Christmas Can Kiss My Dickens

By Hunter Frost

Bah Humbug!

Tim Cratchit hates everything about Christmas—the gaudy decorations, the sickeningly cheerful music, and the pathetic tradition of exchanging meaningless gifts. Not to mention the lousy memories of holidays passed. When Santa gave other kids Barbie dolls and Tonka trucks, Tim got stuck with a wheelchair. Now, the one thing Tim looks forward to on Christmas is catching up on work and ignoring all the festive drivel.

That is until Henry Scott, Tim’s star employee, interrupts his boss’s plans to give him a present. Tim unceremoniously shows the man the door, but Henry won’t go so easily. Inspired by liquid courage, Henry finds the guts to tell Tim exactly what he thinks of him—and it’s anything but merry. Except for that kiss...

What follows only makes Tim question his sanity. A near death experience, flashbacks, premonitions, and visits from his deceased godfather show Tim how lonely and depressing his life has become. Will Tim be able to recapture the spirit of Christmas or will he forever remain a bona fide Scrooge?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hunter Frost
• Release date: Dec 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370742691

Hunter Frost

Hunter lost a bet at a blackjack table and begrudgingly traded temperate Southern California for the sweltering heat of Las Vegas. There she resides with an extremely tolerant husband and two cats named after her favorite beverages, Latte and Java. When she's not dreaming of returning to coastal living, Hunter works at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, from where she recently received her Master's in British history. In order to appease her muse, she writes the kind of fiction that keeps her sane. She adores romance in all forms, but prefers her stories with two heroes that find their happily-ever-after with each other

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tim Cratchit cringed as another note of Let It Snow went painfully flat .

Christmas music was Tim’s personal nightmare. However, his drunk employees singing Christmas-carol karaoke was pure, unadulterated torture. The insane cost of soundproofing his office didn’t seem like such a needless expense now, and he considered adding that to next year’s budget. When a tone-deaf Silver Bells broke out, he nearly speed-dialed the contractor.

He couldn’t take much more of it, that’s for sure. If they didn't stop soon, he’d have to break up that damned Christmas Eve party. The one HR warned him to keep when he thought about ditching it to save money. Something about non-existent company morale. Whatever. He couldn't concentrate with all that squalling. It was like two stray cats fighting on the street. And he was ready to get the hose.

He went back to the end-of-year reports he’d been reviewing when his cell phone buzzed. He lifted the phone to read the caller ID: Martha. His older sister. He sighed and put it back down, letting the voicemail get it. He knew why she was calling. The same reason she always called this time of year: to invite him to dinner tomorrow with her husband, Neil; their kids, Frankie and Kelsey; his brother, Peter; and other sister, Belinda. And maybe their kids, if they had any by now. He’d lost track. It exhausted him just listing them out in his head.

A Christmas visit was out of the question. They knew it was his busiest time of year—the holidays are a great opportunity to get more work done. And he didn’t do gifts. Buying into the commercialization of holiday madness made him more irritable than usual. Presents were an obligation, at best. They lacked any genuine meaning. He’d end up mailing a card with some generic sentiment to appease his sister and be done with it. Until next year, of course.

A melodic knock sounded on his office door, and Tim held back a gag.

Come in, he growled at the intruder.

He heard the door open and the scuffling of someone either drunk or clumsy. Or both.

Mr. Cratchit? asked the cheerful-yet-slurred voice.

What is it? Tim’s attention remained on the screen before him.

I um… have a gift for you.

Tim pivoted around in his wheelchair and glared. "You have a what for me?"

Henry Scott stood in front of his desk, blue eyes wide. Most of Tim’s employees’ names escaped him, but he remembered Henry. One of the analysts. Smart, a hard worker, and a geekier version of Clark Kent in his thick black-rimmed glasses. Definitely attractive. Even dressed in that ridiculous, red sweater-vest embroidered with prancing reindeer and a green bow tie that may or may not light up. He held a small wrapped gift in one hand and a drink in the other. I know you have a strict no-present policy, but it’s Christmas, sir. He hiccupped.

Tim turned back to his computer. Christmas is exactly why I created that policy. Put it in the charity box.

I got this specifically for you.

Tim spun back around. Right. Sarcasm dripped from his tongue. Don’t pretend you didn’t regift a hideous coffee mug from a White Elephant exchange or pick up a cheap plastic snow globe from the Quik Mart down the street.

No, it’s—

Why the hell would you waste your precious time and money on anything else? If you need more work, I can assign you more projects.

But, sir—

Go back to the party, Mr. Scott, Tim said. Oh, and while you’re at it— Tim opened a cabinet under his desk and pulled out the four wrapped gifts he’d stuffed in there. —some fool thought I was part of the Secret Santa Swap. You can put these in the charity box, too. He adjusted the wheelchair back toward his computer.

You didn’t even open these, Henry said.

We’ve been over this. Maybe Henry wasn’t as bright as Tim thought.

You didn’t even open these! Henry said again, this time loud and emphatic.

Tim grew tired of repositioning his wheelchair but did it one last time.

Henry’s mouth had turned down into a frown. You know what? You’re horrible, Mr. Cratchit, he said, catching himself as he swayed.

And you’re drunk, Tim replied.

Which is why I’m finally able to tell you what an asshole you are! He pushed up his glasses. "I’m the fool who bought those Secret Santa gifts you didn’t even bother to open. He eyed the gifts on the desk and took another gulp of his drink. These presents came from my heart. Do you even have one? He shook his head, scowling. If so, I’m sure it’s as black as