This steamy romance follows two men with opposite personalities as they pretend to date during the holiday season—perfect for fans of Casey McQuiston and Anita Kelly.
Release date:
January 14, 2025
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
320
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
"Sheldon and Theo's opposites-attract, Beauty-and-the-Beast chemistry grabbed me from the first chapter and never let go. Their past traumas are handled deftly with Wardell's now-signature humor and care, creating a love story both steamy and sweet, with an HEA steeped in personal growth and full acceptance of the other. Wholly delightful and full of Hanukah spirit—Wardell's voice jumps off the page." - Anita Kelly, author of Something Wild and Wonderful
“Poignant. Nuanced. Deeply emotional. Sharply witty. Wardell has woven a tapestry of humor, healing, and love that comes together in a beautiful way that left me devouring the words and hungry for more while still deeply satisfied in what can only be described as a story that explores the way two people, in all their perfection imperfection, can complement one another in ways that transcend the basic "love conquers all" concept found in romance novels. This story has the spicy sweet flavor of his debut, with a deeper and more delicate hand that speaks to his absolute skill as a craftsman of stories that will fill your heart with joy. I am in awe of this author and can't wait for even more. - Jay Leigh author of Whisper into the Night and Checking Out
“Wardell has outdone himself and this *might* be better than Teacher Of The Year. There. I said it. I had very high expectations because I LOVED Marvin and Olan's love story and have raved because TOY was my book of the year. Wardell does not disappoint with Mistletoe & Mishigas. This is a deeply poignant MULTI-holiday romcom with lots of heart and heat. This book has everything: fake dating, snow storms, "pretend" kisses, a holiday decorating montage, Jenga towers made of chairs, and a cat named Janice.” - K Sterling, author of The Nannies of New York Series
Praise for Teacher of the Year
"A winning love story with just the right amounts of thoughtfulness and playful energy." - Kirkus Reviews
"A love letter to queer educators, Teacher of the Year is a warm hug—and spicy treat—of a novel! M.A. Wardell expertly crafts characters who tug at heartstrings while validating our deepest needs. A laugh-out-loud, happy-cry, swoony-sigh read, prepare to meet your new auto-buy author!" - Courtney Kae, author of In the Event of Love
“The quick wit, delightful humor, and emotional depth of M.A. Wardell's prose come together in this debut novel that explores the nuanced relationships between family, friends, and coworkers while navigating a budding romance and balancing the demands of others. This refreshing take on such universal topics resonates throughout and the author's voice, reminiscent of Alexis Hall, creates a gem of a story that has stuck with me months after reading.” --- Jay Leigh, author of Whisper into the Night
News of my ex-boyfriend’s engagement should have ruined my morning, but I have exactly one day to prepare a new classroom for a gaggle of first graders. It was a surprise school transfer. That I got yesterday. The Sunday after Thanksgiving. Which is fine, it happens all the time. What doesn’t happen all the time? Finding an invitation to your ex-boyfriend’s wedding hidden by your wombmate-turned-roommate in the kitchen junk drawer. Oh, and the wedding is on Christmas Eve. How tacky.
Will either of these facts drag me down on this beautiful, sunny late-November morning? No way. I’m living my best when-they-go-low, we-go-high fantasy.
The drive to Lear Elementary is two minutes shorter than my commute to Faye—which was only ten minutes. That’s only eight minutes. First-grade math for the win! Thank you, compact Portland peninsula! We’ve got lobsters, 3,500 miles of coastline, and a sunrise we get to see before the rest of the country. Take that, other Portland!
The crisp autumn air mixes with the ocean breeze as I survey the almost empty school parking lot. Bigger than Faye, Lear sports a generous playground with newer equipment, including swings, multiple slides, and a climbing structure with ropes that snake across the area, creating a lovely space for children to play and explore.
