The Ho-Ho Hook-Up

Chapter 1

Cole

Snow flurries swirl against the tinted glass of the black town car as my driver pulls up outside the Landmark London.

The heavy clouds crowding the November sky match my mood, and I can't help but sigh with exasperation.

Ducking out of the back seat, I brace myself for the icy path ahead, intent on reaching the hotel doors without breaking my neck.

Goddamn snow.

As if this week hasn’t been rough enough, I now have to contend with an unprecedented snowfall.

With a tight smile at the solemn doorman—who's wearing a festive red scarf that clashes with his usual demeanour—I march forward and underneath the canopy adorned with gold garland that covers the red-carpeted pavement. A second doorman nods as I slip past him and into the foyer of the hotel.

The familiar space is decorated with an enormous Christmas tree that nearly reaches the vaulted ceiling, its branches heavy with silver and gold ornaments.

White lights twinkle throughout the space, and despite my mood, my shoulders drop as some of the tension ebbs from my body.

Today could have been...less shit, but it's about to get at least marginally better.

My work as Chief Financial Officer at DeMarco Holdings, the global multi-media entertainment giant, often means long hours. However, the fact that I'm one of the very few employees actually liked by our CEO, Henry DeMarco, means work is more pleasant for me than for many of my colleagues.

Since having children of his own, he understands how important it is for me to be home to see my four-year-old daughter, Hollie, before she goes to bed for the night.

Since Charity walked out of our lives when Hols was two months old, I've rarely missed our nightly bath-and-bed routine—especially not during the holidays, when she's discovered the magic of Christmas.

Sure, there's been some turnover in the various nannies I've hired in the last three years since work got more hectic, but it's most assuredly a 'them' issue and has nothing to do with me.

Keep telling yourself that, Adams.

While I know that a live-in nanny would better suit my needs, I've hesitated to allow anyone else into our space permanently. I had no option but to let our most recent hire go over two weeks ago because she'd been continually late to start her workday.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the familiar tension headache building behind my eyes.

It’s a gripe I've had with the last handful—and although I know that's because I refuse to allow them to live in, the onus is on them to ensure they're on time for work.

Their excuses of heavy traffic, rail strikes, delayed tube stops, and, most recently, holiday crowds only contributed to pissing me off even further.

Following my latest termination, the recruitment agency, Harrington Helpers, issued me with an ultimatum: Hire a live-in nanny or find a new agency.

I'd quickly shopped around and panicked when I'd come up empty-handed. Harrington was the best of the best, delivering top-class nannies to the elite of London, and I'd clearly shit the fucking bed.

My jaw clenches at the memory of that phone call.

So, I did the only thing I could: I begrudgingly placed an ad for a live-in nanny.

I wince openly as I make my way toward the reception desk to check in, recalling the sheer clusterfuckery of the three interviews I'd ambled through today.

The first candidate was older than my grandmother and twice as riddled with arthritis, which was undoubtedly painful for her to live with but entirely excruciating for me to witness. An ant would surely move with more gusto.

Fuck.

The second candidate had precisely zero qualms about checking out my ass when she didn't think I was looking.

And I'm wholly certain that she wasn't wearing a bra either—her hideous Christmas sweater left little to the imagination.

I mean, I love a good pair of tits as much as the next straight guy, but I need a professional who can keep it. ..well, professional.

Fuckity fuck.

And the third...well, she'd been late. And I'd more than established with Harrington Helpers how much I despise tardiness. The door had been firmly closed in her face—even when she'd blamed it on Christmas shoppers.

Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

If I didn't know better, I'd be fully sure the agency was taking the absolute piss out of me.

Miranda Grant, head of Harrington Helpers, assured me that I would be at the top of the list if a suitable candidate were to become available for the role, but that, at present, they had nothing to offer me.

My mood was dark, and having left Hollie with my doting mother—who'd practically wrestled my daughter away from me, insisting on a “proper grandmother-granddaughter Christmas bonding experience” that apparently required two full nights of baking cookies, decorating gingerbread houses, and visiting Santa—I'd decided to stay at the Landmark rather than go home to an empty house.

