Summary:
Snow & Winter #4
It’s been a full year since the mystery that brought antique shop owner and part-time amateur sleuth Sebastian Snow together with NYPD homicide detective Calvin Winter. Patience, sanity, and their very lives have been put to the test, but love has persevered. Although Sebastian is now New York City’s best-known busybody, he’s done solving crimes and wants nothing more than to plan a romantic budget wedding.
Then Snow’s Antique Emporium receives a decapitated human head in the mail and the holidays are gory once again. Sebastian patently disregards the mystery of a lifetime because he is done with death and danger—but the killer escalates. Before Sebastian knows it, his closest friends and family are dragged into a series of horrific murders with antiquated clues hinting to the infamous Victorian American Bones Wars.
The clock is ticking to recover a long-lost artifact linked to paleontologist Edward Drinker Cope and to capture a murderer. But it’s not Sebastian who may become the next target—it’s Calvin.
Then Snow’s Antique Emporium receives a decapitated human head in the mail and the holidays are gory once again. Sebastian patently disregards the mystery of a lifetime because he is done with death and danger—but the killer escalates. Before Sebastian knows it, his closest friends and family are dragged into a series of horrific murders with antiquated clues hinting to the infamous Victorian American Bones Wars.
The clock is ticking to recover a long-lost artifact linked to paleontologist Edward Drinker Cope and to capture a murderer. But it’s not Sebastian who may become the next target—it’s Calvin.
A year since I read The Mystery of the Bones and it's still just as brilliant. Nothing says Christmas(especially considering the year 2020 has been) like an old fashion blending of mystery and romance. Considering that's how Sebastian and Calvin met then it's perfectly fitting that as they near they one year anniversary they should find themselves in a case of murder and mayhem once again.
Now, I'll mention that books 3 & 4 have a different narrator than 1 & 2. For some that can be an issue, for me it's not especially when the "replacement" reader does such a brilliant job. There can be a million reasons why it's a different person and I have no idea which is the reason in this case, all I know is I enjoyed Wyatt Baker's Snow & Winter just as much as Derrick McClain's. They each bring an element to the characters that create an enjoyable listening experience and combined with CS Poe's storytelling, the mayhem behind The Mystery of the Bones(and the series overall) insures revisits for years to come.
Original Review November 2019:
I was kind of late to the party last year when I first stumbled upon Snow & Winter but I loved it immediately, the blending of contemporary, history, humor, murder, and of course romance made the whole thing just an all around bundle of joy. Well the newest series entry, The Mystery of the Bones is no less brilliant. And, as an added plus it's been a year from the setting of the first entry, The Mystery of Nevermore, so that means it's Christmastime(or nearly) which puts this in my holiday shelf as well(nothing like murder and mayhem to add to the holiday cheer I always say😉).
In Bones we see Snow and Winter nearing their one year anniversary of meeting and once again a suspicious smell get's Sebastian's employee and friend, Max, questioning its origin. Funny enough a package has just arrived and when opened they find the smell and a head, that's right I said a head, and the hunt for answers begins. I love how Snow, well perhaps "learned his lesson" in regards to sleuthing is a bit inaccurate he has learned there is a difference between nosiness and sleuthing. HOWEVER, this time around he's pulled into the sleuthing by those who have warned him against it in the past.
I won't say more to the plot because I don't do spoilers and frankly it is just too darn delicious not to discover the story yourself.
Calvin and Snow are happily if not frustratingly planning a wedding and try as Snow does to stick to it circumstances have other plans. There's no doubt of their love for each other but what I enjoyed in Bones was the push and pull, snarky friendships Snow has come into with his ex, Neil and Calvin's partner, Quinn. Those sniping scenes just round out the romantic suspense of The Mystery of the Bones to create an entertaining journey from beginning to end. The fact that I can add it to my holiday shelf just an added bonus that makes it all the better.
I can't wait to see what danger Snow and Winter find themselves in next.
RATING:
In Bones we see Snow and Winter nearing their one year anniversary of meeting and once again a suspicious smell get's Sebastian's employee and friend, Max, questioning its origin. Funny enough a package has just arrived and when opened they find the smell and a head, that's right I said a head, and the hunt for answers begins. I love how Snow, well perhaps "learned his lesson" in regards to sleuthing is a bit inaccurate he has learned there is a difference between nosiness and sleuthing. HOWEVER, this time around he's pulled into the sleuthing by those who have warned him against it in the past.
I won't say more to the plot because I don't do spoilers and frankly it is just too darn delicious not to discover the story yourself.
Calvin and Snow are happily if not frustratingly planning a wedding and try as Snow does to stick to it circumstances have other plans. There's no doubt of their love for each other but what I enjoyed in Bones was the push and pull, snarky friendships Snow has come into with his ex, Neil and Calvin's partner, Quinn. Those sniping scenes just round out the romantic suspense of The Mystery of the Bones to create an entertaining journey from beginning to end. The fact that I can add it to my holiday shelf just an added bonus that makes it all the better.
I can't wait to see what danger Snow and Winter find themselves in next.
RATING:
Summary:
Two months before Christmas at the North Pole, Santa’s workshop bustles with activity. Santa is coming early with only half a day’s warning to inspect the elves’ progress!
Pepper, who designs and makes special one-of-a-kind dolls, is ordered by his boss Jingle to take time out of toy-making to wash three stories of windows and decorate every room in preparation for Santa. He assigns Ice to assist. But for Pepper, it’s a bit of a problem. Ice is a surly elf, even disrespectful toward Santa, while Pepper reveres Santa to the point of hero-worship. An unlikely pairing, they must work together in order to finish before Santa’s arrival.
But can two elves with conflicting value systems even get along?
Amidst secrets, resentments, toasted cheese sandwiches, snowman building, a blizzard, and Santa’s nerve-wracking visit, Pepper and Ice discover a mutual attraction. If they can overcome wrongful assumptions and failed expectations, love might just take its natural course and lead them to a Merry Christmas.
Naughty & Nice by DJ Jamison
Summary:Love Notes #2
Why can’t I forget your kiss…
Dear Quinn,
Why must I have these feelings for you? You're my ex-stepbrother, and nothing will change that truth, no matter how many letters I write.
I never expected to see you again--or to rescue you from the side of the road in a blizzard. I didn't think you would ever like me, much less kiss me in a steaming hot tub on a snowy night. It seems we make better lovers than brothers, which is all kinds of naughty and nice while we're snowed in together.
But can this new intimacy last when the skies clear and my family finally arrives for the holidays, or are we just two guys in a mountain cabin with a great view of everything we want but can't have?
Hopelessly yours,
Jonas
Naughty & Nice is set in the same universe as Secret Admirer but stands alone.
Summary:
‘Tis the season of Santa and snow and sparkles…and secrets.
With the looming grand opening of Winterworld, the Overton family's Christmas extravaganza, the last thing groundsman Kem needs is to be partnered with the Overtons’ prodigal son. Kem’s got enough on his plate with a brother increasingly lost to drugs, a spurned boss, herding three adoring but out-of-control wolfhounds, not to mention Lady Overton’s contagious love of all things Christmas, and her never-ending to-do list. He has no time or desire to babysit a clueless young aristocrat.
Fabian’s been travelling the world for the past two years. Or at least, that’s his parents’ version of events. Lying low at the family estate, no home or money or future to call his own, he has no option but to toe their line. And yet, despite his resentment of his every move being orchestrated, he discovers working with Kem has its benefits, including those of the sexy, fun kind.
Winterworld isn’t the only magic Kem and Fabian are creating. Attraction, friendship and trust deepen as they discover they have more in common than either thought possible — including pasts and secrets neither wants to talk about. But their budding relationship doesn’t please everyone, and acts of betrayal threaten to blow them apart for good. Can the magic of Christmas, a secretive, sees-all Santa, and a meddling but well-meaning mother, save the day?
Operation Fake Relationship by Jay Northcote
Summary:Can a fake relationship between best friends turn into the real thing?
After years of estrangement from his parents, Nick is finally going home for Christmas, but not without backup. He wants moral support, so his best friend and flatmate, Jackson, agrees to pretend to be his partner so he can go with him.
It’s easy for Jackson to be convincing when his feelings for Nick are as genuine as ever. He put his crush on the back burner long ago, but acting out a role he’d love to play for real is harder than he imagined. Holding hands, kissing under the mistletoe, even sharing a bed for the sake of the charade... He can’t help wondering what he’s let himself in for, and whether his heart can take it.
Emotions run high as Nick grapples with family issues, and the sexual tension between him and his best friend becomes difficult to ignore. But if he and Jackson give into the temptation to be fake boyfriends with benefits over the holiday, what will it mean for their future as friends once Christmas is over?
Contains: best friends to lovers, pretend boyfriends, daddy issues, mistletoe, and a happy ending—of course.
The Mystery of the Bones by CS Poe
MY MORNINGS at the Emporium were dictated by a comfortable and quiet routine:
Nat King Cole on the speakers.
Tolerable coffee from the cheap maker in my office.
Coaxing the thermostat until the ancient radiators pinged and hissed with steam.
And when someone disrupted that sense of order, it had a tendency to irritate me.
A sudden bang on the front door caused me to lose track of the till I was counting. I leaned over the counter and squinted at the blurry shape on the other side of the glass.
Whoever it was knocked again and called in a muffled voice, “Courier!”
I grunted and handed my assistant, Max Ridley, the wad of small change. “Count that for me.” I walked down the steps, made my way through the twists and turns of my cavernous store, then unlocked and opened the front door. A whoosh of bitterly cold, snowy wind entered. “We’re not open yet.”
The bike courier shrugged in her bulky winter attire. “Hey, man, not my problem,” she countered, speaking through a face mask. She thrust a clipboard at me. “Sign the last line.”
I brought the paperwork closer, but the details of the package’s origin were beyond impossible to read in the chicken-scratch handwriting of the courier’s office employee. “Hope you’re getting paid extra to deliver before business hours,” I said, signing my name on the form and handing it back.
The courier shoved the clipboard into her oversized bag, removed a square box, and all but threw it into my arms. “And many happy returns.” She turned, stepped back into the cold morning, and unlocked her bike from the lamppost across from the shop.
“Yeah. Happy holidays,” I muttered, closing the door. “What time is it?”
“Um… five ’til,” Max said from the counter.
I left the door unlocked.
Max shut the brass register’s drawer as I joined him once more. He picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee. “That’s not the Depression glassware, is it?”
“I hope not,” I replied, setting the box down. “Unless they sent the decanter in pieces.”
Max visibly cringed at the notion.
