by Liana Brooks
“Don’t you love it? I’m going to spray some fake snow too!” She pointed around at the sad, red tinsel garlands hanging off the black filing cabinets and the tiny palm tree that was sagging under a strand of rainbow lights.
“That’s really not necessary,” I said carefully circling around the hazardous airspace of the parasitic plant of unwanted kisses.
What was Maureen even thinking? Who on earth was I going to kiss here? It was against my personal policy to kiss clients or married people. That left Rafael Kane, office grinch, as the only possible target of unwanted contact.
Granted, he was a hot and sexy Office Grinch, but he was also the person voted most likely to ruin a party. He didn’t chitchat. He didn’t get distracted. He didn’t waste time talking to coworkers, going to long Friday lunches, or building friendships.
Rafael Kane went to work, smiled for his clients only, and made Elegant Miami over fifteen percent of our yearly profit. We all loved him for his sales acumen and stunning good looks, but no one around here considered him a friend.
Very early on, I’d tried.
But Rafael Kane had taken one look at me, snarled like I’d stabbed his grandma, and avoided me ever since.
Which suited me just fine.
I frowned. If Maureen thought there was any chance of an office romance, my desk would look like an ad for the Great Bridal Expo. I needed tiny white seed pearls and chiffon as much as I needed mistletoe, which was about as much as a shark needed a tuba.
My idea of a good date was streaming a good murder mystery. I liked crime shows, creepy horror movies, and all things Halloween. People joked that I was a pagan, but that wasn’t exactly true. I just loved the idea of magic. It made sense to me.
I should have loved the idea of Santa, except I can’t remember a time I wasn’t poor, and Santa doesn’t visit poor kids.
December was my own personal hell. No winter solstice bonfire would ever be big enough to burn away all my anger at the forced cheer, demand for gifts, and unseasonable expectations.
I wasn’t making New Year’s Resolutions, I did that on my birthday in July.
I wasn’t meeting anyone under the mistletoe, I wasn’t that desperate.
I wasn’t going to participate in the annual gift exchange, because somehow I always wound up with the bar of soap stolen from the pay-by-the-hour motel down the street.
I would be skipping the party, hitting the white sand beaches of Miami with a pink drink in hand, and spending my three days off catching up on N.W. Gehson’s Serial Killerz series.
Maureen moved out from behind my desk and pouted. All of five-foot-nothing, she was a cute, apple-shaped woman with sunset pink hair and perpetually purple lips from a permanent makeup choice she made thirty years ago when she was twenty-one, drunk, and planning to be an exotic dancer all her life.[37]
In the bright blue sweater, she looked like the world’s glummest Sugar Plum Fairy. She was holding a shiny blue paper with the words “All I Want For The Holidays” and a blank space for a holiday wish on it.
If I ignored the paper, I might escape further holiday interrogations.
“I... I was just trying to be nice!” A huge tear shimmered in her eye.
“I know.” I patted her shoulder and tried very hard not to look at the tattoo peeking above her collar that HR insisted she keep covered during work hours. “But I don’t like Christmas.”
“This year is going to be different!” Maureen assured, her smile turning on like a floodlight in turtle season. “I figured out why you don’t like Christmas.”
“Because it’s a commercial farce to celebrate capitalism?”
“No, silly! Because you’re single! No one’s giving you the good gifts.” She winked and tried to bump me with her hip, but since her head only comes up to my shoulder even in kitten heels, it didn’t quite work.
I scooted around her and into my three-sided box of an office.
There were sparkly confetti snowflakes covering the nameplate that had been a gift from one of my favorite metalwork artists.
Delinna Farmer was not a name that deserved to have snow on it. Especially fake snow.
Shaking the snow off the metal cut-out of my name, I smiled up at Maureen. “Really, Maureen, I’m fine.”
“You will be!” She pulled a scroll of candy pink paper out of her cleavage so it unrolled in a long, curling list. “This is Auntie Maureen’s list of acceptable bachelors in the greater Miami area.”
