A Snowy Little Christmas

by Fern Michaels

  “What’s the this we’re handling? And back in the airport, when I said I was sorry about the kiss—you told me you couldn’t lose this. What’s the this?”

  His brow is furrowed in confusion. “I meant that I couldn’t lose us. I couldn’t lose me and you, together.”

  “On the job?”

  He takes another step forward, shakes his head. “God, I have messed this up,” he says, more to himself than to me. “No. Kris, no. I’d lose the business tomorrow, if it meant staying with you, being with you. As friends, as—as what we were last night. Anything.”

  “You’ve always put the job first. In your top place.”

  “I’ve made mistakes about that in the past. I know I have. But Kris, with you—I thought you’d think it was a bad idea, to try with me. So I made a rule for myself. I’d never let my feelings for you get in the way of just—getting to be with you. Be around you every day, at work. It’s the best thing I’ve got, having that with you, and I couldn’t lose it.”

  I’m sure the bell is ringing; I’m sure it is. But all I can hear is the sound of my heart beating.

  “Why—” My voice is a little shaky, like the timbre of the bell after it’s been rung. “Why did you think you’d lose it?”

  “Any reason, really. You decide it’s a mistake, because of work—which would be fair enough, given everything you’ve seen. Or one of us messes up at it, and we can’t make our way back together. Or—even if you’d decided you had felt that way about me, maybe your feelings would change eventually.”

  “Or maybe your feelings would change,” I say.

  He gives me a long, determined look. A Jasper-on-the-job look. “My feelings wouldn’t change.”

  I roll my eyes, look down at my borrowed boots. One night, and he’s suddenly got all the confidence in the world about the way he feels. “Okay.”

  “Kristen.” He waits. Waits for me to look back in those determined eyes. “They wouldn’t. They won’t. They haven’t, not in all the six years I’ve known you. They have never changed.”

  “Six years?” It’s almost a whisper.

  “Six years.” His voice is clear. Not loud, but not quiet, either. “Every day. I guess I should say—they have changed. Because when I first met you, I thought you were smart and kind and beautiful and completely out of my league, and every day that passed I knew that more and more, and I’ve been in love with you for that long, and yesterday was the best day and the best night of my life, even if it did ruin your Christmas.”

  “Jasper.” It is a whisper now, pressed out through tears gathering in my throat, and because I know the next part will be too, I reach out and grab the front of his coat, pull him under the porch overhang with me, just as another clump of snow falls, this time hitting the ground. “You didn’t ruin my Christmas.”

  He ducks his head, places his hands over mine.

  “I’m in love with you, too,” I say, and then he looks up, meets my eyes briefly before closing his in what seems to be plain, simple relief.

  “People’s feelings,” he says quietly, tipping his head down and resting his forehead against mine. “People who loved me, once. My family. Their feelings changed. I’ve been afraid of that, with you. Afraid of trying, for what I might lose. The job—it felt like the only way I could have you in my life.”

  I move my hands from his coat, bring them up to his cold cheeks, feel him wrap his arms tight around my waist. “I’ve loved you a long time too. And I was afraid too. Of not being . . . in your top place, I guess. I didn’t think I could ever handle that. Being with you, but always knowing the job would be more important.”

  He lifts his head, but keeps me close. “You’re in the top place. Forever. I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter about the Dreyers. We can go back there, and you’ll see. I won’t say a damn word about the patent. I’ll sing a Christmas song with them, whatever you want. I don’t care.”

  I shake my head, a tear-soaked laugh in my throat. “You don’t have to sing,” I say, and then we’re kissing, my back against the door of the cottage, Jasper broad and strong and hungry against me, his arms lifting me those few inches we need to be level. It’s cold and bright and perfect, a Christmas morning kiss, and the only reason I break it is because I can’t stop from smiling in perfect happiness.

  “Kris,” he whispers to me, right against my lips. “I missed you.”

  I somehow know what he means, know what it means to him to admit it, and I hold him tighter, pressing my mouth to his again, and he smiles now, that scar-side of his mouth tipping away from mine first, until he’s got to simply hold me, pressing his smile into the cold strands of my hair.

