Mission of Christmas Read online

  Dedication

  For Holly, who gave my little Christmas story a second chance. And always, for my husband, who watched the kids and put Christmas music on my mp3 player so I could write a Christmas story in July.

  Chapter One

  Wednesday (Eight Days Before Christmas)

  “Seriously, isn’t there enough holiday cheer around here? You all don’t have to invade my office.” My coworkers, decked out in their fancy Christmas finery—complete with Santa hats and jingly socks—spread out across my minuscule office like a plague of jingle bells.

  I should have been expecting this—it was a week before Christmas.

  I had to start locking my door.

  “Now Erica Jones, it’s the season!” Judy replied, grinning as she carried a huge poinsettia to the end table near the door. Judy was fifty if she was a day, but certainly more of a girlfriend-type than a motherly-type.

  Well, at least if I let her. Girlfriends tended to steal husbands and gossip. I didn’t have time for that nonsense.

  I had things to do.

  I rolled my eyes at Judy’s attempt in bringing seasonal cheer. “It’s a waste of décor for me.”

  “What are you, a Scrooge or something?” Judy’s partner in crime, Cindy Stone, asked as she hung a little green bell on my doorknob.

  I pushed away from my desk and crossed my arms. “I just hate Christmas.”

  Both women dropped their boxes with a screech of murdered jingle bells.

  “But why? It’s the most joyous time of the year!” Cindy stared at me like I had turned into the Grinch.

  “I just don’t like it.”

  With his usual perfect timing, Andrew Hawkins came through the door. He glanced at Cindy and Judy, then back at me.

  I knew that look too. He was about to pull out the charm.

  “Come on, ladies, not in here. Erica’s not a big fan of Christmas,” Andrew said, winking at me.

  Both Cindy and Judy went all moony at Andrew, even though Judy was a little old and Cindy was happily married.

  Really, though, who could blame them? He was tall, dark haired, broad shouldered, and endowed with a killer smile. He could charm himself into Queen Elizabeth’s pants.

  He hadn’t changed since he was six.

  He glanced at me, a look of, well, not sympathy exactly, but understanding of my position. “Erica’s family died on Christmas a few years ago,” he told the women.

  Which was true, sort of. They died in December, but I used it as an excuse to explain why I didn’t do Christmas. Hawkins understood Christmas had never been my happiest time of the year, even when my parents were alive.

  “Oh,” they replied in unison.

  “We’re sorry,” Judy said, her eyes filled with sympathy. “We didn’t know.”

  I waved them off. “It’s okay.”

  Cindy attempted to come over to give me a hug, but thought better of it—probably because of the look I shot her. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” she told me instead, and both she and Judy headed out the door, their decorations jingling all the way.

  Andrew watched them leave, then faced me. The charm face was gone, replaced by the same kid who used to dig for worms while we waited for the bus. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” At the door, the poinsettia still sat. “They forgot the plant.”

  Andrew shrugged it off. “You should have some color in here.”

  “Aren’t those things toxic?”

  “You’re not going to die from a single poinsettia.”

  “Might make the holidays more bearable.” I shifted in my chair, getting back to work mode.

  He shook his head. “Seriously, Erica. Don’t you think you should at least try to enjoy the season? I know you never liked it.”

  I held my hand up. “Stop right there, Hawkins. Do you have some official capacity to be here, or are you going to torment me about the office holiday party again?”

  “Well, since I don’t have a death wish, I thought I’d bring you more work.”

  Andrew worked in the sales department of Inventive Proposals. I was a graphic artist with the company, and I pretty much made him look good.

  Something not new to me—I’d been making him look good since the first grade. He used to copy my tests and “borrow” my homework. Now, he just schmoozed the clients and presented the designs I made.

  I wasn’t the only graphic artist in the company, but after four years of working almost exclusively with Andrew and his clients, I’d wound up as the company’s top designer.

  They kept offering me promotions, but I kept turning them down. I didn’t want to deal with some of the others in the sales department. I liked how I worked with Andy. It was a comfortable relationship. We were both in our mid-thirties, both of us divorced from our high school sweethearts, and both of us had an understanding.

  We were best friends. No complications of nookie getting in the way. Some around the office thought we were friends with benefits, but whenever such rumors popped up, Andy took care of them.

  I didn’t care. I mean, he was a cutie. I could say that in a clinical capacity because I’d known him all my life. It’s really hard to see someone who used to wipe boogers in my hair as anything but a buddy.

  “The Bumblebee’s Salon wants a new ‘Buzz into Spring’ theme for their stuff. They’re talking the whole works: website, stationery, new cards, everything. You up to doing something?”

  “Sure,” I said. While most companies didn’t ask for springtime stuff this early, Andy knew I liked to perfect my work and not get bogged down.

  I hated rushing anything.

  He handed me a jump drive. “All their stuff’s on there. They loved the original design you did for their website, but they haven’t updated it except to adjust a few minor things. They want to get more personal—blogs for their stylists, that kind of stuff.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “I’ll get to work on it.” I stuck the jump drive in my desk drawer.