With a bounce in my step, thanks to Lady Gaga’s criminally overlooked “Christmas Tree” blasting in my earbuds, and my fabulous purple Converse to match my nails, I strut into Lear Elementary School, ready and focused. Pulling a classroom together in a day might sound unrealistic, perhaps impossible. Still, with how efficiently I work, I’ll be done and home in time for Thanksgiving leftovers and snuggling on the couch with Janice, my tortoiseshell cat, who detests everyone and everything in the universe. Except me. Because even though Janice’s resting bitch face rivals Medusa, for some reason, she adores me. Time to bang this classroom out and get home to my kitty girl.
How did I end up being transferred the day before Thanksgiving? Naomi and I were in the kitchen, my Pop Divas playlist blasting as we tried to out-sing each other while peeling apples and potatoes and preparing for our small Thanksgiving, when my phone cried out in the middle of Kelly Clarkson’s “Underneath the Tree.” The name of my now-former principal Gianna DeGarmo flashed on my phone. My heart thumped a little too quickly, and it only escalated when I answered.
“Sheldon, I know this is last minute, but I need you to transfer to Lear. Their classrooms have grown far over the limit, and well, with you and Rebecca each only having nine students and no more on the horizon …” She wasn’t asking, and there really wasn’t any respectable way to say no. Switching to a new school within our district is common, but I adore Faye Elementary. The community accepts me. I can be myself there. All of me. Something I don’t take for granted.
Leaving the bubble of Faye makes my head woozy, but I’m confident I can win this new community over in no time. Lear Elementary needs Sheldon Soleskin, which means it’s time for a mid-year new-classroom-setup moment.
An older white man with a kind, round face and a long red and green scarf that engulfs his head greets me at the front door with a comforting smile. Even though this man resembles a young Santa Claus, I still proceed with caution. Men, straight ones in particular, always make me slightly uncomfortable. They ramble about sports (only tennis for me, thanks to Rafael Nadal and his short shorts) and beer (when I’m interested in drinking urine, I’ll let you know).
“Sheldon?” The man’s arms open, and his eyes, bright and wide, sparkle like tinsel under a spotlight. “Thank god you agreed to transfer. I could just hug you! May I?”
“What?”
“Hug you?”
“Oh, um, sure.”
Before I know what’s happening, he gathers me up in an embrace like we’re long-lost relatives. His gray beard scratches my forehead like pine needles. How have I found myself in this after-school special-family-reunion reenactment?
“What if I said I wasn’t Sheldon Soleskin?” I squeak, still swaddled in his warm bear hug.
“Oh, you’re a feisty one, aren’t you? Just what we need here at Lear.” He pulls away but still holds me in his arms. “I’m Kent Lester. Principal. And a hugger. I hope that’s okay. Gianna gushed about you.” He grips my shoulders as he surveys his new teacher. “I’m beyond thrilled you’re here. Welcome to Lear.”
I’m so close to this man that my chest tightens. Does he know I’m queer? Does he care? If he doesn’t know, it won’t take long. Most people figure it out within two minutes. One if they have perfect vision and hearing. As Naomi says, “Sheldon, you’re gayer than a unicorn in drag riding on a rainbow float at the Pride Parade.” And usually, I own it. Right now, wrapped in the woodsy smoke coziness of Kent Lester, I close my eyes and attempt to quiet my inner saboteur. Not everyone thinks I’m too much.
As he pulls back, I have to ask him, “Has anyone ever told you—”
“I look like a young Santa,” he finishes my sentence. “Practically everyone.”
“It’s uncanny.”
“The kids are all convinced I’m Santa’s younger brother. But I’m Jewish, so I’m more Santa Klutz.” He laughs from his belly. “Come, let me show you the space,” he says and immediately trips over the doorstep. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” He waves away my outstretched hand and shakes his head.
Kent leads me down a long hallway lined with bulletin boards filled with children’s colorful work. There are papers that have lost their staples and flutter like butterfly wings in our wake as we pass. I imagine these walls lined with festive decorations made by little hands in the coming weeks. Snowmen and wreaths and elves, oh my!
