Once again we had a trying year and as much as I had hoped 2021 would refresh my reading mojo that was lost in 2020 but alas books were not my goto mental boost. Add in my mother's health issues and I found I had only read 113 books. So once again my Best of lists may be shorter but everything I read/listened to were so brilliant it was still a hard choice. So over the next two weeks I'll be featuring my Best Reads as well as Best ofs for my special day posts which are a combination of best reads and most viewed, I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite. Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2022 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
Summary:
Peter Cratchit, a young lad preparing to make his way in the world, is the eldest son of Scrooge’s lowly clerk Bob Cratchit. Peter flourishes under the tutelage of his “Uncle” Scrooge and seeks to make his mark as a man of business, like his uncle before him.
One Christmas Eve, as Scrooge lays dying, Peter embarks on a risky ocean voyage that he believes will secure the future for his family. Onboard, Peter finds love, happiness, and success, only to lose it all by the voyage’s end.
Returning to London, Peter shuns his family and instead finds himself living on the streets, haunted by his failures and his dead lover, selling his body just to survive while he waits for the winter cold to claim him once and for all. But winter snows also mean Christmas is coming, and for the Cratchit family, Christmas is a time of miracles. Can a visit from three familiar spirits change Peter’s life again? Is there one more miracle in store for the lost son of one of Dickens’ most enduring families?
I'm just going to say it: this was amazing!
It never really dawned on me to see if there was any Xmas Carol stories in the LGBT genre but when this one crossed my path, I was intrigued from the beginning. Not only was it a Dickens' style story but it involves his characters and I was very interested to see how the author would bring them to life. The reasons behind Peter's ghostly visitors may be a bit different than Scrooge's but never the less poignant. My heart broke for Peter at times, I found myself internally screaming wanting to make Peter see this way or that, to turn left instead of right, but the author had Peter's journey set and I was just along for the ride.
If you are simply expecting a gay retelling of the Charles Dickens classic than you will be disappointed, Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol is the character's own story, yes he knows his Uncle Scrooge's holiday adventure, yes he's visited by his own three spirits, yes he has to learn his lessons, to discover what is important in life but they are different lessons and that is what makes this story so good. A blending of classic and new.
I've only ever read one other Drew Marvin Frayne before(and it was just a few weeks ago and another Christmas short) and to be perfectly frank, I was skeptical about an author "tinkering around in Dickens' playground" but I needn't have been because the author makes this story unique, intriguing, heartbreaking, heartwarming, and one that should be read any time of year. Charles Dickins' A Christmas Carol is my absolute favorite Christmas story and one I read, watch, listen to every holiday season multiple times, now I may not read Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol every year but I will definitely re-visit it for years to come. As I said above, Drew Marvin Frayne's take is a blending of classic and new, not a re-telling in any way, shape, or form but if you need a label or tag then I suppose "sequel" probably best describes it. Whatever label you want to use, it is not to be missed.
RATING:
Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
Summary:
The ABCs of Spellcraft #8
Christmas is a festive time of year, one filled with food, family and tradition—Dixon Penn’s ideal holiday. Too bad Spellcrafters don’t celebrate Christmas.
Dixon’s parents have always been strict about their no-present rule, reluctant to entrap anyone in an “endless cycle of reciprocal obligation.”
Yuri Volnikov was not raised in the Craft, but Dixon has made sure he understands that for Spellcrafters, Christmas presents are verboten.
No gifts. None. Nada. And everyone is on the same page in regards to presents….
Or are they?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where MM Romance meets Paranormal Cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect. The books are best read in order, so be sure to start at the beginning with Quill Me Now.
This holiday short is set after What the Frack? and contains series spoilers.
Oh my gosh, Dixon Penn at Christmas? Talk about a character that was made for the holiday. In the world of magic you'd think conjuring up the perfect Christmas gift would be easy peasy but then again when did Dixon and Yuri ever do anything easy and without a few mishaps?
Present Tense is short, sweet, adorable, funny, and the way both Dixon and Yuri are left scrambling to come up with last minute gifts for the other is priceless. I don't want to say "predictable" because let's face it, when you are dealing with Dixon and Yuri(especially Dixon) nothing is predictable, nothing is certain other than their love for each other but you know Present Tense is going to end in HEA for the pair, so in that regard I know some might use the term but not me. As so often with great stories, the fun isn't in the ending but how they get there and this Christmas short is no different.
If you've been reading ABCs of Spellcraft as it's been written than you'll definitely want to read this holiday gem, if not . . . well what are you waiting for? Short, long, in-between, this series is brilliant and the characters are just so darn loveable you can't help but smile.
RATING:
Summary:
RATING:
The story of long nights in a wintry mountain hotel, a baking show with secrets, a snowman called Jeremy, and finding the greatest love of all.
After winning season four of ratings hit the World’s Best Baking Show, Brody Thomas had become a sought-after cake maker to the stars. Happily married, he dreamed of a bright future, but his perfect life imploded when he discovered that his husband had done nothing but lie to him. A year later, Brody is mid-divorce, and his life has been turned upside down, so being part of the WBBS charity event is excellent timing. He’s sure it will give him time away from home and space to get his head straight, only he never expected to meet the man of his dreams in a snowy Alberta.
Winning season one of WBBS gave Justin Mallory a chance to outrun the demons of a childhood lost in the foster system. He’s a social media influencer, with millions of followers, and works every hour to make money that equals security for the rest of his life. His marketing team signs him up for the WBBS Christmas charity show, but he’s convinced he’ll fall at the first hurdle. Only, after a few days in the competition, his worry isn’t that he’ll be the first to leave, it’s that he’ll lose his heart to a rival baker, Brody.
Original Review January 2021:
I've been a fan of the Great British Baking Show(as it's called here in the US because of copyright conflicting with the Pillsbury Bake-Off) for a few years now ever since I stumbled across it on our local PBS station so when I read the setting for RJ Scott's newest holiday romance I thought "Ooooo, this could be fun" and boy was it ever!
I don't think I want to say too much to the plot, in some regards it's a typical holiday romance and that's not a bad thing. Just because something might be "typical" when it comes to holidays stories doesn't mean it isn't great. Every author has their own nuances even with "typical" and long as a story is well written with intriguing characters that you love to support and want to see succeed than it's a story worth reading. Let's be honest, when it comes to holiday romances after all these years it is hard to find one that is not "typical". So when you find one that is as fun as Cupcakes and Christmas, it is definitely worth reading. From the main characters, Justin and Brody, to their family and friends, their inner monologues, their jobs, and of course all their baking glory, this holiday romance is not to be missed. Just keep in mind you might be left hankering for more than one sweet treat.
Yumminess, yumminess, yumminess from beginning to end. Certainly a holiday treat to make you smile.
RATING:
Heroes for Ghosts by Jackie North
Summary:Love Across Time #1
Soulmates across time. A sacrifice that could keep them apart forever.
In present day, near the village of Ornes, France, Devon works on his master's thesis in history as he fantasizes about meeting a WWI American Doughboy.
In 1916, during the Battle of Ornes, Stanley is a young soldier facing the horrors of the battlefield.
Mourning the death of his friends from enemy fire, Stanley volunteers to bring the message for retreat so he can save everyone else in his battalion. While on his mission, mustard gas surrounds Stanley and though he thinks he is dying, he finds himself in a peaceful green meadow where he literally trips over Devon.
Devon doesn't believe Stanley is who he says he is, a soldier from WWI. But a powerful attraction grows between them, and if Stanley is truly a visitor from the past, then he is Devon's dream come true. The problem is, Stanley's soul wants to finish his mission, and time keeps yanking him back to relive his fateful last morning over and over, even as his heart and body long to stay with Devon.
Will Stanley have to choose between Devon and saving his battalion? Will time betray their love, leaving each alone?
A male/male time travel romance, complete with hurt/comfort, French coffee, warm blankets, fireplace kisses, the angst of separation, and true love across time.
This was brought to my attention when I asked in a FB M/M book rec group for stories with a similar concept to the movie Groundhog Day, the whole repeating the day over scenario. When I also learned this had a WW1 element, I was all kinds of grabby hands. I was not disappointed.
I have to start off by saying this: I don't often make mentions of details in stories because I'm a spoiler-free reviewer but this isn't a spoiler, this is more of a feeling, a reason why I'm a history lover. When Devon is wobbly about his thesis, about telling the story, wondering if anyone will care, Stanley's answer is spot on how I feel about history and why it's an important subject and why everyone needs to learn it.
“The whole thing is stupid,” said Devon. “After everything you’ve been through. After hearing about it from you and having you show me the trenches, telling me about that guy who lost his leg—which isn’t in the records anywhere—because you were there, and you suffered for it. For me to write a paper about it, it’s like I’m benefiting from that without having paid the price.”The twisted feelings that had started when Stanley had shown up on the green grasses that were all that was left of a disastrous battle had risen to the surface, and he’d said them aloud. He could barely look at Stanley with this confession ringing in the air. His constant awareness about the futility of war was only the half of it. The other half was the loss that war brought, inexplicable and never-ceasing, and Stanley had been the one to go through that. Not Devon.“But you’re telling the story,” said Stanley as he stood up and came over to Devon, so close that as he took a step forward, Devon found himself against the wall. “You’re telling all of our stories, mine, Isaac’s, everybody’s.”“Nobody will care,” said Devon. His voice broke on the last word because he realized that it was true. None of his friends cared, and his thesis advisor had strongly suggested he focus on another aspect of the Great War. In the end he was alone, except for Stanley, who could be dragged back through time at any moment.“I care,” said Stanley. “And you care. You can put the stuff that I told you in your paper, and then one day, somebody will read it. It’ll matter to somebody, someday.”
