Christmas Affair

by Ginny Frost

  Her body trembling like an earthquake, she flipped the bedspread over her head into a hood. Only the tip of her nose and her feet stuck out. She tiptoed to the seating area, her legs refusing to move quickly. The Norse god of a maintenance man fiddled with the still-open balcony door.

  “Please, can you close the door?” she asked, looking around the room for the thermostat. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with the usual upstate inflection she’d heard many times on these trips north. “But I gotta put the handle and the plate back on.” He didn’t turn to glance at her.

  “I don’t plan on going out there ever again. Lucky, I brought my cell with me and could call for help.”

  Still facing the door, he shrugged. “Handles break. But if I leave it, you’ll have a hole in the wall. Not great for keeping the heat in.”

  This time, he turned and gave her the full brunt of his gaze. Bright gray-brown eyes twinkled at her. “We gotta warm you up, right?” His voice sounded all charm, and it added heat to her skin.

  With a narrowed gaze, she assessed him.

  Rugged, rural New Yorker type, handy and handsome. He probably spent as much time repairing things as he did “servicing” his clients. She’d bet half the hotel patrons dallied with the hottie. Oh well. At least, he saved her and fixed the lock.

  “Well… Please hurry,” she said. How did her mother find it so easy to order people around? Jo only did it when she felt mad, and mad passed through her easily. Now she was merely frozen and embarrassed. Trembling with cold, she pulled a hand from the covers to adjust the thermostat. Her fingers shook so badly, she hit every button twice. After five resets, she sputtered in frustration.

  “Here, let me.” His voice was a deep rumble. “It’s gonna take a bit for the room to heat. Go into a smaller room like the bathroom.” It made sense. “Actually,” he continued, scrubbing his chin after he’d set the temperature to eighty, “let’s put you in the tub.”

  Turning, she tried to huff at him, but the coverlet betrayed her. Wrapped so tightly, she couldn’t maneuver, and she toppled. The man caught her before she hit the floor.

  “I can feel the cold through the blanket. The tub is best to avoid hypothermia.”

  She repressed the urge to protest as he hefted her in his arms and carried her to the bathroom. For a rescue, it wasn’t half bad. Part of her wanted him to stop in the bedroom and warm up the old-fashioned way. She kept her lips tightly sealed. Well, metaphorically. Her teeth chattered.

  “You know so much about the cold.”

  “Upstate born and bred, my dear. It’s cold here most of the year. Gotta keep yourself warm skiing, ice fishing, and the like.”

  He deposited her on the vanity chair in the bathroom. “Give me a sec here.” He bent over—a marvelous view—and drew on the taps. Dual faucets poured water into the giant tub. After a few seconds, steam rose from the water.

  “Stanley upgraded the water heaters. Good thing, too.” He ran his fingers under the flow and readjusted the knobs. “Be right back. The tub’ll fill in a minute.” He stood, flashed her a quick grin, and exited the bathroom.

  The warm water beckoned her. Loosening the blanket, Jo leaned over toward the tub. She let her fingers dance under the tap.

  Heaven.

  Tingles danced up and down her hand as the feeling returned. She sank onto the floor, placing both hands in the hot water, savoring the warmth on her skin.

  Oh, screw it.

  She nudged the bedspread off her shoulders and climbed into the tub. The water barely rose above a few inches, but the heat seeped into her body. She moaned in joy as the cold slowly faded.

  “I guess that’s one way to do it.” The maintenance man stood in the bathroom door, a steaming mug in his hand. “You probably shoulda taken the robe off, if you didn’t want to ruin it.”

  Jo glanced down, noticing her beautiful purple silk was drenched, and didn’t care. She held up her hands for the mug, “For me? Thank you so much.” She found her manners and gave him a smile.

  Kneeling by the tub, he handed her the cup—tea, by the smell. “You sure you’re okay? I can call for a first aid kit, maybe get a doctor in here…” He trailed off, turning his head away.

  Jo realized her wet robe clung to every inch of her. She slid down, wishing for bubbles. “I think the bath and the tea will help,” she said, feeling a fool.