  “Jasper,” I say, tipping my chin up so he’ll hear me. “Come to Michigan.”

  I feel his smile widen. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “As soon as we can get on a flight together. I don’t want you to miss it.”

  We both pull back then, just enough so we can smile at each other. Jasper lifts a hand, swipes his thumb gently across my cheek, catching a few stray tears. I don’t think he’d mind knowing his eyes are a little shiny too. All of a sudden I see Christmases stretch out in front of us, years of cookie making and movie watching and kissing past midnight.

  “We’ll have to talk about it, you know,” I say, placing my hands on his chest. Even through his coat I think I can feel the holiday bell of his heart. “How to make sure it works between us. We’ll have to lay some ground rules for—this. This relationship, and our relationship at work.”

  He leans back, smiling down at me before leaning down to give me a quick, soft kiss.

  “Kris,” he says, his voice husky, his eyes soft. “That’s not going to be a problem.” Another kiss, this one more lingering. “I’m good at following rules, when it comes to you.”

  Epilogue

  JASPER

  December 25

  One Year Later

  Kristen’s parents live in a tiny ranch house, barely three bedrooms, and the barely is because the third one is basically a thin-walled closet, hardly enough room for the futon Kris and I have been sleeping on for the last three nights to be unfolded. My back hurts, I’m sex-deprived, and last night I stayed up until three a.m. helping Kris’s brother-in-law build a dollhouse for his daughters.

  I am having the best time.

  “Okay, last one,” Kris says, passing me yet another pot from the stove. I don’t remember there even being enough food options on the dining table this evening for this many dirty dishes, but I haven’t much minded the escape, Kris and me alone in the small kitchen while the rest of the family relaxes and digests in the other room. It’s been fun, my second official Fraser family Christmas, but it’s been noisy, too, and hasn’t allowed for much privacy. Later tonight Kris and I will drive over to Traverse City, where we’ve rented a cottage right on the lake. Our Christmas gift to each other, and a private continuation of a tradition we started last year at the Dreyers’.

  “I’m getting good at this,” I tell Kristen, scrubbing at a spot of stuck-on potatoes. “Your mom is gonna love me.”

  Kris makes a clucking noise. “Please. She already loves you.”

  I smile down at my soapy hands. She’s said it casually, jokingly, but the truth is—I think her mom does love me. I think her whole family does, and I’m as proud of that as anything I’ve ever done, especially since it made it easier to ask them—two nights ago while Kristen built a snowman with her nieces—for their blessing about a particular question I’m planning to ask Kris soon.

  Tonight soon, if I have my way. I’ll be breaking a promise to her, saying the cottage was the only gift for the holiday this year, but I’ve got a feeling she won’t mind.

  “I talked to Carol,” Kris says, interrupting my thoughts. “She opened our package. She says it’s her new favorite.”

  “I can only hope her family put on sunglasses before she turned it on.”

  Kris laughs, swats me with a towel. Keeping Carol on after the Dreyer deal lapsed hadn�
�t been easy, exactly. We’d had to downsize, moving into a space with only one private office, but as it turned out Kris and I liked sharing, and we’ll probably re-up the lease, even though we’re back—way back, thanks to a new deal we’ve recently made for Gil Dreyer that’ll keep him and his patent in Massachusetts—in the green. But it’d been worth it. Worth it to keep Carol, who still hums and plays annoying music all day. Worth it to be with Kris side by side, working together better than we ever have before.

  Just as I’m rinsing, the screen of my phone lights up on the windowsill above the sink. I’d ignore it, but once I see the name I’m flicking my hands dry. “You mind?” I ask Kris, showing her the screen.

  She grabs the pot I’ve just washed, leans over to give me a kiss. “Nope. Tell him hi.”

  I duck out, down the hallway into the closet-bedroom.

  “Merry Christmas, man,” Ben says when I answer.

  “Hey, same to you. How you guys doing?”

