Ghosts of Christmas (Steamy Bwwm Holiday Romance)

  Ghosts of Christmas

  Ghosts of Christmas © 2020

  Cover Design © 2020 by Alex Albornoz

  Interior design and formatting by EbookJob

  1st Editor: Jade Editing

  2nd Editor: Samantha Wright

  Alpha and Beta Readers: Z. Wyatt, T. Miller, K. Thomas, A. Hutson, D. Ruffim.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means such as electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the authors of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Any characters, names, places, brands, media and incidents are used solely in a fictitious nature based on the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to or mention of persons, places, organizations or other incidents is coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2020

  ISBN 0-9000000-0-0

  www.KenyaWrightBooks.com

  “Time heals some wounds, but love heals them all.”

  ― Matshona Dhliwayo

  Table of Contents

  Act One

  Prologue: It’s Beginning to Look A lot like Christmas

  Chapter 1: What Christmas Means to Me

  Chapter 2: We Three Kings

  Chapter 3: You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch

  Chapter 4: This Christmas

  Chapter 5: Rocking Around the Christmas Tree

  Chapter 6: A Holly Jolly Christmas

  Chapter 7: Christmas Kiss

  Act Two

  Chapter 8: I Won’t Be Home for Christmas

  Chapter 9: Grandma Got Runover by a Reindeer

  Chapter 10: Winter Wonderland

  Chapter 11: Cool Yule

  Chapter 12: Cozy Little Christmas

  Chapter 13: It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

  Chapter 14: Feliz Navidad

  Chapter 15: White Christmas

  Act Three

  Chapter 16: Sleigh Ride

  Chapter 17: Oh Holy Night

  Chapter 18: Christmas Eve

  Chapter 19: Blue Christmas

  Chapter 20: All I Want for Christmas is You

  Epilogue: Two years later

  Dear Reader

  Prologue

  It’s Beginning to Look A lot like Christmas

  I didn’t spend much time in church, but when I did, it was to hold a fashion show. Places of worship served as the perfect fit for my creative narrative. Clothing was part of our identity as human beings. So was religion. To merge the two made me feel complete.

  And there could be no better place than St. Paul's Chapel in Lower Manhattan—right on Broadway. The chapel boasted a Georgian Classic-Revival style—brownstone quoins and boxy proportions. It boasted an elegant hall in pale colors, flat ceiling, and glass chandeliers.

  The place cost a pretty penny to rent out. It was a 235-year-old building and the oldest surviving church in Manhattan. Alexander Hamilton and George Washington worshiped there. Unfortunately, I bet slaves stacked each brownstone and formed the wooden frames.

  Slaves’ sweat, pain, and blood solidified this structure. Due to that, nothing could destroy the chapel. It survived the Great New York City Fire during the American Revolution. Many years later, 9/11 happened and the World Trade Centers collapsed, triggering destruction all over Manhattan. St. Paul’s Chapel remained standing without broken glass or dent. People called it, “The Little Chapel That Stood.”

  And here I was, the first black designer to use it. That gave me an unspeakable amount of pride.

  I wasn’t a big believer in God, but I knew a great spiritual presence resided here. And I needed all of that power tonight.

  God or whoever is up there, please make sure this event is a success.

  I peeked out from the curtain.

  Elegant people crowded the old church—supermodels, designers, celebrities, and fashion editors.

  Awesome turnout.

  The stage glowed white. Fluttering sparks of light continuously rained to create an illusion of snow. The song’s bass boomed through the church, thickening the air with an exciting energy.

  Soon, chic models would stroll up and down the runway, wearing my fashions. I specialized in haute couture clothing. Couture was French for dressmaking. Haute meant high. To qualify as an official Haute Couture house, my staff and I were required to design made-to-order clothes for private clients—wealthy ones. That took time, but I managed to network with new actresses and politicians looking to add flair to their public presence. Finally, Haute Couture houses had to present a collection of no less than 50 original designs—both day and evening—to the public every season.

  I produced my first collection at twenty-three. Now in my fifth year, I’d risen to stardom.

  It’s going to be awesome, Ivy.

  Tonight’s collection had nothing to do with my fashion career. It was my third annual Winter Charity Gala. All proceeds would be given to low-income single mothers in need. When I first started this event, the money only went to single mothers in New York. This year, I hoped to raise enough money to help single mothers throughout America.

  I crossed my shaking fingers.

  They’re going to love the designs, buy it for their stores, and I’ll make my goal for this event.

  I moved the curtain, shutting myself away from the glamourous view of the front row. My nervousness continued to spike.

  All I could do was take slow breaths as I turned around, taking in the war and chaos thundering behind the curtains.

  Here we go.

  There were thirty models in the show. Currently, at least ten were ambling about. I shook my head. Some were half-clothed. Others boasted my evening gowns and held up their phones as they chatted live on their social media. The rest were lost and being herded around by my three assistant designers.