Now, I know the whole time-travel sub-genre gives this historical a fantasy twist but this moment in time, this exchange the author gives between the two men is so important, it really resonated with me, it's how I have felt whenever someone says "why do I need to know, it happened years ago to people I don't know". Their actions had a bearing on life today, time is what connects us all but most importantly, those souls of yesteryear, be it on the world stage or your own family tree, lived, they mattered and those stories need to live on. In these few paragraphs that I shared the author put voice to the importance more than anything I've ever read before. For that alone, I have to say a huge "Thank You" to Jackie North.
Okay, off my soapbox and onto the story.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! How have I not seen this series before? How did it not cross my reading path? Heroes for Ghosts is a brilliant tale of history, fantasy, science fiction, romance, and drama with characters that are likeable, loveable, wanting-to-know-able, I'll be honest it ticks every single one of my reading boxes. I've read historical paranormal/supernatural/fantasies before but too often the historical element gets lost in the world of fantasy so for Jackie North to combine all these factors AND keep the historical accuracies is just pure . . . well it's magical(and I'm not talking about the time-travel bit😉).
Devon is a history lover after my own heart, thesis or not if I didn't have family keeping me grounded now, the idea of going to the place history happened and living in a mostly state of seclusion to do the research sounds absolutely heavenly. I can also honestly say, if I came across Stanley the way Devon did, my mind would be a bit teeter-totter as to believing him and worried he escaped from an institution too. I don't see how anyone couldn't love either of these men, they are just so real and wonderfully written, there is no doubt to this reader they have to have their HEA. If you follow me you'll know what my next statement will be: to see how the men get there you'll have to experience their journey for yourself.
And what a journey it is! You won't regret it, historical lover or not, if you love an old fashion journey of storytelling than this is for you.
I'll add that this is my first Jackie North and it certainly won't be my last because if her backlist is only half as good as Heroes for Ghosts than it will still be a pleasure to dive in.
Valentine's Hearts by RJ Scott &VL Locey
Summary:Owatonna U #5
Will broken hearts replace the wedding they dreamed of?
Ryker's heart has space for three things—his family, hockey, and Jacob. As their wedding grows closer, it seems that nothing can stand in the way of an idyllic celebration, surrounded by friends and loved ones. But things appear to be changing; Jacob is forging a future that might take him away from Ryker, and Ryker alternates between pride and fear when a new man comes into his fiancé's life. A hockey season from hell has him doubting his life choices, but worse, he's driving Jacob into another man's arms. How has their perfect life suddenly gone so wrong?
Life has certainly thrown many twists and turns in Jacob's path. Most of the goals he’d set for himself as a teenager had to change, but one has remained constant: finding his heart's desire and marrying him. That aspiration was reached when Ryker said, "I do". Planning their wedding was meant to be the best time of their lives, but Jacob unwittingly puts his trust in the wrong man and finds himself in danger. Is their love strong enough to survive the fallout?
First and foremost: WOW! WOW! and WOW AGAIN!
I've always had a special place in my heart for Ryker and Jacob. Maybe it's because Ryker is the son of the original entry and character in Scott & Locey hockey universe, Jared Madsen, maybe it's because Jacob is a farmboy born and raised from the upper Midwest, maybe it's because they are just so darn cute . . . or the most likely scenario: a combination of all three. In my mind, there is just not enough Valentine's Day stories, despite reading so much romance it doesn't seem to be a holiday that gets a lot of settings so when one of my favorite series and characters were getting their own Valentine novella, I knew I had to read it.
I was not disappointed.
For a holiday wedding novella, there is a surprising amount of drama that our couple faces and though I won't go into just what that drama is, I will say that Ryker and Jacob deal with it realistically, heartwarmingly, and flat out beautifully, which is a perfect example of why I love these guys, this universe, and these authors. I won't say anymore other than to add, once it happened I had a hope where it would end up, or at least be mentioned and I was right. Cryptic, I know(as I often say "no spoilers from me"), but once you read it you will understand where my hope stemmed from.
Ryker is growing, both on and off the ice but he still has that hot headedness that comes with having that much talent at a young age and can leave one a bit reckless when your head isn't entirely on the ice as it should be. Jacob is growing as well, finding his place in the "desert" but never quite losing that need for the farm, truth is there is more to Jacob's place at the university but I don't want to give too much away so I'll just stop here in that regard. Together they are a force to be reckoned with which is expressed amazingly well when they face the future.
Valentine's Hearts is the latest entry in the authors' Owatonna U series but since Ryker has appeared in all three series that make up Scott & Locey's hockey universe, there are some character relationships and cameos from multiple entries. Does that mean you have to read all 19 previous books before this one? No, but as a series reader I know I enjoyed it more having read them all in order as written. If you haven't been reading this universe prior to Valentine's and 19 sounds like a big number, I do highly recommend at least reading Ryker and Christmas Lights of the Owatonna U series as they tell Ryker and Jacob's story so far. A true reading gem and definitely worthy of it's place in RJ Scott & VL Locey's hockey universe(serious ladies you need an umbrella title for that😉😊😉).
RATING:
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
Scrooge was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He died some two years past on this very day, Christmas Eve. I would it were not so; yet I suspect the old man would not agree. He became rather infirm at the end, frail and forgetful, and though he did his best to remain cheerful, I know he hated to show weakness of any kind. It wasn’t a matter of pride, nor vanity; no, it wasn’t for his sake that he cared so. It was that, as he himself often said, he had become a sort of safeguard, a protector, to his family and to his community, and he hated the thought of us carrying on without him there, watching over us all. And we, of course, would clasp his hand and tell him that he would be looking over us in the next life, and that such thoughts brought us great comfort, and they should bring him great comfort too. And he would sigh, and agree with us, and settle in, at least for a while, until another great spasm wracked his breast, and his chest would heave with immense, raggedy gasps for air, and his worries arose all over again.
He died a good death, if it could be said that any death should be regarded as good. Though I have not spent nearly as many years as Scrooge did on this planet, I have knocked about a bit, and circumstance has shown me both great fortune and great tragedy. And as such, I have come to believe there is no good death to be had in this world. I have seen many poor wretches, past all hope of recovery from whatever it was that ailed them—whether it be an infliction of the body or the soul—beg for death, pray for it, and have watched it come in many guises, be it the cold, or the cough, or the cutthroat. I have seen their prayers answered, even if those answers came in some form of pain they had never envisioned. And yet I say, when the end did finally come, each and every one begged to stay, begged for their final breath to be forestalled, begged to live for even one moment more. Yea, though I have been on this world for less than a quarter of a century, I have come to know its horrors and have learned the greatest horror of all is that there is no world, no life, beyond this one.
Scrooge would not have agreed with this; oft he told us the tale of his visitation by his old friend, Jacob Marley, dead seven years in the grave before his return, and the further visitations by the three spirits who haunted him, also on a Christmas Eve. To Scrooge, there was no greater evidence of providence than this, and he lived such feelings in his heart for the rest of his life. I was glad of it; we all were, all of London town, though those of us who were closest to him felt his change of heart and his largesse most keenly. And many was the time, as a young man, on a Christmas Eve like this one, I sat cross-legged on the floor at Scrooge’s feet and listened to his tales of Christmas ghosts and astonishing spirits, of visitations to the past, and of the wondrous things that are yet to come.
Yet even then, I was a skeptic. After his tale was complete, Old Scrooge, as wise at reading faces as he was at managing his business, would frequently tousle my hair and tell me, “Young Master Peter, you must have the conviction of your faith. It is not enough to simply believe; you must know Christmas, and keep it in your heart all the year long.” Such words were enough for Tim and for the others; but I, I would only smile, and say, “Yes, Uncle Scrooge,” in a manner and tone that were always respectful, but that the cunning old man also knew to be mollifying. And Scrooge would then bend quite low—for he was a tall, wizened old fellow, and I have always been inclined to be undersized—and he would say to me, “You must not fear the world so much, Peter Cratchit.” And I would nod, and he would pat my cheek, or sometimes playfully pinch my nose. But what he meant by those words, I cannot say. In my experience, there is much to fear in this world, and much calamity the world will set upon the unwary soul who is not ever vigilant.
A growl in my stomach disturbed my thoughts. Time to dispense with these ruminations on the past; I was hungry. I willed my body out of its bed, a small recess in the side of a crumbling brick building used for the storage of livestock, a cramped pen to house the beasts before they were led to slaughter. The recess provided some shelter from the elements; there had been rain last night, so it was useful to keep dry, though the rain had been only a drizzle, and the weather was unseasonably temperate for so late in December. That was no small mercy.
The recess had once been a side door, now sealed up, when the building had been used for some other purpose, long forgotten to time. The smell of animal excrement that clung to the building—and to those who worked or, like me, dwelt within her—was formidable, but it also meant the alley I called my home remained deserted during the nightly hours. Safety in this life often comes at great cost. Those who have suffered at the world’s hands know this lesson all too well. The men who tended the animals had assembled a small cleaning station, clean water and a strong lye soap, behind the building, and they charitably did not begrudge my use of it from time to time, provided I did not tarry, and they did not see me. I hastened in my morning ablutions and made my way out to the street.
