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.
Sometimes going back can be the scariest and yet strangely rewarding experience. Sometimes sticking it to someone who has hurt you can also be incredibly rewarding and that is what Bryan's plans are: to sell the beloved cabin his grandfather left him and give the money to LGBT charity since his grandfather painfully rejected him after coming out. Fate may have other plans for Bryan though when his old friend(and the only one who supported him, besides his sister after coming out) who is battling his own demons is living in said cabin. Fate can be cruel at times but it can be equally understanding when it comes to what we need and perhaps it knows exactly what it is doing when it brings Bryan home and reconnects him with Parson.
VL Locey tells an amazing story full of aches and warmth. Your heart will run the gauntlet of emotions in this holiday romance. So often holiday tales are full of sunshine, roses, rainbows, and unicorns - basically everything happy, happy and there is nothing wrong with that because I love a good holiday happy, happy but every so often you find a Christmas setting that is definitely romance but so much more than just the holiday magic and that is what The Christmas Oaks is. Amazing characters with goods and bads, setting that isn't always easy but still peaceful, internal struggles that make you want to whack them with a frying pan one minute and wrap them in the tightest Mama Bear Hug the next. A feel good story that has it's struggles and being Christmas just gives it an extra layer of warmth, that warm sweater on a cold winter night.
RATING:
Summary:
A Snow Globe Christmas
What happens in those Christmas movies doesn’t happen in real life... right?
When Blake Sunday, an actor well known for his super fluffy roles in made-for-television movies, comes to the small but bustling town of Hidden Springs, Missouri to film a Christmas movie, he knows immediately that it's where he wants to put down roots. His restless, energetic nature gets him sent on a coffee run where he steps inside Knick-Knack Patty-Cakes and meets its adorable owner.
Declan Alexander is chubby, clumsy, has wild curly blonde hair that can only be tamed with a stocking cap and has an unnatural obsession with made-for-TV Christmas movies.… And Blake Sunday. So, when the gorgeous actor comes waltzing into his bakery, naturally Declan becomes a force of destruction on feet.
Blake is completely smitten by the shy man, and does everything he can to get the guy’s attention, but Declan continues to treat his flirting like a joke, and he starts to think it might be Declan’s way of turning him down nicely.
Declan knows Blake is one of those guys who flirt as naturally as they breathe, but it’s getting harder and harder to laugh off the high heat on when Blake calls him Angel Eyes or brushes his cheek when he reaches out to tug on one of his curls. How could he wish the man would stop and wish he wouldn’t at the same time?
When Blake nearly mows down a little boy carrying a snow globe with two men kissing in the middle of a frozen lake, he notices some striking similarities between him and one of the men, and it doesn't escape his notice that the other looks a lot like Declan, or that the globe has Knick-Knack Patty-Cakes’ logo on the bottom.
Maybe the gorgeous little baker with the sweet eyes and blush isn’t turning him down. Maybe Blake just needs to figure out how to prove how serious he is about taking him home and never letting him leave.
Although this book is part of A Snow Globe Christmas series, it is a complete standalone, and it isn’t a requirement that you read the previous books to follow along. We wish everyone a happy holiday season.
Summary:
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me…
One pissed off Santa…
A whole heap of trouble…
The last thing Phin feels like doing is going to a New Year’s Eve party. After a day dealing with sick animals, all he wants is a glass of red wine, some food and his bed. But as he drives home down a steep, snow-covered hill, he skids and hits a guy dressed as Santa Claus.
Maric’s not badly hurt, but he’s pissed off. He’s pretty sure Phin’s not the one he’s supposed to find, but when Phin takes him to his cottage, and Maric sees no sign of festivities, he begins to wonder if Phin is the one who needs his help.
Much as Phin would like to get rid of Maric, the thickly falling snow makes it too dangerous for Phin to drive him anywhere. The pair are stuck together, which suits Maric just fine. Now all he needs is luck and a bit of magic.
Summary:
Wrecked #1
And baby makes three?
It’s fall in Vermont. The holidays are coming, the leaves are turning brilliant colors, and Skyler and Beckett are expecting a baby! They’re picking out furniture and paint colors for the nursery. They’re looking at ultrasounds and choosing names.
But nothing is ever simple for these two, and something they’re not expecting throws a wrench--or a great big crowbar--into Beck’s carefully planned paternity leave and Sky’s nursery decorations. But is it a disaster, a blessing, or both?
As with all deliveries, they’re at the mercy of fate and mother nature. They’ll be adding to their family for Christmas—but they’ll be doing it in the most chaotic way possible.
Summary:
Forced together, can past and present enemies become future lovers?
A lowly kitchen boy, looked down upon and despised by all, sweet-natured Georgie’s a modern day Cinderfella. Roland’s an award-winning chef. Arrogant, frosty, and a silver fox in the making, he’s also Georgie’s boss. The only thing the two have in common is a mutual loathing — and a mutual attraction neither will admit to.
Cornered into taking a car journey together, they’re soon lost in a sudden, violent blizzard. Their only hope of shelter is to follow a series of signs leading to an isolated hotel… a hotel with a mysterious proprietor, no other guests, but only one vacant room with one very big bed.
As the snowstorm rages, will the warmth of Christmas Spirit melt the ice between them?
The Christmas Oaks by VL Locey
Chapter One
“Betty, I’ll need Dottie’s updated schedule in my hand when I land. No, not the tour schedule, we’ll have to see how she looks once she’s out of rehab. I need the schedule for the holiday specials she’s been booked on. Oh, and the phone numbers for all the producers of those stupid TV shows. Yes, I know, it’s a clusterfuck of biblical proportions. Were you talking about Dottie’s dive into dependency or this stupid trip home to bury Jim? Both are miserable.”
I shuffled around a large group of Middle Eastern people chatting away merrily, smiling, cell to my ear, desperate to get onto my flight out of Nashville International so I could have a damn drink. Merrily. Right. I guess it was the holiday season, so merry and bright was the theme of the month. Ho-fucking-ho.
Today had been one of those days that talent agents dread. Someone dying and someone signing themselves into rehab. Again. The rehab bit, not the dying bit. As I moved past departing passengers on my mad rush to my plane, I tried to weigh which bit of news had been worse. My grandfather Jim dying, or my highest paid client going into rehab out on the west coast when she was supposed to be doing three live streaming events here in Nashville over the next week.
My personal assistant and all-around savior, Betty Forde, yes that was her name, and no she didn’t think it was funny in the least, gave me a sound tsk.
“He was your grandfather, Bryan. You could at least try to sound remorseful about his passing. As for Dottie, well, maybe this time it will stick,” Betty said then sighed, the shuffle of papers ever-present when she was on the phone. The woman never rested, kind of like me. Betty had no life, also kind of like me, but she was in her late sixties and had lived a lot of hers. She’d been married to her childhood sweetheart for over forty years, had kids who were now spread over the globe making grandkids and doing philanthropic social work, and had buried her husband ten years ago. Me? I was thirty-three and married to my job and my cat. Speaking of Aesop…
“Don’t forget to stop and—”
“Pick up your cat.”
I smiled wearily. Thank God for this woman.
“Already have that jotted down in my schedule. Cat carrier still in the hall closet?”
“Yep. And don’t let him give you any shit. Close the bedroom door before you try to catch him. If he gets under the bed you’ll get clawed trying to reach for him. I have the battle scars to prove it.” I slipped around a couple kissing goodbye. Since this was just a flight to Elmira, New York, I couldn’t see why the need for so much face sucking was taking place right by the kiosk desk. Wasn’t like the guy was being sent off to war, unless someone had decided to invade us. Who would launch an invasion in a tiny town like Elmira? There was nothing but cows and grape vines in the Finger Lakes region. Go a little farther north, into Pennsylvania where it butted up against New York State, and all you’d find were more cows, snow, and stiff conservative ideology. Which brought us back to Jim and his sudden death and my need to go to Kutter’s Summit two weeks before Christmas to bury his judgmental ass.
