Merry and sprite, p.1
Merry & Sprite, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Merry & Sprite
***
by
Dani Lakely
Copyright © 2021 by Dani Lakely
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used within book reviews.
This novel’s story and characters are fictitious. The names, events, establishments, and location do not exist outside of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual people or places is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Any products/brand names/songs/television & movie titles, etc. mentioned are registered trademarks of their respective copyright holders.
Editing by: Arran McNichol
Proofreading by: Jamie Housman
Cover Art by: J Witter
This book is dedicated to my very own Lilith. A little black cat who makes every day merry and bright.
***
CHAPTER ONE
EVERYTHING IS GOING according to plan until the electric organ kicks in. It’s four o’clock on a Friday afternoon and Jonathan is torn between canceling the tea shop’s solstice poetry reading and strangling Forrest Wilde.
Jonathan’s gone all out to make TranquiliTea’s annual event memorable for their customers. It’s an hour spent in the patio garden giving his best attempt at a celebration of the season. Mini chocolate fig cakes and cranberry oatmeal cookies are stacked beside a special winter tea blend. Garlands of hand-cut paper snowflakes dangle over poinsettias placed back-to-back in vibrant reds and whites on a raised platform. The stage is set and ready for guests — or victims of Forrest’s noise pollution, depending on which way you see it.
The bar across the street turns the dial up another notch. Forrest is over there blasting surf rock at a decibel level so obscene that Jonathan’s grandfather back home in Connecticut can probably hear it. On any normal day, the outdoor speakers at Be Hoppy don’t pick up until well after the tea shop closes its doors. But it’s a few weeks before Christmas and all the college kids are back in town—cue the day drinking and screaming singalongs.
Throwing the snowflake staff in his hand to the ground, Jonathan stomps over to the bar, nearly tripping on the hem of the Old Man Winter costume he’s got on. The blue robe with intricate swirls of white and matching stocking cap are suffocating in the seventy-degree Southern California heat. There’s a lengthy white wig with an attached beard stuffed underneath his hat that he’s given serious thought to ripping off at least six times. The look is completed with a plastic ice crystal glued to the end of a broomstick. Or, rather, it was glued before he hurled the staff to the pavement. In any case, there’s a strong possibility that his costume is coming off less as the personification of winter and more like the Cookie Crisp Wizard.
When he shoves open the door to Be Hoppy, he’s hit with a blast of Christmas and takes a brief moment to glower at all the cheer. String lights cast a warm glow over the countertop and vintage wooden booths, wreaths of driftwood and sea glass line the walls, and garlands of hop vines drape lazily over the back of the bar.
But the highlight is definitely the tree at the entrance, thick with dark green needles and standing at least ten feet tall. It’s bursting with the festive bright lights and colors of the winter holidays, and Jonathan can smell the freshly cut fir as he takes a step inside.
A little black cat greets him at the welcome mat with a cry that Jonathan recognizes as one asking for immediate attention. He reaches down to give her a pat on the head.
“Hello, Lilith,” he says at the same time Forrest pops up from behind the bar, smiling. He takes in what Jonathan’s wearing and his grin turns up a notch.
“Welcome, Jonny,” he says, amusement in his tone. “What can I get to make you hoppy?”
He’s just as outrageously good-looking as he was this morning when he picked up his daily drink from the tea shop. There’s always a ridiculously hopeful part of Jonathan that believes Forrest can’t really be as attractive as the image etched in his head. Then they meet again and Forrest’s face quickly sets his hopes on fire. It’s actually infuriating. Looking at Forrest is like noticing the sun when you step out of a dark theater into daylight. Bright, blinding in its intensity. You can’t tell if it’s the best or worst feeling in the world.
It wouldn’t be totally unfair to imagine that someone may have injected the DNA of Adonis into the vein of one of Forrest’s tanned forearms. He’s tall and well-muscled, but not in a way that implies he’s some sort of beefed-up gym rat. More like he’s spent a lot of hours on his family’s hop farm and years down on the beach, surfing in the sea. Thick, sun-kissed waves curl around Forrest’s ears, and his ever-teasing eyes are rings of gold that flare into the sort of green that remind Jonathan of sage. Forrest has the sort of look that implies if he stood in the center of a crowd of strangers and called, “Come with me!” everyone would jump up and follow without stopping to ask why.
Everyone except Jonathan, that is. He’s not looking to get his heart tangled with a guy who doesn’t do relationships and sleeps with anyone that says yes.
Besides, Sunset Surf is not lacking in good-looking men if he wants to find a date. It’s a buffet of Sunny Californians, friendly in a way he doesn’t recognize from back home, and not shy about asking him out. So, yes, there are plenty of queer men around besides the one standing in front of Jonathan, who still refuses to call him by his actual name. There is no ever-loving way he’ll let himself fall under Forrest’s spell.
“It’s Jonathan, not Jonny,” he finally grits out, a not-so-friendly reminder that he doesn’t care for the annoying nickname Forrest has given him.
Forrest looks him over, eyes dragging along his body from head to toe, a curious expression on his face. He tilts his head. “You went gray?”
