Waiting for you a holida.., p.1
Waiting For You: A Holiday Romance, page 1
Waiting For You
A Holiday Romance
Tara Crescent
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Also by Tara Crescent
Text copyright © 2018 Tara Crescent
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Kasmit Covers. http://www.kasmitcovers.com.
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Boyfriend by the Hour
This steamy, romantic story contains a dominant hero who’s pretending to be an escort, and a sassy heroine who’s given up on real relationships.
1
This is going to be a shitty Christmas.
It's December fourteenth. I'm in my studio apartment, leaning against a wall, my legs ensconced in a sleeping bag. I’ve got a glass of wine in my hand. My calico cat, Kitty Poppins, is sitting next to me, her body quivering with indignation. Rover, the dog I'm watching for the next couple of weeks for my friend Veronica, is significantly more cheerful. Then again, Rover's needs are pretty simple. As long as he's got kibble, he's a happy camper.
I, on the other hand, am not a happy camper. Why, you ask?
Let me list the ways.
For starters, my boyfriend of four years, Charles, broke up with me a month ago. “Sorry Dix,” he’d said, resembling a sniveling weasel. Sorry, weasels. That’s not fair to you. “It's just not working out.”
At least his stupid Christmas present was refundable.
Charles and I have a large circle of friends in common. “We’re not going to take sides,” they’d declared after the break-up. If I’m being perfectly logical, I guess I can understand their point of view. They've known Charles for as long as they've known me. Expecting them to choose one of us is just not fair. It’s not like my ex-boyfriend did something horrible and heinous, like cheat on me.
Can I be perfectly honest? I'm a little resentful that they didn't take sides.
Fuck boyfriends. I've got wine.
I lift my glass of cheap Merlot in a toast to the sequined-and-glittered life-size portrait of Frida Kahlo that hangs on my wall, and then gulp it down. If I’m keeping count, that’s my second glass. Or is it my third? I’m not really sure, and I don’t really care.
I don't usually sit at home on Friday nights feeling sorry for myself. Right now, there's a party going on at my friend Caitlin's place, and normally I'd be there in a heartbeat.
Except Charles is going to be there. It’d just be too hard to see him.
Will it really? A snide voice inside me asks. You haven't shed any tears over Charles. Are you sure that you're not secretly a little relieved that it’s over?
I silence that voice by taking another long swig of my wine. Yes, it’s true: I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm better off without Charles’ near-constant disapproval at everything I do. But I won’t let myself go there because if I do, then I'll have to admit that I wasted the last four years of my life in a relationship with him, and that would make me feel pretty damn foolish.
I'm twenty-nine. The big three-oh is less than a year away. Around me, my friends are moving forward with their lives. Caitlin and Gabe just bought their first home, a fixer-upper in the Junction. Julian moved out of Toronto and started his food company, The Sausage King.
Not me. I’m stuck.
I wait for tears to form, but nothing.
Everyone’s going to be at Caitlin and Gabe’s housewarming party. Julian’s even making the trek down from Madison. And where am I? I’m not hanging out with my friends, no. I’ve got a disapproving cat, a slobbery dog, an almost empty bottle of wine, and sequined Frida Kahlo as company.
Now that I think about it, I'm getting quite cranky. Isn't there some kind of social etiquette about things like this? Charles broke up with me. If he had any decency whatsoever, he'd be the one declining invitations to parties.
Instead, I have to hear through the grapevine that he's bringing a date to Caitlin's housewarming. Asshole.
I refill my glass from the bottle, sloshing a few drops on the hardwood floor. Not that it matters; the floor is toast already.
Which brings me to the biggest reason I'm cranky tonight. The reason why I intend to drink this entire bottle of wine by myself.
Burst water pipe in the apartment above me.
Gaping hole in my ceiling.
My futon, directly in the splash zone, completely, absolutely, soaked.
Look on the bright side, Dix. At least Kitty Poppins didn’t get wet. If she’d gotten drenched… there’s not enough tuna in the world to buy your way back in her good graces.
The TV's is still working. They’re playing nonstop holiday movies. Tonight, it’s Home Alone. On the screen, Macaulay Culkin has just woken up and realized that his entire family has left for France.
I know how you feel, buddy.
I gulp down the rest of my wine, my resentment building. I'm just like little Kevin on the screen. My friends are at a party that I cannot attend, and it is all the douchenozzle’s fault. I’d like to give him a piece of my mind.
So do it, the Merlot whispers to me. Call him. Tell him exactly what you think of him.
I drink another glass of wine. The urge to yell at Charles doesn’t subside. When the bottle is empty, it still seems like a good idea. Everyone wants to know when they’re acting like inconsiderate oafs, right?
I pick up my phone. The screen is blurry. I narrow my eyes and squint at my contacts. There he is. Charles Blumenthal the Third.
I hit Talk.
