Summary:
A storefront. You've never noticed it before. It's small, unassuming, and yet there's something about it that draws your eye. And the scent drifting out, dark and aromatic, so enticing. How could you have overlooked it? It must be new.
So why does Sweets to the Sweet look like it's been there for ages? And the pale man behind the counter...certainly you'd remember him.
Much like love, chocolate can be rich and heady, distractingly sensual, sweet and bitter. Just ask Chance. He’s been the catalyst of many a relationship over the years, though he himself scoffs at the notion of a happily ever after. But sometimes a mere hint of sweetness is all it takes.
Follow Sweets to the Sweet as it alights across the globe in twelve novelettes by Jordan Castillo Price, Sean Kennedy and Clare London.
Previously released individually as the Petit Morts series, now available together for the first time in this sweeping omnibus anthology.
Asking for help can be a challenge for even the best of us, and so it's doubly intimidating for quiet, introverted Tommy Roth. An online exchange leads to a meeting with a psychic who assures Tommy that his naturally subdued aura is to blame for his timidity. Blue and violet tones are out, and shades of yellow and red are in!
Of course it's a bunch of baloney, and to make it worse, the intimidating shop clerk overheard the whole conversation.
Just when it seems like Tommy's life can’t get any more dreary, a colorful character drops out of the sky. Nathan's so vivid, he seems to good to be true. Is he?
Rust. Cabbage. A vague sour odor of spoiled milk. No, that's not the smell of the dumpster behind Sweets to the Sweet—it's Emmett Russo's horrible house. Everyone told him a home was a great investment, but the market went bad, he discovered a bunch of hidden problems, and now he owes more on his mortgage than the old Kansas farmhouse is worth.
If that's not bad enough, his best friend Rosemary just landed a fabulous new job…in Paris. The Paris. And Emmett doesn't know if he can face his horrible house without her. Emmett longs to jaunt away with Rosemary, but how can he fly with his albatross of a house dragging him down?
Enter tall, strapping Sam Kowalski, who's rumored to be "good with his hands." Emmett's not accustomed to airing his stinky secrets to just anybody, but Sam seems determined to help him out…and together they discover there's far more hidden in Emmett's horrible house than a bunch of weird smells.
JP McMahon cruises into the small, oceanside town of Brightside hoping to score a bed for the night and a few dollars to fill the Miata's gas tank. He discovers that cell phones and Internet are non-existent, and that without access to matchmaker sites and Craigslist, the local newspaper's personal ads are booming.
He cooks up an unlikely scam, a foul novelty concoction called Spanish Fly. He also finds an unlikely accomplice in Ryan, the quiet local kid at the copy shop with a flair for designing irresistible labels.
Spanish Fly proves popular--almost too popular--and JP suspects his luck is about to turn. But that "little voice" inside tells him to stick around Brightside just a tiny bit longer...
Just because Dominic Mann personally lacks beauty doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate it. His keen eye has made him one of the most celebrated and sought-after photographers in Nashville.
The grand re-opening of the Cypress Mansion is an event for Nashville’s truly elite, and Dominic is the official photographer of the evening. Not that he’d need that excuse to introduce himself to up-and-coming singer Johnny Palomino and grab a few shots…but it doesn’t hurt.
Dominic hopes to take his flirtation with Johnny to the next level at the Cypress Mansion tea, where they’ve arranged to meet. But what greets Dominic in the mirror the next morning is such a shock, he’s almost late for the party.
No one at Cypress Mansion is acting like they notice anything different. Or do they?
When he hung his brand new psychology degree on the wall, Jason Harvey had imagined working at one of the many hospitals or clinics in Melbourne. The want ads, however, hadn’t cooperated. Now Jason finds himself facing the newly bereaved across the counselor’s desk of the Newlin Funeral Parlour.
Certainly all people deserve sympathy and patience in their time of loss, but Jason’s current client has him at wit’s end. What’s worse, the deceased has included a bizarre request in her final wishes: that her passing be commemorated…with chocolate.
Things start looking up for Jason when amicable young Fred takes over the funeral coordination duties from his sour aunt, but despite their best efforts to honor the departed in the manner she’s requested, they find the memorial service sliding inexorably out of control…
Dying with dignity. Passing on one’s own terms. Approaching the end in a caring, nurturing atmosphere. There are plenty of reasons people check in to Hospice House…but Eddie Flynn’s just there for the morphine.
Eddie’s lung capacity is down to 15%, he’s in continual pain, and he’s constantly burning up with fever from the infection he just can’t shake. Given his physical condition, he’s baffled to find himself fawning over the hot guy stocking the vending machines.
