Worth the Wait

By Caitlin Ricci & Cari Z.

When Tate promises his niece Addie he’ll get a book signed by her favorite author, he never expects to end up in a line four blocks long with sleet coming down around him. It’s three days until Christmas and he’s cold and miserable, but Addie will be devastated if he gives up.

A cute guy who offers him an umbrella is just the encouragement Tate needs to stick it out, especially when Brandon brings him something hot to drink. But the signing ends before Tate can get to the front of the line, and Tate is sure he’s ruined Christmas for his niece. Luckily Brandon gets him in to see the author, who happens to be his mother.

A simple thank you isn't enough for Tate, and neither he nor Brandon wants to end things there. For two men unused to such an instant mutual attraction, the Christmas season just got a little more merry.

T
HE
RAIN
wasn’t heavy, but it was constant, a continuous misty drizzle that infused the air with more of a chilling sensation than was actually there. In a few months, once spring arrived, Tate knew there would be pale green buds just starting to appear on the tips of the maple trees in their neat little sidewalk enclosures. For now, though, it was three days until Christmas, and the rain was quickly turning into sleet around him. The remaining light from the pale winter sunset was just enough to make the wet ground sparkle a bit, reflecting in the store’s windows, which were ringed with plain, perfect white pinpricks of light.

A long line of people stood on the sidewalk outside the store, in bulky multicolored coats or under sturdy umbrellas, chatting and waiting impatiently for the line to move forward. It was, objectively, a lovely evening scene, one that Tate might have enjoyed if not for his quickly soaking feet as he stood in the wet and wished he hadn’t agreed to go to the bookstore during the last minute mad rush of Christmas shoppers.

Subjectively, it was a special sort of punishment for the shortsighted. Tate shivered as a tiny rivulet of ice water slid down the side of his face and dropped onto his sodden shirt collar. His hoodie was entirely insufficient against the weather, but he hadn’t planned on being outside long enough for it to matter and had come straight from work, with no time to change between. He had a better coat, far away where he’d left his car before hopping on the Sixteenth Street Mall bus to get here, but if he went back for it now he’d be giving up his place in line. He was already close enough to the back that he didn’t want to surrender any potential advantage when it came to getting these books signed. The plastic crinkled under his arms as he gripped his package tighter, and Tate sighed. At least he’d had the foresight to wrap the books up in a plastic grocery bag to keep them dry before heading out.

This wasn’t exactly how he’d seen his Friday night playing out. Then again, since his usual Friday night would have been going home and crashing on the couch after ten hours of mostly inane help desk queries, he couldn’t say this was worse, exactly. At least he had a purpose other than mindless relaxation tonight.

“Anthea Withershine will be signing her books there, Uncle Tate!” his ten-year-old niece had informed him yesterday, awe and avarice warring in her voice. “I have all of them. I’ve got
The Mystery of the Falling Star
and
The Lost Kingdom of Lyonne
and
The Boy With the Clockwork Brain
and—”

“You don’t have to list them all, Addie,” Tate’s brother, Jim, had pointed out from where he was monitoring their Skype conversation.

“Yes I do!” she’d insisted. “So he knows which ones I’ve got!”

“You just said you have them all.”

“All except her
newest
one, Dad,” Addie said, not able to restrain an eye roll. “It’s not out yet, but her website says she’ll be selling copies at the bookstore. Uncle Tate”—she turned her big, pleading eyes on him—“can you please, please, please go and get me a copy for my birthday? And get it signed? Can you tell her to make it out to Addie and tell her how to spell my name right?”

“Begging isn’t attractive,” her father informed her. “Don’t put your uncle on the spot. Go and get ready for bed.”

She’d reluctantly given up her spot in front of the computer, and Jim waited patiently for Tate to shotgun the rest of his coffee. He didn’t mind getting up early to talk to his niece, but the fifteen-hour time difference from Denver to Gunsan meant he couldn’t do it without some serious caffeinated fortification.

“You don’t have to do this, but if you want to I’ll send you some cash for the book,” Jim said when he seemed sure he had Tate’s attention again.

“You don’t need to do that,” Tate protested. “It’s her birthday. I can manage one book.”

“If you do, you’ll be her favorite uncle. Addie’s been on a Withershine kick for the last six months, and the new releases are always slow to get here.”

Tate chuckled. “I’m her only uncle, but I’m sure I can do this. When’s the signing?”

“There’s this thing called the Internet. It magically connects you to information without you ever having to leave your apartment—”

Tate flipped his brother the finger. “Jackass.”

He’d figured it out eventually, and figured that since the signing was on a Friday from five to close, he could just show up after work. He’d bought used copies of two of Withershine’s other books in advance, just in case they sold out of the new one, and had congratulated himself on his foresight.

Tate had had no idea that people had been lining up for this signing since morning, but his naiveté was disabused the moment he got off the bus. The line stretched for three blocks back down the mall, parents and kids and plenty of other interested readers all waiting impatiently for the inches to go by. Tate had gotten in line at the end, his head swimming a little, and had checked his watch. Four thirty. And he’d thought he was being clever by leaving work early.

Now, an hour and a half later, he was half a block farther along and very, very cold. His skin crawled beneath his clothes, and Tate suppressed a shiver. He bounced on the balls of his feet a little, trying to warm up a bit. He rolled his neck, then his shoulders, then—“Shit!” The plastic bag holding his used books tumbled out of his hands and spilled onto the pavement. “No, no, no.” Tate dove for the bag, which still had one of the books in its protective skin, but the other…. Where was it? Tate looked around wildly but couldn’t see anything book shaped in the fading light. The streetlamps would flicker on soon, but by then it would be too late. The book would be ruined.

“Hey.” A light voice pulled Tate out of his growing panic. “I think I found your escapee.”

