Page 14 of The Christmas Keeper

He thought that over. “I was going to ask about a laundromat in town.”

“No, sorry, nothing at all like that. Next county they have one. We did have one, but it caught on fire and burned to the ground about seven or eight years ago. Faulty wiring or something. A notary bought the land and then built a little house where she works from her office. So if you need something notarized, you’re golden, but if your BVDs need a scrubbing, you’re shit out of luck.”

“Ah, gotcha. If my using your washer and dryer isn’t too much of an imposition…”

“Not at all,” I rushed to assure him. “Feel free to shower too.”

“Oh. That’s…above and beyond, yeah?”

“I mean washing in a sink works and all, but nothing beats a shower. If you want, which you totally do not have to want at all. Sometimes I skip…” I forced my jaw to shut to allow my stupid brain a chance to slow the hell down. “Not important. The offer stands if you want to use my laundry room and my shower. I can cook something that’s not a greasy burger for dinner or we cangrab something at the pizza shop on the way home.” He seemed unable to find words. I wished I was suffering from verbal lockjaw instead of word diarrhea. “Right, well, let me get out of here so you can finish dressing.”

“It’s your office.”

“I know, but…”

He walked over to me, in his stocking feet, and pulled me into a hug. I was not expecting it at all, and my spine went ramrod straight for a moment. He smelled good and clean like the green soap in the soap dish. I decided on the spot that I wanted that kind of soap in that dish forever. His curls tickled my cheek and nose, and instead of turning from the tickle, I moved my face into it.

“You’re one of the kindest souls I have ever met,” he drawled quietly, his embrace gentle yet firm. Kind? Me? That was not the general consensus of most people. I closed my eyes, inhaled all those curls, and then felt the brush of his whiskers against mine. My dick was not only awake now, but it was playing reveille to ensure my balls were wide awake. The only thing that saved me from grabbing him was the fact that I had my hands full. My lips, however, were not holding anything, so they were free to find his cheek. Just a fast peck was intended. The kind you give your grandmother in thanks for a fiver in your birthday card. Only his cheek was not a matronly cheek. My lips landed on the corner of his mouth, not his cheek at all, and the jolt was akin to shoving your tongue into a toaster. Not that I had ever done that as a kid on a dare.

His breath quickened. My eyes flew open. We had a long, long moment of stunned staring as he held me flush to him. I didn’t dare shift right or left. My cock was so hard if I moved an inch, he would feel my erection. Probably he already did. Oh shit.

“That was not supposed to be a mouth kiss,” I blurted out, his minty breath warm and moist on my face. “It was supposed tobe a kiss like the Europeans do, like to show thanks or to be welcoming. Like a grandma kiss.”

“You kiss your grandmother on the mouth?”

“What?! No, shit, no!”

He began to snicker as his arms fell away. I stayed locked in place, my gaze resting on his jovial brown eyes, utterly lost in the smell, sound, and now feel of him. If I wet my lips, would I taste that almost kiss?

“I was kidding. It’s fine. Hugs and cheek kisses are always welcome.” He moved away to finish dressing his feet, bending over to find his sneakers under the sofa. My sight fell to that skinny, firm ass.

Time to go. “Okay, so yeah, see you downstairs,” I mumbled as I waved the wrapping paper in the general vicinity of downstairs.

I then ran like a jackrabbit with a pack of braying beagles on its ass.

***

Thankfully, Kenan gave me some time to gather my scattered wits.

I wrapped tiny gifts with quaking hands, mumbling to myself about how dumb this was, how I’d never done this for any part-timer before—not that there had been many since I was ‘difficult and expected too much’ according to the last dude who had worked for exactly four hours before quitting because I’d asked him to engage with the customers a little and pull his damn face away from his phone—and why did they make scotch tape with ends that you couldn’t find. You know, the usual shit someone grumbled about when being festive.

“This is why I don’t do the holidays,” I whispered as I wrapped a stuffed dog in a square piece of candy cane paper with little to no skill or worry about pleasing aesthetics.

When I was done, I stashed all the tiny presents in the cash bag except for the one I was going to place by the menorah in the window. I had no clue if that was how it was done. Did you place the gifts under the candelabra like it was a Christmas tree? Damn it, I was such a gentile. I was about to Google it when Kenan came down the stairs, hair damp and curly, eyes darting about the bar until he found me with a poorly wrapped gift in my hand.

“Happy second day of Hanukkah!” I shouted. Why did I shout? Not one damn clue. It wasn’t like this was a surprise birthday party.

“Brann, that was not at all necessary,” he said as I climbed down from the chair, gift resting in my palm, as he closed the distance. “I don’t have anything for you.”

“You still have several days. I like fruitcake,” I teased. The lingering tension left his face when I plunked the messily wrapped toy into his hand.

“You’re the only person I know who does,” he replied, weighing the package before opening it with more than a little trepidation. Those dark sinful eyes lit up when he saw the little pooch in the flat beret.

“His hat is flat,” I hurried to say as if he couldn’t see that for himself. “I saw him in the bin and he looked like he was wearing a yarmulke.” Kenan snorted softly. “So I thought he would be a good gift for a nice Jewish man during a special time of the year. If you don’t like him, we can just say he’s a French poodle who has seen some shit.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Oh, uhm, well, he broke up with his boyfriend and so he’s been spending his nights in cabarets, smoking like a fiend, drinking lots of French wine, and reciting slam poetry to other poodles who snap their fingers when his poem concludes.”

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