A Holiday Crush Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By CJane Elliott

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  A Holiday Crush

  By CJane Elliott

  San Francisco lawyer Brad Halberstam is in a rut. At forty-one, he’s successful but alone. Even his holidays are predictable—he spends every Christmas golfing in Napa with his ex-boyfriend. Then attractive but oh-so-young filmmaker Michael Blair invites him out. Brad joins Michael and his housemates in their holiday celebrations and learns that life can be joyful. He hesitates to saddle Michael with a much-older boyfriend but as their attraction ignites, Brad’s tempted to let Michael sweep him into a bright new future.

  Michael lives in a group house in Berkeley. He loves making life into a celebration, especially during the holidays. Michael longs for a partner, and he hopes serious but sweet Brad Halberstam is the one. Michael’s infatuation grows over caroling and cookies, but his housemate reminds him that Michael always latches on to someone during the holidays, so he won’t be alone. After a misunderstanding, Michael loses heart, no longer sure if his relationship with Brad is real or just another Christmas crush.

  Chapter One

  December 2017

  BRAD HALBERSTAM stepped out of the Transamerica Pyramid building and shivered as the ever-present wind off the San Francisco Bay lifted the bottom of his trench coat. Ignoring the urge to pull the coat tighter, he concentrated on crossing Montgomery Street without getting flattened. He was tired. Too tired to feel one shred of celebration that Fortuna & Barnhart had finally forced the other side to settle. Way too tired to go out drinking at that depressing club the partners belonged to, even though it was tradition for the law team to toast their wins, sometimes accompanied by their happy clients. Brad had made his excuses and escaped into the evening. He had a bottle of Scotch and a good book waiting for him at home.

  Going home rather than to the club didn’t bother Brad, but he could do without the pervasive sense of weariness. If this was what being in his forties felt like, Brad didn’t even want to contemplate his fifties. Dave got impatient when Brad talked about getting older. But Dave was a go-getter hotshot who worked incessantly and had already been made a junior partner in the firm. The thought of Dave—his on-again, off-again, mostly friend but sometimes lover—made Brad sigh. Getting to his forties was bad enough, but to have arrived there without the life companion he’d expected to have was…. Stop it, he ordered. He was spending a week with Dave and the rest of the guys on their annual Christmas trip soon, so Brad needed to talk himself into a better frame of mind.

  Turning right on Clay Street, Brad’s pace slowed at the sight of Conrad’s a few doors away. Conrad’s was an unassuming bar for San Francisco—a neighborhood place too rundown for the likes of most Fortuna & Barnhart lawyers. Although a lively mix of voices and music wafted from the entrance, Brad’s interest in the place wasn’t about wanting talk or music.

  Conrad’s was the bar Michael Blair frequented after work. Michael, the extremely attractive—but way too young—freelance videographer who’d filmed the depositions, and who Brad wouldn’t see anymore now that the case was settled. Brad hadn’t stalked him or anything to find out that he liked the bar; it was on Brad’s route to the bus stop, and he’d seen Michael and his friends duck into it more than once on his way home.

  A sharp rap startled Brad out of his thoughts. Michael stood at the window, a wide smile on his face, beckoning to him to come in. During the depositions, it would have been an automatic no. Brad was always careful not to give the other side any ammunition to cry “Bias!”—and as farfetched as it seemed, even befriending the deposition videographer could have been construed as such. He’d had to reluctantly decline Michael’s friendly overture to share a sandwich a few days after depositions had started, despite Michael’s slender, dark looks pushing all of Brad’s buttons. Resisting Michael’s attractiveness had been made easier by the fact that he appeared to be all of twenty-three and Brad wasn’t about to start something with a mere child. In fact, Michael’s invitation to lunch had surprised the hell out of him. Maybe the kid had a daddy thing.

  Now, though…. Brad checked his watch, another anachronism that set him apart from Michael and his fellow millennials. Nine p.m.—that was pretty early, even for him. But when he glanced up again, Michael was no longer in the window. Brad hesitated, then passed the bar with a vague sense of relief. Just as well. He didn’t need to tempt himself with something that would never—

  “Brad!”