Mum had been gleeful when I'd told her, claiming I needed to “live a little” and that she'd have Hollie until Friday morning.

With the house feeling cavernous without my little girl's laughter, and my usual Wednesday drinks with the boys happening here anyway, it seemed like the perfect opportunity.

After checking in and dropping my overnight bag in my room, I head straight for the Mirror Bar, our usual rendezvous spot.

My steps quicken with anticipation, though I suppress the urge to let my mouth do anything as foolish as smile at the sight of the familiar dirty blonde head of my childhood best friend, Reed Walker, sitting at our usual table.

I note that Jace Bailey, the third in our motley crew, is nowhere in sight before I stop at the Mirror Bar, decorated with miniature Christmas trees and red velvet bows.

“Two Macallans, please, Tom.”

The bartender—dignified, as always, aside from the Santa hat sitting atop his head—nods as he grabs two tumblers. “Twelve or eighteen, Sir?”

I can't help the grin that tugs at my mouth despite my best efforts. “Feels like an eighteen sort of day.”

“I hear you.” He grunts in understanding, jerking his chin toward Reed. “I'll drop them over.”

With a small thanks, I pivot and walk toward Reed. He's still alone, and his forehead is deeply furrowed. His attention is wholly absorbed by the person on the other end of the phone that's pressed to his ear.

“I'll need you to put a rush on that FBC for Mrs. Foster, and if Ms. Winston’s blood pressure continues to climb, book an O.R. and call me immediately.”

He hangs up the call and pinches the bridge of his nose while huffing as I slip into one of the two seats opposite him.

“Looks like today's been shitty for more than just me, Walker.”

Reed cracks open one light-blue eye, and immediately his face splits into a grin that makes my jaw tighten.

“Well, well, well. The Ghost of Christmas Grouch has arrived.” He sits up straighter, making a show of looking me up and down. “Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Same Shit, Different Day club, Adams. Though I see you're still maintaining your usual brand of perpetual misery.”

I grunt, reaching for the tumbler Tom's just placed on the table. “Fuck off.”

“There it is,” Reed says, far too cheerfully. “Remember when you used to actually enjoy these meetups? When you'd walk in here and we'd have an actual conversation instead of you grunting like some sort of constipated caveman?”

“I said fuck off, Walker.”

Safe to say, ribbing yours truly always seems to brighten Reed’s day, so I let him have it.

We're interrupted when Jace appears, brushing snow from his shoulders. He takes one look at me and lets out a low whistle.

“Christ, Adams. Who pissed in your protein shake this morning?” He gives me the stink eye as I take a long pull from my tumbler. “Today's been a shitshow, so one of those better be for me.”

“I'm on call.” Reed pushes his whisky toward Jace as he takes the final seat at the table, his eyes still fixed on me with that irritating knowing look. “So yes. This one's for you.”

Picking up the proffered glass, Jace tips his chin in acknowledgement before taking a long sip as Reed mumbles, “I hope you damn well choke on it.”

“Speaking of choking,” Jace says as he settles back in his chair with a wicked grin, “Cole, mate, you look like you've been sucking on lemons for about five years now. What happened to the guy who used to drag us out to clubs? Who'd chat up bartenders and actually had a personality?”

“That guy realised you two were a waste of his time,” I mutter into my glass.

Reed snorts. “Oh, he speaks! I was starting to think you'd transformed into one of those guards at Buckingham Palace. Silent, stoic, and completely dead behind the eyes.”

I almost grin. “Fuck off.”

“See, this is what I mean,” Jace says, gesturing at me with his tumbler, the Macallan sloshing precariously close to the rim.

“Three words or less. That's all we get now.

Remember when you convinced us to go to that ridiculous themed bar in Shoreditch?

The one with the ball pit? You gave a whole speech about 'reclaiming our youth' or some bollocks.”

