Page 1 of Season's Greetings
Chapter 1
Daniel
“Ho, ho, ho, it’s that festive time of year, ho, ho, ho, fill your heart with cheer,” came the overly jolly voice.
“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Daniel didn’t need his brother bouncing around the office, being all chipper about the upcoming holiday season. He much preferred Rhett Butler’s line from Gone with the Wind—“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” It seemed he was the only one who felt that way.
Everywhere he looked, there was red, gold, and green. So much so that the office resembled Santa’s grotto more than the headquarters of Sanders and Sanders, Attorneys at Law. Snow lay thick outside, making the roads and sidewalks treacherous. They’d received more than their fair share of personal injury claims and fender benders—bread-and-butter cases for a firm like theirs. Then there were shifter grievances and family law. They practiced a bit of everything here, in a city where shifters were the majority. North Star wasn’t the only shifter city, but it was one of the largest in the region. Not that the city advertised that fact.
If Grady didn’t stop singing off-key, Daniel might be forced to do something drastic. All the little snot did in response to his request was grin and sing louder. The firm didn’t plead homicide cases, but there was always a first.Daniel gave Grady his best death glare as he strode past him and entered his office—the one room blissfully free of decoration.
Sighing, he looked down at the pile of Christmas cards still sitting on his desk. Jeez, he hated writing Christmas cards. Hated having to be all perky and write some seasonal B.S. he didn’t mean. Lick the horrid-tasting envelope and then… pay an extortionate fee to send the damn things. But every year, this task fell to him—no, not fell. It wasn’t like an apple dropping from a tree. No, they foisted this on him like some kind of penance he was forced to serve for grumpiness rendered.
Now he had glitter sprinkled over his desk, fingers, and clothes. It looked like a unicorn had sneezed on him. Muttering to himself, he hissed, “Wonderful. I’ll be finding this sparkly shit for the next six months at least.”
“You finished yet?” Grady peeped his head around the office door. “We need to get those in the mail before the last collection. It’s the last day for guaranteed delivery, so if we don’t get it done today, no one will get their card this side of the holidays.”
Daniel knew Grady was trying to be all motivating, but it was more annoying than anything. Appealing to his festive spirit wasn’t the way to get him moving. True, he’d been putting this off since Monday—and it was now Friday. Friday of a whole different week. He justified his lack of progress by arguing he had more important things on his mind than writing cards to people he hadn’t seen in years and didn’t care about. There, he’d said it. He’d even mentioned it a time or two, but did they listen? No. And that’s why he sat at his desk with his expensive fountainpen, handwriting seasonal greetings and resenting every second.
Before he could stop himself, he scrunched up his nose at the task—not quite in hand.
“Stop that… it’ll prematurely age you and—let’s face it—time is not on your side.”
The fucker. Only his brother could get away with saying that without Daniel opening the office door and forcefully pushing him out of it. The cheeky brat was five years his junior and wouldn’t let him forget it, constantly making ageist comments about the fact that he was still single and approaching thirty.
“I don’t see why we can’t just send out e-cards like everyone else,” he muttered, looking down at the list that seemed to grow by the second.
“Because we aren’t like everyone else. We want to give our clients the personal touch. It shows we care. Even in your case, when you actually don’t.”
And the little fucker had him there. So, he ground his teeth and started writing. Until there was one left.
He’d deliberately saved it for last, hoping to put off writing it for as long as possible. Prolonging the pain and, yes, the inevitable thoughts of regret that always came when faced with the one that got away. Still, he’d made his bed and his choice—and it wasn’t Daniel. Not being a Canis-shifter had sealed that fate.
He fought to push the omega’s image from his mind—the twinkle in his amber eyes, the way the sun caught the golden tones of his hair. Writing Matthew’s card left an even more bitter taste in his mouth than the envelopes did. What was done was done. The past should stay in the past.
Sighing, he wrote a generic message wishing him well in the coming year and placed the card—and the memory—at the bottom of the pile.
Daniel needed something stronger than coffee to take off the bitter edge from the memory, but he’d settle for caffeine. Standing, he headed toward the breakroom, glaring at his brother as he passed his office window. He placed a small cup under the professional-grade coffee maker and hit the espresso button. As he stared at the dark liquid, his mind wandered.
He’d finally completed the onerous task. After what felt like a lifetime, he’d crossed the last name off the list and stretched out his aching fingers. He sat for a moment, staring at the pile so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if it burst into flames. But if it made Grady happy and got him off Daniel’s back for a little while, then it was worth it.
All he wanted now was to log out of his laptop, lock his office, and head home—seeking comfort, if not oblivion, in a glass of bourbon and a hot shower. He wanted to wash away lingering thoughts and any residual glitter down the drain.
On the way back to his office, he passed the conference room and heard a shrill voice that stopped him in his tracks.
“It’s all your boss’s fault. You ask him. You ask the high and mighty Daniel Sanders about Matthew Hamilton. Better yet, get him in here and I’ll ask him. Because I want what’s rightly mine!”
Claudia.
He’d know her voice anywhere, and there was no way he was walking into that room. His presence would only fuelher ire. Instead, he collected his things from his office and headed for the elevator.
Matthew
Barney, the golden retriever-cross, rushed to the door at the sound of mail hitting the mat. What he was crossed with, no one knew. But every morning, he sat by the door and waited for the mailman to make his delivery. Then he scooped it up in his mouth and padded over to Matthew, laying drool-covered mail at his feet.
“Thanks, buddy,” he said, giving him an affectionate rub behind the ear—the way he liked. Then, he gingerly picked up the mail and wiped it down with a paper napkin left over from last night’s pizza.
Not the healthiest meal to feed his nine-year-old son. But Toby wasn’t like most nine-year-olds. Most of the time, he had his head buried in a book, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was drawing. He was an amazing artist. And Matthew wasn’t just saying that because he was his dad and obviously biased—he really was. They did not know where he got his talent from. His ex-wife, Claudia, had zero talent and even less patience for anything creative.