“I know how to handle him. Oh, I have Brock Callahan on another line. Do you want to talk to him?”
Ah, my top male performer. “Yes, tell him…shit, no. I have to get through security and get on the plane. Betty, tell him to shine up his belt buckle and be ready to stand in for Dotty. And make sure you grab Aesop’s toys. That pink catnip mouse and his purple cactus.”
“Okay, I’ll handle Brock. Just get on the plane. Call me when you’re able.”
The line went dead and I jumped ahead of some old man with fourteen suitcases. I just had a carry-on and a wheelie suitcase.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, then began toeing off my sneakers.
We sailed through security and I made a dash into the nearest men’s room to try to contact the desk at Oasis Way Rehabilitation Center in San Juan Capistrano, California. I was politely told that Dottie Anders was currently unable to come to the phone but my message would be delivered. I ran my fingers through my hair, cussed at the stall door, and then flushed the toilet several times just for the fucking hell of it.
Why in God’s name had I decided to start a talent agency? I could have taken my bachelor’s degree in Organizational Communications and Public Relations and done any number of things. But no, I had to go into business for myself so I could play nursemaid to egotistical country and western singers. I could have been a lobbyist, for fuck sake, slipping cash into the pockets of greedy politicians in exchange for a yes vote on legalizing something really bad for the American people. I’d be rich and stress-free. Maybe I’d have a hot Senatorial aide for a lover, and we’d be the stars of the Washington gay scene.
I padded to the sink and stared at myself in the mirror as men came and went. I looked like I’d just gotten out of bed, which I had. The call from my sister had come in at four a.m. sharp. Jim couldn’t even die at a decent time. My brown eyes were puffy and my face covered with thick dark stubble. I hadn’t had time to shower or shave. Not even Aesop would look at me when I’d slipped from the bed I shared with my cat and only my cat. I wasn’t even going to try to remember the last man who’d been between my sheets. The long drought was too depressing to contemplate. Who had time to work on a relationship when you had to be at the beck and call of celebrity singers? Was ten percent really worth it? I looked closer to forty than thirty and felt closer to a hundred.
“Oh, the glamour of the music business,” I grunted, poked at the bag under my left eye, and shuffled along to my waiting plane. Once I was settled into first class and had a vodka and tonic with extra lime in hand, I began checking off things to attend to once I landed. Rental car, hotel room in Kutter’s Summit because no way was I staying with Debbie and her twins. Nope. Eight-year-old boys and me did not jibe. Any child under the age of college freshman and I didn’t mesh well. Too much yelling and whining. I dealt with that all day long with my clients, who the hell wanted to come home to more of the same? Thanks, but no thanks.
So, hotel in town, funeral as soon as humanly possible, reading of the will, leaving the backwoods rural community I’d grown up in with all due haste after the not-surprising discovery that Jim had left me nothing. He had disliked my being gay. Hated it actually, so I was reasonably sure Deb and her boys would get the bulk of the inheritance. Which was fine. I wanted nothing from the homophobic old prick. Deb needed the money more than I did. She was a single mom with two kids. I was a successful agent with a cat. But just in case Jim had decided to bequeath me something, I already had plans in mind for anything he’d left me. Selling it and donating the money to my favorite LGBTQ charity in Nashville, Danny’s Place, which was a mecca for homeless gay kids in the Nashville area. I sniggered into my vodka and tonic at the thought of giving Jim’s bigoted and tightly hoarded cash to a bunch of fag boys. His slur, not mine.
I tossed back my drink and flagged down the flight attendant for another. Perhaps if I had a few more cocktails, my grandfather’s intolerable disgust of me and men of my kind wouldn’t hurt quite so badly.
Kutter’s Summit never changed.
Seriously.
It had been fifteen years since I’d been here. Was that right? Yes, fifteen years since I’d left for college, a beautiful campus in the heart of Nashville that was a little more faith-based than I would have liked, but the communication and media studies program was the most highly-rated curriculum among the schools that had accepted me. I just kept a wide berth of the chapel and hung out off campus with the other queers around Church Street. Despite what people would think the city has a thriving LGBT community, a tiny blue island of acceptance in a predominantly red state as it were. I fell in love with the city, the gay community, and so set up shop. Using what money I could beg or borrow from relatives—not Jim—and sold myself as an inclusive agent willing to represent all. And amazingly I had flourished.
Not everyone who wears a cowboy hat and croons about girls in tight jeans and his love for his pick-up truck is straight. My client list has several rainbow talents on it. Some are out, some not. Matters not to me, as long as you’re not bedding anyone under eighteen or farm animals, I’ll represent you if you have the chops and the drive. Sadly that wasn’t the case for many agents in the deep South.
I slowed to a stop by the Kinnerson farm, about a mile outside of Kutter’s Summit proper, and waited for a kid in chore boots and a flannel shirt to catch the half-grown red beef cow standing along the side of the road. Ah rural life. I missed it so. Not. I’d never been one of those kids who wanted to show sheep or learn how to grow corn. No Future Farmers of America club for Bryan. I really didn’t participate much aside from a stint on the high school basketball team. That had ended badly when the student body found out I was gay.
Let’s just say that one can only be concussed so many times by errant elbows from both his own team—oops sorry Graham, didn’t see you there—and opposing teams before one got some sense knocked into him. I removed my lanky self from the team, and the locker room, and everyone including the coach was pleased. The only person who had been supportive had been Parson Greer, fellow gangly guy and the single male in our high school who didn’t hurl hurtful comments at me after I had come out. I smiled softly at the memory of Parson. He and I had been buddies of a sort. I wondered how he was doing in the military. Deb would know. She knew all the gossip working at our tiny rural electric company as the lone dayshift switchboard operator.
I wondered if old Kinnerson was still coaching the boys’ basketball team. His farm looked a little ragged, but then again who could make a decent living in a town like Kutter’s Summit? There was no industry, only cows and opioid addictions. And of course old men like my grandfather who refused to leave because this was God’s country, and he had roots like a mighty oak. I rolled my eyes.
Someone in a pick-up truck behind me hit their horn. The urge to flip them off was strong, but I simply motioned to the kid draping a rope around his steer’s neck and asshole in the red Ford stopped being a dick. As soon as the kid and cow were safely back in the pasture, I hit the gas, following the familiar route that led me past Kutter’s Summit High School and right into town. The few street lights had been decorated with the same gold bells that had been used when I was a kid. The stores had blinking lights in the windows. Oh, but it was quaint and festive.
The town consisted of two red lights, a sub/pizza shop, a bar, and four churches, all with nativity scenes half-buried with snow. There was not a synagogue or a mosque. Although there was a Catholic church outside of town. Talk about acceptance! My toxicity rose with every breath. By the time I was checked into my hotel room I’d be a seething ball of acid. This was what this town did to me. How Deb could live here made no sense. She should move down south with me and get away from the creeping death that was slowly choking the life out of this small town. I kept asking her to but she refused. Her reasons were many, but I suspected it was because she hoped to reconcile with her ex-husband, the biggest ass rash I had ever met.
After a quick stop at the red light by the sub shop, I eyeballed the liquor store. It was locked up tighter than a nun’s drawers. Sunday blue laws were still highly regarded here in Kutter’s Summit. The urge to drive right through my hometown and not stop until I hit Canada was strong, but being the good boy that I was, I pulled into the parking lot of the Tumbling Pines Hotel on Main Street. Little Margie Pinkens was sitting behind the reservations desk. Her gaze lit up when I pushed through the doors, snow whirling around me as I entered.
“Deb said you were flying in! Thank goodness you made it before this clipper came in,” Margie exclaimed, her cheeks still freckled and her hair still as red as the town’s lone fire engine. “You look good! I saved you the best room.”