There was a bakery on Saint Martin’s Close; it was there I would seek to break my fast. Every morning, my repast was the same: two hot buttered rolls and a small tankard of ale. The only difference was whether the baker would tally the cost of his labors on my tongue or on my tail.
I made my way down Carol Street to the main Camden Road. I used to live on this very road, as a youth, but far down the other end from those places where I now worked and resided. Camden Town was named for Camden Road; the road was the heart of the ward, bisecting it in the north and making up the entirety of its western edge. It was impossible to be in Camden Town and avoid the Camden Road. And yet, in all of my wanderings through this neighborhood, I always avoided the familiar façade of my former house, with its chipped paint and ill-fitted front door. I was more interested in the thick, oaken door that led to the alley behind the bakery, where the business received deliveries of flour and other such supplies. I knocked. Some days, the baker answered promptly, as if expecting me; other days, like today, I had to wait. He was a busy man, having woke well before the dawn to assemble his breads and rolls and pastries and cakes. His bakery was a small one, but he did a good measure of custom, enough to keep him in flour and dough and sugar and coal for the ovens. Still, he had only one boy to help him prepare the daily wares—in this neighborhood, even relative prosperity resulted in genuine poverty.
Whether the boy was his son, or some urchin off the street, I do not know. The baker and I did not converse on such matters. It was, in part, because the man’s well of English was so deficient that any conversation would prove inconsequential at best. I could not identify his native tongue, and he spoke only the English of a tradesman and knew the terms for barter and exchange, and little more. My own English improved greatly under the tutelage of Ebenezer Scrooge, who gave me books to read and provided college-trained tutors to sharpen my intellect. I was beyond basic schooling by the time our families came together; but my mind was quick and hungered for knowledge, and Uncle Scrooge filled it with book after book on all manner of subjects—history, literature, economics, philosophy, mythology, the principles of business. I eagerly took it all in, save perhaps the poets, who I found too disordered, too insubstantial, to truly relish. Still, for an occasion such as this, the silver portion of my tongue was not really necessary. It was my tongue’s other talents that the baker was interested in. I suppose, in the end, this, like so much in life, was simply a matter of business. I needed what the baker had to offer; he felt the same. Talk would only prolong the necessities of exchange.
The man finally answered and hurried me inside. In nicer weather, he sometimes took his payment in the alley, but he did not like the cold and the damp, so he ushered me into a cramped cookery room stuffed with coal- and wood-burning ovens. I had no objection to being enveloped in warmth; it made for a pleasant change of atmosphere from my usual status at this time of year.
I could see by the sights and sounds of his distresses that my morning patron was more harried than usual. His eyes were darting around the room. His gestures were quick, and rough, and impatient. He was a large, hirsute man, with a rotund belly and a gray, prickly beard, which, at the moment, was dusted in a rather generous supply of flour.
I was no longer fond of beards; I generally preferred smooth-faced youths, like myself, and not the wooly chins of older men, though, in my line of work, older men were my main custom. And this was business, not pleasure, and the baker felt the same as I, especially today. Even as he penned me into his back kitchen, he continued to bellow orders to the boy out front. I often wondered what the boy thought of our exchanges. Perhaps it was of no consequence to him. Perhaps he was grateful he did not have to provide a similar service. Or perhaps he did. Who can say.
Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
1
DIXON
Winter. It’s the time of year when frost etches pretty pictures on your windows and the world outside is nestled in a soft white blanket. A time when you get to snuggle up in your mismatched mittens, and no one comments on how many hot chocolates you’ve had—if you don’t start acting too hyper, anyhow.
I’ve always had a fondness for winter. And since there was snow on the ground and a nip in the air back when I first met Yuri, now I love it even more.
December is also traditionally a lucrative time for my people. While it’s widely known that Spellcraft has no business in politics or religion, nowadays Christmas is pretty secular. And who wouldn’t want to impress their special someone with a bespoke piece of Crafting?
My family had been working hard these past few weeks, and if my dad had his druthers, Practical Penn would be open on Christmas Eve to snag those last-minute shoppers. But our official Seer had negotiated Christmas Eve as one of his annual days off, and we didn’t dare break his contract by letting Yuri fill his shoes. Or wield his paintbrush, since shoes don’t really have anything to do with Spellcraft. And Rufus Clahd has unusually small feet.
Speaking of feet—there was still a bit of snow clinging to my shoes. I stomped it off on the welcome mat in my parents’ vestibule, then hung up my winter coat on the nearby coat tree. It was actually more like an alien life form than a tree, with a giant ball of winter coats up top that took up half the room. I’m not sure it was even possible to dig down to the innermost layers anymore. But if you did, you’d probably find something so old it had come back in style again. Maybe more than once.
My mother hustled in as I was draping my coat over the top of the coat-ball. Once my hands were free, she enveloped me in a big, squishy hug, and greeted me with, “Where’s Yuri?”
I adored the way she loved him as much as I did. “Picking up dinner.”
“That’s generous of him—but he really didn’t need to. We’ve got plenty of leftovers in the fridge.”
“What can I say? He insisted.” I steered Mom into the living room where my dad was clicking through channels from his favorite recliner. I gave him a kiss on the top of the head, then said, “You guys’ve both been working so hard lately, might as well let us pamper you.”
Mom settled into her chair with considerable arranging and re-arranging of her bulk—not unlike the way my cockatoo friend, Meringue, fastidiously fluffs her feathers as she’s settling onto her perch. “Just so it’s understood this isn’t a Christmas present.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not. He just wanted to do something nice.”
“Yuri might be a Seer, but he wasn’t raised in the Craft.”
“Trust me—I’m awesome at explaining our traditions. And Yuri knows. No gifts.”
Mom was skeptical. “Because there’s nothing less meaningful than being trapped into an endless cycle of reciprocal obligation with the people you’re supposed to love.”
“That’s just what I said.” Actually, it was more like, Spellcrafters don’t do Christmas presents. Same difference. “I think Yuri actually seemed pretty relieved.”
Dad paused in his channel-changing, looked at my mom and said, “Speaking of traditions, you told Dixon about the Magi…right?”
Normally, I would’ve presumed this was some kind of setup for a cheesy joke—except that my mother stopped rearranging herself and said, “I thought you did.”
“Magi?” I said. “As in the story about the guy who sold his pocket watch and the girl who cut off her hair?”
“As in the three wise men,” my mother said testily.
“That sounds kind of…biblical.” I could’ve sworn my mother thought the Bible was full of baloney. Speaking of which, I hoped Yuri remembered to grab us a nice relish tray, since I was feeling a mite peckish.
“I’m sure it’s all just superstition,” Dad said.
Mom gave him her patented single-squinty-eyeball look. “And since when does superstition stop a Spellcrafter from doing something? Everyone knows superstition is just the poor cousin of luck. The way my parents explained it to me, the Magi were the first Seer and Scrivener.”
I supposed legends had to start somewhere. “But aren’t there supposed to be three Magi?”
“The third guy was their customer,” Mom said. Huh, lucky him. I wonder if they Crafted a way for his camel to go faster…or at least not spit so much. “The Magi didn’t turn up for every single one of their messiah’s birthdays bearing gifts…just the first one. And so, it’s Scrivener tradition to surprise your partner with a small gift on your first Christmas together.”
“In fact,” my father said, “it’s bad luck if you don’t.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
Mom looked somewhat chagrined. “We meant to say something. You know how crazy it’s been at the shop.”
“And now I’ve got nothing for Yuri!” I scrambled to recall if I’d seen any stores open on our way over, but all I could think of was the car wash with the big inflatable noodle-guy flailing around in the parking lot. Was a premium car wash a good gift? Maybe for some people. But if I ran the pickup truck through the high-powered water jets, I’d likely blast off the rust that was holding on the fender. “It’s too late to shop online, and all the local stores are closed.”
“How about the gas station?” Mom suggested. “The one by the highway to Strangeberg is open twenty-four-seven.”
Dad set down the remote, pried himself from the recliner and dusted his hands together. “Before Dixon tries to figure out how to make an air freshener and a bag of pork rinds look festive, I suggest he take a gander at The Stash.”
The Stash was Dad’s collection of assorted useable objects that just needed a little TLC to bring them back to their former glory. In theory, it was a great resource for someone looking to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon tinkering at the workbench. But in reality, my father just can’t stand seeing anything of potential value being thrown away…and he likes gathering things a lot more than he likes fixing them. I wasn’t quite sure how much longer I could count on the supermarket keeping Yuri busy—but since those places are more cutthroat on Christmas Eve than a roller derby, I hoped I could head down to the basement and find some random item that would pass for a thoughtful gift.
Unfortunately, the current state of The Stash was less than encouraging. You’ve seen organizing shows where a stack of plastic bins makes a roomful of stuff miraculously fit onto a closet shelf? This wasn’t like that. At all. Cheap plastic storage containers teetered in tall stacks, and because they were all from some no-name bargain bin, most of them were cracked or warped, and none of them quite fit together.