He turned and looked at the guy speaking to him from under a bright yellow umbrella, and sighed with relief when he saw the book in the man’s hand.

“Thanks,” Tate breathed, reaching for the book and inspecting it anxiously. “Damn it.” The pages on one side were soaked through, already wrinkling from the wet.

“It’s a little worse for wear, but I think that just adds character,” the man said.

“I guess there isn’t much I can do about it.” For a moment Tate wished he was a kid again, just so he would have an excuse to throw a tantrum, but he squashed the impulse and tore his eyes away from the sodden book. “Thanks anyway. I appreciate… it.” Oh, wow. He was… well. He was a few inches taller than Tate, wearing a close-fitting quilted red jacket and dark jeans. His skin was warm brown, almost a copper color, and he was smiling in a way that made Tate automatically smile back, unable to keep his lips from curling up.

“No problem,” the man said. “You might want to reclaim your place in the line. It looks like it’ll be swallowed up if you’re not vigilant.”

“Oh, right.” Tate’s place had already been swallowed, in fact, but a stern glare coupled with inexorably shifting back into the queue had the woman who’d moved up grudgingly making space. Tate put the book back in the bag, wet side up. “Thanks again.”

“Sure. Aren’t you cold?”

“Does it show?” Tate asked ruefully, and the guy chuckled. “A little. Hopefully I’ll make it inside before I freeze solid.” Now that the sun was gone, it was getting downright frosty.

“Yeah,” the guy agreed. “Maybe this will help.” He handed over his umbrella, or tried to. Tate stared at it for a second.

“I can’t just steal your umbrella. Then
you’ll
get soaked.”

“I’m not in line for the signing,” the guy told him. “And you’re not stealing it. I’m letting you borrow it. C’mon.”

He pushed it toward Tate again, and his brain finally came back online and he took it. The handle was warm from the other man’s grip.

“Look, I have to deliver some glitter pens, but I’ll be right back, okay?”

Glitter pens?
“Okay.”

“Great.” He vanished down the line, and Tate watched him go, so bemused that he didn’t realize the line had moved three whole inches before the woman behind him pointedly cleared her throat. Tate started, shuffled forward, and contemplated the umbrella in his hand, a bright yellow promise that, for a little while at least, he had something to look forward to. That helped his mood a lot more than the umbrella itself, which was a nice gesture but a bit too late to really do him any good. He exhaled heavily and watched for any sign of his breath turning to mist. Nothing yet. Tate moved forward another inch or so, wanting to move around more but not willing to risk spilling his books again.

His umbrella fairy turned up a few minutes later with two paper cups from the Tattered Cover’s café in his hand. “I should have asked you what you wanted before I left,” he said a little ruefully, “but I figure everyone likes a latte, right?”

“That’s for me?” Tate asked, then felt unforgivably slow when the man tilted his head and looked him up and down with concern.

“You’re not getting hypothermic, are you?”

“No, I’m fine. A latte sounds perfect.” They carefully negotiated the hot-beverage-umbrella handoff so that Tate could keep hold of his book bag, and then he took his first sip. Oh, God… he hadn’t even realized how cold he was before there was something hot to contrast it to, but oh. The coffee tasted amazing and felt even better, burning a blissful path of heat down his throat and into his belly.

He opened his eyes again—Tate didn’t even remember closing them—and met the umbrella man’s gaze. He looked at Tate like he’d just done something shocking, eyes a little wide, mouth agape. Ah. He’d made the coffee noise, then.

“Was that loud?” Tate asked sheepishly.

“Kiiind of,” his companion drawled. “Do you like lattes that much, or is it the circumstances?”

“Both,” Tate said. “And listen, uh… can I have your name? So I stop thinking of you as Umbrella Man in my head?”

“Right, sure.” It was his turn to look a little sheepish. “Brandon Halling. Nice to meet you.”

“Tate Beckinsale. Don’t laugh,” he cautioned when he saw Brandon’s sudden grin. “I get asked that all the time, and no it wasn’t deliberate, and no we’re not related.”

Brandon looked him up and down again, and this time he wasn’t assessing whether or not Tate was about to drop from the cold. He didn’t look disgusted, which, considering Tate was wearing a battered Broncos hoodie over his wrinkled button-down and wet-through slacks, was pretty nice.

“You could be,” Brandon said after a minute. “You look kind of like her. I could definitely see you fighting werewolves in skintight leather and high heels.”

Tate almost snorted his next sip of coffee and burst into laughter a moment after he swallowed. “Jesus, what? No way, I can’t balance in heels. I’d break something.”

“The heels? That’s your objection to the whole thing, that you’d have to wear heels? ’Cause I can throw those out of the picture if it means I get to see the rest of it.”

Tate grinned, the warmth of the coffee warring with the heat that unfurled along his spine at the playful flirting from a cute guy. It was flirting, it had to be—someone who wasn’t interested wouldn’t play with him like this. “Well, maybe I’ll consider it for next Halloween, but until then you’re out of luck.”

“Aw, really?”

“Really.” Tate shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I can probably bear it,” Brandon replied, then sipped his own coffee. “Man, that’s nice. How long have you been in line?”

“For—” Tate consulted his watch. “—almost two hours. And we’ve moved about one block out of four. I can’t even imagine how crowded things must be inside.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty swamped.”

“I mean, I knew Anthea Withershine was popular, but I didn’t know she was quite
this
popular. I hope I get in.” Tate moved a little to the left and felt gratified when Brandon moved correspondingly closer, keeping both of them under the protective arc of the umbrella.

“Do you like her books?”

Tate glanced at the bag pressed to his chest. “I actually haven’t read them. I’m here because my niece asked me for a signed copy of the newest one for her birthday and I’m a total pushover.”

“That’s nice of you, though.”