Depression glass was too new to have any sort of permanent residency in my shop, but I’d agreed to taking on a rare seven-piece drinking set in what was promised to be a ruby red color, as a project for Max. He’d been more adamant of late about helping with research and amassing contacts of his own. And since the market was always alive and well for Depression glassware, I decided what the hell.
I used a pair of scissors to slice the tape down the middle of the box. I pulled the cardboard flaps back and removed a single sheet of folded paper from atop thick, opaque plastic. Scrawled in what appeared to be a modern rendition of Spencerian script was: Mr. Sebastian Snow, Proprietor.
“What’s it say?” Max asked before I’d gotten any further than unfolding the note.
“It’s not a winning lotto ticket,” I remarked, glancing sideways at him. “So I’m already losing interest.”
“Life isn’t all about money, Seb.”
“You can say that. You don’t have a hospital bill the length of a CVS receipt.”
I’d been shot in May. That batshit crazy Pete White had nearly taken me out with an antique revolver, and all I had to show for surviving was a nasty scar and enough debt to choke a horse. Unsurprisingly, upon learning the value of the Dickson drafts I’d saved, the surviving Robert family members wanted them back and had zero interest in letting me handle their affairs at auction.
As if my percentage would even make a dent in what I predicted their payment would be. Which—fine. Good luck to them trying to maneuver the world of high-end auctions without contacts. Meanwhile, I’d be over here dodging phone calls from the hospital’s collection department. No big deal.
I pulled my magnifying glass from my back pocket and held it over the cursive that mimicked the aesthetic of business communications circa mid-nineteenth century.
An Intriguing Proposition for a Most Curious Man.
Who I am is of no great importance. What I am proposing is.
I, hereby known afterward as Party A, am looking to hire Sebastian Andrew Snow, hereby known as Party B, to recover a most unusual article lost to time and neglect.
I paused, touched the flap on the cardboard box, and tilted it to read, but the only address details were my own. Who the hell was this, and how’d they learn my middle name? I played Andrew pretty close to the chest. No offense to Pop, but I wasn’t a fan.
“What’s that smell?” Max asked suddenly.
I made a vague sound of acknowledgment before continuing to read.
Upon said article’s salvage, Party A is prepared to reward Party B with a most substantial sum.
A Collector.
“Boss?”
“What?” I lowered the magnifying glass to the bottom of the page in order to inspect a disturbingly realistic hand-drawn eye. But that was it. No other details, no contact information, no nada.
“Did you shower this morning?”
At the second disruption to my thoughts, I set the paper down and turned to Max. “Yes.”
“Then what smells like sour milk?” He raised his own arm before shaking his head and saying, “It’s not me.”
“What’s it say about you that you needed to double-check first?” But then I got a whiff of the—death.
And as if Max and I came to the same conclusion at once, we both turned to stare at the steps on my left. Almost one year ago exactly, we’d found a rotting heart under the floorboards and my life forever changed when a redheaded detective came to the Emporium to investigate the mystery.
“‘Villains!’ I shrieked. ‘Dissemble no more!’” I quoted under my breath.
“Don’t.” Max moved around me and tiptoed down the stairs.
“Don’t what?”
He crouched and began to inspect the steps for loose boards that would allow one to successfully conceal a human body part. “Don’t pull out your quotes. It makes everything go topsy-turvy real fast.”
“It does not.”
“It makes you obsessive.”
“Curious,” I corrected. “And it’s human nature to be curious.”
“Not you. And when you get obsessive, people try to kill you.” He looked at me briefly with an expression that read sort of like fight me.
“You act like you’re going to find me dead in a gutter on Staten Island by tomorrow. It stinks in here—I have a right to be curious.”
Max shook his head and continued checking for a floorboard that’d give way to a macabre surprise. “Hello, 911? My boss thinks he’s Columbo….”
“Keep it up and I’m going to trash your holiday bonus.”
Max glanced up a second time, considered, but ultimately dropped the conversation. “The floor’s fine.” He stood, took a step, then frowned as his gaze lowered to the package on the counter.
I looked at it too. It was a very unassuming box. I leaned in and took a sniff. The rancid stench coming from within the plastic made me gag.
“Who’d you piss off now?” Max whispered, a wobble in his voice.
“No one.”
We both studied the box again.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him raise his fist in the classic gesture of rock-paper-scissors. I followed, and on the silent count of three, threw scissors. Max knocked my hand with rock. I let out a breath, squared my shoulders, then grabbed the heavy plastic bag stuffed into the package.
I hoisted out a decapitated human head.
LUCKY CHARMS and coffee leave a decidedly offensive aftertaste upon coming back up. I didn’t have any mints or a toothbrush handy at the shop either, so I tried to mask the vomit-breath with saltwater taffy.
It didn’t work.
In retrospect, of course, it was the least of my problems. But since I had no control over the uniformed officers standing around my counter and inspecting a scene straight out of The Silence of the Lambs, I had to hyperfocus on something. I unwrapped another piece of candy.
“Did you call Calvin?” Max asked from where he sat on the floor, his back against the bookshelves situated in the farthest corner of the shop. Dillon was parked between his legs, enjoying the nervous scratches Max was giving him and not really all that concerned about the morning’s proceedings.
I turned from where I stood at the midpoint between the officers and Max and said, “No.” I tugged the taffy from the wax paper. It stretched into long tendrils and stuck to my hand. I raised my thumb and index finger to suck them clean.
“Why?” Max protested.
“I think it might constitute as crossing a professional line.”
“Yeah, because you’ve zero experience doing that,” Max said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Things are different now.”
To say the least.
I rubbed the last of the sticky candy residue against my trouser leg.
“I don’t like this,” Max continued. “When Sebastian has a reverse Ichabod Crane situation, Calvin and Quinn show up. That’s how it works. The universe has established this.”
“I’m one money-order-made-payable-to-the-City-Clerk away from really pissing his sergeant off,” I explained. “I have to follow proper channels these days. That means starting with 911, and letting the NYPD decide which lucky detective team is investigating this mess.”
I turned my head just then to watch a third uniformed officer enter the shop. He muttered some nicety to the man standing guard at the door before immediately making his way toward the counter where a female officer stood.
I turned to Max and held both hands out, indicating for him not to move. “Stay here.” I started after the newcomer.
The cop was tall. Broad shoulders, dark hair, and thick eyebrows. He was watching me approach while quieting the radio emitting gibberish from his belt.
“Hi,” I said. I held out a hand. “I’m the owner. I called—”
“Sebastian Snow,” he answered for me.
I slowly lowered my hand. “Er—yeah.”
“You’ve got a reputation.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
I got the distinct impression this officer did not find me to be a charming sonofabitch.
“Now, I know you like to play amateur sleuth, Mr. Snow,” he continued, hands on his utility belt. His accent was so Brooklyn, it was practically a stereotype.
“I’ve recently retired.”
“I don’t think you’re funny.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t think you’re cute.”
“Good.”
“Being a cop is a serious job,” he said in a chastising tone. “And when civilians stick their noses into our business—”
“I’m pretty certain I called you folks for help,” I interrupted.
The female officer leaned over the counter and whispered something to my new biggest fan.
“I know who he’s dating,” Dickhead retorted. He pointed a finger at me. “And this ain’t got nothing to do with you being gay.”
“Thank God,” I said humorlessly. Because I hadn’t heard that before.
“I wouldn’t care if you were engaged to my sergeant. You shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred feet of a crime scene.”
I tugged my sweater closed and crossed my arms over my chest. “So did you want to question me, or should I skedaddle and leave you to all this, Mr. Holmes?”
Dickhead’s nostrils flared like an enraged bull. He closed the space between us and stared me down—which didn’t work because I’ve been around the block a few times with cops—then something in his facial expression changed. Faltered, maybe.
“What’re your eyes doing?”
“Moving,” I answered, my tone more dry than white bread left on too high a setting in the toaster. My Dancing Eyes condition was hardly noticeable as an adult, but still they wobbled involuntarily at times. “I have achromatopsia. Sometimes my eyes move strangely when I get stressed.”
“You’re stressed?”
“Yes, Officer,” I said with a hint of mockery. “I’ve only had one cup of coffee and found a head in a box.”
“Your stressed is pretty calm, Mr. Snow.”
I shrugged. “Hysterics won’t change the situation. Although, I did vomit, if that’ll make you happy.”
“For Christ’s sake, Rossi,” the female cop said, loud enough for me to hear. She leaned over the counter a second time and asked, “Do you know the deceased, Mr. Snow?”
I stared at her, at Rossi, then back to her again. “Do I—know—the head? We’re not acquainted, no.”
Rossi started to speak, but the bell over the shop’s front door chimed for the umpteenth time and gave him pause. He looked around me, raised his lip, and all but rolled his eyes.
“Calvary’s here,” he muttered.
I turned around.
Rescue came in the form of Calvin Winter.
My most favorite detective of the NYPD.
Not that I was biased or anything.
He marched across the showroom floor, making a direct beeline for me where I stood at the base of the elevated counter with Rossi.
“Calvin—” I started, hoping I sounded cool and relaxed and not utterly relieved that despite our soon-to-be legally recognized relationship, he’d still been the one shouldered with another case involving yours truly.
But Calvin cut me off by grabbing my shoulders and pulling me into a bone-crushing embrace. His heavy coat was damp from melting snow. The wool was itchy and cold against my skin, but the discomfort was eased by the familiar warmth and hard body under the layers. Sure, I’d been in bed with this handsome man only a few hours ago, but I didn’t think I’d never not find comfort in the scent of Calvin’s earthy cologne or the ever-present cinnamon on his breath from obsessive mint-popping.
He’d shown up like a knight in shining armor.
Nat King Cole on the speakers.
Tolerable coffee from the cheap maker in my office.
Coaxing the thermostat until the ancient radiators pinged and hissed with steam.
And when someone disrupted that sense of order, it had a tendency to irritate me.
A sudden bang on the front door caused me to lose track of the till I was counting. I leaned over the counter and squinted at the blurry shape on the other side of the glass.
Whoever it was knocked again and called in a muffled voice, “Courier!”
I grunted and handed my assistant, Max Ridley, the wad of small change. “Count that for me.” I walked down the steps, made my way through the twists and turns of my cavernous store, then unlocked and opened the front door. A whoosh of bitterly cold, snowy wind entered. “We’re not open yet.”
The bike courier shrugged in her bulky winter attire. “Hey, man, not my problem,” she countered, speaking through a face mask. She thrust a clipboard at me. “Sign the last line.”
I brought the paperwork closer, but the details of the package’s origin were beyond impossible to read in the chicken-scratch handwriting of the courier’s office employee. “Hope you’re getting paid extra to deliver before business hours,” I said, signing my name on the form and handing it back.
