Sommerville Holidays

By Vicki Batman

Holiday Disaster: Days before Christmas, a librarian experiences plumbing issues and visits from Mr. Maintenance Man who isn’t nearly as jolly as Santa Claus.

The Littlest Angel: Two people. One ornament for the tree. Can a twosome find common ground and discover the true meaning of Christmas?

Holiday Handbag Extravaganza: Christmas Countdown is on! A hunk-a-licious customer pesters a boutique owner to locate a vintage handbag for his mother. Too bad the wedge between them is his sister, the meanest girl in town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vicki Batman
• Release date: Feb 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005819279

Vicki Batman

Vicki Batman’s stories are full of her hallmark humor, romance, possibilities, and will delight all readers. She has sold many romantic comedy works to magazines, several publishers, and most recently, three humorous romantic mysteries. Along the way, she has picked up awards and bestsellers. Avid Jazzerciser. Handbag lover. Mahjong player. Yoga practitioner. Movie fan. Book devourer. Chocaholic. Best Mom ever. And adores Handsome Hubby.

Book preview

Dedication

A writer’s journey is never alone. Many friends encouraged and supported me. Readers posted reviews. I collaborated with a fabulous formatter and genius cover artist. For these gifts, I am truly grateful.

For my newest girl—loved you before you were born.

Holiday Disaster

Chapter One

Merry Christmas to me. Not really.

Wrapping my hands around the older-than-time plumbing underneath my bathroom sink, I yanked, hoping-praying-hoping the darn thing would loosen, and all would be saved. But no. Nada. Too darn tight.

Obviously, somebody more muscular than me was required to strong-arm the pipe free. My shoulders hunched with helpless feelings. I should have closed the drain stopper to prevent my contact from swirling merrily away after it popped out of my eye and flew in the sink.

Feeling helpless sucks big time, and I hate it.

Not a great way to kick off the holiday season.

I should have paid more attention when Dad donned his Mr. Fix-it hat and repaired stuff in the family homestead. Maybe I would have learned something valuable, something resembling Plumbing 101. But like most little girls, playtime was ten times more fun than hanging with Dad and repairing broken stuff.

What to do. What to do. Nothing I could do. I declared surrender and called the condo’s emergency number. Mr. Maintenance Man told me he was on his way. I hoped he wasn’t humoring me. Lying—my number one enemy. Lately, everybody I knew fibbed:

My co-workers: It’s in your mailbox.

Not.

My ex-boyfriend: She means nothing to me.

Not.

My car dealership: Your vehicle will be ready by noon tomorrow.

Not.

Unfortunately, I fabricated an untruth, just a teeny weenie fib—really—to get Mr. Maintenance Man to ride to my rescue quickly.

When I called, he didn’t sound thrilled to be coming to my aid at six-thirty in the morning. I wouldn’t be a happy camper either. In fact, he sounded—I scrunched my nose—hung-over like he partied hearty until the wee hours.

The doorbell chimed. I bounded to my feet and raced to the door, thinking, please, let it be him. Please, God, please. He just has to find my contact, and all will be saved.

With security cautions in mind, I peeked out the peephole surrounded by the poinsettia wreath embellished with a large red and gold plaid bow. A guy stood in front of the door, a tall, dark-haired, possibly hunky one, holding a large pipe wrench in one hand and a battered orange toolbox in the other. Dressed in a suit—

Wait a minute. A suit? Why was Mr. Maintenance Man wearing clothes like that? What happened to the jean and T-shirt attire he usually put on?

My radar flipped to high alert. He could be one of those weirdo bad guys all women were warned about. Wishing I could grab a can of flying insect spray for self-defense, I opened the door, keeping the security chain latched.

Michelle Anderson? He turned his head to one side and let rip an ear-deafening sneeze.

I buttoned my sweater and shoved my glasses up my nose. Bless you.

He sniffed and lifted his arm to show me the toolbox he carried. Are you, Michelle Anderson?

Yes.

After setting the box on the stoop, he waved the apartment’s maintenance badge in my face. You phoned for plumbing help?

I-I did, I said a little uneasily. My bathroom’s—

If you’ll let me in, missie, we can get this show on the road. Ah, ’choo. His body quivered with the blast.

Missie? Did he call me missie? What a brat. Rather boorish and off-putting.

This was what I had to deal with.

I didn’t have the option to phone someone else. Time was of the essence. He was present and accounted for, brought the tools, and the wherewithal. He seemed okay, just in a rush. And super sneezy.

Another nose blast exploded. I said, Gesundheit.

Sorry, he said with a sniff. I’m fighting a cold or allergy or something.

No problem-o. I hear mountain cedar is at an all-time high. I released the security chain. He passed by me, his shoulder brushing my arm. The instant hot awareness on my skin made me edgy. Bothered. Burned. My hand covered the spot.

He waved his wrench. The leak?

I returned to reality. Okay, he was a man of few words, something akin to a grunting caveman. However, I really had no choice if I wanted my dilemma solved—and I did—so I could get to work in a timely fashion for the children’s Christmas reading hour at the Sommerville Public Library. I still couldn’t wrap my head around the suit thingy he had going on.

I pointed straight ahead. Sorry. The bathroom’s on your right. Off the hall.

He turned into the bath. I followed and lifted to my tippy toes to watch him work over his shoulder. He removed his coat, which he laid across the closed toilet seat. He rummaged through his tools. I eased back on my heels. I surveyed the room just in case any unmentionables lay scattered about. I dodged that bullet, except for the lipstick, open blush, and eye compacts sitting on the counter. All looked as clean as a freshly scrubbed baby. Just the way I liked it. No fuss, no muss.

