The Probability of Mistletoe

by E. J. Russell

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  About the Author

  By E.J. Russell

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  The Probability of Mistletoe

  By E.J. Russell

  When software engineer Keith Trainor decides to start his own company, he knows exactly who he wants as his partner: Parker Mulvaney, his best friend from high school. But in the ten years since graduation, their contact has dwindled to nothing, and it’s all Keith’s fault. If he hadn’t tried to kiss Parker under the mistletoe at the winter formal their senior year, Parker wouldn’t have bolted. At their ten-year reunion, Keith intends to do everything in his geeky power to make amends.

  Parker should have known that scheduling the reunion the day before Christmas Eve was a recipe for a headache of monster proportions. But when Keith sends a text that he’ll be attending, the evening doesn’t look so bleak. Can an unnecessary makeover, a nostalgic breakfast, an abortive shopping trip, and a whole lot of mistletoe culminate in a long-overdue first kiss?

  Dedicated to anyone who has let time—and friendships—get away from them.

  Acknowledgments

  MY SINCERE thanks to Tricia Kristufek and the whole editorial team for making my maiden voyage with Dreamspinner such a pleasure.

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHEN PARKER Mulvaney’s email alert pinged at the same time his instant message notification squawked and his cell phone blared “Ride of the Valkyries,” he let his head fall forward onto his kitchen table with a thunk. Whose brilliant idea was it to have the ten-year high school reunion two days before Christmas?

  Um… that would be me.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time—classmates who’d moved away after graduation would be more likely to be in town to visit families who remained, plus a lot of people liked to take time off at the holidays.

  Me again.

  Except his boss didn’t understand the concept of “time off”—at least for Parker—any better this year than in the last five.

  Sure enough, when Parker answered his phone, his boss barked, “We’ve got a situation.”

  Not “Hello.” Not “Happy holidays.” Not “Sorry to bother you.” Straight to the point, that was Frank. Once upon a time, Parker appreciated that directness. Now? Not so much.

  He didn’t bother to raise his head off the table. “Frank, I’m on vacation. You know what that means, right? It means I’m not working.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But this is important. Crucial. Make-or-break.”

  I’ll tell you what’s about to break…. “Seriously? We’ve got no new campaigns launching this week, and Krista is totally capable of handling the ongoing plans.”

  “Grayson Harris himself called me from the event venue demanding to know why you aren’t on-site to manage things.”

  “Did you tell him I’m on vacation?”

  “Of course not. He’s our biggest client. He wants you on deck.”

  “We can’t always get what we want.”

  Silence on the line except for a staccato tapping. Frank’s pen. Parker counted down, imagining Frank’s teeth grinding in counterpoint. Three… two… one. “Harris Electronics is our most important account.”

  “And Mr. Harris won’t go into withdrawal if he can’t talk to me three times a day for the next two weeks. This event isn’t external-facing marketing anyway, for pity’s sake. It’s their office holiday party. The ‘event venue’ is their own freaking building. The caterers are competent to set up and break down, and by the third drink, nobody—including Mr. Harris—will notice if the conference room is on fire, let alone if I’m any closer to the buffet table than Tierra del Fuego.”

  “Parker—”

  “Frank.” Parker matched his boss’s exasperated tone. “Trust me. I’ve babysat the last four of those parties, and there was no reason whatsoever for me to be at any of them. They’ll be fine. So will you. And so will your agency.”

  Frank grumbled, but at least he hung up, thank goodness. Parker heaved a sigh and dropped his cell phone into his lap, head still resting on the edge of the table. He poked at the screen to bring up the email.

  As he expected, it was from the reunion committee chair, who always pushed every major decision onto Parker—which didn’t bother him nearly as much as the number of emoticons she added to her messages.

  “There should be a law,” he muttered. “No more than one smiley, three hearts, and two winkies in a single email.” Furthermore the quota should be reduced by 10 percent for each exclamation point and 50 percent for every LOL. He responded—politely—thanking every available deity the reunion would be over tonight.

  Too bad I can’t say the same about my job.

  Before he pulled up the message app, he bet himself a new pair of Chuck Taylor high-tops the message was either from Krista, complaining about Frank, or one of his sisters, freaking out about their family’s annual Christmas Eve bash.

  He opened the app—and bolted upright in his chair. Keith Trainor? So what if he lost the bet because holy cripes. Keith.

  KT: Hey, Parker. You’ll be at the reunion tonight, right?

  His thumbs were trembling so that Parker fumbled his first two attempts at a response. He’d never imagined Keith would be back in town for the holidays. He had no family in the Portland area anymore, and as far as Parker knew, Keith was firmly ensconced in a high-tech throne in some Silicon Valley software company—and they were lucky to have him.

  PM: Absolutely!

  KT: Good.

  Parker waited for another message, another word—heck, anything. From Keith he’d accept giant flocks of emojis rampant on a veritable field of exclamation points, but Keith’s online indicator went gray. Dang it.