  “Uh, okay.” He stood and tugged at the towels on the racks. “For when you get out. I guess I’ll go.” When he ducked out the door, the manly maintenance man’s cheeks shone red.

  “Wait!” she called, remembering more of her manners. He leaned his head around the doorway. His gaze dipped down for a millisecond before meeting her eyes. “You rescued me, and I don’t know your name.”

  The pink rose higher in his cheeks, almost to his hairline. “Brett Kramer, ma’am.” He tipped an invisible cap and disappeared.

  Chapter Three

  What the hell was that?

  Brett closed the door, his heart racing. The sight of the woman in the tub with a purple robe floating around her was permanently etched in his mind. He blinked, trying to dismiss the image, but it refused to fade. Ninety percent of his brain and one hundred percent of his body said, “Go get her.” But his last bit of reason stated loudly, “The handyman and the hot chick in a hotel room. Porn movie much?”

  And she was not the adult movie type. She seemed classy. Taking advantage of her in her vulnerable state would be wrong. And she appeared, well, delicate. Either the alabaster skin or the fine features made him want to cover her in bubble wrap, not take her over the arm of the couch.

  Shaken, he stepped out of the elevator where a chorus of giggles greeted him. The two desk clerks whispered and pointed as he strode by, headed for the older section of the building. He didn’t acknowledge them as he passed. Why are women always so difficult? Why can't I find a tough, self-assured girl who likes power tools?

  When he came to the office, Stan stuck his head out. “Any problems?” His smirk seemed extra obnoxious. What was the deal with the woman in the Presidential Suite?

  “Handle fell off her balcony door, locked outside. You might want your regular guy to check those. Luckily, she had her cell.” Brett tried to march on, but Stanley asked another question.

  “And that’s it?”

  Brett turned and gave his friend a hard stare. “Yeah, butthead. That’s it. I fixed the door. Call her room in ten minutes and make sure she doesn’t have hypothermia.”

  Stanley’s eyes opened wide, and he seemed taken aback. “Oh, yeah—uh, sure. Thanks for fixing that, Brett.”

  Today was weird. But it didn’t matter. With only a couple more bathrooms to finish, he could enjoy the nightlife at the hotel’s bar. He’d stretch out the last bits of the job till Sunday. Maybe the woman in the Presidential Suite would be at the bar…

  Humming, Brett headed back to work.

  ***

  Jo loved her suite, despite her ordeal with the balcony and the interaction with the maintenance man. Her mother and the rest of the party planned on arriving that evening and the following morning. Tonight, she could sit in the lounge, work on the laptop, and enjoy the view by the fire.

  All those years of bed rest took a toll on a girl. Jo came alive when she found the online world of internet forums, webcomics, and gaming sites—especially the programming forums. She’d learned to write code in a dozen languages, old and new. Online, she was Jo-reg (her screen name) instead of Josephine Lockwood, invalid. She liked Jo-reg so much better.

  Jo-reg didn’t have a mother who always fussed over her, never letting her do for herself. She’d been healthy for a while, but her mother never noticed. Jo learned how to live with the disease diagnosed a year ago. No more asthma or breathing issues. No more constant colds or rashes. In her own controlled environment, she kept the place free of allergens, including her food.

  Her mom still coddled her like a baby. But with her sample game a
lmost finished, this was Mom’s last weekend, her last hold over Jo’s life. After she attended Mom’s over-the-top holiday party, Jo was free to start her career and so much more.

  Scary, but exciting.

  Once outside the elevator, she headed to the large lounge in the back of the hotel. A wall of windows gave an amazing view of the cliff side, snow-covered and winter perfect. The room was oversized, but the hotel cut the space into cozy nooks and crannies with large couches and chairs. A discreet bar huddled in one corner, and tables spotted the area—a ski lodge feel, but warmer, richer, cozier.

  Two immense fireplaces glowed with heat at either end, with sad attempts at holiday decorations on the mantle. Boy, this place could use a woman’s touch. The enormous hearths could each fit an entire dining room table inside them. Their size, with the huge roaring fires, both intimidated and invited one into the space. The two eight-foot pines in the center, decorated with white, gold, and red, threw a better air of Christmas throughout the room. Combined with the bank of windows looking out on a winterscape, the room dispelled the gloomy atmosphere of the rest of the hotel.

