The world of writers, readers, and reviewers is a close-knit family of friends, fans, and fiction fanatics. That’s the world Milo Cook and Logan Hunter reside in—thriving on the give and take of creativity, the sharing of stories and ideas, and forever glorying in their boundless love of books and the words that make them breathe.
But sometimes words can cut too deep. And when they do, there is inevitably a price to pay.
What begins for Milo and Logan as a time of new love and gentle romantic discoveries, becomes before it’s over a race for their lives and for the lives of everyone they know.
Who would ever suspect that an entity as beautiful as the written word could become a catalyst for revenge? And ultimately—murder?
I'm sitting here trying to decide how to start my review for John Inman's WORDS and I realize that a book blogger reviewing a book about murdered book reviewers with authors as possible suspects, well it sounds like I'm about to tell a bad joke😉😉. Well, there's no bad joke here. WORDS is a brilliant blend of romance, danger, and mystery that I couldn't put down.
I haven't read any of the author's full-on romances yet, I'm sure they're brilliant and one of these days I'll check them out, but he does danger, death, and destruction just so beautifully that I'm slowly working my way through his backlist's darker side first. WORDS may not be as dark as John's The Boys on the Mountain or as creepy as The Hike or as disturbingly possible as Nightfall but it definitely kept me on the edge of my seat trying to figure out the killer of the trolls masquerading as reviewers. As a book review blogger I find it very disheartening that the trolls out there who claim to be reviewers have followers so I wasn't exactly crying over the victims in this book😉. That's okay though because sometimes a book is even better when the reader doesn't sympathize with the victim, that's not to say I was rooting for the killer.
As for the main players in this story of murder and mayhem, Milo and Logan. Author and reviewer. Is their connection too insta-love? Not for me, sometimes people just click and Milo and Logan definitely clicked. Neither one of them is probably in the best place to be looking for love, Milo still regrouping from a breakup and Logan still mourning his husband but fate always finds a way. There may be very little angsty drama in the way of their relationship but the murders bring enough to the table to make WORDS all twisty and turny.
When it comes to mysteries I'm even more cagey when it comes to spoilers so I won't say too much about this part of WORDS. I will mention that I was completely and totally unsure of who was doing the trolls in right up until a page or two before the big reveal. I've said it before and I'll say it again, mysteries have been a part of my life for nearly my whole 45+ years on this earth in either film or book form, it's always been my favorite genre of choice so there are very few that really knock me sideways as to the whos, whats, and whys. I'm not being immodest or saying I have great detective skills its just that I've read or watched pretty much every scenario out there. So when a mystery like WORDS comes around I relish it and don't soon forget the greatness of the build-up.
Once again John Inman has proven he is delightfully delicious when it comes to danger, death, and destruction, with just the right blend of mayhem and romance. WORDS is a definite must for mystery lovers.
RATING:
Chapter One
MILO COOK sat behind a long wooden table inside the doors of the Andiron Bookstore in Coronado, California, hoping to snag each and every book shopper as they strolled in off the street. The problem was, there was no one strolling in.
Granted, Coronado, California, was a Navy town, but it was also a touristy resort mecca, known for its pristine beaches. Situated across the bay from San Diego with its back to the ocean, Coronado sat upon a tied island, connected to the mainland by a tombolo known as the Silver Strand. Despite its beauty, however, Milo was beginning to believe the city was populated by illiterates. Didn’t anybody read in this town? Didn’t anybody like a good story to wrest them away from their humdrum lives? They were gobbling up tons of gelato from the shop down the block. Didn’t any of them crave something a little more cerebral and a little less fattening? Like fiction, for Christ’s sake?
That was Milo’s stock in trade. Stories. Fiction. And if nobody wanted to read such things, Milo might end up living in a cardboard box behind a dumpster somewhere in pretty short order. Not a pleasing prospect by anyone’s definition. Milo enjoyed his comforts. Like, say, a roof over his head and food on the table, not to mention an occasional bag of Dog Chow for his mongrel, Spanky, who was undoubtedly sitting back in Milo’s San Diego home right this minute, twiddling his thumbs (well, assuming he had any), waiting for his lonely, miserable day to end just as much as Milo was.
The scarred oak table Milo sat behind (on a chair so hard it felt like it was made of granite and squeaked rather alarmingly every time he moved) held unsold copies of Milo’s latest novel. Alongside the books stood a placard with Milo’s picture and name and a few scattered excerpts from complimentary reviews his newest book had gleaned. For writers, there was no such thing as modesty when it came to foisting one’s books onto an unsuspecting public, thereby ratchetting up their sales. It had occurred to Milo in a moment of morbid whimsy that authors work on the same principal as serial killers. The higher the body count, the more famous they become. After all, there are only so many readers scattered around the planet, while there are writers everywhere, dangling copies of their latest masterpieces in front of each and every reader they run across.
