A Swants Soiree Page 3

  He hitched his not-quite-swants up again and waddled into his office to fire up a HubPilot session on his main rig. He positioned the camera to focus on the middle of the room rather than his desk chair and sent Jonathan the link.

  Immediately, Jonathan’s face appeared on Brent’s big monitor, HubPilot’s kick-ass packet compression and graphics accelerators making his image perfectly crisp and almost 3-D. God, he’s even cuter than I remember.

  He was visible from the waist up, so he must have switched from his phone to at least a tablet, or maybe a laptop or desktop. He grinned at Brent. “Nice office. I like the posters. Vintage Star Trek IV—and is that a color-coded circuit board schematic?”

  Brent glanced over his shoulder at the evidence of his complete lack of social life. “Yeah. What can I say? I’m a geek and a nerd.”

  “That’s not a bad thing. For one thing, anybody who’s passionate enough about something to really commit to its lore—not to mention anybody who’s smart enough, and aware enough, to be a self-confessed nerd—is a total turn-on.”

  Brent blinked. Okay, now that’s flirting. Right? “Um, it is?”

  “Sure. Although, I admit I may be a tad self-serving.” Jonathan held out his arms, and his formfitting Hamilton T-shirt emphasized his compact build. “Total theater geek, right here.”

  The tension in Brent’s shoulders eased, and he couldn’t tamp down a goofy grin. Something we have in common. Brent himself had a competence kink a mile wide. Give him somebody good at what they did—whatever it was—and he turned into a pile of goo. “Great.”

  Jonathan dusted off his hands. “All right. Show me the problem.”

  Brent sighed. “You’ll think I’m hopeless.”

  “Nonsense. Nobody manages perfection the first time out of the gate.” Jonathan crooked his finger. “Let’s see.”

  Helpless against the twinkle in Jonathan’s eyes, Brent lifted his shirttails and turned around, holding the stupid swants bunched at his waist with the other fist. “It’s, uh, not exactly the first time.”

  “I see. What happened to the green sweater I gave you earlier?”

  “It’s dead, Jim,” Brent intoned in his best Bones McCoy drawl. “It’s as if every stitch in its body suddenly exploded.”

  Jonathan snorted. “Okay. So this is your second effort?”

  “Yeah. And I look like Baby Huey. My ass is in here somewhere, but it’d take the Hubble telescope to find it.”

  “Well, that’s a crime against nature,” Jonathan murmured.

  “I know. There’s a reason I’m a software engineer and not a DIY channel star.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your sewing skills.”

  “You weren’t—” Heat rushed up Brent’s throat. “Oh.” He let his shirttails fall and turned back slowly to face the screen to find that Jonathan’s hands were covering his face.

  “I’m sorry. God, sometimes I have no filter. Blame it on too many years in theater. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “You didn’t.” In fact, a kernel of warmth was lodged somewhere under Brent’s heart. “It’s just that I’m not used to people admiring my—well, my anything, except my coding skills.”

  “Then people are most definitely blind.”

  Brent ducked his head. “Thanks.”

  Jonathan didn’t reply, and when Brent glanced up again, he was squinting at the screen, apparently focused on the general direction of Brent’s crotch. “What’s going on with the inseam?”

  Brent glanced down. “Oh. I, um, had a little trouble with that. My scissors aren’t the best, and I know you said I needed yarn, and I got some, but I didn’t have the right kind of needle.”

  “I hate to tell you, honey, but that shit is gonna unravel on you before you get through your first cup of eggnog.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, and I really don’t want to moon my coworkers, not to mention my boss.”

  Jonathan’s expression softened. “I hate to say this, Brent, but I think those swants are a lost cause.”

  Brent sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I guess I’ll just be the office Scrooge, then. I mean, every office needs one, right? They won’t hold it against me.” He remembered Riki’s last emoji storm and winced. “Much.”

  Jonathan’s elegant eyebrows drew together. “I don’t want to put pressure—okay, more pressure—on you, but HubPilot is kinda notorious for the way they value team building and employee participation. I don’t think being the office Scrooge will do you any favors.”

