Christmas Beau (Christmas Falls: Season 2)

Chapter 6

Chapter

Six

T he problem with having kept mostly to himself since moving to town was that Hank didn’t have anyone to work his booth when he should’ve been at the community center. While Josh Gilmore was happy to provide an hour or two here and there, he couldn’t cover a full day.

Which was how Hank found himself hosting a meeting at his booth on the fifth day of the Arts and Crafts Fair.

He stood behind his table with his back to Scott’s booth—the man was just too damn distracting—speaking with Mik Gilmore, Josh’s younger brother.

“I envisioned this as a queer hockey camp run by queer players and former players,” Mik said, rubbing his knuckles over his chin. “But if I keep it at queer players, I won’t have enough camp counselors.”

“Not enough queer players?” Hank asked.

“Not enough out queer players.”

“How many do you have on board so far?”

“I’ve got eleven who’ve committed to giving me two weeks in July next summer—assuming I can get my shit together enough for registration to happen in February.” Mik shot Hank a big smile. “Which is where you come in. Which two weeks of July can I have next summer?”

Hank blinked once. Twice. “You want to hold your camp at the community center?”

“Sure do.”

“But... we live in the middle of nowhere. How are you going to attract kids to your camp?”

Mik held up one finger. “We might live in the middle of nowhere, but there are plenty of small towns in the area. Plus, with my roster of camp counselors, we’ll get registrations from out of state.”

“Won’t that be expensive for those families?”

“Rudy and I are negotiating a special rate at the B&Bs for out-of-town registrants,” Mik said, referring to his boyfriend. “And we’re brainstorming ways to offer financial support to families who can’t afford all the fees. So? July?”

And this was why it wasn’t prudent to conduct a meeting at the fair. “Can I get back to you? The rink’s schedule is on my office computer.”

Mik’s smile turned cheeky. “You mean you don’t know it off the top of your head?”

“Do you know your pub’s staff schedule off the top of your head?”

Snorting a laugh, Mik pulled a knit hat from his coat pocket and slipped it on. “I don’t know anything about anything most days. I mean, when I first saw you, I thought you were in your fifties.”

Hank opened his mouth to respond, then clacked it shut when Mik’s words registered. “I’m thirty-four.”

“Sure. I know that now. But when I first saw you, you were sitting up at the top of the stands at the arena and the lighting washed out your hair...” He waved a hand. “Anyway. You could’ve been anywhere between thirty and seventy.”

“And you landed on fifty.”

Mik shrugged.

Hank pulled at the hem of his sweater. “Do I look like I’m fifty?”

“Well, you do have that one gray hair.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Hank said with a laugh.

Chuckling, Mik leaned closer. “Thirty-four or fifty, it doesn’t seem to matter to Scott Jersey.” In a singsong voice, he added, “He’s been stealing glances at you since I arrived.”

Stomach swooping, Hank forced himself not to turn around.

He lasted two seconds.

Scott didn’t startle at being caught. Didn’t glance away hurriedly in an effort to pretend he hadn’t been looking this way. Just smiled sheepishly and waved in an adorable just couldn’t help it kind of way that made Hank want to kiss his nose.

Hank waved back, even as he told himself not to. But he liked the attention. Liked that it came from Scott, who was consistently cutely disheveled and always sporting a guileless smile that drew Hank to him like a magnet.

And who’d definitely been flirting with him on their walk home after the pet pics event the other day.

Hank shouldn’t want—he’d had enough of failed romances—but he couldn’t help it.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Mik murmured, seemingly to no one as he zipped up his coat. “You know, you could just go over there and ask him out instead of staring at each other from ten feet away.” Before Hank could tell him that he didn’t date—not anymore—Mik walked away. “See ya, Hank.” He waved over his shoulder. “Let me know about July. Hey, Scott.”

“Hey,” Scott replied, and was immediately distracted by a customer who began browsing through his racks of quilts.

While the fair had been quite busy on the weekend, weekdays were a different matter entirely. Much slower, locals popping in on their lunch breaks to browse or pick up a little something they’d seen on a previous trip to the fair. Hank had thought he’d have to make more treats, but business had slowed in the past couple of days, so when he packed up his inventory at the end of the night, he still had enough product left to cover any orders that came into his online shop in the next couple of weeks.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked, standing on the other side of Hank’s table. Around them, vendors were heading home. A few others, like Hank, were also taking down their booths.

“My tenure at the fair is over.” Hank placed the last of his products in a box, then began disassembling his stands. “I only registered to sell for the first few days. Someone else will be your neighbor tomorrow.”

