Wrapped Together

Book 5: Portland Heat

by Annabeth Albert

Genres: LGBT Gay; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

In the bustling restaurants, shops, and cafés of Portland, Oregon, things really heat up for the hard-working men behind the scenes when the holidays come into town . . . For a stationery store owner, the holidays are great for business. But for Hollis Alcott, Christmas reminds him of the tragic events of three years past, and the last thing he wants to do is take part in Portland’s over-abundance of festive cheer. But Sawyer Murphy, a hunky gift shop owner whose brother is married to Hollis’s sister, has made it his mission to pluck Hollis out of his holiday blues. And his plan is beginning to work. Wrapped in the warm glow of newfound passion, the former business rivals hit up Portland’s finest holiday traditions—and Hollis’s icy attitude begins to melt like snowflakes on his tongue. But he isn’t sure he can trust anyone with the only gift he has—his heart—without breaking it like an antique ornament. Unless he can find the courage to take a leap with the one lover he never expected . . . Praise for the Portland Heat series “Tremendously charming and sexy.” — RT Book Reviews on Served Hot “A really enjoyable story.” —Joyfully Jay on Baked Fresh “Sometimes an author just gets everything right…Absolutely perfect.” —Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews on Delivered Fast

Release date: December 6, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 143

Sample

“Don’t forget the holiday decorating contest begins next week.”

Even my piping-hot mint tea wasn’t enough to warm me at Ron Atkinson’s words. Holiday. Decorating. Contest. Dear lord, what was the business association thinking?

“Are there guidelines?” someone closer to the head of the table blessedly asked so I didn’t have to. The Alberta Street business owners were meeting at the People’s Cup coffee house on the Thursday evening before Thanksgiving. This was our monthly meeting, ostensibly to discuss making our tiny business district more welcoming to customers, but usually more of a social hour except when, like today, a special event was in the offing. I hated the special events.

“No guidelines this year other than the theme ‘Magic of the Holidays! ’ so you can have fun decorating your windows and storefronts in whatever way that theme speaks to you.” Ron had a bushy mustache and a booming voice better suited for a minister or a politician than the owner of an upscale pet supply store. He was our unofficial leader—sent out reminder emails about the meetings and set the agendas and worked tirelessly on the special events.

The holiday season held no magic for me, especially not for the past two years, and I doubted “crushing grief” made a good decorating scheme, so I didn’t join in the excited murmurs that started up as people shared their plans, many of which sounded months in that making.

“Does anyone have a pen? I want to write some of this down.” Ah. Sawyer Murphy had come late and unprepared as usual. He’d squeezed in between Mary Anne, the florist, and Ev, the yarn shop owner, balancing his coffee drink and agenda in one hand. He wore a hoodie advertising some video game. His unruly brown hair and several days’ worth of stubble made him look more like a student at the nearby community college than part owner of a chain of gift stores, including the one in our neighborhood.

Ev passed him a simple ballpoint, one with his store’s logo on it. Good. Saved me having to offer the Kaweco Sport in my jacket pocket. I carried it not for advertising my stationery store but because it was a damn fine portable fountain pen, one of my personal favorites.

“Anything else we need to discuss?” Ron asked.

This was my chance, the reason I’d come to the meeting in the first place, and I pulled out the thick stationery-stock note card where I’d jotted down my thoughts on retailers encroaching onto sidewalk space. Namely Sawyer sprawling out of the front of his store with all manner of trinkets. But in the time it took me to get my card out, people were murmuring “no” and already starting the gossip hour part of the meeting, talking in small groups, no longer paying attention to the agenda or Ron.

Just like that, there went my chance. I didn’t have the bravery required to lift my voice above the din. Indeed, my hand shook getting the card out of my jacket’s breast pocket. Not today.

I took a sip of my now tepid, almost-gone tea. Ugh. The good barista was on duty, the one who went with Ev from the knitting store and who always happily made my tea with the same care he did the fancy coffee drinks. I left the group, happy to have the excuse of needing a refill, but as I stood in line, Mary Anne joined me.

“Hollis Alcott, we almost never see you at these things!” Her voice seemed to ring out above the din. “Will you be participating in the contest this year?”

“I doubt it. My fall display is already set.” I tried not to sound too dour—she always had the best houseplants and had custom-ordered the rare fern I’d wanted.

“Ah, well, that’s too bad. You let me know if you change your mind. I’d be happy to lend you some poinsettias or other decor. I know you could do a splendid, tasteful window.”

It was my turn to order, so I gave her a smile as a reply before handing Brady my stainless-steel tumbler for tea and ordering a scone to go. I had to wait down at the other end of the bar for my order, and as I was waiting, Sawyer came loping over, a smile on his boyish face. His wide shoulders stretched the hoodie in distracting ways.

“Hollis! Did I hear you say you’re not decorating?”

“You did.”

He frowned. “I know how much you hate the holidays, but I bet you’d get an uptick in sales if you decorated. I heard Mary Anne offer to help. I could, too. I’ve got gobs of lights.”

“Thank you but no.” Truth be told, I could use the increase in sales, but it wasn’t enough of a motivator to get me ready for the onslaught of red and green.

