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  “Mrs. Good Stuff,” he says, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek, but she moves out of his reach. He pulls her closer and kisses her anyway. “You think you’re so tough.” That’s nickname number two. This is the one he uses when trying to defuse a silly argument. “Go ahead and get another man. He’ll just bring your ass back because you talk and complain too damn much. And you know what? After I beat him to a pulp, I’ll take you back.” He picks up her hand and kisses it. She shoos him away and he goes back to eating his dinner. My mother turns her attention to me and starts to discuss the party I’m escorting her to tomorrow night.

  Dad’s an introvert who listens more than he talks, while Mom never stops talking or misses a party if she can help it. Nor does she ever miss an opportunity to gossip, and the recent talk around the dinner table is her temporary boss, Nick Bain.

  The owner of the construction company, Joseph Bain, broke his hip and needed a complete replacement. In the interim, his nephew, my mother’s new boss and, according to her, the devil in human form, has taken over.

  If you hear my mother tell it, Joe is a saint who gave her a job as the bookkeeper in his company twenty-seven years ago. He could have hired a CPA, but he took a chance on her. He’s a prince among men who is loved and respected by everyone who works for him.

  Mom even has a picture of Mr. Bain holding me when he came to visit her in the hospital after having me. He has sent gifts for the family every Christmas and gives her an annual bonus. Joseph Bain can do no wrong. Over the years, my mother’s role in the company has grown. She says she does whatever needs to be done.

  The flip side is that Nick Bain can do nothing right.

  “Miranda, pay attention,” she says, jabbing me in my ribs with her elbow. The unexpected movement causes me to jolt. “The man must have been raised by wolves. He comes in the office and doesn’t so much as mutter a good morning to any of us. He had the nerve to ask me to get him coffee again the other morning. When he heard me and Sherry talking, do you know what he said? He said this isn’t social hour. It’s a workplace.” She mimics this Nick Bain’s voice. I hold in my laughter, unable to imagine the man she’s mocking sounding so shrill. “Do you know I had to sit down with him his first week and explain my job. He wanted to see all the account receivables and payables for the past twelve months. And he even hired an outside firm to do an audit. An audit! Who does he think he is? The IRS? He’s wasting good money on that nonsense.”

  I don’t bother telling Mom that I already know all of this because she talks about it every chance she gets.

  “Woman, you get Joe coffee all the time. You insisted on that complicated machine that no one else understands. The man probably just can’t figure it out,” my father reminds her. “And so what if he wanted to do an audit. It’s not your money. Who cares?” Dad shrugs, which only irritates my mother more.

  “And don’t forget what he did to my mug. Not to mention how he destroyed the Halloween decorations in his office. And he didn’t come to our Thanksgiving office potluck. Probably thinks he’s too good. Jerk.”

  Neither one of us bothers to tell her the mug incident was an unfortunate accident or that some people just aren’t into holidays. I tune her out because we’ve had this same conversation at least once a week. Truthfully, I’m tired of hearing about Nick Bain. The man sounds like he needs a crash course in people skills if he can’t figure out that Mona Moore needs to feel appreciated and needed at all times. She’s given that company twenty-seven years, and if that fool doesn’t appreciate that, he’s not worthy of her.

  “Well, Joe appreciates everything I’ve ever done for him. And with Nick Bain’s fancy education, you’d think he’d be able to operate a damn coffee machine. Idiot.” She mentions his fancy education about once a week too, but I still don’t know where he got this fancy degree from. The only thing I know is that he has some sort of architectural background from some school in Chicago. I know better than to ask. Frankly, I don’t care. He can take his ass back to Chicago for all I care.

  Our strategy, my father’s and mine, is to let her talk. If we ask questions, the conversation will never end. “I want all of us to get on our knees tonight and pray. Pray for a speedy recovery and that he comes back to work. Nigel, I want you to make him some of your special jerk chicken and rice and peas. He loves that. I’m going to go visit him at home soon. Maybe seeing someone from work will give him the incentive he needs to get better fast. I swear, that nephew will run the business to the ground. Rumor has it his own business tanked, and he left Chicago with his tail between his legs. I’m not surprised.”

