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  “I’m not quitting.” They already had this conversation. Several times over, in fact. “I reached the end of our agreement, that’s all. I said six months, and I meant it.”

  “You still have another week or two on my clock. I could fire you for bailing early.”

  “Go ahead. I already know you’re an asshole. I’m still going to like you.”

  “Goddammit, Jonathan. Throw me a bone. How the hell am I supposed to pick your replacement?”

  “It’s not that hard, Stan. You need a shit-hot accountant who’s a decent manager, that’s all. I even put ‘must like spreadsheets’ in the job posting. I’ll exchange helping you come up with your shortlist in the New Year if you’re still good to loan me some tools.” He can spare a few hours. Helping Stan out shouldn’t take too long while he’s still ironing out the details of his own business ventures. Designing accessible outdoor spaces for seniors will fill his winter until the growing season kicks in. Then he’ll be too busy plowing through yardwork for the clients already on his wait list. “Let me know when you’re back,” he offers. “Come over, or I can always help you out remotely.”

  “What about the interviewing?” Stan asks. “You’re really going to leave all that to me?”

  “Yup. Or you could try something radical like getting HR to help out. I hear you pay a whole department with exactly the right skillset. You could delegate. I’m almost certain the world won’t end if you do.”

  The sigh Stan lets out is audible, and he grumbles. “How am I supposed to find someone like you who’ll call me on my bullshit?”

  Lately, Jon’s wondered the same thing. Half a year spent working directly for the man has been illuminating. For every great business decision Stan makes, he makes three more that are inexplicable. He’s the opposite of the textbook models Jon studied, driven by moods that are hard to predict, but Jon’s come to accept that’s likely why his business keeps on booming.

  “Stay and help me make the right decision.”

  “Nope. Decide for yourself. Or give applicants a case study to consider. Tell them about a business owner who wants to get rid of his best asset for no good reason at all. See what they do with that, and shortlist any candidates who say the owner is a damn fool.”

  Stan throws out a threat that’s empty. “You have any idea how close I am to canning you right now?”

  Jon cracks a smile that can’t be held in, nor can his peal of laughter. Quitting, getting fired, resigning—none of those words make him anxious now when he thinks about his future. His happiness is a strong vine that won’t quit climbing anytime soon, not while it’s well supported. And there’s no way he’ll prune it to fit anyone else’s agenda, not while new leaves are unfurling. They’re only waiting for spring and sunshine, like the garden outside, to reach even higher.

  Stan sounds worried at Jon’s outright laughter. “You really think there’s a future in what you’re moving on to?”

  Jon says, “Yes,” with zero hesitation. He’s more than ready to make a leap based on faith—in himself and his closest people—but he can be generous about it. “Tell you what. Why don’t you go right ahead and fire me, if that makes you feel better.”

  He settles the phone between his ear and shoulder and picks up an empty plant pot. The trowel full of compost he scoops is dark and full of promise while Stan keeps bitching and bargaining in his ear, inching closer to acceptance with every single sentence. Eventually he gets there. Stan draws in a final deep breath while Jon keeps on scooping.

  He’s about to get fired, and he knows it, but this time he’s more than ready.

  PEGGY’S LICKING frosting from a spoon when he gets in later. Tyler pretends not to notice as he plates Christmas cookies, and Jon loves them both so much in that moment that he takes a seat much more heavily than he intended.

  Of course, Tyler’s the one to notice.

  His touch is light and fleeting, just a quick curve of his palm on Jon’s face, but it’s as warm as the glance that he shares, which Jon can’t tear himself away from. Maybe they’re both too caught up—when someone knocks on the front door, it’s Peggy who gets up to answer.

  Tyler’s in his lap before the door closes behind her. “Hey,” he says before dropping a kiss on his lips that’s sweetened with powdered sugar. “What’s up?”

  Jon shakes his head. “Nothing too important. How about you?”

  “Peggy and I were talking about how much better Christmas will be this year compared to last year.”

  He’s not wrong.