  “Phones off. Come on. Get it together, ladies,” I barked at them. “And get in place. That’s why we practiced nonstop to avoid this.”

  Several of the models hurried off.

  The show director scurried in the other direction with his clipboard, checking off the things on his list. I hurried farther back to check on my four stylists and ten makeup artists. Their tables looked like they’d had a makeup fight. Colorful powders and brushes scattered all over the place.

  I checked the right. Some of my hairdressers still fluffed and teased the models’ hair.

  A few publicists attempted to get my attention.

  I waved them away. “After the show, guys.”

  One groaned. Two photographers snapped dozens of shots. I rushed by them to get a handle on this organized madness. I’d spent too much money and too many months planning and preparing the Charity Gala.

  Still, last minute emergencies appeared. I had to hem three skirts as they stood in line to go outside. One model showed up late and covered in red and green glitter. Apparently, she had a previous lingerie fashion show, presenting glittery lingerie. My team cleaned her up and re-did her makeup in minutes. However, it took prep time away from the other models. Additionally, the stylist wasted ten minutes of my time trying to change the color of the shoes, knowing that we would have had to send my assistant to rush and get more.

  Speaking of my assistant.

  Park rushed over to me. “Okay. We’re ready.”

  I stopped one model, checked the gown’s hem, and nodded. “You’re ready, Star.”

  The model smiled and hurried to get in place.

  I turned to Park
. Before coming to New York, she was a contestant on South Korea's Next Top Model show. She ended up taking third place.

  But that wasn’t the most intriguing part of her background. Park had been born a boy. With the support of understanding parents, Park underwent male-to-female gender reassignment surgery as a teenager. Then, she changed her given name from Hyun-woo to Hyori and decided she wanted to be a model. Unfortunately, she struggled with discrimination in South Korea and was barely booked. She moved to New York for a new start in the fashion world. Here, she realized that modeling wasn’t her thing. The clothes proved to be her true love. I hired her as my assistant a year later.

  I turned to Park. “Is everything else ready?”

  She tossed her long black hair over her shoulder. “As ready as it’s going to be.”

  “Park, that’s not a comforting answer.”

  “Sorry, Ivy. This has just been nerve-wracking.”

  “Welcome to New York Fashion.” I walked off. “Any problems?”

  “Lots of front row drama.” She kept my pace. “Eleanor Windsor arrived. She demanded champagne and a closer seat.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Eleanor is at the first seat next to the stage. She can’t get any closer besides sitting her ass right in the middle of the runway. I told you she was a diva.”

  “And you were correct.”

  “We have to get her wasted or she is going to be dramatic all damn night.”

  “Yeah. I remember your advice. I had a waiter give her some champagne and. . .”

  I continued walking around the area, making sure the models were getting into place. “And?”

  “We put a few drops of rum in it like you told me.”

  “And?”

  “She’s been rocking and jamming in the seat the whole time. Completely off beat.”

  “We do what we must for our VIPS.”

  “She keeps calling me Parky Baby.”

  I laughed. “I told you to put your foot down on your name.”

  Everyone thought her name was Park because in the Korean writing system the family name comes first. Therefore, when she came to New York, she would always write her name as Park Hyori. Instead of changing how she wrote it or explaining it to everyone over and over, she just went with it.

  “I like Park.” She frowned. “But I don’t like Parky Baby.”

  I grinned.

  Rushing past, my show director Wanda yelled, “First outfits! Get in line!”

  I scanned the space. Each model had a dresser which was a person making sure they had the correct accessories on and that their makeup didn’t smudge. The dressers looked pleased as they assessed the models. A few hairstylists and makeup artists touched up the models’ faces and stuck extra pins in a few models’ hair.

  I raised my finger to my mouth and bit at one nail, completely destroying the recent manicure. “Do you think I should change the handbags?”

  Park shook her head. “They’re perfect.”

  I moved my finger away and walked over to the front of the monitor. The director stood, waiting for the first model to go down the runway. She gave a thumbs up to me and then whispered into her headphone speaker. “Cue the music.”

  The song shifted to a slow jazz production of Have Yourself A Merry Christmas.

  I watched the screen. The space where the audience stood went dark for a few seconds. All chatter ceased. Then the runaway glowed bright silver. The projector came back on, covering the area in snowflake lights.

  I exhaled, knowing that there was no turning back.

  The director whispered back into the headphone. “Get the first model ready.”

  Park stepped next to me. “I feel like I’m going to piss myself.”

  “Don’t.”

  “How can you stand there so calm?”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo. Besides, I’m nervous. I just don’t let it show.”

  “Still, this was madness for months putting it all together and now. . .it all comes down to twenty minutes.”

  “And everything better go perfectly.”

  Possibly hearing me, the director stirred as she spoke into his mic, “And begin.”

  The first model strolled out onto the runway, wearing a strapless red gown that was embellished with crystals. A few gasps came from the front row. I tried to see who made the sound, but the audience represented a blur of onlooking faces. The model continued down the runaway. Photographers snapped. Cameras flashed.

