He felt like he was practically scoring already.

“Do you have to be so smug about it?” Paul asked, shutting the door and moving to his kitchen.

Nick glanced around the apartment, finding it bland and sterile. Clean, obviously, much cleaner than his place, but without any personality. “Nice place. Really captures your character.”

“Now am I supposed to be insulted or appreciative?” Paul asked, but continued before Nick could answer. “You take anything in your coffee?”

“Something milky, thanks,” Nick said, grinning again as Paul sighed. He took a seat in the middle of Paul’s couch and waited to see what he’d do.

Paul brought the coffees over and handed Nick’s to him. “You’re an asshole. Move over.”

“Maybe I want you to sit next to me,” Nick said, a little surprised but a lot excited when Paul did just that. His heart raced. Merry fucking Christmas, maybe he had a chance with Paul after all. Nick felt bold. He put his hand on Paul’s knee and it wasn’t removed, though Paul did lean forward and set his coffee down on the table.

“I don’t know what to think about us both getting each other gifts,” he said, and Nick glanced at the five stocking stuffers sitting next to the cookbook on the coffee table.

“I don’t know how much I get to read into them either,” he said, and Paul glanced over at him.

“That was an apology. I feel like shit that I fucked up your place that badly. I let things get out of control.”

“Funny. I was trying to mend things too.”

“Were you? It seems to me like you’re trying to get laid.” Paul leaned back after he said it, and Nick tried to calm himself. Paul wasn’t pushing his hand off, jumping up, or otherwise trying to get away from Nick, which was a good sign. He thought Nick wanted to sleep with him and was okay with it.

“What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Nick, maybe all the charged grinning. The beer, the beer, and the wine. The gift overkill.”

“I thought your stocking could stand to be stuffed.”

“Right,” Paul said.

Nick struggled to stay calm. His cock was getting hard enough, being this close to Paul, that soon it would be visible even through his pajama pants. He moved his hand a couple inches farther on Paul’s leg and opened his mouth to get it over with, to break the tension and ask directly.

And found Paul’s lips on his. Not something Nick was planning on arguing with. He kissed back, hard, felt Paul’s hand on the side of his face, the back of his neck. Paul’s beard rubbed against his face, his tongue found its way inside Nick’s mouth, and Nick’s cock was suddenly completely, almost painfully hard. Paul was not kissing like he intended to just make out a while, no—Nick knew this sort of neediness. He felt it too.

He ran his hand all the way up Paul’s leg and found his cock just as hard. When he grabbed it through the soft fabric, Paul breathed out hard through his nose and pulled back a little. But Nick was not letting him get away. He stood, dropped his pants to his ankles to release his cock, and leaned forward to yank Paul’s pants down too.

Paul didn’t object, instead taking Nick’s hand and pulling him back down to the couch. Their mouths met again, Nick tasting coffee and desire, and he leaned forward over Paul. He grabbed Paul’s cock, felt it hot and rigid in his palm, and began to stroke. Paul shuddered beneath him, reached out, and grabbed Nick’s cock in return.

Nick’s brain went numb. All of reality was his hand on Paul’s cock, his mouth warring with Paul’s for satisfaction, his tightening balls and building orgasm as Paul pumped him. Nick didn’t hold back at all, didn’t do anything but enjoy the moment until it reached its inevitable conclusion. He shuddered as he came, Paul’s strokes demanding every drop of him, and Nick’s lips faltered, missing their rhythm against Paul’s. He felt the warmth and wetness as Paul exploded in his palm too, and Nick fell back onto the couch, panting, covered in sweat and semen and not knowing how much of any of it was his own. His mouth was damp and he ached still, but it was a relieved sort of ache.

He glanced at Paul. “Did we just—”

“Yes,” Paul said, and the word came out like a growl.

Nick grinned.

“IS THE cookbook because you want me to cook you breakfast?”

“It’s because you burn your food when you cook it,” Paul said, finishing his coffee. Part of him wanted to go back to bed and sleep this off. He was terrified what any of this meant and couldn’t look at Nick anymore. He’d be grinning. He’d be certain.