The courier shoved the clipboard into her oversized bag, removed a square box, and all but threw it into my arms. “And many happy returns.” She turned, stepped back into the cold morning, and unlocked her bike from the lamppost across from the shop.
“Yeah. Happy holidays,” I muttered, closing the door. “What time is it?”
“Um… five ’til,” Max said from the counter.
I left the door unlocked.
Max shut the brass register’s drawer as I joined him once more. He picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee. “That’s not the Depression glassware, is it?”
“I hope not,” I replied, setting the box down. “Unless they sent the decanter in pieces.”
Max visibly cringed at the notion.
Depression glass was too new to have any sort of permanent residency in my shop, but I’d agreed to taking on a rare seven-piece drinking set in what was promised to be a ruby red color, as a project for Max. He’d been more adamant of late about helping with research and amassing contacts of his own. And since the market was always alive and well for Depression glassware, I decided what the hell.
I used a pair of scissors to slice the tape down the middle of the box. I pulled the cardboard flaps back and removed a single sheet of folded paper from atop thick, opaque plastic. Scrawled in what appeared to be a modern rendition of Spencerian script was: Mr. Sebastian Snow, Proprietor.
“What’s it say?” Max asked before I’d gotten any further than unfolding the note.
“It’s not a winning lotto ticket,” I remarked, glancing sideways at him. “So I’m already losing interest.”
“Life isn’t all about money, Seb.”
“You can say that. You don’t have a hospital bill the length of a CVS receipt.”
I’d been shot in May. That batshit crazy Pete White had nearly taken me out with an antique revolver, and all I had to show for surviving was a nasty scar and enough debt to choke a horse. Unsurprisingly, upon learning the value of the Dickson drafts I’d saved, the surviving Robert family members wanted them back and had zero interest in letting me handle their affairs at auction.
As if my percentage would even make a dent in what I predicted their payment would be. Which—fine. Good luck to them trying to maneuver the world of high-end auctions without contacts. Meanwhile, I’d be over here dodging phone calls from the hospital’s collection department. No big deal.
I pulled my magnifying glass from my back pocket and held it over the cursive that mimicked the aesthetic of business communications circa mid-nineteenth century.
An Intriguing Proposition for a Most Curious Man.
Who I am is of no great importance. What I am proposing is.
I, hereby known afterward as Party A, am looking to hire Sebastian Andrew Snow, hereby known as Party B, to recover a most unusual article lost to time and neglect.
I paused, touched the flap on the cardboard box, and tilted it to read, but the only address details were my own. Who the hell was this, and how’d they learn my middle name? I played Andrew pretty close to the chest. No offense to Pop, but I wasn’t a fan.
“What’s that smell?” Max asked suddenly.
I made a vague sound of acknowledgment before continuing to read.
Upon said article’s salvage, Party A is prepared to reward Party B with a most substantial sum.
A Collector.
“Boss?”
“What?” I lowered the magnifying glass to the bottom of the page in order to inspect a disturbingly realistic hand-drawn eye. But that was it. No other details, no contact information, no nada.
“Did you shower this morning?”
At the second disruption to my thoughts, I set the paper down and turned to Max. “Yes.”
“Then what smells like sour milk?” He raised his own arm before shaking his head and saying, “It’s not me.”
“What’s it say about you that you needed to double-check first?” But then I got a whiff of the—death.
And as if Max and I came to the same conclusion at once, we both turned to stare at the steps on my left. Almost one year ago exactly, we’d found a rotting heart under the floorboards and my life forever changed when a redheaded detective came to the Emporium to investigate the mystery.
“‘Villains!’ I shrieked. ‘Dissemble no more!’” I quoted under my breath.
“Don’t.” Max moved around me and tiptoed down the stairs.
“Don’t what?”
He crouched and began to inspect the steps for loose boards that would allow one to successfully conceal a human body part. “Don’t pull out your quotes. It makes everything go topsy-turvy real fast.”
“It does not.”
“It makes you obsessive.”
“Curious,” I corrected. “And it’s human nature to be curious.”
“Not you. And when you get obsessive, people try to kill you.” He looked at me briefly with an expression that read sort of like fight me.
“You act like you’re going to find me dead in a gutter on Staten Island by tomorrow. It stinks in here—I have a right to be curious.”
Max shook his head and continued checking for a floorboard that’d give way to a macabre surprise. “Hello, 911? My boss thinks he’s Columbo….”
“Keep it up and I’m going to trash your holiday bonus.”
Max glanced up a second time, considered, but ultimately dropped the conversation. “The floor’s fine.” He stood, took a step, then frowned as his gaze lowered to the package on the counter.
I looked at it too. It was a very unassuming box. I leaned in and took a sniff. The rancid stench coming from within the plastic made me gag.
“Who’d you piss off now?” Max whispered, a wobble in his voice.
“No one.”
We both studied the box again.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him raise his fist in the classic gesture of rock-paper-scissors. I followed, and on the silent count of three, threw scissors. Max knocked my hand with rock. I let out a breath, squared my shoulders, then grabbed the heavy plastic bag stuffed into the package.
I hoisted out a decapitated human head.
LUCKY CHARMS and coffee leave a decidedly offensive aftertaste upon coming back up. I didn’t have any mints or a toothbrush handy at the shop either, so I tried to mask the vomit-breath with saltwater taffy.
It didn’t work.
In retrospect, of course, it was the least of my problems. But since I had no control over the uniformed officers standing around my counter and inspecting a scene straight out of The Silence of the Lambs, I had to hyperfocus on something. I unwrapped another piece of candy.
“Did you call Calvin?” Max asked from where he sat on the floor, his back against the bookshelves situated in the farthest corner of the shop. Dillon was parked between his legs, enjoying the nervous scratches Max was giving him and not really all that concerned about the morning’s proceedings.
I turned from where I stood at the midpoint between the officers and Max and said, “No.” I tugged the taffy from the wax paper. It stretched into long tendrils and stuck to my hand. I raised my thumb and index finger to suck them clean.
“Why?” Max protested.
“I think it might constitute as crossing a professional line.”
“Yeah, because you’ve zero experience doing that,” Max said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Things are different now.”
To say the least.
I rubbed the last of the sticky candy residue against my trouser leg.
“I don’t like this,” Max continued. “When Sebastian has a reverse Ichabod Crane situation, Calvin and Quinn show up. That’s how it works. The universe has established this.”
“I’m one money-order-made-payable-to-the-City-Clerk away from really pissing his sergeant off,” I explained. “I have to follow proper channels these days. That means starting with 911, and letting the NYPD decide which lucky detective team is investigating this mess.”
I turned my head just then to watch a third uniformed officer enter the shop. He muttered some nicety to the man standing guard at the door before immediately making his way toward the counter where a female officer stood.
I turned to Max and held both hands out, indicating for him not to move. “Stay here.” I started after the newcomer.
The cop was tall. Broad shoulders, dark hair, and thick eyebrows. He was watching me approach while quieting the radio emitting gibberish from his belt.
“Hi,” I said. I held out a hand. “I’m the owner. I called—”
“Sebastian Snow,” he answered for me.
I slowly lowered my hand. “Er—yeah.”
“You’ve got a reputation.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
I got the distinct impression this officer did not find me to be a charming sonofabitch.
“Now, I know you like to play amateur sleuth, Mr. Snow,” he continued, hands on his utility belt. His accent was so Brooklyn, it was practically a stereotype.
“I’ve recently retired.”
“I don’t think you’re funny.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t think you’re cute.”
“Good.”
“Being a cop is a serious job,” he said in a chastising tone. “And when civilians stick their noses into our business—”
“I’m pretty certain I called you folks for help,” I interrupted.
The female officer leaned over the counter and whispered something to my new biggest fan.
“I know who he’s dating,” Dickhead retorted. He pointed a finger at me. “And this ain’t got nothing to do with you being gay.”
“Thank God,” I said humorlessly. Because I hadn’t heard that before.
“I wouldn’t care if you were engaged to my sergeant. You shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred feet of a crime scene.”
I tugged my sweater closed and crossed my arms over my chest. “So did you want to question me, or should I skedaddle and leave you to all this, Mr. Holmes?”
Dickhead’s nostrils flared like an enraged bull. He closed the space between us and stared me down—which didn’t work because I’ve been around the block a few times with cops—then something in his facial expression changed. Faltered, maybe.
“What’re your eyes doing?”
“Moving,” I answered, my tone more dry than white bread left on too high a setting in the toaster. My Dancing Eyes condition was hardly noticeable as an adult, but still they wobbled involuntarily at times. “I have achromatopsia. Sometimes my eyes move strangely when I get stressed.”
“You’re stressed?”
“Yes, Officer,” I said with a hint of mockery. “I’ve only had one cup of coffee and found a head in a box.”
“Your stressed is pretty calm, Mr. Snow.”
I shrugged. “Hysterics won’t change the situation. Although, I did vomit, if that’ll make you happy.”
“For Christ’s sake, Rossi,” the female cop said, loud enough for me to hear. She leaned over the counter a second time and asked, “Do you know the deceased, Mr. Snow?”
I stared at her, at Rossi, then back to her again. “Do I—know—the head? We’re not acquainted, no.”
Rossi started to speak, but the bell over the shop’s front door chimed for the umpteenth time and gave him pause. He looked around me, raised his lip, and all but rolled his eyes.
“Calvary’s here,” he muttered.
I turned around.
Rescue came in the form of Calvin Winter.
My most favorite detective of the NYPD.
Not that I was biased or anything.
He marched across the showroom floor, making a direct beeline for me where I stood at the base of the elevated counter with Rossi.
“Calvin—” I started, hoping I sounded cool and relaxed and not utterly relieved that despite our soon-to-be legally recognized relationship, he’d still been the one shouldered with another case involving yours truly.
But Calvin cut me off by grabbing my shoulders and pulling me into a bone-crushing embrace. His heavy coat was damp from melting snow. The wool was itchy and cold against my skin, but the discomfort was eased by the familiar warmth and hard body under the layers. Sure, I’d been in bed with this handsome man only a few hours ago, but I didn’t think I’d never not find comfort in the scent of Calvin’s earthy cologne or the ever-present cinnamon on his breath from obsessive mint-popping.
He’d shown up like a knight in shining armor.
The Elves of Christmas by Wendy Rathbone
“Santa is coming! Santa is coming!” The cries rang throughout the workshop. Elves ran up and down the golden halls.
I caught sight of Bell, Ever and Clove coming in from the snowy landscape, long hair white with crystal flakes.
“How long do we have?” I asked, looking up from my line of dolls whose eyes I had just finished painting.
