Page 1 of A Little Christmas 4: Teller
Chapter One
Teller Buchanan
“Hello. May I help you?” I stood beside a table of Christmas neckties that a brat of six or seven was destroying while his mother paid no attention to him whatsoever.
Don’t get me wrong. I could be a brat when I was in little space, but the way the kid was throwing around those ties, he deserved some kind of discipline. If he’d been my kid and acting that way, I’d have left him at home. But then again, at least she took him with her.
My own mother had never taken me anywhere and barely acknowledged my existence, but there was no time for a pity party. It was the first Tuesday in November, and Bloomfield’s Department Store, where I worked, was packed due to the popularity of our pre-holiday sale.
Finally, the boy’s mother turned to see where the boy had wandered to. I was elated when the mother’s expression morphed into abject horror when she saw him tying the ties together to make a long rope I’d like to strangle him with.
“Brody Johnston, get over here immediately.” He took off in the opposite direction while dragging the tie rope behind him across the dirty tile floor.
The men’s department’s assistant manager, Mr. Kerry, stuck his pointy nose in the air and followed them. I almost felt bad for the mother because Mr. Kerry was going to throw a bitch-fit, the likes of which she’d never seen.
I continued straightening the ties before I moved to the sweater table. It was a useless endeavor during a sale, but it was better than cleaning out the women’s dressing rooms, like my friend and coworker, Maizie Brown, was stuck doing.
“Excuse me.”
I turned to see a stunning silver bear standing behind me with a friendly smile. I almost swallowed my tongue.
“M-may I help y-you?” My stutter chose that moment to reappear after many years of speech therapy. It was embarrassing.
“Yes, please. I’m looking for the ugliest ties you have. They’re a gag gift.”
“Okay. Holiday themed or just ugly in general?” Thankfully, the stutter went back to its hidey hole in the depths of my childhood humiliation.
Silver Bear wore a gorgeous gray-and-black houndstooth wool sport coat with a white dress shirt and a cherry-red tie. The slacks were black wool flat front, and they highlighted his very muscular thighs, immediately drawing my eyes to his package. I could have sworn it moved.
“Which is worse?” he asked with a sexy smirk. For a moment, I didn’t know what he was talking about until he pointed to the tie racks.
I smiled and walked over to a rack, pulling off the maroon-tobacco brown-and-pea green striped tie that I had a love-hate relationship with. With the right dress shirt and sport coat, it could make a statement, but most of the men who came into the men’s department had no vision whatsoever.
Walking over to the holiday display, I grabbed the shit-brown tie with a bedazzled green Christmas tree and the baby-blue tie with a menorah that had flashing lights mimicking flickering candles. They were the two most offensive on the table, in my honest opinion.
“These are my personal choices. I brought two holiday ties—one in case your friend is Jewish.”
He took the striped tie and held it up, glancing at me. “This one wouldn’t be bad with the right shirt.”
Silver Bear flipped the silk fabric over his shoulder and looked at the two holiday ties. “I’ll take all three of these. My stepfather is Jewish, and he’s a professor of finance at SouthwesternCollege of Illinois in Belleville. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of the one with the menorah. Can you show me what shirt you would match with this tie, uh”—he pointed to the tie over his shoulder as he looked at my nametag attached to my tartan plaid vest—“Teller.”
I pulled out my cell phone and typed the website in for my favorite custom shirt maker, finding the green broadcloth that I’d always imagined would look good with that tie. I glanced at his clothes, easily determining he was a man with discerning tastes.
“I’d suggest this one, though this ivory would work well too. Do you have your dress shirts tailored?” I asked. Maybe I could score a little tailoring work? Would that be so bad?
He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, Teller, I travel to Hong Kong twice a year to get them custom-made. Better quality than any I’ve found here in the States, at half the price. I’ve never heard of this brand. Do you like them?” he asked.
It was my turn to chuckle. “Sadly, I don’t know the fit because they’re a bit pricey for me. I do my own tailoring. Good for you that you found a shirtmaker in Hong Kong.” I couldn’t imagine flying all the way to Hong Kong to buy a shirt. “How many do you order at a time?” I asked.
“I buy twenty-one at a time. You look rather dapper in that. Do you make your own clothes?”
My face flushed with embarrassment. “Does it look cheap? I mean, it’s lined and the fabric cost more than I’d usually spend to make something seasonal, but yeah, I made it. My grandmother said it’s the Buchanan tartan.”
His big grin had me stunned. “Oh no, Teller. I’m not criticizing it. It’s a beautiful waistcoat. I have one in my clan’s plaid that I bought at a Christmas market in Glasgow. I wear it when I go to my mother’s house on Christmas Eve, but mine’s not nearly as nice as yours.”
“Well, thank you. I made it for my final project at RISD—uh, Rhode Island—”
“School of Design. Yes, I’m familiar with it. If you graduated from RISD, why are you working at a department store as a salesclerk?”