Still, an invitation from my father to go through The Stash was not to be taken lightly. With Mom always hinting that she’d take great pleasure in throwing it all away, over the years he’d grown protective. But as I rifled through bin after cracked plastic bin, I wasn’t so sure there was anything there worth protecting. Jewelry—not even the good stuff, with its faux gemstones and plastic pearls scattered like ball bearings in the bottoms of the containers. Weird kitchen gadgets you might buy on TV when insomnia struck. Kitschy little statuettes that needed a touch-up to their paint job. And while I did know my way around a paintbrush—I’ve always been fond of flourishing—I strongly suspected Yuri was the wrong audience for the big-eyed baby statuettes and chubby-cheeked cherubs. He’s none too keen on looking at an inanimate object only to find it looking back.
“Aha!” my father said. “This looks promising.”
Too bad that exclamation could only work so many times. And since I couldn’t really see Yuri being particularly enthused over a broken foot massager or a promotional backscratcher, it took me a moment to realize precisely what had been plucked from the teetering stack. “Dad…is that what I think it is?”
“No clue. I’m still trying to get the top open.”
“That box you’re holding…it’s my favorite box!”
Dad looked skeptical. “It’s just your average cardboard box, Dixon.”
“You say average like it’s a bad thing—but just look at it. Not too big, not too small, not too flimsy, and not too thick. In short, it’s an absolutely perfect box. I thought it was long gone, smashed flat in some far distant recycling bin. But here it is!” I took it from his unresisting hands with a happy sigh. “In all its boxy glory.”
“And even better, if you look inside, you might find something for Yuri.”
After a few tries, the old cellophane tape yielded to my thumbnail, and with great eagerness, I pulled open the flap. And inside was….
Another box.
Not a cardboard box, but a wooden box. A fancy wooden box—very sturdy. Very solid. And very elaborate. My breath caught as I held it up to the fluorescent light and said, “What’s this?”
“Dunno. Open it and see.”
When I popped the seal, a smell wafted out that was mostly dust, but something else, too. Oranges. Cloves. And beneath it all…cedar. I opened the lid to a bunch of wood shavings. “I hope there wasn’t originally a hamster in here.”
“Potpourri,” my father said decisively. “All the rage in the eighties. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bathroom without it.”
I gave the box a dubious shake. The smell of mingled spices tickled my senses.
Dad said, “That lid’s awfully plain, though, don’t you think? Maybe you’re holding it upside down.”
I flipped it over and discovered he was right. The actual lid was very decorative. Unfortunately, there was a word etched within the carvings. A very unfortunate word.
Poopourri.
My heart sank. “Well, that’s a shame. I was just thinking Yuri would actually like this. But he’s never once laughed at an American pun. Not in my presence, at least.”
“Maybe he’s just never found the right one.” Dad eyed the lettering. “Though as jokes go, this one’s not so hot. But take a look at the etching. It’s pretty shallow. You could add some flourishes with a wood burner and turn the word into a decorative design.”
I’d only ever seen my father use the wood burning tool to singe our name onto our patio furniture in case any of our neighbors ever decided to appropriate it—which they never did—but it seemed straightforward enough. I’m no artist. Not like Yuri, with his ability to evoke a morning mist with a swipe of a half-cleaned brush or a distant horizon with a single horizontal stroke. But all Scriveners receive extensive calligraphy training, so decorative elements like cartouches and ornaments were certainly in my calligraphic vocabulary. As I considered the shape and position of the current lettering, the bowls and stems of the letters shifted in my mind’s eye to become the twigs and fruits of an elaborate bouquet of holly. Seasonal, yet secular.
In other words, perfect!
Cupcakes & Christmas by RJ Scott
Chapter One
Save the planet! It’s the only one with cupcakes!
Justin
“Hey, Mallys! It’s stunning here.” I grinned at the camera, panning the phone to take in the entirety of the space, along with distant views of Sulphur Mountain. Up to now, each season of the World’s Best Baking Show had been filmed in California, but for this Christmas special, they explained they wanted authenticity. This meant filming had been moved to a beautiful convention center on the grounds of the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel in snowy Alberta. It was certainly a step up from a dressed sound stage and I was going to be sharing a ton of photos and videos. In fact, I’d sat down with my social media team and carefully planned most of them. There was always room for impromptu shots but for now I was sticking to the carefully considered script.
“It’s a bit different to the studio back in Cali.” I crossed my eyes to the camera, a trademark of mine whenever I was being self-deprecating, and then I panned back to the mansion. I took my audience with me, and my screen was already filled with hearts and messages. “I was so nervous when I started the show, but I’m such a different person since I took part in season one. I’m not the nineteen-year-old kid who wanted to take the baking world by storm. I was lucky to win, and my life has changed.” I smiled and then dropped the smile a little. “I think I’m still as nervous this time as I was then.” I paused dramatically and looked wistfully in the distance at the snow-covered vista. “I hope I do okay,” I added for good measure. “Until next time, Mallys!” I gave them all a thumbs up, cut the feed, and pocketed my cell.
“And that’s a wrap,” Erin Lister shouted from her hiding place behind the tree and scurried toward me. “Two hundred likes so far and climbing. You hit all the main points.” Erin was part of the team I’d hired to look after my brand, although the contract was due for renewal and I was already getting itchy feet to move on. I’d allowed the team, and more particularly Erin, to control my output so far, and it had worked, but I knew what I needed to do was to get a hold of everything myself. I couldn’t carry on letting other people tell me what to do just for money—hell, I could work for the money by myself.
I could fail. Lose everything.
I stiffened slightly—who said I was going to fail anything at all. I should think more of myself.
As usual, Erin looked harried and tense, but that was her job. All I had to do, in her words, was look pretty and say my lines. I’m not sure when my genuine organic rise in social media became something else, which meant other people calling the shots, but my bank account was healthy, so I wasn’t going to argue. Money was my main objective in life. When I had enough, I could do what I really wanted to do, which was not having to worry about money.
“Great.” I could see she had something to add though and waited to find out what I’d done wrong.
“Apart from the fact you didn’t mention the KlecksoCream.”
“There’s a reason for that,” I muttered. “It’s shit.”
KlecksoCream may be perfectly white and smooth, kind of like the whipped cream sprayed out of a can which also tastes good, but this cream tastes like shit.
She heard me and tutted. “It’s also adding twenty-thousand to your already heavy bank account, Juss.”
“Justin,” I reminded her. My name was already short, why did people think they had to shorten it even more.
“So let’s do a segment where you say you’ve forgotten and that you have something to add.”
I hate those. I can’t believe my followers don’t see right through the add-on advertising. I declare it on all my posts, but my fan base grows every day, and sometimes things slip through. Still, I try to respect the people who follow me and see them as more than numbers, even if everything had blurred together since the old days when I knew the names of a lot of the people who contacted me.
“It’s not the right time.”
“Juss-tin, please, we need a KlecksoCream mention to hit your feeds by seven p.m.—”
“So it’s in the public’s conscience when the ad during prime time airs,” I sing-songed as she glared at me. “I know all that.” I sighed inwardly. “Remind me why I agreed to promote a cream brand that tastes like ass?”
She tilted her head and stared at me as if I’d just asked her what two plus two was. There was an unspoken duh in her that she was holding back. It didn’t matter why I signed a contract with a company that made fake cream which tasted like ass, it just mattered that I had. As usual, I’d signed it on a day when I felt my life was spiraling and when my constant companion, impostor syndrome, kicked in.
What if the money ran out? What would I do? How much money is enough?
Still, she had a point. I had commitments, and I would see them through. “Okay, jeez, I’m doing it.”
She nodded, and I waited for her to move, but evidently, she needed to witness this small humiliation so she could cross it off her list. I pulled out my cell then turned a full three-sixty in the snow to search for inspiration. At least a couple of inches of new snow fell overnight. When the beautiful, virgin white snowfall that was smoothed over a large bush with some of the greenery exposed caught my eye, I headed down the steps, passed Erin, and crossed the large lawn. I stood next to the bush with the fresh snow, making sure it was in my shot, ruffled my hair a little so it was casually tousled then connected again.
“Hello, Mallys, look what I just found. This snow is white and smooth and looks exactly like the KlecksoCream I used in last week’s episode of Baking with Mallory. Kinda cool, right? Links in my bio! Later, guys!” I ended the connection and got a thumbs up from Erin. Kleckso got their mention, and I didn’t even have to add that it tasted like shit because I stayed true to myself. KlecksoCream was smooth, and it was white. Neither of those things were lies.
Forget that it tasted a little cheesy, or that it was a long way past natural colored and right onto glow in the dark.
Ka-Ching, twenty-thousand in my happy-with-life pot and not one single lie told. All I had to do was ignore the guilt that some poor baker out there would buy that shit on my say-so. The guilt wasn’t new. It grew worse each day I was pretending to be something I wasn’t. In the last year, as I’d grown closer to the magic number of five million in my account, the guilt had turned to a self-hate, and it was consuming me. I have a few more commitments after the charity competition, then I was finished with all of this. I just hadn’t fired my advisor team yet or even given a hint I was done.
Anyway, what would I do instead?
Anything is better than peddling shit fake cream to innocent bystanders.
Erin consulted her list. “Okay, next up we need you to film yourself going inside. Remember your lighting, but we’re not live for that one so we can fix it if you mess up. I’m going back to the hotel. Don’t forget, I’m only staying two nights, then I need to head out. So I want video for the collection as back up, and we’d also like you to mention what you’re wearing. Hilfiger struck a deal with some big football star, so Klein wants you to one up them.”
