Summary:
Laurel Holidays #1
Can the magic of Christmas, and the soft voice of a man who has seen too much, show Bryan a future where anything is possible?
Bryan Graham is shocked to find he’s inherited a hunting cabin in north-central Pennsylvania. From his grandfather of all people; a stubborn man who went out of his way to make Bryan’s childhood miserable. He’d vowed never to go back to the small, rural community of Kutter’s Summit, not that he didn’t have fond memories of the place. It’s just that he’d rather be celebrating a quiet Christmas back in Nashville with his cat and his contracts.
A couple of weeks of hunting, cleaning, and handyman work, and he can hopefully put the place up for sale and move on with his life. He never expected to find his childhood friend Parson Greer living in the cabin. Parson is no longer a boy, but a handsome, wary man consumed by the demons of a faraway desert war. When a rekindled friendship shifts into something deeper, Bryan finds himself lost in emotions that a workaholic like him has never made time to experience before.
Summary:
Young couple Ellis and Casey’s Christmas is set to be a lean one. Struggling financially, they’re only able to manage the most basic needs for their holiday celebration. They can’t afford luxuries like a turkey. Or decorations. Or presents. Between the recent death of Casey’s beloved momma, and Ellis’ estrangement from his family, all they have is each other.
When Ellis finds the saddest looking Christmas tree south of the Mason-Dixon line thrown outside his workplace and brings it home to Casey, things look up. Because what more do you need to have a Merry Christmas than enthusiasm, ingenuity, and someone to love?
Short, cute, believable, and oh so super duper sweet. The whole Charlie Brown-like tree is a wonderful setting for Red Popcorn Strings and Gumball Rings. Would either like a bigger tree? A proper holiday lunch? Gifts under the aforementioned tree? Sure, of course they would but at the same time, this tiny, forgotten tree that was probably days away from "recycling" is perfect for Casey and Ellis. So much joy and happiness in this little holiday short that will leave you happy, smiling, and looking for what's important. It may be short in quantity but it is long on quality.
RATING:
Summary:
Daddy Dearest #2
Jamie Bailey has not had such a wonderful life. He gave up his dreams of Harvard at 18 to raise his sister’s unwanted baby, and later a prized job to help a sick friend. Now the father of six-year-old Mia, and assistant manager at Raven Books, Jamie’s dreams are dashed once again when Uncle Billy admits what dire straights the bookshop is in.
Stanton Potter, son of the most notorious businesswoman in Bedford Falls, loves his job teaching at the local elementary school. But he’s less than thrilled when he is forced to put together a Christmas pageant with first-graders, including Mia Bailey.
When Stanton meets Jamie, angels sing. Jamie’s gender-bending fashion sense, and sweet aura, have Stanton suffering through the worse crush he’s had since he was a teen. But can there be any hope for them when Jamie and Mia’s lives are about to be uprooted?
This Christmas, its Jamie’s turn to receive a little help from heaven.
Summary:
Talk about kitchen nightmares! TV chef Rocky and foodie blogger Jesse have been pals forever, so it should have been the most natural thing in the world to kick their relationship up a notch.
Instead, it turned out to be a disaster. But Christmas is the season of love, and someone's cooking up a sweet surprise....
It's been 5 years since I originally read Baby It's Cold and I loved it just as much now as then. Some might call Rocky and Jesse's story a Hallmark-y rom-com, and not everyone enjoys them and if I'm completely honest I only like a small portion but Baby It's Cold is 10 times better. There's friendship, second chances, bickering, heat, and plenty of heart. As for the narrator, this is the first Michael Ferraiuolo but I hope to listen to many more. His voice makes the story come alive as if it's unfolding right in front of. Brilliant and fun holiday gem.
Original Review December 2014
Not much I can say about poor Rocky and Jesse that won't be a spoiler. Second chances can always be an interesting read because there are so many possibilities and revelations. And Josh Lanyon doesn't disappoint with said possibilities and revelations. It's all wrapped up in a snowstorm, good food, and of course a third party.
Summary:
Williamsville Inn
Will Johnson is traveling for work the weeks before Christmas and staying in a small hotel in upstate New York. It’s all pretty routine, until he discovers his window overlooks the courtyard patio of one of his favorite up and coming gay singers, Rex Garland. Even further outside of Will’s routine is overhearing Rex’s creative process as the singer struggles to write an original Christmas song.
When Will receives a flash of lyrical inspiration, he decides to share the lyrics with his idol in a secret note left on Rex’s patio table. This sets off a chain of events that include coincidental meetings, more inspired lyrics, and a tiny snowman that just might capture Rex’s heart and make this Christmas one neither of them will ever forget.
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Random Tales of Christmas 2019
Red Popcorn Strings and Gumball Rings by Nell Iris
Back out by the door, he got down on the floor to put his sneakers on — no shoes inside, thank you very much — and noticed something under the Christmas tree.
He abandoned the worn sneakers and knee-walked over to check the item. It wasn’t very big, so he got down on all fours to see better.
It was a ball: a little bigger than a ping-pong ball and wrapped in newspaper. It hadn’t been there yesterday when they’d gone to bed, so Ellis must have sneaked it under the tree this morning.
He sat back on his heels and his hand flew to his mouth.
Ellis had gotten him a gift for Christmas!
Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away; he just sat there. Staring at the newspaper-covered ball.
What could it be?
He threw himself on his stomach and crawled as close as he could while making sure not to tangle his hair in the low-hanging branches. A message scrawled with a red marker in Ellis’s almost illegible writing greeted him: merry xmass boo.
Next to the writing, he’d also drawn a small, crooked heart, with one arch much bigger than the other.
Casey couldn’t keep his hands off it. He traced the heart with his finger, wanting nothing more than to tear off the paper and see what Ellis had gotten him. But he didn’t, of course.
Instead, he crossed his arms on the floor in front of him and rested his head down. Watching the present, he exhaled a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
He still had no idea what to give Ellis tomorrow. Considering he had absolutely no money, what could he buy?
Untangling one of his hands, he reached out and enveloped the ball, but resisted the urge to shake it. He just held it in his hand, and somehow it made him feel closer to Ellis.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Ellis had gotten him a present. He knew how much Casey loved Christmas, how desperately he missed his mother, and was sad that there wouldn’t be any knitted socks wrapped in plain brown paper for either of them this year.
Of course, he’d found a way to cheer Casey up.
Casey let go of the present and wiggled his way out from under the tree. He supposed he could always resort to giving Ellis stupid coupons like he’d given his momma when he was a kid. But instead of one month of doing the dishes, it could be stuff like one hour of hard ass-fucking or a promise of rimming Ellis until he screamed Casey’s name and shot his spunk all over the place. He could even draw dirty pictures on the coupons to illustrate the gifts.