A woman stepped in off the street, and Milo immediately molded his lips into his patented author’s smile—welcoming, humble, wise. The woman’s gaze skipped over him like he was merely another parking meter, or fire hydrant, or any of a thousand other inanimate objects, and peered off into the store’s interior. A discerning reader? Looking for the latest Grisham, Brown, or, please God, Cook? But his silent question was instantly answered when the woman barked, “Aha!” and bustled off toward the bathroom in the back of the store.
Milo kept his smile intact until she returned some minutes later. Once again her eyes skimmed over him like he didn’t exist as she headed straight out the door. She did look considerably relieved to have found a public toilet, however, and for that Milo was happy for her. He was also pleased as punch to see she was dragging a three-foot streamer of toilet paper that had stuck to her shoe.
He dug into his sport-coat pocket and plucked out a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, quietly peeled it from its wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. He settled in again to wait, avoiding the eyes of the sales clerk, who kept glancing his way, either in pity that the poor writer was getting so few nibbles, or in annoyance that the writer was taking up so much space for nothing. Milo couldn’t quite be sure which.
There are few things more exciting for a writer, Milo mused, than to be parked in a bookstore, offering himself to the masses for slavering admiration and the chance to buy one of his books and cop a free autograph. And there are few things more humiliating than when the masses have better things to do with their time and clearly wouldn’t recognize a decent book—or a world-renowned writer—if one leaped up and bit them on the ass.
Milo Cook had been writing for years, although he was only twenty-eight. His first book had done all right. His second book had done a little better. The sales of his third book had topped the other two by a considerable amount. It was too early to judge the numbers on his latest endeavor, although so far the reviewers had been kind. Not effusive perhaps, but kind. And for that Milo was grateful. Nothing can kill a writer deader than a bad review. And in some cases literally. Milo knew one poor soul who drank a bottle of Drano after a particularly cruel review, which even in Milo’s eyes was taking artistic sensitivity a bit too far.
Milo glanced at his watch. He had been sitting at this table for three hours now, and during that time he had signed two books. Those books had been purchased elsewhere and, by the looks of them, none too recently. In fact, both books had probably been tossed in the trunk of a car, forgotten, and quite possibly never even read, until the owners saw the sign touting Milo Cook’s presence for the sake of signing books and thought, well, why the hell not? I’ve got nothing better to do. Might as well get the scribbler’s autograph while I’m here. Maybe it will up the book’s resale value on eBay.
Milo poked another piece of gum into his mouth to augment the first. The reek of Juicy Fruit wafted around his head like swamp gas. He pattered his toes underneath the table, doing a little impromptu tap-dance routine to kill the time—keeping it quiet, of course, so he wouldn’t look like a fool. He stared out through the bookstore’s plate-glass window at the multitudes passing by on this gorgeous Southern California afternoon. None of the passersby glanced his way or had the slightest inkling he existed at all. At one point in the day, he heaved a sigh and rose from his chair to snag a book off the shelf across the aisle. He had been staring at that book for the last two hours. Lugging it to the front desk, he tossed it and his credit card onto the counter. The clerk tried not to smile as she rang up the sale but was not entirely successful.
Finally, her own wit got the better of her, and as she slipped his purchase into a bookstore bag and returned his credit card, said congenially and with infinite pity, “I think you’re missing the point. People are supposed to be buying your books, not you buying theirs.”
“Funny,” Milo answered with a tooth-grinding smile and returned to his lonely table by the front door to continue his exercise in abject humiliation.
He settled back down at the oak table he was quickly beginning to hate and let his gaze wander once again through the bookstore’s front window. There was a print shop across the street. He might have just enough time to jog over and have a ten-foot banner printed up. A banner to be splayed across the front of the bookstore reading, quite possibly, “Fine, then! Don’t come and meet the author!” Or would that be petty? He snickered and stuffed a third stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
Oddly enough, it was at this point in the day when things started looking up.
A shadow fell over the bookstore’s front door. The little bell over the door jingled merrily, signaling a live one entering the premises. Milo looked up and saw a handsome man of perhaps as many summers as himself blinking away the sun’s glare and focusing instantly on the hapless writer sitting all alone at the tacky wooden table.
Since the hapless writer was himself, Milo sat up a little straighter, resurrected his patented author’s smile, and instantly regretted he had a wad of Juicy Fruit in his mouth big enough to choke a hippo.
Being an aficionado of tall men—holy cow, was he ever—Milo sat speechless with admiration when the guy had to duck his head to step through the shop door. He had clearly been banged in the forehead a few times in the past when navigating doorways and had no intention of doing it again. How sexy was that? Once inside, the man reached up and pushed his thick, dark hair out of his eyes. The hair was chestnutty in the sun’s light and curled around his ears. It was long enough down the back of his neck to be perpetually mussed by the movement of his collar. His face was lean but inviting, with a very sexy five-o’clock shadow darkening the cheeks. He appeared a likable sort. He wore an uncontrived smile on his face. It looked at home, that smile, as if it were a permanent fixture. His eyes were hazel, his lips full and expressive, his body trim. He wore tennis clothes—white polo shirt, white shorts, white tennies and socks—and all that white played up his tanned arms and legs, and a smidgeon of bronze chest at the base of his throat to perfection. He also wore a Pride bracelet on his left wrist, a simple braid of varicolored wire.