  My stomach twisted.

  After the fashion show, more would come this evening. The whole gala included a dinner attended by 300 A-list guests and an auction for these designer pieces.

  They’ll love it and spend tons of money.

  My fingers shook.

  The fashion show continued. All the models went out with no mishaps. Second outfits came next. I exhaled and Park stopped fidgeting next to me. By the third outfits, I bit my nails and forced myself to stop.

  Almost over.

  Once again, I squinted to check some of the faces in the audience, hoping they were dazzled enough with this collection to donate big bucks. These would be exclusive items that could only be purchased through the gala.

  My phone rang. I groaned.

  Who the hell would call at this time? Everyone knows what I’m doing.

  I pulled out my phone and checked.

  Dad: I’m so impressed with all the clothes.

  My heart seized in my chest. I almost dropped the phone. Another text came.

  Dad: This is beautiful. As always, I am proud of you.

  Leave me alone.

  I had to calm myself before I started hyperventilating. Frowning, I shut the phone off.

  Nervousness filled Park’s voice. “Is there a problem?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She blinked. “You look upset.”

  “It’s just. . .”

  “Anything that I could help you with?”

  “No. I’m pretty sure my dad is in the audience.”

  She widened her eyes. “Wow. Where?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I can’t think about that now.” I walked off and headed to the edge of the curtain. The last few models were returning from the stage.

  When are you going to give up? I don’t want you in my life and that’s it. Accept it!

  All the models lined up to stroll the catwalk together.

  Just pretend like he isn’t here.

  I exhaled and headed out for the finale. Usually, this would be the most exhilarating moment. But with my father here, I couldn’t wait to get off the stage.

  Leave me alone.

  Models flanked me on both sides. Strolling forward, I forced a smile and waved. The audience stood and clapped for me.

  After the show, more photographers hurried backstage and took pictures. Cameras were everywhere. Near the makeup area, a celebration party started. Park and the others offered glasses of champagne to the entire team.

  Fucking asshole.

  My eyes watered. Pain filled my chest.

  Park looked my way. “Ivy, do you want some. . .”

  I stomped off.

  You couldn’t just let me have one moment. You know how rough it is for me during Christmas time. Why would you keep bothering me?

  Park hurried after me. “Ivy?”

  I continued toward the back exit of the church. “I have to go.”

  “Go? But the dinner and auction—”

  “That’s why I hire a huge team so if things come up or I’m sick, then the show still goes on.”

  Still holding two glasses of champagne, Park got to my side and rushed with me. “But are you sick?”

  “Yes.”

  Skepticism covered her face.

  My hands shook from anger. I took out my phone. “Be ready in the morning. Are you packed?”

  “Uh. . .so. . .about the whole holiday wedding. . .my. . .um. . .my friends are visiting and. . .I thought maybe. . .”

  Pulling out my phone, I stopped and looked at her. �
��What?”

  “Well. . .” She sighed.

  I turned my phone on. “I know Christmas is this week, but we’re too busy to take off. I would cancel going to this wedding, but Holly is my best friend and I’m the maid of honor. Meanwhile, we have to pay the bills. So, you’ll be at the airport in the morning?”

  She nodded. “I’m packed.”

  “Good.” I spotted more text messages from Dad and deleted each one without reading them. “Thank God you’ll be there to help me keep up with work. I’ll need you.”

  She frowned. “Yeah.”

  “See you in the morning.” I headed off and typed one of the guys I usually called in stressful moments.

  Me: Hey.

  Red: How was your event?

  Me: Never mind that. Let’s fuck. Your place.

  Red: When?

  Me: I’ll be there in ten minutes.

  Red: See you then.

  Of all my fuckboys, Red was the most dependable. I called him Red because there was no need to remember his name. I nicknamed all my fuckboys after colors. When I met this one, he wore a red shirt over his muscular chest. He was a model that had black hair, green eyes, and a dimple that showed when he orgasmed. Other than that, I didn’t care to know anything else about him.

  He would get rid of the darkness that my father had brought with him. Too bad I couldn’t take Red on my trip to my best friend’s wedding. While I enjoyed fucking him and the others, I didn’t relish in the conversations afterward. That’s why I loved to go to their places. Then it was easy for me to leave without any trouble. But that wasn’t why I wouldn’t bring Red.

  My best friend Holly had an insatiable brother that I couldn’t resist no matter how many times I tried. I’d grown up with both of them since they lived next door to my childhood home. Most used to call them the twins. Since becoming my best friends, I learned that they hated it. Therefore, I made sure to call them by their own names.

  However, as adults, my relationship with both of them changed. Holly was more a sister than a best friend. And Saint turned into a secret lover that graced me with his large cock during the holidays. Every Christmas, Saint feasted on my body. There would be no need for Red, Blue, or even Black. When it came to Saint, no fuckboys were necessary, even though I hated to admit it.