He nodded to himself. It would have to do. But next year he’d buy Ellis a real present.
Casey jumped off the floor, took one last longing look at the ball before he pulled on his shoes and went out for his run.
Angels Sing by Eli Easton
Chapter 1
Jamie
"Daa-DEEE!"
Jamie looked up from the computer to see Mia scowling at him, her face grumpy.
"Hey! I thought you were downstairs with Uncle Billy."
"He fell asleep. Like this—" Mia tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and pretended to snore.
Jamie smiled as though it was funny, but, internally, he winced. Uncle Billy, at 76 and in declining health, had started falling asleep at the front desk. That was not a good look for customers. And it increased the possibility of theft since anyone could just walk out with an armload full of books while Uncle Billy snoozed away.
Jamie had suggested to Uncle Billy a few times that they hire someone to work the front desk, but he would have none of it.
I've been at the front desk of Raven Books for thirty years. I'm not ready to leave it yet.
"He fell asleep? Well, why don't you hang out with me and we can chillax?" He pulled Mia onto his lap. For a moment, her sharp-ass knees threatened to cause serious damage to body parts he treasured, but then she turned and settled.
"What are you doin'?" Mia pointed at the computer screen.
"I was looking at some ideas for the cafe. Wanna see?"
Mia nodded, and Jamie showed her the pictures he'd found. Personally, he loved the pink retro 50s design, complete with poodle-skirt lampshades. Too fun! But that would clash with the older exposed-brick look of the rest of the bookstore.
Some might call the store's current theme decrepit, but Jamie refused to be negative.
So for harmony's sake, he was leaning toward a look that featured a cool pale green, lots of chrome, and ferns. He could inject a bit of whimsy with a judicious use of a raven motif to go with the name of the store. Something Poe-esque.
"We'll have cookies, and coffee, and juice and—"
"I know, Daddy," Mia said impatiently. "But when can we make a cafe?"
"I've told you, Munch. After Uncle Billy retires."
"But why? Why can't we do it now?"
Out of the mouths of babes. Jamie fingered the three studs in his right ear and shifted Mia on his thigh. She was a solid little girl, and at six years old, she was heavy. But it wouldn't be too many more years before she'd be too big to sit on his lap at all. And, God, he would miss that.
"Well… Uncle Billy's had this store for a very long time, and people get used to things being a certain way."
Especially old people. Especially Uncle Billy.
"That's dumb!" Mia wriggled down, clearly bored with Jamie's pictures.
He didn't blame her. He'd been playing around with ideas for the bookstore for years now. And so far, very few of them had actually come about. At her tender age, Mia was already learning to be a skeptic about Daddy's dreams.
Awesome! That wasn't pathetic at all.
"Can we go orga-gize the kids’ books?" she asked hopefully.
"Sure, Munch."
There were a dozen customers browsing on the second floor of Raven Books on this rainy November Thursday at 5 o'clock. But no one needed anything at the moment. Jamie put the Be Right Back placard up on the round central desk and followed Mia toward the far back corner.
Raven Books was vast—as in dinosaur vast. And it was nearly as ancient. They carried books on practically every subject you could think of and lots of them, both new and used. They even had an entire room of maps and books in various languages. But the kids' room was special. It was the one room Uncle Billy had allowed them to update somewhat—he could never say no to Mia.
They'd painted the walls sky blue with white clouds—Mia's idea. There was a colorful rug that was made up of individual blocks in bold primary colors. There was a play area with donated toys—Barbies and Legos were the most popular. And there were, of course, plenty of short bookshelves stuffed with books and organized by age range.
Mia was a bookstore baby. She'd practically lived in the store since she was born. When she was tiny, Jamie wore her in a chest snuggler while he talked to customers, worked the register, or shelved books. And when she began to walk, either he or Uncle Billy would keep her by their side. She'd been a good toddler and was usually content sitting on a blanket playing with a bag of colorful quilt blocks Jamie had found in the back room.
Mia knew more about the bookstore than any summer intern they'd ever hired. Which was possibly a bad thing to say about their summer interns, but then, Mia was exceptional, if Jamie did say so himself.
The children's room was Mia's domain, and she knew it like the back of her hand. She loved to "orga-gize" the books, looking over each shelf to make sure a book had not been put back in the wrong spot and moving it if it had. She straightened tilted books, righted upside-down books, and notified Jamie about spills and damage.
Not many kids got to have what was essentially a library at their disposal, and Mia loved taking care of the books and reading them. She was at least a third-grade reading level. Jamie worried a little, because he didn't want her moved up in school. From what he'd researched, that could lead to social problems with her peers. But so far, her first-grade teacher had kept Mia happy and learning.
The part that got to Jamie the most was the way Mia was so generous with the books. She loved talking to the kids who came in and showing them books she thought they'd like. There were moments when Jamie was so proud of her, his heart felt like it would literally burst. And if becoming Mia's daddy at eighteen had cost him a lot, it had given him back way more. The balance sheet was way in the green.
"Daddy, you get the trash." Mia hummed to herself and went to the bookshelf on the left—the "baby books"—to make sure everything was in order.
Jamie saluted. "Aye aye, captain."
He moved deeper into the space, looking around. Juice boxes and snack wrappers had a way of spontaneously generating in the kids' room. Sometimes even bits of clothing. Once they'd found a pair of glittery pink sandals Mia had loved. After spending the requisite time in Lost and Found, she'd worn them until they fell apart.
As he rounded the bookshelves in the middle of the room, the reading nook came into view. A low futon couch, standing lamp, and a rounded cushiony coffee table made a cozy space that was safe for fragile baby heads. Mia could often be found here reading by herself. Or sometimes even napping on the couch.
But this afternoon, there was a mom and a little girl in the space. Jamie was momentarily startled. He didn't recall seeing them come up the stairs from the first floor. And he would have noticed these two. The mom was a beautiful young woman with caramel skin and a halo of black curls. She had a mini-me of about three in her lap. She was reading The Littlest Angel.
Ugh, Jamie couldn't even with that book. It always made him tear up.
Mom and toddler both looked up when Jamie came into view.
"Hey, guys," Jamie said.
"Hi, Jamie. I’m Clarice. I hope you don’t mind. We've made ourselves at home." The woman gave him a beatific smile.
Jamie blinked at being called by his name. Then he glanced down at the name tag on his chest. Right.
He smiled back. "I'm glad, Clarice. That's what this space is for. Don't mind me."
He looked around the area while the mom went back to her reading. There were some things in the little plastic-lined trash can, so he picked it up to be emptied.
