Ho Ho Oh No #2
The line shows no sign of dwindling, and my ass has gone numb. He slides me a cup of cocoa when my hands shake. Adjusts the beard when it slips. Fixes the hat. Fixes me, really, without ever making it obvious.
“You can say ‘Ho ho ho,’ ” he murmurs.
“Ho ho—oh no,” I reply, aborting a hell at the last second when I remember I’m surrounded by children.
“Close.” He grins.
It dawns on me how damn kind he is. Not loudly. Not for show. Just… constantly. How he thanks volunteers by name. How he kneels to talk to kids like they matter. How he never once makes me feel like a failure, even though I clearly am.
The line still snakes back when the sky darkens. Snow starts falling—thick, sudden flakes that stick immediately. I hear the distant grind of snowplows, and a familiar knot of concern twists in my chest.
“This is going to get bad,” I mutter.
Brad Lee looks up at the sky, unfazed. “It’s a squall,” he says. “We’ll wrap up and get everyone home.”
The snow thickens as the square empties in stages—parents hustling, kids protesting, strollers turned into snowplows.
By the time the last few children come through, cheeks pink and eyes bright, the crowd is mostly gone.
Thankfully, nobody cries. When it’s over, I stand carefully, my joints protesting.
“I should get going,” I say. “Before the roads—”
“That ship’s already sailed.” Trina’s voice cuts in from behind the chair. She’s shrugging into her coat, phone pressed to her ear and brow furrowed in a way I recognize from other storms.
“They’ve closed the outer roads,” she says, pulling the phone away just long enough to look at me. “County says anything past Miller Ridge is a no go. Your road is already flagged.”
The ground seems to tilt. “Already?” I ask.
She nods. “The temperature dropped quickly, and they’re not messing around with ice out there.”
Snow comes down heavier now, the streetlights blurring into halos. The roads I take home are narrow, unlit, and absolutely not plowed with any kind of urgency.
Brad Lee clears his throat. “Well,” he says carefully, “if you need somewhere to stay…”
I turn to him.
“I live upstairs.” He points. “Above the bookstore. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s warm. And close. And you’re welcome.” He smiles, small and apologetic, like he’s already bracing for me to say no.
Trina, traitor that she is, brightens immediately. “Perfect,” she says. “Problem solved.”
I hesitate, then glance up at the sky. Snow is coming down even harder now, swallowing the lights, the square, the whole night.
Last Christmas, I misread the moment. Pulled back fast enough to pretend I hadn’t and made an ass of myself.
This year, it looks like he’s stuck with me.
I don’t detest the thought nearly as much as I should—and that’s what worries me.
CHAPTER TWO SNOWED IN ABOVE THE BOOKSTORE
The night ends the way winter events always do—quickly.
Someone unplugs the speaker playing tinny carols. The twinkle lights stay on, stubborn as ever, but the square empties fast.
Brad Lee locks up the bookstore, keys jingling, checks the door twice, then nods toward the narrow staircase tucked between the shop and the bakery next door.
“Home sweet home.” He flicks on the light at the top of the stairs and steps aside to let me in.
The apartment is small—smaller than I expected—but it’s warm in a way that isn’t just temperature. Christmas has exploded in here, but gently, thoughtfully, like someone who loves the season but knows restraint is a myth.
There’s a tree in the corner, not much taller than me, decorated with mismatched ornaments: a felt snowman, a tiny ceramic lighthouse, something glittery shaped like a pickle.
White lights only. No blinking. A strand of garland is draped over the single window, fragrant pine overtaking the small room.
There’s a wreath on the inside of the door, because of course there is.
A red throw blanket is folded neatly on the bed.
Stockings—plural—hang along a shelf above a narrow kitchenette, one embroidered with Brad Lee and one that simply says Guest.
“I thought you were Jewish?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Brad Lee smiles, bright as the moon. “I am,” he says easily. “But my parents divorced when I was seven, my mom remarried, and somewhere between the tree and ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You,’ I was completely hooked.”
As if that explains everything.
I take in his apartment more slowly now. The furniture—or lack of it. A small table with two chairs that don’t quite match off the barely there kitchen. A dresser that looks like it’s been with him since college. A single armchair pushed near the window. And the bed.
One bed.
No sofa.
Heat creeps up my neck, but I keep my face neutral. I am very good at that.
Maybe I could sleep on the armchair.
“Bathroom’s through there,” he says, gesturing. “I’ll go change. You okay out here?”
“Yeah. Sure. All good.” The words come out, but my stomach’s doing this strange thing, like when an unexpected snowstorm comes out of nowhere. Yeah, exactly like that.
He nods and disappears into the bathroom.