Scott’s brows pulled low. “I don’t think I like that,” he muttered, making Hank feel about twenty feet tall while also making him want to run away from the feelings developing inside him.

“Where’s Teddy tonight?” Hank asked, if only to distract himself from the desire to run his fingers through Scott’s messy hair.

“At Yuri’s. Hopefully doing homework but probably playing video games.”

“What kind of homework do seventh graders get these days?”

“Eighth graders.”

Hank fit the lid over his last box. “I thought he was twelve.”

“Turns thirteen in a couple of weeks. Can I help you take the boxes to your car?”

“Sure. Thanks. If you can grab that one, I’ll take these two.”

“So,” Scott said as he followed Hank out the back door to the parking lot. “How’d the fair treat you?”

Propping one hip against his SUV, Hank dug his keys out of his coat pocket and popped the trunk. “Considering I didn’t know what to expect, it went pretty well. I had no idea gourmet dog treats would be so popular here.” He gestured for Scott to place his box in the trunk, then added his own. “How’s it going for you so far?”

“I’m not selling as much as I’d like, but I’ve gotten several commissions, which cost more than my premade quilts because they’re custom, so...” He shrugged one shoulder. “I guess not that bad.”

Hank closed his trunk with a thunk . “How do you— Oh fuck.” He mentally slapped his forehead. “Shit, Scott. I forgot to pay you for my quilt.”

“You can pay me by being my date to holiday trivia night at The White Elephant next week.”

Hank’s stomach swooped again, and he was debating how to answer when Scott took a quick step away, his eyes widening.

“Oh wow. That sounded so much smoother in my head. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was whoring you out.”

“I—” know , Hank meant to say, but Scott talked over him.

“I’m so sorry. Obviously you don’t have to pay me by going out with me. God.” He backed up another step, tripping over the parking block. “That’s practically extortion, counselor. Heh.”

Hank swallowed a laugh and was about to tell Scott that he’d love to attend trivia night—who didn’t like trivia nights?—but Scott kept talking.

“You know what? Forget I said anything.” He waved his hands in front of his face as though he could erase the last few minutes. “See you tomorrow. Or not tomorrow, I guess, since you won’t be at the fair. See you at Teddy’s next practice? Okay. Bye.” He turned, speed walking away until he’d disappeared around the side of the building.

Letting out the laugh he’d been holding, Hank got into his car. Scott really was very cute.

And Hank was in so much trouble.

The good thing about being a vendor for only the first few days of the Arts and Crafts Fair was that Hank was able to attend the Thanksgiving Single Mingle the following afternoon.

Hosted by Rudolph’s—one of the local pubs—the Single Mingle apparently wasn’t an official Christmas Falls festival season event, just a get-together for people who didn’t have a dinner to go to or family to be with for the holiday. It was a potluck, with attendees required to bring a dish that was meaningful to them, so Hank had made a lemon-and-herb rice pilaf with almonds and feta cheese. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it had been a staple at his grandparents’ Thanksgiving table growing up.

He arrived at Rudolph’s a few minutes after one, walking into Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton’s “You Make It Feel Like Christmas.” Rudolph’s wasn’t high-end by any means, but the food was great, and it had a homey atmosphere with its wooden bar top, scuffed floorboards, and small tables meant for intimate gatherings. The holiday decorations were tasteful, with a garland strung along the front of the bar and on the fireplace mantel. On the walls were framed old-timey Christmas movie posters.

There were already more than a dozen people in attendance, a few that Hank recognized—like Taylor Hall, the deputy mayor, though he’d never met the man—and some that he didn’t. He looked around for Scott, his heart doing a little backflip at the thought of seeing him, but Scott wouldn’t be here. He was no doubt celebrating Thanksgiving with Teddy.

“Hey.” Mik Gilmore—one of tonight’s co-hosts—skipped over, wearing an ugly red Christmas sweater with Bigfoot’s face on the front. “You made it.”

“Nice sweater,” Hank said.

Mik preened. “Thanks. It matches my Christmas décor at home.”

It... what? Hank wasn’t even going to ask.

“What’d you bring?” Mik leaned closer and sniffed at Hank’s covered dish. “Is that feta I smell?”

“Give the man room to breathe, Miki,” came a rumbly voice threaded with humor. Rudy—Mik’s boyfriend and tonight’s second co-host—wore a navy sweater with a band of white snowflakes across the front. He held out a hand to Hank. “Good to see you again. I can take that and put it on the bar with the rest of the food.”

Hank handed over the rice with a nod of thanks.