  She had an hour or two before she needed to play hostess tonight. The fireside called to her, a perfect place to work on her sample project. She was layered up in a turtleneck, wool sweater, and winter-weight pants, but after the balcony fiasco, she remained a little cold.

  The perfect little table sat off to one side. She hooked up her laptop and opened her game. Her sample program for Ezgamez was almost perfect. She’d scouted for weeks to find the right company with a wide audience. She’d had offers from others, but Ezgamez matched her “dream job” checklist nearly point for point.

  Her program was simple—a three-match game with a simple story. She’d spent hundreds of hours polishing it and adding bonus material to make it shine. She’d probably gone over the top, but Ezgamez’s large platform pushed her to excel with her audition piece. She wanted this job more than anything.

  The program still needed a few more tweaks. Being alone in the lounge tonight would give her “mom-free” time to finish. If the game passed the test, and she got a job offer, she’d get her own place. She’d live alone without Mom hovering over her every move.

  She’d be free.

  She’d been hunching over her laptop for about a half an hour when her stomach growled ominously. Not surprising as her trek into the cold probably burned two days’ worth of calories. She was careful about what she ate, worried wheat-filled food would trigger a stomach issue. But right now, she could eat an entire stockyard.

  Time to snag a roaming server for a snack. Or to pack up and hit the dining room proper.

  A quick survey of the room said no one from her mother’s party arrived yet, but a tall man stood at the bar—the maintenance guy, Brett Kramer.

  She thought she should apologize for being weird and not thanking him properly. And he was awfully cute. So… Ask him to dinner?

  Ignoring the code scrolling across her page, she bit her lip. Why not? He was kind and didn’t ogle her, though she’d been half naked. He even blushed. Time to be bold.

  With pure bravado, she packed her laptop and strolled over to the bar. After a deep breath, she stuck her hand out in front of Brett. “Hi. Remember me? The Presidential Suite? I’m Jo.”

  He turned to face her, his gray-brown eyes flashing. “I remember something about the Presidential Suite. Door handle, right?” He winked, and the relief flooded over her. He wasn’t a dick and didn’t joke about her being stupid or naked.

  Phew.

  “Yeah, thank you for that. I regret…” She waved a hand, unsure how to finish the sentence.

  “That you probably had a touch of hypothermia, and I shouldn’t have left you alone in a full bathtub. Yes, please apologize.” He smirked lightheartedly. But pink crept up his neck again.

  So adorable.

  “I’m sorry, Jo. I should have stayed and made sure you were okay. Or called the manager or something. You’re okay, right?”

  She smiled, ducking her head. Heat burned on her own face. “I was fine, just cold. And feeling stupid and embarrassed. Who goes out on a balcony in a bathrobe?”

  Brett leaned an elbow on the bar, his gaze square with hers. “Someone who thinks a high-class place like this won’t have broken doors. I did go to the manager and report it. It took me a minute to stop being a dick, but Stanley told me he’d check on you.”

  “Yes, I got a call from the desk from a giggling little girl. She made a snide joke. ‘Did I enjoy the maintenance man?’ What’s with that?”

  Brett shook his head, looking dumbfounded.

  “Anyway, I asked for the manager. Told him I was fine, you did a great job, and that his registration clerk made sexual innuendos at me.” She chuckled, not her usual play, but Mom paid lots of money for the weekend. The staff could at least be polite.

  “Damn,” Brett said, holding up a beer. “Well done. Can I buy you a drink to say sorry for walking out? You were in the tub, and I—”

  Jo waved off his platitudes. “Let me buy you dinner to say sorry for being weird.”

  He glanced away, and Jo thought for sure he’d decline. So much for being assertive and trying new things. She pressed her lips, sorry she didn’t accept his drink offer right away. Mom’s friends would be here soon, and she’d eat with them if she had to. And of course, her stomach chose that moment to growl.

  “Well,” he said with a laugh, “how could I turn you down after that?”

  Jo slapped her forehead. “And the embarrassment continues…” She sighed. “Thanks anyway, Brett. It was nice to meet you.”