At the moment Paul was about the farthest from certain as he could be. Going back to bed, waking up and finding it had all sorted itself out, was immensely appealing. But that wasn’t going to work. Here he was, half-naked and limp on his couch, next to a very sticky, very pleased Nick, and there was no way out of the situation.

“They do say it’s the thought that counts,” Nick said.

Why he had to keep talking, Paul didn’t know, but it was getting on his nerves. He stood and refilled both their coffees before lowering himself back to the couch and changing the subject. “Did you have any other plans for today?”

Nick’s mood leveled some. “Shit. Are you kicking me out?”

“No,” Paul said, faster than he was expecting, more intensely than he was expecting. He paused and looked over at Nick, understanding dawning on him. Fuck, he liked Nick. Really liked him. He wanted him. It wasn’t just getting off. And Paul had only just realized some of the irritation, some of the draw, was because he actually wanted to engage with Nick. He’d been attracted to him from the first and repressed it until it exploded.

And now that it had….

“I want to know if I have to spend the day alone,” Paul said.

Nick’s grin returned. “Not unless you hate grocery shopping.”

“I do. But we’re not going to have anything to eat for Christmas if we don’t make a run to the store.” Paul glanced at the table. “I think we’re going to need more than one bottle of wine….”

“Paul, are you trying to weaken my inhibitions and get me into bed with you?”

Paul drank the rest of his coffee. “We can have Christmas at your place instead,” he said, and Nick grimaced. “What? I expect the tour after I show you around my place.”

Nick shrugged. “Your funeral,” he said, and proceeded to show Paul what he meant.

Paul followed him back to his place, which was better decorated, but filthy. It looked like Nick would be staying with him for now instead. Paul didn’t care to sleep in a bed with sheets that probably hadn’t been washed since they were first bought.

Together they planned meals for the next few days and split the cost of the groceries. It was strangely intimate, and though Paul resisted, he did enjoy it. When they weren’t out to get each other, he and Nick worked together well. They had like tastes in food too, which he supposed wasn’t surprising given their similar menus.

The day passed quickly, shopping and a bit of tidying, cooking for each other, putting off talking about the big topics and pushing off sex until they could barely wait any longer. Paul took Nick to his bed, stripped them of their clothes, and kissed him long, and gentle, and then harder. They indulged in each other, skin against skin, and fell asleep spent.

When Paul woke Christmas morning, it was to a hardness pressed against his bare ass. He moved a little, yawning, and Nick wrapped an arm across Paul’s chest.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he said into Paul’s ear, sending tingles down his spine. He was already hard too, and very awake now. “Want to see how many times we can get off in a day?”

“Is that how you’re going to make up for running out of presents for me?” Paul asked, pulling Nick’s hand to his nipple. Nick obliged, twisting and pulling, while Paul shuddered back against him and took his cock in his hand. He wouldn’t admit it—not yet, at least—but he loved morning sex. The thought of getting off, having coffee and breakfast, and then getting off again was immensely appealing.

Nick let him go a moment to get a bit of lube and wedged his cock between Paul’s asscheeks. He thrust, rubbing himself on Paul but not entering him, and returned to twisting Paul’s nipple, kissing the back of his neck. Paul closed his eyes and enjoyed it, not caring when he came all over his sheets and Nick released all over his back and ass.

“Good morning,” he said, and pressed backward until he smeared Nick’s come across him. Nick wrapped his arms around Paul and hugged tight, pulling him back and forth a bit. Paul rolled over and kissed him, recognized the light in Nick’s eyes, and immediately rolled back.

Shit. One of those important talks was coming.

“Get it over with, Nick,” he said. He felt Nick stiffen behind him, but it wasn’t with excitement.

“You want me to say that I love you?”

“Fuck,” Paul said, and stood. He needed some coffee. Nick followed him, waited silently as he filled the pot and turned it on. Paul leaned on the counter before speaking again. “No, I—tell me you love me if you want, that’s not it.”

“You don’t care?”

“I love you too. But that’s not what this is about, is it? I can fall in love, you can fall in love—that’s not the hard part.” Paul paused, turning to look Nick in the eye. “So spit it out.”

Nick grinned.

“Oh, fuck you,” Paul said, and stalked off to the couch. He flopped on it naked, and after a moment, Nick joined him. “I’d rather we get this over with now.”