  Keith. Wow. They were unlikely friends in high school—Keith, the introverted geek barricaded behind banks of computer equipment, and Parker, the extroverted social butterfly with his fingers in every student activity pie. But in the first month of freshman year, Keith helped Parker with a computer assignment, and when Parker got a peek under that shaggy dark hair at the warm brown eyes behind unfashionable glasses, their differences didn’t seem to matter so much. When they discovered they shared the same sense of humor, taste in movies, and social values, the best-friend deal was sealed.

  Parker had a lot of friends then, and he had a lot of friends now—but none of them were ever as special as Keith. Yet they’d grown so far apart in the last decade that Parker couldn’t remember the last time they’d exchanged so much as a Facebook like. Sure, they lived in different states and had since college, but this was the age of instant digital communication, for goodness’ sake. How could they have lost touch so completely? Why had they lost touch?

  Oh. Right. Mistletoe. Parker groaned and slid down until his butt was on the edge of the chair. Stupid, lousy mistletoe.

  Their senior year, Parker was on the committee for the winter formal—because of course he was. He was on the committee for everything. When the original DJ fell through, he asked his dad to step in at the last minute. He knew it would be a tad awkward having his father as a sort of quasi-chaperone at the dance, but he didn’t realize exactly how awkward things could get.

  Because under the twinkle lights and mistletoe boughs next to the punch bowl, in full view of the stage, Keith had squared his shoulders as if he were about to ride into virtual battle and leaned in for a kiss.

  And Parker bailed.

  Not only because his dad was staring at him right that
second. I did it—or rather didn’t do it—with the best intentions. Parker had been trying to overcome his impulsiveness. He’d finally learned making short-term choices that limited his long-term opportunities was a really, really, really bad idea. If he’d kissed Keith—and God, he wanted to, had wanted to for years—it could mean limiting them both in ways that were totally unacceptable. Because Parker knew Keith—knew him better than Keith knew himself—and once they crossed the line from friend to boyfriend, Keith would be steadfast and loyal and focused on Parker to the exclusion of his own best interests.

  So Parker dodged the kiss and scampered off to chat up some other random guy—God, now that he thought about it, it was Todd Bolton, of all people. But he glanced back once and saw the slump of Keith’s shoulders, the way he shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged out of the room, his gaze fixed on the floor.

  Their friendship wasn’t the same afterward, which was exactly what Parker had been trying to avoid. But when Keith announced he’d been accepted at Stanford with nearly a full ride—which he totally deserved—Parker felt vindicated. If he’d given in to the temptation of that kiss, Keith probably would have turned it down to stay in Oregon since Parker was heading to UO.

  Is that why their friendship had faded in the ten years since graduation? Because Keith still held Parker’s reaction to that almost-kiss against him?

  Well, no matter. Tonight he’d see Keith again and, dang it, he wouldn’t waste the opportunity.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AS HE maneuvered his car down the sharp incline into the Portland Golf Club parking lot and got a good look at the people strolling toward the doors, Keith nearly turned around.

  I spent most of my high school career avoiding these jokers. What the hell am I doing here?

  Easy answer: Parker.

  He didn’t give a shit about anybody else any more than they cared about him, and that was fine. But losing touch with Parker was another story. Keith hadn’t had a lot of time in the last few years between the job he was actually paid for and dreaming up the plan for his own company, but he shouldn’t have let his contact with Parker lapse. If he hadn’t, tonight would be a hell of a lot easier.

  Scratch that—tonight might not have been necessary at all. He and Parker would have already hashed out the details over beers and video games, Parker encouraging Keith to take the plunge, assuring him his idea was a good one, that it could work. Parker had always been Keith’s primary cheerleader—although things got weird for a while after Keith was stupid enough to almost kiss Parker at the winter formal their senior year.

  He learned his lesson that time. Obviously Parker wasn’t interested in Keith that way, and Keith could work with that if it meant keeping Parker in his life. So the rest of senior year was… okay. Not stellar, as he watched Parker date a series of other guys who weren’t close to good enough for him. But at least the two of them still hung out occasionally over popcorn and video games, pizza and movies. Not as often as they had—Keith didn’t want to risk pushing—and once they headed off to college and then into the workforce, their communication dwindled to nothing.

  Tonight that would change. It has to. Everything he’d dreamed of depended on it.

  Keith eased into a narrow space between two big-ass SUVs. Jesus. Compensating much? Someday when he wasn’t saving every penny for start-up capital anymore, he’d replace his beater Corolla—but never with anything that pretentious. Maybe because Parker would hate it as much as I would.

  As he eeled out of the car, his blazer pocket caught on a jagged spot on the doorframe. He tugged once, twice, and felt it give with an ominous rrrrip.

  Just fricking great. Not that the jacket was any great loss. Since his wardrobe consisted mostly of jeans and ironic T-shirts these days, he’d excavated this relic from the back of his closet and tossed it in his suitcase without trying it on. Big mistake. He’d probably worn it last at high school graduation.

  Who knew you could hit a growth spurt after eighteen?

  He peered at the triangular tear in the pocket. Yep. This coat was toast. On the other hand, he was twenty-eight fricking years old. If he wanted to impress Parker, maybe it was time to invest in some adult clothing. He should have gotten a new jacket before he left San Jose, one with sleeves that actually covered his bony wrists. He should have gotten a haircut. He should have arranged to meet Parker somewhere other than a reunion, for Chrissake—and a holiday-themed reunion at that.