Jingle came into view. “Word came in minutes ago. He’s coming tomorrow morning. We have less than 24 hours.”
Tinsel yelled, “I need help in the kitchens. Volunteers, please?” He was our best chef. “Peppermint cake with butter cream frosting. And sugar cookies. And donuts stuffed with whipped cream. They’re his favorites! Oh gods, I don’t have enough time.”
This would be a long night. We would all be staying up to get ready.
Jingle, who was our boss, said, “Pepper, make sure all the windows are clean.”
I hated washing windows, but I said nothing since I was ahead of schedule with my chores and would be expected to do extra. Besides, it was for Santa. All of us would do anything for that guy. He really was the jolliest, most generous, and charismatic elf who ever lived. Everyone loved him. In a way, he was like our king, ruler of Santa’s Village where all who worked for him lived at the North Pole.
Jingle told me most people who believe in Santa Claus also think his elves are diminutive beings from a magical realm. He blamed it on Hollywood, and before that it was the fault of the publishing industry that cranked out funny children’s books for the winter holidays.
The truth is we elves were all different: short, tall, round, thin, blond, brunet, pale gold, dark brown. We look a lot like humans, except we aren’t.
I have small, pointed ears, a compact, muscular body, and what Jingle says is a “broody dark complexion.” Thus, my name sort of fits me. Pepper.
Jingle, on the other hand, has large ears due to being over one hundred years old, and a jolly round belly he emphasizes with pride by wearing big leather belts decorated with square pouches, a drink cup holder, and hanging trinkets (ornaments and crystals he likes to collect).
Centuries ago, our race came from a parallel Earth which was destroyed by a comet. We fled destruction through dimensional portals to this current Earth. We chose to stay apart from humans, invisible to them, and remained in the north. We had gold enough for all our needs, and imported food and fuel from many countries, but there wasn’t much to do in such cold climate, so we turned to making things.
When I was new to the workshop in the North Pole, Jingle took me under his wing. I had been such a nervous newbie. I hero-worshipped Santa. As an artist, I had wanted to work for him for such a long time. When I was finally chosen, my initial ecstasy turned to outright terror. What if I wasn’t good enough? What if Santa hated me? What if I was fired from my first job and sent to do non-creative work such as stable-mucking or, worse, finance?
But everything turned out just fine. I am an excellent toy designer with original ideas. I create the most beautiful rocking horses and dolls you’ll ever see.
Blizzard season had not yet scented the air. It was still October but the sun was already setting earlier every day, and coming up late. Because there had been few storms, the windows were not too bad.
I headed to the main kitchen to begin filling buckets with water for the task when I heard Jingle say, “Ice, you help Pepper with the windows.”
My stomach froze. I turned, frowning. Jingle knew I did not interact with Ice. I kept my distance from him. Ice worked in the electronics department. Our lines of work never crossed, thankfully. But Ice must’ve come into the front rooms to see what was going on. And Jingle was putting any elf passing by to work.
Like me, Ice fit his name well. His long, tall body and pale skin made him look as if he was carved from frozen tundra. He had white blond hair that hung to his ass, cold blue eyes and what seemed to be a permanent smirk. I confess I initially did not like him because of that sneer, and because he hung with a more irreverent crowd, some of whom had been known to talk shit about Santa and this new Earth and how kids were so privileged these days they didn’t appreciate the presents we made anymore.
My workmate, Pumpkin, whined, “This is so unfair! Santa needs to give us notice. Just to pop in like this. It’s freaking me out.”
“Get hold of yourself,” I said. Then I leaned forward and said in a whisper, “Look, I have to work with Ice. None of this is fair.”
He pouted, his red hair sparkling with the bit of glitter he’d made a mess of while trying to finish up a line of necklaces netted with little bottles labeled “Fairy Dust.”
“But Ice likes you, even if you don’t like him,” Pumpkin muttered.
“What? He does not.” Frowning, I turned to look at Ice, who was glaring at me as if he couldn’t start on the windows without me. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear us.
“What makes you say that anyway?” I asked Pumpkin.
He shrugged. “Everyone knows.”
“How?”
“Whenever he’s around, he stares at you.”
“He glares like he’s doing now,” I argued. “Once when I glared back, he told me to fuck off. And you know me, I get along with everyone.”
Pumpkin shrugged. “It’s just what people are saying.”
“Well, people are wrong.” I turned away.
I moved toward Ice and the kitchen. He seemed to be glowering now. I ignored it, moved alongside him and said, “We’ll start in the north wing and move along east. Then we’ll do the upstairs.”
“I’m not going to do anything you say,” he muttered.
“Fine. Suit yourself.” I turned my back on him. I had always been put off by his surly attitude. I could not figure out why Santa had chosen him to work in the toy shop. But for his beauty—and he was an uncommonly handsome elf—he always seemed so bitter, angry, even resentful. Every other elf I’d ever known had been honored to be one of Santa’s chosen.
I started filling two wooden buckets with hot water and soap. A mint scent wafted up. We could have used spray soap and cotton cloths, but to clean that way left a film on the glass. For Santa, we all wanted to look our best. The windows would gleam in the starlight with my mixture of soap, water and squeegee.
Ice took up one of the buckets without my having to ask. I noticed the flex of his arm muscles as he did so, and the way his long hair fell forward, chiming because of little bells he’d attached to random, skinny braids hiding in the flaxen silks of his locks. For a single instant I thought about how it might feel to touch those locks. Probably like cashmere in their softness, but cool like satin.
I looked away quickly, my cheeks heating. What was I thinking? I disliked Ice in every way.
Though he had made a big deal out of not doing what I said, he followed me, wordless, to the north wing. We each started on a paned window, side by side. Sponging the soapy liquid on the glass, I drew the rubber squeegee edge down to clean it.
Santa’s Village resided in the depths of the northern ice, its lanes and avenues stretching from the center, like a snowflake. The workshop occupied the outskirts of Santa’s Village, and the view outside led to ice cliffs of pink, blue and mauve in the undulating, seemingly perpetual duskiness of October. It looked as if the snow and ice had once been a white sea that had been flash-frozen that way. The shining wall below the precipice contained an inner light, a soul pulsing with life yet to be released.
On the horizon, the greenish sky rose up to brushstrokes of flamingo pink. At its zenith, the blue there was of such a deep shade it made the breath catch in my throat. It always made me think of vastness. Of how small I was in the scope of universal rhythms. It was still too early for starlight, but the cliff-snow sparkled like stars fallen long ago from a distance too great to fathom.
I never tired of the beauty of the north. Or the cold. Or even the isolation. It filled me up inside even while making me feel insignificant. The combination of those feelings gave me a longing I took pleasure from, a yearning I could not quite put a definition to. And always, inside the workshop, I had warmth, burning hearths, friends, and cocoa to look forward to every day.
“You’re dripping.” Ice’s sulky tone interrupted my reverie.
I looked to see the puddle I’d made on the shiny, wood floor. I’d been daydreaming. I hadn’t even noticed.
He laughed when I bent to clean the little pool of liquid.
“Thinking of Santa?” he quipped.
“No.”
“Not like all the others, then? Smitten. In love.”
“What?” I turned to look at him.
He faced the window, finishing up. It looked perfect, scintillating from refracted ice-light.
“Santa has many lovers. Don’t you want to be one of them?”
“What? No. I can’t believe-- What are you saying?” I’d never thought of Santa that way. He was more of a father figure to me. And old. Very old. He was my hero. I became tongue-tied around him. I wanted to please him, but not erotically.
He did not answer my sputtering questions. Instead, he let out a quiet hiss and moved on to the next window, pushing the plaid fleece curtains aside and affixing them with a red ribbon.
In his white sleeveless shirt that fastened like a wrap about his slim waist, he looked over-dressed for doing such a small task. His trousers were black, and made of expensive wool. I could tell because they were smooth but still looked warm, not like my ratty sweats. We both wore curl-toed shoes, but his were polished to a shine that glistened. Mine were years old.
We were paid a good salary in our jobs, but I didn’t waste mine on imported clothes. I saved almost every penny—for what, I did not know—for I needed nothing. Food and board were provided. But Ice, well, Ice—he must’ve spent every penny he earned on things to wear. Like the bells in his hair, which looked to be pure sterling. And in his earlobes and on every finger flashed a ring; all the metals looked like platinum to match his cold spirit.
Now Ice wetted his squeegee again, dipping his hands in warm water as if not noticing—or caring—that his pretty rings got soaked.
I finished my window minutes later and moved on to the one on his other side.
I had on a lightweight gray sweater and my sleeves were getting wet as I kept dripping water. As the air dried them a little, my skin prickled with cold.
Silence overwhelmed us. All I could hear was a crackling of the hearth at the end of the chamber. Where we were was called a long-room, a recreational area filled with plush chairs and couches where elves could take breaks between the long work hours. There were round tables for playing cards, or doing puzzles. A flat-screen TV filled one wall. But the outer wall was almost all windows. The architects of the shop had designed this room around the view.
It was a lovely place to relax, one of my favorites other than my own chair in front of the fire in my own small cabin.
Ice gave a little chuckle again, as if he was still thinking of our last short conversation.
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “You are so disparaging. Is it Santa you particularly don’t like, or just all of us?”
“Fuck off,” was all I got in reply.
I could not figure him out. But it wasn’t my job to fix others. Only toys. Toys were my element.
But I kept wondering about him. He didn’t seem to want to be here, so why had he been chosen by Santa? I’d heard only rumors about his past since he’d arrived last year. One speculation said he used to work in the stables and was on duty the night Dasher disappeared. Dasher had been one of Santa’s oldest and most beloved reindeer. He’d since been replaced by Dasher2. But honestly, Ice did not seem to be the “stable boy” type, and Pumpkin, who loved to gossip, told me the rumors were false.
Another rumor said he was really a human disguised as an elf, infiltrating our secret abode and reporting back to the FBI. That had mostly been a joke told at a late-night party where we’d all had too much eggnog.
Pretty much, I figured Ice was good at what he did in the electronics department, liked the work, and that was it. Also, a job in Santa’s Village came with complete benefits, private cabins, meals, and bosses like Jingle who never raised his voice. Who could say no to that?
The two elves I often saw Ice hanging out with were Syl and North. Syl might have fit the diminutive definition of the Hollywood elf, she was so petite, but we all learned quickly not to make assumptions based on her looks.
Her every other word was an expletive. She might wear red dresses and decorate her hair with tinsel, but when her eyebrows came together in flares of anger, you knew not to test her. She spoke always in a loud voice. She disapproved of everything. But her talent could not be denied. She was a fantastic actress, and was the voice of hundreds of automated, talking toys.