  “I know. But what options do I have? I had a hard enough time finding an ugly sweater in the first place. In fact, I didn’t find one—you gave it to me. There’s no chance I can find another one tomorrow in time for the party on Monday.”

  Jonathan bit his lip. “Well, there is another option.”

  Brent started to spread his arms but stopped and grabbed his not-quite-swants when they headed south. “I’m open for anything.”

  “Like I told you, I scour all the stores regularly for stuff I might need for costuming. I’ve got a bunch of holiday-themed sweaters stockpiled. I could, um, bring some over. Help you convert them.”

  Brent’s jaw sagged. “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Sure. I’ve got yarn, dressmaking shears, the correct kind of needles….” Jonathan faltered, biting his lip again. “Unless you think that’s too weird. I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m coming on to you or anything. Using this as an excuse to get into your, er, swants.”

  You’re not? Damn it. But what did Brent expect? A gorgeous guy like Jonathan who worked with dancers and actors, all of whom were undoubtedly more impressive physical specimens than Beanpole Brent, wouldn’t be interested in him. He was just a nice guy—about to enter Brent’s home with many sharp implements. Like dressmaker shears, pins, and needles.

  But it wasn’t alarm that washed like ice water through Brent’s belly. It was disappointment.

  “Got it.” He gave Jonathan his address. “Sorry it’s so far from downtown.”

  Jonathan grinned, his earlier uncertainty vanished. “I live in Beaverton. I’ll be there within an hour.”

  “Great. I’ll… I’ll see you then.”

  Chapter Four

  AFTER BRENT killed the HubPilot session, he immediately panicked. Is the place clean? Am I clean? He rarely had anyone in his house, not since Christopher moved out. Riki had come over for dinner and gaming a couple of times, but not recently.

  No time to dither.

  He made a quick pass through the kitchen and living room. Decent. No dirty dishes. No empty beer bottles. Although yarn scraps—the abandoned bones of his failed swants attempts—littered the living room carpet and dining table. He set his programmable Roomba to vacuum the living room. Then he jumped in the shower, because he’d been sweating over these things most of the day. When he got out, he put on his newest boxer briefs, because if Jonathan needed to fit the swants to Brent’s ass, his underwear would probably be on display at least a bit.

  He froze with one leg in his jeans, then hopped across the bedroom to regain his balance. Oh God. A guy is gonna see me in my underwear. Jonathan is gonna see me in my underwear. That thought made it much more difficult to zip up his pants.

  For God’s sake, I’m not in junior high. I haven’t been in junior high for twenty-five years. I need to stop acting like a giddy, pubescent dork.

  But as Brent pulled on a long-sleeved Mutant Enemy T-shirt, he eyed his bed. Never hurts to be prepared. So he changed his sheets. Just in case.

  Snacks. Should I have snacks? Beer? Coffee? God, could I be any more socially clueless?

  He rushed down the hall and into the kitchen. His formerly nonjudgmental refrigerator whirred, the ice maker clishing in a highly sarcastic manner. “Shut up,” he muttered, staring at the meager options on its shelves. Saturday was his regular grocery shopping day, but he’d blown it on the fruitless swants safari
. He had half a six-pack of Double Mountain IRA, which, if he looked at it logically, was probably the perfect amount. He could join Jonathan in a drink, but there was no chance for overindulgence—a critical factor when pins, needles, and dressmaker shears might be in close proximity to Brent’s privates.

  He had half a bag of tortilla chips, and some tomatoes that hadn’t totally given up the ghost, so he made a quick pico de gallo. He dumped the chips in a bowl and set them on the breakfast bar with the salsa as the Roomba trundled past the kitchen doorway.

  “Crap.” He hadn’t looked at the clock after the session with Jonathan, so he wasn’t sure when the hour would be up. Are you an engineer or what? He hustled into his office and checked the HubPilot log. Anticipation shivered up his spine. Jonathan would be here in fifteen minutes.

  Wait. Did he say “in an hour” or “within an hour”? He could be here at any minute. If Brent had to choose, he’d prefer to have Jonathan arrive early rather than late. He’d spent far too many hours sitting in a darkening room, waiting for Christopher to show up at an appointed time, only to have him breeze in two hours late with some excuse about losing track of time in the bookstore.