But when he turned to leave the nook, he saw Mia. She was standing next to a bookshelf, her gaze on the mom and little girl. Mia's thumb was in her mouth and she stared, transfixed.
Jamie swallowed hard.
It had taken a good six months to get Mia to stop sucking her thumb. She almost never did these days unless she was way overtired or stressed.
Or feeling sad.
Jamie glanced back at the mom and child, and then at Mia. Heat bloomed in his chest. Sadness. Guilt.
Maybe he wasn't the greatest dad in the world, but he tried. Goddammit, he tried so hard. But there was one thing he could never be for Mia, no matter how many tea parties he held with her or how many times they played dress-up. He would never be Mia's mother.
Was Mia doomed to be permanently scarred because of her lack of a maternal role model? The support group he belonged to online assured him the answer was no. But they suggested she'd benefit from having women in her circle of support.
Mia's "circle of support" was rather tiny, unfortunately. It consisted of Jamie and Uncle Billy and, to a lesser extent, the LGBTQ group that met at the bookstore once a month. But even though a few women in that group, Kassandra and Amy especially, adored Mia, they weren't around her enough.
Fortunately, Mia's first-grade teacher, Missy Anders, was a gem. She was down-to-earth and super nice. Mia adored her. Jamie just hoped that when the year ended, it wasn't traumatic for Mia to say goodbye and move on.
He went up to Mia now and cupped her head with his hand. God, he loved her dark curls. They were still baby-soft.
She didn't acknowledge him. She just stared at the mom and toddler.
Jamie squatted down beside her. "Hey, Mia. It's almost time for lunch. Wanna go help me make some sandwiches in the kitchen?"
Mia blinked and reluctantly tore her gaze away. She looked at Jamie with those big, brown eyes, gave a heavy sigh, and nodded. "Orange cheese and mayo. No pickles."
"Pickles? Well, I'd never!" Jamie agreed, taking her hand and leading the way.
Baby It's Cold by Josh Lanyon
“No,” Rocky said. “Oh hell no.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” I said. “And for your information, this wasn’t my idea.”
“Where’s Poppy?” Rocky peered past me into the rain, looking for my grandfather, Fausto Poppa—of Poppa’s House. You’ve seen the program. Everyone’s seen the program. It’s America’s longest running cooking show. It’s been on the air longer than there’s been a Food Network.
I said tersely, “Poppy’s sick. He’s got the flu. Why else would I be here?”
Rocky drew himself up to his full height. Which is…my height, which is medium. Yes, he wears it better, although why assorted piercings and tattoos should make a guy look taller, I don’t know. What I did know was that his green eyes were level with mine—and it was very weird to be this close to him again.
Two months.
That’s how long it had been. Eight weeks since we last spoke. If spoke is the right word. We’d been speaking at the top of our lungs.
“Who knows with you, Jesse,” Rocky said. “Maybe you’re looking for fresh content for your blog. Or maybe you got some crazy idea to come by and peek in my windows to see who I’m banging this week.”
“Yeah right. Maybe I’m trying to steal your secret sauce recipe. Dream on. And I never peeked in your windows!”
“That’s right,” Rocky said. “You didn’t bother with shit like proof or evidence. How could I forget? Oh! Maybe you’re here because it finally occurred to you, you owe me an apology.”
I laughed. Loudly. The sound sailed through the pine trees and ricocheted off the surrounding mountains. Assuming there were mountains behind that ominous wall of cloud and mist. “Have you been hitting the eggnog? I’m here because if I hadn’t agreed to this, Poppy would have dragged himself out of bed and tried to drive up here. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
Here being the rain-slick deck of Rocky’s A-Frame in Big Bear. Big Bear or Big Bear Lake is a summer and ski resort located in the San Bernardino Mountains. It’s surrounded by national forest, which is not my natural habitat. But Rocky grew up here. His first real gig was prep cook in a ski lodge. He calls the cabin his “hideout.”
Warmth and the smell of woodsmoke and coffee wafted out from behind Rocky’s sturdy form. I shivered. There’s nothing like rain down the back of your neck to make you feel unloved and unwanted.
Rocky eyed me for a long, scowling moment. His curly brown hair was looking wilder than usual and he hadn’t shaved in days. Going for the whole mountain man vibe, I guess. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said at last.
“I think it’s a terrible idea,” I agreed. “But this is what the client wanted.”
“If there really is a client.”
I gaped at him. “If there really is a client? I hope you’re kidding because otherwise you’re delusional and that might freak out the network honchos.”
I was probably overdoing it. Anyway, I could have been talking to myself. Rocky held up a hand as though to tick off a very long list. “First of all, you can’t cook your way out of a paper bag.”
That stung. “I can cook. I don’t have my own show or my own restaurant, but most people don’t. I know my way around the kitchen.”
“You always knew where the door was, yeah.”
I curled my lip. “Forget the cooking gig, you should do comedy. So do I get my gear out of my car or are you canceling? There’s no refund for your friend. That needs to be understood.”
His blunt features tightened. Even the tiny gold studs in his eyebrows seemed to bristle. “Who is this supposed friend? I want to know his name.”
“Are you so sure it’s a he?” I asked slyly.
Rocky looked startled and then alarmed, and I laughed. Rocky is out. Out on TV and out in real life, but it’s surprising how many women see “teh gay” as a challenge.
Of course my laughing irritated him all the more, which I guess was kind of what I intended. He said stubbornly, “I’m still not convinced there is any friend.”
“I admit I can’t see why anyone would want to do something nice for you,” I said. “But you do have your fans, as we both know.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t bite. He continued to stand there, scowling at me and thinking whatever it was he was thinking. Rocky’s the methodical type. Not slow, but never impulsive. He can’t be rushed. He doesn’t get mad easily, but once he is mad, he pretty much stays mad forever.
I stared right back at him. My gaze flicked to his full-lipped, sensual mouth. I made myself meet his eyes again. I read emotion there, but I wasn’t sure what the emotion was. Probably wariness, distrust, suspicion. Turnabout was fair play after all.
I said, “Okay, fine. And when your date shows up and there’s no romantic dinner for two, despite the generous fee he paid, you can explain why.” I turned to go.
Rocky said, “Just a minute.”
I turned back, shoved my hands in my pockets, rocked back on my heels like it didn’t matter to me one way or the other. My heart was pounding so hard I’m surprised he couldn’t see it beneath my jacket.
“Why would you agree to do this?”
I said, “I told you. So Poppy wouldn’t have to make a two-hour drive when he’s sick.”
“He could have asked anyone. He could have asked Louisa.”