  That’s another thing. There’s always some rumor going around the office. The men around there gossip more than the women, and my mother eats it all up.

  “Just let me know when, woman. You’ll get your damn rice and peas. And I doubt very much Joe would let some screw up run his business, nephew or not. Where did you get your information from?” my dad asks. Dad’s the rational one, and Mom runs on emotion.

  “The foreman at the Quincy project told me.”

  Dad catches my eye and rolls his, forcing me to cover my laugh with my hand.

  “The foreman? You mean Darren? That man gossips more than fifteen-year-old girls, and he always gets his information wrong. He should worry about his own damn business. Didn’t his wife almost leave him last year because of his gambling? Maybe he should focus on his own problems before running his mouth about stuff he knows nothing about,” my dad says.

  My mom purses her lips. “Well, Sherry told me the same thing.”

  Dad grumbles something under his breath but continues eating. He looks at me and twists his mouth. I’d bet five dollars Sherry heard it from Darren, who probably made it up just to give my mother and Sherry something to talk about.

  Mom ignores my dad’s sage advice and says, “Darren Jr. is coming to the party. You two have always gotten along, Miranda. Maybe you guys should go see a movie or something.”

  “Mom,” I warn, but my dad interrupts.

  “Woman, are you out of your damn mind? That boy and our daughter will never be a couple, okay.”

  “You don’t know that, Nigel. We’re not getting any younger. I want grandchildren while I’m still young enough to enjoy them.”

  I cut a piece of chicken and stick it in my mouth, hoping they’ll quickly move on from this conversation because I am not in the mood tonight.

  “Listen to your mother about the grandchildren, gal. I need someone to bounce on my knee before the arthritis takes over completely,” he says.

  I contain my laughter because my dad does not have arthritis or anything else wrong with him. “Can I finish college first?” I sass.

  “If you must.” He winks at me again before he turns back to my mother. “You know how I know? I know that boy is as gay as an Easter basket, that’s how I know. I also know that his father is in denial about it, and I know you need to open your eyes. If you want to fix junior up, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “What? When I mentioned it to Darren, he said it was a great idea.”

  “Of course, he did. Not only is he in denial, he’s a homophobe. He’s not about to use our daughter to fuel his denial. Drop it.”

  Dad doesn’t give orders often, but when he does, my mother tends to listen. Unfortunately, my mother turns the conversation back to me.

  “Forget about junior. Sherry’s nephew Glen will be there too. He’s going to medical school and his father is from Jamaica.” This time, Mom jabs dad’s ribs with her elbow. If she thought Glenn being half Jamaican would get him excited, she’s mistaken.

  “Our daughter has her own mind, woman. She can choose her own man. Is that okay with you, Ms. America?” Nickname number three. The one he uses when she gets too sassy. With that, Dad turns back to his food and Mom focuses back on me.

  “You have a dress, baby girl?” she asks. “I want you to have a good time and forget about that nonsense with that Brandon. I never thought he was right
for you.”

  She was planning our wedding six months into my relationship with Brandon, even though I told her it was not that serious. She included him in every family dinner or event until he decided he was too young to settle down. I was only the second girlfriend he ever had; he wanted some time to play around and not be stuck in a committed relationship.

  “I hope you don’t take him back, baby girl,” Mom says.

  “Of course, she’s not going to take his sorry ass back, Mona. We raised a sassy gal with self-respect. Why would she want that idiot? Our Miranda is a beauty, and she can do better than that flat-footed fool.” My father’s Jamaican accent gets thicker the more upset he gets, and lately, Brandon is a trigger. According to Nigel Moore, nobody breaks up with his baby girl. Neither of my parents realize that I was never that upset over it.