“You know it’s a wig,” Jonathan replies, an eye-roll implied in his tone. “I’m Old Man Winter.”
“Oh, sure. Okay.” There’s a slightly crooked smile on Forrest’s face. His gaze settles on Jonathan’s eyes, holding there for a long second that makes him want to squirm. “So, Jonny Winter, first beer’s on me. What can I get to make you hoppy?” His voice is pitched low and velvety—a flirt. Not today, Casanova. Jonathan is here on a mission and it’s not to get laid.
“It’s the noise,” he tells Forrest, giving Lilith a pat as she jumps up on the bar, violating approximately forty-five health codes.
“You mean the Christmas music?” Forrest asks.
“Well, first of all,” Jonathan says, pointing a finger into the air, “this is not Christmas music.”
Forrest quirks his brows. “It definitely is.”
The words “is not!” are sitting right there on Jonathan’s tongue, but he swallows them down and starts again. Honey, not vinegar, as they say. “Christmas music is ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Silent Night,’ not this—”
“It’s Christmas surf rock,” Forrest tries to explain.
“Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying. Christmas is about tradition, Forrest. The classics. You’re ruining the whole vibe.”
Reaching across the bar, Forrest gives Lilith a scratch under her chin. “So your complaint for today is that you don’t like my Christmas playlist? Bummer. You want me to put on John Denver and the Muppets Christmas album instead? Talk about a classic, am I right? Jimmy,” he calls over his shoulder, “cue up the Muppets, man!”
“No! No Muppets, no music. Forrest, I’ve got a solstice poetry reading this evening—” Jonathan stops mid-sentence as Lilith hops onto his shoulder, claws digging in, and lets out an excessively loud meow, as though she’s been left out and wants a turn at the debate. “Lilith,” Jonathan says, “do you mind!”
Outright rejecting a scolding from a man dressed as a cartoon off a cereal box, the cat leaps to the countertop and then into the Christmas tree, vanishing into the branches with a flick of her long black tail.
Jonathan takes a deep breath. He’s stressed about getting the party right and Forrest is absolutely not making things any easier. His life would be so much less complicated if anyone else owned this space.
The half-mile main street of Sunset Surf is lined with shops. They call the stretch “the village,” like it’s some sort of freaky commune, and managing TranquiliTea for three months means Jonathan is the next in line to drink the Kool-Aid. It’s a close-knit group. Many of the store owners have been here for years, and Jonathan would trade Forrest for any one of them.
“Look.” He’s about a minute away from begging. “I need you to shut it down for tonight.”
The side of Forrest’s mouth hitches up like he’s getting some sort of amusement out of Jonathan’s request. “You want me to kick my customers to the curb?”
“No.” Jonathan wrings his hands together. “I’m not saying that. Forrest, can you just turn the music off on the patio so my custome
“Yeah,” Forrest drawls. “I can do that for you, old man.” He nods to the costume Jonathan’s wearing with a wink.
Ignoring the mocking of his outfit, Jonathan huffs out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
“Well, yeah. I know you’re fighting for your right to par-tea.”
“I’m more a fan of tranquili-tea.”
“Ahh, right. You know your shop is spelling that wrong?”
“It’s a pun.”
“Oh, so you think it’s real punny?”
Forrest is wearing this lazy, lop-sided grin and Jonathan is buzzing with irritation. For some reason it always feels like everything Forrest says and does is aimed at working Jonathan up.
Narrowing his eyes, he faces Forrest head-on. Jonathan is not short—taller than average at 5’10’’—but there’s something about needing to crane his neck back to meet Forrest’s eyes that especially rubs him the wrong way. Forrest, aptly named, is a redwood.
Forrest stares back, still wearing that ridiculous smirk, and Jonathan feels the familiar bubble of unwanted desire that seems to expand every time Forrest’s within shouting distance. He seethes. “You’re just so…”
“What?” Forrest asks. He looks genuinely curious as to Jonathan’s answer. His eyes are wide, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Jonathan’s gaze fixes on his mouth, and the bubble of hunger grows three sizes. He absolutely cannot harbor a boner for the village’s resident love-’em-and-leave-’em tramp. The idea is truly horrible, foolish even, extremely—
“Aggravating,” he spits out, the word flying from his mouth before he has time to catch it.
Forrest’s face shifts into a frown, and Jonathan feels a hot tingle of embarrassment crawl up his spine. “Right,” Forrest replies. “Well, you don’t have to be so sal-tea.” Tossing a wave over his shoulder, he moves toward the employees-only door. “Enjoy your party, Jonny.”
He doesn’t bother shouting, “It’s Jonathan!” after Forrest for the hundredth time. Instead, he heads for the exit, pausing in front of the Christmas tree, studying the branches, trying to spot Lilith to give her an apology for being so cross.
The fir is thick with needles and endless ornaments and lights. The little black cat remains hidden. Shuffling closer, Jonathan is peering deeply into the center of the tree when something smacks the crown of his head with a loud DOINK! A stab of pain shoots through him, and he lifts a hand to his head, seeing stars, cursing under his breath.