I gave her a warm smile. Deb and Margie had been friends since elementary school. “Thanks for that,” I said as I signed the ledger, yes a ledger, and then handed her my debit card. “I’ll only be here for maybe three days, so I’ll pay up front. You do have free Wi-Fi, right?”
“Oh, of course! We’re all modernized now, well, aside from the ledger here.” She patted the book that probably dated back to the early eighties. “You know Uncle Dave. He likes to see who comes and goes.”
“He could see who comes and goes online,” I pointed out as she ran my card several times, each time her frown growing deeper. “Problem?”
“Oh, it’s this old reader.” She huffed and typed the card number in by hand. “Bad weather slows the internet.”
I nodded. My sister’s internet still dropped out when her phone rang. Ah, rural living. I had to remind myself to say that every time I got mired in all the backwoods charm, or I’d start to weep openly. Nashville glowed in my mind like an oasis in an arid desert of bucolic bullshit.
“So, while we wait for this to go through to the bank, how are things in the big city? Deb tells me that you’re still not married or even seeing anyone. I have a cousin who’s gay. He’s just adorable! Would you like his number?”
“God. No.” Her eyes flared. “I mean, God, no way would I turn that down.”
“Yay! I told Deb that you and Clarence would hit it right off,” she grinned up at me. I swallowed down a glob of despair. First thing when I got to my room and located enough bars to make my fucking phone work I was calling my sister and ranting at her.
“He’s just so cute. Works for a lawyer and sings in the church chorus. He’s one of those gays who aren’t making it weird for people. You know, he’s kind of like you. Just not as normal as the rest of us, but in a good not-normal way.”
Wow. That was an exemplary display of a backhanded compliment. It had more shade than a lamp shop. And the sad thing was that Margie had been being nice, or what she thought was nice. I sighed, signed the damn slip when the card reader finally coughed it out, and went to the executive suite. Turns out the only thing that made this room more expensive is that it was closer to the router in the main office. Yep. Still no bars for cell service but I could yell at my sister online now. Which I planned to do right after I threw my bag to the floor and tried to find somewhere in this miserable town where I could buy a damn lime, some tonic, and a bottle of vodka. Maybe a case of each would be wise. It promised to be a long ass three days.
Lights, Camera, Christmas! by JD Light
Chapter One
Declan
I was a mess. I knew it. My sister knew it… and made fun of me about it. The customers knew it, especially Martha, Pastor Kenny's wife, since she was still in the bathroom picking ice cubes out of her bra from where I tried to hand her her iced coffee and basically punched her directly in the double Fs, because I was trying to see around the long-ass line to the giant window that showed the street.
It had started as excitement and quickly turned into obsession, checking the damn street every minute or so to see if I could see anyone I recognized from the sugar-sweet, made-for-TV Christmas movies I basically obsessed over every year from the beginning of November until the middle of January.
Especially Blake Sunday. I would give up the alcohol and cussing if I could just get a glimpse of Blake Sunday. At least, that's what I told Jesus this morning during my breakfast prayer, but I was pretty sure he knew I was full of shit, so I really didn't feel like I should be held responsible if I didn't keep my promise. He knew how I was. We had an understanding.
I hadn't believed the rumor at first, thinking all the hilarious assholes in this town who knew of my Christmas movie obsession––people like my sister, my cousins… and my grandma––and liked to tease me about it, had made it all up just to see me lose my mind, just so they could rip it away from me and crush my spirit, but the mayor had confirmed it about three months ago, and I had actually started happy crying in the middle of the town meeting. It was true. They were actually filming a Christmas movie here in Hidden Springs, set to air next Christmas.
We'd finally gotten a lull in customers, and Emma had pretty-much banned me from anything that involved liquid, so I decided it was probably time to rearrange the dessert case. I opened the sliding plastic door, reaching in to empty a couple of trays on to others, happily surprised to see that the peppermint pretzel bites were pretty-much gone. I lifted the first tray easily enough, but the second tray got wedged on the slide, and I couldn't seem to free it with one hand. The resulting tug o' war probably would have ended horribly if my sister hadn’t yelled, “freeze,” which was accompanied by the sound of the sleigh bells ringing on the door.
"Back away from the case before you end up at the bottom of a dessert avalanche," she said through gritted teeth. "I swear, boy. You done lost it today."
I sighed, straightening to face her, my mouth opening to say… many rude things, and to remind her that we both grew up in the same fucking house, and neither of our parents threw done in the middle of a sentence like a fucking hillbilly, when a throat cleared on the other side of the counter.
Right, we have a customer.
I turned to face the man with a fake smile on my mouth, while my eyes were still focused on my sister, promising a scolding for a later date, so it took me a moment to realize my life had changed forever. "Hi, how can I…" I swallowed hard, and I felt a breeze on my optic nerve.
Well, shoot. There goes my weekend plans to drink a gallon of eggnog and masturbate to the sound of Blake Sunday, learning the true meaning of Christmas. Also, Blake Sunday was somehow even hotter in person. Like, I'd totally shoulder the elderly out of the way for the opportunity that had been laid before me… which might be why I froze up like an idiot.
"Hi." His smile was absolutely earth destroying. I could practically feel it breaking apart beneath my feet. He shrugged one shoulder. "I was annoying everyone and got sent on a coffee run. Is there any chance you have lattes?"
"Uh… I…" I think there might have been air in the line. Someone––not naming any names, but the Almighty had some 'splainin' to do––forgot to bleed the brakes when it came to my brains and that moment. "You want… a big one?"
I indicated the cups with two hands like I'd never used my arms before in my life and continued blinking at the man like I was trying to stir up a breeze with the sheer power of my eyelashes.
Logan smacked me on the back like I was one of those faulty old televisions while stepping up beside me. "He didn't ask about your dick size, Deck."
"What?" My head snapped around to my mouthy cousin, wondering why the hell he was talking about di… penises, but he was looking down in front of me… where my two stupid hands were bracketing my junk like I was offering it up on a damn game show. "Oh!"
I slid over the foot and a half it took to put me in front of the cups where I thought I'd been before, hopefully going back to looking awkward and weird instead of like a lady of the night and body-checked my sister, who sighed and stepped around me to easily slide the tray I'd been wrestling back into the case and then out.
"We definitely have lattes, Mr. Sunday," Logan said, easing me out of the way much more gently than I had my sister. "What do you need?"
"Oh, you know my name?" the man asked in surprise, his eyes still lingering on me as I stepped back, probably worried I was having a stroke or something.
I honestly wasn't sure I wasn't. Was I even breathing? Did I die?
Logan chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at me and shaking his head. "Oh, definitely. It's almost a job requirement here."
Blake blinked in confusion as he glanced at my cousin before his focus moved back to me. "Uh, okay." He licked his lips and I wanted to be those plush mothers… or maybe I wanted to be his tongue. Oo oo no, I wanted to be his underwear. "And call me Blake, please. I have a feeling I'll be here a lot."
"Yeah. Underwear," I apparently said out loud, and my sister whacked me on the back of the head to restart me.
"Fudge!" I yelled, rubbing my throbbing cranium, glaring at her, while Blake cleared his throat and rattled off his order.
While my sister and Logan handled the hot beverages, I busied myself… Okay, I tried to look busy folding pastry boxes and surreptitiously stealing glances at Blake, while he sat at one of the tables, smiling down at his phone and glancing up every once in a while to catch me. I was being stupidly obvious, and I knew it, but he didn't seem bothered, and I didn't think it would matter if he did. My eyes were doing eye things.
By the time his order of ten lattes was done, I'd folded exactly twenty-two pastry boxes… that I'd have to find a place to store since we usually didn't fold them until we needed them, and I was pretty sure Mr. Harper wasn't about to order the remainder of the dessert case for him and his poodle Mikey.