She and Ice weren’t lovers. They were just a good match, a shared negativity feeding arrogance that seemed to entertain them. North was actually Syl’s lover. He had short black hair trained into spikes. He rarely spoke, but he followed Syl and Ice everywhere, almost as if he were on a leash.
I finished my second window and moved on to a third. Ice had already done four, and they shimmered without streaks.
Closer to the fire now, I could smell the imported, flaming oak. Crumbs of wood and ash scattered across the exterior of the hearth, and needed to be cleaned. I made a mental note to get to that after the windows.
Normally, I enjoyed the silences of life, of still snow, fire-lit rooms, bedrooms filled with books. But this silence between me and Ice had become a burning thing between us. As if all consciousness were focused on it, which made it an effort, which made it bigger than it should be.
I kept feeling as if he was staring at me. But when I would turn, he would be quietly working as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
I tried to focus on anything but the silence. But all I heard were the little ringing bells in his hair when he moved, and the shuffle of his feet. I thought I could even hear him breathe. In this silence, which was induced by him, all I could hear was him.
A heat built in the bottom of my stomach, like a sort of untapped rage. I suddenly wanted him to stop being in the room with me, stop washing the windows, stop not talking. It was making me frustrated beyond my usual easy demeanor.
I placed my squeegee in the bucket. The warm water sloshed, droplets like diamonds landing on my curled shoes. I turned to face him. The fire warmed against my back like a fever, but my body was strangely chilled.
He stood by the largest picture window furthest from the hearth, white on white, his body, hair, shirt, and the snow outside all melting together. He was framed by dimness, pink and blue and soft. The gold of the interior ceiling lights raced and met in his hair.
Naughty & Nice by DJ Jamison
“So, this is the hot tub,” I said, apropos of nothing.
“Yep,” he said, grinning. “Nothing gets by you.”
“I’m very observant that way,” I said, nodding seriously. I looked around as if taking in my surroundings, and when I got back to Jonas, I looked at him boldly, straight-on, my gaze skimming from his lips to his shoulders to his nipples, visible just above the water line.
He cleared his throat. “I’m starting to notice that.”
I wasn’t being subtle.
I’d angled for this to happen. To be in this hot tub with Jonas. I’d told him I wanted to soak away the cold in my bones, and that wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t entirely true either. I’d wanted to get closer to him. Wanted to feel another flash of the heat I was sure I’d seen in his eyes at dinner. Maybe it was an anomaly, and we’d have a soak and move on with our lives. Or maybe…
Maybe it’d combust, given the right circumstances.
To my frustration, Jonas’s phone chimed with a message. He looked away to pick it up. I watched as his lips quirked into a smile while he tapped out a response. He’d gotten a couple of these texts in the car too, tonight. It wasn’t like before, when he was avoiding messages. This was someone else.
“Who’s texting you?”
He glanced up, then irritatingly right back down to the phone. “No one important.”
Jonas didn’t answer immediately, and every second wound my insides a little bit tighter. If Jonas had someone in his life—or more than one, as his busy phone led me to believe—I wouldn’t be surprised. Why wouldn’t someone want him? He was effortlessly gorgeous; I’d seen him roll out of bed and ruffle his hair with his hand and look fabulous. That was it; his whole morning routine. And there I was in front of the mirror, trying to tame flyaway hairs and choosing my clothing with care. He was smart and self-reliant too. He didn’t bail on school or his future just because he was in a messy relationship. He dealt with life. Guys like him were never alone.
I edged closer, our legs brushing underwater. “Is it someone you’re serious about?”
“Nah, I don’t do serious.”
“Why not?”
His eyes met mine and held. “Tried it once. It didn’t suit me.”
I suspected he meant me, even though that didn’t make any sense. We’d never had a relationship. We’d had one brief kiss, and that was it. Surely he hadn’t been serious about his stepbrother with a bad attitude? I must be reading too much into that look…
“So, you’re texting with a non-serious hookup?”
He set the phone aside, lips quirking. “A potential hookup. Guy lives near here—”
I slapped my hand onto the surface of the water. “Oh, hell no!”
Something came over me. All the tension that had stretched between us, all my restraint, snapped.
“No,” I repeated. “No hookups with other guys while you’re here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Other guys?”
I was busted. He saw right through me, to the jealousy I had no right to have. I sucked in my bottom lip, tasting the faint tang of chlorine from the water droplets that had misted my face.
“Go on, Quinn. If you’ve got something to say about my sex life, I’m all ears.”
My face flushed hot. Words of apology were on the tip of my tongue. It wasn’t my place; it was none of my business.
Unless I made it my business.
Pulse speeding up, I turned toward him. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
“No? Because it seemed—”
I pushed forward in a rush, letting my mouth do the talking. Our lips pressed, clung. Jonas’s breath caught as I licked his bottom lip. Then, as if I’d hit fast-forward on a video, he was all in. His hand clamped around the back of my neck, pulling me hard against him as he deepened the kiss. My blood leapt with the thrill of lust and adrenaline as his tongue slid along mine, tasting and teasing. Jonas was a skilled kisser, advancing and retreating, giving me just enough to want more, then changing tactics to wind me up all over again.
I was burning up in the steamy water, and yet I was shivering as cold winter air brushed over my neck and shoulders.
Jonas grabbed my hips, dragging me into his lap. I felt how hard he was, and ground down against him until he groaned satisfyingly against my mouth.
“Fuck, baby.”
“No.” I finally pulled back to look into his eyes. “I’m not baby, or honey, or any other thing you call your hookups. I’m Quinn.”
His voice was husky but soft as he responded. “Quinn.”
I shivered to hear my name in that sexy, velvet tone.
“You sure you want to do this with me?” he asked. “I know we’re not related by blood, but…”
Was I sure it was a good idea? No. But did I want it? Desperately.
“We’re not brothers.”
Winterworld by Barbara Elsborg
Chapter OneAs Kem carefully stepped over his brother’s motionless body, Reilly’s hand shot out and snagged his ankle.
Kem staggered but didn’t fall. “Not dead, then?”
“You’re hilarious,” Reilly muttered into the carpet. “Get me a cup of tea.”
Kem shook free of his older brother’s grasp and changed direction, heading away from the front door. So much for a quick getaway.
The moment Kem stepped into the kitchen, he flinched. It had looked bad when he’d gone to bed, and overnight bad had morphed to disgusting. Empty cans lay everywhere, pizza boxes were piled up, the rubbish bin was overflowing—something brown was dripping onto the floor, the table was heaped with crap—beer bottles, drug paraphernalia, dirty mugs, and two used condoms spilled their contents on the draining board. Kem shuddered.
Occasionally, he spent a few hours trying to return the kitchen and living room to some sort of normality. Never the state his mother had kept them in, but he did his best. Reilly, his latest girlfriend Louise, and their loser friends didn’t seem to care they lived in a shithole of their own making. Kem cared, but there was only so much he could do, particularly when anything he did was so quickly undone.
He shook the kettle to check it held enough water and flicked the switch. There were no clean mugs so while he waited for the kettle to boil, he filled the sink and squirted in the last of the washing up liquid, making a mental note to buy more. When he turned to his cupboard to get a teabag, he groaned. The door stood slightly ajar, his padlock broken.
Fucking bastards. He hadn’t had much in there, but the cereal, biscuits, peanut butter and beans had gone. He opened the fridge, hoping to find the sandwiches he’d made last night for today’s lunch, but they weren’t there. Damn. And there was no bread. He found himself grinding his teeth. If things didn’t change, he’d soon have no teeth left.
Things weren’t going to change unless he made them change.
Good luck with that.
Kem returned to his cupboard and grabbed a teabag. By the time he’d washed a mug, Reilly had made it to the table. His brother sat down and shoved at the debris with his arm, sending everything sliding towards the opposite edge like one of those coin pusher arcade machines. Kem froze, ready to make a catch. Nothing fell but a lot teetered.
“I need that fifty quid for the logs and the electricity bill,” Reilly said. “I told you yesterday.”
The money was in Kem’s pocket but maybe this was a way to wrest back some control. “Why don’t you give me your share and I’ll pay it and get the logs?”
“You going to carry the wood?” Reilly stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “I’m the only one with a car.”
“I’ll get it delivered.”
“Just give me the fucking money, dipstick.”
“If you spend it on dope, we’re going to get cut off again.”
“Stop whining. You’re doing my head in.”
Kem swallowed his sigh as he poured boiling water into the mug. He swirled the teabag around with a spoon, then scooped out the soggy square. He took the milk from the fridge and put that and the mug in front of his brother. “You better check it’s okay.”
Reilly sniggered. “Frightened it’ll make you throw up?” He unscrewed the top and sniffed. “It’s fine.” He tipped a small amount into his tea and Kem put the carton back in the fridge.
Kem disliked milk with a passion. The smell of it going off or boiling or even fresh cold milk made him heave. The sight of fatty lumps on the surface of hot drinks were enough to— He gagged and tried to disguise the sound with a cough. Even thinking about it was enough to make him retch.
“Ahh, you delicate flower.” Reilly held out his hand. “Money.”
Kem sighed and pulled his wallet from the pocket of his jeans. As he handed over the notes, Reilly grabbed his wrist and snatched the wallet. Kem had been caught out too many times, so there was only another five pounds in there. His brother still took it.
“Really?” Kem snapped. “That’s my last fiver and some bastard’s eaten my lunch.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
Kem huffed, snatched the note from his brother’s fingers and turned for the door. He didn’t make it. For a guy who’d resembled a sloth not long ago, Reilly was quick. He grabbed the fiver and shoved Kem away into the path of Louise, just coming into the kitchen wrapped in Reilly’s tatty dressing gown. She squealed and elbowed Kem hard in the ribs.
“Watch it, stupid.” She glared at him.
Kem thought briefly about saying sorry, but he wasn’t, so he didn’t. He lifted his coat from the peg in the hall and as he left, he slammed the front door hard enough to make the glass rattle. To think he’d been considering putting up the Christmas decorations. It wouldn’t cheer him up. He was sick of living here, sick of his drug addict brother, Reilly’s bitch of a girlfriend and their parasitic thieving friends. Well, Mik was sort of okay but he was the only one Kem didn’t mind.
He knew full well the money he’d given Reilly was unlikely to make it to the energy provider or be used to buy logs, but if he protested too much Reilly would make his life even more miserable. Though Kem wondered how much lower he could go. The house was as much Kem’s as his brother’s and until it was sold, Kem wasn’t going to move out or he’d never see any of the money. But the way Reilly was treating the place, no one would want to buy it. One step over the threshold and any prospective viewer would beat a hasty retreat, whether Christmas decorations were up or not.
