Page 8 of A Christmas Harbor

“Taxi Dancer. I wanted to call itHold Me Closer, Taxi Dancer, but that would’ve been anachronistic.”

“What’s a taxi dancer?”

“About a hundred years ago there were these women who would dance with guys for a dime—in dance halls, not on the street. Anyway, I wrote the gay version of that, a little historical romantic fiction.”

“And people bought this?”

“Hey, don’t be shocked,” Paul said. “Some readers are tired of the same old boy-meets-girl routine. And why should straight people hog all the happy endings?”

If only David had asked himself that question twenty-five years ago—or five years ago, for that matter. He pulled out his phone. “I can order this online?”

“Anywhere good books are sold, as they say.”

David brought up a browser with his favorite indie bookstore’s website already open in one of the half-dozen tabs. A quick search on Paul’s latest title brought up the novel. The cover was bright red, but David couldn’t make out details without his reading glasses, which he never bothered bringing to a bar.

He tapped onPaul McCafferty, revealing all the books he’d mentioned, complete with a big-name publisher and starred reviews fromKirkusandLibrary Journal. “Wow, you weren’t kidding.”

“Why would I make that up? Other than to impress you.”

“Writers are naturally curious.” He addedTaxi DancerandSongs of Innocent Experienceto his cart. “That’s why being a novelist makes good cover for asking lots of questions about my job.”

“Cover?” Paul furrowed his brow, then his eyes popped wide. “You thought I might be a spy?”

“It’s happened before.”

Paul gasped. “You spilled state secrets to a fake author?” he asked, his voice dipping to a whisper.

“No.” David pressed the order button. “But she tried.”

“Ah—she. That’s why you weren’t taken in.”

“It didn’t help.” David scanned the room, unable to simultaneously look at Paul and talk about his own sexuality.

The Kendricks—or the McSaltys, as Jackie called them—were speaking over their shoulders to each other in hisses, their faces pinched and their words drowned by the music. Near the piano, Eduardo cradled a fresh drink in both hands.

Jackie stood beside the cash register, frowning at his antlers. He tried to straighten them by pinching the cloth to even out the filling. Still they flopped over like beagle ears.

In this grim scene, on this loneliest of nights, had Paul gravitated toward David out of desperation? If they spent the night together, would it be only that—one night, or even just a few hours’ escape from the crushing void of yet another solitary Christmas?

Paul’s knee pressed against his. David looked down.

“Oh God, was that you?” Paul shifted on his seat, moving his leg away. “Sorry, my knees are everywhere. I thought I was nudging part of the bar.”

Sure he did. “No worries,” David said. “In fact…you can leave it there if it’s more comfortable.”

“You know, I think it might be.” The side of his knee brushed David’s, then came to rest, unobtrusively, against it. “Yep. I definitely feel more relaxed.”

“Good.” David smiled down into his glass as the outside of his knee became the warmest part of his entire body, maybe the warmest any part of his body had been for a long time.

So what if this turned into a casual Christmas hookup? Such things could no longer destroy his life. It would be a relief to spend one night—especiallythisnight—in the arms of someone as cute and kind as Paul.

Maybe that would be enough.

ChapterTwo

In the last hour, Paul had learned a few things about David Jeffries:

He held therankof Commander—pretty standard for a person his age, based on what Paul knew from watching Star Trek—but not theposition, as he hadn’t been given command of an actual submarine. Apparently there were only 14 ballistic subs in the U.S. Navy, and turnover was slow, because anyone who wantedthatjob wasn’t about to give it up. Paul wondered whether homophobia was the reason David got passed over for command despite his two decades of experience and several stints (tours? patrols? There was so much jargon to all this military stuff) as executive officer (or XO, speaking of jargon).

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