  As if.

  Christopher hadn’t set foot in a bookstore voluntarily since he’d bought his textbooks for law school. Flunking out in his first semester probably had something to do with that.

  Brent couldn’t face staring at the door, willing a knock to fall or the bell to ring, so he did what he should have done before he’d called Jonathan in the first place.

  He googled the guy.

  And then wished he hadn’t. Not because Jonathan had serial killer earmarks, but because he was so far out of Brent’s mundane league.

  He’d won awards—not just locally, but nationally. He’d graduated from the Yale School of Drama, for Pete’s sake.

  He was also seven years younger than Brent.

  Brent swallowed against a traitorous lump in his throat, the little hope that had stubbornly taken root in his heart finally withering away.

  He’s not coming here for anything other than what he promised—to help me with these stupid swants.

  Resolutely, Brent shut down the browser window. No more cyberstalking the guy who’s only here to help. When the doorbell rang a minute later, forcing his face into a welcoming smile wasn’t as hard as he expected. So what if this wasn’t the start of a love story for the ages? Maybe he’d get a new friend out of it.

  Not to mention a piece of clothing that I’ll incinerate the instant after my last cup of office holiday cheer.

  He opened the door, and he couldn’t help it—his breath caught in his throat, because Jonathan was right there, with his stellar smile and eyes that twinkled brighter than the lights twined around Brent’s porch posts. He was bundled in a wool plaid coat with a sheepskin collar, a knitted beanie pulled down over his ears.

  “Hi,” Brent croaked.

  “Hello.” Jonathan patted the handle of a rolling suitcase. “Ready for Swants 101?”

  “I’m ready for this whole thing to be done. I’ve never looked forward so much to postholiday letdown.” Brent opened the door wider so Jonathan could come inside.

  “Now there’s a positive attitude,” Jonathan said as he tugged off his beanie and shoved it into the pocket of his coat. He ran his hands through his hair. “God, I’ve probably got the worst hat hair.”

  “No. It’s beautiful.” Brent gulped. “I mean, it looks fine, but if you want to check it, the bathroom’s right there.”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay.” Jonathan shed his coat. “I can stand it if you can.”

  Trust me. I can do more than stand it. God, Brent was acting like he was the one who was a creepy serial killer. “Let me take that.”

  By the time he’d hung the coat in the closet—giving himself a stern down, boy talk all the while—Jonathan had set up at the table where the sad remnants of Brent’s swants efforts lay like the victims of a zombie attack.

  “We’ve got some decisions to make.” Jonathan lifted three sweaters out of the suitcase. When he bit his lip, Brent nearly moaned. It was potent enough on-screen. In person, it was lethal.

  “We, um, do?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have as many options to choose from as I’d originally thought.” He glanced up at Brent through his lashes. “Since most dancers are much shorter than you, I only have three sweaters in the appropriate size.”

  “I’m surprised you have any.”

  Jonathan chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably. “We had one dancer. Chuck. He was probably only an inch or two shorter than you, and built along the same long, elegant lines.”

  Elegant? “How do you know how tall I am?”

  Jonathan scoffed. “Please. I’m a costumer. I can triangulate height and girth within a quarter inch just by looking. Anyway, Chuck left our company to dance with Batsheva in Israel a couple of years ago, so I’ve still got stock that was intended for him. I’m not sure why I’ve held on to it for so long.” He winked. “Must be fate, right?”

  He winked? “Um, fate. Sure.”

  “Any of these will absolutely qualify as ugly. However, there may be some… issues with how the design features translate.”

  “Design features?”

  “Let me show you.” Jonathan glanced around, his gaze lighting on the couch. He carried the sweaters over, accompanied by the sound of muffled jingling. He set the stack on the couch arm and unfolded the first sweater with a practiced snap of his wrists.

  It was mostly purple—not exactly a traditional holiday color—scattered with yellow, orange, pink, and chartreuse ball ornaments. But that wasn’t the worst part.

