Candy Christmas Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Pre-Order Something Just Like This

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  About the Author

  Pre-Order Something Just Like This

  Candy Christmas

  Tracy Krimmer

  A new novel from Tracy Krimmer

  Coming February 14, 2018

  Something Just Like This

  by Tracy Krimmer

  Pre-order by clicking here.

  Love? Second chances? That crap is for romantics, not realists like Juliette. She has a bad attitude about love and an even worse one when it comes to second chances. And she may dress like an elf for a few weeks out of the year, but that doesn’t mean she loves Christmas.

  Stability? Purpose? Landon is surfing a pleasant wave of both until he’s fired. Devastating news from his sister certainly doesn’t help. At least he has the holidays to look forward to.

  When Landon shows up at the mall and Juliette prevents a disaster, he can’t stop thinking about that sweet elf. Juliette doesn’t believe in the spirit of Christmas, but she can’t help but wonder why Landon was in her line that day. Could Landon deserve one of those second chances she’s so unwilling to give?

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  Chapter One

  “I hate parties!” I tug at my sweater trying to cover my backside. If I had time to do my laundry I'd be standing here in the comfort of my jeans. Instead I'm accenting every unflattering curve with my yoga pants as an insane number of people flood my apartment.

  “You never go to any.”

  I roll my eyes at my best friend Lexy, Captain Obvious over here. “That’s because I hate them!” Yet here I am, in my own apartment, hosting one. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

  I didn't want to invite my entire department to my home. Technically, I didn’t. Lexy handled all of it—the invites, the Secret Santa exchange. All I had to do was buy an ugly sweater and some beer. I purchased the alcohol but knit myself up the ugliest sweater in the world. If I'm going to do this I might as well try to have fun with it.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to socialize.” That’s why I work in data entry. I input numbers into spreadsheets all day. Sure, it may sound boring to some, but this gives me the least interaction with people needed. One on one I’m okay, most times, but put me in a situation where I’m faced with maintaining a conversation with more than one person and I’m a bumbling idiot.

  “Come on,” Lexy pulls at my arm and forces me around the room. “Mingling is required.”

  “No, it’s not.” I should check the thermostat. It must be a hundred degrees in here. I’m sure I have the armpit stains to prove it. “Is everybody here?” Since she handled everything I don’t even know exactly how many people are coming. I believe she said she invited 45 people. Forty-five! I didn't even think that many people worked with us. How on earth she expected me to fit that many people in my apartment to begin with is beyond me.

  Lexy scans the room, pointing her finger at people as she does a headcount. “I think almost everybody is here. We’re missing maybe one person.”

  I’m about to ask who it is when a crash from the kitchen distracts me. “I’ll be right back.” Now these people are destroying my apartment!

  I race into the kitchen to find my coworker Jeff standing next to the counter with his hands up in the air, a plate shattered into pieces at his feet.

  “How?”

  He reaches his hand over and grabs a pickle from the entrée tray. As he bites, he shrugs as though the plate jumped off the counter by itself and smashed onto the floor. “It just happened.” He takes another bite and I cringe a little more, my annoyed meter climbing from a five to an eight. “Sorry.” The almost six-foot man dressed in a dark green shirt that says “This is my Christmas sweater” doesn’t even bother to close his mouth while chewing.

  I sigh and get my broom from the closet. “Careful. Step around. I’ve got this.”

  “Thanks, Candybar, you’re the best.”

  I despise when people call me Candybar, and they do all the time as though it’s their given right and it’s my birth name. No, Candy is my birth name. Not Candace, Cadence, or Candybar. Candy. My name isn’t something I hate, but I do find moments like these especially irritating. I respond with a half smile as he carefully steps around the mess and joins the rest of the guests in the living room.

  Five minutes later I’ve swept everything up and run a mop through the area. I hope I got all the glass because with my luck one of my guests will slice their foot and I’ll be paying a hospital bill.