  “I was lonely,” Tyler easily admits, like he’s channeling how Jon had felt in New York. “I was only over there.” He tilts his head toward the garage. “And I wasn’t on my own, but that’s how I felt with Danny. Lonely, even though we shared the same space. It’s a shitty way to feel anytime, but during the holidays?” He lifts his chin and promises, “This year will be much better.”

  They kiss for a long while until Tyler pulls away, pink cheeked and looking so hot. “I really need to clean up. Did you hear the front door close? Can you check where Peggy is?”

  Jon finds her in the foyer wrestling with the tape that seals a bulky package. “Hey.” He crouches next to where she kneels. “You opening your gifts already? You remember that it’s not Christmas day until tomorrow, don’t you?” She’s so easy to tease, her chest puffing with indignation.

  “Of course I remember, Jonathan!”

  “So what are you doing here? Trying to sneak an early peek? You don’t want all your gifts to turn to coal, do you?”

  “Jonathan! Is that what your mother told you?” Her expression shifts from surprise to sympathy in an instant. “Well I guess we all have Christmas traditions.” Her polite stance only lasts seconds. “You know she was kidding, don’t you?” It’s the second time Jon’s face is cupped in only a couple of minutes. This time it’s Peggy who curls stiff fingers and squeezes. “There’s no coal for you in Seattle. You deserve every single good thing coming your way.”

  She gets to her feet when he helps her, and acquiesces when he offers to carry the parcel to the foot of a fake tree that’s seen better decades. He doesn’t mention that it’s straggly, with some branches bent seriously out of shape in places. Other boughs look plain naked, but when she describes past holiday seasons, her face glows like she still sees all the ornaments that used to decorate it.

  “So,” she finally adds as she nudges the package he set down. “Yes I do know that it isn’t Christmas until tomorrow, but when I was a girl we….” She hesitates before straightening her back. “My sister and I were allowed a little something on Christmas Eve if we were good. It made waiting for morning so much easier.” She lifts her chin in a way that’s too familiar to deal with.

  Tyler speaks from the doorway. “We’re exchanging Christmas gifts early?” He sits next to Peggy and rubs his hands like he’s excited. “Hit me with it, Jon. Don’t hold back on the good stuff. I know you went all out.”

  It’s easier to pretend to search through the stack of packages under the tree rather than make eye contact with him right then, like it’s easier to slide a small giftwrapped box into his pocket rather than hand it over.

  It’s not a gift he wants to share in public.

  He plucks another at random. “Here. I hope you like coal.”

  Tyler grins and catches what Jon tosses his way. “Hey,” he says after reading the tag. “It’s for both of us, from Eric.” The present he tears into contains a tree ornament. Lady Liberty’s beacon twinkles brightly as he attaches it to a bare branch. “Listen.” He reads from an attached card. “‘Happy holidays from New York! Bettman & Company’s fast-track program is the best! Next stop’s a corner office!’” He smiles and then adds, “‘P.S. Tell Jon that Hiroto says, Hey.’” He narrows his eyes. “Sounds like he’s having a good time. Have to admit I’m still surprised you fixed up a spot for him there. The way you described it, it sounded like a nightmare.”

  “It was for me.” It really was. “Eric
will thrive there.” It was that certainty that had prompted him to beg one last favor of Sharon Weiss before he quit. “It’s a temporary assignment, not forever, and he won’t be affected the same way by all the backbiting that got to me. None of that corporate crap will faze him one bit, because he won’t even notice.”

  Tyler returns to his seat and asks Peggy if she’s been a good girl this year.

  “No.” She sounds far too happy about that. “I’ve been terrible. So don’t give me my gift yet.” She squirms in her seat when she points out a bulky present wrapped in festive paper. “Give Jonathan that one instead.” She covers her mouth like she can hardly hold back her excitement.