“Maureen,” I said, sitting down and giving her my very best glare, “if Rafael Kane is mentioned even once on that list, I will murder you. Right here and now. There will be blood all over your dancing elf sweater. No jury will convict me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tried that. Obviously there’s chemistry there, but Rafe could have chemistry with a doorknob, so it doesn’t matter.” She put the list of names—written in pink and purple ink—on my desk. “Names. Numbers. Histories. Sizes.”
“Siz—Oh!” I covered my mouth. “Sweet mother of pearl! Maureen! This is so invasive!” I crumpled the list up and dropped it in the recycling bin.
“A girl’s got to know...”
“I do not need to know anyone’s sizes!” I shouted as the door to the contracts office opened and the devil himself walked in.
Rafael’s brown eyes went wide, his tan face frozen in a rictus of horror.
“I’m not participating in the company Christmas party and I’m not ordering the shirts,” I said loudly, willing Maureen to play along. Rafael might be the office grinch, but nobody gossiped as much as his people in the sales department. If he even guessed at the content of Maureen’s list, I’d have every art gallery employee and intern in the greater Miami area sending me extra details.
Maureen, oblivious to the threat of Dick Pic Armageddon, crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Why not? What’s wrong with the holiday party?”
“Because...” I scrambled for an excuse that wouldn’t insult Maureen’s party planning. “...I’m seeing someone.”
Rafael snorted in amusement as he shook his head and walked to our copy machine by the door. The sales department had a better one, one that could print posters and banners, but it was broken and the sales associates had been bouncing in and out of the contracts office all week. There was nothing like the holidays to convince the obscenely wealthy to drop hundreds of thousands of dollars on art.
“Oh, sweetie,” Maureen said, grabbing my arm and leaning in for a sideways hug as she ignored Rafael. “You don’t need to lie.”
“I’m not,” I lied. “I am in a relationship. And I think it’s serious. We’re talking about moving in together.”
From the copier Rafael gave me a look of disbelief that said, No one would ever live with you.
Maureen patted my hand with a tiny sigh of pity. “Let me guess. His name is Nick ‘The Closer’ Claus and you ordered him from the toys department at Lady Things downtown? I’ve met him too.” Her smile was wicked. “But he doesn’t count as a dinner date.”
Too. Much. Information.
Closing my eyes, I focused on the filing list I needed to finish today. Anything to get the image of my middle-aged co-worker gleefully bouncing through the adult toy store out of my head.
In my imagination, she wore a frilled pink skirt that barely covered her ample thighs. I shuddered.
My only option was to lie more, or to hope Rafael would step in to help me. “Maureen—”
“No!” Rafael shouted from across the room. “No more. Not until I leave. I do not need to hear this. Let me finish. Please. Five more pages!”
Just for that I wanted to play dirty, but encouraging Maureen would give me a heart attack. There was only one course of action left...
“I’m getting a dog,” I said before the dick pics became porno subscriptions in my stocking. “I’ve been visiting the shelters and I’m planning to adopt one over the holidays.”
Maureen’s shoulders sagged. “Honey, that does not count.”
&
nbsp; “A dog will be more loyal than any man will!” I drew myself up, a furious dark queen with a mask of rage perfected after years of studying every campy Halloween vampire movie ever. Morticia Addams, eat your heart out. “Probably more loyal than a woman, too. It’ll love me, wait for me, and cuddle with me while I watch horror movies in December. A dog won’t make me watch cheesy Christmas specials. A dog will go for walks on the beach with me. A dog will be happy eating whatever I cook—”
“A dog should have a high-protein diet.”
Maureen and I both turned to stare.
Had Rafael Kane actually joined a conversation that wasn’t about sales? After all these years?
“Do you like dogs?” Maureen asked politely, reverting back to Sweet Office Eccentric like a chameleon. “You’ve never mentioned them.”
Rafael stared at the wall behind the copier as he realized his mistake. His body went rigid and I swear I saw a shiver of terror shimmy through him. He knew Maureen would never let him escape now.
