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  They joined the line at the same time as Howard, a member of Security. With him was a young-looking man Max recognized as Alexander Bancroft, who worked in Public Relations.

  “Merry Christmas,” Howard said.

  Bancroft gave a short nod. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Joyeux Noël.”

  “Looks like Matheson’s going to sing.” Howard gestured toward the microphone and the agent who approached to take it. “He sang last year, drunk off his ass, and he knocked it out of the ballpark.”

  “I recall. Hopefully he isn’t drunk this year?”

  “I doubt it.” Howard grinned and nodded toward Smitty. “Dr. Schmidt wasn’t here early enough to spike the punch.”

  Max turned to Smitty. “Oh, mon ami,” he chastised.

  Smitty just grinned. “Gotta keep things lively.”

  “This is gonna be good,” Howard said.

  Matheson tapped the microphone, which silenced the crowd. He smiled at his audience, then began to sing to one man in particular, the same song Max had heard the other day, the one about silver bells and Christmastime in the city.

  Matheson had a mellow tenor. “It’s a pleasure to hear him sing,” Max said as he leaned back against Smitty, enjoying the feel of Smitty’s arms around him.

  “Better move, babe,” Smitty said in his ear. The line had shuffled forward once again.

  Finally they reached the head of the line and began filling their plates with sandwiches, potato salad, cole slaw, and macaroni salad, then joined Howard when he waved them over to a free table he’d found.

  Another man—mon Dieu, it was Ford!—stepped up to take the microphone. He began singing “Blue Christmas,” and for the most part, he was good.

  “You should give it a try, Max,” Smitty said.

  “I don’t think a French carol will be on the machine.”

  “So sing an American one.”

  Max gave him an affronted look, and when Smitty just grinned, he turned his back on him. Not that he was angry or upset, but so Smitty wouldn’t realize Max was actually amused.

  “The food is very good, n’est-ce pas?”

  “It is.” Smitty leaned down and brushed his lips against the side of Max’s neck, causing Max to shiver.

  Ford finished singing, and Ms. DiNois made her way to him to take the microphone. Granger came to stand behind her, his arms supporting her abdomen, which she massaged as she began to sing “You’re All I Want for Christmas.”

  “I see there’s mistletoe, Lex” Howard murmured to his companion. “And a couple are about to take advantage of it.” He gave Bancroft a glance from the corner of his eyes.

  “I’m not kissing you in front of this lot, Devlyn,” Bancroft stated flatly. “Especially when you call me by a supervillain’s name.”

  Howard chuckled. “I’m sorry, Xander.”

  “Now you use a name from Buffy? Let me tell you something, my friend. Santa is not going to bring you anything if you keep this up.”

  “Okay. I’ll be good.” Howard leaned close and whispered, “I’ll just wait until we get home, Alex. I’ve got mistletoe hanging in the living room. You can kiss me then.”

  Bancroft looked flustered but pleased. As for Howard, he may have thought Bancroft was the only one who could hear his whisper, but he wasn’t. Max was a gentleman, however, and pretended he hadn’t heard.

  Smitty didn’t bother pretending. He chuckled out loud. Max liked the sound. It was…arousing. It also wasn’t appropriate to display an erection in the workplace, so in order to distract himself, he turned to see who was going to get kissed.

  Dr. Paget was standing beneath the mistletoe. Max was pleased to see her back in Medical. She had just completed a rotation in obstetrics at George Washington University Hospital and had been asked to return when so many WBIS agents became ill with the flu. In addition, at the rate the secretaries were becoming pregnant, it seemed a good idea to have her working here.

  She was a good doctor, usually very serious, but just then she was smiling up at…Mon Dieu, it was Charles who held her!

  Even from where he stood, Max could see the expression on his one-time lover’s face, awe and desire and…love? Charles was in love with Dr. Paget?

  The room became silent as Charles slowly lowered his head and she rose on tiptoe, twined her arms around his neck, and met his kiss.

  Perhaps Charles was correct when he staunchly denied being gay, but from what Max knew about him, he was most assuredly bisexual.

  Max felt a movement at his shoulder, and he turned to find Smitty watching the couple, a perturbed expression on his face.

  “Avery?”

  “Do you regret that isn’t you?” he asked, nodding toward Charles and Dr. Paget, tension in his voice.

  Max caressed his cheek. “No.” He took Smitty’s hand and led him to the couple who were still kissing. “Pardonnez-nous.”

  Charles raised his head and blinked, and abruptly, every line in his body became tense. “Max? What—”

  Dr. Paget slid her arm into Charles’s. “This man is mine,” she said softly, so only the four of them could hear.

  “I am, Ginevra?”

  Max had never heard Charles sound so hopeful.

  “Yes.”

  Max gave a slight bow. “As you wish, Docteur.”

  Dr. Paget tugged Charles aside. “I believe they want to avail themselves of the mistletoe, sweet boy.”

  “C’est vrai,” Max murmured—it was very true. “Merci.”

  “De rien.”

  Smitty hadn’t said anything. He just stood there glaring at Charles.

  Max placed his hands on Smitty’s cheeks, turning his face toward Max. Satisfied all Smitty would see was the man who loved him, Max brought his hands to Smitty’s shoulders and positioned him beneath the mistletoe. He tilted his head back and gazed into Smitty’s beautiful eyes, not bothering to conceal the depth of his emotions. He saw the exact moment when Smitty realized he had come out a winner.

  “Max.”

  “Oui.” Max stroked his cheek, and Smitty lowered his head and pressed his lips against Max’s.

  Max closed his eyes and smiled against Smitty’s mouth. He softened his lips to welcome his lover in.

  And he was ready to swear he could hear silver bells ring-a-linging in the background.

  THE END

  ABOUT TINNEAN

  Tinnean has been writing since the 3rd grade, where she was inspired to try her hand at epic poetry. Fortunately, that epic poem didn’t survive the passage of time; however, her love of writing not only survived but thrived, and in high school she became a member of the magazine staff, where she contributed a number of stories.

  Starting a family resulted in the writing being set aside, although throughout those years Tinnean did continue to keep a journal. Once the kids were old enough to do their own thing, she was able to dabble in writing again. It was with the advent of the family’s second computer—the first intimidated everyone—that her writing took off, enhanced in part by fan fiction, but mostly by the wonder that is copy and paste.

  While involved in fandom, she was nominated for both Rerun and Light My Fire Awards. Now she concentrates on her original characters and has been published by Nazca Plains, Dreamspinner, and JMS Books

  Tinnean is what you might call a hopeful romantic, and if you see her name on a story, it will have a happy ending.

  Her signature line, a quote by Ernest Hemingway, says it all: “Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure, only death can stop it.”

  A New Yorker at heart, she resides in southwest Florida with her husband and two computers.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

  JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!

 
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