Put simply, the guy was a hunk, and judging by the bracelet, gay. Being a gay man himself, and single, and sort of horny, and being always attracted to long, hairy, suntanned legs and the men they come attached to, Milo was instantly fascinated.
The stranger’s gaze swiveled around the store before returning to land yet again on Milo’s face. When they did, his expressive lips spread wide in a smile that exposed an array of snow-white choppers. The man slid his hands down his shirtfront, smoothing the fabric as if trying to present himself in the best possible light—as if he could do otherwise looking the way he did—and it was that simple display of insecurity that truly captured Milo’s interest. Like the guy’s movie-star looks hadn’t done that already.
Those beautiful, long legs carried the man directly to Milo’s table, and Milo’s neck creaked when he looked all the way up the guy’s towering frame to return a smile.
Trying not to choke on his gum, Milo asked, “Six four?” And instantly regretted it. Damn. Why do I always start blabbing before I engage my cerebral cortex? It was a question he had asked himself on numerous occasions. Especially when coming face-to-face with particularly sexy males, and this guy certainly qualified as that.
The sexy male in question blushed but didn’t seem to mind the question. “Six five actually. Maybe even a little over.”
“Well, you carry it well. A fan of tennis too, I see.”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Well, I watch men’s tennis on TV.” But only for the legs. That last thought remained mute. Milo wasn’t a complete fool.
The man’s blush deepened. He trailed his fingers over one of the copies of Milo’s latest book adorning the table in front of him. Tearing his eyes from Milo, he lifted the book to stare down at the cover. He flipped it over, gazed at the picture of Milo on the back, then shifted his gaze back to Milo’s living face, which he was sure to notice was not nearly as photoshopped into gossamer perfection.
“I’ll take it,” the man said.
“You mean the book?”
“Yes. The book.”
Milo was astonishingly pleased. He wasn’t sure why. Believe it or not, he had actually sold books before, although by the swell of gratitude that instantly infused his heart one would never have known it. “Wonderful,” he said around the wad of Juicy Fruit. “Would you like me to sign it for you?”
“Please,” the man said, dutifully handing the book over.
While Milo jotted “Tennis anyone?” on the book’s title page, prior to extravagantly swirling his signature below like a pompous ass, the man reached across the table and tapped the sign Milo had placed on the table showing excerpts of his new release’s best reviews.
“That’s me,” the man said. “BookHunter. That’s quoted from my review in the Huffington Post.”
Milo stopped scribbling and stared at where the man was pointing. Then he lifted his eyes again to the man’s face. He tried to shift the wad of gum around in his mouth to a spot that wouldn’t interfere with what he was about to say, because this was important.
“You’re BookHunter.com?” Milo asked. “The reviewer?”
The hunk gave a shrug. “In the flesh.”
Milo stared down at the book he had just signed. “But you must already own a copy of this. Why would you buy another? And by the way, I’m honored to meet you. Honest.”
He scooted his squeaky chair back and stood up, sticking his hand out across the table. As they shook, Milo couldn’t help noticing that his hand fit quite neatly inside the other’s.
“I’m at a bit of a loss,” Milo said, reluctantly pulling his hand away. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The man blinked. “I’m Logan Hunter,” he said, his ears glowing red now as well as his cheeks. Again he tapped the placard. “BookHunter.com, like I said. I founded the review site a couple of years ago.”
“And you reviewed my book.”
Again his blush deepened. “I did. I love your writing.”
Milo blinked. Compliments to his writing always caught him smack in the heart. “Thank you, uh—”
“Call me Logan.”
“Logan.” He gasped when the wad of Juicy Fruit tried to slide down his throat.
Logan Hunter’s smile went from embarrassed to teasing in the thump of a heartbeat. “You should spit that out before you choke to death.”
Milo nodded as his eyes watered up. He gazed around for a place to deposit the gum. There wasn’t a wastebasket in sight.
Logan pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket. “Here. Use this.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. That’s probably important.”
Logan flapped it in his face. “It’s a note I wrote to myself to stop by and see you. Now that I’m here, I don’t need it anymore. Take it.”
So Milo did. With the gigantic lump of gum out of his mouth, he found it immensely easier to talk. While he was setting the paper-wrapped wad of gum aside, still not sure exactly what the hell to do with it, Logan had slipped the book from his hand and began reading what Milo had scribbled. His grin told Milo the inscription was acceptable.
“Why are you buying this book if you already own it?” Milo asked again.
“I only own the e-book, and that was an ARC from your publisher,” Logan said. “Advanced Reader’s Copies rendered digitally are well and good for reviewing, but for the books I love, I want hard copies to keep on my shelf.”
Milo blinked in surprise yet again. “Gotcha. So do I, actually.” His gaze skittered to the book in Logan’s hand. He hated asking, but he couldn’t stop himself. “So you really loved it?”
Logan’s gentle gaze settled over Milo like a warm blanket. “Did you read my full review?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then you know I loved it. I’ve loved all your books. I reviewed them too, you know.”