As Kem walked past his brother’s car, he kicked the door, a little half-heartedly because he didn’t want Reilly to kick him. Kem straightened the estate agent’s sign that had been stuck in the ground next to the gate, then turned up the collar of his peacoat as he set off down the lane. It was a chilly morning, and his breath looked like smoke as he exhaled. A dragon with no fire. That was him. He wanted to be strong and fearsome but he wasn’t. No one listened to him. No one cared about him.
Fuck off with the self-pity. If he didn’t like what was happening, then he had to do something about it because no one else would.
His heart clenched. Things would be different in a few weeks. Work wouldn’t be so manic and he’d have more time to get the house straight. Maybe even find the energy and enthusiasm to decorate. There might be a Christmas miracle and Reilly would transform into the brother Kem remembered and they’d have a good time watching cheesy films on the TV and cooking a meal together. Except Kem didn’t believe in miracles.
He did believe in being proactive. When he got home, he’d tidy the house and get the tree and decorations out of the attic. Hopefully, there’d be an upsurge of viewings in January, followed by a quick sale, and when Kem had his share of the money, he was going to move, make a new start. He was only twenty-seven. Plenty of time to reinvent himself.
The sun hadn’t yet risen, though there was a red tinge on the horizon where light bled into the sky. It was a couple of miles to Wensley Castle where he worked as a groundsman, and an enjoyable walk on a crisp November morning like this. Not so enjoyable when the ground was muddy underfoot or if it was raining, but Kem had no other means of getting there. No car, no bike. There was a bus service, except the buses didn’t run at the right time of day for him to use.
But Kem liked being outside and he didn’t mind walking. He loved the Kent countryside, the big open fields that changed colour every month, the soft rolling hills of the Downs, the sleepy villages, the proximity of the coast, especially when the weather was bad and the waves huge. For the last month he’d had no free time to go anywhere and that wasn’t set to change in the short term. He was working on Lady Overton’s Winterworld project and determined not to mess up. When he applied for a new job, it would be a good thing to talk about having done.
He turned off the road at the sign for the public footpath and clambered up a bank into a field planted with winter wheat. Last year, the farmer had grown a cover crop and brought in sheep to graze on it. Kem had liked watching them as he walked through their field. Back in his room, he’d made a few models of sheep with twigs and branches and put them in the garden. Reilly or one of his loser friends had broken them.
The path he was using had been mostly worn by his feet. He occasionally met a dog walker or a hiker but not since he’d been starting work so early and finishing so late. There were a couple more fields to skirt around, over which he had no right of way, the careful negotiation of a barbed wire fence, a few hundred yards sneaking through woods he definitely wasn’t supposed to be in, a clamber over a six-foot wall assisted by stones he’d piled up, and he was in the grounds of Wensley Castle. If he’d gone all the way by road it would have taken him three times as long and the way some people drove around here, via a more dangerous route.
Wensley Castle was one of Kent’s premier attractions. Not as grand as Leeds Castle or as old as Hever but still a popular tourist destination. A staff of seventy worked in the house, office, grounds and the café. Not to be called a café in Lady O’s hearing but rather the Orangery. Apart from paid staff, there was an army of volunteers who showed people around the public parts of the castle, some of whom had been roped in to help with decorating for Christmas and had also been offered paid work for the length of time Winterworld would run.
Kem had visited the castle as a boy when his mum had been given free tickets. He’d loved it. All of it. The house, gardens, the ornamental birds, the deer, the maze and the lake. Reilly had only liked the adventure playground and the maze. He had no interest in the castle’s treasures or the beauty of the grounds. Their father had shown the wrong sort of interest, touching things he wasn’t supposed to, wondering how much stuff was worth. Kem had worried constantly that his light-fingered father would slip something into his pocket. Or worse, into Kem’s pocket.
He made his way out of the woods and around to the converted stable block. Clothing and equipment for the grounds staff were kept in a storage room at the far end of the building. Kem was first there, as usual, and unlocked the door. He changed into his work boots, green waterproof trousers and jacket with the Wensley Castle emblem on the back, a falcon and a swan either side of a sword. The falcon was for success, the swan for perfection, the sword for liberty and strength. Kem had looked it up after a visitor had once asked him what it symbolised.
Once he’d gathered the tools he needed, he pulled on his beanie and gloves and headed across the large courtyard at the side of the castle where Winterworld would be situated. The café was still accessible to the general public, but there was a tape barrier to prevent them getting to the woods while the event was being set up.
Kem’s current job was to make a pathway to Santa’s Grotto through trees that would twinkle with thousands of fairy lights. The electricians were coming that day to begin the installation of the outdoor sockets and sort out all the wiring. The event was costing a huge amount of money but it was a way of attracting visitors at low season. Access to Winterworld would be included in the entrance price for the castle and grounds but visitors would have to pay to use the ice rink, the carousel and to see Santa. Anyone who only wanted to visit Winterworld in the late afternoon/evening would pay a small fee with no access to the castle or the rest of the grounds.
Several companies had booked to have their Christmas parties there and, on those evenings, the public would have to leave early. There’d be plenty of other opportunities to relieve people of their money at the Christmas market and the café. Kem wished he could sell his little wood-and-wire animals, but by the time he’d plucked up the nerve to ask if he could rent a shelf in one of the chalets, there was no space left.
Lady O wanted Winterworld to be a bigger and better attraction than at any other venue not just in Kent, but in the whole country. Snow cannons would provide regular flurries of fake snow over the whole site. There’d be performances by choirs from local schools and villages, and festive music played on a loop when no one was singing. There were even reindeer booked for a three-week visit. Kem was excited about all of it. Even if Christmas didn’t happen at home, it was happening here.
He reached the point on the path where he’d stopped working yesterday, and laid down his tools. He was using branches to create borders on a curving woodland walkway that he’d marked out with pegs and string. Lights would also edge the route that would be covered with bark chippings.
Kem promised himself a coffee after he’d completed an hour or so’s work, and he’d sweet-talk Vera, who’d been a friend of his mother’s, into giving him a couple of slices of toast. But he’d be eating them outdoors. He wouldn’t stay in the staff area in case Jason came in. Kem gave an involuntary shiver. After he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in a relationship with his immediate boss beyond the working one they had, Jason had taken his revenge by giving Kem every crappy job he could come up with, then finding something to pick fault with about the way Kem had done it.
Jason had been shocked to be turned down, followed by insulted and not long after, been invaded by cold fury. Kem had done his best to stay well out of Jason’s way. If the guy thought he’d make Kem miserable enough to resign, he was wrong. Nor was Kem going to get sacked by not doing a good job. Apart from having to put up with Jason, he liked working at the castle.
Rain dropped onto his cheek and he groaned. Working when it was wet wasn’t much fun but he had no choice. He was running out of time to get things finished. He pulled his hood up over his beanie and kept going, wishing he had music to listen to.
Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his brother, because Reilly or one of his loser friends had taken Kem’s music player. Kem didn’t know how much longer he could bear to watch Reilly sliding deeper and deeper into the hole he was digging. Kem had suggested ways to help him get clean but every time Kem tried to talk to him, he got nowhere. Until Reilly accepted that he needed help, Kem was wasting his breath.
When they’d been kids, Reilly, who was four years older, had been a good brother. Looked out for Kem at school, kicked a football around with him in the garden, helped him with his homework. After their father had walked out when Kem was eight, it was Reilly who tried to fill in the hole in the family. But Reilly had left four years later when he was sixteen, and had only come home every now and again. Usually to get money off their mother by one means or another. Kem knew Reilly had taken her stuff to sell but when he’d asked her, she’d said she’d given it to him. Kem stopped saying anything negative about his brother because it just upset her.
Kem had thought when she fell ill, Reilly would have visited more often, but he hadn’t. If anything, he came less. Only after she’d died did he return for good. Kem wanted to believe there was still a decent brother somewhere inside Reilly but he couldn’t remember the last kind thing his brother had done for him.
Reilly stole from him, treated him like shit and mocked him. He had no respect for Kem whatsoever and maybe Kem did let him get away with too much, didn’t protest hard enough when Reilly or his friends did things he didn’t like, but Kem hated confrontation. When he was a kid, he used to hide when his mum and dad argued. Yelling didn’t fix anything and his mum never came out on top.
There was no point arguing with Reilly when he refused to listen. If Kem could have walked away, he would have. But he wanted his share of the money. It would be enough for him to start a business of his own. He could rent a little workshop and do more than make small animals out of wire and wood. He dreamed of seeing his work on display in a smart London gallery and pictured himself standing at the window outside, listening to people saying kind things about his art. But the daydream faded fast. It always did.
Since their mother had died two years ago, Kem’s life had spiralled down, his happiness draining away, though not for the same reason as his brother’s. Kem had never taken drugs and never would, but he was still stuck in his own dark hole; lonely, barely making ends meet, letting his brother sponge off him. Not exactly letting but… Now he was spoiling work by dwelling on stuff he could do nothing about. When he could afford it, he’d buy a music player. No point going for a better phone that he could play music on, not yet. He hammered another section of woven branches into the ground.
His fingers were cold even inside the gloves, the rain was falling more heavily, and he’d decided to head to the café for a break when he heard the wolfhounds bounding towards him. He scrambled to his feet before they knocked him on his arse. Marmaduke, Daisy and Penelope leapt at him, desperate for attention, all of them wearing antlers sitting cockeyed on their heads.
He liked dogs, he really did, but these three were completely nuts. Marmaduke shoved his head against Kem’s backside, Daisy sniffed his crotch while Penelope tried to push her sister out of the way as if she had exclusive rights to that spot. It was almost funny that the dogs showed him more affection than anyone else had for a long time.
Kem staggered backwards as Penelope jumped up and put her feet on his shoulders. “Get down, you lunatic.”
When he spotted Jason approaching with Lady O, Kem tensed. She called the dogs three times before they bounded back to her side.
“Good morning, Kem. How are you getting on?” she asked.
“Good morning, your ladyship. Jason.” Kem didn’t meet his boss’s eye. “I’m almost done with the edging, then I can lay the chippings.”
Jason looked at the path. “Is it wide enough?”
What? Bastard. “It’s the width that was agreed on at the planning meeting.” He really didn’t want to redo work he’d already done.
“I wondered about wheelchair access,” Jason said.
“It’s wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair.” We fucking checked. “But there’ll be another route to the tipis if people don’t want to go over the chippings.”
“When are the tipis going up?” Lady O looked at Jason.
“This afternoon, your ladyship. Weather permitting.”
She turned back to Kem. “Fabian will be helping today. He’ll be full of ideas. He won a Young Enterprise award for a range of items recycled from computer waste products when he was in the sixth form. He’s very innovative. Things should go much faster with him in charge.”