  He turned. “Oh. Hi.”

  Michael stood on the sidewalk, half-frowning, and Brad’s cheeks grew warm. Michael was so ridiculously handsome.

  “Why’d you walk by? Come in! We need to celebrate your win!”

  “Oh. Uh….” Brad automatically consulted his watch again, then cringed at himself. “Sure.”

  Michael’s grin was practically blinding. “Awesome! I can’t wait to introduce you to my friends.” He held out his hand with a flirtatious eyebrow lift.

  Brad took it, ears ringing, feeling like life had suddenly gone off his carefully ordered rails. Which was probably a good thing.

  MICHAEL WALKED back into Conrad’s holding Brad’s hand. Score! Wait till Jordan saw this! Michael had finally bagged the guy he’d been obsessed with since the first day of depositions a month and a half ago. Bagged? he heard Jordan say in his mind. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Michael. But here he was! Brad! Who’d just dropped Michael’s hand like a hot potato. Oh, well. Baby steps.

  As he led the way back to the booth, Michael wondered how Jordan and Tomer would see Brad. To Michael, Brad was beautiful. He had that sandy hair and fair coloring that announced he had probably been a redhead when he was young. His blue eyes were amazing. He wasn’t too tall and wasn’t too short and had nice shoulders. And when he did smile, which was rare, he lit up the room.

  But what had hooked Michael was Brad’s intelligence and calm demeanor. Unlike so many lawyers Michael had observed, Brad didn’t rant or insult the opposition to make his point. He simply stated his case, in his precise and articulate way, and had this incredible persistence, wearing the opposition down until they finally caved. Brad was brilliant but didn’t have one iota of arrogance. All he needed was some fun. He was far too serious, in Michael’s opinion, and he worked too hard. Michael was thrilled to be coming to the rescue tonight—and hopefully many nights thereafter.

  Michael was also thrilled for another reason. People knew him as outgoing, the life of any party. But Michael was actually shy about pursuing people. Flushed with his victory, Michael chatted away as they walked through the bar, and Brad responded with a few words. Poor guy looked positively spooked, so Michael tried his best to put him at ease.

  “Were you heading home?”

  “Yes.”

  Okay. “I heard Cass talk about going out to some club.”

  “That’s the tradition when we win a case. But I wasn’t up for it tonight.”

  “I’m glad I saw you walk by, then. You need to celebrate!”

  They reached the table, where Jordan and Tomer looked deep in some debate. Not politics, Michael hoped. Things often took an ugly turn when Tomer’s passion for anarchism clashed with Jordan’s socialism. One thing everyone in the house could agree with was hating the current gang in the White House with every fiber of their being. They often went as a group to whatever protest rally was happening in a
given week.

  Michael cast a worried glance at Brad in his suit and tie. He’d never thought about Brad’s politics. A lot of rich lawyers were Republicans. Oh God, please not Brad. I like him too much for that. Luckily Michael caught Jordan’s sardonic eye and remembered he wasn’t supposed to be getting ahead of himself.

  “Hey, guys, this is Brad. He’s a lawyer, but don’t hold that against him.”

  “Hello.” Brad nodded to Tomer and Jordan, then dropped into the seat next to Michael’s.

  Jordan nodded back. “Hi, there. I’m Jordan, and this is Tomer.”

  Tomer frowned. “What kind of law firm?”

  Michael fidgeted. He shouldn’t have said that thing about lawyers.

  “My firm does everything, but I specialize in civil defense.”

  Tomer’s eyes lit up. “Hey, my group is all about civilian defense, man. We’ve got to give the power to the people.”

  Michael was opening his mouth to explain that Brad wasn’t talking about that kind of civil defense when Brad leaned forward. “I agree. I’m hoping some of the travesties of this current administration are going to be checked in the 2018 elections, but we can’t do everything through politics. Resistance is key.”