Logan loaded a drink carrier with four to-go lattes, and Emma loaded another, but that left two free-range coffee cups, and even those gorgeously muscled arms of Blake's… that I sadly couldn’t see, because he was wearing a wool coat, weren’t going to be able to finagle that particular load back to the center of town, where they had the movie set put together, without some difficulty and a possible accident.
"Hey, Deck," Emma said in a sugary-sweet voice that immediately put me on edge, making me bobble my pastry-box tower. "You ain't had a break today. Why don't you help Blake with his drinks?"
"What?" I glanced over at Blake, eyes wide. "I don't think that's a good idea."
I didn't quite understand the look of disappointment that crossed his face, but I had to admit it made me feel like a di… penis head.
Emma put her hands on her hips and batted her eyelashes, and if I wasn't about to have a fudging panic attack, I might have laughed right in her face… or at least from across the room, out of swinging range of her freakishly long arms. "It's the lull between the brunch rush and lunch rush. It's the perfect time for you to take your break."
"Maybe," I said through clenched teeth as I smiled at my lovely sister. "But we both know if I try to help him, one or both of us are going to end up wearing those lattes."
Turning, she grabbed one of the drink holders and one of the free-rangers and handed them to me, waiting until I took them to reach up and pat me on the head. "I have confidence in you."
"I wish you didn't," I grumbled as I watched Logan load Blake down.
She chuckled as we left, and Blake used his beautiful rear-end to push open the door, holding it for me to walk through. I nervously mumbled a thank you, and then made a face at my sister through the window, realizing too late that Blake was watching me when he chuckled.
"Is she the owner?" he asked, and I shivered, praying I didn't get a boner while my hands were too full to adjust all that. There were some things Mrs. Prescott did not need to see when she stood at her window watching everyone pass by, and that was me leading Blake Sunday down the street with my penis pointing the way.
But damn his voice was sexy.
"Uh, no." I glanced nervously at him, wanting to take the opportunity I'd been given to just stare at him, but not at all having the bravery to do so. "I actually am. She's just bossy… and my sister."
"Ah, enough said." I glanced at him quickly, gasping quietly at the sight of his crooked smile. "What about the other guy? He seems nice. You guys dating?"
Da… Darn it. Figures.
It was no secret that Blake Sunday was bi. It had been one of the best days of my life when he came out for Pride Month––even though my sister thought it was a publicity stunt. It was also no secret that Logan was absolutely gorgeous. Men, women and children all stopped and stared when he walked into the room. Heck, I'd seen a dog freeze in the middle of his butt sniffing to watch Logan stroll by on the sidewalk one day.
I'd only had a few boyfriends over the years because… Well, there really wasn't any way around it. I was chubby, which probably wasn't going to change since I loved to cook, and I loved to test what I was cooking. I was the you're so handsome in the face guy. And really, only old ladies told me that, so I wasn't even sure I actually had that going for me either. Needless to say, after my third boyfriend to meet my cousin and mysteriously need to be at every single family-function we had, only to spend the entire time following Logan around, I'd stopped introducing my boyfriends to him.
It wasn't his fault, but the man was definitely a showstopper.
"Logan?" I asked, even though I knew full well he meant the gorgeous man with the shoulder-length black hair, emerald-green eyes and beautifully chiseled face. "He's actually my cousin."
I wonder how long until he asks for Logan's number. I really hope I'm not in the shop that day. As much as it sucked for me, it would be nice for Logan, though. Maybe they would get married and I could live vicariously through Logan's stories.
Blake hummed, the sound kinda pleased. "Got the whole family working there?"
I chuckled, feeling a little more at ease knowing Blake Sunday was into my cousin. It was like it kinda took the pressure off me a little. Maybe I could calm the eff down now. Not that I'd ever really thought we had a chance before, but having your fantasies crushed grew you up a little.
"Not the whole family," I said with a shrug. "I couldn't afford the lawsuits if Aunt Nadine worked there, but on the bright side, if you need a bodyguard, I know a sixty-three-year-old woman who can swing a baseball bat like Babe Ruth and can sweet talk her way out of a prison sentence."
Not Over Yet by Barbara Elsborg
One
Maric glared at his brother Olan. “Don’t you dare think about leaving me out here naked.”
Olan laughed and swerved so sharply that Maric almost fell out of the open side. He grabbed his sack before that went flying, and clutched it to his chest.
“There are clothes under the seat,” Olan told him.
Maric sighed when he pulled them out. “That’s not fair.”
“Don’t put them on, then. Up to you.”
Maric sagged, but got dressed. This wasn’t going to work if he was naked. It might not work anyway.
Olan glanced at him. “Put all of it on.”
“For fuck’s…” Maric tugged on the last two items. “Happy?”
“No. You shouldn’t be allowed to do this. You risk everything.”
“It’s not your decision to make. Dad said I could try.”
“You’ll fail.”
“Just because you and the others failed doesn’t mean I will.”
Olan laughed so hard, he lost control and they swerved again. Maric slid from one side of the seat to the other.
His stomach roiled. “Are we nearly there?”
“We’re on the right road.”
The snow was falling so thickly, Maric couldn’t see much, but Olan reckoned he could navigate blindfolded, not that Maric wanted him to test that out. Not while he was with him, anyway. This would have been so much better if one of his other brothers had brought him. But bloody Olan had volunteered. The bastard. When Maric had been scooped out of his warm bed and dumped on the seat naked, he’d known Olan was going to make this as difficult as he could. At least Maric had packed his sack in anticipation.
“Okay. I’m going down now,” Olan said.
“Which house is it?”
“It’s on this road. You’ll have to find it.”
“What?” Maric snapped. “That’s not fair.”
“Too bad. We’ll all be watching. And laughing.”
“Fuck off.”
A moment later, his brother had gone and Maric stood on a snowy hill, in the middle of nowhere with no lights in sight, let alone a house. Fuck!
Phin turned up the collar of his jacket as he headed across the farmyard to his Land Rover. Snow stung his face and eyes, and he blinked as he battled against the wind.
“Take care on that hill, Phineas,” Stan shouted.
Phin waved his acknowledgement of the warning, tempted to put up two fingers at Stan’s use of his full name despite repeated requests not to. He put his bag on the back seat, climbed into the vehicle and shivered. It was as cold inside as out. He brushed the flakes from his hair, but kept his jacket on. The snow was falling more heavily than when he’d arrived and the tracks he’d made were already beginning to disappear. Phin started the engine, cranked up the heating and flicked on the wipers before he fastened his seatbelt. This weather would scupper a lot of New Year’s Eve plans. But not his.
Food. Wine. Bed. Wank—if I have the energy. Sleep.
His phone rang before he’d made it to the road. Phin pressed to receive the call. “Hi, Tom.”
“Have you finished at Stan’s?”
“Yep. Just.”
“All okay?”
“Hopefully. The sheep is still alive anyway.” “Then you can come to the party.” “Too tired. I’m off to bed.”
“With a hot water bottle instead of a hot guy? It’s New Year’s Eve! How old are you, Grandpa?”
Phin winced. “The roads aren’t good.”
“You can spend the night here. Dec’s cousin is looking forward to meeting you.”
Phin hadn’t needed another reason not to go to the party, but Tom had just handed him one. He didn’t want to be set up with anyone.
“I’ve been on five calls since first thing this morning, driven all over the county and I’m shattered. I’m not in the mood.” Though he wouldn’t have been in the mood even if he hadn’t done the five calls.
“Come over here and you’ll soon be in the mood. Food, drink, hot tub, Dec’s luscious cousin, Dec’s luscious cousin’s mouth, Dec’s luscious cousin’s arse, Dec’s luscious—”
“Don’t let Dec hear you talking like that.”
Tom laughed. “Dec’s worse than me. The only good thing is that because he’s Dec’s cousin, the guy’s untouchable. Seriously, Phin, he’s perfect for you.”
