Chapter 9
Graham resisted the urge to pinch himself as he followed Brent up to Salty Sally’s. Geez, had this day been a whirlwind. Not eight hours in Mistletoe Grove, and already this trip had turned sideways.
Not in the worst way, granted. Never would he have thought that, after all these years, who would he run into back home but Brent Danvers, a.k.a. the guy whose looks back in high school Graham blamed for turning him gay.
The guy whose looks today made Graham thankful the habit had stuck.
Which, frankly, could not have surprised him more.
Brent was hardly typical man candy for someone like Graham—high-performer, ladder-climber, mover and shaker.
On the contrary, Brent’s calling had turned out being the simple life.
Graham supposed it made sense. Being the all-star jock that he was back in high school, Brent had had it made in Mistletoe Grove.
Meanwhile, nerdy, bookish Graham couldn’t have gotten out fast enough.
Further complicating their differences was the apparent infatuation with Christmas Brent had.
It was like the guy had stepped out of a Hallmark movie.
Even the way they’d stumbled into each other that afternoon—getting tangled up in a string of holiday lights—was like something that belonged on TV.
How a self-professed Christmas cynic such as himself could lose his cool over a holiday fanatic like Brent, Graham was at a loss to explain.
All that was to say, this chance reunion—and the renewed spark it had ignited—were most certainly not on Graham’s Bingo card for this trip.
A feeling of dread welled up in his chest. This could prove to be problematic.
After all, he was here to do a job—keeping Coco Holliday undercover and out of the tabloids to, god willing, stave off another PR scandal leading up to her comeback movie premiere Christmas Day.
And with a loose cannon like Coco, keeping their presence here under wraps was a full-time job.
Remember, Graham, said a voice inside his head, pull this off, and the promotion of your dreams could be all yours.
But, come on, how was he supposed to say no to a dreamboat like Brent? It was just dinner, after all. Besides, Brent probably wasn’t even gay, he reminded himself. This was simply two dudes grabbing a bite after a long afternoon of manual labor.
The sight of Sally’s windowless, graffiti-covered front door approaching reaffirmed the notion. No, a dive like this was no place you took a date, much less anyone you didn’t want to send home with E. coli by the end of the night.
Bracing himself, Graham followed Brent inside.
* * *
No sooner had the two men entered the honky-tonk than Graham realized the scale of his mistake in coming here. Salty Sally’s was a bona fide time capsule—and not in a good way.
Despite the fact that Massachusetts had banned smoking in bars decades ago, somehow, a leftover haze still hung in the air.
Add to that the dim, low-hanging lighting—a term that, in Graham’s opinion, was a gross misnomer given the negligible glow they produced—and it was nearly impossible to see anything.
Although, as his eyes adjusted, Graham managed to make out more detail—and quickly decided he much preferred when his sight had still been hindered.
Under the shadows, Salty Sally’s was furnished in dingy, green wall-to-wall carpeting, dark wood paneling straight out of the ’70s, and enough sticky countertops to give Martha Stewart an aneurysm.
“Ain’t she something?” Brent asked, beaming.
“Oh, she’s something,” Graham replied with a grimace.
Brent clapped him with a hearty pat on the back. “I knew you’d like this place. Why don’t you grab a table. I’ll order us some drinks at the bar.”
The next thing Graham knew, he was eyeing Brent’s backside on his way to visit the bartender.
Not that it was a bad view, granted.
Seating himself at the nearest table, he shook the thought away.
Keep it together, Bartlett. You cannot be crushing on that guy.
That’s, like, high school shit, man. Besides, in no time at all, you’ll be back in LA.
And besides again, Brent’s probably not even gay.
So quit losing your head. This is a casual dinner with a casual friend for some casual fun.
He felt the color drain from his face. No, not casual fun. That wasn’t what he meant. It wasn’t! Just a slip of the tongue—brain! That was it. He didn’t actually want to get in Brent’s pants, and likewise have Brent in his own. He was past that—long past it.
Right?
He pulled at his collar. Had it gotten hotter in here? It was then that he realized he still had on his outerwear—including those ridiculous holiday mittens from his mother. He removed them and set them on the table.
God, why had he agreed to come to this place?
And with such a dreamboat like Brent, no less.
The number of nights he’d lain awake in bed back in the day thinking about Mistletoe High’s most droolworthy jock, he didn’t even know how to count.
And now, grabbing dinner with him, he was undeniably playing with fire.
But, man, was this fire hot.