Louisa is my mother. She’s the Louisa behind all those Bella Louisa Cooks books as well as the Beverly Hills restaurant.
“First, that would be disrespectful to you to just hand it off to anyone. As I’d think you would be the first to point out, given how highly you think of yourself. Even if Poppy could find someone on Christmas Eve. Which he couldn’t. Secondly, there’s no way my mom can leave the restaurant tonight. As you well know.” Christmas Eve at Bella Louisa’s is a major event. All hands on deck. Even Poppy makes an appearance. Rocky had helped to cook his share of holiday feasts back in the day.
“Thirdly?”
I scowled. “What thirdly?”
Rocky watched me, waiting.
I drew a deep breath. “Thirdly,” I said, “maybe I wanted to do this—” he began to shake his head in what looked like repudiation and I hurried to finish, “because there’s no reason we can’t be friends, right? I mean, even if—though—the other is over. We can be friends. It’s easier on everybody if we’re friends. And friends…cook for friends.”
“Not if you’re the one cooking.” But he was grinning that big evil grin of his like a cartoon red devil. Some people found it sort of charming. I used to be one of them.
“You really are an ass, Senate,” I said.
“Apology accepted,” Rocky said graciously, and beckoned for me to go get my gear.
Which I did, trotting back down the wet stairs and sloshing across the muddy clearing that served as the cabin’s front yard. I hadn’t brought much in the way of utensils or gadgets. I didn’t have to. Even Rocky’s mountain getaway had a fully equipped kitchen.
The rain had turned to sleet. It had a sloppy, slushy feel to it. Maybe we—Rocky—were in for a white Christmas. Not that I was any expert, but they did get snow in Big Bear this time of year. I briefly considered what would happen if Rocky and I got snowed in together. If nothing else, we’d have plenty to eat.
I grabbed a bag of groceries in each arm and lugged my stuff back across the ragged yard and up the stairs. The front door was ajar, and I nudged it open with my boot and carried my supplies inside. The house was toasty after the wet cold outside.
“Hey,” I called.
There was no answer and no sign of Rocky, so I continued down the hall to the kitchen.
The cabin seemed unchanged. But then there was no reason it wouldn’t be. I’d been here a few times through the years—twice during those brief months Rocky and I had tried to make the jump from friends to lovers—but I hadn’t spent enough time to put my mark on the place. “Mark” being another term for a plate of scrambled eggs hurled against the wall. It’s that temper of mine. I take after my dad in my looks—blue eyes and fair hair—but my temper is pure Sicilian. More eruptions than Mount Etna, my dad used to say about my mom. He found it funny back then. Later, not so much.
Anyway, the cabin was the same as I remembered: rustic but comfortable. All golden knotty pine and picture windows and space. There were a few Indian print rugs and the lighting fixtures were frosted glass and pine cone art stuff. The furniture was barnwood and leather. A tourist’s idea of how to furnish a mountain cabin, not the kind of thing Rocky had grown up with. Money had been scarce in Rocky’s family. His mom had been a waitress and his father a bartender. Having the dough to afford nice things meant a lot to him.
I dropped my paper sacks on the counter and stared out the rain-starred window. It was only about three o’clock, but the stormy sky was so dark that it could have been nightfall. The towering pines swayed in the wind like tipsy sentinels after a nip or two.
I turned back to the kitchen. It was the one room in the cabin where rustic charm took a backseat to convenience and stainless steel functionality. I took off my jacket and began to unpack the groceries, running over the menu in my mind. There was no dish that was too challenging on its own, but put them all together and… Well, organization was everything in a kitchen.
I dumped out the coffee that, knowing Rocky, had probably been stewing all day, and made a fresh pot.
I was putting the bottle of champagne in the freezer when Rocky said from behind me, “What are you planning on cooking?”
I couldn’t quite hide my jump, but I managed to say calmly, “It’s a surprise.”
“Well, always with you. But what are you hoping to cook?”
“Steamed mussels in white wine and garlic.”
His green eyes lit up. They almost glowed.
“Someone knows what you like,” I said.
Snowflakes and Show Lyrics by Hank Edwards
The Williamsville Inn had seen better days. Most likely sometime back in the 1960s. The early 1960s.
Will entered his room after a long first day on the job, and the heat nearly made him pass out in the entryway. It had to be ninety degrees! He desperately pulled off clothing as he searched for a thermostat, but by the time he was down to socks and his boxer briefs, he’d had no luck.
“So I’ve died and gone to Hell, and this is what I have to look forward to for eternity?” Will muttered.
The heating/air conditioning unit under the window—a long metal contraption with a number of vents set at an upward angle—made a thumping noise followed by a quiet hiss. Will sidestepped to the end of the bed and peered down at the thing. A stamp with the brand name Rest Easy was affixed to one corner, and warm air gusting out of the vents blew the sheer curtains away from the windowsill.
Will approached the unit and discovered a small metal flap on a hinge at one end. Underneath was a small knob with a faded line painted on it. The knob was turned all the way over to COOL, and Will sighed. No more cool setting to try, apparently.
“So much for resting easy, I guess.”
He pulled the flimsy white curtains aside and inspected the window. Happiness filled him when he discovered the age of the hotel at last worked in his favor, and one side of the window was a slider he could open for some fresh air. The locking mechanism was old, however, and took some struggle before it finally released and allowed him to shove the window open with a squeal of the metal frames scraping together.
Will closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of the fresh, cool air. He released it slowly and opened his eyes to look down into the courtyard. His room was on the top floor of the three-story building, and the first-floor rooms across from his all had small patios outside a sliding door. Metal café tables and chairs were provided for each room, and all of it was covered in snow. A quartet of lights in the style of old streetlamps, complete with large round frosted glass shades, provided gentle illumination to the area.
Just as he was wondering if the first-floor rooms cost more because of the tiny patios, one of the sliding doors almost directly across from his window opened, and a man stepped out.
He was tall, with dark hair and a matching full beard. A flannel shirt covered a white tee that hugged his broad chest and flat stomach. The cuffs of tight black jeans had been tucked into black Doc Martens. Something about the man seemed familiar, and Will guessed he’d seen him around the hotel. Someone like that would have definitely caught Will’s eye.
But then the man turned to call to someone still inside the room, and the sound of his voice tripped recognition in Will’s brain.
Rex Garland.
Will sucked in a breath and stared down into the courtyard, watching Rex pace around the cafe table, leaving a path in the snow. His hands were stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans, and he seemed to be muttering to himself.
A burning in his chest reminded Will to let out his breath and pull another one in.