Lear is a newer school, and it shows. I spot a water fountain with a fancy bottle filler and think about how my skin will shine and glow from all the hydration provided by the fresh, clean water. Everything sparkles and glimmers under the bright lights, there are no splotches on the ceiling, and the floor has no dings or missing tiles. Lear gives off major upgrade vibes, and I’m not mad about it. Glancing down at the freshly waxed floor, I notice my reflection as we walk. I give shiny-floor Sheldon a little wave, mouthing, “Hey, you!”
At the end of a long corridor, near what I’m surmising must be the building’s finale, we round a corner and slam into a dead end. Kent, walking in front of me, glances back to speak, but before words escape his mouth, he crashes into a door. Before I can ask, once again, he says, “Fine, I’m fine. Just not the most gracious goose.”
The single door, slightly ajar, beckons me. An empty room looms.
“All right, technically, this isn’t a classroom. But since we only got the go-ahead to add another first-grade classroom last week, I had to think creatively. This has been our physical therapy room, but we’ve moved them out to a portable with some other services. I know the room seems a little …”
“Bleak?”
Kent chortles. “Yeah, you could say that.” There’s a distinct echo where Kent’s laugh reverberates against the walls like a pinball.
With gray walls and a gray tile floor, the entire room resembles an abandoned warehouse. Or a prison. The only thing missing are bars on the windows. Soft November sun pours through the line of naked windows along the far wall, illuminating the vast emptiness. My brain imagines the transformation that will happen over the next few hours. It’s giving very Drag-Race-unconventional-materials-design-challenge energy. If those queens can craft Met-Gala-worthy outfits out of twigs and berries, I can certainly do this. Tomorrow, the space will be bustling with first-grade children. My lips turn up at the thought of greeting their smiling faces.
Dust bunnies have made homes in the vacant corners. I think of my students and how I might make a game out of naming the bundles of fluff before sweeping them up. “This one is Henry, and oh look, Sheila, sorry sweetie, you’ve got to go!” There’s a small kidney table smooshed into a corner and some boxes that need moving. That’s it. Late autumn air creates a chill in the room, and I really hope the heat kicks on soon because my scrawny body doesn’t produce much. My new class, an amalgamation of students from the two other overstuffed first-grade classes, joins me tomorrow. I take a deep breath and smile, reminding myself that the universe called me here. The entire day lies ahead, and we only need basic amenities for the first day. The kids will help me tomorrow.
Chin up, Sheldon Soleskin! If anyone can do this, it’s you!
I take a final survey of the room, clasp my hands, and, doing my best Maria Von Trapp sing, “Let’s start at the very beginning.”
Kent’s eyes go sideways, and a wide grin overtakes his broad face.
“Yes! A very good place to start,” he sings back. Sharing a mutual love of Julie Andrews with my new principal was certainly not on my radar. I cock my head and smile.
“How about furniture? That would be a great place to start.”
“We have everything you’ll need in the basement,” Kent says. “There are tables, desks, chairs, and shelves. Anything down there is up for grabs. Let me show you.”
We return to the hallway and walk to the entrance, where Kent unlocks a large metal door. We carefully navigate the path down to the basement, the flimsy stairs creaking beneath our feet as spiderwebs attack my face—I do not feature silk webbing as part of my skincare routine, thank you very much, spiders of Lear. Brushing them aside like the schoolyard taunts of my youth and ignoring the acrid stench of mildew, I discover myself facing a tower of furniture. Pieces of wood and metal jut out in all directions, making it hard to decipher what treasures lie within.
“Perfect! It’s definitely a Jenga moment, but this will get me started.”
“I’d love to help, but an emergency meeting at central office beckons. Theo, our custodian, is knocking around. He can help with the furniture.”
“Awesome. Theo. I’ll find him,” I say as if I’m methodically checking items off a list.
My new classroom, about a good city block’s distance from my current location in the bowels of Lear, isn’t that far. Unless you’re carrying a classroom’s worth of furniture and have the muscle mass of a flea. My people do not come from sturdy stock. We prefer to be carried over doing the carrying.