“Yes. I know. And thank you again.”
This time when Logan shrugged, it was quaintly self-deprecating. “Reviewing books is what I do. You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.”
A reasonably comfortable silence settled around them. Milo sat back down in his chair. He felt a little guilty about it since there wasn’t a chair available for Logan. Still, it once again put his head on a level with the guy’s crotch, so he couldn’t complain too much.
God, I’m a slut.
“How about a bite to eat?” Logan asked, smiling down at Milo. “Somewhere casual. I’m not exactly dressed for the Ritz.”
“Really? You want me to go out to dinner with you?”
“If you want to call it dinner, sure. You eat, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Milo’s eyes dipped to take in the Pride bracelet on Logan’s wrist.
Logan caught the glance and grinned. “Don’t let your writer’s imagination get the better of you. It’s not a date. Just a bite to eat.”
“No, I—I know….”
“If you’re up for a little social interaction, we can talk about your writing. I’ve never met a writer yet who would turn down that invitation.”
“And you still haven’t,” Milo said, making them both laugh. “But should you really be asking me out to dinner? How do you know I’m not in a relationship?”
Logan’s dimples deepened. “In the first place, I’m asking you out to eat, not make love. And in the second place, according to your bio, you live with a dog named Spanky. If you had a significant other at home, one that’s human, I mean, you probably would have mentioned it.”
“Oh.” Milo gave an almost audible gulp. He was a bit mesmerized by how incredibly sexy it was to hear this man utter the words “make love.” It really kicked his writer’s imagination into high gear. With bells and whistles and the whole nine yards. Yowza.
Totally unaware of the weird thoughts rampaging through Milo’s head, thank God, Logan glanced around the store, looking for the clerk. “I’m going to go pay for this book, then maybe we can leave. It’s almost five o’clock, and I would imagine you’re bored enough by now. It doesn’t look like there have been many readers lining up to bask in your glory.”
Milo barked out a little laugh. As laughs go, it wasn’t a happy one. “No, you’re my first sale.”
“In that case, I’ll buy two.” He snatched up another book, opened it to the title page, and slid it over to Milo to autograph. “Say something generically literary. It’ll be a Christmas gift for my mom.”
Milo did as commanded, jotting “Happy reading!” above his signature.
Logan glanced at it and tucked the book under his arm with the first. “Good, then. I’ll pay for these while you pack up. Is that acceptable to you?”
Without an ounce of shyness, Milo said, “It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Give me two minutes.”
He watched as Logan Hunter, aka BookHunter.com, aka hunk extraordinaire, aka loving son to his dear old mother (and how sweet was that?), strode off down the aisle toward the cash register at the back of the store. As soon as Milo could wrest his eyes away from the long, hairy legs Logan strode away on, he started packing up his stuff.
He didn’t even try to hide the smile on his face as he tossed his unsold books haphazardly back into the boxes they came in. True to his word, in two minutes flat he was packed up and ready to go.
MILO COOK sat behind a long wooden table inside the doors of the Andiron Bookstore in Coronado, California, hoping to snag each and every book shopper as they strolled in off the street. The problem was, there was no one strolling in.
Granted, Coronado, California, was a Navy town, but it was also a touristy resort mecca, known for its pristine beaches. Situated across the bay from San Diego with its back to the ocean, Coronado sat upon a tied island, connected to the mainland by a tombolo known as the Silver Strand. Despite its beauty, however, Milo was beginning to believe the city was populated by illiterates. Didn’t anybody read in this town? Didn’t anybody like a good story to wrest them away from their humdrum lives? They were gobbling up tons of gelato from the shop down the block. Didn’t any of them crave something a little more cerebral and a little less fattening? Like fiction, for Christ’s sake?
That was Milo’s stock in trade. Stories. Fiction. And if nobody wanted to read such things, Milo might end up living in a cardboard box behind a dumpster somewhere in pretty short order. Not a pleasing prospect by anyone’s definition. Milo enjoyed his comforts. Like, say, a roof over his head and food on the table, not to mention an occasional bag of Dog Chow for his mongrel, Spanky, who was undoubtedly sitting back in Milo’s San Diego home right this minute, twiddling his thumbs (well, assuming he had any), waiting for his lonely, miserable day to end just as much as Milo was.
The scarred oak table Milo sat behind (on a chair so hard it felt like it was made of granite and squeaked rather alarmingly every time he moved) held unsold copies of Milo’s latest novel. Alongside the books stood a placard with Milo’s picture and name and a few scattered excerpts from complimentary reviews his newest book had gleaned. For writers, there was no such thing as modesty when it came to foisting one’s books onto an unsuspecting public, thereby ratchetting up their sales. It had occurred to Milo in a moment of morbid whimsy that authors work on the same principal as serial killers. The higher the body count, the more famous they become. After all, there are only so many readers scattered around the planet, while there are writers everywhere, dangling copies of their latest masterpieces in front of each and every reader they run across.
