Wreck the Halls

“Where is your father?” she asked.

“He waits until the fanfare dies down and then he slips in through the side door, holding a brandy snifter and wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater he can find.”

“You’re joking. Does your mother hate it?”

“On the contrary. She loves it.”

Melody gasped. “Why?”

Beat shrugged. “He lets her shine.”

Whoa. His voice came very close to catching on that last word. It wasn’t unusual for him to talk about the love he had for his parents. But their happiness wasn’t usually hanging in the balance. Or resting on his shoulders, as it were, along with the truth that could destroy them as a family.

As if on cue, his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Of course, it could be his friends watching the live stream and wanting to pepper him with questions, which would only be natural. Intuition told Beat his blackmailer was calling, though. He always seemed to find the most inopportune moments to take a swing at him—and this would definitely be one of them—the gala benefiting the charity he and his parents put so much work and love into.

“Hey, Beat!” called a familiar voice as they passed on the dance floor.

He tore his eyes off Melody and waved at Ursula Paige, an up-and-coming opera singer and one of their past scholarship recipients. “Ursula.” He nodded, quickly shaking hands with the performer’s date. “Happy Holidays. Nice to see you both.”

“I would say it’s nice to see you, too, but . . .” Ursula pulled out her phone and shook it around a little. “I’ve been seeing you. All over the damn place.”

“Right.” Beat breathed a laugh, settled a hand on Melody’s back. “Then I guess you’ve met my . . .” His what? The sentence trailed off into silence, three sets of ears waiting for him to finish. His friend? His costar? His . . . what? “My Melody,” he said, trying to laugh off the blunder.

No one said anything for long, torturous seconds. Melody looked down at her dress.

Beat stared at an escaped strand of hair by her cheek, wondering if he should tuck it behind her ear for her.

Ursula elbowed her date hard in the ribs. “No offense, but we’re going to stop talking to you now, so we can keep watching you.”

“What are: phrases that sum up 2023,” Melody mumbled, answering in Jeopardy! format. And tucking that strand of hair back on her own. Damn.

Ursula and her date laughed, high-fiving Melody. “Oh my God, Melody. The internet is so right to be in love with you. You’re hilarious.”

Melody’s nose wrinkled. “The internet what?”

The pair only laughed harder.

Beat and Melody exchanged a lost expression, but there was an odd gurgle in Beat’s stomach. Was the internet falling in love with Melody? Of course it was. And he didn’t have any right to feel the sharp prickle of possessiveness, but there it was. He liked the world having access to her even less than he’d been expecting, which wasn’t fair. He didn’t have any claim on Melody, despite what every fiber of his being seemed intent on telling him.

“Don’t worry, Beat. There are already several campaigns underway on your behalf.” Ursula thumbed through her phone. “One to make you the next James Bond and another to elect you as president of this puss—” She snapped her mouth shut. “Sorry, I should have read that one all the way through before saying it out loud.”

Melody snorted. “I’m so glad you didn’t.”

Beat felt the urge to smile. Even as the phone continued to buzz relentlessly in his pocket. “Would I secure your vote as the next president of pussy?” he asked Melody.

“Your name is Beat.” She gave an exaggerated wink. “You’re a natural fit.”

A laugh cracked in his throat. “Your mind is a dumpster. I had no idea.”

Melody pointed at Ursula. “She’s obviously a bad influence.”

“Okay, sorry, we are so going on a double date,” Ursula decided. “When this reality show is over, obviously.”

“Oh, we’re not . . .” Melody started, making a rapid gesture between them.

Help her out. Why didn’t he want to? “We’re . . .” What? “Friends.”

That word tasted like expired pastrami in his mouth.

“Right,” Melody agreed, her smile serene. “Friends.”

The expired pastrami turned to dust.

“Uh-huh.” Ursula’s dude spoke for the first time, his demeanor clearly skeptical. “We’ll see you soon for that double date.”

When the couple walked away, Beat and Melody snuck each other sidelong glances.

After a few tense seconds, she laughed. “Can you imagine if the relationship our mothers manifested by giving us these names actually came to fruition? They would need to be sedated.”

Beat said, “That’s one way to guarantee a reunion—a wedding.”

She laughed. Because he was so clearly joking.

Was this bow tie extra tight, or what?

A waiter stopped in front of them and Beat plucked a glass off the silver tray, handing it to Melody, since he was still holding a full glass of now piss-warm champagne. As soon as the waiter departed again, she held up her flute. “I just want you to know that I’m glad we’re friends.” He followed the progress of her blush, all the way to the tips of her ears. “I’m content with friendship. Okay? I hope . . . all this crush stuff won’t make things weird. Is there a chance that maybe you could forget you ever found out?”

He thought about it. He really did.

Whether or not he could put on blinders and pretend Melody wasn’t attracted to him . . . well, he decided that if a man could forget that this woman felt anything for him, that man would be a waste of a human being. Still, he didn’t want her to be embarrassed around him. He wanted her to be comfortable.

“What crush?” he said, resisting the urge to rub at his windpipe.

Melody blinked several times, attempted a smile, then gave up and ducked her head. Shit. Had he been too flippant?

“Mr. Dawkins!” A frazzled young man in a headset skidded to a stop between Beat and Melody. “I’m Lee. Assistant to the party planner. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Here I am, Lee,” he murmured, still watching Melody closely. “What’s up?”

“Your mother has decided to do the wish ceremony early this year.”

Beat reared back slightly. “When did she do that?”

“Eight minutes and thirty seconds ago,” panted Lee. “Would you come with me? We have lighting and audio on standby.”

“Sure.” Over Lee’s shoulder, he mouthed Be right back at Melody.

Melody saluted him. “You’ve got a very brief window before I track down the shrimp.”

He pointed at her. “As long as you wait for me to eat dessert.”

“I’ll prawn-der it.”

How was it possible to be having fun in this moment? The phone in his pocket still buzzed periodically, reminding Beat he was being blackmailed, he was minutes from formally requesting a Steel Birds reunion on camera, and he was still worried he’d been too dismissive of Melody’s feelings for him. Yet here he stood, chuckling over shrimp puns.

“Mr. Dawkins, we really need to move.”