  “Jeez, Peg,” Jon teases her as he takes it. “If you’re giddy like this over one gift, what’re you going to be like tomorr—?” He can’t continue speaking when he unwraps the quilt his mother labored over, complete now, and edged with deep blue silky ribbon. Each tear in its fabric is repaired with the tiniest of stitches, like the ones fixing each piece to its next-door neighbor. It’s a symbol of hours of work by the two women in his life that he should give thanks for, but a hoarse sounding, “Peggy,” is about all he can manage.

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

  It could be a solemn moment, one that could transport him someplace unhappy, but there’s no chance of that when she claps her hands and demands her turn. She picks the largest gift. Tyler helps her open it, sifting through packing peanuts until he finds what they’re protecting. She raises a hand to her mouth once she sees what he holds.

  “Write down the date and time, Jon,” Tyler jokes, only his voice is shaky. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Peggy speechless.”

  Why he’s affected is clear when Peggy lifts ornaments that gleam green and gold and scarlet. They’re blown from extraordinarily thin glass that’s beautiful and fragile. “Oh, Lorna,” she eventually murmurs, cupping each one in the palm of her hand before directing its placement.

  “There,” she says, over and over. “And there,” as Tyler reaches high to hang the last one.

  When she sits back and says, “Perfect!” Jon can’t help agreeing.

  LATER, JON’S back in the garage when Tyler comes to find him. He fills pots at the table, a space heater taking the edge off the cold, but it’s still chilly down there. Tyler shivers when he hugs Jon from behind, his hands stealing under his layers.

  “You want to borrow my jacket?”

  “Nope. I just want your body.” Tyler snuggles closer. “Your body heat, I mean.”

  “Help yourself.” Jon can be generous. “I wouldn’t say no to a hand job, if you’re offering.” He raises his arms as Tyler gropes him. “Only it’s too cold to get my dick out, so you’ll have to stick your hands down my pants.”

  “Rude.” He can hear Tyler’s smile. “I only wanted to warm up my hands.” He shoves icy fingers deep into Jon’s pants pockets and then pulls out the small box he finds there. Maybe it isn’t the chill in the air that makes Tyler’s voice shake when he says, “Hey, what’s this?”

  Jon turns when Tyler pulls away from his back. “It’s yours. Unless you know anyone else around here who deserves a real small piece of gift-wrapped coal.” For once, Tyler’s smile is absent, prompting Jon’s next offer. “You want to open it now?”

  “That depends.” His swallow is audible as he traces the box’s giftwrap and the bow of dark green garden twine that ties it neatly. “Did you really wrap a gift for me with a page from a seed catalog?”

  “Seemed a waste to use the good stuff on something that cost me nothing.” He’d tease some more, but Tyler’s serious for once, focused intently on the small box. “Go ahead. You don’t need to wait for tomorrow. Open it right now, if you want.”

  Tyler takes his time, like he’s stretching out each moment for as long as he can. He slowly unties the twine before laying it carefully on the table. Then the paper Jon used to wrap his gift gets the same close attention. Each crease is painstakingly unfolded when Jon would much rather he ripped it off instead.

  “Jon….” What Tyler unwraps is borrowed from Peggy’s dressing table, meant to hold something tiny, but sitting in his palm, it simply looks like what it is—a black velvet ring box.

  Jon takes it back before Tyler can freak out like his wide-eyed expression suggests. “Here,” he quickly says, and pats the surface of the potting table. “Hop up for a minute.” He pushes between Tyler’s legs as soon as he’s situated, and says, “It’s not exactly what you think.”

  “No?” Tyler wets his lips like they’re dry. “You a mind reader now, Jon?”

  “No. I just mean….” He closes his eyes, wishing he’d thought this whole thing through. Then he opens them and says, “Hold out a hand for me, will you?”

  “You asking for my hand, Jon?” Tyler’s tone is breathless. “Is that where you’re heading with this? We’ve been together six months. You don’t think it’s too soo—”

  “Look.” Jon fumbles with the tiny hook and eye fastening the box. When he finally gets it open, its interior is speckled with seeds of different sizes. He tips them into Tyler’s palm before separating some with the tip of his finger. “See these?” His quick glance lowers fast when he spies Tyler’s deep frown. “They’re columbines. They need to be sown in spring. I looked that up online, and I found out they’re perennials.” This time when he looks up, that frown line is fainter. “That means they’ll flower next year, if we take good care of them for twelve months.”