  The probability of mistletoe at holiday parties was so high as to be certain, and statistically, the intersection of Keith, Parker, and mistletoe, was a giant Venn diagram of disaster. That last mistletoe encounter had killed his dreams of being with Parker. This time the dream was so much bigger. His future—everything he’d worked for since he graduated—depended on convincing Parker to accept Keith’s offer.

  I just hope the offer is big enough to compensate for past awkwardness and… well… me.

  He trudged across the parking lot, the December wind biting through his not-ready-for-Portland-winter clothing. He paused when he got a good look at the garlands framing the doors—evergreen boughs twined with wide red ribbon, clusters of gold ornaments as big as his head, and massive bunches of the inevitable mistletoe.

  He sighed as he held the door for a gaggle of women in sparkly dresses and shoes that made his feet hurt just looking at them. Inside, the foyer was festooned with more of the same decorations. Music and the babble of conversation spilled out from the archway that led to the inner clubhouse.

  “Welcome, Class of 2007!” a woman called from a table next to the arch. Keith studied her for an instant before placing her—Brianna Smothers, head cheerleader and homecoming queen. In the last ten years, she hadn’t lost her relentless perkiness or—judging by the ranks of envelopes arranged in geometric precision in front of her—become less of a control freak. A tiny wrinkle appeared between her blond eyebrows. “You are?”

  Of course she wouldn’t remember him. He’d maintained such a low profile in high school that he was practically subterranean. “Trainor. Keith.”

  She scanned her envelope spread. “Did you RSVP? I don’t seem to have your badge here.”

  “No.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “We were very clear about the need to RSVP.”

  “Sorry. It was kind of a last-minute thing.”

  “I see. Well.” She uncapped a Sharpie with a forbidding pop and wrote Keth on one of those annoying Hello. My name is: stickers decorated with—naturally—mistletoe.

  “Um… it’s ‘Keith’ actually.”

  She shoved the name tag at him. “Yes. That’s what it says.”

  “‘Keith’ with an I.”

  Pursing her lips, she pulled out another sticker and printed KITH in giant block letters. “There. Is that better?”

  Apparently Brianna had added passive-aggressive to her resumé. “Swell.” I’ll see Parker for the first time in years looking like a guy who can’t even spell his own name. But his tenure in Silicon Valley had taught him not to engage in pointless battles, so he peeled the backing off the damned thing and slapped it on his lapel.

  Before he could make his escape, though, Brianna waved an envelope at him. “Don’t forget your raffle tickets.”

  “I don’t need those.”

  Back in the day, her glare would have sent him scurrying deep into his techno cave. “The committee has gone to a lot of trouble to make this event fun. The least you can do is—”

  “Have fun, or else?”

  She bared her teeth at him in a passable imitation of her cheerleading smile. “Happy holidays. Enjoy the party.”

  He shoved the envelope in his pocket and made his escape. When he stepped into the main room, the noise increased by a factor of ten, and the light levels decreased by an equivalent amount. Keith paused, adjusting to the simultaneous sensory overload and deprivation until he could scan the throng for the only person he wanted to see.

  Then the crowd on the dance floor shifte
d, and Keith caught a glimpse of a compact body, hair like burnished gold, and an achingly familiar thousand-megawatt smile. He forgot every one of his persuasive arguments, every line of logical reasoning, hell, every word in his vocabulary except one.

  Parker.

  BY HOUR two of the reunion, Parker almost wished he’d gone to the Harris Electronics office party. Either nobody had changed in the last decade, or else they were using the reunion as an excuse to return to pre-prefrontal cortex behavior. Furthermore there was no sign of Keith, and the minute he walked in, Todd Bolton cornered him with “So, Parker. I hear you’re still single,” then proceeded to wax eloquent about his Beemer.

  Did Parker really need to know about the leather seats and top-of-the-line navigation system and super-extra-special-whiz-bang hubcaps? No, he did not. He kept a smile plastered on his face, though, nodding at random intervals, which was unfortunately all the encouragement Todd required. Jeez, did the clueless jerk really think conspicuous consumption and excessive affluence was admirable? Not in Parker’s book.

  Worse, Todd’s hand occasionally found its way onto Parker’s shoulder or arm or—once—his lower back just above the curve of his butt. What the actual H? Parker edged away, trying to be unobtrusive about searching the crowd for Keith.

  Todd followed. Dang it, enough was e-freaking-nough.

  “So. Todd.” He crossed his arms, widening his stance and his fake smile. “Why isn’t your lovely wife with you tonight? Isn’t she expecting again? Your third, isn’t it?”

  Todd snorted a laugh. “Yeah. Couldn’t find a cocktail dress that didn’t make her look like a blimp, so she stayed home.”

  Parker raised an eyebrow. “Did you tell her she looked like a blimp?”

  “Not exactly a secret. All she has to do is look down—or find a wide enough mirror.” He crowded closer, and, yep, there went that wandering hand again. “What do you say we get out of here? You know I’ve got a riverfront condo—completely on the down low, but ready for occupancy, if you know what I mean.”