Bending over to pick up the assailant, he realizes it’s a rather hefty glass ornament of two birds entwined. Turtle doves. “Holy crap,” he says. “I’ve been bird-brained!” The crown of his head is throbbing. That’s going to leave a bump.
Lilith pops out from a large branch up above. Her big yellow moon eyes focus right on Jonathan. She gives him a slow blink. “What the heck, kitty—did you send these birds flying at me?” She leaps to the ground, pawing at the exit door, an unspoken command to be let out.
After hanging the ornament back on the tree, Jonathan heeds her order, following Lilith to the shop across the street. The moment he enters TranquiliTea, his head really starts to pound. He’s still seeing stars. Only they’re more like little spots of warm light, golden glowing orbs floating in large clusters across his vision. They almost seem real, like he could reach out and touch one. He tries, grasping at air as they go bobbing by, growing in number and size.
Neka, who works afternoons behind the counter, eyes him and says dryly, “Nobody told me today’s menu included ’shroom tea.”
“Hilarious. Two turtle doves knocked me a good one on the noggin,” he informs her.
“If you think they’re nasty, you better look out for the partridge in a pear tree. That guy’s a real bruiser.”
“I’m serious, Neka, it hurts. I’m seeing stars.”
Shooing him to a chair at one of the cafe tables, she looks into his eyes. “Let me see,” she tells him, pulling down the itchy, fake beard and grabbing him by the chin.
The glimmer of golden lights dances around, framing her pretty face. Neka’s long black hair is swept into a ponytail, her high cheekbones pointing to lips that are pressed together in concern as she studies his face. She digs her fingers into Jonathan’s skin, twisting his head this way and that as she examines him.
“Any ringing in the ears?” she asks. He shakes his head. “Feel like you’re gonna hurl?”
“No. It’s just these freaky glowing lights.” He makes a grab for one again and comes up empty.
Batting down his hand, she says, “Knock that off, dude, or I really will start to think you’re on something. I’ll keep an eye on you during the party. Make sure you’re feeling all right before I head out for the night.”
“Thanks, Neka. You’re the best.”
“You got it, kiddo.”
Jonathan holds in a sigh at her term of endearment. She’s three years older than he is, the same as Forrest, but at twenty-five, he’s plenty old enough not to be considered a kid.
Now he just needs to wait until she disappears to the patio so he can sneak some cream from the fridge.
CHAPTER TWO
THE THING JONATHAN couldn’t bring himself to admit to Neka is there’s this hazy image of Lilith lapping cream from a saucer running on a loop in his head. Floating spots and visions involving cats. What a perfect way to kick off the solstice party. Maybe the Cheshire Cat will show up and everyone can go a little mad.
Lilith hops into his lap and butts her head against his hand for a pat. The little black cat walked into town demanding a home a year ago. An emergency meeting was held to grant her permanent residence in the village, and she chose the metaphysical shop owner, Eve, to room with at night. Majority vote named her Lilith on the grounds everyone thought Lilith shacking up with Eve was a real chuckle. That’s the sort of people Jonathan’s dealing with here in Sunset Surf.
Lilith’s purr only seems to make the vision come in stronger waves. The urge to pour cream builds, and frankly, that’s not a euphemism. There’s a tug in his chest, like a magnet, like he’s attached to a string. Something supernatural guiding him to stand and make the vision come true. The spots at the corners of his eyes seem to pulse, and Jonathan shakes his head a little.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers when he gives in, setting a saucer in front of Lilith. She laps at it, the cream disappearing with eager flicks of her tongue. Jonathan knows you’re not exactly supposed to give cream to a cat, but he can’t help enjoying her satisfaction at receiving the treat. And he’s actually starting to feel a little better as she licks clean the bottom of the bowl.
The spots are fading, the pounding in his head evening out. A little smile builds at the corners of his mouth, like providing Lilith a gift has granted some sort of magical good karma. He could use a little more of that lately, if he’s being honest.
Packing up his belongings and moving to Sunset Surf happened on a whim. His aunt has owned TranquiliTea for longer than Jonathan’s been alive. Kelly needed someone to manage the shop while touring Europe with her new husband. Jonathan wanted to be an entire continent away from his ex. The other side of the country seemed like a fair enough compromise.
Jonathan grew up in Connecticut, lived there his whole life, and even though back home can be just as progressive as out here, East and West Coast liberals are two very different breeds.
Still, he’s tried pretty hard to fit in, volunteering for every new whack-a-doodle committee the village comes up with. One of the latest being the Council for the Ethical Treatment of Sunset Surf Spiders, which Forrest shortened to SSS, and that prompted the formation of another new committee to investigate how to humanely trap and release snakes. Jonathan is sitting vice president on that one.
But he still doesn’t feel like he belongs. There’s a sort of impostor syndrome pinging around in his gut, like he’s in the middle of some inside joke he’ll never get. And then there’s Forrest. Tall, golden, magnetic Forrest. Well-built and silver-tongued, full of charisma, always with this impish grin that lingers in Jonathan’s head, daring him to smile back.