Rex Garland was staying at his hotel. Would he be here for the entire run of his appearances at the Side-Eye? Will’s heart pounded, and a fresh sheen of sweat covered his body. Even the bottoms of his feet were damp!
A man joined Rex out on the patio, and the two of them spoke in low tones. Will watched, lips slightly parted as he absently rubbed a hand through the fine hair covering his chest. He couldn’t make out any words of their conversation until Rex threw his hands in the air and said, “I know I need to get it done, okay? Back the fuck off.”
The other man held his hands up in a sign of surrender and went back inside the room.
Rex’s paces around the small café table picked up speed, and Will could hear him talking to himself. He hated to see his favorite singer in such a state.
Suddenly, Rex stopped and stared across the courtyard. Will pressed his forehead to the glass in an effort to see straight down, but he wasn’t able to. When he looked back, he discovered Rex looking right up at his window. Realizing he must look pretty fucking creepy standing in front of his window in his underwear, Will dropped to the floor and lay there for a moment listening to the heating unit rattle and hiss.
Shit. Now what?
Will rolled onto his belly and did an Army crawl away from the window until he’d reached the far side of the bed. He got up and hurried into the bathroom where he sat on the lid of the toilet with his head in his hands.
Rex Garland was staying at his hotel.
Rex Garland was having a hard time with something and had shouted at one of his team.
Rex Garland had more than likely seen Will standing in his boxer briefs at the window and watching him.
His best friend Carter was going to love this story.
Back out by the door, he got down on the floor to put his sneakers on — no shoes inside, thank you very much — and noticed something under the Christmas tree.
He abandoned the worn sneakers and knee-walked over to check the item. It wasn’t very big, so he got down on all fours to see better.
It was a ball: a little bigger than a ping-pong ball and wrapped in newspaper. It hadn’t been there yesterday when they’d gone to bed, so Ellis must have sneaked it under the tree this morning.
He sat back on his heels and his hand flew to his mouth.
Ellis had gotten him a gift for Christmas!
Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away; he just sat there. Staring at the newspaper-covered ball.
What could it be?
He threw himself on his stomach and crawled as close as he could while making sure not to tangle his hair in the low-hanging branches. A message scrawled with a red marker in Ellis’s almost illegible writing greeted him: merry xmass boo.
Next to the writing, he’d also drawn a small, crooked heart, with one arch much bigger than the other.
Casey couldn’t keep his hands off it. He traced the heart with his finger, wanting nothing more than to tear off the paper and see what Ellis had gotten him. But he didn’t, of course.
Instead, he crossed his arms on the floor in front of him and rested his head down. Watching the present, he exhaled a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
He still had no idea what to give Ellis tomorrow. Considering he had absolutely no money, what could he buy?
Untangling one of his hands, he reached out and enveloped the ball, but resisted the urge to shake it. He just held it in his hand, and somehow it made him feel closer to Ellis.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Ellis had gotten him a present. He knew how much Casey loved Christmas, how desperately he missed his mother, and was sad that there wouldn’t be any knitted socks wrapped in plain brown paper for either of them this year.
Of course, he’d found a way to cheer Casey up.
Casey let go of the present and wiggled his way out from under the tree. He supposed he could always resort to giving Ellis stupid coupons like he’d given his momma when he was a kid. But instead of one month of doing the dishes, it could be stuff like one hour of hard ass-fucking or a promise of rimming Ellis until he screamed Casey’s name and shot his spunk all over the place. He could even draw dirty pictures on the coupons to illustrate the gifts.
He nodded to himself. It would have to do. But next year he’d buy Ellis a real present.
Casey jumped off the floor, took one last longing look at the ball before he pulled on his shoes and went out for his run.
Angels Sing by Eli Easton
Chapter 1
Jamie
"Daa-DEEE!"
Jamie looked up from the computer to see Mia scowling at him, her face grumpy.
"Hey! I thought you were downstairs with Uncle Billy."
"He fell asleep. Like this—" Mia tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and pretended to snore.
Jamie smiled as though it was funny, but, internally, he winced. Uncle Billy, at 76 and in declining health, had started falling asleep at the front desk. That was not a good look for customers. And it increased the possibility of theft since anyone could just walk out with an armload full of books while Uncle Billy snoozed away.
Jamie had suggested to Uncle Billy a few times that they hire someone to work the front desk, but he would have none of it.
I've been at the front desk of Raven Books for thirty years. I'm not ready to leave it yet.
"He fell asleep? Well, why don't you hang out with me and we can chillax?" He pulled Mia onto his lap. For a moment, her sharp-ass knees threatened to cause serious damage to body parts he treasured, but then she turned and settled.
"What are you doin'?" Mia pointed at the computer screen.
"I was looking at some ideas for the cafe. Wanna see?"
Mia nodded, and Jamie showed her the pictures he'd found. Personally, he loved the pink retro 50s design, complete with poodle-skirt lampshades. Too fun! But that would clash with the older exposed-brick look of the rest of the bookstore.
Some might call the store's current theme decrepit, but Jamie refused to be negative.
So for harmony's sake, he was leaning toward a look that featured a cool pale green, lots of chrome, and ferns. He could inject a bit of whimsy with a judicious use of a raven motif to go with the name of the store. Something Poe-esque.
"We'll have cookies, and coffee, and juice and—"
"I know, Daddy," Mia said impatiently. "But when can we make a cafe?"
"I've told you, Munch. After Uncle Billy retires."
"But why? Why can't we do it now?"
Out of the mouths of babes. Jamie fingered the three studs in his right ear and shifted Mia on his thigh. She was a solid little girl, and at six years old, she was heavy. But it wouldn't be too many more years before she'd be too big to sit on his lap at all. And, God, he would miss that.
"Well… Uncle Billy's had this store for a very long time, and people get used to things being a certain way."
Especially old people. Especially Uncle Billy.
"That's dumb!" Mia wriggled down, clearly bored with Jamie's pictures.
He didn't blame her. He'd been playing around with ideas for the bookstore for years now. And so far, very few of them had actually come about. At her tender age, Mia was already learning to be a skeptic about Daddy's dreams.
Awesome! That wasn't pathetic at all.
"Can we go orga-gize the kids’ books?" she asked hopefully.
"Sure, Munch."
There were a dozen customers browsing on the second floor of Raven Books on this rainy November Thursday at 5 o'clock. But no one needed anything at the moment. Jamie put the Be Right Back placard up on the round central desk and followed Mia toward the far back corner.
Raven Books was vast—as in dinosaur vast. And it was nearly as ancient. They carried books on practically every subject you could think of and lots of them, both new and used. They even had an entire room of maps and books in various languages. But the kids' room was special. It was the one room Uncle Billy had allowed them to update somewhat—he could never say no to Mia.