Sawyer’s head tilted, considering. Oh no. I knew that look too well. A Sawyer who was scheming was downright dangerous. “We should bet, you and I.”

“No,” I said firmly. I stepped away from the coffee bar to let Mary Anne and others wait for their orders, but Sawyer kept step with me, effectively pinning me in between two tables on my path to the door. I sighed and repeated my objection. “No. The last time we bet, I believe you cracked a wrist.”

Sawyer waved a hand, dismissing my concern. “We were fifteen. We’ve had other bets since then.”

We had, but there was one in particular I was determined not to remember right at that moment. This was the peril of having known someone for almost two decades. “How precisely would one even bet on this?”

I let my inner musings escape before I could rein them in, and Sawyer smiled. He knew he had me. Whatever nervousness and shyness captured my tongue around large groups did not, unfortunately, extend to Sawyer. “Well, I was thinking whichever of us makes it into the top three is the winner of our bet, and then the loser has to do whatever the winner wants for an evening.”

Oh, I did not like this. “Anything?”

“That wasn’t a no.” Sawyer’s grin showed the sort of charm that made him so darn popular. “And I wasn’t thinking of something kinky. Trust me here, Hols.”

“Don’t call me that.” And I most certainly did not trust him. I was pretty sure the always-affable Sawyer didn’t have a kinky bone in his body, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t up to something. “But I could get you to do any task of my choosing?”

See, the thing about me that Sawyer knew was that I have a very hard time resisting a bet. Always have, hence the aforementioned bet freshman year of high school about jumping over auditorium seats during drama class. I’m also notoriously cheap. And as it turned out, I did have a job for him.

He nodded. “Anything.”

“I have a bathroom I want painted at my store. Including the trim.”

Sawyer, to his credit, didn’t look remotely pained. “That’s fine. I’m good at painting.”

“And you? What would you want?” I had no idea why I was asking. I certainly wasn’t planning on agreeing to this ridiculous plan.

“A surprise.” He winked at me.

“I don’t like those.”

“I know. Which is why you need one. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll specify no sex or nudity involved.” Sawyer had mercifully dropped his deep, clear voice to softer tones. I still bristled at the thought of anyone overhearing this.

“Or humiliation, public or otherwise.”

“Oh, Hollis, you know me better than that.” He held up his hands. They were big, capable hands, and I had to blink to get my eyes to look away. “Now, come on. I dare you. Bet me.”

“I suppose I could muster some sort of decor. Something simple. Tasteful.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He put out a hand for me to shake.

I took it, reluctantly, knowing that his firm clasp would send the same jolt up my arm it always did. “All right. I suppose I’ll call you if I win.”

“But I’ll see you before that, right?” Sawyer didn’t seem in any hurry to part, lounging against an empty table. I knew exactly what was coming next, but good manners kept me from rushing out the door. “Aren’t you coming to Thanksgiving? My mom’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“I sent her my regrets the other day. I have plans.”

“You do?” Sawyer blinked.

“I do.” It didn’t matter if those plans were a movie marathon for me and a turkey breast for Benedict and me, they were my own.

“More than just hanging out with your cat?” Oh, Sawyer knew me a bit too well, which was one of the many reasons I strove to avoid him as much as possible.

“Yes,” I lied with absolute confidence. Rewatching Sherlock totally counted as more.

“Char and Tucker will be disappointed, too, I’m sure. And Aria.” Sawyer threw out the three cards most likely to get me to waver, but I stood firm.

“Just because my sister married your brother doesn’t mean I need adopting by your family really. I’m quite content with my life.” It had been bad enough that Char had been best friends with Sawyer all through high school. Then she had to go and marry Tucker, who was Sawyer’s twin, making Sawyer practically family, something I still wasn’t reconciled with.

“Oh, Hollis,” Sawyer groaned. “I swear to God, I’m going to find you some holiday spirit this year if it kills me.”

Whatever small modicum of holiday spirit I had had died almost three years ago and we both knew it. All I really wanted from the holidays was a quietly forgettable month—it was the most I could hope for really. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get going.”

“Okay. Just don’t forget our bet!”

As if I could. I cursed my impetuousness the whole walk back to my place, pulling my coat tighter against the late November chill.

“That is the most Charlie Brown–looking Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.” Char’s voice interrupted my work in the front window of Paper, my store. It was an old-fashioned space with a large front window—the building had been a haberdashery in a previous life and I’d kept the bare wood floors, classic glass cases, and large display window with a raised platform.

“That’s because it’s not a Christmas tree.” I crawled out of the window to give my sister a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. She had Aria with her in her bright orange stroller. Her I gave a big smile to and a high five. She loved handing those out.

“It’s not?” Char’s nose wrinkled up.

“This is a seasonal branch,” I explained, gesturing to the bare stick. “It symbolizes the austereness of winter, while the red ball is merely a touch of whimsy.”

“Whimsy.” She didn’t look convinced. “And the single candle is for solstice, then? Is that your theme?”

“Not really. Just giving a nod to the season really.”

My sister had celebrated solstice since her hip. . .