“All I feel like doing is having something to eat and going to bed. Alone. I’ll see you next Tuesday. Happy New Year.” He ended the call before Tom said something he didn’t want to hear.
Phin was trying not to think about what he’d been doing this time last year, how happy he’d been, and how he and Jason had welcomed in the first of January. His stomach clenched. If he’d gone to Tom’s party, he’d have been miserable, and the last thing he needed was to be told things would be better this time next year, that these first anniversaries were the hardest. Even though that wasn’t what he wanted anyone to say, he hoped it was true because he knew he was being a sulky bastard. He ought to find a job elsewhere, but it aggravated him to think he was considering a move when it was Jason who should leave. Except Jason had worked at the practice longer than him.
He turned onto the main road at the end of Stan’s drive and gave a heavy sigh. So much for hoping a snowplough might have made his journey easier. Just one vehicle had left tracks for him to follow. Home was seven miles away along snow-covered rural roads and though he was desperate to get to his cottage and lock the door on the world until next week, an accident would wreck those plans. So if it took him twice as long to get back, that was fine, as long as he made it back in one piece.
At the junction, the tracks he’d been following turned left towards Harrogate. As Phin turned right and rattled across the cattle grid, the snow stopped falling. It was eerie driving at night down a lane obliterated by snow, the only illumination coming from his headlights. There were no fences or dry stone walls either side of him, just rolling moorland, so only the smoothness of the road ahead made his path clear. Headlights turned the route into a strange sparkling river and although he wished the plough had cleared him a path, it was exhilarating to drive where no one else had been. Like being on another planet.
But the hill that he hadn’t needed warning about lay ahead and Phin uttered a silent plea not to meet another vehicle coming up or come across one that was stuck part way down. His heart beat a little faster as he began the descent. No matter how good this old Land Rover was in snow, a slope of this gradient was dangerous. He wished he was going more slowly, but he was in the lowest gear and reluctant to brake in case he lost traction. Halfway down, he carefully eased around the tight hairpin bend by moving onto the wrong side of the road, only to see a figure right in front of him.
“What the hell?” Phin braked hard and wrenched at the steering wheel, his heart jumping into his throat.
The Land Rover’s wheels locked, the vehicle skidded and to his horror, he felt a thump as he made contact. Fucking shit! Phin pulled on the brake, and once he was sure the vehicle wasn’t going to move, he leapt out, slipping in the snow as he scrambled around the front, only to gape in shock when he saw who he’d struck.
Father Christmas.
Well, obviously it wasn’t, but a guy dressed like him, red jacket trimmed with white, a matching hat on his head, a thick black belt around his ample waist and red trousers tucked into black boots. He lay sprawled on his back and he wasn’t moving. Phin stumbled towards him. Please don’t let me have killed him. He dropped down on his knees at the guy’s side and when eyes fluttered open to look up at him, Phin sucked in a breath. Thank God. Oh fuck, thank fucking God. He winced at the profanity. At least he’d not said it out loud.
“You hit me.” The muffled but indignant voice came through a curly white beard that had been pulled askew on the guy’s face.
“You were walking in the middle of the road.”
“You were on the wrong side of the road.”
Oh shit, I was. “But you should have been walking at the edge.”
“So it’s my fault? Don’t drivers have a duty of care to look out for pedestrians? Were you driving with due care and attention? I don’t think so.”
Phin gaped at him. That sounded a bit like something a policeman would say. “I didn’t expect to come across someone walking down the road, in the middle of nowhere, in a snowstorm.” He almost added dressed as Santa, but that wasn’t really relevant. Just weird.
Father Christmas sat up and groaned. “Anyway, it’s not snowing now.”
“You shouldn’t move.”
“What? You want me to lie here so someone else can run over me? Where’s my sack?”
Phin looked around and saw a bulging red sack a few yards away. Bit late to be delivering presents, so had he been nicking them? He walked over to get it and when he turned, the guy was on his feet. At least no bones were broken. He was a couple of inches shorter than Phin, with a huge belly rolling over his belt. Phin handed him the sack.
“You shouldn’t brake hard and wrench at the steering wheel in snow like this. That’s why you skidded.”
Phin bristled. “Thank you for the driving lesson. I’m perfectly aware of how to drive in snow, but if I’d done nothing, I’d have ploughed straight into you.”
The guy raised his eyebrows. “Oh my goodness. So being hit by your car isn’t the reason I ended up on my arse?”
Phin wished he could accuse him of slipping before he’d reached him, but he’d felt the bump. This was his fault and he had no right to be so argumentative. Being tired and desperate to get home were not acceptable excuses. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he muttered.
“Because it would have caused you a big problem if I wasn’t?”
Yes, but… “No.”
“Uh huh.”
To his astonishment, the guy slung the sack over his shoulder, turned and carried on walking down the road.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Phin called.
“This way.”
Is he drunk? He wasn’t walking in a straight line. Limping. Oh shit. Drunk, injured or concussed? All three? And don’t forget insane.
“Hey, Santa,” Phin called. “Lost your sleigh? Need a lift?”
There was no answer.
“Let me help you.”
Santa held up his middle finger and carried on walking. Bloody hell. No gloves? Phin groaned.
“I can’t leave you out here. I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’m fine. Just try not to hit me again when you drive past.”
“Get in the damn vehicle.” Shit. He’d growled that.
The figure stopped, then turned, but didn’t move.
“Please,” Phin added.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Phin climbed back into his Land Rover, flung stuff from the front seat into the back, and reached over to open the passenger door.
When the guy climbed inside, Phin saw blood on his beard and swallowed hard. “You’re hurt.”
“No shit, Sherlock. You ran me over.” He closed the door and pushed the sack into the footwell.
“Technically, I didn’t. It was just a glancing blow.”
“Oooh. Did you hear that, hip-that-might-be-broken? A glancing blow. It just feels like you ran over me.”
“You wouldn’t be walking if your hip was broken. But your face is bleeding.”
“Blood?” He shuddered. “Oh, I’m not good with b-blood.”
“Will you let me have a look?”
Phin turned on the interior light. The guy pulled off his Santa hat to reveal sun-streaked blond hair and bright blue eyes, and Phin widened his own eyes. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected the guy to be old, but now the beard was off, he saw just how young he was. Mid-twenties maybe. And cute. Damn it.
“Your cheekbone’s cut, but it’s not too bad. Let me get something.” He knelt up on his seat, reached into the back and pulled a pack of wipes and Steri-Strips from his bag.
When the guy saw what he was holding, he gave a heavy sigh. “I was hoping for alcohol.”
“I think you’ve drunk enough.”
“I’m not drunk. I’d just like a drink. Getting run over was traumatising.”
Phin wiped the cut.
“Ouch. Fuck. That hurts. Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I’m a vet.”
“Ah, so that’s why you have no bedside manner. You spend all your time cutting off balls or sticking your arm up animals’ backsides without so much as a by- your-leave. How much experience do you have in making sure I’m not scarred for life?”
“You’re not going to scar.”
Phin dried the wound, which was no longer bleeding, and put a small Steri-Strip in place. It probably didn’t need more than one, but he added another just in case.
“Are you thinking of sticking one over my mouth?”
“Not until you’d mentioned it. What’s your name?”
“Maric.”
“I’m Phin.”
“As in—”
“No, not as in shark.”
Maric frowned. “I was going to say as in Phineas, Finley, Finbar, Finton, Finocchio—”
“You were right first time. Phineas. Where did Finocchio come from?”
“It’s a variant of the fennel plant.”
Phin frowned. “Why would I be called after a vegetable?”
“Maybe your parents were vegetarians.”
Maric was staring at the blood on the wipe Phin had used and had started to breathe more heavily. Phin balled it up, put it on the floor and Maric exhaled.
“Are you going to a party or something?” Phin asked.
“Or something.”