  Double score! Michael pumped his fist. “Resist!” He jumped up. “I’m going to get another beer. What’re you drinking?”

  “Scotch on the rocks.”

  So adult. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

  BRAD WATCHED Michael retreat into the darkness of the bar, then brought his attention back to what Tomer was telling him about some protest march that weekend. He was loath to admit to these young, passionate guys that he’d never been to one rally since the election. He’d always had the excuse of work, but at some level he was ashamed to not be walking his talk.

  When the jukebox switched from a Talking Heads tune to the velvet voice of Mel Tormé singing “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…,” Tomer and Jordan exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.

  “Dude is at it again!” Tomer said.

  “Yes, indeed. He’s incorrigible this time of year.” Jordan tapped out a beat on the table. “Michael goes nuts over Christmas.”

  “Yeah. You’d think living with a Buddhist, a Jew, and several atheists would have finally gotten to him, but no. Every December he’s playing the music—”

  “Trimming the tree and lights in the yard—”

  “And don’t forget the caroling party!”

  “And the cookies!”

  Brad’s head swiveled back and forth between the two. Then a hand touched his shoulder and Michael was back, leaning over to place Brad’s drink in front of him.

  “What?” Michael asked, surveying the three of them. “What’re you talking about?”

  When Tomer and Jordan collapsed into giggles again, Brad said, “Your love of Christmas.”

  “Ohhhh.” Michael shrugged as he took his seat. “Guilty as charged.” He glared at his friends. “Stop laughing. You guys love it too. Especially the Christmas cookies.”

  Brad smiled. “Christmas cookies are not to be laughed at.”

  “Exactly!” Tomer and Jordan groaned as the jukebox started playing an Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas tune, and Michael stuck his tongue out at them. “I love Christmas!”

  “What do you love about it?”

  “Everything!” Michael made an expansive gesture. “The music, for one. Not just this kind but, like, Handel’s Messiah and all the traditional carols. I have a Christmas caroling party at the house every year.”

  “The house?”

  “Yeah. We all live in a group house in Berkeley, along with some others. Jordan!”

  “What?”

  “How many people live in the house right now?”

  “Us three, Katrina, Juan, and sometimes Molly. So five and sometimes six.”

  “And two dogs and a cat,” Tomer put in.

  “Wow.”

  “Group living is the only way any of us can afford the Bay Area,” Jordan said. Michael nodded, shooting an apologetic look Brad’s way.

  “Well, of course. Housing prices are insane.” Brad took a sip of his Scotch, feeling more ancient—and more privileged—by the minute. The days of group living were far behind him. He enjoyed his large apartment on Pine Street with the leafy trees outside the windows and the sound of foghorns coming in from the Bay. Michael’s situation sounded way too chaotic for Brad’s comfort. He seized on what he could relate to. “So, music, huh?” he asked Michael, who was quaffing his ale with gusto. “I sang in choral groups in high school and college.”

  “Did you? So did I! What are you, bass or tenor?”

  “Baritone.”

  “Cool! Me too!” Michael’s eyes widened as if he’d been struck by a sudden thought. “Hey, do you like karaoke?”

  Not really. “Uh, it’s been years since I’ve done it.”

  “You totally, absolutely should! We go to this place on Pine Street. Izakaya Takemodo’s? It’s a Japanese pub with a whiskey bar. So cool!”

  Brad gulped. Takemodo’s was two blocks down from his own apartment building. He passed it every night on the way home. His mind reeled at the chances of running into Michael and gang in his own neighborhood. “Uh, yeah. That’s actually close to where I live. I mean, not all that close, but, um, in the area.”

  “Awesome! Let’s exchange numbers, and I’ll text you when we go next time.” Michael looked so happy as he fished out his phone that Brad felt faintly alarmed.

  Chapter Two

  HEY! MICHAEL here. At Takemodos for karaoke. Come over! Michael felt an arm go around his waist as he finished his text to Brad.