The phone is answered on the first ring. I don't wait for Charles to say anything; instead, I launch into my diatribe. “Listen to me, you slimy jerkwad,” I slur. “There are rules about breakups, and you're not following them. I should be at Caitlin's party, not you.”
There's a long pause at the other end, and then a man's voice speaks up. “Dixie?”
That's not Charles’ voice.
Face flushed, I bring the screen right next to my nose. Everything’s still blurry, but I can make out a name. Ward Lewington.
Goddammit. I'm just drunk-dialed Charles’ co-worker.
Kill me now.
2
Twenty minutes later, there's a knock on my door.
I get to my feet, clutching the wall for support, the room spinning around me. Maybe it's my landlord. Maybe he’s found another handyman, one whose available sooner than the week after next.
I lurch to the door, almost tripping over Kitty Poppins on the way. Predictably, she doesn't move. Instead, she gives me a look of utter contempt, and goes back to sleep.
Cats. Typical.
But it's not Tom standing outside my door. It's Ward Lewington.
For a few seconds, I just stare at him. Then I ask the obvious question. “What are you doing here?”
His too-sharp eyes take me in. “You sounded terrible on the phone. I came to check up on you.”
That’s nice. I think.
He's a good-looking guy, Ward. Black hair. Piercing blue eyes that refuse to be hidden behind his black-rimmed glasses. Dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of shoulders you want to lean on.
I shake that last thought out of my head. Even drunk, I know that’s the wine talking. It’s Friday evening, but Ward's wearing a suit and tie. He’s cast from the same mold as Charles. Strait-laced, organized, and boring.
Leaning against the door jamb for support, I narrow my eyes. “How do you know where I live?”
“We shared a cab once, remember?”
Oh right. A couple of years ago, I’d been at one of Charles’ boring work functions. Over the course of the evening, I’d developed a splitting headache. By the time dinner was over, I could barely keep my eyes open. All I wanted to do was go back home, take an aspirin, and fall asleep.
Charles had pouted. “It’ll look bad if I leave now. Why don’t you take a cab home?”
Ward, who works at the same firm as Charles, had overheard our conversation. “I'm leaving too,” he'd said, giving me a kind smile. “Come on, Dix. We'll split a cab home.”
It probably says something about my ex-boyfriend that he put networking with his colleagues above me. It probably says something about me that despite all the warning signs, I kept dating him.
Ward clears his throat. “Can I come in?”
Oh. I'm standing like a sentry across the entrance. My cheeks heating, I move aside, waving him in. “I’ve got to warn you, the place is a disaster.”
Ward's place is probably impeccably clean.
He enters my apartment and stops in his tracks. He takes in the wet futon, the plastic sheets draped over every other piece of furniture in the place, the gaping hole in the ceiling, and the strategically
“Yeah,” I say ruefully. “Evidently my landlord's usual handyman is in Cuba for a week’s vacation. He's not going to be able to get it fixed after Christmas.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He folds himself onto the floor besides Rover, who promptly puts his head on Ward's lap, begging to be petted. Such a suck, that dog. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
I nod. “Veronica said I could stay at her place. I’m going to head over there in the morning. It's not ideal, but at least it’ll be dry.” Our building is eighty-five years old. It’s probably chock-full of lead paint and asbestos and black mold. I really don’t want Kitty Poppins breathing this air.
Ward frowns. “Veronica lives in Oakville,” he says, pointing out the obvious. “Isn't this the busiest time of year for you?”
It is. I’m a personal chef, the kind that goes to people’s homes and cook meals for them. A good half of my clients are hosting holiday parties that they want me to cater. I’m absolutely swamped. The two-hour commute from Veronica’s house in the suburbs to the city is a huge, gigantic, pain in the butt.
I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “I can't afford a hotel for two weeks. It’s going to be hell, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
He tilts his head to one side. “You could stay with me. I have a spare bedroom.”
My head is still spinning from the wine. Did I hear him right? Ward and I move in the same circle, but it’s not like we’re good friends or anything. I frown at him. “Did you go to Caitlin's party in a suit and tie?”
“I didn’t make it. I had to work late. December is the busiest time of the year for tax accountants too.” He scratches Rover’s ears, and the black lab rolls over, looking deliriously happy, his tail wagging in bliss. “I’ll barely be at home. You’ll have the place to yourself for the most part. And I’m right on the subway.”
I really don’t want to commute from Oakville to the city.
Kitty Poppins gets to her feet, stretches lazily, and then flops back into a heap, marginally closer to Ward than before. “It’s not that simple. I come with a cat and a dog.”
“My building allows pets.”
Why is he being so helpful?
“There’s an off-leash dog park right across the street,” he adds persuasively. “Rover’ll love it.”
“Are you sure?” I ask doubtfully. “It’s two weeks. That’s a long time.”
“I’m very sure.”
Yeah, I believe that. Ward is a tax accountant. He’s always in control. He never does anything by impulse.