The snow started up again and Phin flicked on the wipers before fastening his seatbelt. “So where do you want to go?”
Maric fastened his seatbelt under the bulge of his belly. “Just carry on down this road.”
Phin released the hand brake and set off. “Did you get dumped out here?”
“Yep.”
Bloody hell. “So do you actually know where you are?”
“North Yorkshire. I was just told to keep going on this road.”
Phin clenched his teeth. Apart from his cottage and a few others a mile or so further on, the road continued over the moors for several miles before the next village. The closest town was in the other direction. If he hadn’t come across him, Maric would probably have died of exposure.
“Do you know someone who lives along here?” Phin asked.
“No.”
“Where do you live?”
“Nowhere near here. I just came to do a job and… Oh, there’s blood on my fingers. Shit! I’m going to be sick. Can you stop?”
Phin braked and almost before the vehicle had come to a halt, Maric was out and throwing up at the side the of the road. Phin could feel a headache coming on. I ought to take him to hospital. He could have a brain injury. He was about to get out of the car and go round to him when Maric stood up. He grabbed a handful of snow, shoved it in his mouth, then wiped his hands and his face, spat out the snow, and climbed back into the car.
“Sorry. I had blood on my…” He gagged.
Christ! “Did you bang your head when I hit you?” Please say no.
“Yes.”
Because this night couldn’t get any worse. Shit. “I need to turn around and take you to the hospital in Harrogate.” “No need. I’m okay.”
No, you’re not.
“It’s the b-blood that made me throw up. Even thinking the word makes me heave.” He let out a quiet whine.
Phin felt like letting out a louder one. He carried on down the lane. The first place he’d be able to safely turn was his own drive. So close to a meal, a glass of wine and his bed, and yet so far.
“You think I’m a wimp, don’t you? I’m not, but I’m really not good with…you-know-what.”
“You need checking out by a doctor.”
“You’re as good as doctor, apart from the bedside manner. You could do with a lesson or two in that. Even animals need a gentle voice when you’re telling them what’s wrong, especially if you’re going to fist them.”
Phin swallowed his gasp.
“Though I guess you wouldn’t want to let a horse know that you were gelding him or he might kick you. You do talk to the animals, don’t you? I hope you do.”
“Is this you being normal?”
Phin felt him bristle.
“I’m not badly injured. There’s no need to take me to the hospital.”
“Yes, there is.”
Maric’s fists clenched on his lap. “I won’t go in if you do take me. I’ll wander off into the night and get hypothermia or I’ll be hit by another careless driver. And that really will be your fault.”
Phin gave a heavy sigh.
“I just need to rest for a while,” Maric said quietly. “I’ve had a few difficult days.”
“So have I.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you knocked down by a car as well?”
Phin clenched his jaw so hard, he worried he’d break a tooth.
“If you drove me all the way to the hospital, then had to drive back to wherever you’re going, I’d worry you might have another accident, and actually kill someone. The guilt. I couldn’t live with it.” Maric gave a dramatic sigh.
Oh my God. Who have I picked up? Phin blinked as the snow started to fall so heavily, he couldn’t make out the road ahead. He slowed right down, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Wow,” Maric whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful in the headlights? We could be in an interplanetary craft, hurtling through space. It’s as if we’re being bombarded by stars but they’re too small to do us any damage.”
Phin cursed himself for not stopping in time. Cursed Maric for being on the road in the first place. And further cursed himself for what he knew he was going to have to do. He pulled off the lane onto the short track to his cottage and a moment later, came to a halt on his drive. He pressed the remote to open the garage and pulled inside.
“Er…” Maric mumbled.
“I’ll take you to Harrogate when the snow’s stopped. Or further down the road to wherever you’re going.” He didn’t try to keep the grump out of his voice.
“When the snow stops, I’ll be gone.”
What did that mean? Phin picked up his bag from the back seat and waited until Maric got out with his sack before he lowered the garage door.
“Is this your place?” Maric asked as they tramped through the snow.
“No, I thought we could break in and ruin someone else’s New Year’s Eve.” Phin was finding it hard to suppress his irritation, even though he knew he was being a prick.
The security light had come on and showed snow piled up against the front door. Phin kicked it away before he put the key in the lock.
“Are you a murderer, cannibal, vampire, demon, werewolf or a…gargoyle?” Maric asked.
“Possibly,” Phin said. He felt murderous.
But when Maric laughed, the ice in Phin’s heart began to melt. Right until he registered it might have been a serious question. Well, parts of it at least.
He tapped in the code to deactivate the alarm, obscuring the keypad with his body. He wasn’t going to take the chance of this being some sort of set up. There were dangerous but seductive drugs in his bag and he’d need to store them in a safe place.
When he turned, Maric had shut the door, but still stood on the mat, clutching his hat and the sack. He looked… Phin swallowed hard. He looked… Oh God. He looked enticing, intriguing, exciting. Like a fallen angel. A sweet face, but trouble. I can’t know for certain that he’s gay and yet… Phin hung up his jacket and took off his boots.
“Want to take off your coat and boots?” he asked.
“Erm…” Maric bit his lip, then tugged off his black boots—no socks? —before removing his jacket.
Padded. Phin almost laughed until he registered that Maric was naked underneath.
“Not even a vest?” Phin gaped at him. He was skinny and his arms were covered in goose bumps, his nipples tight copper discs. The red jacket was just a costume, not anything that would protect him from weather like this.
“Take off your trousers.”
Maric widened his eyes. “You want me out of my clothes? But you’ve not even said anything nice to me yet. Say something nice.”
Phin gave an exasperated sigh. “They’re wet.”
“Nicer than that.”
“I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“Try again.”
“You… I…” I want to fuck you. Phin gulped. Just as well that hadn’t come out of his mouth.
“You and I. That’ll do.” Maric pulled down the red trousers.
He was wearing nothing underneath.
Special Delivery by Jodi Payne & BA Tortuga
Chapter One
The offices of Walker and Adler, LLP closed closed early on Fridays. That was one of the perks of practicing law in Vermont; weekends were sacred. There were other perks--it was perfectly acceptable to show up late because there was fresh powder on the mountain, you could bring your dog to the office, and you only had to wear a suit on court days.
Of course, the rules, such as they were, didn’t concern Beckett Adler too much since he was the boss.
Beckett locked up and stepped out into the brisk afternoon, but the chill in the air didn’t keep him from stopping by the hardware store for varnish and a couple of foam brushes. In a month or so he’d get his boat back to Lake Champlain. His weekend plans included refinishing the tiller and the cleats, and maybe starting on the companionway.
He stopped by the co-op and picked up a few groceries to make his Friday night pizza, and he was nearly home when the rain started.
Rain was good. He liked snow, he loved to ski, but his mind was on the lake now; the water, the sunshine and the wind.
His phone buzzed, but the number that came up on the console was nothing he recognized, so he ignored it. He wasn’t at work; he didn’t have to answer.
He turned off Route 7 and onto Church Hill, stopping by the post office for his mail before heading home. He pulled his Jeep Wrangler into the garage and parked it next to his ancient pickup just as it started to really pour. Good timing.
The house was cold, so he stoked up the wood stove before starting dinner.
His phone rang again -- same number of course, damn telemarketers -- and he ignored it, but this time someone left a voicemail at least.
It made him nuts to have that stupid little red notification badge sitting there, like it was one more thing on his to-do list. He stuck his pizza in the oven, then listened to the voicemail on speaker.
“Uh. Hey. Hi. This is Parker Stephens. You probably don’t remember, but...shit. Shit, can you call me back on this number, man? I don’t know how to say on the phone, but I need to you call. Soon. I’ll call back in ten. It’s important, about Sky.”
He dropped the phone on the kitchen counter like it had burned him.
Sky.