  “Thank you, Daddy.” I put my hand on top of his to calm him down. “It’s been six months, and I’m over it. I was hurt for a few days, but honestly, it’s for the best. Let’s not talk about that flat-footed fool anymore.” I smile at my father. I have no idea what a flat-footed fool is, but he’s seems satisfied with my answer.

  “I don’t know what you ever saw in that boy. I don’t know what’s wrong with the young men these days. He shows up here wearing jeans tighter than any man needs to wear. When I ask him where he’s taking you, he says you both have appointments to get manicures. What man needs a manicure? Listen to me, baby girl, if the man’s hands are softer than yours, run.”

  My mother nods in agreement, and I choke on my laughter.

  “It was a birthday gift, Daddy. You give Mom money for the nail salon all the time.” The fact that Brandon also treated himself to a pedicure is something my father never needs to know.

  “I know, but why does he need a manicure, too? And that’s right. I give your mother money, and if I’m in a really good mood, I’ll drop her off and pick her up. I don’t go with her to get my cuticles trimmed. What man does that? If I ever see that Brandon again, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands,” he says.

  “And I’ll bury the body,” my mother says.

  “You see, baby girl, teamwork. Get someone who’s willing to bury the body for you.” He kisses my cheek one more time before getting up from the table. He takes his plate and goes into the living room, probably to watch the news.

  Thankfully, my mom is silent while we finish our dinner.

  “Why don’t you go watch TV with Dad? I’ll clean up before I go downstairs.” She nods and leaves the kitchen. As soon as she’s gone, my father comes back. As I’m loading the dishes in the dishwasher, he grabs my wrist and puts something in my hand. I open my palm to find a wad of cash.

  “Get your hair done or whatever women do. You’re already perfect, so I don’t think you need anything, but I know it will make you feel good.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head.

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  CHAPTER 3

  MIRANDA

  “You look good, baby,” my mom says to me, looking me up and down. She reaches up and strokes my hair, which I have in loose curls today.

  I have a long coat covering my dress, but I feel confident tonight. I did my own hair, and I used some of the money my dad gave me to get my makeup professionally done. My mother caresses my hair as we step inside the Sheraton Boston Hotel, leaving the cold December chill behind.

  “There should be plenty of young men there tonight. Forget about Darren junior, there will be plenty of people here. Hopefully, Glen will be here, and you can meet him. I like the idea of having a doctor for a son-in-law.”

  I stop suddenly at her words, causing her to stop walking.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, annoyed. “I told you I’m not looking for a relationship right now, Mom. I want to focus on school. Maybe after I graduate, but I’m in no rush.”

  “What relationship?” She raises both hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say anything about a relationship, just that there might be someone here tonight who you might find interesting. This is a family party, after all. Just because your father abandoned us to stay at home and watch ESPN or whatever nonsense doesn’t mean other people won’t be here.”

  “He did not abandon us. He hates these kinds of things.” Dad loves nothing more than to host parties or guests at home but dragging him to a company party with strangers would be incredibly painful for him. He’d be miserable, and in the end, my mother would end up being upset at him for days for not engaging her colleagues. He’s doing them both a favor by staying home.

  I ignore her as we maneuver our way to the ballroom. Right outside is a coat check. Obviously too impatient to wait, she takes off her coat and hands it to me. “I see Joe. Come find me.” She waves at a group of people by the ballroom entrance, and they all hug. Soon, she’s disappeared from my sight, and I’m left holding both our coats. I hand them over to the young woman behind the counter and drop a couple of dollars in her tip jar.

  Suddenly self-conscious of being left alone, I look around the room before steeling my spine and walking toward the ballroom. I’d much rather be at home with Dad watching TV, but that would be too upsetting to my mother, so here I am.

  “Let’s get some drinks, Miranda,” I say to myself, but for whatever reason, I make no move to walk into the ballroom. I don’t know what it is, but I stand right outside and lean on the door, watching the people inside. They’re all people Mom has worked with most of my life, people I’ve met before, but something is keeping me from walking through the door.