  Andy should have walked out of the room. He usually did after he brought over something for me to work on. Today, though, he stayed, staring with those damn green eyes that could burn holes in me if I wasn’t careful.

  “What else is there, Andy?” I asked him.

  He grinned. “You haven’t called me Andy in forever.”

  “Sorry. What else is there, Asshole?”

  “Tramp.” If any other person called me a tramp, I’d probably come out of the chair and kick their ass. Hawkins, though? We’d called each other names for twenty years. They were practically terms of endearment.

  “You wish.”

  For a second his eyes shifted, changing, and the air got thick in the office.

  I tugged at the neckline of my sweater. “What is it?”

  He took in a deep breath. “Mom—”

  “No, Andrew Hawkins. No. Do not go there.” I knew exactly where he was going. His mom was inviting me to Christmas dinner again. She did it every year, and had for a decade. Even when Andrew was married, she still invited me to dinner. Andrew’s wife had never been crazy about it, but not even Mr. Hawkins could control Mrs. Hawkins when she got an idea into her head.

  Not that I went.

  Andrew ignored my protests. “Mom wants you to come to Christmas Eve gift exchange and Christmas dinner. You don’t have to bring any gifts, but as required by law, you have to help prepare the food.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You know how I feel about Christmas.”

  He walked around my desk and took my hand and knelt down. I glanced back at the door, looking for Candid Camera or something. Or worse, the gossip crowd to see him on his knee in front of me.

  “Erica, you know you’re my best friend. It’s not just for my mom.
It just makes me sick to think of you alone on Christmas.”

  “Trust me, alone is better than in public.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Please think about it.”

  Staring into those green eyes, I couldn’t help the words coming out of my mouth. “I’ll think about it.” Think about gagging, maybe.

  Gah, what was wrong with me?

  He stood, and placed a short, chaste kiss on my cheek.

  I about fell off my chair.

  He was gone before I could yell at him.

  Friday

  “You know, I really should kick your ass,” I said to Hawkins as we finished dinner at Chili’s. The place drowned in Christmas decorations. Twinkle lights, tinsel, and garland hung everywhere. Even the staff had all sorts of festive Christmas swag on.

  Not to mention, I saw at least three parties that obviously were having their Christmas shindig.

  Or starting here, anyway.

  Not terribly impressive. Bonuses must be low this year.

  “And what prompts it this time?” he asked just before taking a swig off his beer.

  “Just general need to kick your butt.”

  He smirked. Then, I know just to irritate me, started humming along to Deck The Halls.

  Admitting his little cheek kiss the other day had about sent me out of my mind was the last thing I would do.

  I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I don’t know what irritated me more—the fact that he did it, or that he’d stayed on my mind for days.

  How screwed up is that? I mean, this was Hawkins.

  Friends don’t kiss friends on the cheek.

  I finished my glass of wine. And wished I had three more. Or an IV.

  “You ready?” he asked as he finished his beer.

  I nodded. “Either take me home or promise me no more Christmas for the night.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “What is your beef about Christmas anyway?”

  “You know the reason. My folks died.”

  “Erica, they died on like the third or something. Years and years ago.”

  “The seventh, thank you very much.”

  “Still doesn’t explain your total hatred of the holiday.”

  The waitress came by, with her own spin on the seasonal garb—Chili’s shirt, Santa hat with a jingle bell, and a flashing strobe of a badge that I thought would give me seizures.

  “Anything else you need?” she asked, her voice way too bubbly. And her attention to Hawkins was a bit more than I could take.

  Ugh.

  It sucked sometimes being best friends with such a good looking guy.

  “The check,” I snapped.

  Hawkins glanced at me, as did the waitress. Though I think the waitress tried to freeze me with her icy glare before pivoting on her heel and taking off.

  “You’re snippy.”

  “Too much Christmas,” I said. “Can we get going? I am about to barf.”

  “Calm down, Scrooge. We’ll get to your place soon enough.”

  I blinked. “Wait, isn’t your place closer?”

  For a second he paused, pinning me with his green eyes. “The place is a mess. You wouldn’t want to hang out there.”

  “Like I haven’t been in a messy guy’s house.” Really, I just was ready to go.

  Across the way, the table started singing along to the latest Christmas carol coming over the speakers. It was worse than a bachelorette party at the karaoke bar.

  “Whatever, let’s just go.”

  I was pained with two more Christmas carols before finally getting out of Chili’s and heading to my place. Hawkins drove, because he’s a guy, and I figured it was his gas bill, not mine.

  We’d gotten just a few blocks, the cold bite of winter trying to blast us with sideways snow. Snow should just lie softly on the ground and be pretty, but thanks to the winds, it flew across the road, and built up on one side of the buildings.

  Gotta love Midwest living.

  I shivered just looking at the caked-on snow.

  “You never did answer my question,” he finally said.

  “What question?”

  “Why you hate Christmas so much.”

  “You’ve known me for twenty years, and you’re just now asking?”