Oh, what the hell. “Yes please. I’d love to stay with you.”
3
The incessant beeping of my phone alarm wakes me up.
My mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool. My throat is dry, and there’s a jackhammer pounding in my head. It takes a few minutes for my memory to return, and then I remember everything. Coming back home to watery chaos in my apartment, running around mopping it up as best as I could, deciding to drink an entire bottle of wine, calling Ward by mistake…
Ward. Fuck.
I'm in the spare bedroom of Ward’s downtown condo. It’s spotlessly clean, of course. The mattress is so comfortable that, despite the hangover, it feels like I'm floating on a cloud. The pillows are plump. The white sheets are soft cotton. This place feels like a high-end hotel room.
I can't stay here.
I groan and roll over, burying my face in my pillow. It's perfectly obvious what happened. Ward's a good guy who does the right thing. He saw that I was in trouble, and he intervened. It’s just what he does. It's the same reason he got into a cab with me two years ago, wanting to make sure I'd be okay.
Charles has always accused me of being disorganized and chaotic, telling me repeatedly that I do not have my life together. After last night, Ward probably believes the same thing.
But I don't need rescuing, not by Ward, or by anybody else. I can take care of myself; I’m not helpless. I might not be a fan of the nine to five grind, but I pay my bills on time, keep my cat in gourmet food, and contribute to my retirement plan. I don’t have a lot of spare money, and the water leak was an unexpected curveball, but I’m definitely not a damsel in distress.
I'm still dressed in the jeans and t-shirt I was wearing last night. I get up, finger combing my hair into a semblance of order, and I head out in search of Ward. It was kind of him to offer me a place to stay, but I can’t take advantage of his generosity.
I head to the living room, ready to tell him that I need to get back to my own apartment, but when I get there, the words freeze on my lips. Because Ward Lewington, who I have never seen in anything other than a suit, is lying on his couch wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, watching cartoons on TV.
And on his lap, looking smugly contented, is Kitty Poppins. The traitor.
By any objective measure, Ward Lewington is a good-looking guy, yet I've never really noticed him that way. He’s a part of my social group, but he works with Charles, and he’s never said very much to me. We’re just two very different people. To be honest, I’m not even sure he likes me.
But holy fucking sex-on-a-stick. Shirtless Ward is hot.
He’s tanned and muscled and yummy. He looks like he should be on the cover of a magazine, and my brain is short-circuiting.
Pull yourself together, Dixie.
He hears me coming. His face breaks out into a smile. “How’s your head this morning, Dix?”
I sink into a chair and try my level best not to check out his body. “I've had better days,” I admit. I take a deep breath. “Listen Ward, it was really nice of you to offer me a place to stay, but I can't take you up on it.”
“Why not?” He stops petting Kitty Poppins for a second. Mistake. My cat reaches out with one calico paw and pats him warningly on his cheek. Get back to it, she seems to say.
Lips twitching, Ward obediently goes back to scratching her ears.
I bite back a smile. “That's so strange,” I comment. “Kitty Poppins usually hates strangers.” She never liked Charles. She hissed every time he came over.
“Animals adore me.” He carefully lifts her up, sets her down on a cushion, and rises to his feet. The full impact of his naked chest hits me like a jolt of electricity. This guy is a tax accountant? He has the body of a fitness model. He should be on a calendar. Somewhere where I can jill off to his picture.
“You want a cup of coffee?” He walks over to the machine and tops up his mug. “I have ingredients for an omelet, but if you want something fancier, we’ll have to head to the grocery store.”
I give him an exasperated look. “Ward, you're not listening to me. I can't stay here.”
He hands me a mug. I take a sip of the steaming hot coffee and close my eyes in appreciation. A splash of milk, and a full spoonful of sugar, just the way I like it. “How?”
“I've heard you order coffee. You're very particular.” His eyes rest on me. “Why can't you stay here?”
“I'm taking advantage of your kindness.”
He makes a scoffing sound in his throat. “Dix, for fuck’s sake. I have a spare bedroom, and as you can see, I'm not using it. It’s not a big deal.” He opens the refrigerator door and pulls out a carton of eggs. “You want breakfast?”
Stubborn, infuriating man. Then again, the thought of transporting Kitty Poppins again makes me quail. My cat does not like her crate, and she hates being in a car. There had been a lot of yowling last night. If I move her again, she won’t just yowl. She’ll projectile vomit. “You don't have to cook for me,” I mutter. “I am a personal chef, you know.”
He looks puzzled. “So what? If you're anything like me, when you get back home at the end of the day, the last thing you want to do is more work.” He cracks an egg into a bowl, quickly and competently. “I have to avoid people during tax time. They're always asking me for advice.” He adds salt and pepper to the eggs, and then whisks them together. “I have feta cheese, black olives, and spinach. That sound okay?”