Names like Hilfiger and Klein used to mean nothing more to me other than brands I aspired to own. Now both of them wanted me for endorsements, and they paid me good money to mention their casual wear. I took a few still photos of the venue, which was a pretty atrium to a plainer building, a pouting selfie for her to post, and hashtag Klein whenever needed, and then finally I headed up the steps and opened the door.
“Film it!” Erin called up from the bottom of the steps.
“Later,” I called back and before she could shout anything else, I slipped inside the big door and pulled it closed. She wouldn’t come inside, that was my freedom from all things Erin, with her lists and her marketing schedules, and the relief was instant.
I crossed the threshold into a tumble of decorations in tones of green and red for Christmas, with show banners and posters everywhere. Just seeing the show logo again, fancied up for Christmas with extra holly and berries, was a startling reminder of all the hopes and dreams I’d had when I got a place on season one.
I leaned against a pillar and took in the atrium, with its gleaming glass and show banners. The whole place had the feel of luxurious wealth. I closed my eyes for a minute just to listen to the absolute silence. I hadn’t slept properly for the last week and the same worries I carried with me from childhood were milling around in my head. Mostly about how the hell I was going to fit in with the other contestants.
It’s not like I’d know anyone here from meeting them before. We’d all been contestants on World’s Best Baking Show, but I’d missed the WBBS reunions, even though I’d been invited every time. Erin had doubted whether it was worth my time to look back, and she’d convinced me that my life was moving forward, reminding me of how much other people had to tidy up my bakes for my videos. However, that didn’t stop her from wanting me to connect to the show when it suited my profile, like being part of this charity show. I blame her for suggesting I shouldn’t go to the reunions, but deep down, I’d always been relieved. After all, what would I have said at these meet ups? I was better on-screen and Erin and her team agreed, so I’d never gone. Of course, now my association with WBBS was of utmost importance for as soon as news of the charity show was announced, five companies had approached me for endorsements.
Or approached Erin.
It meant that Kleckso was abruptly good for my brand income, and so here I was, out of my comfort zone, but with seriously heavy deposits into my already healthy bank account. Twenty-thousand to mention KlecksoCream was just the tip of the iceberg to what I would be earning if I made it to the finals on the show while sticking to Erin’s rules.
I just had to meet people who could actually bake and have conversations with them.
Embrace the fear, confront the fear. Learn from the fear.
That is what my therapist wanted me to live by, but what didn’t seem obvious to her was that I’d already used my fear as fuel to propel me into being a very rich man. I had my first hundred thousand from winning the show and now at twenty-five, I have almost five million beautiful, sexy dollars locked away. Right now, no one could send me away from anywhere or take anything from me. But the nagging doubt was there all the time, the one that said I should’ve stayed at home, and that I didn’t need to do this show. Yes, I’d pull in endorsement money, but I could do that through my various social media platforms, just at a slower rate. Being here meant possibly exposing me for the fraud I was, but maybe I needed that scandal to stop people from wanting a part of me.
I got the irony. Selling myself and selling products made me rich, people wanted to be me, people wanted to bake like me, use my products, even my hair gel. But if they knew the real me, the scared kid who, more by luck than judgment, had made it to the final of season one and then won it by accident, then they’d run. When I signed up for it, I’d clearly been having an I can bake, I’m a good baker, I can do this kind of day. Or maybe the PR company signed me up for it? Erin and her team tend to over commit me, and I’ve yet to say no to anything they arrange.
Until the new year, when I was done—not that anyone knew it yet. And who would I tell? The marketing company I paid for? Or the next door cat that spent most of its time in my vast back yard?
Shake it off, Justin.
WBBS has six completed seasons so far and there’d be the six winners here, all fighting to be crowned the best of the best. With four rounds run over two weeks and handling various challenges, one person would be leaving each round until it was two people standing for the fifth and final round. Everything would be knit together in just the right way to capture the Christmas market. Some of how I felt was just the very real worry I wouldn’t make it past round one, but the rest of it was a mess of concerns about where I was going next, what I was doing. Nerves gripped tight and wouldn’t release me, and a familiar panic began to grow in my chest.
“Hi.”
I spun quickly to face the owner of the voice, coming face to face with someone stepping out of the shadows of a huge tree, and yelped.
Brody Thomas. Winner of season four, and just as sexy in real life as he had been on television. God, the crush I’d had on tall, dark, and seriously handsome was off the charts, but a proposal by his fiancé at his season finale put to rest any fantasy I may have had about getting anywhere near him.
“Shit! Sorry.” His nose wrinkled as he peered down at me from his lofty six inch advantage. I realized I had my hand over my heart, and that his frown was probably more like he was worried about me.
“No, it’s good. I’m really early, so I just wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here yet. It’s okay. Sorry.” Go me with the scintillating conversation.
“Brody Thomas, season four.” He held out a hand. With almost black hair, deep velvet brown eyes, and a voice smooth as whiskey, I could lose myself staring at him but instinct kicked in, and I shook his hand. Married. He’s married.
“Justin Mallory, season one.”
Brody grinned and there were dimples. Beautiful, sexy dimples. “I know. I watched your season.”
“I watched yours too.” Was I sounding too eager?
“Cool.”
Brody was wearing the softest cashmere sweater, decorated with a sprig of holly. He caught me staring and glanced down at his chest. “My brother’s idea, something about getting into the season. I just think he’s an idiot. I clearly got all the clever genes.”
“Right.” Way to kill the conversation.
Brody cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m early as well. I just wanted to get in as soon as I could, to familiarize myself with the new place, get a sense of what it was like.” He was filling the quiet, and I was thankful for that as there was no way it would be me guiding a conversation. Not unless it was online—then I was fine. I’d been so lost in memories of the show and consumed with nerves, that I hadn’t had time to put my Brand Justin mask on, and I hated that he’d caught me off guard.
“It’s big,” I offered, even though he was standing right here so he could see how big the inside was.
“It’s very different in here compared to the soundstage we filmed on. Did you go into the back and see the kitchen yet?” he asked and stared at a crystal chandelier above us, suspended from the ceiling and implausibly not crashing to the floor. His lips parted, and abruptly I wasn’t checking out the opulent surroundings but was staring at Brody. Ever since I’d seen him step onto the WBBS kitchen, I’d had this interest in him. When he stayed in week after week, my interest was backed up by frequent views of him being sexy in so many ways.
Sexy as he bent over and stared into his oven with his cute pout when things weren’t looking as good as they should. Sexy with powdered sugar on his face. Sexy as he grinned in excitement when he won. Sexy, always smiling on the show, a little clumsy, funny, fucking gorgeous, and totally gay. I could deny that I’d watched every scene Brody had been in several times over, including the highlight reels on YouTube, but I’d be lying.
“I’ve not seen anyone else yet. I literally just got here.”
He smiled at me and stretched tall. “I’m considering this a vacation, and I was excited to start.”
“A vacation?” Maybe a holiday in hell.
“Yeah. You know, baking things I love. The Fairmont is quiet, so maybe I can get some time to think.” Brody shrugged.
Justin wondered why he’d had said that with such a serious tone. Was he having problems?
For a second, he looked as if he wanted to run, and suddenly I felt more confident. If he was nervous as well, then I wouldn’t be alone. “I want to visit Banff as well.”
The producers of WBBS were putting us up at the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel since the show was being taped in the convention center. It was great because it was within walking distance of the town. I loved what I’d seen on the internet about the town of Banff, with its gorgeous shops and the mountains all around. I actually had a long list of things I wanted to do while we were here.
Anything to stop thinking about everything I needed to do all the freaking time. I’d imagined walking along the street, looking into the huge Christmas shop, doing the tourist thing, snow falling around me, totally anonymous. I could buy a coffee and people watch and hope there wasn’t any social media users in town.
“Banff is gorgeous, I saw some of it as I drove through,” I said.
“We should go. I mean the bakers. We should visit, and maybe go to the hot pool on Sulphur Mountain, and there’s a lookout point on the mountain with a crystal bear. We could do that as well.”
He was so animated that I wanted to touch him just to steal that spark of energy, but then he was staring at the chandelier again.
“That’s stunning,” Brody announced and pointed up at the huge display. I quickly took my stare from checking him out and instead looked at the crystals above us.
He makes cakes. He’s funny, cute, but he’s married, and Marc is a lucky guy.
He was standing close, and my mind was spinning too fast. I was getting hard in the middle of an expansive garden room with a definitely-not-single gorgeous baker who was my competition. I should be less worried about my libido and more concerned that I wasn’t going to make it past week one. The first season had been easy for me to win, not because I’m the most amazing baker ever, but because it was a test show, and I was lucky. I was up against other amateurs who were lost when asked to make choux pastry. Hell it was so bad that we’d muddled through together. No one had even really known about the show or watched it until the college kids found it, and abruptly it went viral. Every season had to have new and exciting challenges, so it got harder and trickier for the contestants. The level I’d managed compared to what Brody had to do to win his season was like the Wright brothers going up against Boeing.
They will see right through me. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t—
“Hey, you okay?” Hands gripped me, and I stared up at Brody, who peered down at me with a concerned expression. “You went all weird there for a moment.”
I blinked at him and then pointed up at the chandelier. “Vertigo,” I lied. I’m good at lying.
