by Liv Rancourt
Bo had to use the plane ticket. He had to. But if he didn’t….
Jon could only hope this damned concert was worthwhile.
Chapter Eight
BO BLEW through the doorway of Bonnie’s Fabrics, Crafts, and Yarn. “Oh God. What am I going to do?”
Rick and one of his clerks stood at the front counter behind a stack of flat fold remnants they were piecing for quilt squares.
“You take the front, sweetie,” Rick said to the clerk. “We’ve got a queen in distress over here.”
Bo tried for an indignant harrumph. It came out closer to a sob.
Rick rushed out from behind the register and took Bo’s hand. “This is bad, isn’t it? You better come with me.”
Bo had to scramble to keep up with Rick’s long-legged stride. They bypassed the staff lounge and the supply room, heading all the way back to Rick’s office, where he plunked Bo into the only chair. Leaning against his desk, Rick crossed his arms. “Now talk.”
Bo had his hands clasped between his knees, the knuckles white. “He had to leave. I mean, his agent called or something, and there was this concert, and they wanted him to play.”
“Wait.” Rick held up a skinny index finger. “Who is he that he has an agent and what does he play?”
“Jon Cunningham. He’s a classical pianist.” Just saying his name made a bead of moisture gather in the corner of Bo’s eye. “We were friends in junior high, of all things.” He squeezed his hands together. “And he wants me to come to his New Year’s Eve concert.”
“You say that like it’s a death sentence.” Under different circumstances, Rick’s puzzled expression would have made Bo laugh.
Bo pressed his palm against his temple, nowhere close to laughter. “The concert is in New York City, and he bought me a ticket. An airplane ticket.”
“Oh. Shit.”
Bo looked helplessly at his friend. “Yeah.”
“All right, then.” Rick tapped his thigh in time with the clicking radiator. “When is this plane leaving?”
Bo slid his phone out of his pocket. He’d been so flustered by seeing an actual airplane ticket in his email, he hadn’t paid attention to details. “I’m supposed to leave Monday the thirtieth and come back Thursday the second.”
“He bought you a plane ticket to New York City for New Year’s Eve?”
Aware that his reaction was wildly inappropriate, Bo gave a sad little “yes.”
“And you like this guy, this Jon-the-piano-man?”
“Yes.” This time he put more conviction behind the word.
“Then it’s simple, dear. We’ll get you a couple of Xanax, and you get on the plane.”
Bo shook his head, pressing harder at the spot where an ice pick hammered at his temple. He formed the word “no,” but no sound came out.
“Benedetto Joseph Barone, you are a grown man. You can manage one lousy plane trip.”
“I really should, if only because I hate to think of him losing the money he spent.”
Rick reached behind himself and dragged an old-fashioned Rolodex across the desk. Flipping through it, he muttered, “Frank the pharmacist. Frank the… here.” Giving Bo a reassuring smile, he pulled one of the white cards out of the file. “I’ll take care of everything. You just buy yourself a box of condoms and get that suitcase packed.”
Bo managed his first assignment, but he had to borrow a suitcase. The thought of packing overwhelmed him, so he broke it down into individual tasks. Small bites. Three pairs of boxers, folded. Breathe. Wool pants. Breathe. Dress shirt and jacket. Sit on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Try not to hyperventilate.
Socks. Three pairs.
Breathe.
One tie.
All accomplished while dancing on the cusp of an anxiety attack.
I really like Jon Cunningham.
Rick drove Bo to the airport and left him at the Delta desk. There were so many people, and some lady kept coming over the loudspeaker threatening them with doom if they found an unaccompanied package. Bo’s glasses steamed up from the stress of it all, so he had to take a seat, a little bit off to the side. He’d sit for a minute, until he caught his breath.
For a minute.
Or an hour.
And then it was too late. He called Jon and got his voicemail. “I’m sorry. I… can’t.” He had to bite his lip to keep from sobbing. “I’ll pay you back. Don’t hate me.”
Don’t hate me.
Chapter Nine
THE CONCERT was taking place at the Belleville, a historic theater in midtown Manhattan. The Baroque and early Classical program was more restrained than the Strauss waltzes and Broadway show tunes chosen for most New Year’s Eve concerts; an elegance Jon appreciated. The piano was a fine instrument, the repertoire played to Jon’s strengths as a musician, and the conductor didn’t screw around with the downbeat.
Everything had gone fine, if no better than any number of rehearsals Jon had been to over the years, but this one couldn’t end soon enough.
A few more minutes. As soon as things wrapped up, Jon would take a train to JFK and meet Bo’s plane. He liked the romance of the train. He wanted to sit next to Bo and compare notes on the people around them, the rumble of the car so loud he’d have to speak right into his ear. If he accidentally tickled Bo with his breath or forgot where they were and gave him a kiss, no one would care.
