A Guy for Christmas - K.C. Wells Page 0,6

that.”

Kate gaped at Dean. “But… you and Kris… you’re not remotely suited.” She pointed at Kris. “Dog person.” Then at Dean. “Cat person. Not to mention… seriously?”

Dean gave a wry chuckle. “As soon as my mom learned one of my friends was gay, she instantly assumed—like a lot of straight people, I should add—that meant we were destined to date, marry, and live happily ever after.”

Kris erupted into a peal of laughter. “Dean, honey, I love you, but… hell no.” The others joined in.

Tigger chose that moment to wake up. He stretched, then proceeded to climb over Kate’s legs, hooking tiny claws into her jeans as he pulled himself higher until he was at her chin. He butted his head under it, and Kate was a goner.

“Oh my God, he’s gorgeous.” She petted him, stroking his soft fur.

“Are you telling me you don’t want a little romance in your life?” Diane studied Dean, the firelight catching in her dark eyes.

Dean considered the question. “If a little romance found its way into my life, I wouldn’t complain.” He’d had a couple of short-term relationships in Chicago when he was a substitute teacher, but nothing serious. Ever since the move to Lake Placid, he’d had no time for a relationship. He’d found the house, spent a few years getting it exactly how he wanted it, settled into his job…

Maybe it was time to think about romance.

Kate’s eyes gleamed. “We are on the case.”

Dean groaned. “No. No. You are not going to find me a guy, okay?”

“Don’t you trust our judgment?” Suze demanded.

Dean merely snorted. “Just leave it up to fate, all right?” He was a firm believer in fate. If there was someone out there who was perfect for him, then nothing would keep them apart. And in the meantime, the skiing season was getting underway, so while he was waiting for Mr. Perfect, Dean wouldn’t be lonely.

Whoever he is, he doesn’t live here. Dean figured he’d met every available guy in the village. He was betting money on a stranger moving into town. As to what this fictional stranger looked like, Dean wasn’t picky.

Though whoever was out there had better like cats, because Dean’s buddy at the animal shelter had called to say he’d found another kitty that was perfect for Dean.

Oh God, I really am turning into a crazy cat lady.

What were the chances of Santa getting off his fat ass and sending a cute, sexy, cat-loving guy Dean’s way? Someone else who wanted a little romance in his life? Someone who wouldn’t turn up his nose at the idea of a night on Dean’s couch, cuddled up together while they watched a movie?

Practically non-existent.

Christmas was almost upon them, but he was too long in the tooth to believe in miracles.

Chapter Three

Robin put down his sandpaper at the sound of his dad’s voice. If Dad needed Robin, he’d holler. After a moment, Robin resumed his rubdown of the wood, removing its rough edges until it was smooth as glass. From what he could glean, Dad had a customer, but as soon as he heard the other participant, Robin stilled. I know that voice. He strained to listen, trying to place it. When the door opened Robin quickly went back to his task.

“Well, come on through and take a look.”

Robin glanced up with interest, and then froze when in walked Mr. Quentin, the art and drama teacher from his high school. The very cool and sexy as fuck Mr. Quentin. It was a weird feeling seeing him out of his usual environment. Now that he thought about it, Robin hadn’t laid eyes on Mr. Quentin since graduation in June.

Mr. Quentin’s eyes lit up. “Well, if it isn’t my best ever set-builder.”

Robin knew he was flushed. Tingling swept up the back of his neck and across his face.

Dad gazed at Mr. Quentin in puzzlement for a moment, then widened his eyes. “Of course. You teach at the high school. Was Robin one of your students? I can’t remember.”

“No, he wasn’t, but I did a production of Dracula last year, and Robin helped build this really spooky set. It was amazing.” Mr. Quentin inclined his head toward Robin. “Your son is very talented.”

“We think so too.” Dad’s eyes lit up. “So you’re the one to blame for all the time he spent after school.”

Mr. Quentin held up his hands. “Hey, he volunteered.”

Dad chuckled. “I’m kidding. And it was a fantastic production. I remember when I was in high school. I was in a