A woman stepped in off the street, and Milo immediately molded his lips into his patented author’s smile—welcoming, humble, wise. The woman’s gaze skipped over him like he was merely another parking meter, or fire hydrant, or any of a thousand other inanimate objects, and peered off into the store’s interior. A discerning reader? Looking for the latest Grisham, Brown, or, please God, Cook? But his silent question was instantly answered when the woman barked, “Aha!” and bustled off toward the bathroom in the back of the store.
Milo kept his smile intact until she returned some minutes later. Once again her eyes skimmed over him like he didn’t exist as she headed straight out the door. She did look considerably relieved to have found a public toilet, however, and for that Milo was happy for her. He was also pleased as punch to see she was dragging a three-foot streamer of toilet paper that had stuck to her shoe.
He dug into his sport-coat pocket and plucked out a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, quietly peeled it from its wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. He settled in again to wait, avoiding the eyes of the sales clerk, who kept glancing his way, either in pity that the poor writer was getting so few nibbles, or in annoyance that the writer was taking up so much space for nothing. Milo couldn’t quite be sure which.
There are few things more exciting for a writer, Milo mused, than to be parked in a bookstore, offering himself to the masses for slavering admiration and the chance to buy one of his books and cop a free autograph. And there are few things more humiliating than when the masses have better things to do with their time and clearly wouldn’t recognize a decent book—or a world-renowned writer—if one leaped up and bit them on the ass.
Milo Cook had been writing for years, although he was only twenty-eight. His first book had done all right. His second book had done a little better. The sales of his third book had topped the other two by a considerable amount. It was too early to judge the numbers on his latest endeavor, although so far the reviewers had been kind. Not effusive perhaps, but kind. And for that Milo was grateful. Nothing can kill a writer deader than a bad review. And in some cases literally. Milo knew one poor soul who drank a bottle of Drano after a particularly cruel review, which even in Milo’s eyes was taking artistic sensitivity a bit too far.
Milo glanced at his watch. He had been sitting at this table for three hours now, and during that time he had signed two books. Those books had been purchased elsewhere and, by the looks of them, none too recently. In fact, both books had probably been tossed in the trunk of a car, forgotten, and quite possibly never even read, until the owners saw the sign touting Milo Cook’s presence for the sake of signing books and thought, well, why the hell not? I’ve got nothing better to do. Might as well get the scribbler’s autograph while I’m here. Maybe it will up the book’s resale value on eBay.
Milo poked another piece of gum into his mouth to augment the first. The reek of Juicy Fruit wafted around his head like swamp gas. He pattered his toes underneath the table, doing a little impromptu tap-dance routine to kill the time—keeping it quiet, of course, so he wouldn’t look like a fool. He stared out through the bookstore’s plate-glass window at the multitudes passing by on this gorgeous Southern California afternoon. None of the passersby glanced his way or had the slightest inkling he existed at all. At one point in the day, he heaved a sigh and rose from his chair to snag a book off the shelf across the aisle. He had been staring at that book for the last two hours. Lugging it to the front desk, he tossed it and his credit card onto the counter. The clerk tried not to smile as she rang up the sale but was not entirely successful.
Finally, her own wit got the better of her, and as she slipped his purchase into a bookstore bag and returned his credit card, said congenially and with infinite pity, “I think you’re missing the point. People are supposed to be buying your books, not you buying theirs.”
“Funny,” Milo answered with a tooth-grinding smile and returned to his lonely table by the front door to continue his exercise in abject humiliation.
He settled back down at the oak table he was quickly beginning to hate and let his gaze wander once again through the bookstore’s front window. There was a print shop across the street. He might have just enough time to jog over and have a ten-foot banner printed up. A banner to be splayed across the front of the bookstore reading, quite possibly, “Fine, then! Don’t come and meet the author!” Or would that be petty? He snickered and stuffed a third stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
Oddly enough, it was at this point in the day when things started looking up.
A shadow fell over the bookstore’s front door. The little bell over the door jingled merrily, signaling a live one entering the premises. Milo looked up and saw a handsome man of perhaps as many summers as himself blinking away the sun’s glare and focusing instantly on the hapless writer sitting all alone at the tacky wooden table.
Since the hapless writer was himself, Milo sat up a little straighter, resurrected his patented author’s smile, and instantly regretted he had a wad of Juicy Fruit in his mouth big enough to choke a hippo.
Being an aficionado of tall men—holy cow, was he ever—Milo sat speechless with admiration when the guy had to duck his head to step through the shop door. He had clearly been banged in the forehead a few times in the past when navigating doorways and had no intention of doing it again. How sexy was that? Once inside, the man reached up and pushed his thick, dark hair out of his eyes. The hair was chestnutty in the sun’s light and curled around his ears. It was long enough down the back of his neck to be perpetually mussed by the movement of his collar. His face was lean but inviting, with a very sexy five-o’clock shadow darkening the cheeks. He appeared a likable sort. He wore an uncontrived smile on his face. It looked at home, that smile, as if it were a permanent fixture. His eyes were hazel, his lips full and expressive, his body trim. He wore tennis clothes—white polo shirt, white shorts, white tennies and socks—and all that white played up his tanned arms and legs, and a smidgeon of bronze chest at the base of his throat to perfection. He also wore a Pride bracelet on his left wrist, a simple braid of varicolored wire.