  “Bells? Seriously?”

  Jonathan nodded. “’Fraid so.” Every ornament had a silver jingle bell the size of a hazelnut affixed to its top. “And they’re knitted into the pattern, not sewn on, so we can’t cut them off without the danger of unraveling.” He tilted his head as he studied the back of the sweater. “And I doubt sitting would be very comfortable.”

  Brent clenched his eyes shut, the notion of announcing his every move with cheery jingles making his stomach hurt. “No. Just no.”

  “I didn’t really think you’d go for that one, but I wanted to give you an idea of our sliding scale of lesser evils.” Jonathan draped the purple horror over the sofa cushions and shook the next one out, holding it up to mask his face, the back of the sweater toward Brent.

  “I don’t know, Jonathan. A white sweater? I’m not a total slob, but I can’t imagine what my seat would look like by the end of the day.

  “It’s not the seat that’s the problem.” Jonathan flipped it around so Brent could see the front: a giant snowman face, complete with black top hat, round black eyes, and an orange felt nose that was, er, an unfortunate 3-D effect. Jonathan turned the sweater upside down and positioned it where the design—particularly the protuberant carrot—would land once the sweater was converted to swants.

  Brent’s cheeks burned. “I can’t wear that. If I don’t get arrested for public indecency, I’ll have smartass coworkers asking if the thing is to scale.”

  Jonathan chuckled. “I kinda thought that would be your reaction, but I wanted to give you the chance to eliminate it yourself.” He took a deep breath. “So that leaves us one final option.” He lifted the last sweater. When he let it unfold, the back was mostly black, with a pattern of red holly berries around the hem and cuffs, and the yarn looked cushy, almost like velvet. Not too bad. Then Jonathan flipped it around to reveal Santa in a garish red suit, his beard in a different kind of yarn that made it look fluffy against the rest of the smooth stitches.

  Then Jonathan flipped the sweater upside down.

  Brent blinked. “So this is, what? Sixty-Nine Santa?”

  Jonathan peered down at the sweater. “No wonder he’s so jolly.”

  Brent covered his face with both hands. “I’ll be walking around the office all day, looking like I’m getting a blow job from S
t. Nicholas.”

  “Well, it’s better than bells up your ass or a carrot dick, isn’t it?”

  “When you put it that way….” Brent let his hands drop and heaved a sigh. “All right. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Five

  ONCE BRENT cleared the detritus from his failed attempts off the table, Jonathan laid the Santa sweater on its surface, then removed a pair of orange-handled scissors from his suitcase.

  “Those, er, must be the dressmaker’s shears you threatened me with.”

  “My favorite pair.” Jonathan grinned at him. “But not my only ones. You can never have too many pairs of dressmaker’s shears.”

  “I get it. I’ve got more controllers and trackballs than—whoa!”

  Jonathan looked up from where he’d just cut a six-inch gash next to the sweater’s neckband. “What?”

  “Don’t you have to measure it or something? I mean, if Sixty-Nine Santa bites it—so to speak—the other options are pretty heinous.”

  Jonathan winked again. That’s flirting, right? He’s definitely flirting with me. I think. “Trust me. I’m a professional.” He turned back, and without a moment’s hesitation, slashed the other side of the neckband. “Besides, I’ve done this so many times now, I could do it blindfolded.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Some of Brent’s anxiety must have bled into his tone, because Jonathan set his scissors down. He turned and gripped Brent’s shoulders, his pretty eyes serious.

  “Brent, it’ll be okay. Really. You know coding. I know costuming. And after converting literally dozens of sweaters into swants—” He shook his head and mock-shuddered. “—and I really wish we could retire that piece, because enough is enough. Let’s say this isn’t a process that holds many surprises, okay?”

  Brent tore his gaze from Jonathan’s face. “You must think I’m a complete loser.”

  “Not a bit. You’re just being pushed outside your comfort zone, and in a place where you expected to feel safe.” Jonathan squeezed a little tighter. “Nobody should feel unsafe in their workplace. But as terror goes, wearing embarrassing clothing for a day when everybody else will be doing the same could be worse. Do you like your job?”