  “Are you about done?” Lexy sneaks up on me, and I almost jump out of my own skin.

  “Yeah. Let me put this away.” I’m slow putting the broom back in the closet. The longer I take the less chance there is to speak with people. Avoidance. I do it often. “Why did agree I to this?”

  “Because you love me and I can’t fit this many people in my one-bedroom apartment.”

  “So because my apartment is bigger I have to suffer?”

  “This is hardly suffering. Look around, Candy.” She’s quiet long enough for me to scan the room and glance at the mix of males and females chatting, some dancing to the music. “These people are having fun. They don’t care that you walked around the office with half your skirt up your pants for most of the day last month or that you started eating Bob’s retirement cake before we even showed it to him.”

  “Gee, thanks.” The list of my mishaps goes on for pages. I could probably write a novel about them, one of those chick lit books where the heroine is a total klutz. I don’t consider myself clumsy as much as socially challenged, and I think fate plays dirty tricks on me.

  “Why are you fighting this party so much? Enjoy yourself.”

  If only it were that simple. She’s a social butterfly. She’s the moth and parties are her flame. Everyone I come in contact with has some sort of social game or can at least function at a gathering without either breaking into an anxiety attack or making a fool of themselves. Me? I avoid parties and all things that involve a ton of people. I plan my grocery shopping trips around the quiet hours. The self-checkout line is perfect for me because the only conversation I’m having is to yell at the machine when it doesn’t work. When it comes to social circles, Lexy is pretty much it. If I’m not out with her or at work, I stay in my apartment. My knitting keeps me busy enough, and I manage to sell a decent amount through my online store, Candy’s Creative Knits. Why force myself into public if I don’t need to be there?

  “I don’t like being thrown into a conversation where I’m forced to care what the other person is talking about.” And I’m sure they think the same about me. I spend most of my time in discussions trying to think of what to say next so a lot of the time I don’t even remember what we’ve discussed.

  “Whoa, so do you only pretend to care whenever we’re having a conversation?”

  “No. You’re different. We’re friends.”

  “And all these people could be too if you talked to them instead of avoiding them.”

  My eyes widen as I pour a glass of beer. “No, thank you. Socializing isn’t for me.” Who came up with this idea people need more than one good friend? I surround myself with people I love—Lexy and my mom—and that’s enough. I don’t want to be part of a popularity contest. Quality over quantity, and with those two, I hit the jackpot.

  Lexy mumbles something I’m sure is related to dating, as most of her complaints about me relate to the subject. I think she’s complaining, anyway, when she says she’s pointing out the obvious. “What did you say?”

  “I said it’s no wonder you’re single.”

/>   “Shh. Do you think you could say that any louder?” And humiliate me any more? Do I want to be single? Well, that depends on the day. There are some things a best friend or a mom can’t do for you that a significant other can. You know, besides the obvious. I do want the comfort of someone to tell all my troubles to, someone who can hold me when I’m sad, or to wipe my tears when I’m watching Love Actually for the hundredth time.

  “Sure. It’s a wonder you’re single!” Lexy raises her voice and a few heads spin our way. I slap her on the arm, and I’m certain my heart is about to explode it’s pumping so fast. The only thing that can possibly make this any more embarrassing is when Jeremy Dillon opens my apartment door and strolls in.

  Chapter Two

  "What in the world is Jeremy Dillon doing here? He doesn't even work in our department." He might as well as often as he’s by my desk. He’s not to blame, though. And neither am I if my computer breaks down every other minute. Maybe instead of investing in Friday lunch spreads my manager could budget for new computers. Who am I kidding? I’m the main one with this problem, and the youngest in the group. I can't even represent my own generation correctly.

  "You like that?" She winks and bumps her shoulder with mine. When I don’t respond, she pinches me on my back where my neck is exposed.