Nick took his hand, and Paul wanted to yank it back but resisted the urge.

“We’ll be back to work in a few days,” Nick said. “Is this a brief thing or something else?”

Paul tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and listened to the coffee percolate. “For me it could be something else,” he said, the most he was willing to admit to when he didn’t know what Nick wanted. In response, Nick squeezed his hand, and when Paul opened his eyes and looked over, Nick was grinning.

“For me it already is.”

“You disgust me,” Paul said. He stood and poured coffee. “You know that?”

“Because I always know the right thing to say?”

Paul laughed and handed Nick his coffee. “You’ll have to clean your place before I move in with you,” he said, watching Nick blink. He enjoyed catching Nick off guard; he’d have to try it out more.

“This is the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten,” Nick said. “A whole boyfriend and maybe more.”

Paul shook his head. “Don’t plan the wedding yet. We’ve been fucking for two days now, and that’s only because we stopped screwing each other over a few days before that.”

“Does this mean we can stop being at war with each other professionally?”

“Only if I can harass you in other ways,” Paul said. He reached forward and shoved the cookbook toward Nick. “Want to see how good you are at making breakfast? I’ve got a great reward if you manage not to poison me.”

Nick looked at him, brief fear lighting his eyes. Then he smiled—a nervous smile that was rather cute on him—and picked up the book. He entered the kitchen and flipped through it, leaning on the counter as he sipped his coffee, presenting his ass to Paul. It was a good view.

“You know, it’ll be hard to manage our life together. You moving in with me is going to leave this place empty.” Nick paused. “Unless we knock down the walls and turn it into a massive apartment.”

“We’ll rent it out,” Paul said. “That way if I ever need to dump your ass, I can have my place back.”

“You probably won’t have to do that.” Nick leaned forward more, showing off his balls now. “I promise I won’t hook up with my fuckbuddy Brandon, and I’ll learn to cook waffles or french toast for you.”

“What?” Paul asked. He didn’t like the sound of mirth in Nick’s voice. He had a fuckbuddy? Shit. Paul wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into. At the moment, though, he kind of liked that. Maybe he needed someone in his life who helped him be less boring.

“I can settle down for you. Pancakes? Eggs?”

“Fuckbuddy?” Paul asked.

Nick leaned on an elbow and sipped his coffee. “It’s fine. What’s not going to be fine is figuring out how to merge our restaurants. We’ll have to at some point, if you ever let me propose.”

“We’ve been together two days,” Paul said, standing. “And you have a fuckbuddy.”

“Maybe we can tear down the wall between our rival eateries,” Nick said as Paul crossed to him. “Instead of Nick’s, or Paul’s, it will be known as Nick and Paul’s.”

“Paul and Nick’s,” Paul said, crossing to Nick, who grinned his asshole grin.

“Nick and Paul’s does sound better. And it’s alphabetical.”

Paul set his coffee aside and leaned down until their faces were an inch apart. “Paul and Nick’s,” he said, and kissed Nick.

“Hmm. Still doesn’t sound as good.”

Paul pulled back and shook his head, but he was grinning now too. “Breakfast first, sex after, arguments later,” he said.

Nick didn’t object.

JESSICA PAYSEUR has been cursed with the ability to see a story in anything at all. This is especially useful in the long Wisconsin winter months, when the only inspiration the world gives is endless snow and the lingering promise of frostbite for the unwise. When not trying to write the stories away, she can be found taking long walks with her dog, going on small adventures with her partner, and generally attempting to thwart whatever devious schemes her cats have been plotting. She has an impressive collection of books, a modest collection of stationery, and a dwindling collection of wine, all of which she regularly enjoys.

Twitter: @jessica_payseur

By Jessica Payseur

First New Year’s After the Apocalypse

Kithric’s Mountain

Mission Mistletoe

Starstruck (Dreamspinner Anthology)

Wreck the Halls

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Published by

DREAMSPINNER PRESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wreck the Halls

© 2017 Jessica Payseur.

Cover Art

© 2017 Brooke Albrecht.

http://brookealbrechtstudio.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.

Digital ISBN: 978-1-64080-305-3

Published December 2017

v. 1.0

Printed in the United States of America