  “Twelve months?”

  Jon races on with his explanation. “I saved these seeds from the garden. Thought you might like to plant some of your own if I helped you with them.” He nods toward the filled plant pots. “You don’t even have to get your hands dirty. I have everything ready for you.”

  “Jon—”

  “And these seeds…” Jon touches a couple that are a different shape and shade of brown. “These are peonies. Look.” He fishes out his phone and searches for an image in his photo album. The posy he made for Peggy during his first week in Seattle fills the screen. “See the big one in the center with tons of petals? That’s a peony, and those are columbines all around it.”

  “Oh.” Tyler’s wistful. “I really loved those.”

  “I remember.” Jon has to clear his throat before continuing, so unsure right now that he can’t make himself look up. “Most times peonies grow from rootstock, but you can grow them from seed, if you’re patient. Here’s the thing about them; you have to give them time—lots of time—for them to take hold from seed. It takes at least two years for them to blossom. Sometimes a whole lot longer.” He clears his throat again. “So growing them takes commitment. You have to be sure you’ll be around for that long at least, if you’re going to try to cultivate them.”

  This time when he raises his head, the faint smile that indents the corner of Tyler’s mouth is the one he likes best.

  “Two years, Jon?”

  “Yeah. At least. Likely a whole lot longer.”

  “You sure you want me in your garden for that long?”

  “So sure.” He goes ahead and commits. “I’ll want even longer.”

  Tyler doesn’t answer right then. He takes his time tipping the seeds back into the box, careful not to lose a single one, like they’re worth more than rubies. Then he closes the lid with a firm click. Jon can’t step back when Tyler hooks both feet behind his knees and picks up the twine his gift was tied with. He doesn’t lessen his grip as he knots it around the fourth finger of Jon’s left hand. He just says, “You’re such an asshole, Jonathan. This is how you propose,” and then kisses him like he agrees, slow and deep and perfect.

  Plant pots scatter when Tyler pulls him even closer. It doesn’t matter that compost falls to the floor as Jon kisses him back. Winter will last for a few more months, and he’ll have all the time in the world to sweep up. So for now he doesn’t let go of this man who loves him.

  There’s no need to hurry.

  Spring will come regardles
s, and he can’t wait to see what comes up.

  The End.

  About the Author

  Con Riley lives on the wild and rugged Devonshire coast, with her head in the clouds, and her feet in the Atlantic Ocean.

  Injury curtailed her enjoyment of outdoor pursuits, so writing fiction now fills her free time. Love, loss, and redemption shape her romance stories, and her characters are flawed in ways that makes them live and breathe.

  When not people watching, or wrangling her own boy band of teen sons, she spends time staring at the sea from her kitchen window. If you see her, don't disturb her—she’s probably thinking up new plots.

  Connect with Con Riley

  www.conriley.com

  Twitter

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  Email: [email protected]

  Also by Con Riley

  The Seattle Series

  After Ben

  Saving Sean

  Aiden’s Luck

  The Salvage Series

  Salvage

  Recovery

  Standalone Novels

  True Brit

  True Brit

  Buy True Brit on Amazon

  Winning the United Kingdom’s favorite singing contest is a challenge for half-Afghani Pasha Trueman. He doesn’t have the best voice, but success would be life-changing. His strategy is simple—he’ll make the British public love him.

  Ed Britten is an ex-soldier with a different agenda. Winning means he’ll keep a promise made after a deadly Afghan ambush. His voice is his weapon, but he leaves his heart unguarded.

  Ed and Pasha’s discovery that the contest isn’t a fair fight calls for creative tactics. Staging a fake love story could bring victory, only there’s more at stake than the prestigious first prize. If winning means surrendering each other, they could both end up losing.