Eddie figures it’s futile to even flirt with someone, considering how little time he’s got left. But there’s something about the guy with the name “Chance” embroidered on his coveralls that he just can’t stop thinking about—not only for Chance’s naughty smile and bedroom eyes.
It seems Eddie’s somehow ended up with Chance’s pen.
Greece is full of history, so it figures that Chance’s on-again, off-again lover would find him there. Sweets to the Sweet appears in Athens during a string of riots, and the beguiling creature who now goes by the name Hunter has insinuated himself among the staff of a nearby hospital.
Milo Alexakis is a member of the Hellenic Police—and with all the protests and the rioting, he’s ruing the crappy grades and crappier finances that kept him out of university and put him in the daily path of hurled insults, spit wads and cobblestones. American Dave Shaw is ruing the fact that he never managed to learn any Greek before he embarked on the world’s worst vacation, alone.
Cop meets tourist in a brilliant conflagration—and amidst the Molotov cocktails and burning cars, Chance finds the lure of his old flame impossible to resist.
Oliver's been dumped by his date in the backstreets of London, where his Armani suit and a rich family background don't count for much.
Des is waiting tables to make ends meet, reconciled to the fact that all he attracts are lame ducks and lost causes.
Two different men, two very different worlds.
Then Des’s cheerful generosity meets Oliver’s lovelorn confusion over a cup of coffee and a bag of sinfully good chocolates...Enter Chance, working at the Cafe Mystique under the looming presence of the London Eye, searching as always for The One, matchmaking with his own brand of sensual, sweet and shocking magic.
What follows is a mix of providence, passion and good old British pounds. After all, everyone should give credit where credit’s due.
The past can come back to haunt you. Wes Jackson doesn’t believe in ghosts. His Fremantle ghost walk is for entertainment purposes only—right down to the psychic medium (aka his mother) who’s always shocked to find “presences” on his tours…four times a week.
If ghosts were real, the Fremantle Round House would be teeming with them. Australian convicts built the forbidding walls, and after the prison outgrew it, mental patients were locked away within its stark cells. But preternatural activity? None. Any trepidation Wes usually displays while leading his tour through the tunnel beneath the Round House is pure theatrics—until the longtime partner he split with turns up, and ghost of their relationship rears its head.
Can Chance help them resurrect the spirit of their lost love?
If there’s one thing you can always count on, it’s change. But the shift in Chance’s job description is one change he could have done without. It’s an ill-fitting role, and his displaced colleague is just as much in the dark as to its purpose as he is.
Chance finds matchmaking particularly irksome from his lonely post behind the counter of Sweets to the Sweet. From Belfast to Auckland, Bruges to Los Angeles, he works his magic, hoping that sooner rather than later his own fate may be fulfilled.
Thus far, Chance’s only reward for a job well done is more of the same. Since he’s had enough with going through the motions, he decides it’s time to make a big splash. Will management take notice?
Love is not for the faint of heart. Mild-mannered Trevor accompanies his Gran Elsie on holiday at a luxury resort in Majorca, hoping for some rest and relaxation under the dazzling Spanish sun. But they didn’t count on arriving in the middle of Flamenco Week. Instead of massages and siestas, they find noisy builders and tacky theme parties.
Trevor has a choice to make: put up, or shut up—and finding the nerve to complain to the staff, the mysterious Chance and imperturbable Hunter, is far from easy. But the impromptu assertiveness training comes in handy when he catches the eye of the manager’s son, Alejo.
There’s someone for everyone—even Trevor—providing he finds the courage to stand up for what he wants.
Chance wasn’t sure he even had a heart—until he felt it breaking.
Richard Hill should be grading papers, but a dilapidated roadside carnival distracts him from his clipboard full of essays on the function of the human heart. The weather is cold and the carnies are dour, but the cotton candy is good enough to lure him back for more.
It doesn’t hurt that former student Joel Weaver, all grown up, is working there too—and not only is he quirky and cute, he seems to be putting off an “interested” vibe.
Chance is accustomed enough to the love gig by now to get The One situated without breaking a sweat—until he finds the fates of the newfound lovers are more tangled than he’d anticipated.
The only thing left to do is take the situation up with management.
London Eye by Clare London
“Why the hell would I ask for an opinion from a bloody waiter?”
Startled, Oliver heard Rupert’s angry voice above everything else in the restaurant: the chatter of the other late night guests, many of them the worse for drink; the clink of cutlery; the Spanish guitar music piped in as background ambience. He twisted in his chair, turning towards the back of the room and the source of the argument.