“Wow, okay then, no more staring at the pretty.” He sounded so damn serious, but all I could think about was that I would be very happy to stare at the pretty that was Brody Thomas.
Any day of the week.
Heroes For Ghosts by Jackie North
Chapter One
A mortar shell exploded at the far end of the trench, spraying black debris that slammed into the mud and sent up the acrid odor of burnt tar and hot, damp earth. Stanley hunkered down with mud up to his ankles, his backside pressed against the broken end of a mortar gun, his hands on his helmet as his body shook with the force of the blast. He tried to stem his tears as Lieutenant Billings stabbed at the radio with a bit of metal wiring to see if he could get it to work again. Between the mortar rounds, the radio responded with squawks and low pitched shrieks and then went quiet.
If the radio had been even six feet to the left, it would have been safe from being torn apart by the shell that had directly hit the trench mid-morning. And if Bertie, Isaac, and Rex had been on the other side of Stanley when that shell had hit, then they would be alive. Then he would have had someone to worry with, someone who would bolster his courage so he could respond to Lt. Billings’ earlier request.
He missed his friends, but he wanted to be brave for them now. Lt. Billings needed a volunteer to run across the trenches and the misty, frost-bitten fields to contact the major in charge to get the final message for retreat. The battalion needed a retreat or all of the 200 men were going to be smashed to bloody bits and their families would not hear from them come Christmas.
It was horrible. Stanley wondered how he ever imagined that signing up and shipping off would be an adventure worth having, something he could tell everybody about back home. There was no way he could convey the tragedy of it, the futility of a radio that didn’t work, of trying not to look at the bodies of his friends that were currently beneath a tarp for decency’s sake.
Whether there would be a break in the shelling so that they could be buried was anybody’s guess; the way it had been going, they would likely get frozen in place, spattered with mud and bits of shrapnel, and nobody would be able to bury them till spring. By which time, the war would be over, or they’d all be dead. Or both.
Stanley was shaking all over, and told himself it was because he was trying to warm his body up, but that was another futility, a lie he could barely hold on to. The Germans were coming closer with each passing hour. The shells were louder and more on target, and soon they would die. All of the battalion’s efforts would come to nothing, and Stanley would be another body beneath a tarp, and nobody would have the energy to bury him.
He would become part of the landscape, part of the stretch of brown mud and red blood, decorated with torn limbs. The uniform he wore so proudly would turn into the tattered remnants of desire to do good, to fight for one’s country, and to keep families and children and grandmothers safe. At least that’s what the recruitment posters had stated, and behind every one had been the American flag, rippling with patriotism and an overwhelming urgency.
Stanley had signed up alone, but had soon met his three friends during training. They’d stuck together, sharing the burden of fear, bolstering each other up, proud to fight and do right. Only it was wrong, so, so wrong because what was happening seemed to be for no reason at all, and everything they did as a battalion felt like they were merely going through the motions.
Men kept dying, though the sudden silence across the top of the trenches indicated that the Germans seemed to have let up for the moment. Which left Stanley alone with Lt. Billings, and on the verge of blubbering. He was shaking with the effort of not crying, though his face was hot with tears he kept having to blink away as he tried to focus on what Lt. Billings was doing.
“The wire goes under,” said Stanley with a croak. “Under on the left.”
“Oh, yes?” asked Lt. Billings. His voice was gruff.
He didn’t look at Stanley, all of his attention on the radio. He moved the wire as Stanley had suggested, and while this brought a sound from the transmitter, it ended in another ineffectual squawk.
The worst of it was that Stanley had previously thought the radio was too much in the open and ought to be moved, just in case. He’d not wanted to step on Lt. Billings’ toes, though, as the lieutenant had only just taken over from Colonel Helmer, and had not said anything.
Helmer had been the worst commander anybody had ever seen, and the muttered comments among the enlisted men had almost grown into a roar. Though Stanley might have given him some leeway, due to his age, Colonel Helmer had taken the coward’s way, run off in the night, and had not been heard from since. With the tenseness among the men, Stanley hadn’t wanted to point out that the radio was in harm’s way. It might have been seen as a challenge to the order of command, which was the last thing that Stanley wanted to do.
He’d refrained from talking about Helmer, and had generally kept his mouth shut. But if he’d not done that, if he’d given into his natural proclivities to think with his mouth open, they might have a radio now, might already be in an officially sanctioned retreat, and Rex, and Bertie, and Isaac would not be dead. They’d be beside him as they all scuttled to the rear of the battle and clambered into trucks to be taken to somewhere a bit safer than where they were.
It was all his fault, then. All of it. His lungs felt as though they were running out of air, and his belly dipped so hard he thought he might shit himself in fear. The only thing for it was to do something so that it didn’t get worse. And that meant answering Lt. Billings’ question from earlier that morning.
“Sir?” asked Stanley, though he realized that his voice was too soft to be heard. “Sir?” he asked again, more loudly this time.
“It just sparked,” said Lt. Billings, completely focused on the radio. “If I move that wire again, I’m going to fry this fucking thing.”
Stanley scrambled up from where he was, his boots slipping on the mud as he surged forward to land on his knees at Lt. Billings’ side.
“Sir, I’ll go,” said Stanley. “I’ll take the message and bring the code back.”
Lt. Billings’ hands froze in the midst of what he was doing, and then he slowly turned his head. The lieutenant’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his face was be-grimed with smoke and mud that seemed to have pushed its way into his skin. He didn’t smile as he looked at Stanley, and his expression was grim.
“You might not come back,” said Lt. Billings. “In fact it’s a death sentence. Do you want that?”
Lt. Billings was so unlike Commander Helmer in every way; Stanley knew that it was a death sentence, so Lt. Billings, not one to suffer fools, was making sure that Stanley knew exactly what he was getting into. A zigzag run across a field of dead bodies, horse carcasses, guns, gouged earth, and barbed wire, all the while dodging bullets and shrapnel and mustard gas.
“There’s no other way,” said Stanley. He wiped his hand across his upper lip, and took a hard breath, feeling his metal ID tag like a circle of cold ice in the middle of his throat. “You said so this morning. If we don’t get the order to retreat, we’re all going to die. Right here in this trench.”
He did not add that they could retreat anyway, without the order, and save a whole lot of lives. But Lt. Billings was a seasoned army officer, and while he might take it upon himself to take control of a battalion that was currently officer-less, it was not in his makeup to call such a command without a direct order.
Stanley could try to convince Lt. Billings to overstep his authority, but that would only get everyone irritated, and as they were all so edgy already, it would be the worst way he could contribute. The best thing for him to do, besides throw himself on a land mine, was to step up and volunteer. It wouldn’t bring his friends back, but it would give their deaths meaning. Or would it? At any rate, it would be better than sitting with his ass in the mud watching Lt. Billings mess with equipment in a way that was probably making it worse. If only Stanley had spoken up and told him to move the radio.
If only Stanley had told his friends to sit someplace other than where they had. If only Stanley had been born at a different time, and had missed this stupid war entirely. One hundred years ago or a hundred years from now, it made no difference to him. But he was here now, and he needed to do his best for the sake of his friends’ memory.
He stood up and made an ineffectual pass at the front of his wool sweater vest. He winced as his fingers touched dried blood, the source of which he didn’t want to identify, but which had been the spatter from Rex’s head as it exploded. Rex would have gone with him, big and silent and close as they crossed the field of battle to carry the message.
“I’ll go,” said Stanley.
Lt. Billings stood up too, though he didn’t reach out to shake Stanley’s hand. Stanley was glad about the lack of the gesture because that would have truly meant that Lt. Billings did not expect him to return, but was only sending him out because there was nobody else who would go.
“Find Major Walker,” said Lt. Billings. “Give him half the message, and he’ll know I need the other half. He’ll tell you what that is, and when I have the whole message I can call retreat. Tell him I sent you, you got all that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stanley. His heart was thumping in his chest, threatening to push its way out, and his knees started to knock together. “I’ll bring the message back, I promise.”
“It’s a foolish thing to make such promises,” said Lt. Billings. He shook his head, and looked down at the busted radio before looking up at Stanley. His expression was so deep and serious that Stanley knew he was going to die the minute he stepped out of the trench. The alternative, however, was to stay in the trench and watch while his friends’ bodies froze in the mud, taking his heart with them as they became one with the earth, and that he could not bear.
“Here’s a canteen and here’s your rifle,” said Lt. Billings. “You might need to kill some Krauts, and you won’t believe how thirsty you can get when you’re running hard, terrified enough to piss your uniform.”
Stanley took the canteen and looped it over his neck and shoulder, then hung the rifle across his chest in the other direction. He wasn’t exactly armed to the teeth, but he had a pouch of bullets and could give somebody a run for their money. After that, he’d be out of bullets and dead in a ditch somewhere.
He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to go over the top and start running. The major would be in a trench at the back of the field, at least that was the general idea in most battles.
“That way, right?” asked Stanley. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.
“More over that way,” said Lt. Billings. “Straight across and then over. He’ll be in the right quadrant. You won’t see any flags, but it’s going to have more sandbags and look a damn sight tidier than where we are now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Stanley.
He straightened up and gave Lt. Billings the most efficient salute he’d ever managed, out of respect. Then, not allowing himself one last glimpse at the pile of bodies at the end of the trench, he pushed his way past the three soldiers who were manning a Howitzer that was almost out of shells, and climbed up the ladder.
