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I've wanted to do a Christmas in July series for a few years now but time just didn't seem to agree. I wanted to feature stories that I have recently re-read but once again, time had other plans so for my first Christmas in July series, I'm featuring 20 of my favorite Christmas set LGBT reads. I say "Christmas set" because some are not really holiday-centric but set, at least in part, during the holiday season and for me that is all it takes to be a Christmas read. Some I've had opportunity in the past to re-read or re-listen and I've included the most recent review. As always, the purchase links are current as of posting but if they no longer work for a dozen different reasons, be sure to check out the author's website/social media sites for the latest links. There are genres of all kinds here, whether you are a holiday lover or perhaps you just want to read something set in cooler weather on a long hot summer night, either way there is something for everyone here.
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Summary:
Sequel to The Artist
Doubt invades a fairy-tale holiday.
Excited to celebrate his first Christmas with his true love, Phin Abernathy searches for the perfect gift for Teddy, the artist who saved him from solitude (The Artist). But his happy holiday dreams are soon threatened.
After a year of living on his own, then with his beloved partner, Phin has mostly banished his negative view of himself. He and Teddy are happily saving toward a house they can share, when a chance encounter with a stranger raises Phin’s old ghosts of doubt, anxiety, and low self-esteem.
Struggling to quell such negative spirits, Phin focuses on volunteering at a children’s shelter. But when he sees his Teddy and handsome Justin Crump (The Medium) in a suspicious situation, it is difficult to control his racing thoughts. Belief in Teddy’s love for him wars with Phin’s fear his lover wants something more.
Phin must decide how far he is willing to go to keep Teddy in his life, and truly embrace his own worth before he can ever celebrate the season.
Excited to celebrate his first Christmas with his true love, Phin Abernathy searches for the perfect gift for Teddy, the artist who saved him from solitude (The Artist). But his happy holiday dreams are soon threatened.
After a year of living on his own, then with his beloved partner, Phin has mostly banished his negative view of himself. He and Teddy are happily saving toward a house they can share, when a chance encounter with a stranger raises Phin’s old ghosts of doubt, anxiety, and low self-esteem.
Struggling to quell such negative spirits, Phin focuses on volunteering at a children’s shelter. But when he sees his Teddy and handsome Justin Crump (The Medium) in a suspicious situation, it is difficult to control his racing thoughts. Belief in Teddy’s love for him wars with Phin’s fear his lover wants something more.
Phin must decide how far he is willing to go to keep Teddy in his life, and truly embrace his own worth before he can ever celebrate the season.
Original Review December 2018:
Phin and Teddy are finding their place in the world, living and loving as they work toward getting a home of their own. When Phin sees Teddy with someone else his old fears of self-worth come to the surface. Will he be able to face those fears and continue his happily ever after?
Phin's Christmas is a follow-up to The Artist, almost a Christmas Coda though probably too long to actually use that phrase but whatever you call it, it is a must read. If you have already read Artist than it is a no-brainer that you will want to dive in to Phin's Christmas and if you haven't then I highly recommend reading Artist first. Technically this could be a holiday standalone and a lovely tale at that but knowing the journey both Phin and Teddy(especially Phin) faced to get to where they are now makes this holiday treat even better.
One of the elements I loved the most about this story is that the author showed that even though Phin conquered many of his fears in The Artist, they still lurk in his mind and it doesn't take much for them to surface. Yes, had he just communicated with Teddy more than he need not have feared the worst but considering the life he led up to meeting Teddy(which is why I highly recommend reading Artist first) it is no wonder that he warred within himself if the risk was worth it. Just beautifully depicted from beginning to end.
I should add that we get to see Justin and Albert(and Albert's mom) from The Medium and where they are in life. Do you need to read Medium first? No. My personal preference is I'm glad I did but no you don't need to, you won't be lost with their contribution to the story. This may be Phin and Teddy's holiday tale but it was nice getting a glimpse of Justin and Albert too, just heightening the Christmas treat level for me.