His eyes take on an almost dreamy look. “That shit was fucking epic.”

“We were eighteen and drunk.”

“And you were fun,” Reed adds. “Now you're just...” He waves a hand vaguely in my direction. “This. Whatever this is. Grumpy Old Man: The Early Years.”

“I'm not grumpy.”

Both of them burst out laughing.

“Right, and I'm the Queen,” Reed deadpans. “Mate, you walked in here looking like someone shit in your cornflakes. And you've been scowling at that whisky like it personally offended you.”

“Maybe I just don't enjoy your company.”

“Lies,” Jace declares. “You love us. You just hate admitting it because it might require you to crack a smile, and we all know your face might shatter if you tried anything remotely resembling humour.”

“When's the last time you even went on a date?” Reed asks, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin. “Or did anything that wasn't work or sitting at home alphabetising your book collection?”

“My books aren't alphabetised.”

“Give it a month, mate,” Reed murmurs to Jace. “He'll get there.”

“They're organised by genre, like a normal person.”

Both men howl with laughter, and I can practically feel my chest loosen as the stress of the day begins to leave my body.

“Oh, 'like a normal person,'“ Jace mimics in a posh voice. “Nothing says normal like being thirty-one and having the social life of a monk.”

“A very grumpy monk,” Reed adds. “The kind who hit people with rulers.”

“I'm going to hit you in a minute, dickhead.”

“Ooh, threats of violence,” Jace’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “That's the most emotion we've gotten out of you in months. Make a note, Reed. Adams still has feelings. Mostly rage, but it's something.”

I drain my whisky and level them both with my flattest stare. “You two can kindly get fucked.”

“There he is!” Reed says brightly, raising his glass. “A whole sentence and profanity. It's like Christmas came early.”

“Speaking of,” Jace adds, barely suppressing his laughter, “bet you've already wrapped all your presents, haven't you? Colour-coordinated ribbons and everything.”

Despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch. “They may or may not be wrapped.”

“Called it!” Jace crows, slapping the table. “Unbelievable. You're like someone's disapproving grandfather.”

I snort and raise a hand when I catch Tom’s eye over Jace’s shoulder, indicating a refill. “At least I'm not a child.”

“Better a child than whatever midlife crisis you're having at thirty-one,” Reed shoots back with a grin.

The insult should annoy me, but instead I find myself fighting a reluctant smile. These bastards know exactly how to needle me, and the worst part is, it's working.

“Ha! Was that almost a smile?” Jace squints at me, leaning forward. “Someone alert the press. Nicolas Adams nearly smiled. It's a Christmas miracle.”

“Piss off.”

But there's no heat behind it, and from the way they're both grinning at me—Reed looking far too pleased with himself, and Jace barely containing his laughter—they know it. Reed picks up his phone again, still smirking, already moving on to whatever ridiculous thing he's about to show us next.

I chuckle when Jace begins to hum the festive notes of “It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas” as he swirls his tumbler, clearly pleased with himself for getting under my skin.

Suddenly, Reed freezes, his eyes bulging at whatever he's seen on the screen before him. “Have you seen this evening's papers?”

Jace shrugs nonchalantly. “Nah. I don't check the news anymore. They only paint me as the bad boy of the Premier League. Can't be fucking arsed—”

Reed spins the phone around so it's facing both of us. It takes half a heartbeat to read the enormous headline.

ENGLAND'S WORLD CUP RUN IN JEOPARDY AS STRIKER JASON BAILEY BOOTED FROM INTERNATIONAL TEAM AMID SCANDAL

“Scandal?” Jace questions in what would be a laughably high-pitched tone, if not for the severity of the situation. “What fucking scandal are the wankers talking about now?”

He stares at the screen, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, before he swiftly rises. His face resembles a thundercloud as he marches from the Mirror Bar without another word, nearly knocking over a small Christmas tree by the door.

Reed breaks the silence that's hovering between us with a murmur. “Safe to say, the Same Shit, Different Day Club just added a new member.”