Put simply, the guy was a hunk, and judging by the bracelet, gay. Being a gay man himself, and single, and sort of horny, and being always attracted to long, hairy, suntanned legs and the men they come attached to, Milo was instantly fascinated.
The stranger’s gaze swiveled around the store before returning to land yet again on Milo’s face. When they did, his expressive lips spread wide in a smile that exposed an array of snow-white choppers. The man slid his hands down his shirtfront, smoothing the fabric as if trying to present himself in the best possible light—as if he could do otherwise looking the way he did—and it was that simple display of insecurity that truly captured Milo’s interest. Like the guy’s movie-star looks hadn’t done that already.
Those beautiful, long legs carried the man directly to Milo’s table, and Milo’s neck creaked when he looked all the way up the guy’s towering frame to return a smile.
Trying not to choke on his gum, Milo asked, “Six four?” And instantly regretted it. Damn. Why do I always start blabbing before I engage my cerebral cortex? It was a question he had asked himself on numerous occasions. Especially when coming face-to-face with particularly sexy males, and this guy certainly qualified as that.
The sexy male in question blushed but didn’t seem to mind the question. “Six five actually. Maybe even a little over.”
“Well, you carry it well. A fan of tennis too, I see.”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Well, I watch men’s tennis on TV.” But only for the legs. That last thought remained mute. Milo wasn’t a complete fool.
The man’s blush deepened. He trailed his fingers over one of the copies of Milo’s latest book adorning the table in front of him. Tearing his eyes from Milo, he lifted the book to stare down at the cover. He flipped it over, gazed at the picture of Milo on the back, then shifted his gaze back to Milo’s living face, which he was sure to notice was not nearly as photoshopped into gossamer perfection.
“I’ll take it,” the man said.
“You mean the book?”
“Yes. The book.”
Milo was astonishingly pleased. He wasn’t sure why. Believe it or not, he had actually sold books before, although by the swell of gratitude that instantly infused his heart one would never have known it. “Wonderful,” he said around the wad of Juicy Fruit. “Would you like me to sign it for you?”
“Please,” the man said, dutifully handing the book over.
While Milo jotted “Tennis anyone?” on the book’s title page, prior to extravagantly swirling his signature below like a pompous ass, the man reached across the table and tapped the sign Milo had placed on the table showing excerpts of his new release’s best reviews.
“That’s me,” the man said. “BookHunter. That’s quoted from my review in the Huffington Post.”
Milo stopped scribbling and stared at where the man was pointing. Then he lifted his eyes again to the man’s face. He tried to shift the wad of gum around in his mouth to a spot that wouldn’t interfere with what he was about to say, because this was important.
“You’re BookHunter.com?” Milo asked. “The reviewer?”
The hunk gave a shrug. “In the flesh.”
Milo stared down at the book he had just signed. “But you must already own a copy of this. Why would you buy another? And by the way, I’m honored to meet you. Honest.”
He scooted his squeaky chair back and stood up, sticking his hand out across the table. As they shook, Milo couldn’t help noticing that his hand fit quite neatly inside the other’s.
“I’m at a bit of a loss,” Milo said, reluctantly pulling his hand away. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The man blinked. “I’m Logan Hunter,” he said, his ears glowing red now as well as his cheeks. Again he tapped the placard. “BookHunter.com, like I said. I founded the review site a couple of years ago.”
“And you reviewed my book.”
Again his blush deepened. “I did. I love your writing.”
Milo blinked. Compliments to his writing always caught him smack in the heart. “Thank you, uh—”
“Call me Logan.”
“Logan.” He gasped when the wad of Juicy Fruit tried to slide down his throat.
Logan Hunter’s smile went from embarrassed to teasing in the thump of a heartbeat. “You should spit that out before you choke to death.”
Milo nodded as his eyes watered up. He gazed around for a place to deposit the gum. There wasn’t a wastebasket in sight.
Logan pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket. “Here. Use this.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. That’s probably important.”
Logan flapped it in his face. “It’s a note I wrote to myself to stop by and see you. Now that I’m here, I don’t need it anymore. Take it.”
So Milo did. With the gigantic lump of gum out of his mouth, he found it immensely easier to talk. While he was setting the paper-wrapped wad of gum aside, still not sure exactly what the hell to do with it, Logan had slipped the book from his hand and began reading what Milo had scribbled. His grin told Milo the inscription was acceptable.
“Why are you buying this book if you already own it?” Milo asked again.
“I only own the e-book, and that was an ARC from your publisher,” Logan said. “Advanced Reader’s Copies rendered digitally are well and good for reviewing, but for the books I love, I want hard copies to keep on my shelf.”
Milo blinked in surprise yet again. “Gotcha. So do I, actually.” His gaze skittered to the book in Logan’s hand. He hated asking, but he couldn’t stop himself. “So you really loved it?”