Cool it, Graham, he reprimanded himself, sneaking another glance at Brent at the bar. What you need is a distraction. He took stock of his surrounds, settling on a TV mounted in the corner—also, unsurprisingly, a relic from the past.
Got a mouse in your house? Some bees in your trees? Fear not, humble homeowner, ’cause Pete’s Pest Control is on the case.
Graham couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Geez, was ol’ Pete really still around? He remembered this same god-awful commercial from when he was a kid.
His attention snapped back to reality, though, as Brent joined him then at the table. “Bartender will be over with our drinks in a minute.” His eyes zeroed in on Graham’s mittens sitting on the table. “Nice mitts.”
Graham balked at the comment. “Compliments of my mother.”
Brent cracked a wry grin. “That tracks.” He settled into his seat. “So, tell me, what’s Graham Bartlett up to these days out in LA?”
Graham shrugged, nonchalant. “Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that, that’s about it.” Getting too familiar with Brent could only make things worse. “What about you? What has Mistletoe High’s most popular guy been up to since graduation?”
The arrival of the bartender, a pair of beers in hand, however, cut off Brent’s reply.
“Oh, shoot,” said Graham. “I’m really more of a martini guy—extra dry, if you please. And if you happen to have any olives stuffed with blue cheese…”
The bartender just leveled him with a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.
“On second thought, I’ll just have coffee.”
“Hang tight.”
And with that, the bartender shuffled off.
Graham offered Brent a self-conscious grin.
“I’ve actually been dying for a decent cup of coffee all day.
There’s this place on the square—The Cozy Mug, I think it was—where I thought I was going to get one earlier, but apparently all they serve is hot cocoa.
Would you believe something as crazy as that? ”
Brent finished off his first sip of beer. “As a matter of fact, I would.” A knowing smirk appeared on his face as he set his glass down on the table.
Graham felt as if a brick had just landed in his stomach as realization dawned on him. “Wait, you’re not…”
“Guilty as charged.” Brent downed another swig of beer. “You’re looking at the proud owner of Mistletoe Grove’s premier purveyor of fine hot cocoa.”
Graham’s cheeks flashed crimson. “Aw, man. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t worry about it.” He cracked a grin that sent a thrill into Graham’s chest. “You should come in sometime. First cup is on me.”
Graham averted his eyes to avoid losing himself in Brent’s smile. “I’ll, uh, think about it.”
Brent shrugged, accepting. “Speaking of cocoa, how long have you and your girlfriend Coco been together?”
“Too long,” Graham retorted under his breath.
“Sorry, what was that?”
Graham stammered as he realized he’d said the words out loud. “What is time when you’re in love, right?”
Brent stroked his chin, thinking. “Say, are you sure I wouldn’t know her from somewhere? I can’t put my finger on it, but I swear something about her looks familiar.”
No sooner had Brent uttered the words than a news segment flashed on the TV screen in the corner.
Graham could have sworn in that moment he felt his jaw hit the floor.
“Now for the latest in entertainment news. Trending on social, it appears that one famous celebrity, or perhaps as of late, one infamous celebrity, has made Santa’s naughty list. Fallen-from-grace movie star Coco Holliday, who’s made quite a name for herself among Hollywood tabloid readers, was seen just the other night crashing a Los Angeles holiday toy drive in a humiliating, intoxicated stupor. Take a look at the footage.”
The segment continued with a shaky smartphone video of Coco tumbling drunkenly into a stack of donated toys.
“That’s where I know her from!”
Graham wished he could have disappeared under the table then.
“Dude…you’re dating Coco Holliday?”
“Keep it down, would you?!”
Confusion clouded over Brent’s face. “What did I say?”
“Well, in case it wasn’t clear by that news story, Coco isn’t exactly Tinseltown’s golden child.”
“Sure, but still—”
“That, and we’d really rather just keep things low-key.” He punctuated the statement firmly. “Just like everyone else here in Mistletoe Grove.” His eyes locked with Brent’s intently.
His gravity, though, was apparently lost on his companion. “Well, I’ve got news for you, pal. ’Cause Coco Holliday is nothing like folks here in Mistletoe Grove.”
An exasperated sigh escaped Graham. “Don’t I know it.”
Brent’s lips curled with bemusement. “Wow, who’d have thought. Nerdy Graham Bartlett dating a movie star.”
Graham stole a glance around the bar to see if anyone else had noticed the segment. Thankfully, it appeared the coast was clear. “How about you? Anyone special in your life?”
“Oh, there used to be someone. Wasn’t meant to be. Frankly, I’m over him.”
Had Graham had his coffee then, he knew for a fact he would have spit it out instantly. “Over…him?”