The program began and ended with Mozart. The last piece, the finale from Mozart’s “Gran Partita,” didn’t require a piano, so after giving Jon a few private notes, the conductor excused him from the rehearsal. Jon stacked his scores and slid them into a black leather portfolio. He gave his tight shoulders a stretch while shrugging into his wool coat, and he checked his phone.
Two messages.
The first was from Willy. He played it back on his way out of the Belleville. She wanted to schedule a lunch meeting soon, so they could plan for the upcoming months. He shot her a text, asking her to name a time and a place.
The second message was from Bo.
“I’m sorry. I… can’t. Please don’t hate me.”
Then a sob, or something awfully close to a sob. What the hell? Jon froze in the middle of the sidewalk, icy rain pelting him.
“I told you I can’t fly, and I feel terrible, but I’m here at Sea-Tac and I just can’t do it.”
Jon’s first impulse was to call Bo and yell. Didn’t Bo want them to be together again? They’d hit it off. Hadn’t they?
Confused, he strode off in the general direction of the nearest subway station but ended up walking the whole way to his Greenwich Village studio. He could usually count on walking to calm him.
Not this time.
Numb from the cold and damp, Jon had no new insights by the time he reached home. The frank distress in Bo’s voice told him he’d really fucked things up. Over their one dinner, Bo had claimed he never flew, but Jon hadn’t taken him seriously.
Okay, so that was his first mistake.
He let himself into his studio, his fingers thick, his hands shaking. For once, the simple furnishings weren’t soothing. Compared with Bo’s opulence, his one room had all the charm of a storage shed. He slung his coat somewhere near the closet and crashed down on the couch.
What to do next?
He sat hunched over, head in his hands. With his mind distracted by Bo’s message, the guilt he felt for leaving his parents had time to take hold. But the concert was important to his career. Mom had encouraged him. Mom always encouraged him.
And for the first time ever, Dad had voiced some opposition.
Of course, the rehearsal had knocked the Othello Ensemble off their pedestal. They were good, yes, but this wasn’t the career-making gig Willy had promised.
Great. So he’d fucked that up too.
He flopped back against the couch, eyes shut, jaw working. “I will not call Bo until I calm down.”
Of course, as soon as he reached that decision, he second-guessed himself. What if Bo was sitting by his c
ell phone right now? What if waiting made things worse?
Wrenching his mind away from the turmoil, Jon forced himself to breathe. In and out. Setting aside his parents’ issues, he focused on Bo, his old friend. In and out. Even when they were kids, Bo had had flair. He was the youngest of three, living in that big house over on Aloha Street.
One sister had been in college; the other went to Holy Names Academy.
And his father?
Oh God.
The missing piece clicked into place, and Bo’s message made a horrible sort of sense. Bo’s father had been killed in a plane crash a couple of years before they’d met.
The guy had a good reason for choosing not to fly.
Since Jon found it impossible to feel shitty about just one thing, all of his bad decisions ganged up and chased him around the studio. He paced, but he couldn’t outrun them. Any pretext of controlled breathing was long gone. He walked back and forth from the front door to the kitchenette until he damn near wore a trail through the old carpet to the hardwood below.
His phone chirped, interrupting his pity party. Willy had sent him the date, time, and location of their meeting. Friday, 1:00 p.m., at the same restaurant she always chose. Fortuitous scheduling, because in a moment of clarity, Jon knew what he had to do.
He sent two texts; one to Bo, begging forgiveness.
The other to Willy, with a more complicated request. He asked her to contact all of his current commitments and request that they book his flights in and out of Seattle.
Jon was going home.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 4. Bo stood at the front of the workroom at Bonnie’s Fabrics, Crafts, and Yarn and forced a smile. Today’s class was on crocheting with chunky yarn, and while his student group was small, they were enthusiastic.
They deserved an instructor who was equally excited.
Because dear Jesus on a half shell, if he couldn’t sell a roomful of crochet novices, what the hell was he going to do with twenty-four first graders? They came with their honesty meters set on “stun.”
Ever since his aborted trip from Sea-Tac Airport, Bo hadn’t been able to drum up much energy for anything. He needed therapy. Jon had apologized of course, and promised the money had been no big deal. They were still friends, even though Bo wanted more.
A whole lot more.
He also wanted this class to end so he could lick his spiritual wounds in private. The clock on the wall ticked close to 2:00 p.m. “Okay, my lovelies, it’s time to roll up your balls and put them away.”
Scattered laughter greeted his announcement, along with rustling and chatter as his students packed up their things.
“Don’t forget I’m giving a class on window treatments next weekend.” Or was it Karen’s class on making throw pillows? Bo didn’t have the energy to check his planner. The students knew better than he did, anyway.