Logan’s gentle gaze settled over Milo like a warm blanket. “Did you read my full review?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then you know I loved it. I’ve loved all your books. I reviewed them too, you know.”
“Yes. I know. And thank you again.”
This time when Logan shrugged, it was quaintly self-deprecating. “Reviewing books is what I do. You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.”
A reasonably comfortable silence settled around them. Milo sat back down in his chair. He felt a little guilty about it since there wasn’t a chair available for Logan. Still, it once again put his head on a level with the guy’s crotch, so he couldn’t complain too much.
God, I’m a slut.
“How about a bite to eat?” Logan asked, smiling down at Milo. “Somewhere casual. I’m not exactly dressed for the Ritz.”
“Really? You want me to go out to dinner with you?”
“If you want to call it dinner, sure. You eat, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Milo’s eyes dipped to take in the Pride bracelet on Logan’s wrist.
Logan caught the glance and grinned. “Don’t let your writer’s imagination get the better of you. It’s not a date. Just a bite to eat.”
“No, I—I know….”
“If you’re up for a little social interaction, we can talk about your writing. I’ve never met a writer yet who would turn down that invitation.”
“And you still haven’t,” Milo said, making them both laugh. “But should you really be asking me out to dinner? How do you know I’m not in a relationship?”
Logan’s dimples deepened. “In the first place, I’m asking you out to eat, not make love. And in the second place, according to your bio, you live with a dog named Spanky. If you had a significant other at home, one that’s human, I mean, you probably would have mentioned it.”
“Oh.” Milo gave an almost audible gulp. He was a bit mesmerized by how incredibly sexy it was to hear this man utter the words “make love.” It really kicked his writer’s imagination into high gear. With bells and whistles and the whole nine yards. Yowza.
Totally unaware of the weird thoughts rampaging through Milo’s head, thank God, Logan glanced around the store, looking for the clerk. “I’m going to go pay for this book, then maybe we can leave. It’s almost five o’clock, and I would imagine you’re bored enough by now. It doesn’t look like there have been many readers lining up to bask in your glory.”
Milo barked out a little laugh. As laughs go, it wasn’t a happy one. “No, you’re my first sale.”
“In that case, I’ll buy two.” He snatched up another book, opened it to the title page, and slid it over to Milo to autograph. “Say something generically literary. It’ll be a Christmas gift for my mom.”
Milo did as commanded, jotting “Happy reading!” above his signature.
Logan glanced at it and tucked the book under his arm with the first. “Good, then. I’ll pay for these while you pack up. Is that acceptable to you?”
Without an ounce of shyness, Milo said, “It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Give me two minutes.”
He watched as Logan Hunter, aka BookHunter.com, aka hunk extraordinaire, aka loving son to his dear old mother (and how sweet was that?), strode off down the aisle toward the cash register at the back of the store. As soon as Milo could wrest his eyes away from the long, hairy legs Logan strode away on, he started packing up his stuff.
He didn’t even try to hide the smile on his face as he tossed his unsold books haphazardly back into the boxes they came in. True to his word, in two minutes flat he was packed up and ready to go.
“I HAVEN’T met that many reviewers,” Milo said.
Logan grinned. “I’m sure you haven’t missed much. We’re a surly lot, some of us.”
Milo rolled his eyes, but not in a mocking way. “I don’t believe that.”
Logan frowned, then just as quickly smiled. “Neither do I. Most of the reviewers I know are great people. They love what they do.”
Milo smiled back. “I agree 100 percent.”
While he appreciated the words, Logan thought he saw a bit of reluctance in the way they were expressed. Logan knew perfectly well that some book reviewers could be hurtful. Judging by that wary look on Milo’s face, he had been targeted a time or two himself. Logan was grateful when he saw Milo whisk the gloom away with a smile. He suspected, although he had only known Milo Cook for a few minutes, that this particular writer’s default mood was one of open optimism and good cheer. That was a nice change. Some of the authors Logan dealt with were not only socially inept, but about as cheerful as a toothache.
With Logan’s help, Milo had dumped his book-signing paraphernalia and two boxes of unsold books in his car down the street. He and Logan were now waiting for their orders at a hamburger joint two blocks from the bookstore where Milo had just endured the most miserably pointless afternoon of his life, or so he informed Logan prior to ordering the biggest hamburger on the menu.
Logan aimed a smile across the table. He had to admit, he was intrigued by this writer sitting across from him. And it wasn’t just Milo’s books that intrigued him.
That surprised Logan more than anything that had happened to him in a very long while.
Milo Cook stood perhaps five ten, a good head shorter than Logan. His hands were expressive, his smile quick, his eyes as green as new leaves freshly sprouted on the branch. And those lovely green eyes stared out from beneath the longest eyelashes Logan had ever seen. Milo’s unruly hair was reddish and streaked with blond. The streaks came from the sun, not some hairdresser’s magic potion. That much was obvious. Milo’s tan was even deeper than Logan’s, and while he didn’t appear as muscled as Logan, he did have the lean, graceful look of a runner, perhaps, or a swimmer.
