Grant Cary, a twenty-eight-year-old grad student, has let his Kwanzaa shopping go to the very last minute. In his rush to get home, he quite literally bumps into Will Sheritan, a fortysomething software developer, in the elevator. But luck favors (or curses) the adventurous, because their elevator shuts down due to a blackout. Grant and Will learn about each other’s pasts and find more than just a casual interest.
Will has never celebrated Kwanzaa, and he’s reluctant to enter into a relationship, but exploring a new tradition—with a new friend—might brighten his lonely holiday. And if Will accepts Grant’s invitation to join his family for the Karamu feast, Grant might get his Imani gift early.
Dedicated to all my LGBTQAI brothers and sisters who may not have a place to go for fellowship. Who may have a family that doesn’t understand (or want to understand) their struggle or their pain. Who refuse to accept them as they are to the point of never wanting to see them, even for a meal.
Most importantly, this is dedicated to my cousin, Lee, who came out as transgender last year and has been making his transition from female to male. I love you dearly with all my soul. You’re always invited to my dinner table.
Bring a dish, or you’re sitting at the kid’s table.
I’m serious. *insert serious face*
WHY DO I always do this? I told myself back in July I’d be ready, but here we are. Last shopping day before Christmas, and I’m standing in line sandwiched between Wailing Baby number 473 and what I can only assume is a deli master. (The sour stink of cold cuts is seeping through his pores.) Oh, and here’s the best part. I didn’t even get all the gifts I need for the seventh day. Which means my happy ass will be in my brother-in-law’s store some time before January 1 so the family doesn’t think I’m shirking my responsibilities.
Happy Kwanzaa to me.
“Number twenty-six!”
Looking down at my number—lucky number forty-two—I repeat the mantra I’ve been mumbling to myself for the past three hours. “Gotta do better, Grant.”
“Okay, so I want these three baskets wrapped in cling film, these two gifts in bags, and these two here? Could you just find something pretty and pink?”
“No, this heifer did not!” Full disclosure: I have a hard time keeping internal monologue… internal. Bad habit that’s gotten me a solid swat with one of my mom’s wooden spoons on several occasions. Yes, even as a grown-ass man. Thank God the wailing tormentor—currently blaring loud enough for everyone in the mall to get a headache—hasn’t found any reason to let up, otherwise saddlebags standing in front of me would’ve given me a hard stare, in which case I’d have to snatch her wig, and that’s no way to behave before the holidays. So I just count my blessings and let out a sigh because me and my shopping cart aren’t going anywhere for a while. Damn, I’ve been sighing so much today I’m liable to hyperventilate. “Yep. Definitely gotta do better.”
“Thank you for shopping at Gillman’s Department Store. Please get your last purchases in, as the mall will be closing in fifteen minutes. Thank you again. Have a Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, you’ve gotta be shitting me.”
“HOLD THAT, please!” It’s one thing to have to now go home and throw these shits in whatever sad wrapping paper I’ve got stuffed away somewhere. I’ll be damned if I miss this elevator! Thank God for small mercies. Whoever’s already inside has enough holiday cheer to help a brother out. “Tha—” Had to smother that thank-you with the rush of breath that came up as a result of me hauling ass to make it before those doors close. But damn being embarrassed; this guy deserves a beer—or a stiff nog—to go with my huffed-out line of gratitude. “Thanks,” I finally get out. “Really appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says. My breathing, thank God, has evened out. Heart still hasn’t gotten the memo… and one glance at the elevator savior, that memo may as well have been roasting merrily with some chestnuts over an open fire. This man is… okay, so cute isn’t exactly what I’m looking for. What do you want from me? I’m trying to reacquaint my lungs with the magical wonders of oxygen. Words are a little sparse. But even with that much going on, it’s hard to ignore just how fine Elevator God is. Eyes dark yet bright like the candle of umoja and lips like the American Dream. Perfect skin, deep brown like the earth after a summer rain. Not a blemish in sight, as if Elevator God skipped puberty altogether, taking a direct route to sexy on a freight train. A little older than I like ’em, but what the hell. I’m not above a little May/November. I mean, I’ve told friends on numerous occasions, if by some cosmic twist of fate the chance ever arose, Billy Dee Williams could get it. Elevator God’s way younger than him, more Louis McKay than Judge Reinhold.
“Are you okay?”
“Wa-huh…?” Oh yeah, I really know how to put on the charm. Choking on equal parts air and saliva is right up there with Antonio Banderas’s accent and Rafa Nadal’s ass on the list of sexiest things to ever exist.
“Seemed a little
spaced-out, there. Run up some stairs?”
Okay. First of all, completely unfair that his voice sounds like how I imagine a $1500 wine tastes. Now he’s got this smirk on his face like he’s both trying to seduce me and mocking my obvious lack of social skills.
And I, with all this bubbling charisma, scratch out a pitiful “Yeah.” Well, enough embarrassing myself. Eyes forward. Oh, look at these doors. These are great doors, clean, very clean… too damn clean. I can see Elevator God in the reflection, eyeing me like I’m a snack before dinner. Okay, that’s it. My obvious lapse in oxygen has killed several of my brain cells. Time to focus on something else. Something lower and away from those sinful eyes. So how about this floor? How lovely. What color is that, burgundy? I’ve always liked—
Before I can ruminate on the pros and cons of a dark red carpet, the elevator decides to give this huge jolt. “Shit!” I screech out. Apparently today is my lucky day. Not only do I sleep through my alarm, miss the meeting with my dissertation chair, then have to wait in line for two hours just to not be able to get my damn gifts wrapped, the one elevator I happen to get on decides to crap out just as I’m almost home free. Add to that one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen—who’s probably as straight as the straightest arrow ever conceived—just so happens to be the sole occupant of this malfunctioning upright coffin. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2025 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