  A dull ache in the pit of my stomach overtakes me as I look at the scene, and for the first time in months, I feel a sense of loneliness. I don’t have much time to think about it as I hear the vibrations of footsteps against the plush carpet. For an unknown reason, I tear myself away from the winter wonderland in front of me and look toward the door.

  My breath catches in my throat when I see a tall, broad figure in a long black wool coat crossing the room. He walks in with an air of cold disinterest. It’s as if he’d rather be anywhere else, but as if he owns the place all at once. He checks his watch, then when he looks up, our eyes meet. Blue eyes meet mine, and he holds my stare until he walks past me.

  No breath leaves my body until he walks past. I turn to watch him as he hands his coat to the coat check. His body is as gorgeous as his face. His stomach is flat, chest wide and hips narrow. The suit on his body fits so well, I know it was made specifically for that body. He looks up again and catches me looking at him. I don’t turn away, and when he misses a step, I know he’s affected.

  When he gets to the door, his body practically brushes up against mine, despite the wide entrance into the room. The smell of his cologne fills my nostrils, and I almost take a step closer to him, but he glides inside without giving me another look and walks straight to the bar.

  He’s definitely one I’ve never seen before. I know most of the people my mom works with, and none of them look like that or carry themselves like this man does.

  “Come on.” My mom is suddenly standing before me, looking at me with her brows creased, and I almost laugh. Typical Mona Moore. It’s like she has some sort of secret knowledge of my moods. Whenever she suspects I’m upset, she appears out of nowhere, ready to fix everything.

  I’m breathless and my cheeks are flushed from what just happened, but thankfully my mom is too busy talking with someone to notice.

  “How about a drink first? Let me go get one.” I point to a server in the corner of the room carrying a tray of wine. Mom waits for me as I walk to get the drinks.

  When I return, she takes her drink, we hook our arms together, and enter the ballroom, which is lavishly decorated like Santa’s Village. There’s fake snow underneath a sled with Santa seated on top. The Christmas tree is so tall, it practically touches the vaulted ceiling. Perfectly wrapped packages overflow from beneath it. There’s even a wooden train going around the room. I roll my eyes at the mistletoe hanging in the far corner of the
room, though.

  “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” my mom asks. “Joe’s here and he can’t wait to see you. Come on!” She grabs my hand and practically drags me to where Mr. Bain is standing with the help of a walker. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him, but he’s still handsome in his suit and red tie.

  “You look wonderful, Joe, and I was just telling Miranda how great you look. I keep praying for the day you come back.” She pulls back and kisses him on his bony, pale cheek, leaving her bright red lipstick on his skin.

  “Mona, we talk twice a week,” he says, patting her hand. “Nick’s been doing a great job.”

  My mother straightens. Mr. Bain offers me his hand, which, just like the man, is extremely warm.

  “Miranda, it’s been too long. Come here.” He takes me into a hug, and he smells just as I remember, like expensive cologne. “You get prettier each time I see you.” I pull away from him and feel a blush on my cheeks. “Oh, look. Nick finally pulled himself away from the bar.” He waves his hand in my direction.

  When I turn, I collide into a strong chest, and when I look up, my eyes find a familiar pair of blue irises. Nick Bain, the bane of my mother’s existence, is the same man I saw just moments ago. The man who appeared out of nowhere and carries an air of indifference. The same man who causes feelings I didn’t know I was capable of with just a look.

  In all my mother’s ramblings about the man, and there have been plenty in the past few weeks, she left out one very important detail. Nick Bain is the most gorgeous man on earth.

  CHAPTER 4

  NICK

  I hate Christmas parties, and for that matter, I hate Christmas too. All those happy people planning family dinners and finding the perfect present. It’s all a lie. No one is genuine. We only see what people allow us to see. Everyone has a mask to hide their inner ugliness. I thought we were going to build a future together and be one of those sickeningly sweet families who wear matching ugly Christmas sweaters for the annual family portrait, but that too was a lie. Thankfully, the truth was revealed before I did anything stupid.