  “I’ve always wanted to know. Just…”

  I shrugged. I kinda knew what he meant. We’d known each other most of our lives. Even when we were married to other people, we were still around. At least through Facebook, anyway. In fact a lot of the post-high school time, we remained friends but distant. It wasn’t until the last five years or so our friendship came back full strength.

  And there are things—when you’ve known someone forever—that you just sort of accept. Like I know that Andrew Hawkins is a handsome charmer, and he’ll always be that guy all the girls swoon over.

  I don’t hold it against him.

  Most of the time.

  “It’s a thing,” I finally said.

  “So you really are Mrs. Grinch…” And he did a rather impressive impersonation of the Grinch song, from the old Dr. Seuss cartoon.

  I smirked and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, and I’m planning on watching something with extensive explosions in it when I get home.”

  “Avengers?”

  “Of course.”

  “At least you have your priorities.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Back at my place, after doing the initial cold shivers upon entering and hanging up our coats, I grabbed Avengers and threw it in the DVD player.

  Hawkins got himself a beer and me a glass of wine while I cued up the movie. I was just getting comfortable when he handed me the drink.

  “So what were you going to do on Christmas day?” he asked.

  “No discussion during the movie,” I replied. Didn’t matter that I could almost quote the entire script. Heck, I could probably transcribe it.

  Had more to do with him broaching Christmas again.

  He kicked off his shoes and plopped them on the coffee table.

  My house wasn’t exactly huge, and good seating for television watching was the couch. That was the only place, really, to properly see the TV without getting a kink in the neck.

  Which meant that Hawkins was sitting right next to me.

  Normally, this wasn’t any big deal. We sat together all the time. Yet I couldn’t help this weird niggle in the back of my mind that made me horridly aware of him.

  I could smell his cologne.

  Feel his warmth, without him actually touching me.

  I tried shifting, sliding away just a bit, but there really wasn’t room. Well, not unless I wanted to sit on the broken spring and be goosed for the whole movie.

  So I was stuck sitting next to him.

  Whether he noticed anything in particular, I wasn’t sure. He just kept his mouth shut as we watched the movie.

  Not caring he was this close.

  This was nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Yeah. I had to keep telling myself that.

  At the point where Iron Man is trying to fix the S.H.I.E.L.D.’s broken engine, Hawkins shifted.

  Stretched his arm.

  Put it behind me on the couch. Just touching my shoulder.

  That was it. A bit more than I could take.

  “Dude?”

  “Shh,” Hawkings replied.

  I grabbed his arm and shoved it off.

  He raised an eyebrow at me but didn’t say anything.

  Good.

  Gah, I needed another glass of wine.

  Maybe the whole bottle.

  When was he leaving again?

  Chapter Two

  Saturday Morning

  “I friggin’ hate you, Andrew Hawkins,” I muttered as he pulled me through the mall four days before Christmas. Our city, while larger than most, only held two big malls: Town East and Town West.

  That rat fink dragged me out to Town East, the bigger of the two, on the last Saturday before Christmas. I was warm and cozy in
my flannel pajamas, at home with my favorite fuzzy socks and my collection of completely un-holiday inspired movies. I’d been watching I, Robot and vegging out on the couch when he showed up.

  I thought he wanted to go to Wal-Mart or something. Of course, Wal-Mart on a Saturday was a different kind of hell altogether. I was prepared for that. Just before he left last night, he said he would pick me up, because he had to run some errands today.

  He didn’t bother to tell me he wanted to do Christmas shopping.

  And of course, I didn’t realize that’s what he meant.

  “Get over it, Erica. You may not give a shit about Christmas, but I have shopping to do. I bought you coffee.” He nodded to my still warm Starbucks cup.

  “Which is the only way you got me out of the house. But why did you have to drag me here?” We weaved in and out of shoppers carrying bags from the stores—Penney’s, Sears, Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works, and Famous Footwear. Christmas music blared through the mall’s sound system, and I held back the need to vomit.

  Starbucks coffee would only keep me happy for so long. It was quickly wearing off. He owed me at least one bottle of wine.

  “I needed a woman’s opinion on this stuff.”

  “Why didn’t you get your sister to go with you?”

  He shot me a look. The “don’t be a shithead” look. “I’m shopping for my sister. And my mom. And my aunt. And Big Grandma.”

  “Really, gift cards work well. Just go to the bank and get them the damn Visa cards and be done with it.” I darted around a woman with a stroller loaded down with shopping bags. I think there was a baby in there somewhere. I swear I saw a foot.

  He took my hand and slid into a shop selling bath stuff—the smell hit me as soon as we walked in, and I couldn’t help feeling like I’d walked into a bathhouse. At least the store wasn’t totally over-packed like the common area. I let out a relieved sigh I wasn’t crammed shoulder to shoulder with other shoppers anymore.

  Inhaling a breath, Andrew grimaced. “I have no idea what to get.”

  “So who are we here for?”

  “Andrea.” His sister was a froo-froo gal if ever there was one. She got manicures, pedicures, the hair, the eyebrows—you name it, she got it pampered, plucked, painted, and foiled.