The first few students filed out, and Bo found himself alone with Gabby, a tiny twentysomething hipster queer kid who’d been coming to his classes for a while. She stood between him and the door, her gaze sharp and her fists on her hips. “What’s wrong?”
Bo adjusted his glasses, wishing they provided more of a shield. “Guess I’m having a bit of a postholiday slump.”
“You’re not usually like this.”
Like what? “I’ll be fine.” And he would be. It just took a while to nurse a broken heart.
She came around the table and put her arm around his waist in half a hug. “I’m here if you want to talk.”
He hugged her back. “Thank you. I—”
The sound of a man clearing his throat interrupted him. Bo glanced up and his heart dropped through the floor.
Jon Cunningham stood in the doorway, a bouquet of roses shining white against his black coat. “Excuse me, but they said your class ended at two.”
Gabby took one look at Jon and gave Bo a kiss on the cheek. “See you next weekend.”
Bo couldn’t connect his mouth to his brain and just let her go.
“Sorry for interrupting.” Jon’s reserve faded with Gabby’s departure. He held out the flowers. “These are for you.”
“Thank you.” Bo managed a whisper.
Jon came closer. “Text messaging is fine and all, but I wanted to apologize to you in person.” He pressed the roses into Bo’s hand and pulled one of the teddy bear ornaments from his pocket. “I should have remembered about your father, and I should never ever have stressed you out so badly.”
“It’s… okay.”
“No.” Jon drew a single fingertip along the side of Bo’s face. “It’s not okay, and I’m hoping you’ll let me make it up to you. Also—” He held up the teddy. One of the eyes was missing. “—he needs to be fixed.”
Jon leaned close enough that his breath brushed against Bo’s forehead. His hand, with those long, strong fingers, cupped Bo’s cheek.
“After we fix it, we should go out to dinner, um, if you don’t have plans.”
Bo couldn’t tear his gaze away from the curve of Jon’s lower lip.
“But if you’re busy tonight, the invitation’s open until you’re free.”
Bo blinked, unable to reconcile a standing invitation with Jon’s lifestyle. “I can’t even believe you’re here.”
With a soft chuckle, Jon closed the distance between them and touched his lips to Bo’s. The kiss was soft, inquisitive, and before he could stop himself, Bo had grabbed a fistful of black wool. If he couldn’t believe what his eyes and ears told him, he could believe this.
The kiss was borderline inappropriate for a fabric store classroom. They kissed until Bo ran out of breath, the white blossoms squashed between their bodies.
“Oh.” Bo broke the kiss with a gasp. “Hold on… these….” He set the roses on a worktable so he could grab the lapels of Jon’s coat with both hands. “Maybe you better start from the beginning.”
“I made a New Year’s resolution.” Jon’s expression stayed open, vulnerable. “I promised myself I’d stop being a selfish asshole.”
“You’re not—”
“Yeah, I am. I left Mom and Dad when they needed me, and in my… I don’t even know what to call it—I tried to make you do something you specifically warned me about.” His smile brought an answering smile from Bo.
“So I’m here,” Jon continued, “for the foreseeable future. Willy is working to fix the travel arrangements, and for now she and my agent are going to focus on getting me West Coast gigs.”
The sincerity behind the words finally started making sense. The heat in Bo’s cheeks rose, and his heart filled with lightness till he thought he might float like a helium balloon.
“In that case—” He reached up for another quick kiss. “—dinner tonight sounds great.” He took the wounded teddy and clasped Jon’s hand. “Now come with me. I’ll get a glue gun and some sequins, and we’ll fix this little dude up.”
Bo led a grinning Jon to the messy supply shelves, and together, they found what was needed. With Jon at his side, Bo was pretty sure there wasn’t much he couldn’t fix.
LIV RANCOURT writes romance of all kinds. Because love is love, even with fangs.
Liv is a huge fan of paranormal and urban fantasy and has an equally strong love for history, so her stories often feature vampires or magic or they’re set in the past… or all of the above. When Liv isn’t writing, she takes care of tiny premature babies or teenagers, depending on whether she’s at work or at home. Her husband is a soul of patience, her kids are her pride and joy, and her dogs—Trash Panda and The Boy Genius—are endlessly entertaining.
Liv can be found online at all hours of the day and night at her website (www.livrancourt.com), on Facebook (www.facebook.com/liv.rancourt), or on Twitter (www.twitter.com/LivRancourt). She also blogs monthly over at Spellbound Scribes (spellboundscribes.wordpress.com/). For sneak peeks and previews and other assorted freebies, go to landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/w6h6n3 to sign up for her mailing list or join the Facebook page she shares with her writing part
ner Irene Preston, After Hours with Liv & Irene. Fun stuff!
By Liv Rancourt
A Holiday Homecoming
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.
A Holiday Homecoming
© 2019 Liv Rancourt
Cover Art
© 2019 L.C. Chase
http://www.lcchase.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.