While they waited for their food, Logan studied the man in front of him while trying not to look like he was studying him. “You must be out in the sun a lot. Are you a runner?”
“Surfer, swimmer, all-around beach nut,” Milo said. “That’s when I’m not glued to my computer, sitting on my ass in my writing cave trying to string words together so I can make enough money to buy dog food, that is.”
“Ah, yes. For the aforementioned Spanky.”
“Exactly.”
Logan settled back in his seat. His legs were so long they bumped against Milo’s legs under the table. “Oops, sorry.”
“No problem,” Milo said, readjusting his legs to get them out of the way.
Silence settled over them, and suddenly Logan felt uncomfortable. Well, not uncomfortable really, just anxious. Maybe even a little guilty. It had been a long time since he found himself interested in another man. And it had certainly been a long time since he had asked one out for a meal.
After fiddling with the salt shaker for a minute and taking another glance at the menu on the little sandwich board sitting on the table because he didn’t really know where else to aim his eyes, Logan cleared his throat and asked, “What made you want to be a writer?”
“Are we doing an interview?” Milo asked.
“No. Just chatting. So are you working on something new?”
Milo groaned. “Sounds like an interview. And if you really want to know, I’m always working on something new.”
“Good. You’re far too talented a writer not to be writing.” Logan could tell his words had hit home. An appreciative light hit Milo’s eyes, and before he could say “Thank you” or any other of a hundred mundane things people say when they’ve received an unexpected compliment, Logan crowbarred his way back into the conversation. “So answer my question. What made you want to be a writer?”
Milo smiled. It was a truer smile this time, Logan thought. With less shyness in it, he was happy to see. It never ceased to amaze him how a heartfelt compliment affected people.
“I suppose you want the real answer,” Milo sighed, a tendril of ginger hair falling over one eye before being impatiently tucked back into the mass of curls atop his head.
Logan returned the smile. Gently prodding. “Of course.”
Milo readjusted his silverware, then twirled the ring on his finger, which Logan noticed was a gold and onyx number. Quite nice. Simple and masculine. For some reason, Logan tucked his hands under the table to hide the silver band on his own finger. He didn’t bother to analyze the psychology behind why he did it. Instead, Logan watched as Milo gazed out the restaurant window for a second. When his eyes returned to Logan, he appeared resigned.
Milo fiddled with his fork while he talked. “Well, since you want the truth, I won’t give you the long-suffering artist baloney about leaving my mark on a heartless world and struggling to write tales that will last and how my books are my only progeny, what with me being a fruitcup and all. I’ll just tell you the truth. And the truth is—I don’t know why I write. It’s simply something I’ve always done. Something I’ve always loved. It’s been my outlet since grade school. It’s a tough business, but I can’t imagine living my life outside of it.” He paused, looking a little embarrassed, as if thinking maybe he had said too much. Then he leaned in, settling his eyes on Logan. “My turn. What made you want to be a reviewer?”
Logan laughed. “Oh, believe me, I’d rather be a writer than a reviewer, but I don’t have the talent or patience for creative writing. Still, I love books, so being a reviewer is my way of staying close to them, I guess.” He studied Milo with an admiring gleam in his eye. “Of all the writers I’ve spoken to over the last couple of years, you’re the first to ask me why I wanted to be a reviewer.”
“I’m nosy.”
“No. I think it’s more than that.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m glad our two livelihoods brought us together. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have made any sales today at all, and I’d probably be sitting at home eating a bologna sandwich.”
Logan pouted like a three-year-old, or pretended to. “And here I thought you liked me for my critiquing skills. Now I learn it’s only my Visa card you’re enthralled with.”
Milo laughed. “The tennis shorts didn’t hurt either.”
To Logan’s amusement, Milo instantly looked appalled by what he’d said. His ears went fiery red, and his mouth formed a horrified little O. In fact, he looked so shocked, Logan almost burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” Milo said. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Logan reached across the table and patted Milo’s hand, still trying not to laugh. “Don’t look so embarrassed. I forgive you. Trust me, it’s nice to know I can still turn a head now and then.”
Logan stared down at his hand. The way Milo’s skin felt beneath his fingertips was something he could not have anticipated. It was—electric somehow. He yanked his hand away.
“Yes, well…,” he stammered, flailing around for something to say before spotting the waitress wending her way in their direction between the tables, laden with plates.
Milo didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, and for that Logan was grateful. He swallowed his surprise at the rush of desire that had surged through him, brought about by nothing more than touching Milo’s hand.
Resurrecting his beaming smile for the waitress’s benefit, Logan exclaimed, “Ah, here we go. Food!”
Author Bio:
John has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember. Born on a small farm in Indiana, he now resides in San Diego, California where he spends his time gardening, pampering his pets, hiking and biking the trails and canyons of San Diego, and of course, writing. He and his partner share a passion for theater, books, film, and the continuing fight for marriage equality. If you would like to know more about John, check out his website.
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EMAIL: John492@att.net
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