  He brushed his fingers on her arm as she turned away. “So, no dinner?” he asked sincerely.

  “Oh.” Now her face positively blazed. “Dinner sounds great. All that cold…”

  He laughed, holding his arm out in an invitation to the dining room. “After you, Jo.”

  ***

  A dinner invite? What a surprise. Especially after he'd torn out of her room. She was naked, kinda, and he was no doctor. His thoughts were still muddled after the encounter with the clerk again. Luckily, he came back to his right head.

  And Jo apologized to him.

  What a world.

  When he entered the lounge, he’d spotted her typing on a laptop. He’d planned to go over to her table and make an excuse after he’d finished his beer.

  But surprise, surprise. She’d come over, apologized, and invited him to dinner. Anyone coulda knocked him over with a feather.

  Warm once again, her skin took on a lovely pink hue. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head, and she wore a sweater that looked like pure comfort. Casual, smiley, and nice. He’d treat her to a meal and snag the best seat in the house too.

  He and Jo walked to the formal dining room. The oddly tiered room resembled comedy club seating, but instead of a stage, the space faced the fountain below the elevators of the new wing.

  She glanced at her clothes. “I might not be dressed for…” She spotted at his flannel shirt and jeans and stopped talking.

  “I’ve got an in.” He leaned over and whispered to the maître d', who waved for them to follow.

  “Oh, I don’t want to impose or anything.” She blushed. Cute. Hopefully, she wasn’t part of the overbearing holiday party here for the weekend. She'd booked the suite, but she seemed nice.

  “No imposition. It’s how I do dinner most nights. The kitchen staff is awesome.”

  Jo must have noticed they were heading for the staff doors. She tugged at his arm. “Brett, I don’t want to…”

  “Trust me.”

  The maître d' held open the swinging door. “This way, s'il vous plaît.” He bowed, allowing them to pass.

  Jo’s fingers tightened. “In the kitchen?” she hissed in a whisper.

  “Best seat in the house.”

  Chapter Four

  Jo stood wide-eyed, watching the bustle of the busy space. Stainless steel covered every surface, and dozens of people
worked at a clipped pace. The aromas floating in the room grabbed her attention and drew her up short. Inhaling a deep breath through her nose, she fell against Brett’s chest, woozy with delight.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. The warmth seeped through to her bones, and she repressed a shiver. “You okay there, tiger?” His voice was light and humming, as if giddy with the delicious smells, too. “Our spot is right there.”

  He steered her to a small table, adorned with holly and a white rose, and away from the busy lanes of traffic.

  Brett pulled her seat out. Almost robotic, she sat, her fantasies on hold. How was it any different from dinners with her mother? Coddled, pampered, and put in a corner. She wanted to retreat from the porcelain-doll treatment. Mom gave her enough of that already. She sat stiffly and failed to meet his gaze.

  “Okay, it’s weird, right? But I hope this fancy ‘eat in the kitchen’ thing like on TV might be a treat.” He dropped in his chair, grabbed a napkin, and shook it out. “They don’t let patrons do it here. It’s the only place I’m allowed to eat, being the hired help and all. But it’s still fun. Gerard, the maître d', plans to work on the new owners to make it an actual thing for paying customers. I hope you don’t mind being a guinea pig.”

  Jo blinked at him, startled. She pulled back from the table, ready to go. What was that supposed to mean? She’d made a terrible mistake inviting him to dinner. This would not be the intimate setting she imagined. “I don’t know…” She stood.

  Brett jumped from his seat. “Oh, man. Sorry about my crappy manners. Is it okay? Eating with the help? I mean, you asked me, but Stanley doesn’t want us guys”—he gestured to the kitchen crew—“eating in the big room. I’ll grab something to go, and we can eat in the lounge.” He said the words in a rush but didn’t seem embarrassed or chagrinned. Just genuinely worried about her mental state. The condescending undertone Jo usually heard from her mother was absent.

  Cocking her head, she studied him. Perhaps she saw things that weren’t there. He did pull her inside after a near-icicle episode. Maybe he was a caring person and not putting her on a pedestal. She bit her bottom lip, considering.