Rupert was glaring at one of the young waiters, the one who’d earlier brought Oliver an extra portion of stuffed mushrooms. The food really had been excellent. In fact, Oliver thought the whole evening’s service had been very efficient. But Rupert was gesturing towards the counter where the liqueur bottles and card payment machine sat.
Was it a problem with the bill? Rupert’s handsome face was rather alarmingly red, his broad shoulders looked tensed. The dark-haired waiter was just as tall as Rupert but he leaned back as if trying to avoid Rupert’s breath. He was frowning: his fist was clenched at his side.
Oliver stood up, ready to pour oil on these troubled waters. This was often his role. Instinctively, he patted his suit jacket, right over the inside pocket where he kept his bank card. Everything would be fine. He nodded reassuringly to a group of bemused diners at a nearby table, who’d stopped mid-forkful to stare at Rupert and the waiter’s altercation. Yes, Oliver would pay the bill as usual, and then it’d be time to ease Rupert away from the restaurant and back to Oliver’s flat. Or he assumed that was where they’d go, again as usual. Rupert had never invited Oliver to his place, but that was something to look forward to when they were a more established couple, wasn’t it? Everyone’s personal time had been severely curtailed while the bank had been involved in the recent merger. But now that the deal was done–and successfully–Oliver was anticipating a more intimate reward for those long, long hours and short, short tempers. He was sure Rupert was, too, considering the way his knee had pressed against Oliver’s all through the main course.
He surreptitiously smoothed down an unruly curl of hair that always fell over his brow and swallowed against an unexpected knot of tension. Rupert was striding back towards their table. The other guests had turned back to their meal, the waiter had slunk behind the bar to fetch something. Oliver sat back down and smiled up as Rupert reached him. “Is everything all right?”
Rupert shook his head dismissively. “Brandy’s your tipple, isn’t it, old chap? I ordered that boy to bring over the best bottle they have.”
“Brandy?” Oliver blinked at Rupert’s abrupt words. They clashed painfully with Oliver’s more tender thoughts. “I…yes. That’ll be fine. Don’t you want to…?” He realized Rupert wasn’t making the appropriate moves to sit back down. He had to crick his neck to look up at his dinner companion.
“I have to go now,” Rupert said. Oliver listened closely for regret in Rupert’s tone but couldn’t quite catch it. Rupert patted his jacket pocket, in unconscious mimicry of Oliver’s own, earlier gesture. “Got a phone call from the Director.”
When? Oliver knew Rupert’s phone hadn’t rung at any time during the meal. Why would he lie about it? “Of course. We can leave now–”
“No. Not you.”
Oliver blinked again. In contrast, Rupert’s gaze didn’t waver, his eyes gleaming in the muted restaurant lighting. In the background, a rather muffled version of That’s Amore piped its way through the sound system.
“Oliver.” Rupert’s face twisted as if he found the softer tone awkward. “This is probably a convenient opportunity to wrap things up.”
“Wrap things…?”
Rupert was concentrating on buttoning his jacket. “Obviously this was never meant to be long-term.” He waved an aimless hand through the air.
What wasn’t? The meal? The affair? Oliver bit back a sudden, shocked moan.
“You’ve been fun of course, and very rewarding.” Rupert’s gaze flickered briefly up and down Oliver’s body and his eyes darkened. “Very. But there was never any intention of making more of it than that. It’s not something the Board would approve of at this stage of my career, if you know what I mean. Well, we’re both men of the world, aren’t we?”
Oliver couldn’t find the words to respond. He knew it was rude to stare at Rupert’s mouth, but he was trying to make the words he was hearing match with the ones he’d hoped for.
Rupert clapped him briefly on the shoulder with rather too much force. “Thanks for the meal, Betts. Was good to have you on the team, while it lasted. I’ll write you a damned good reference for your next move.”
“My next move…?”
Rupert gave a short, brusque laugh, and turned on his heel.
In a barely conscious gesture, Oliver reached out for Rupert. He didn’t catch him, but his elbow caught the edge of his plate instead, sending it spinning off the table. It landed on the tiled floor with a hideously loud crash, and the remains of a very fine Veal Saltimbocca splashed all over Oliver’s shoes.
Oliver didn’t move. He stared, speechless, at Rupert’s back as the other man left the restaurant without a backward glance.
Media Naranja (Other Half) by Clare London and Jordan Castillo Price
Flamenco Week! Food! Festivities! Fun! The vinyl banner sagged in the middle. Either it had never been hung properly to begin with, or the blazing Majorcan sun had caused it to start melting. Or maybe it had finally begun to collapse under the weight of all its exclamation points. Trevor eyed it as he headed into the lobby of Sol Maduro to check in. His initial thrill over the prospect of seeing some real Spanish flamenco was tempered by the fact that his Gran could hardly be expected to recuperate among all the clapping and stomping and strumming and tight pants.