They'd painted the walls sky blue with white clouds—Mia's idea. There was a colorful rug that was made up of individual blocks in bold primary colors. There was a play area with donated toys—Barbies and Legos were the most popular. And there were, of course, plenty of short bookshelves stuffed with books and organized by age range.
Mia was a bookstore baby. She'd practically lived in the store since she was born. When she was tiny, Jamie wore her in a chest snuggler while he talked to customers, worked the register, or shelved books. And when she began to walk, either he or Uncle Billy would keep her by their side. She'd been a good toddler and was usually content sitting on a blanket playing with a bag of colorful quilt blocks Jamie had found in the back room.
Mia knew more about the bookstore than any summer intern they'd ever hired. Which was possibly a bad thing to say about their summer interns, but then, Mia was exceptional, if Jamie did say so himself.
The children's room was Mia's domain, and she knew it like the back of her hand. She loved to "orga-gize" the books, looking over each shelf to make sure a book had not been put back in the wrong spot and moving it if it had. She straightened tilted books, righted upside-down books, and notified Jamie about spills and damage.
Not many kids got to have what was essentially a library at their disposal, and Mia loved taking care of the books and reading them. She was at least a third-grade reading level. Jamie worried a little, because he didn't want her moved up in school. From what he'd researched, that could lead to social problems with her peers. But so far, her first-grade teacher had kept Mia happy and learning.
The part that got to Jamie the most was the way Mia was so generous with the books. She loved talking to the kids who came in and showing them books she thought they'd like. There were moments when Jamie was so proud of her, his heart felt like it would literally burst. And if becoming Mia's daddy at eighteen had cost him a lot, it had given him back way more. The balance sheet was way in the green.
"Daddy, you get the trash." Mia hummed to herself and went to the bookshelf on the left—the "baby books"—to make sure everything was in order.
Jamie saluted. "Aye aye, captain."
He moved deeper into the space, looking around. Juice boxes and snack wrappers had a way of spontaneously generating in the kids' room. Sometimes even bits of clothing. Once they'd found a pair of glittery pink sandals Mia had loved. After spending the requisite time in Lost and Found, she'd worn them until they fell apart.
As he rounded the bookshelves in the middle of the room, the reading nook came into view. A low futon couch, standing lamp, and a rounded cushiony coffee table made a cozy space that was safe for fragile baby heads. Mia could often be found here reading by herself. Or sometimes even napping on the couch.
But this afternoon, there was a mom and a little girl in the space. Jamie was momentarily startled. He didn't recall seeing them come up the stairs from the first floor. And he would have noticed these two. The mom was a beautiful young woman with caramel skin and a halo of black curls. She had a mini-me of about three in her lap. She was reading The Littlest Angel.
Ugh, Jamie couldn't even with that book. It always made him tear up.
Mom and toddler both looked up when Jamie came into view.
"Hey, guys," Jamie said.
"Hi, Jamie. I’m Clarice. I hope you don’t mind. We've made ourselves at home." The woman gave him a beatific smile.
Jamie blinked at being called by his name. Then he glanced down at the name tag on his chest. Right.
He smiled back. "I'm glad, Clarice. That's what this space is for. Don't mind me."
He looked around the area while the mom went back to her reading. There were some things in the little plastic-lined trash can, so he picked it up to be emptied.
But when he turned to leave the nook, he saw Mia. She was standing next to a bookshelf, her gaze on the mom and little girl. Mia's thumb was in her mouth and she stared, transfixed.
Jamie swallowed hard.
It had taken a good six months to get Mia to stop sucking her thumb. She almost never did these days unless she was way overtired or stressed.
Or feeling sad.
Jamie glanced back at the mom and child, and then at Mia. Heat bloomed in his chest. Sadness. Guilt.
Maybe he wasn't the greatest dad in the world, but he tried. Goddammit, he tried so hard. But there was one thing he could never be for Mia, no matter how many tea parties he held with her or how many times they played dress-up. He would never be Mia's mother.
Was Mia doomed to be permanently scarred because of her lack of a maternal role model? The support group he belonged to online assured him the answer was no. But they suggested she'd benefit from having women in her circle of support.
Mia's "circle of support" was rather tiny, unfortunately. It consisted of Jamie and Uncle Billy and, to a lesser extent, the LGBTQ group that met at the bookstore once a month. But even though a few women in that group, Kassandra and Amy especially, adored Mia, they weren't around her enough.
Fortunately, Mia's first-grade teacher, Missy Anders, was a gem. She was down-to-earth and super nice. Mia adored her. Jamie just hoped that when the year ended, it wasn't traumatic for Mia to say goodbye and move on.
He went up to Mia now and cupped her head with his hand. God, he loved her dark curls. They were still baby-soft.
She didn't acknowledge him. She just stared at the mom and toddler.
Jamie squatted down beside her. "Hey, Mia. It's almost time for lunch. Wanna go help me make some sandwiches in the kitchen?"
Mia blinked and reluctantly tore her gaze away. She looked at Jamie with those big, brown eyes, gave a heavy sigh, and nodded. "Orange cheese and mayo. No pickles."
"Pickles? Well, I'd never!" Jamie agreed, taking her hand and leading the way.
“No,” Rocky said. “Oh hell no.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” I said. “And for your information, this wasn’t my idea.”
“Where’s Poppy?” Rocky peered past me into the rain, looking for my grandfather, Fausto Poppa—of Poppa’s House. You’ve seen the program. Everyone’s seen the program. It’s America’s longest running cooking show. It’s been on the air longer than there’s been a Food Network.
I said tersely, “Poppy’s sick. He’s got the flu. Why else would I be here?”
Rocky drew himself up to his full height. Which is…my height, which is medium. Yes, he wears it better, although why assorted piercings and tattoos should make a guy look taller, I don’t know. What I did know was that his green eyes were level with mine—and it was very weird to be this close to him again.
Two months.
That’s how long it had been. Eight weeks since we last spoke. If spoke is the right word. We’d been speaking at the top of our lungs.
“Who knows with you, Jesse,” Rocky said. “Maybe you’re looking for fresh content for your blog. Or maybe you got some crazy idea to come by and peek in my windows to see who I’m banging this week.”
“Yeah right. Maybe I’m trying to steal your secret sauce recipe. Dream on. And I never peeked in your windows!”
“That’s right,” Rocky said. “You didn’t bother with shit like proof or evidence. How could I forget? Oh! Maybe you’re here because it finally occurred to you, you owe me an apology.”