I tipped my head toward the cabinet vanity with the doors opened wide from my pathetic efforts. Under there.

He turned on the cold-water tap, which betrayed my lie by flowing freely down the drain.

After a long stare at the swirling water, his dark gaze met mine. I thought you said your sink was clogged.

I’m not up to speed on plumbing. I thought it was. I tugged my lower lip. Maybe there’s a leak under the sink.

Hunkering, he stroked the pipe and the floor of the cabinet base and rubbed his fingers together. Funny, no water here. I’m not finding anything wrong.

Something’s definitely not right.

Let’s take a look. He turned the valves behind the pipes to off, then adjusted the wrench and set it to the tube. Within a jiffy, he loosened the threads enough so that he could hand turn the nut. You got a bucket to catch the water?

From the kitchen, I retrieved the largest mixing bowl I owned, a multi-colored vintage one, a housewarming gift from Aunt Rosie. I raced back and thrust the container where he could see it from his position under the sink. Will this do?

Perfect. Slide it under the trap. He grasped my wrist and directed the bowl into place. In a sec, I’ll release the connection, and water will fill the bowl.

After he released his hold, hot sensations coursed through my limbs. Rising, I stepped back and rubbed my hand over my arm, thinking I would soothe away the sensation, but all it did was intensify it. Bewilderment crowded my head.

He moved the trap aside, and sure enough, water flowed into the vessel. His gaze tipped my way, and he winked.

I blinked. Why would he wink at me? Is he overtly flirting? Doesn’t that violate the Mr. Maintenance Man Code of Conduct?

Once the stream subsided, he flipped over the pipe, and a bit more ran in the bowl as well. His brows squeezed together in a confused way. This doesn’t seem right. You’re not leaking. You’re not clogged. Maybe I should check the stopper. Sometimes hair and soap—

So much for my great plan. I pressed my glasses into place and shifted my feet. No.

Eyes narrowed, lips flatlined, he slowly stood. ‘No?’

No.

He asked, Why not?

What I mean is—

Ma’am, either you need your plumbing fixed or not.

Busted. I sensed the pit of doom descend like a fast elevator from my chest to my feet. Little choice but to confess the truth. Did it really matter what he thought of me?

My contact fell from my eye into the sink, and—

I caught his facial expression, the one which read, God, how stupid can a girl be. My feathers ruffled. I said, Hey, take back your disapproving look. I’ve never dropped a lens in the drain before now.

His jaw firmed. So, no leak? No clog?

No. Yes, I admitted, my chin skimming my chest. Looking at him, I noticed judgment painting his face, and it was not what I wanted to see. Wearing my old glasses made me resemble my Aunt Rosie. The frames looked outdated, and I only broke them out in case of emergencies, like deathbed, and even that was negotiable. This instance was classified as urgent situation.

I shrugged. I forgot to plug the sink.

You lied, he said evenly, to get me over here early.

I’m-m, sorry. I don’t usually fib. I don’t like lying to anyone. I didn’t mean—

If you had told the truth, I’d have come anyway.

I was desperate, and yeah, a little embarrassed. I still am. It’s the only right one I have. I just… I bit my lower lip.

Just what?

My biggest confession of a lifetime spewed forth. See better with contacts. Glasses look ugly on me.

You don’t like glasses? Weird.

Not really. They’re…old-fashioned.

What’s behind them isn’t. His hand scrubbed a closely shaved chin.

The scent of pine, similar to a fragrant Fraser fir, drifted my way. Mmm.

He carefully lifted the bowl, setting it on the counter. Let’s see what you’ve got.

I don’t— There it is. Happy, I dipped my hand in the water, which seemed surprisingly dirt-free, and scooped the blue-tinted contact in my palm. I stepped back. Yipee. I don’t know how to thank you.

I swept my free hand to high-five his, and in doing so, knocked the bowl of water all over the front of his pants.

His eyes bugged as he stared at his drenched suit pants. What the—

Sooo not a good thing. Oh, God. Pressing my fingers to my mouth, I babbled, I’m so, so sorry. You’re dripping wet.

He actually glowered.

An understatement.

Take it off.

He cut me a really? glare.

Maybe we can blast your pants with the hairdryer. Or, I can have your suit cleaned.

When he propped his hand on the counter, his feet shifted. His hand skated on a puddle and skidded into the tube of lipstick. A red smear smudged the white laminate. Disgust tinged his eyes. He mumbled an expletive and pushed his hand across his face.

Uh oh. I hated to be the person who informed him war paint decorated his face from forehead to chin. No sirree, he would not be happy. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion nothing would improve his disposition after the soaking he took and my lame fabrication.

Facing the music, I squared my shoulders and did an itty-bitty point toward the mirror. You might want to…

He drilled a long and hard stare on me before his gaze shifted to the mirror. What the heck?

He looked horror-struck. Eyes rounded to the size of ping-pong balls, maybe tennis balls, heck, could be as large as beach balls. His jaw dropped low enough to reach his knees. And who could blame him? Who would have thought an ordinary maintenance house call would turn into a holiday horror story?

Leaning closer to the mirror, he smashed his hand over his cheek, which caused the red streak to smear. Sh, er, shoot. Today of all days, I look like a clown.

Stop. I grabbed his upper arm, taking in muscular bulges and the return of the electric prickling. Women deal with cosmetic disasters every day. Rubbing makes it worse. All will come off easily with make-up remover or soap.

Again, he grumbled something unintelligible as he went back under the sink to reconnect the pipe and turn on the valves. With the task completed, he stood and caught his reflection. He tilted closer and lowered his hand, which smacked the faucet, hitting the cold tap lever. The pressure increased, causing water to squirt out the