  “Who you texting?” Katrina’s patchouli fragrance wafted up from her frizzy dreads as she put her chin on Michael’s shoulder.

  “Oh, no one. Like, in particular, I mean. Just… a guy.”

  “A guy, huh? Cool.”

  Michael’s muscles tightened as Katrina let her body settle against his back. They’d slept together. Everyone in the house had slept with everyone else, because why not? They were all either bisexual, pansexual, or some other-sexual, and some were polyamorous to boot—Katrina, Jordan, and Juan were in a long-term relationship that was open to other pairings.

  When Michael had first joined the house, he’d felt let loose in a sexual candy store. But he’d quickly learned that it wasn’t so much a free-for-all as an art form. That was what Jordan, who was nonbinary as well as pansexual and polyamorous, called it. They informed Michael that the integrity of the house called for an extremely high level of communication, and that was the only way their “thing” would work.

  To be honest, after a while it had all become a bit exhausting, and Michael had bowed out of sleeping with other house members. That didn’t keep them from assuming they had a right to know all his business, though.

  Michael was saved from responding to Katrina when a text came through. From Brad. Yesss! Be there in fifteen minutes. He smiled, kind of loving how precise Brad was and how he spelled out every word.

  “So who’s this guy?” Katrina had let go but continued to hover.

  “It’s Brad, the lawyer on that case I was videoing. Jordan and Tomer met him. He’s cool, even though he’s a lawyer.”

  “Lawyers can be cool. Especially when they’re going up against these bullshit policies from He Who Must Not Be Named.”

  “Totally.” Michael sipped a beer and sat back to wait for Brad, hoping he didn’t do anything to make a fool of himself. Brad was so different from his friends—older, successful, brilliant. Okay, some of Michael’s friends were brilliant too, but…. Oh, freaking get out of your head, yelled his inner scold. Be yourself, chimed in his helpful voice. Just not so much yourself that you scare him off, added his Eeyore voice.

  He sighed, then went off in search of the karaoke book to look for Christmas tunes.

  BRAD POKED his head in the door and made a cautious survey of the place. Dark, kind of funky vibe, but the bar was impressive, stretchi
ng the entire length of one wall and stocked with every kind of whiskey one could ever want. At the other end, a small platform set up with karaoke equipment featured a woman wailing a Bonnie Raitt song.

  Michael must have been looking for him, because as soon as Brad took a step inside, he popped up from one of the tables and hurried over, a happy expression adorning his face. Brad took a breath—Michael was so attractive. And so goofy. He was wearing an over-the-top holiday sweater with silver and gold stars, and little bells sewn in that jingled when he walked. Brad laughed.

  “Hey there!”

  “Hi. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Sure.” Michael took hold of his arm and steered him toward the table, which was occupied by several other people. “Are you going to tell me what’s so funny?”

  “What?”

  “You were laughing.”

  “Oh. That. You… you’re kind of outrageous—” Brad gestured at Michael’s sweater. “—and it amuses me.”

  “Laughing at my fashion choices, huh? I’m hurt, man.” They reached the table, and Michael pulled out a chair with a flourish. “Here you go. What’ll you have to drink?”

  Brad remained standing. “Oh, no. You got my drink the last time. Let me return the favor. Can I get a round for the table?”

  “Wow, sure. Guys, this is Brad. And he’s going to buy us a round!” The group burst into applause.

  Brad smiled. Oh, to be young and enthusiastic.

  A woman with dreadlocks said, “He’s a keeper, Michael.”

  “Stop.” Michael’s cheeks got red. “Brad, this is the gang. Let’s see, you’ve met Jordan before.”

  Brad nodded to Jordan and asked, “What, no Tomer?”

  “Karaoke isn’t Tomer’s vibe.” Jordan pointed to the dreadlocked girl. “This is Katrina, one of my partners.” She gave Brad a friendly wave. Then he touched the shoulder of a man next to him. “And this is Juan, my other partner.”