“Listen, Theo’s a great guy but can be … a little frosty. But I’m sure you two will get along like two little elves.” Kent wipes something from his face. “Technically, he’s more Abominable Snowman, but anyway, good luck!”
With that, Kent Lester abandons me in the depths of Lear to gather furniture for my new first-grade classroom. I refuse to dwell on the fact that I’m alone in a scary school basement. Instead, I tilt my head toward the furniture because this classroom isn’t going to set itself up. I manage to grab two chairs, one in each arm, nod enthusiastically to the universe, and wrangle them up the stairs.
Back in the classroom, and already out of breath, I place the chairs down and sit on one. The powder-blue contact paper on the bulletin board next to the row of windows reminds me of the lettering on the wedding invitation I wasn’t supposed to find this morning.
I was rushing to get dressed so I could get to Lear and the button on my favorite steel joggers—that I wear constantly because they show off my best … assets—popped off. I went for the sewing kit in the junk drawer where I discovered Naomi’s poor attempt at hiding the invitation.
“Naomi! When were you planning on telling me?”
“Bean, I’m sorry!” Naomi’s called me “bean” since we were babies. She’s exactly two and a half minutes older and has always been half an inch taller. “It came on Halloween, and I didn’t want to ruin your Glinda the Good Witch evening. Before I knew it, Thanksgiving came, and—”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I know.”
She gazes at me with those puppy dog eyes that, well, mirror mine, and I’m a puddle of eggnog. It’s impossible for me to be upset with her. She’s the only family I have.
“Why Christmas Eve? Timothy knows how much I love Christmas,” I muffled into her shoulder.
“I know. I’m so sorry, bean,” she said.
“Well, are we going?”
“Um, excuse me. That invitation is addressed to Sheldon Soleskin and guest. And guest. I’m not your default guest to his tacky Christmas-Eve wedding.”
“Actually, you are literally my default date. Since the womb.”
Naomi and I have been each other’s plus one more times than I can count. Whenever one of us needs an escort, it’s easy and comfortable. It’s a best-friend-twin right and responsibility.
“Do you even want to go?”
“Are you kidding? There’s no way I’m letting Timothy think I’m still devastated. And after last year? This will be my Christmas-Eve do-over fantasy moment.”
“Sheldon, you are still devastated.”
“Yeah, but only slightly.”
“We don’t have to go. Who cares what Timothy thinks?”
She’s right, but my face flushes at the thought of Timothy thinking I’m not over him. Is he only being polite, inviting me? Maybe, but not going would show weakness.
“Of course I’ll go with you, bean, but it’s still a month away. You never know, maybe you’ll meet someone?”
“Listen, there are many things I would love for the holidays: the ability to put muscle on this scraggly body, a pay raise for every teacher in the country, Rihanna to release a new album. Finding a boyfriend isn’t high on my priorities.”
“Well, your default date will be ready if needed. Walker’s on call on Christmas Eve, so I’m yours.”
Walker Stevens—a gorgeous emergency doctor giving total McSteamy energy—and Naomi met six years ago when he began working at the hospital. He’s one of the most patient and understanding humans on the planet. He understands Naomi and I are a package deal. I need to make sure to get him something extra sparkly for Christmas! Maybe I can find a crystal-encrusted stethoscope.
“And Sheldon, I was only trying to protect you.”
I attempted a smile. It’s what she does. But finding the invitation, while already rushed and frazzled, momentarily threw me off my game. A sour tang overtook my mouth. It was a very taken-a-bite-of-spoiled-yogurt-I-forgot-to-check-the-expiration-date feeling. It took three and a half minutes of meditation, followed by a mini dance party to Gwen Stefani’s “You Make It Feel Like Christmas,” to center myself. There’s nothing a little Gwen can’t fix, and I’m in no mood for negativity. Not after last Christmas, when Timothy dumped me. On Christmas Eve. Now he’s engaged. Less than a year after we ended.