  “Ow! What was that for?" I rub the back of my neck and secretly plan my revenge. Maybe break a heel or stick a sign on her back. Nah. I’m not that malicious. Maybe I’ll put post-it notes all over her computer screen or something. I'd rather be annoying than vengeful.

  "You're not dreaming. He's here."

  "I know he's here. I can see that. But why is he here? I thought this was for our department only.” Jeremy’s the IT guy, and even when he’s not at my desk, I often run into him in the halls. I’ll admit, but never to Lexy, at times I seek him out. An unnecessary bathroom break becomes urgent when I spot him walking toward the department. I never talk to him but I’m sure to smile and wave. That’s the best way to ensure I don’t make a fool of myself.

  She pours another beer. "Here. Bring him this."

  I set the mug on the counter. “No. You invited him. You bring it to him." What would I even say to him? The only conversations we really have center around my computer. I’ve never spoken with him on his territory, either. I’ve passed his desk before, and from his pictures I gather he has two brothers and either him or someone in his family has a Basset Hound. He collects Bobbleheads and reads tech magazines. That’s the extent of my Jeremy knowledge.

  "Now is that any way to greet your guests?"

  "If I recall, you’re the one who’s throwing this party, not me. Just because everyone is physically in my apartment doesn't mean I need to greet everyone. You didn't make me say hello to anyone else.”

  "You don't have the hots for anybody else. And I don't make you do anything.”

  I punch her in the arm. "I do not have the hots for him." At least she didn’t say that too loud. And whether she thinks so or not, she pushes me to do a lot of things.

  "You most certainly do. You're telling me you have that many issues on your computer on a weekly basis?"

  "Yes, I do." I tell her matter-of-factly, and I’m not exaggerating. My email messes up or a program doesn’t respond at least every other day. Technology and I are not a good match. I have an Instagram and Facebook account but I might as well still be on MySpace. Most of my peers use Snapchat and I'll admit I’m not one hundred percent sure what the app is. Knitting, teacups, and a worn paperback book are my favorite things in the world. Simplicity. I'm all about simplicity.

  "Well, I don't believe you." She looks past me. "Jeremy!"

  I want to punch her in the arm again, but I’m sure at this point she's probably bruising, and I don't want Jeremy to witness me doing that. He looks this way, and I stare down at my beer, my reflection in the light lager. If I don't make eye contact, maybe he won't come over.

  No such luck.

  "Hey Lexy.” He acknowledges her quickly before turning his attention to me. “Candy, nice apartment."

  I nod my head and I'm sure the sweat has moved from my armpits to underneath my boobs. Don't make eye contact. Don't make eye contact.

  "Where should I put this?"

  He’s holding a small box wrapped in Peanuts Christmas paper. "Over by the tree." I point to my sorry excuse for a Christmas tree that stands five feet tall, has a burned out string of lights, and more knit ornaments than any human being should ever be allowed to own.

  Jeremy lifts the box up and waves it towards me as a thank you before exiting the conversation.

  "I can't believe you did that."

  "Well, I did. You never go out on any dates because you think the universe has something against you and everyone around you thinks negatively about you. Strip yourself of that fear. Go for it."

  This is why she’s my best friend. I’ve never said words like this out loud to her before, but yet, she reads me like an open book. “I don’t know what to say. I’ll make a fool of myself.” Which is exactly why I keep to myself. I'm like a one-woman comedy show when I speak to people.

  “Aha! So you do like him.”

  What’s not to like? Jeremy may be the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. Not to mention the smartest. I’m not a total idiot when it comes to computers, but I’m in the range. He’s good looking, too. Between the curls on top his head or his glasses, I can’t decide what turns me on more, but I’ve fantasized about him more than once.

  “Candy, you’re blushing.”

  “What?” I touch my cheeks and the heat transfers to my hand. “Sorry. But tell me what to say to him.”

  “How about hello? How is your day going? Would you like to go out with me?”