“My mother raised dogs when I was growing up.” He finished his copy work and turned to glare at me. “I’ve seen the stuff you eat for lunch, Del. Do the world a favor and stick to stuffed animals and battery-operated toys. A dog deserves better.” He opened his mouth as if he were going to continue, then snapped it shut and marched out, back stiff.
Maureen hummed happily. “He has such a nice tush!”
“Maureen!” I smacked her arm.
“What? I’m married, not dead. I can look.”
“We’re at work.”
“Quitting time was eight minutes ago. I can lust after people off the clock.”
“You are a dirty old woman.”
“Yes I am,” she said proudly.
I rolled my eyes and remembered why I’d come back in. “I need to get my water bottles. I keep forgetting them.” Nine of them sat in a row by my spare shoes.
“Oh, is that what happened?” Maureen asked. “I thought you’d decided to decorate with them. Maybe make a shrine to your beloved agua.”
“Ha ha, funny.” I grabbed a big bag with the name of a local farmer’s stall on it and stuffed the water bottles inside. “The winter wonderland stuff... Can you keep it off my desk?”
Maureen pouted again.
“Please? I’ll bring you some of those spiced pecans you like.” If the bodega had a BOGO sale going on. If it wasn’t buy-one-get-one, I wasn’t sharing.
Her eyes went wide with delight. “Consider it gone. I will leave your corner a natural wasteland of bones, ghouls, and whatever that thing is,” she said pointing to my Zany Zombie bobblehead.
“Thank you.” I packed up and went home to research animal shelters. If I was going to be forced to participate in the holidays, I deserved to have someone who was happy to see me every day.
Surely I could get a dog for Christmas. It couldn’t be that hard.
Keep reading! Head to
www.inkprintpress.com/lianabrooks/christmas/werewolf/
to buy your copy now!
Other Works
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS
All I Want For Christmas Is A Werewolf
All I Want For Christmas Is A Reaper
FLEET OF MALIK
Bodies In Motion
Change of Momentum
For Every Action (forthcoming)
HEROES AND VILLAINS
Even Villains Fall In Love
Even Villains Go To The Movies
Even Villains Have Interns
Even Villains Play The Hero (omnibus)
The Polar Terror
TIME AND SHADOWS MYSTERIES
The Day Before
Convergence Point
Decoherence
SHORTER WORKS
Darkness and Good
Fey Lights
Prime Sensations
Find other works by the author at www.lianabrooks.com
BODIES IN MOTION
Fleet of Malik Book #1
A civil war tore them apart. Can a cold war bring them back together?
Available from all major retailers.
www.inkprintpress.com/lianabrooks/malik/bodies/
EVEN VILLAINS FALL IN LOVE
Heroes & Villains Book #1
Can a super villain at the top of his game drop everything to save the woman he loves?
Available from all major retailers.
www.inkprintpress.com/lianabrooks/heroesandvillains/love/
Copyright © 2020 Liana Brooks
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 publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events are the author’s creation, or are used fictitiously.
Print ISBN: 978-1-922434-03-6
eBook ISBN: 9781393919186
www.inkprintpress.com
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Brooks, Liana 1982—
All I Want For Christmas Is A Reaper (Kickstarter Edition)
242 p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-922434-04-3
Inkprint Press, Canberra, Australia
1. Fiction—Romance—Paranormal—General 2. Fiction—Fantasy—Paranormal 3. Fiction—Romance—Workplace 4. Fiction—Holidays
Summary: Merri Kriesmas, Grim Reaper of Chicago, comes to Cozy Studies to audit their accounts and finds the love of her life.
First Edition: December 2020
Cover design © Inkprint Press.
* * *
[1] Technically this is a lie. Dulcie Waterhouse ruined her own life by embezzling from her firm and taking too many long lunch breaks buying macarons across town. The only tears were the tears of joy in her co-workers’ eyes when they realized she was leaving for good. And there wasn’t a pink slip. I convinced her to resign. I’m good like that.