Whereas Mik was chipper and exuberant—the human version of a golden retriever—Rudy was the calm at the eye of the storm. Hank had run into him a few times when he’d eaten at Rudolph’s or picked up takeout. Rudy co-hosted a college hockey podcast that had launched this past summer, but prior to that, he’d been Rudolph’s manager and he still bartended on occasion.

When Hank had first met him, he’d thought Rudy owned Rudolph’s, given the names. When he’d asked though, Rudy had chuckled and shaken his head. “Just coincidence,” he’d said.

“Come on,” Mik said now. He grabbed Hank’s hand and towed him along past the other guests. “Have you met Mason West?” Mik tugged on the arm of a man hovering nearby, who nearly dropped his beer when Mik jerked him closer. He was a few inches shorter than Hank’s six feet, with strawberry blond hair and a nervous smile. Cute, and maybe Hank would’ve felt a stirring of attraction before Scott had bumbled into his community center, but Hank only had room for one crush in his life.

“He’s the new director of the Holiday Hope Foundation,” Mik went on. “Mason, this is Hank Beaufort. He’s the hockey director at the community center.”

“Hi.” Hank held out a hand to Mason. “Good to meet you.”

“You too.” Mason’s handshake was firm, confident, at odds with the nervous smile, and there was something a little sad behind his eyes.

“And now you’re besties,” Mik pronounced with a grin. He sauntered off, leaving Hank and Mason staring after him.

“He’s certainly . . . something,” Mason said.

“He marches to the beat of his own drum, that’s for sure.”

Chuckling, Mason toasted him with his drink. “Tell me—what does a hockey director do, exactly?”

“I manage the hockey season, basically. I make the season’s schedule, everything from games to practices to special skills training. I also work with coaches to monitor players who are at risk of injury or who might need extra training, and observe games and practices to ensure our program is a success.”

There was more to it than that—like monthly meetings with the community center’s board, cataloging complaints or concerns, researching tournaments the players could participate in, and working with the board to develop and/or maintain policy documents—but Mason’s eyes had already glazed over.

He seemed to belatedly realize that Hank had stopped talking because he blinked once and said, “Cool.”

“Not into sports?” Hank asked.

“I’m not not into sports. I...” Mason’s shoulders slumped and he stared glumly into his beer. “Sorry. I checked out for a minute there, and that was rude of me. It’s just... the holiday, you know? I moved here a few months ago, and I haven’t quite adjusted to being without my family yet.”

That explained the sadness in his eyes. Hank couldn’t really relate. He’d moved away from home in his late teens to play hockey, and while he remembered being glum his first holiday without his parents or brothers, it was so long ago that the pain of that was a distant memory.

“I moved here eighteen months ago, and as a fellow newbie, I have to ask...” Hank leaned closer. “What do you think of this town?”

Just loud enough to be heard over Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Mittens,” Mason said, “It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen but also... a little over the top? They celebrate Christmas all year long .”

They laughed, then, as one, broke off when Mik approached, martini glass in hand. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Mason said shiftily. He took a sip of his beer. “We love this town.”

Hank choked on a laugh.

“Okay,” Mik said slowly, clearly not buying it. He didn’t linger on it, though, thrusting the martini glass in Hank’s direction. “Here. You need this. It’s a sugar cookie martini. Bailey’s, milk, vanilla vodka, and Amaretto. It’s my favorite festival season drink.”

He left to greet his newest guest before Hank could thank him. Secretly, he would’ve preferred a beer, but he took a sip of the martini to try it out...

And grimaced. Hank didn’t know how much milk was in his drink, but if he had to guess, he’d say only enough to give the martini a creamy texture. The amount of alcohol made his eyes water.

Mason’s lips quirked. “Not good?”

“Too sweet. Definitely not like any sugar cookie I’ve ever tasted.” Hank eyed Mason’s beer. “Trade you.”

Mason hugged the beer to his chest. “Not on your life. I’ll go with you to the bar, though, so you can trade that in for something else, bestie.”

Unable to help himself, Hank laughed.

“And hey! I can introduce you to Taylor and Rocco at the same time. That’s them there.” Mason gestured at a couple of guys in their late twenties/early thirties sitting at a table. “Taylor’s the deputy mayor and Rocco’s the new owner of Jolly Java, although his fancy coffees aren’t going over so well with the locals. Ever had a marzipan latte?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Me neither, but I’ve heard it’s not bad. Anyway. Come on.”

Since meeting new people was Hank’s entire purpose for coming here tonight, he followed Mason to the bar.