  “Hi, Jasper,” comes Kit’s voice through the phone, somewhat at a distance. “Ben, tell him hi!”

  “I heard her. Tell her Merry Christmas,” I say.

  “Same to Kris. I can’t talk long,” Ben says. “We’re on our way to my dad’s place for dinner. He’s trying to fry a turkey. I gotta get there before something goes real wrong.”

  A year ago, this might’ve hurt a little, hearing Ben talk about his family holiday plans. But not long after Kris and I got together, I realized something. All that missing I did—for her, for us—it had a whole lot to do with what I’ve been missing since I was seventeen years old, on my own and learning what it was like not to have a home. And what she and I have between us now is everything I knew I was missing and also everything I didn’t know I was.

  Including Christmas.

  “Right,” I say. “I think I’ve got to go sing some carols or something.” In the living room, I can hear Kristen’s mom playing scales on the small piano they have by the back door.

  There’s silence on the line for a few seconds. “What the shit did you just say?”

  I laugh. “It’s a Fraser tradition.”

  “Did I call the right number?”

  I laugh. “I’m a changed man. I wore a Santa suit for Kristen’s nieces yesterday.” That’d been a hit. With the nieces, first, who squealed in delight and clapped when I’d come in the front door with a bag of presents, and then later with Kristen, who’d shoved me into this bedroom, pulled down my fake beard, and kissed me in a way that was entirely inappropriate for a television movie.

  “I’m happy for you, bud,” Ben says.

  I clear my throat. “Me too. Thanks for calling.”

  When we hang up I head back into the living room. The kids are sitting on either side of their grandmother, wiggling excitedly on the piano bench. Malik and Mac are looking through a book of holiday songs. Kelly’s on the couch with one of the disgusting cocktails she got me to try yesterday, some salted caramel thing that made my eyes water with the sweetness.

  “Jasper,” she says, patting the spot next to her. “I need you to tell me more about those solar panels I can get for our house.”

  Kelly is into tech, probably even more so than Kris is, and whenever we talk she’s grilling me about the latest thing we’re chasing down at the firm. “Thank God she goes to you now,” Kristen said to me a few months ago after Kelly and I hung up from a long call about a new household generator. “She wants so much detail!”

  But I like detail, and I like Kelly and Malik and their kids, and I like anything that makes Kristen press her body close to mine on our couch at home in Houston, cuddling close enough to kiss my neck, to tell me how glad she is that I get along so well with her family.

  I’m headed to Kelly when Kristen makes her way in from the kitchen, her cheeks flushed from the warmer temperature in there. “How’s Ben?” she asks, sliding an arm around my waist as I put mine around her shoulders.

  “Good. He says Merry Christmas.”

  She smiles and pats my back. “You ready to get out of here for the night?”

  My brow furrows as I look down at her. “But what about the—uh.” I use my free hand to gesture to the piano. “The carols?”

  “Wellllll,” Kris says, stretching out the word. “It’s just that we’ve had a lot of family time.” She sneaks a hand under my shirt, tracing her fingertips across my lower back. “Sleeping in that very small room. And our cottage for the night is . . .”

  “You’re right,” I say quickly. “Let’s leave. Now.” Suddenly the Fraser house feels like an extremely tiny, painfully loud torture chamber.

  “Hey!” Kelly yells from the couch. “Are you two trying to leave now?”

  Kristen winks at me before looking to her sister. “Yeah, I think we’re going to call it a night.”

  “No!” says Kelly, pointing her drink at us.

  “Ah, Kell,” says Malik. “Let ’em go. They’ve got a little drive ahead.” Forget Ben; Malik is my new best friend. When Kris isn’t looking he makes a totally obvious gesture at his wedding band.

  Kelly gives her husband an exasperated look. “But we have to sing!” she says, and in her tone I can hear exactly what Kris is always telling me about Kelly from their younger years, how bossy she always was. “It’s the rules!”

  Kristen laughs and looks up at me. “Kel,” she says, keeping her knowing, sparkling eyes on me. “Me and Jasper, we’re going to have to break that rule this year.”