Not that she probably noticed the tight pants. At least, he didn’t care to think of her noticing them. She was his gran, after all. He was the one should be interested in all that. Pity he was also the one without the nerve to act on it.
The front desk was empty and the lobby was still, save for an oscillating fan that creaked slowly, side to side, and a sheet of paper that fluttered each time it passed. Trevor had expected a clerk, or maybe the manager. Instead there was only a photograph, a large, sun-faded poster on the wall that showed three bronzed, smiling men of various ages, with the proclamation beneath it, Roberto and his sons welcome you to an experience of Majorca you will never forget!
“Hello?” he called, hoping for Roberto. Or one of his sons. The fan droned in response.
Gran and her old cohort Vera would be fine in the air-conditioned cab, he supposed. But even the two-hour flight journey from Gatwick seemed to have taken a lot out of Gran, and he was eager to get her settled in to the villa.
“Hello?” A bit louder, this time. The paper fluttered again. From the patio, a gull shrilled.
Trevor scanned the front desk for a note that might tell him where the staff had stepped off to, or maybe a bell to ring. The fluttering paper was the middle page of a brochure for Sol Maduro’s new day spa, spread open on the desk. He took a closer look. It showed a row of middle-aged female models prone on massage tables, smiling faces turned to one side, with towels wrapped around their hair, and round, smooth stones on their backs.
That was what they’d come to Majorca to experience: relaxation. Not flamenco.
“Why the hell would I ask for an opinion from a bloody waiter?”
Startled, Oliver heard Rupert’s angry voice above everything else in the restaurant: the chatter of the other late night guests, many of them the worse for drink; the clink of cutlery; the Spanish guitar music piped in as background ambience. He twisted in his chair, turning towards the back of the room and the source of the argument.
Rupert was glaring at one of the young waiters, the one who’d earlier brought Oliver an extra portion of stuffed mushrooms. The food really had been excellent. In fact, Oliver thought the whole evening’s service had been very efficient. But Rupert was gesturing towards the counter where the liqueur bottles and card payment machine sat.
Was it a problem with the bill? Rupert’s handsome face was rather alarmingly red, his broad shoulders looked tensed. The dark-haired waiter was just as tall as Rupert but he leaned back as if trying to avoid Rupert’s breath. He was frowning: his fist was clenched at his side.
Oliver stood up, ready to pour oil on these troubled waters. This was often his role. Instinctively, he patted his suit jacket, right over the inside pocket where he kept his bank card. Everything would be fine. He nodded reassuringly to a group of bemused diners at a nearby table, who’d stopped mid-forkful to stare at Rupert and the waiter’s altercation. Yes, Oliver would pay the bill as usual, and then it’d be time to ease Rupert away from the restaurant and back to Oliver’s flat. Or he assumed that was where they’d go, again as usual. Rupert had never invited Oliver to his place, but that was something to look forward to when they were a more established couple, wasn’t it? Everyone’s personal time had been severely curtailed while the bank had been involved in the recent merger. But now that the deal was done–and successfully–Oliver was anticipating a more intimate reward for those long, long hours and short, short tempers. He was sure Rupert was, too, considering the way his knee had pressed against Oliver’s all through the main course.
He surreptitiously smoothed down an unruly curl of hair that always fell over his brow and swallowed against an unexpected knot of tension. Rupert was striding back towards their table. The other guests had turned back to their meal, the waiter had slunk behind the bar to fetch something. Oliver sat back down and smiled up as Rupert reached him. “Is everything all right?”
Rupert shook his head dismissively. “Brandy’s your tipple, isn’t it, old chap? I ordered that boy to bring over the best bottle they have.”
“Brandy?” Oliver blinked at Rupert’s abrupt words. They clashed painfully with Oliver’s more tender thoughts. “I…yes. That’ll be fine. Don’t you want to…?” He realized Rupert wasn’t making the appropriate moves to sit back down. He had to crick his neck to look up at his dinner companion.
“I have to go now,” Rupert said. Oliver listened closely for regret in Rupert’s tone but couldn’t quite catch it. Rupert patted his jacket pocket, in unconscious mimicry of Oliver’s own, earlier gesture. “Got a phone call from the Director.”
When? Oliver knew Rupert’s phone hadn’t rung at any time during the meal. Why would he lie about it? “Of course. We can leave now–”
“No. Not you.”
Oliver blinked again. In contrast, Rupert’s gaze didn’t waver, his eyes gleaming in the muted restaurant lighting. In the background, a rather muffled version of That’s Amore piped its way through the sound system.