He definitely remembered Parker. Parker was Skyler’s rodeo buddy. Rodeo buddy, best friend, fuck buddy. Whatever. If Parker was calling him in a panic, if the guy couldn’t just leave a message, it sure wasn’t good news.
Beckett didn’t even wear his wedding ring anymore. Did he really need to know? Did he want to?
He paced the kitchen, eyes still glued to his phone. What would happen if he called? What did that mean for tomorrow?
What would it say about him if he didn’t?
He scooped up the phone and dialed before he lost his nerve.
“Dude. Beckett, that you?” That lazy drawl was anything but. No, this was total panic. Fuck.
He closed his eyes and took a breath. “What is it, Parker?”
Is he dead? just tell me.
“Sky’s been hurt, buddy. Bad. He’s in a medically induced coma, but the docs don’t think-- I mean, if you want to say goodbye, you should come. Now.”
If I want to…?
He braced a hand on the sink and swallowed hard, working to keep it to together. He’d known in his heart he’d get this call one day. Now he needed to get through it.
Godammit, Sky. Four years since you left, and this is still harder than I thought.
He steadied his voice and focused on Parker. “Where are you? Where is he?”
“Mercy Medical in Baltimore. He was riding good, but…” Always the riding. Always.
Baltimore. Same time zone. Maybe even a direct flight. Might be faster to drive. But first he had to get Parker off the phone.
“You listen to me Parker. No decisions get made until I get there, am I clear? Unless it’s something life-saving it can wait. I’m coming.”
“You’re his next of kin and his medical power of attorney. I got no choice.”
Good.
This was Parker’s fault anyway. At least partly.
“If I can’t find a flight I’ll drive. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up the phone.
He didn’t want to know what had happened; that wasn’t important right now. And whatever was going on, he didn’t want to hear another word from that guy about it.
Jesus, Sky.
He pushed away from the counter surprised to find that despite the aching dread in his chest his knees were managing to hold him up. He rushed up the stairs to pack a bag. Jeans, a couple of shirts. He didn’t need much.
As soon as he’d closed his laptop and given up on flights, the smoke alarm went off downstairs. He raced back down with the laptop and his duffel in his arms, dropped everything and opened the sliding back doors to clear the smoke from the kitchen.
“Shit.”
He was able to yank his charred pizza out, toss it in the sink, and turn on the tap before his vision clouded.
Jesus Fucking Christ, Skyler. I swear to God if you don’t die I might wring your neck myself.
He hurried around the downstairs and muted the smoke alarm, then shut the dampers to cut off oxygen to the fire in the wood stove, closed and locked the sliding doors, and grabbed his keys.
He’d get dinner on the road.
And a huge coffee.
Christmas Spirit by Ali Ryecart
Chapter One
“Itold you days ago you should have booked your cab.” Julia tutted, as she turned away and continued loading her luggage into her car.
Georgie bit back his retort, tingling on his tongue. I was hoping somebody could give me a lift, but I should have known better than to think anybody here might be willing to help me out. A cab from Pendleton Manor, to the train station in the nearest town, was almost twelve miles away. It would have cost a fortune, and a fortune was one thing he didn’t have, and never would, not on his meagre wages.
“I know, I know. But it slipped my mind because we’ve been so busy here.”
Georgie crossed his fingers behind his back, even though the slipped my mind part was only a very small white lie. But busy certainly wasn’t.
The huge pile of redbrick Victorian Gothic that was Pendleton Manor was a top-class conference centre and blue-chip corporate events venue, with sumptuous rooms and suites exclusive to event attendees only. But what it was really known for was its multi-award winning kitchen. It had won every major gong, medal, rosette, star, and crown going, which meant they had been booked out solid for weeks in the run up to Christmas. Corporate weekends and parties had all the staff run ragged. The clients were wealthy and demanding and that put a strain on everybody, including him, at the very bottom of the rung as kitchen boy and all-round drudge. But now, three days before Christmas and just before noon, Pendleton Manor was closing its doors for the next couple of weeks, giving the army of live-in staff a chance to return home for a well earned rest with families and loved ones for the festive season.
Georgie gazed longingly at Julia’s car, which was small and dinky, a little like Julia herself. Surely she had enough room for him and his battered rucksack? And okay, she’d have to make a detour, but not much of one, to get to the train station…
Julia was the closest thing to a friend Georgie had at the Manor. As kitchen boy, and the lowest of the low, he was invisible, except when he was being berated by everybody from the bad-tempered and snotty Executive Chef all the way down to the most junior of the waiting staff, for not doing this, or not doing that. He’d tried to make friends, but nobody at the Manor had been remotely interested in getting to know him, and all his efforts had been rebuffed until he gave up trying. All except Julia, who had been nice to him from the first day.
As Head of Administration and Staffing, Georgie supposed it was part of her job. The thought made him feel a little mean. She had always tried to include him in the various social events she organised for the staff. He’d gone to a few when he first started but, ignored and cold shouldered by everybody, he’d stopped going, telling himself he wasn’t bothered, as he hunkered down in his tiny room with only a battered old radio for company until it, too, decided it couldn’t be bothered.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Julia said, her voice huffy and tinged with irritation as she turned and looked at him, planting her hands on her hips.
“Do what?”
Georgie knew exactly what she was talking about.
“You know what. Looking all big-eyed and droopy-faced, like some little puppy that’s just been kicked.”
Result! It was exactly what he wanted her to think.
“But you like puppies. You’re always telling me about the dogs your family have.”
“Yes, I do like puppies, but of the four-legged, furry, and cute variety.”
“I can do cute.”
Georgie widened his eyes, giving her his best doe-eyed gaze.
Julia tried to look fierce as she shook her head, but a small laugh bubbled from her lips.
“I can’t give you a lift Georgie. Look at all the stuff I’ve got. And besides it’s quite a detour, and with snow forecast for later, I really do have to make a move soon.”
“But look, there, I could squeeze in.”
Georgie pointed to the passenger seat, and the tiny, teeniest little bit of spare space.
“No, you couldn’t, because that’s where these are going.” Julia nodded to what was left of her packing, which included a heavily taped up cardboard box and a battered violin case. “I simply don’t have the room. Have you asked Bernardo, or Annabella? They’ve not yet left and I know their routes take them towards town.”
“I have, and they can’t.”
Georgie’s cheeks burned with the memory.
Bernardo, the head sommelier, had looked down his long and aquiline nose as if Georgie had been something he had stepped in. His snort, and curt no, before he’d turned and walked off, had left Georgie red-faced and humiliated, feeling like a beggar who had been scrounging for a few pennies to buy a cup of tea. Annabella, the restaurant maitre d’, had given him a watery smile, that looked more like a sneer, before shaking her head.
“Julia, my dear, I was hoping to catch you before you left…”
The Head of Housekeeping bowled across, greeting Julia in her booming voice. The two women began chatting and laughing, leaving Georgie standing on the sidelines, ignored and forgotten.
Georgie sighed as he ran through his options. Other than walking, there were none.
So much for the spirit of Christmas, he thought. Nobody was prepared to help him out, and the one bus a day that went anywhere near town had been cancelled. Admitting defeat, he had tried to book a cab, earlier in the day, but he was too late. There’d been none to be had — or not until long after his train had left. Twelve miles, with his rucksack. Not that it was heavy because he didn’t have much, and maybe twelve miles wasn’t so bad — on a warm and sunny summer’s day.
Georgie shivered, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his thin coat as a blast of wind whipped around him. He looked up at the sky. What had Julia said, about snow? There were a few clouds floating in the light grey sky, but that was all. Maybe she’d made it up. Georgie bit down on his lower lip. No, that wasn’t fair. For the second time in a few minutes he was being mean about Julia, when she was the last person at the Manor who deserved that.
Whether he liked it or not, he was going to be walking. Georgie groaned as he picked up his rucksack and settled it on his shoulders.