Stanley slipped at the bottom rung, and was tempted to call it done then and there. For the memory of Isaac, Rex, and Bertie, and all the others, he made himself go up and up till he was standing on top of the ridge, looking over the dip in the earth that ran next to the ruined castle and the small cottage whose roof was half gone.
The sprawl of barbed wire along the top of each trench was intertwined with the dark flags of smoke that twisted and moved as though it was alive. The sun was a smudge through the brown and black haze, and the smell of hot oil and human excrement shot itself into his lungs with his first breath. The air was cold and it seemed as though frost speckled the air like little bits of diamonds made half yellow by the smoke from fires and the general exhalation of despair and gloom and death. Stanley watched a shell explode a hundred feet to his left, turned the other way, and started running.
The idea was to get out of the line of fire, for that was where the major was to be found. The easiest way was to follow the line of trenches, to run inside of them, along the bottom, and make his way there. He started to run, his canteen bouncing, his rifle banging into his thigh the whole while.
At the edge of the trenches were the round tops of helmets. Beneath those glimmered the exhausted, tired eyes of soldiers who saw him go, who knew where he was headed, and who had no hope that he would make it. A few soldiers stood up and fired beyond Stanley to draw enemy attention away from him when he had to cross over the top of a trench to get to the next one. The shots zinged around him anyway. If he slowed down, he was going to take a hit, so he kept low in the trenches and kept running.
His boots slipped as he headed down a small hollow, and he almost fell to his knees as he went up the other side; it was like trying to run up a waterfall, only this one was of mud, with bits of shell and hunks of rock. Just as Stanley got halfway to the top, he heard the high-pitched pop of a canister as it opened, and even before he smelled the bitter tang, a yellow cloud of mustard gas descended around him like a blanket of pure poison.
He brought his hand to his mouth, and staggered to the top of a trench, and though he kept his breath shallow, he felt his lungs collapsing, and fell to his knees, coughing up spit, his hands in the mud, his eyes closed. The yellow swirl filled his brain until there was nothing left but an empty ache and the sting in his lungs. He barely felt his head hit the mud and then sighed, thinking that it would be good to stay right where he was, for what did it matter anyhow? And then it became blackness, so, so much blackness.
Valentine's Hearts by RJ Scott & VL Locey
One
Jacob
My eyes burned. And no amount of rubbing them was helping.
“… the same thing all the time? Maybe we should experiment sometime. Do some hot and sour soup or beef and broccoli.” Ryker’s voice broke my concentration. I sat up, scrubbed at my face with my fingertips, and focused on the proposal that’d fallen to me to type up. Why me? I was the newest guy.
“Yeah, we should,” I called back to my fiancé who was dishing up our late lunch/ early dinner in the kitchen behind me. Mind snapping back to work from Ryker, I stared at my laptop resting on my thighs and tried to pick up the threads of what was, in effect, a groveling letter from the U of A ag department to the company that’d been paying us to research and report on their seeds and would hopefully continue to do so. I began typing, blocking out everything and everyone in my space.
Furthermore, through our technology differentiator we have made great strides in understanding the microbial interactions of the latest Bygenta BG Triple Grow which have allowed us to lower the cost of drying time by 0.07 per bushel. Combining that with the higher yield growth and moisture advantage we see a possible change in bushels/ acres needed to recoup additional seed cost from $ 3.81 BU/ A to $ 3.27 BU/ A. Further testing on Bygenta BG Triple Grow should show significant gains for hybrid high yield corn seeds if combined with above ground technology to combat the Southwestern Corn Borer. Additional testing could save farmers millions of dollars a year in management costs and—
The lid of my laptop snapped shut. “Hey,” I snarled. Ryker lifted the Dell from my thighs, placed it onto the coffee table, and then took its place. “I was in the middle of something.”
“I know, you’re always in the ‘middle of something,’ even on the weekends. You worked on Christmas Day and yesterday— and they were our two days off together.”
“I didn’t,” I lied.
“Don’t think I didn’t see you take your phone into the bedroom and then not come out for an hour.” “I was…” I had no excuse really, because I’d been checking on overnight reports, but that was the job, and I had a deadline that coincided with Christmas Day, and then more on the twenty-sixth. Then I recalled a fact that made his accusations seem wrong. “How do you know what I was doing? You were in a turkey coma on the big day.”
“A turkey coma that would’ve been better snuggling with you on the sofa.” He was making it sound as if he was joking, but there was an edge to his tone. Why didn’t he get that I needed to put the hours in— the same as he’d done getting to be a pro hockey player? He’d done the hours, still did them, and now it was my turn. I had all that defense in my head, but he didn’t give me a chance to talk. “Eat.” He settled squarely on my lap, a huge bowl of chow mein in his hand. I huffed at the interruption just as my stomach grumbled. “See, you’re hungry.”
He held the green ceramic bowl out to me; his dancing hazel eyes alight. Sighing, I took the bowl as he plucked some chopsticks out of his back pocket. Cradling the bowl to my chest, Ryker wiggled his ass around a bit then gathered up some savory noodles, bok choy, and a fat mushroom and led them to my mouth. I opened and let him drop the food in. Then he gathered some for himself, and then for me, and so on. We sat chewing, staring at each other, the weight of him on my thighs pleasant and arousing. When his tongue danced over my lips I grunted and wished we didn’t have our meal between us. He licked in when I opened my mouth, moaning. He tasted of soy sauce and ginger.
“Do we have time?” I asked breathlessly when the kiss ended. He opened his mouth to reply just as his phone alarm sounded. We both mumbled in disgust. “Guess not.”
“Sorry, we have a game tonight.” He dropped a dry kiss to my brow and jumped up, leaving the chow mein behind. “We’ll pick this up when I get home, yeah?”
“Sure, yeah.”
His smile brightened the room. “Excellent. Finish that up. You’ll watch the game?”
“Of course. Go. You know how Coach gets when you’re late.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something more but he just nodded then ran off to change. Within minutes he was in a suit, his shades on, earbuds dangling round his neck, and his hand on the doorknob. I was still on our tan couch holding the bowl of takeout.
“Are you sure you can’t come to the game? Maybe we could go out afterward? Check out that restaurant that we were talking about having the reception at?” He stood waiting at the door.
“I have to get this proposal done or I’d go,” I explained for the fourth time. He forced a smile and bobbed his head, soft curls falling over his sunglasses. “As for that restaurant, I thought we’d decided it was too expensive for the reception.”
“No, you decided it was too expensive. But whatever. I have to go.”
I let the jab roll off my back. There were few things Ryker and I argued about, but money always seemed to be a problem. He tended to spend without thought, and I held onto every penny. I knew it was because of our childhoods. He’d grown up with Jared Madsen as a father, a hockey superstar who could afford to give his only child— at the time— anything he desired, from hockey equipment and cars, to cash for college. Then there was my childhood on a struggling dairy farm, wearing the same chore coat and boots until my feet busted out of them because my parents couldn’t afford new ones. A farm that my parents had ended up losing. The cost of this wedding was a constant source of contention.
“Ryker, don’t get pissy. I’m just saying—”
He threw a hand into the air then left, the slamming door jarring me. I blew out a long breath then pushed to my feet, tossing the bowl of takeout to the end table. I padded to the window to watch him. He stalked out of our brick building, cut through the small flower and cactus garden, and headed toward the arena. We could see it from our window. Brow dropping to the warm glass, I stared down at him until he disappeared from view.
“When will you learn to just shut up?” I asked myself then lifted my head and stepped out onto our tiny balcony. There was room for one chair and a tomato plant out here. I knelt beside the plant and touched the dirt. Dry. Everything out here was always dry. Heaving a sigh, I stood, went to get some water in a glass and my laptop, and came back out to give Mr. Roma a drink. Then I sat beside it, legs stretched out in front of me and I watched the sky for the longest time, wishing I had handled the most recent tense moment with Ryker differently.
“I just have to chill out, let him do the wedding his way, and everything will be fine,” I said to my tomato plant. “Just stop fighting him about costs. I mean, who cares if we blow every penny in our savings account? What’s financial security compared to having four hundred guests and shrimp canapés? What the hell is a canapé anyway?”
Mr. Roma just sat there in his pot, soaking up the sun. Man, I wished we had a dog. I missed dogs. I’d grown up with the best farm dogs. There was nothing like a dog at your side. They listened much better than a tomato plant. But there were no pets allowed here. To be fair, a small apartment with two men who worked/ travelled all the time was no place for a dog. For a dog, we’d need a house. For a house, we’d need a down payment. For a down payment, we’d need to stop planning an extravagant wedding and put the cash aside. And here we were back at money again.
“Ugh.” My head dropped back to the brick wall. Mr. Roma was no help at all. “I bet an Early Girl tomato plant would have had better advice.”
My phone buzzed against my ass. Hoping it was Ryker calling before he entered the dressing room to say he was sorry, I lifted an ass cheek and yanked the cell free of denim. I was monumentally disappointed to see that it was Adam Isaksson calling— my boss and lead on the Bygenta study. The millionaire tech giant was all about sustainability, and determined to change the world— I felt honored to be part of this new future at inception, and he valued my input on all levels.
“Hey, Adam,” I said as I flipped open my laptop and found the document I’d been typing before the Ryker/ chow mein interruption.
“I’m glad I caught you. Do you have that proposal for Bygenta done?”