  I smile down at her, hold her tighter around the waist as I bend my head to whisper in her ear. She smells so good; she is so good, everything about her. “Making trouble, Kris?”

  She shivers, clutches at the sweatshirt I’m wearing. Then she tips her head back to give me a kiss. “Of course,” she says, smiling that big, bottom-teeth-crooked smile that makes every one of my days feel like a holiday. “It’s a Christmas tradition.”

  And when I bend to press my lips against hers, I know it’s a Christmas tradition I won’t ever have to miss again.

  First, to readers: thank you for reading! Having the opportunity to revisit the Chance of a Lifetime universe for this novella was a pure delight, and I hope those of you who know that series enjoyed this return trip.

  I am incredibly lucky to work with two brilliant and inspiring women in bringing my books into the world. To Esi Sogah, my editor, thank you for asking me to be a part of this collection, and for shaping this story into its final form. To Taylor Haggerty, my agent, thank you for believing in me and encouraging to take this opportunity. You two are the dream team, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  Olivia Dade was gracious enough to read my first draft of this novella, and her expertise at writing in this form—as well as her kindness—was invaluable as I completed it. I am grateful more generally to my network of friends (writers and non-writers alike) who encourage each project I take on. A special thanks to Sarah MacLean, who talked through the art of the holiday novella with me, and to my first reader, Amy, who always live-texts along the way.

  As always, endless gratitude to my loving family, and to my husband—the person with whom I’m always happy to be snowed in.

  Kate

  Keep reading for

  a sneak peek at

  LOVE LETTERING

  The upcoming novel by

  Kate Clayborn

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  On Sunday I work in sans serif.

  Boldface for all the headers, because that’s what the client wants, apexes and vertexes flattened way out into big floors and tables for every letter, each one stretching and counting and demanding to be seen.

  All caps, not because she’s into shouting—at least I don’t think, though one time I saw her husband give their toddler a drink of his coffee and the look she gave him probably made all his beard hairs fall out within twelve to twenty-four hours. No, I think it’s because she doesn’t like anything falling below the descender line. She wants it all on the level, no distraction,
nothing that’ll disrupt her focus or pull her eye away.

  Black and gray ink, that’s all she’ll stand for, and she means it. One time I widened the tracking and added a metallic, a fine-pointed thread of gold to the stems, an almost art deco look I thought for sure she’d tolerate, but when she opened the journal—black, A4, dot grid, nothing fancy—she’d closed it after barely ten seconds and slid it back across the table with two fingers, the sleeve of her black cashmere sweater obviously part of the admonishment.

  “Meg,” she’d said, “I don’t pay you to be decorative,” as if being decorative was the same as being a toenail clipping hoarder or a murderer-for-hire.

  She’s a sans serif kind of woman.

  Me? Well, it’s not really the Mackworth brand, all these big, bold, no-nonsense letters. It’s not my usual—what was it The New York Times had written last year? Whimsical? Buoyant? Frolicsome? Right, not my usual whimsical, buoyant, frolicsome style.

  But I can do anything with letters, that’s also what The New York Times said, and that’s what people pay me for, so on Sunday I do this.

  I sigh and stare down at the page in front of me, where I’ve used my oldest Staedtler pencil to grid and sketch out the letters

  M-A-Y

  for the upcoming month, big enough that the A crosses the center line. It’s such a . . . such a short word, not a lot of possibility in it, not like my clients who’ve wanted a nice spring motif before their monthly spread, big swashes and swooping terminal curves for cheerful sayings ushering in the new month. Already I’ve done four Bloom Where You’re Planteds, three May Flowers! and one special request for a Lusty Month of May, from the sex therapist who has an office on Prospect Park West and who once told me I should think about whether my vast collection of pens is a “symbol” for something.

  “Other than for my work?” I’d asked, and she’d only raised a very judgmental, very expertly threaded eyebrow. The Sex Therapist Eyebrow of Knowing How Rarely You Date. Her planner, it’s a soft pink leather with a gold button closure, and I hope she sees the irony.