Phin's Christmas is a follow-up to The Artist, almost a Christmas Coda though probably too long to actually use that phrase but whatever you call it, it is a must read. If you have already read Artist than it is a no-brainer that you will want to dive in to Phin's Christmas and if you haven't then I highly recommend reading Artist first. Technically this could be a holiday standalone and a lovely tale at that but knowing the journey both Phin and Teddy(especially Phin) faced to get to where they are now makes this holiday treat even better.
One of the elements I loved the most about this story is that the author showed that even though Phin conquered many of his fears in The Artist, they still lurk in his mind and it doesn't take much for them to surface. Yes, had he just communicated with Teddy more than he need not have feared the worst but considering the life he led up to meeting Teddy(which is why I highly recommend reading Artist first) it is no wonder that he warred within himself if the risk was worth it. Just beautifully depicted from beginning to end.
I should add that we get to see Justin and Albert(and Albert's mom) from The Medium and where they are in life. Do you need to read Medium first? No. My personal preference is I'm glad I did but no you don't need to, you won't be lost with their contribution to the story. This may be Phin and Teddy's holiday tale but it was nice getting a glimpse of Justin and Albert too, just heightening the Christmas treat level for me.
RATING: 
Summary:
One lonely lawyer. Twelve blind dates. Finding his special someone will take a Christmas miracle.
Aiden would rather eat an entire fruitcake than face his ex and his ex’s new boyfriend at their company holiday party — especially by himself. So when his best friend suggests he find some arm candy, Aiden reluctantly agrees to a few blind dates.
Aiden doesn’t expect a dozen perfect matches, but one disastrous night after another is killing his Christmas spirit, and time is running out. There has to be a special guy out there Aiden can kiss under the mistletoe. Right?
The Twelve Dates of Christmas is a 31,000-word MM romance featuring five horny singles, four garlic cheese fries, three IPAs, two naked trees, and a jingle bell head injury. This feel-good story is filled with humor, heart, and a happy ever after perfect for the holidays.
This holiday story is an absolute delight - fun, sweet, romantic, snarky, friendship, humor, and the magic of the season. I've never read either author but after reading The Twelve Dates of Christmas I can honestly say I'll be keeping both on my radar.
I really don't have anything else to add because this is one of those stories where you really do have to experience the journey for yourself to fully appreciate all the humor that comes from a good-intention deed by Aiden's friend to find him that one special guy to accompany him to the office Christmas party. I will say I laughed many times and was left feeling brighter than when I started. Is Twelve Dates a feel-good story worth of what I call a Hallmark-y label? Better! No doubts, it is 100 times better! Bad dates, annoying best friend, ex moving on, a need to prove to said ex you're moving on too - these elements may sound like just another holiday cliche but the authors give it their own spin and what you have is nothing short of a win-win.
BTW: the quiz night date was my particular favorite and quite possibly gave me the biggest laugh while reading in a very long time.
RATING:
He Sees You When You're Sleeping by Sara Dobie Bauer
Summary:We met when you were just a child, but you’re a man now and need my protection.
With Christmas Eve approaching, I’ll watch over you.
Whether you know it or not.
Because no one is allowed to hurt you.
No one but me.
At 20K words, He Sees You When You’re Sleeping is a twisted take on Santa, featuring M/M romance, horror, and the holiday season.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! How did I miss this last year? This is my first read from Sara Dobie Bauer but it won't be my last!
I won't say too much about He Sees You When You're Sleeping so not to spoil this short novella. I will say that I don't think I've ever read or seen such a unique and intriguing take on Santa Claus before which probably made me love it even more. He Sees You may not be the family oriented, animated classic, Hallmark brand of the man in the red suit that has dominated our Christmas memories but Sara Dobie Bauer's Kris will forever live on in my future holidays.
Despite the darker take on a holiday staple, you can't help but cheer for Kris and Jack, wanting them to have that Hallmark HEA but whether they do is something you will have to read for yourself. Trust me if you enjoy a little dark mixed with holiday light than He Sees You When You're Sleeping is definitely up your Christmas chimney.
RATING:
Snowed by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Summary:Boston Rebels #3
A second chance at love is all Kyle wants for Christmas, but a dark menace from his past wants him dead, and love is second to staying alive.