I looked at the mostly blank screen. I had two paragraphs. Did that count as done? Doubtful. My gut began to churn.
“I’m working on it.”
“Good! Finish it up then bring it to me and we’ll polish it tomorrow. They’re eager to see our results so far over in the main office. I’ve told them about the incredible work that this team, and you in particular, have been doing. I’m calling everyone to ensure all the data has been double and triple-checked. After we’re done we can grab dinner somewhere and discuss your future with Bygenta Agrochemicals.”
On some surface level, it was nice to have him speak so highly of me. I’d been working my ass off on this project, and Adam had been supportive of all the time and energy I’d put into my work. Unlike Ryker, who only bitched about my job. Still, if I went to his place to work tomorrow Ryker would come unhinged. I sensed that Ryker disliked Adam for some reason he wouldn’t cop to.
“But tomorrow is Sunday. I have plans with Ryker to ride out to the ten bakeries he has on his wedding list and—”
“Jacob, I know it’s the weekend, and I’m sorry for calling you in, but this is too big a chance for you to miss out on. If it’s any consolation, I had to cancel a dinner date with my mother in Tempe. And you know how much I love spending Sundays with her.”
Yeah. I did know. Adam Isaksson was close to his mother and spoke of her with great affection. I’d learned a lot about Adam over the past few months of this massive study. If I could just wrap this job up with a stellar report, Adam had promised to drop my name when he reported to the main Bygenta office in Switzerland. Maybe I’d get a higher position with more pay, then Ryker and I could stop fighting over cash all the time.
Now I felt doubly shitty. “Sorry. I know this sucks for all of us. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Jacob. Tell Ryker I’m really sorry for ruining your plans.”
“He’ll understand.” I lied a huge lie. Even Mr. Roma knew it and was judging me in silence as only a tomato plant can. “See you tomorrow.”
I cut the call and then let my phone slither down my chest to my leg, then onto the cement. Great. This would not go over well. We’d had Christmas and the twenty-sixth off together, but that had been caught up in Skype calls, and visits, and turkey, and tomorrow — the one day Ryker had off before a Canadian road trip — I get called into work to prepare for some asshole from the main office in some other country. Gazing at Tucson’s arid mountain backdrop, I longed for Minnesota and the soft lows of cattle. It was seventy degrees in January. No way would I ever get used to the lack of seasons.
I missed snow and cold so much I could taste it. This city and this small apartment were chafing at me. I needed a big farmhouse, acres of corn and soy to tend to, cattle to milk, calves to bottle-feed and raise. I needed a dog.
“Nothing personal, Mr. Roma.” I reached over to pat his green leaves. There was no wagging tail or lick of my hand. Blowing out a breath that puffed up my cheeks, I opened my laptop, rolled my head, winced at the cracking of my neck, and dove back into the world of dry data and ass-kissing. This whole Arizona experiment was not working out as I’d envisioned. It was midnight when Ryker got home.
I was waiting up with a sour stomach, a fake smile, and a tray of chicken tenders right out of the oven. He’d had a very bad game, monumentally bad, according to the play-by-play man, not that I saw all of it, because reports waited for no man.
“Hey,” he said after tossing his jacket and tie to the back of the couch.
“Hey. Sorry about the loss. Boston is always tough,” I said while sliding his tenders off the cookie sheet and onto a plate. He eyed the tenders suspiciously. “I knew you’d be down after a rough game so…” I waved at his favorite food then served him the plate. “Blue cheese or ranch?”
“Ranch. I really shouldn’t be eating this kind of stuff,” he whispered as he lifted a tender from the plate and broke it in two. “I’ll be doing ten miles on the treadmill tomorrow.”
“You’re pretty dedicated to your diet. A treat every once in a while won’t hurt.”
He smiled then blew over the half a tender, sitting on the kitchen counter. I unscrewed the lid to the dressing then squeezed a big dollop onto the edge of his plate. He rewarded me with a smile— the most beautiful smile on the planet. I’d better cherish it because once I told him about tomorrow it would be gone.
“You always know how to make me feel good,” he said. I had to look away. I’d never been good at deceit. “What?” When I worked up the courage to glance back, his brow was furrowed like a well-worked wheat field. “You might as well tell me.”
“Don’t get mad.” As soon as I said it I knew it was stupid to say that. His sleek eyebrows dropped into a ‘V’. “I can’t go visit bakeries tomorrow because I have to go to work.”
There was a harrowing span of like fifteen seconds where he said or did nothing. Then he flung the dish of chicken tenders to the counter.
“It’s Sunday. You don’t work on Sunday. We set this up five weeks ago because it was the only Sunday I was home and not playing.”
“I’m sorry, I am! I just… Adam called and said we need to get this update into Bygenta and—”
“Fuck that project, fuck Bygenta, and fuck Adam! This is our wedding, Jacob! Do you even care about it at all?!” His gaze snapped with anger and pain.
“Of course I care!” I fired back, feeling like a lowlife bastard.
“Do you? Do you really care? I’m killing myself with the planning and playing hockey and all you do is shoot down and shit all over everything I propose. What the hell kind of wedding do you want? Do you just want to go stand in front of some JP?”
“Maybe! At least that would be sensible. We’re supposed to be saving for a house, Ryker! And kids. How do we plan to make all of that happen when we toss every penny we have into this stupid wedding?”
“Nice, so it’s ‘stupid.’ Good to know.”
“I never said the wedding was stupid.” Fuck, I had said that. Shit. This was spiraling out of control quickly. “I didn’t mean the wedding is stupid. I want to marry you. I want us to have what my parents have and yours have. It’s just all this pomp and circumstance is… well it’s stupid. You’ve fallen into the trap.”
“The trap.” He said it so emotionlessly that I knew I was deep in the shit. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Yeah, a trap. The wedding industry has warped peoples’ minds. My folks had a small wedding at home. The pastor came to my grandmother’s house and married them, then they had their reception in a hay barn followed with a short camping trip by a nearby lake. Why can’t we do that? Why do we have to have canapés and silk tablecloths and two entire hockey teams?”
“Wow, so this close to Valentine’s Day you decide to finally be honest with me. That’s fucking great, Jacob.” He threw his hands into the air, hurt and ire rolling off him in waves that seared my flesh and heart. “Just so you know, I’ve always wanted a big wedding.”
“I know, trust me. It’s all you talk about,” I snapped, and his eyes widened. “It is! Ever since I asked you to marry me, you’ve told me over and over about how you wanted to find a pretty girl, have a big wedding, spend a couple weeks in Europe, and then settle down to raise kids.”
“I never specified it had to be a girl!” He was jacked now and so was I. “I mean shit, Jacob, you’re a gay man! Aren’t you the least bit into having the kind of wedding that straight couples have been able to enjoy forever?”
I rolled my eyes. His jaw tightened. “I don’t care about all the bullshit that goes with marrying you. I just want to marry you. I want a house and a dog and kids.”
“So do I!” he shouted and I winced. “And I want a wedding to be proud of. Not some hayseed hootenanny in some miserable barn.”
Ouch. Shit, that hurt. “Right okay, well, maybe we should just rethink this whole thing then since my dreams of a wedding are so below your standards!” Now I was yelling.
“Maybe we should!” He spun, grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch, and headed to the door. I gaped at him as he stalked out into the hall. “I’m going to Alex’s.”
He jerked the door shut. My hands were fisted in rage and so I did the one thing I could think of. I stuffed the chicken tenders down the sink, flipped on the garbage disposal, and ground them up. Then I fought back tears for a minute or two or ten.
Drew Marvin Frayne is the pen name of a long-time author (Lambda Literary Award finalist) who is finally taking the opportunity to indulge his more sentimental and romantic side. When not writing the author lives with his husband of 20+ years and their dog of 10+ years in a brick home in the Northeast.
Author and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
Jackie North has been writing stories since grade school and her dream was to someday leave her corporate day job behind and travel the world. She also wanted to put her English degree to good use and write romance novels, because for years she's had a never-ending movie of made-up love stories in her head that simply wouldn't leave her alone.
Luckily, she discovered m/m romance and decided that men falling in love with other men was exactly what she wanted to write about. In this dazzling new world, she turned her grocery-store romance ideas around and is now putting them to paper as fast as her fingers can type. She creates characters who are a bit flawed and broken, who find themselves on the edge of society, and maybe a few who are a little bit lost, but who all deserve a happily ever after. (And she makes sure they get it!)
She likes long walks on the beach, the smell of lavender and rainstorms, and enjoys sleeping in on snowy mornings. She is especially fond of pizza and beer and, when time allows, long road trips with soda fountain drinks and rock and roll music. In her heart, there is peace to be found everywhere, but since in the real world this isn't always true, Jackie writes for love.
USA Today Bestselling Author V.L. Locey – Penning LGBT hockey romance that skates into sinful pleasures.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, Torchwood and Dr. Who, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a pair of geese, far too many chickens, and two steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in one hand and a steamy romance novel in the other.
Drew Marvin Frayne
EMAIL: drewmarvinfrayne@gmail.com
Jordan Castillo Price
SMASHWORDS / LIVEJOURNAL / B&N
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
jcp.heat@gmail.com
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Jackie North
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: jackienorthauthor@gmail.com
VL Locey
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
KOBO / iTUNES / SMASHWORDS
Cupcakes & Christmas by RJ Scott
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