[2] A paranormal-horror series from the mid 20s that centered around a hidden werewolf population and their unrivaled basketball team. I’m 90% certain that the ratings were due to the regular shower scenes.
[3] Or, let’s be honest, a stopwatch to keep track of the betting on the Dulcie Waterhouse situation.
[4] Named for Amara Enyia and Rosa Parks, obviously.
[5] Ha ha, I’m so funny!
[6] Yes, I did text my sister as soon as I saw the address. She teaches high school French and needs something other than eighty “un ouef” jokes to giggle over. Besides, there’s a French connection between eighty and weed.
[7] And clothing line of the same name.
[8] Much to the entire office’s surprise, this was about animals and not the Whole Sum porno department.
With that name though...
[9] The kind that replaced solar panels in most of Chicago several decades ago.
[10] Home of the Mistletoe Kisses series that made Cozy so popular.
[11] With only one bed! Oh my!
[12] So bright. So imperfect. So obviously not filtered to make skin look poreless.
[13] Ellen dragged me to watch it in the outdoor theater sixteen times during the opening week. Six. Teen. I had seventy-three mosquito bites before Patrick’s first on-screen kiss.
[14] Her birth certificate says Carol Danvers Kriesmas but no one has called her that since the incident in Kindergarten that ended in five black eyes, a two-week suspension, and everyone agreeing that her name was Lucky. She plays rugby and does roller derby under the name Luck O’ The Irish at night, and teaches French at a private school in the suburbs during the day.
[15] I’ll give you this as a freebie: Cerberus is Greek for Spot.
[16] Did you want zombie spiders? This is how you get zombie spiders.
[17] I hadn’t been mad about it as a baby, but in fifth grade when we learned about the privacy wars of the twenties and thirties, I was absolutely furious anyone had been stupid enoug
h to attach an uncontrolled camera to their infant’s crib. Ellen had fond memories of her personal Big Brother spy-eye. I’d taken a baseball bat to my family’s doorbell camera. We all coped with life differently.
[18] Um, hello? Internet? Of course I looked up the stats on the hot guy I bumped into at work. You would too.
[19] Now complete with real movie monsters, thanks to their relationship with Slasher.
[20] Oretega Mineral Exchange, not a single company, but a co-op of jewelers, vendors, metalworkers, artisans. It’s the best place in northern Illinois for anything involving gemstones or previous metals. They handle over sixty percent of the state’s mineral sales and get away with it because it is, technically, a co-op.
[21] My mom was going through what she called a Modern Vintage stage where she wanted to show us all the life skills people had used during the plague years of the early 21st century to create art at home, but she hated embroidery and knitting, so she spent an afternoon gluing rhinestones to my pants before she gave up in boredom and went back to churning butter.
[22] I looked it up. Morana means death in Slavic. Ha ha. The CEO of Slasher Studios is named Seth Death. His sense of humor slays me some times.
[23] That’s not my opinion, it’s Zagat’s.
[24] No, seriously. You should have seen her eat after wrestling practice. Ellen is tiny but mighty, and she has the appetite to match.
[25] Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. Going to a charity gala in Chicago is way better than what those people would come back as if they reincarnated. I bet they would come back as maggots.
[26] The dress had been hot gossip for weeks.
[27] My gem expert. Rafael Kane was the reason I knew a fake opal when I spotted one. We’d met years ago while stuck in the Atlanta Airport under a tornado watch and bonded over reruns of Timberwolf Town, spotting fake gems on first class passengers, and drinking tiny bottles of rum.
[28] And avoiding cartels. But that’s another story.
[29] I’m still not sure how.
[30] Guess who did some work for Chicago fashion week and kinda got hooked on shoes? Did you guess me? It was me.
[31] Much.
[32] I realize that conversation gives off the impression that I have an unlimited dress supply hidden in the closet like some sort of magic superpower, but this isn’t true. I have twenty-seven dresses total, and at any given time Chel has guardianship of eight of them for cleaning and repairs.