I’m left alone with Santa.
Getting out of the costume is like shedding a second skin, one that has been aggressively itchy.
The beard comes off first, leaving glitter on my hands again.
The hat, the coat, the pants. I fold them as neatly as I can, like that will somehow apologize for how badly I wore them or for shaking glitter everywhere.
All I have with me are my work clothes. Dress shirt. Khakis. Sensible belt. The uniform of a man who did not expect to be snowed in overnight. I end up in my white undershirt and khakis and sit on the edge of the bed.
When Brad Lee comes back out, I almost don’t recognize him.
No elf. No forced cheer. No work clothes I’m used to seeing at the office. Just a soft gray T-shirt and dark sweatpants, sandy brown hair slightly damp like he rinsed his face. He looks… real. Approachable in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Sorry,” he says. “I should’ve offered you something to change into.”
“It’s fine.”
He looks at me. Really looks. “That does not look fine.”
Before I can protest, he’s at the dresser, pulling open drawers.
“I think I’ve got something.” He holds up a pair of red-and-green plaid pajama pants, the kind that scream Christmas morning.
“My aunt bought these for me a few years ago,” he says.
“Said I’d grow into them someday. Then immediately handed me a full plate and said, ‘Now eat.’ ”
I snort despite myself. “You don’t have to—” I start.
“I want to,” he says simply. “Please.”
I take them, turn my back to him, keep my boxers on like a gentleman, and change. The fabric is soft. Warm. Absurdly comfortable. When I turn around, he smiles like he’s won something.
“See?” he says. “Much better.”
I look down at myself and shrug.
Brad Lee nods. “They look handsome on you.”
We sit at the small table, cocoa steaming between us, snowflakes slanting sideways past the window.
“So tell me. Why did you volunteer?” he asks, never breaking eye contact.
I stare into my mug. “You looked… sad.”
“I was. Worried. Disappointed. Panicked.”
“And the holidays are… complicated,” I add.
“My family’s on the West Coast. It’s just my sister and her kids now.
” I mentioned my family at the party last year, but with me making a fool of myself leaning in for an unwanted kiss, he probably doesn’t remember.
“And the idea of traveling at this time of year makes my skin crawl.”
“Why?”
“Because the airports are loud. And crowded. And everyone’s emotional.” I glance at him. “And once I arrive at my sister’s, it’s also… loud and crowded and everyone’s emotional. I prefer quiet. Like… this.”
He smiles. Not wide. Real.
“What about you?” I ask, suddenly aware I’m probably ruining his holiday plans.
“Oh, my family’s up north. Just my folks and younger brother. I never go up until Christmas dinner. Sometimes not until the next day. I like being in my own place for Christmas—creating my own traditions. Even if I’m alone.” He smiles at me. “Which, thanks to you, I’m not.”
“Sorry I ruined the whole Santa thing.” I take a sip of cocoa. It’s sweet, with real, deep flavor. Not from a mix. He melted the damn chocolate himself.
“You didn’t ruin anything.” He does this adorable half smile and something in my stomach flips. “You showed up.”
The power flickers.
We both look up and the lights go out.
“Well, I guess that means it’s bedtime,” he says casually. “I can take the floor.”
“No,” I say immediately. “Absolutely not.”
We stare at each other, lit only by moonlight and the pale glow of snow through the window.
“We’re grown men,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “We can share a bed for one night.”
He nods. “Okay.”
We lie down, careful at first, like there are rules we haven’t been handed.
Brad Lee leaves the shade open, and the snow-bright light seeps into the room, turning everything pale and quiet.
I can make out his face beside me, the curve of his cheek, the shadow of his lashes.
I know he’s at least a few years younger, but he looks even more youthful like this. Unarmored.
My stomach does that strange, unsettled flip again, like I’ve stepped somewhere I wasn’t invited but nobody’s asked me to leave.
“So,” I say. “How is it having three first names?”
He laughs. “Actually, it’s four. My middle name’s Robert.”
I turn my head. “Wait. Your full name is Brad Lee Robert Levi?”
“Yup.”
I laugh, really laugh, and something in my chest loosens.
His hand brushes my face. Probably by accident.
“Merry Christmas Eve, Phillip,” he says.
It happens again. His fingers are on my cheek. Soft. Warm.
“Merry Christmas Eve.”
And for the first time in a long while, I actually mean it.
CHAPTER THREE CHRISTMAS MORNING UNDER THE MISTLETOE
I wake up disoriented.
Not the bad kind. Not the cold, panicked inventory-taking kind. The other kind. The kind where my body feels heavy in a way that’s pleasant, where my brain lags a few seconds behind.