Kem couldn’t help bristling and he noticed Jason smirk. Kem had been working flat out. He was at Wensley Castle from the time the sun rose until long after it set and it had been made clear that he was expected to work either Saturday or Sunday, and preferably both until Winterworld was operational.
Unless Fabian actually rolled up his sleeves and worked alongside him, Kem wasn’t sure how much help the guy would be. A posh git who’d just spent the last two years swanning all over Europe staying in expensive hotels and dining at the best restaurants would probably freak out if he broke a fingernail or touched a worm. Kem couldn’t help but feel resentful that the wunderkind was going to waltz in and take credit for everything.
The dogs launched another assault and Kem scratched under their chins as they beat bruises on his thighs with their tails. Lady O called them to her. Daisy didn’t want to go and Kem had to give her a nudge with his knee. Once Lady O had set off through the trees with Jason on her heels, no doubt sucking up like the expert he was, Kem went back to work. Now he thought Fabian might turn up, he was reluctant to go for a break. He wanted the guy to find him working hard, not sitting on his arse in the café.
Kem had seen Fabian before. Just once. He’d been nine and Fabian the same age as Reilly. Kem’s mother had recently started work at the castle. She hadn’t worked when his dad was around but to Kem and his brother’s amazement, she turned out to have a hidden talent. She was an expert in fabric restoration and had been employed to work on a large tapestry that hung in the castle’s dining hall. Their mother had taken him and Reilly to a staff summer party held in a big marquee in the grounds. Overton family members had helped to serve the drinks and food and Kem remembered the way Fabian had seemed to do it so begrudgingly, looking down his nose at them, his mouth sulky.
Reilly had teased Fabian, mimicking his accent, ordering him to fetch more drinks, more dessert—Eton Mess—twice without saying please, and Kem had cringed at his brother’s side. Fabian was tall and slender with strawberry-blond hair that flopped over blue eyes. He’d worn a white linen shirt and smart trousers and spoke with a cut-glass accent. To Kem, he’d looked and sounded like a film star, cool and glamorous and charming, until he’d deliberately tipped lemonade over both him and Reilly. Kem hadn’t missed Fabian’s brief grin and it had upset him he’d been treated with the same disdain as his brother, despite him never having said a word. Reilly refused to go to any more events, so Kem didn’t go either.
Lady O had been going on for weeks about the prodigal son’s return home. She passed on some snippet every time she mentioned him. Walked at nine months, learned to read and write at the age of three, a prodigy on the violin aged five, a fabulous singer, a talented horse rider, won a scholarship to Eton, passed GCSEs at the top grades, same with A Levels. A first at Cambridge University. Now an expert in environmental protection. He’d probably walked on water, parted the Red Sea and found a cure for global heating in his spare time. The guy had been a wanker at the party and Kem doubted he’d changed.
Kem set another section of woven edging in place and tapped it down. The side of the path would eventually rot, maybe even get snapped by youngsters jumping on it but it was aesthetically pleasing and more environmentally friendly than rocks or concrete. Maybe Fabian would approve.
Would he want to take over the Winterworld project, or was that his mother’s wishful thinking? The idea of having an event to draw people in for most of December had been tentatively suggested by Kem at a staff meeting in July but adopted by her ladyship as her idea. That was all she’d done apart from throw in a few demands. We must have snow. We must have reindeer. We must have Santa Claus.
It had been Kem who’d sketched out a plan for the event, made a list of what he thought was needed, researched where things could be hired or bought, and once Lord and Lady Overton had agreed, the people in the office had ordered materials and contractors, booked the ice rink, carousel, reindeer, bought snow machines, hired chalets for the Christmas market and purchased a variety of objects to sell, eat and drink. A fuck-load of stuff was stored in the stable block. Kem hoped Fabian didn’t come up with more things to do. Ice sculpting? Construct your own igloo? Make all the staff dress up as elves?
He could fuck right off.
Operation Fake Relationship by Jay Northcote
Chapter One
November
Nick stirred the sizzling pan and moved his body to the music that was pouring out of the kitchen speaker.
“It won’t be much longer. Can you pass me another beer?” He glanced over his shoulder at his long-time friend and flatmate, Jackson. “Hey. Were you staring at my arse?”
“Hard not to when you’re waving it in my direction.”
Jackson’s tone was casual but he turned away quickly.
Busted. Nick reckoned his cheeks must be burning. “Good to know I’ve still got it.” Nick grinned.
Jackson didn’t respond to that. With his back to Nick, he got two beers out of the fridge and opened them, before passing one to Nick.
“Thanks.” Nick went back to his stirring and dancing. He couldn’t keep still when he was playing dance music. The track by Sash! poured through him, lighting up his muscles with the memory of all the nights he’d spent shaking his arse on a podium to pay his way through art college.
The music stopped abruptly, cut off by Nick’s ringtone heralding an incoming call. “Bollocks.” He stopped mid hip wiggle to glance at the screen. “Ugh. It’s my mother.”
“You wanna take it?” Jackson asked. “I can stir.”
Curious as to why she’d be calling him, Nick picked up his phone. “Yeah. I’ll get it over with. At least I have a legit excuse to keep the conversation short.” He answered the call. “Hi,” he said, tone carefully light despite the frisson of anxiety that ramped up his heart rate. What the hell did she want? She hardly ever called. Most of their communication was via the occasional email—which was how Nick liked it. He couldn’t help wondering if this was something bad.
“Nick. Hello. It’s me… Mum.”
The sound of her voice alone was enough to make Nick’s tension levels rise even more. His shoulders tightened and all the loose fluidity of his body from moments before vanished like water turning into ice.
“Hi, Mum.” It felt odd calling her that, lending an ease and intimacy to their relationship that he’d lost a long time ago. He never referred to her as his mum when she occasionally came up in conversation with friends—or more often with his counsellor. She was always his mother then. “How are you?” He tried to sound a little more friendly than he felt as guilt and resentment tugged him in two directions.
“I’m fine,” she said brightly. “How about you?”
“I’m good.”
There was an awkward silence. They didn’t talk often enough to know much about each other’s day-to-day lives so there were no threads to pick up, and Nick had no desire to attempt polite conversation.
“Did you want something?” he asked. “Only I’m in the middle of cooking—”
“Yes, I did actually.” There was a pause as she sucked in a breath. “Nick… I’m calling to ask if you’d come home for Christmas this year.”
It was Nick’s turn to pause. Fighting the instinctive reaction to refuse immediately, he took a slow breath, gathering his thoughts.
Jackson gave him a questioning look. “You okay?” he mouthed.
Nick shrugged and then nodded to reassure him. Before he could decide how to respond, his mother continued.
“Please, Nick?” Her voice was soft with a rare edge of vulnerability. “I know you find family gatherings difficult, and I know you prefer to stay away. But Maria and Adrian are coming with Seth, and Pete’s agreed to come this year instead of going snowboarding.” Snowboarding? Since when was his brother into snowboarding? Nick was even more out of touch than he’d realised. “It’s going to be Seth’s first Christmas, and I know Maria would love both his uncles to be there for it. It’s important to her.”
“Why isn’t she asking me herself then?” Nick sounded like a petulant child, but his stomach was churning. His sister, Maria, was the only person in his family he had a strong connection with. They’d remained close despite everything, and since she and Adrian had moved to Scotland, he didn’t see her nearly as often as he would have liked. Seth had been born almost a year ago, and Nick had only seen him twice. He’d love to spend time with Maria and his nephew at Christmas, but not if it meant he had to spend time with his father too. Maybe he could arrange to visit her for a few days afterwards instead.
“Because she knows it would put you on the spot, and she doesn’t want to use her baby as leverage to guilt trip you into agreeing.”
Nick gave a bark of surprised laughter at his mother’s honesty. “So you’re doing it instead?”
“Yes.” Her voice was determined. “I’m not above emotional blackmail. Maria isn’t the only one who wants her whole family together for Christmas. It’s been too long, Nick. It’s time you and your father worked things out.”
“I don’t want—”
“Nick! I know things were difficult in the past but he’s changed; you’ll see that for yourself if you give him a chance. He’s stopped drinking, and he’s sticking to it this time. It’s been almost a year now. I know he wants a chance to fix things with you, but he’s too proud to ask for it himself.”
Or too much of a coward, Nick thought. Anger clenched hot and tight in his stomach.
Then, more softly, his mother added, “I miss you, Nick. Please come home.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said. “I can’t talk more now. I have to go. I’m cooking and it’s nearly ready.”
“Okay.”
“Bye, Mum.” He ended the call and sank into one of the kitchen chairs with a growl of frustration.
“What’s going on?” Jackson turned from the cooker and raised a sympathetic eyebrow. Their friendship went back far enough that he’d witnessed Nick’s rift with his parents.
“She wants me to come home for Christmas.” Nick sighed. “And so does Maria… although apparently she wasn’t going to tell me that. But my mother had no qualms about playing the nephew’s-first-Christmas card to try and persuade me.”
“Are you going to do it?” Jackson frowned.
“I dunno. Is that chicken done now?” Nick was hungry, and he wanted time for his whirling thoughts to settle a little. “Can we talk about it later?”
“Sure, man. Whatever you need.”
They ate in front of the TV. Jackson picked Deadpool to watch—a favourite for both of them—and Nick was glad it was something he’d seen before because he wasn’t able to concentrate on it properly. His relaxing Friday night had been knocked off course and anxiety tugged at him, like a child trying to get his attention.
He glanced sideways as Jackson laughed at something on the screen, and the hard edges of his mood softened a little.
Nick was grateful to have such a good friend. Although it was good to have someone to talk to when he needed, it was worth even more to have someone who let him not talk until he was ready. Jackson’s solid presence made him feel comforted and safe. Jackson always had his back. He’d wait until Nick was ready to spill his tangled thoughts, and he’d help him unravel them if necessary.
Once the film was over and the credits were playing, Nick turned to Jackson and said, “I think I want to do it.”
“Yeah?” Jackson picked up the remote and turned the TV off.
“Yep. I reckon I can handle being under the same roof as him for a couple of nights. At least he’s not drinking anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” Nick replied. “Not at all. But it’s the least shitty option. I want to see my sister and her family, and Maria wants to see me. I don’t want all of us to miss out on being together because of my father.”
“I get it.” Jackson nodded and then added, “But I hope you’re going to break it to my mum, because she’ll be gutted you’re not coming for Christmas there.”
“Yeah. I’ll tell her.” Jackson’s mum had become a substitute for his own, and she treated Nick like one of the family. His heart sank at the thought of missing out on their noisy, chaotic brand of Christmas.