I laughed. Loudly. The sound sailed through the pine trees and ricocheted off the surrounding mountains. Assuming there were mountains behind that ominous wall of cloud and mist. “Have you been hitting the eggnog? I’m here because if I hadn’t agreed to this, Poppy would have dragged himself out of bed and tried to drive up here. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
Here being the rain-slick deck of Rocky’s A-Frame in Big Bear. Big Bear or Big Bear Lake is a summer and ski resort located in the San Bernardino Mountains. It’s surrounded by national forest, which is not my natural habitat. But Rocky grew up here. His first real gig was prep cook in a ski lodge. He calls the cabin his “hideout.”
Warmth and the smell of woodsmoke and coffee wafted out from behind Rocky’s sturdy form. I shivered. There’s nothing like rain down the back of your neck to make you feel unloved and unwanted.
Rocky eyed me for a long, scowling moment. His curly brown hair was looking wilder than usual and he hadn’t shaved in days. Going for the whole mountain man vibe, I guess. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said at last.
“I think it’s a terrible idea,” I agreed. “But this is what the client wanted.”
“If there really is a client.”
I gaped at him. “If there really is a client? I hope you’re kidding because otherwise you’re delusional and that might freak out the network honchos.”
I was probably overdoing it. Anyway, I could have been talking to myself. Rocky held up a hand as though to tick off a very long list. “First of all, you can’t cook your way out of a paper bag.”
That stung. “I can cook. I don’t have my own show or my own restaurant, but most people don’t. I know my way around the kitchen.”
“You always knew where the door was, yeah.”
I curled my lip. “Forget the cooking gig, you should do comedy. So do I get my gear out of my car or are you canceling? There’s no refund for your friend. That needs to be understood.”
His blunt features tightened. Even the tiny gold studs in his eyebrows seemed to bristle. “Who is this supposed friend? I want to know his name.”
“Are you so sure it’s a he?” I asked slyly.
Rocky looked startled and then alarmed, and I laughed. Rocky is out. Out on TV and out in real life, but it’s surprising how many women see “teh gay” as a challenge.
Of course my laughing irritated him all the more, which I guess was kind of what I intended. He said stubbornly, “I’m still not convinced there is any friend.”
“I admit I can’t see why anyone would want to do something nice for you,” I said. “But you do have your fans, as we both know.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t bite. He continued to stand there, scowling at me and thinking whatever it was he was thinking. Rocky’s the methodical type. Not slow, but never impulsive. He can’t be rushed. He doesn’t get mad easily, but once he is mad, he pretty much stays mad forever.
I stared right back at him. My gaze flicked to his full-lipped, sensual mouth. I made myself meet his eyes again. I read emotion there, but I wasn’t sure what the emotion was. Probably wariness, distrust, suspicion. Turnabout was fair play after all.
I said, “Okay, fine. And when your date shows up and there’s no romantic dinner for two, despite the generous fee he paid, you can explain why.” I turned to go.
Rocky said, “Just a minute.”
I turned back, shoved my hands in my pockets, rocked back on my heels like it didn’t matter to me one way or the other. My heart was pounding so hard I’m surprised he couldn’t see it beneath my jacket.
“Why would you agree to do this?”
I said, “I told you. So Poppy wouldn’t have to make a two-hour drive when he’s sick.”
“He could have asked anyone. He could have asked Louisa.”
Louisa is my mother. She’s the Louisa behind all those Bella Louisa Cooks books as well as the Beverly Hills restaurant.
“First, that would be disrespectful to you to just hand it off to anyone. As I’d think you would be the first to point out, given how highly you think of yourself. Even if Poppy could find someone on Christmas Eve. Which he couldn’t. Secondly, there’s no way my mom can leave the restaurant tonight. As you well know.” Christmas Eve at Bella Louisa’s is a major event. All hands on deck. Even Poppy makes an appearance. Rocky had helped to cook his share of holiday feasts back in the day.
“Thirdly?”
I scowled. “What thirdly?”
Rocky watched me, waiting.
I drew a deep breath. “Thirdly,” I said, “maybe I wanted to do this—” he began to shake his head in what looked like repudiation and I hurried to finish, “because there’s no reason we can’t be friends, right? I mean, even if—though—the other is over. We can be friends. It’s easier on everybody if we’re friends. And friends…cook for friends.”
“Not if you’re the one cooking.” But he was grinning that big evil grin of his like a cartoon red devil. Some people found it sort of charming. I used to be one of them.
“You really are an ass, Senate,” I said.
“Apology accepted,” Rocky said graciously, and beckoned for me to go get my gear.
Which I did, trotting back down the wet stairs and sloshing across the muddy clearing that served as the cabin’s front yard. I hadn’t brought much in the way of utensils or gadgets. I didn’t have to. Even Rocky’s mountain getaway had a fully equipped kitchen.
The rain had turned to sleet. It had a sloppy, slushy feel to it. Maybe we—Rocky—were in for a white Christmas. Not that I was any expert, but they did get snow in Big Bear this time of year. I briefly considered what would happen if Rocky and I got snowed in together. If nothing else, we’d have plenty to eat.
I grabbed a bag of groceries in each arm and lugged my stuff back across the ragged yard and up the stairs. The front door was ajar, and I nudged it open with my boot and carried my supplies inside. The house was toasty after the wet cold outside.
“Hey,” I called.
There was no answer and no sign of Rocky, so I continued down the hall to the kitchen.
The cabin seemed unchanged. But then there was no reason it wouldn’t be. I’d been here a few times through the years—twice during those brief months Rocky and I had tried to make the jump from friends to lovers—but I hadn’t spent enough time to put my mark on the place. “Mark” being another term for a plate of scrambled eggs hurled against the wall. It’s that temper of mine. I take after my dad in my looks—blue eyes and fair hair—but my temper is pure Sicilian. More eruptions than Mount Etna, my dad used to say about my mom. He found it funny back then. Later, not so much.
Anyway, the cabin was the same as I remembered: rustic but comfortable. All golden knotty pine and picture windows and space. There were a few Indian print rugs and the lighting fixtures were frosted glass and pine cone art stuff. The furniture was barnwood and leather. A tourist’s idea of how to furnish a mountain cabin, not the kind of thing Rocky had grown up with. Money had been scarce in Rocky’s family. His mom had been a waitress and his father a bartender. Having the dough to afford nice things meant a lot to him.
I dropped my paper sacks on the counter and stared out the rain-starred window. It was only about three o’clock, but the stormy sky was so dark that it could have been nightfall. The towering pines swayed in the wind like tipsy sentinels after a nip or two.
I turned back to the kitchen. It was the one room in the cabin where rustic charm took a backseat to convenience and stainless steel functionality. I took off my jacket and began to unpack the groceries, running over the menu in my mind. There was no dish that was too challenging on its own, but put them all together and… Well, organization was everything in a kitchen.
