Page 13 of The Christmas Keeper

Wow, it was amazing how rapidly her moods shifted. Poor Antoine. “Yes, he’s a guy.” She squealed so loudly my eardrums wept. “No. Stop that. Do not squeal. It’s not like that at all. He’s just a nice guy who’s helping at the alehouse for a few days, or maybe weeks, depending on how long it takes him to make enough money for gas to move onto his next stop.”

“Weeks? How much gas is he buying? Does he drive a tank?”

“No, he drives a beat-up—it’s not even important.” I huffed and she glowed, the little imp. “It’s just a thing is all.”

“Is he cute?”

“Nora…”

“He is! I can tell by the way your eyebrows get all droopy.”

“He’s not…okay, look, he’s not ugly.”

“He issocute.” She was bouncing in her seat. “He is just adorable. I can tell you think so. Antoine! Wake up! Brann has a new friend named Keifer, and he’s buying gifts for him!”

My new brother-in-law mumbled something in French from just out of view.

“His name is Kenan. I’m only buying small gifts for each day of Hanukkah. Do not wake up Antoine to relay inconsequential information.”

“This is huge. Huge! Send pictures of Kenan. I love you, big brother! Antoine, wakeup! Brann has a Jewish quote-unquote friend!”

“Magnifique,” Antoine grunted just as the call ended.

Jesus. I ran my hands over my face. You’d think I never had a friend in my entire life. I had plenty of friends. There was Mr. Blum and…

Did geese count?

Oh! And the guys in the dart league. So many friends. Too many to count.

My phone buzzed. I eyed it like the cell was an adder. It was my mother. Nora was to blame for this. I would get her back somehow, somewhere, someday. I ignored the text as well as the call that followed. I had other things to do this morning. Like buy little gifts at the thrift shop outside of town for my friend.Friend. Just a friend. A passing acquaintance. A temporary coworker.

Yep, this was just me being a nice boss.

Chapter Four

Sometimes I impressed myself.

Not only did I get myself out of the house an hour early, but I managed to find some pretty cool little gifts for Kenan at the thrift shop. Nothing too ridiculous or expensive. I mean it was a thrift shop after all, but they were cute little things: a tiny stuffed dog with a beret (the headwear could be a yarmulke if you squinted really hard), a small rose-toned lidded dish where he could put earrings, a bracelet with spangly beads of red and green. Then I went to the grocery store. I found some small chocolates, a tin with hard candy, an orange, and a brownie from the bakery.

I planned to give him the brownie tonight, which was why I was now in the basement in my short-sleeved tee and pulling out boxes of decorations and looking for some damn wrapping paper. It was damn near impossible to rummage around in this lot and not be assaulted with memories.

Lights that Paulie had bought for the bar, a two-foot fake tree to sit beside the jukebox, little glass balls that he had insisted we buy even though drunken customers broke at least one everydamn weekend. I should have thrown them all out the day after he had broken me in two.

For years I had glowered at them, cussed them, even spat at them, but I’d never been able to toss them. My father, a hoarding master, claimed that throwing perfectly good things away was wasteful and that someday, maybe in ten or twenty years, you might need it. My mother did not agree with that thinking, so there were many spats about Dad’s need to keep string or stop in the middle of the road to pick up a stray bungee cord. Maybe that was why I’d kept this mess of remembrances, or maybe I’d just left them here because I would have a need for them someday.

Pushing aside a large stocking in the shape of a beer mug, I found a small package of flat wrapping paper. Candy canes. Cool. Slipping things back into place, I tucked the pack under my arm, climbed the stairs, grabbed the gifts, and rushed upstairs, only to come up short once I entered the office. I’d been so engrossed in finding gifts and searching for paper that I’d forgotten the giftee was bunking on my sofa. The blanket he slept under was a rumpled ball on the floor. The sound of a man splashing around in the water closet—and closet was the right word—reached me in the doorway. Kenan emerged just as I was turning to sneak back to the bar to wrap my little goodies at a table. He was bare-chested, damp, and incredibly sexy. The man was lean as a whippet, but that took nothing away from his appeal. Dark curls covered his pecs and ran down into his jeans, jeans that were unsnapped to show just a peek of bright red briefs.

He yelped in fright. I stumbled backward, my bag of presents in one hand and candy cane paper in another.

“Shit, oh shit, you scared me to death,” Kenan huffed, hand coming up to rest on his thumping heart. “Oh shit, okay, fuck.” He nervously laughed as I, the creeper, stared at his dark brownnipples as if I’d never seen nipples before. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

He rushed to pull a wrinkled tee from one of his duffel bags. “I was washing up.”

I nearly moaned in loss as he tugged a blue T-shirt over his wet curls. “No, totally on me,” I said, thrilled that I had found my voice. “I have some errands to run this morning.”

“Cool, I’ll be out of here in a second. I just have to hang up my socks to dry.” His head popped out of his shirt, dark eyes finding me still in the doorway. “Are you okay with me handwashing some delicates as my mother used to call them then letting them air dry?”

“Oh man, yeah, please come to my place to use the washer and dryer.”

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