“Oliver.” Rupert’s face twisted as if he found the softer tone awkward. “This is probably a convenient opportunity to wrap things up.”
“Wrap things…?”
Rupert was concentrating on buttoning his jacket. “Obviously this was never meant to be long-term.” He waved an aimless hand through the air.
What wasn’t? The meal? The affair? Oliver bit back a sudden, shocked moan.
“You’ve been fun of course, and very rewarding.” Rupert’s gaze flickered briefly up and down Oliver’s body and his eyes darkened. “Very. But there was never any intention of making more of it than that. It’s not something the Board would approve of at this stage of my career, if you know what I mean. Well, we’re both men of the world, aren’t we?”
Oliver couldn’t find the words to respond. He knew it was rude to stare at Rupert’s mouth, but he was trying to make the words he was hearing match with the ones he’d hoped for.
Rupert clapped him briefly on the shoulder with rather too much force. “Thanks for the meal, Betts. Was good to have you on the team, while it lasted. I’ll write you a damned good reference for your next move.”
“My next move…?”
Rupert gave a short, brusque laugh, and turned on his heel.
In a barely conscious gesture, Oliver reached out for Rupert. He didn’t catch him, but his elbow caught the edge of his plate instead, sending it spinning off the table. It landed on the tiled floor with a hideously loud crash, and the remains of a very fine Veal Saltimbocca splashed all over Oliver’s shoes.
Oliver didn’t move. He stared, speechless, at Rupert’s back as the other man left the restaurant without a backward glance.
Media Naranja (Other Half) by Clare London and Jordan Castillo Price
Flamenco Week! Food! Festivities! Fun! The vinyl banner sagged in the middle. Either it had never been hung properly to begin with, or the blazing Majorcan sun had caused it to start melting. Or maybe it had finally begun to collapse under the weight of all its exclamation points. Trevor eyed it as he headed into the lobby of Sol Maduro to check in. His initial thrill over the prospect of seeing some real Spanish flamenco was tempered by the fact that his Gran could hardly be expected to recuperate among all the clapping and stomping and strumming and tight pants.
Not that she probably noticed the tight pants. At least, he didn’t care to think of her noticing them. She was his gran, after all. He was the one should be interested in all that. Pity he was also the one without the nerve to act on it.
The front desk was empty and the lobby was still, save for an oscillating fan that creaked slowly, side to side, and a sheet of paper that fluttered each time it passed. Trevor had expected a clerk, or maybe the manager. Instead there was only a photograph, a large, sun-faded poster on the wall that showed three bronzed, smiling men of various ages, with the proclamation beneath it, Roberto and his sons welcome you to an experience of Majorca you will never forget!
“Hello?” he called, hoping for Roberto. Or one of his sons. The fan droned in response.
Gran and her old cohort Vera would be fine in the air-conditioned cab, he supposed. But even the two-hour flight journey from Gatwick seemed to have taken a lot out of Gran, and he was eager to get her settled in to the villa.
“Hello?” A bit louder, this time. The paper fluttered again. From the patio, a gull shrilled.
Trevor scanned the front desk for a note that might tell him where the staff had stepped off to, or maybe a bell to ring. The fluttering paper was the middle page of a brochure for Sol Maduro’s new day spa, spread open on the desk. He took a closer look. It showed a row of middle-aged female models prone on massage tables, smiling faces turned to one side, with towels wrapped around their hair, and round, smooth stones on their backs.
That was what they’d come to Majorca to experience: relaxation. Not flamenco.
Sweet Spot by Josh Lanyon(Petit Morts #2, 4, 7, 9, 14)
Summary:
For less than a dollar a piece, sample five deliously bittersweet novelettes, ten to twelve thousand words in length, each story a standalone and complete in itself. The Petit Mort stories are framed around a mysterious Tim Burton-esque chocolate shop known as Sweets to the Sweet, which acts as a catalyst for the unfolding and often peculiar romances.
The Petit Morts are also collected in print in the In Sunshine or In Shadow anthology.
Jordan Castillo Price Author and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
Sean KennedySean Kennedy was born in 1975 in Melbourne, Australia, but currently lives in the second most isolated city in the world (although there still seems to be conjecture over whether it is actually number one). Living in such deprived circumstances can only affect his writing, which is published by Dreamspinner Press.
Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind . . . she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
All the details and free fiction are available at her website. Visit her today and say hello!
Jordan Castillo Price
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
jcp.heat@gmail.com
Sean Kennedy
Clare London
DREAMSPINNER / JMS BOOKS / B&N
EMAIL: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk
Bittersweet Candy Kisses
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