Kyle Lourenco has carved out a comfortable life and career for himself in Boston. With the holidays quickly approaching, he’s heading home for the first time in several years. Home to his loving parents and the small Canadian town where he was raised. And home to Christian, his best friend and the first man to steal his heart.
Just as a winter storm begins to blow in, it forces Kyle off the road only miles from home and a dark and sinister force from his past creeps ever closer. His only hope is getting to Christian’s cabin before the evil that has haunted him for years finally catches up to him.
Best friends since they were three, Christian Gauthier grew up next door to Kyle, in a remote mountain town with one stoplight and a forty-mile round trip to the nearest school. When Kyle left town for a shot at a professional hockey career, he took Christian’s heart with him. Even though he knew Kyle was always destined for bigger things, it hadn’t stopped Christian from falling for him as soon as he knew what love was.
With Christmas coming soon and a major snowstorm heading their way, Christian shuts the doors to the family store and heads to his cabin, where he will be on standby as an official volunteer for Search and Rescue. He has never regretted staying in Eagle Ridge, but a near miss on a simple rescue leads him to reevaluate everything, and when Kyle ends up at his door, he knows that guarding his heart might not be the best solution after all.
What can I say about Snowed? Hmmm? . . . Going home is always a treat at the holidays(even if the character is uncertain of their return). Second chance at past love can definitely bring about equal moments of new and nostalgia. Forced proximity is always a possibility here in the north, after all Mother Nature is a fickle . . . well let's just say she's fickle who has no sense of the clock or one's schedule. Throw all these factors together and you have yourself a powerfully emotional journey of discovery with just the right balance of mystery to make Snowed not your typical holiday fare and yet somehow it is typical in the sense of what makes a holiday story "holiday": HEART. Trust me there is plenty of heart in Scott & Locey's latest addition to their hockey universe.
Now, if I was to break it down a bit, well you know I won't do too much of that as this is a spoiler-free zone but I will give a little insight. Kyle is coming home after being injured on the ice but he isn't too sure how welcomed he will be especially by his ex, Christian. Christian stayed when Kyle left to pursue his hockey career and now that fate has left them stranded at Christian's cabin will they be able to talk and discover what has been missing from each of their lives in their years apart? You know you'll have to read Snowed for yourself to find that answer .
I hinted at mystery earlier and yes there is something that doesn't quite add up about Kyle's "mental blocks" for the lack of a better term here and they can definitely tug at your heartstrings and want to wrap Kyle up in Mama Bear Hugs till everything is all better but sometimes we have to experience the pain to find and appreciate the joy, fictional characters are no different. Okay, perhaps they tend to have more than their fair share of pain but in my experience that actually helps me work through things in my own life, course it also at times makes me want to whack them upside the head with a cast iron skillet.
Back to the mystery element, I love how it's believable, it's not forced to fit the characters or the setting, it's not thrown in to give Kyle and Christian an extra level of drama. It may not happen every day but it is believable, hurts one's heart but still very possible.
There may not be much hockey in this entry to the authors' hockey universe but it does make for a perfect beginning, it hooks you and pulls you in. And where this story goes is what truly makes the whole book a delightful gem. Can't wait to see where Scott & Locey go next.
RATING:
RATING:
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:
Phin's Christmas by Bonnie Dee
December 1903
Snow was rare in London, but one gloomy afternoon, pristine white hid the usually coal-streaked walls and trash-strewn streets and alleys. Shop windows and doors were framed in pine boughs, smudged windows washed clean so passersby might better gaze at the wares within.
I had spent the previous Christmas season on my own, free from the prison of my parents’ home at last, a lonely, contemplative time that had actually strengthened my resolve to become my own man. This year, I had Teddy and could truly enjoy the bustle of shoppers, carolers, and bell ringers. For weeks, I’d collected small gifts for my beloved in preparation for the holiday, but that particular afternoon, I’d purchased a paintbrush Teddy had gushed over, an expensive addition to his art supplies.
“Buy a nosegay, mister?” A little girl swathed in a woolen shawl offered a bedraggled bunch of cloth posies. “Only a penny.”