Was he mad to go back home? He’d be lost among people who were worse than strangers. At least with strangers you had no expectations. Whereas most of Nick’s family relationships were tense and difficult.
He’d barely exchanged more than a few words with his father in years. Even at his gran’s funeral Nick had offered his condolences politely and then avoided his father for the rest of the afternoon. Things with his mother were tricky too, with years of resentment and guilt stacked up on both sides. He and his younger brother Pete had never got along well either. Close in age, but not in any other way, they’d spent their childhood arguing and fighting. During adolescence they’d grown apart, too different to find any common ground.
His sister Maria was the only one he could consider a true ally—and her husband Adrian—but they were bound to be distracted by the responsibilities of parenthood. Nick couldn’t expect too much from them.
“I wish you could come with me,” he said wistfully. “I could use the moral support.”
There was a silence, and Nick immediately regretted voicing his thoughts. It wasn’t fair to ask Jackson to give up seeing his own family at Christmas, even if it was feasible.
“I would,” Jackson said. “If you want me to.” His gaze was steady and sure.
“But I can’t just invite you home for Christmas. They’d think that was weird. I mean… they know we’re close and usually spend Christmas together at yours. But that’s different.”
“Hmm. I guess.”
“Unless….” Cogs started to turn in Nick’s mind as a plan formed. “What if I tell them you’re my boyfriend now? Then it wouldn’t seem odd to ask if you can come with me, and they can hardly say no, can they?” With Jackson by his side, Nick knew he could face his father’s habitual disapproval and hostility.
Jackson’s eyes widened. “Um, no. But, Nick….”
“Yeah. I know. It’s not fair to ask you to give up Christmas with your own family. Sorry, man. It was a stu—”
“That not what I was going to say.”
“What then?”
Jackson scrubbed a hand through his hair as he looked down for a moment before meeting Nick’s eyes. Brow furrowed, he asked, “Wouldn’t it be weird? Pretending to be like, you know. Together… a couple, acting like we’re in love with each other?”
Nick stared at him. He loved Jackson like a brother, and he’d never thought about him any other way. But Jackson was undeniably attractive. Although they were used to living together, he supposed that sharing a room—and a bed—would be a little strange. Nick’s heart beat faster as his imagination filled in those gaps. “Yeah. I guess it would be. You’re right. Just forget about it. I can go on my own.” He swallowed. “It’ll be fine. I can cope with a couple of nights, right?”
Jackson’s face softened. “Nick. It’s okay. I’ll come.”
A surge of warmth filled Nick, making his breathing catch. Jackson had always been Nick’s protector, right from the moment they’d met in the club all those years ago, when Jackson had pulled an over-enthusiastic admirer off him. “I would love it if you did,” he admitted in a small voice. “But only if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Jackson replied firmly. “My mum won’t mind. She sees me often enough, and she’ll have her hands full anyway with the rest of the family there.”
“What about the weirdness? Do you think you can manage to put up with pretending to be a couple while we’re there?”
“I’ll find a way.” The corners of Jackson’s mouth lifted and his dark eyes gleamed with mischief as he added, “As long as you don’t eat too much cheese because that makes you fart like a dog, and I’m not sleeping with you if that happens.”
Nick laughed. “Okay. Deal. No cheese bingeing. I promise.”
“Cool. Let’s do it.” Jackson held out his large hand for Nick to high five. They grinned at each other as their palms touched.
Nick waited a couple of days before calling his mother. Partly to let her stew, and partly in case Jackson changed his mind.
When he was ready to make the call, he went in the living room to find Jackson who was sprawled on the sofa with the Xbox controller in his hands. Two burly wrestlers were laying into each other on the screen.
“I’m going to go and phone my mother in a minute,” Nick said. “This is your last chance to back out.”
Jackson paused his game and looked up. “Nah. I’m in. It might be quite fun. It’ll be like being a spy, or a secret agent or something.”
Nick grinned. “So, you’re ready to accept this mission?”
“Yeah. Operation Fake Relationship. Let’s do it.” Grinning back, he gave Nick a thumbs up before returning to his game.
Nick sat on the other end of the sofa, Jackson’s familiar bulk right there next to him a reassuring reminder that he wasn’t in this alone. “Here goes.”
“Good luck.”
Nick took a deep breath before hitting Call. Heart pounding, he waited as her phone rang and rang before finally going to answerphone.
“Fuck’s sake!”
“What’s wrong?” Jackson shot him a quick glance.
“Why don’t people keep their phones on them? I mean, what’s the point of having a mobile phone if it’s not with you. It’s a mobile. The clue is in the name!” All geared up to speak to her, he didn’t want to do this in a message. “Ugh. I’m going to have to use their landline, and bet my father picks up.”
Fuck it. He selected that number and hit Call again before he could chicken out.
“Hello?” His father’s voice was still so familiar.
It made something resonate deep inside Nick, evoking a strange push-pull of yearning and fury. He gripped his phone and clenched his other fist, digging his nails into his palm. “Hi. It’s Nick,” he said curtly. “Is my… is Mum there?” The word Mum caught in his throat.
After a short pause his father replied, “Yes, hold on.” There was a rustle and then his voice was more distant and muffled as he called, “Sue! It’s Nick for you.”
More rustling, and a few seconds later his mother was there, saying brightly, “Hi, Nick. How are you?”
“Fine.” Nick wasn’t here for chitchat so he cut to the chase. “I’ve decided that I’ll come for Christmas, just for a couple of nights though.”
“Oh, darling! That’s won—”
“But I’ll be bringing someone with me. I assume that’ll be okay?” He poked Jackson with his socked foot, grinning at him as he turned in Nick’s direction.
“Someone? Who?”
“My partner.” He upgraded Jackson instinctively. Boyfriend sounded too casual, too young. Nick wanted them to take this fake relationship seriously. Jackson raised his eyebrows.
“Partner?” The shock was evident in her voice. She was clearly getting more than she’d bargained for when she’d asked him to come back to the fold.
Silence followed, so Nick clarified. “Yes, partner. You know, my significant other, boyfriend, other half. Whatever you want to call him.”
“Yes, yes. I get it. Sorry. I’m just surprised because your dad and I had no idea you had a… partner.” She said the word as if it was unfamiliar. “Maria never mentioned you were in a relationship.”
Shit. Nick hadn’t planned for that. He’d have to call Maria and explain. He knew he could trust her to go along with the pretence, and she’d convince Adrian to do the same. “Well, why would she?” he asked breezily. “It’s not her news to tell, and she doesn’t like playing go-between.”
“Yes. Of course.” She sounded abashed. Nice save. Nick mentally patted himself on the back as she continued. “Well. That’s nice, Nick. What’s his name?”
“Jackson.” He let his gaze settle on his friend, whose focus was back on his game.
“Jackson? Isn’t that the chap you share a flat with? Maria’s mentioned him.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I thought you were just friends.”
“We are. I mean….” Nick floundered for a second. “We were. But one thing led to another.” He grimaced at Jackson, who was chuckling at Nick’s conversational flailing.
“Well, of course he’s welcome to join us for Christmas. It will be nice to meet him at last.”
“Are you sure Dad’s not going to have a problem with it—with us?”
“No, no,” she replied a little too quickly. “He wants the family back together for Christmas too, so he’ll be fine, love. Don’t worry.”
Given his father’s dubious attitude to homosexuality in the past, Nick doubted his father would be very happy with the situation. But if he wanted Nick back for Christmas, he was going to have to put up with him having a boyfriend. Jackson was part of the package.
“Okay, great.” Nick was starting to like the idea now it was unfolding in his imagination. What better way to stick two fingers up at his father than rocking up for Christmas with Jackson in tow, and subjecting him to lots of PDAs. “I’ll see you in a few weeks then. Bye, Mum.” Maybe he could get used to calling her that again by Christmas if he kept practising it in his head.
“Bye, darling.”
As Nick set his phone down he was feeling quite chipper.
“Partner, huh?” Jackson raised his eyebrows. “Sounds intense.”
“I didn’t think ‘boyfriend’ lent enough gravitas. I want my parents to take our fake relationship seriously.”
Jackson snorted. “Of course you do.”
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and EPIC award finalist author of gay mystery, romance, and paranormal books.
She is a reluctant mover and has called many places home in her lifetime. C.S. has lived in New York City, Key West, and Ibaraki, Japan, to name a few. She misses the cleanliness, convenience, and limited-edition gachapon of Japan, but she was never very good at riding bikes to get around.
She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best on a daily basis to sidetrack her from work.
C.S. is a member of the International Thriller Writers organization.
Wendy Rathbone has had dozens of stories published in anthologies such as: Hot Blood, Writers of the Future (second place,) Bending the Landscape, Mutation Nation, A Darke Phantastique, and more. The book "Dreams of Decadence Presents: Wendy Rathbone and Tippi Blevins" contains a large collection of her vampire stories and poems. Over 500 of her poems have been published in various anthologies and magazines. She won first place in the Anamnesis Press poetry chapbook contest with her book "Scrying the River Styx." Her poems have been nominated for the Science Fiction Poetry Association's Rhysling award at least a dozen times.
DJ Jamison writes romances about everyday life and extraordinary love featuring a variety of queer characters, from gay to bisexual to asexual. DJ grew up in the Midwest in a working-class family, and those influences can be found in her writing through characters coping with real-life problems: money troubles, workplace drama, family conflicts and, of course, falling in love. DJ spent more than a decade in the newspaper industry before chasing her first dream to write fiction. She spent a lifetime reading before that and continues to avidly devour her fellow authors’ books each night. She lives in Kansas with her husband, two sons, one snake, and a sadistic cat named Birdie.
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.
Jay lives just outside Bristol in the West of England. He comes from a family of writers, but always used to believe that the gene for fiction writing had passed him by. He spent years only ever writing emails, articles, or website content.
One day, Jay decided to try and write a short story—just to see if he could—and found it rather addictive. He hasn’t stopped writing since.
Jay writes contemporary romance about men who fall in love with other men. He self-publishes under the imprint Jaybird Press.
CS Poe
KOBO / FB GROUP / GOOGLE PLAY / B&N
EMAIL: contact@cspoe.com
Wyatt Baker(Narrator)
Wendy Rathbone
DJ Jamison
EMAIL: authordjjamison@gmail.com
Barbara Elsborg
EMAIL: bjelsborg@gmail.com
Jay Northcote
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / FB GROUP / KOBO
EMAIL: jaynorthcote@gmail.com
The Mystery of the Bones by CS Poe
The Elves of Christmas by Wendy Rathbone
Naughty & Nice by DJ Jamison
Winterworld by Barbara Elsborg
Operation Fake Relationship by Jay Northcote