I dumped out the coffee that, knowing Rocky, had probably been stewing all day, and made a fresh pot.
I was putting the bottle of champagne in the freezer when Rocky said from behind me, “What are you planning on cooking?”
I couldn’t quite hide my jump, but I managed to say calmly, “It’s a surprise.”
“Well, always with you. But what are you hoping to cook?”
“Steamed mussels in white wine and garlic.”
His green eyes lit up. They almost glowed.
“Someone knows what you like,” I said.
Snowflakes and Show Lyrics by Hank Edwards
The Williamsville Inn had seen better days. Most likely sometime back in the 1960s. The early 1960s.
Will entered his room after a long first day on the job, and the heat nearly made him pass out in the entryway. It had to be ninety degrees! He desperately pulled off clothing as he searched for a thermostat, but by the time he was down to socks and his boxer briefs, he’d had no luck.
“So I’ve died and gone to Hell, and this is what I have to look forward to for eternity?” Will muttered.
The heating/air conditioning unit under the window—a long metal contraption with a number of vents set at an upward angle—made a thumping noise followed by a quiet hiss. Will sidestepped to the end of the bed and peered down at the thing. A stamp with the brand name Rest Easy was affixed to one corner, and warm air gusting out of the vents blew the sheer curtains away from the windowsill.
Will approached the unit and discovered a small metal flap on a hinge at one end. Underneath was a small knob with a faded line painted on it. The knob was turned all the way over to COOL, and Will sighed. No more cool setting to try, apparently.
“So much for resting easy, I guess.”
He pulled the flimsy white curtains aside and inspected the window. Happiness filled him when he discovered the age of the hotel at last worked in his favor, and one side of the window was a slider he could open for some fresh air. The locking mechanism was old, however, and took some struggle before it finally released and allowed him to shove the window open with a squeal of the metal frames scraping together.
Will closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of the fresh, cool air. He released it slowly and opened his eyes to look down into the courtyard. His room was on the top floor of the three-story building, and the first-floor rooms across from his all had small patios outside a sliding door. Metal café tables and chairs were provided for each room, and all of it was covered in snow. A quartet of lights in the style of old streetlamps, complete with large round frosted glass shades, provided gentle illumination to the area.
Just as he was wondering if the first-floor rooms cost more because of the tiny patios, one of the sliding doors almost directly across from his window opened, and a man stepped out.
He was tall, with dark hair and a matching full beard. A flannel shirt covered a white tee that hugged his broad chest and flat stomach. The cuffs of tight black jeans had been tucked into black Doc Martens. Something about the man seemed familiar, and Will guessed he’d seen him around the hotel. Someone like that would have definitely caught Will’s eye.
But then the man turned to call to someone still inside the room, and the sound of his voice tripped recognition in Will’s brain.
Rex Garland.
Will sucked in a breath and stared down into the courtyard, watching Rex pace around the cafe table, leaving a path in the snow. His hands were stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans, and he seemed to be muttering to himself.
A burning in his chest reminded Will to let out his breath and pull another one in.
Rex Garland was staying at his hotel. Would he be here for the entire run of his appearances at the Side-Eye? Will’s heart pounded, and a fresh sheen of sweat covered his body. Even the bottoms of his feet were damp!
A man joined Rex out on the patio, and the two of them spoke in low tones. Will watched, lips slightly parted as he absently rubbed a hand through the fine hair covering his chest. He couldn’t make out any words of their conversation until Rex threw his hands in the air and said, “I know I need to get it done, okay? Back the fuck off.”
The other man held his hands up in a sign of surrender and went back inside the room.
Rex’s paces around the small café table picked up speed, and Will could hear him talking to himself. He hated to see his favorite singer in such a state.
Suddenly, Rex stopped and stared across the courtyard. Will pressed his forehead to the glass in an effort to see straight down, but he wasn’t able to. When he looked back, he discovered Rex looking right up at his window. Realizing he must look pretty fucking creepy standing in front of his window in his underwear, Will dropped to the floor and lay there for a moment listening to the heating unit rattle and hiss.
Shit. Now what?
Will rolled onto his belly and did an Army crawl away from the window until he’d reached the far side of the bed. He got up and hurried into the bathroom where he sat on the lid of the toilet with his head in his hands.
Rex Garland was staying at his hotel.
Rex Garland was having a hard time with something and had shouted at one of his team.
Rex Garland had more than likely seen Will standing in his boxer briefs at the window and watching him.
His best friend Carter was going to love this story.
USA Today Bestselling Author V.L. Locey – Penning LGBT hockey romance that skates into sinful pleasures.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, Torchwood and Dr. Who, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a pair of geese, far too many chickens, and two steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in one hand and a steamy romance novel in the other.
Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies room), loves music (and singing along but let’s face it, she’s not Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, poetry, wine, and Sudoku, and absolutely adores elephants!
Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.
Nell is a 40-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, where she spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her life long dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love.
Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, and loves writing diverse and different characters.
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Hank Edwards has been writing gay fiction for more than twenty years. He has published over thirty novels and dozens of short stories. His writing crosses many sub-genres, including romance, rom-com, contemporary, paranormal, suspense, mystery, and wacky comedy. He has written a number of series such as the suspenseful Up to Trouble, funny and spooky Critter Catchers, Old West historical horror of Venom Valley, and erotic and funny Fluffers, Inc. No matter what genre he writes, Hank likes to keep things steamy and heartfelt. He was born and still lives in a northwest suburb of the Motor City, Detroit, Michigan, where he shares a home with his partner of over 20 years and their two cats.
VL Locey
Nell Iris
Eli Easton
B&N / GOOGLE PLAY / BOOKBUB
EMAIL: eli@elieaston.com
Josh Lanyon
SMASHWORDS / iTUNES / SHELFARI
Michael Ferraiuolo(Narrator)
Hank Edwards
FACEBOOK / TWITTER / FB FRIEND
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
FB VENOM VALLEY / GOOGLE PLAY / B&N
INSTAGRAM / FB GROUP / AMAZON
PRIDE PUBLISHING / GOODREADS
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
FB VENOM VALLEY / GOOGLE PLAY / B&N
INSTAGRAM / FB GROUP / AMAZON
PRIDE PUBLISHING / GOODREADS
The Christmas Oaks by VL Locey
B&N / KOBO / BOOKS2READ
Red Popcorn Strings and Gumball Rings by Nell Iris
Angel Sings by Eli Easton
Baby It's Cold by Josh Lanyon
Snowflakes and Show Lyrics by Hank Edwards