The quickest way to the train station, on the edge of the small country town, the small country town that was twelve miles away, was to go cross country. It would shave some time off but the sensible thing to do was to make his way to the main road, which wasn’t really much more than a country lane, but it was where there might be a chance of hitching a lift. Did people still hitch rides? He wasn’t sure but, the way his luck was going, if they did they wouldn’t be picking him up.
Georgie looked around at the staff car park. There were five or six other cars remaining, all of them being packed up by their owners. He had approached every single one, and every single one had knocked him back. It wasn’t even as though he was expecting a free ride. He was more than willing to contribute to the petrol, despite having very little money to spare. But nobody had been willing to help the kitchen boy. Christ, he felt like Cinderella.
Pulling his shoulders back and tilting his chin upwards, he was ready to go. He had his pride and he wasn’t willing to risk another rebuff. Twelve miles. It would take him over two hours, and his train was in three. He could do it, but he needed to make a move.
Looking up at the sky again, Georgie’s heart fell. Had the sky really darkened, and the clouds turned a deep and dirty yellow in the last few seconds?
“Julia…”
Seeing him laden down and the sky looking more threatening by the second, maybe she would relent…?
Julia ignored him, as she carried on her conversation with the Head Housekeeper. Georgie’s shoulders slumped under what he told himself was the weight of his rucksack. The one person at the Manor who had ever given him the time of day wasn’t doing that now.
“Happy Christmas,” he mumbled under his breath.
He turned away and with a heavy tread began to make his way towards the gates that would take him out of Pendleton Manor and on the long, cold trek to the station.
“Georgie! Georgie, wait.”
Relief burst in Georgie, warming deep in his chest. He’d gone no more than a few steps, and she had changed her mind, she’d made some room, she was going to give him a lift after all. He turned, a smile lifting his lips, but it fell when he saw who was standing behind her.
“Roland’s heading in your direction and he’s got plenty of spare room. He’s very happy to give you a lift.” Julia was beaming, but she was the only one who was.
Roland was happy to give him a lift? Not if that bad-tempered scowl was anything to go by, he wasn’t. But Roland wasn’t the only one who wasn’t happy. No way was Georgie going to endure being stuck in a car with Roland Fletcher Jones, threatening snow or not threatening snow. And twelve miles? He’d walk fifty, or a hundred. Georgie didn’t care that the man looked like a model from a style magazine, or that he had the greenest eyes, or a wide kissable mouth, and a body he would drop to his knees for. Oh, no. None of that mattered, because the man was Pendleton Manor’s resident Head Bastard who had made Georgie’s life hell from his very first day, and everybody had followed his lead. The man was a kitchen God, and had put the Manor on the map, winning it untold accolades.
Roland Fletcher Jones, Executive Chef and Georgie’s boss.
Georgie cleared his throat. “It’s all right. I’m preparing for a triathlon, so the walk to the station is part of my training.”
Triathlon? He couldn’t ride a bike, had failed his ten metres swim at school, and got puffed out even thinking about running.
“No, you’re not, and no it isn’t.” Julia scowled at him. “Just a few minutes ago you were all but begging me for a lift to the station, which I really can’t give you. But Roland is more than willing to give you a lift. Aren’t you Roland?”
Julia smiled up at Roland. She may have been small and dinky, with a round, pale moon face and soft curls, but there was steel in her voice and hard determination in her eyes.
“Yes,” Roland said, through stiff lips.
“Problem solved,” Julia said, clapping her hands together, her smile triumphant. “Now, I really must get going. You have a very happy Christmas, Georgie, and I’ll see you again in a couple of weeks’ time. Here.” She rummaged in her handbag. “I’ve got you… just a little something…”
A present? For me?
Georgie’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been given a Christmas present.
“Damnation. I must have left it in my room. I haven’t got time to go up and get it now, so you’ll have to wait until January. It really isn’t very much. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to unwrap on the big day.”
“Thank you,” Georgie muttered. “It was a lovely thought.” Isn’t very much was a hell of a lot more than the big pile of fuck all he’d have to open on Christmas morning.
“Right, I’m going.” Julia pulled him into a tight, short squeeze, before she planted a kiss on his cheek. A moment later her over-packed car was trundling down the driveway.
Taking a deep breath, Georgie turned to Roland.
The man was as stiff as a plank of wood and his scowl looked like it had been carved into a slab of granite. Pleased to give him a ride to the station? He looked like he’d be more pleased with a bee stuck up his bum.
“You’re not obliged to give me a lift. I’ll make my own way to the station.”
Roland huffed. “I am obliged. The woman strong-armed me, but I agreed. If I say I’ll do something, I will. I’m heading out in fifteen minutes, but if you’re not here when I pull the car around, the agreement will become null and void.”
Roland swung around on his heel and stomped off. Georgie opened his mouth to call out that he didn’t need the lift, just as the first snowflakes fell, withering the words on his tongue.
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.
Barbara Elsborg lives in Kent in the south of England. She always wanted to be a spy, but having confessed to everyone without them even resorting to torture, she decided it was not for her. Volcanology scorched her feet. A morbid fear of sharks put paid to marine biology. So instead, she spent several years successfully selling cyanide.
After dragging up two rotten, ungrateful children and frustrating her sexy, devoted, wonderful husband (who can now stop twisting her arm) she finally has time to conduct an affair with an electrifying plugged-in male, her laptop.
Her books feature quirky heroines and bad boys, and she hopes they are as much fun to read as they are to write.
JODI spent too many years in New York and San Francisco stage managing classical plays, edgy fringe work, and the occasional musical. She, therefore, is overdramatic, takes herself way too seriously, and has been known to randomly break out in song. Her men are imperfect but genuine, stubborn but likable, often kinky, and frequently their own worst enemies. They are characters you can’t help but fall in love with while they stumble along the path to their happily ever after.
For those looking to get on her good side, Jodi’s addictions include nonfat lattes, Malbec, and tequila any way you pour it. She’s also obsessed with Shakespeare and Broadway musicals. She can be found wearing sock monkey gloves while typing when it’s cold, and on the beach enjoying the sun and the ocean when it’s hot. When she’s not writing and/or vacuuming sand out of her laptop, Jodi mentors queer youth and will drop everything for live music. Jodi lives near New York City with her beautiful wife, and together they are mothers of dragons (cleverly disguised as children) and slaves to an enormous polydactyl cat.
Texan to the bone and an unrepentant Daddy's Girl, BA Tortuga spends her days with her hounds and her beloved wife, texting her grandbabies, and eating Mexican food. When she's not doing that, she's writing. She spends her days off watching rodeo, knitting, and surfing Pinterest in the name of research. Following their own personal joys, BA and Julia heard the call of the high desert and they now live in the New Mexico mountains. BA's personal saviors include her wife, her best friends, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Really good coffee.
Having written everything from fist-fighting rednecks to cowboy daddies to werewolves, BA does her damnedest to tell the stories of her heart, which is committed to giving everyone their happily ever after. With books ranging from hard-hitting BDSM, to fiery passions, to the most traditional of love stories, BA refuses to be pigeon-holed by anyone but the voices in her head.
I love all kinds of MM romance and gay fiction, but I especially like contemporary stories. Born and raised in London, the city is part of my DNA so I like to set many of my stories in and around present-day London, providing the perfect, metropolitan backdrop to the main action. I write at home, in the gym, in cafés —in fact I write any place I can find a good coffee!
VL Locey
JD Light
Barbara Elsborg
EMAIL: bjelsborg@gmail.com
Jodi Payne
BA Tortuga
EMAIL: batortuga@gmail.com
Ali Ryecart
EMAIL: aliryecart@ryecartauthor
The Christmas Oaks by VL Locey
Lights, Camera, Christmas! by JD Light
Not Over Yet by Barbara Elsborg
Special Delivery by Jodi Payne & BA Tortuga
Christmas Spirit by Ali Ryecart
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