  “What? I’m not asking him out.” The simple act of exchanging more than twenty words outside of work takes enough effort. I'm not throwing a date into the mix.

  “Fine, but do something, because here he comes.”

  Lexy pats me on the shoulder, and as Jeremy approaches she walks away, leaving me alone, surrounded by my discomfort and anxiety and the sweat that’s now dripping down my back. This sweater is so hot.

  With Lexy out of earshot, she can’t save this conversation if it goes downhill, which I am more than positive will happen. I need an out. Is there anything I can do? Anywhere I can go? I'll rush to the bathroom and lock myself there all night.

  “So, do you have another beer?” Jeremy’s voice echoes through my ears as I’m planning my escape. He points to my mug, and I realize I’m being an impolite hostess. Bumbling idiot or jerk hostess—I'm not sure which is worse.

  “Sorry. Sorry.” I turn around to grab a beer from the refrigerator but don’t want to leave him standing there so I turn around again. I flip flop so many times I probably could pass for a fish flopping around on a pier. He pulls his brows together and the corners of his lips turn up. Oh God, he thinks I'm crazy. A lunatic. I point to the fridge, which in itself proves my lunacy, and when I finally take a step forward, he follows.

  My hands shake as I pour the beer into a tall glass, though I’m not sure he’s noticed. I’m focused on his sweater, which is bright red donning Rudolph’s face and big nose, his antlers crawling up his shoulders. “I like your sweater.”

  Really? I like your sweater. As if anyone seriously likes any of these sweaters. I couldn’t have said anything dumber.

  “It's cute.” Someone please make me shut up. The next thing I'll be doing is asking him if the material is 100% acrylic and if it makes his chest itch. Just. Shut. Up.

  “If you like it now, just wait.” He reaches under his shirt. What’s he going to do? Take it off? Did I mention the chest thing out loud? It wouldn't be the first time I've done something so asinine.

  While I'm busy having my panic attack, Rudolph’s nose lights up and flashes. “Don’t you love it more now?” I can't take my eyes off the lights. It's like I'm in a disco.

  “Now that's corny.”

  Where in the world is L
exy? I'm digging myself a hole here. I insulted him. I couldn't laugh, or even just say it's funny. No. I had to tell him it's corny.

  “It reminds me a bit of ET.” I quickly recover, something I'm not able to do often. “Mine doesn’t do anything special. It’s just ugly.”

  “Well, then, it’s a good thing you’re not.”

  Wait, what did he just say? He paid my insult back with a compliment? I’m thankful the music is so loud because he may have otherwise heard me gasp. My pulse is pounding between my ears and the once-loud music seems to be in a distance. I have to say something. Anything. Thank you. You're pretty, too. No. Say something. “I made it.”

  What? I made it? Why on earth would I admit to that? I wait for his reaction in the form of horror on his face but it doesn’t come.

  “Wow. That’s pretty impressive.”

  “Impressive? It’s an ugly sweater. I didn’t have to do too much to make it ugly.”

  “Maybe not but I’m sure you put a lot of hard work into it.”

  “I like when it’s hard.”

  Jeremy spits his drink back into his cup.

  Oh my gosh, what did I say? I’m an idiot. “I mean, not when it’s hard. I mean, of course when it’s … I mean no … I mean I knit a lot and I don’t knit easy patterns. I enjoy the more difficult ones.”

  And this is why I don’t talk to people. My foot is so far in my mouth right now I’m choking.

  “Ah, thanks for the explanation.”

  “Do you want another drink?” I can’t let him drink out of that cup again. Sure, it's his spit, but that's still gross.

  “Sure. Pour away.”

  I take his glass and dump the lager down the drain. Before I pour a new one I’m sure to wash out the glass. “Here you go.” Our fingers touch for a split second when he takes it from me.

  “You’re a wonderful hostess.” I refrain from pointing out I didn't plan on talking to him and that I'd rather be locked in the bathroom. “You went all out with the decor.”