As I stare out the window at the gorgeous view of the staff parking lot, the last leaves clinging to a mighty oak remind me that change is imminent. Don’t fight it. Sure it may be overcast and dreary, but the sun is hiding behind those clouds.
The sound of a motor snaps me back to reality. No, not a motor—someone aggressively clearing their throat, slicing into my peaceful, momentary wallowing moment.
Shaking my head, trying to fling unsettling thoughts away, I turn to see an extremely tall, portly white man standing in the doorway with a scowl on his face. Fantastic, another straight man, and I’m not getting Julie Andrews-loving hugger vibes from this one. Towering over me, he’s well over six feet tall. He wears a dark navy uniform resembling scrubs, black sneakers, and has a mammoth set of keys dangling from his belt. This is clearly not a high-fashion moment for him.
Hands in pockets and eyes on the floor, it appears he’d rather be anywhere but here. His face bunches up like he’s smelled something foul, and I almost consider whether I should be fearful. He’s tall. Big. He almost fills the entire doorway. His demeanor sends my spidey senses tingling, but when I catch his eyes, there’s a glint of something I recognize. I’m not positive, but maybe sadness.
“Hi. I’m Sheldon, the new first-grade teacher.”
Silence.
“This is my classroom. I’m totally supposed to be here.”
He blinks.
“Are you Theo?”
Nothing.
“The custodian? Kent told me you might be able to help me carry some furniture up from the basement. I already brought these two chairs up.”
I motion to them, trying to give my best Vanna White flourish. Apparently, he doesn’t get the reference because he doesn’t speak, and instead emits a noise, a groan that rumbles from his throat and erupts from his lips as “Mmmh.” Verification that he’s the elusive Theo.
Clearly, he isn’t used to the effervescent fabulousness of Sheldon Soleskin.
There’s a distinct chill in the air. Usually, I could warm it up like the gooey center of a cinnamon brown sugar Pop-Tart.
But that’s clearly not happening today.
On my way to work, I stop at the gas station like I do every morning for a small black coffee. It’s lukewarm and slightly bitter. Like me. It’ll pair nicely with the leftover white chocolate pistachio babka I baked for Thanksgiving.
“Morning, my Theo. Sunday shift, eh?” Roberta says from behind the counter.
With crimson nails filed to points I’m not sure the purpose behind, Roberta’s friendliness and propensity to chat can be off-putting. She annoyed me profusely when she began working at the Fill’er Up two years ago, replacing Maulik who had rarely uttered a word unless absolutely necessary. God, I miss that bastard. But I’ve adjusted to Roberta. She means well.
I nod at her and pull my lips into something resembling a grin.
“How was your Thanksgiving?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“Come on, Theo—turkey, mashed potatoes, football. You must love football, right?”
Because I’m built like a linebacker, people assume an infatuation with football must be pulsing through my veins. The reality is that all the cheering, screaming, and revelry at games gives me a fucking headache.
“Not really.”
“A solid guy like you?”
Solid. It’s a word people use when they don’t want to say fat. My frame might be solid, but everything on it, not so much. Some people can eat whatever they like and not gain a pound. I could eat nothing but carrot sticks and still pack it on.
Because I don’t know what to say, I do my best to smile. I remind myself. Roberta means well.
“There’s that beautiful smile. Give me your phone. Let me take a picture for your momma.”
Last year, on my parents’ yearly visit for Hanukah, in her typical fashion, my mother talked Roberta’s ear off. Stopping for a coffee with my mother and father should’ve been simple, but nothing is ever simple with Sylvia Berenson. She started by thanking Roberta for being kind to me. For making sure I had fresh coffee every morning. Like Roberta came in and brewed the carafe only for me. They bonded over single adult sons who live far away, have no marriage prospects, and about never having grandchildren. I stood there, tail between my legs, embarrassed, once again, by my mother’s ability to overshare . . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