I bent to examine her basket full of equally pathetic flowers before choosing some violets. “Here you go, my dear. I’ll give you a shilling for such a large and lovely bouquet.”
Her eyes grew to saucers as I placed the coin in her cold palm. “Thank you, sir.”
I pretended to smell the flowers. “Mm, a touch of spring in the heart of winter. Lovely.”
She giggled at my joke. I wanted to take the skinny little thing someplace where she could warm her feet and get a good meal. Instead, I bought her a small bag of hot chestnuts from a nearby stand. They’d serve to warm her hands as well as her stomach.
Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “I’m no down-the-alley Sally, y’know.”
“I didn’t think you were, miss. Happy Christmas to you.” I continued to offer the striped sack.
Her gaze shot back and forth between the bag and my face before she snatched it from me. “Thanks, mister.”
She darted away as if fearing I’d change my mind or drag her someplace private for a poke. The grim facts of city children’s lives never ceased to make my chest ache. Teddy had told me I would go broke if I kept giving out pennies, buns, or boiled potatoes to every urchin who approached me on the street, but such small kindnesses were only a drop in the bucket of their miserable lives.
“I love your generous heart, Phin,” Teddy once said as he held me close and kissed me. “My greatest goal in life is to follow your example and become more giving.”
I had pointed out how generous he’d just been during lovemaking and our talk led to another bout in the bedsheets.
In those first months together following our separation, we could scarcely keep our hands off each other. Every moment was precious since it must be carved out of our busy lives. It did not help that I lived at Mrs. Pettigrew’s boardinghouse and Teddy in rooms on his uncle’s property. Lord Peter Worthington’s former carriage house had been converted to a garage to hold a shiny new Wolseley gasoline carriage. He allowed his nephew to use the chauffer’s quarters above for a studio and bedroom. Teddy and I could not cohabit under his uncle’s very nose, but we were saving to buy a small house.
Soon. By spring for certain. I pictured a little brick home on a quiet street with neighbors who were not curious about bachelors sharing living quarters. An idyllic life I’d never dared to imagine was within my grasp all because wonderful Teddy had looked past my ungainly appearance and deformity to see me, Phineas Abernathy. The day he’d arrived at Everdale, my family home, to paint my sister Rose’s portrait was the day my life had changed forever.
Lovely fat snowflakes had turned to cold rain by the time I reached Miss Dolly’s tearoom, where I was to meet Teddy. I entered the warm, steamy shop, which smelled of cinnamon and currant buns, and greeted the portly woman behind the counter with a nod and a smile. Only a few of Dolly’s regular customers knew that underneath her feminine clothing was a man’s body. I, of all people, understood the parts one must keep hidden in order to survive in the world.
I spotted Teddy at a table in the corner and hurried to join him. He smiled and stood up to greet me with a handshake. We would have kissed if we were someplace private, but even Dolly’s, a haven for men of our sort, was too public a place for such a display.
He gave my hand a warm squeeze. “How was your day?”
I shed my coat, and we both took our seats. “Busy. I have a new client, a German girl named Greta. Her parents want me to erase her accent to give her a better chance of landing a British husband. With a last name like Schultz, there’s little hope of that.”
Teddy shook his head. “Ah, the things parents do to ‘improve’ their children’s lives. What a sorry world it is.”
He pushed a half-eaten bun toward me and poured a cup of tea. “But no lamentations today. I have a surprise planned. It’s a gift for us both, but I can’t keep it hidden until Christmas as you will need to take part in it.”
“What is it?” I bit into the soft, cinnamon pastry that melted into sugar on my tongue.
“I’m afraid to tell you until we get there. You might not agree to do it.” But he didn’t sound worried. Teddy knew very well he could convince me to do almost anything.
“That sounds ominous. What do I have to do?” A sip of bitter tea was a wonderful chaser to the sweet bun.
“I want to have a tintype made. A keepsake, something we can look at years from now when we are old that will help us recall our youth and all the wonderful times we had.”
I stopped drinking. “But you’ve already painted a portrait of us.”
“Photographs are different, a brief moment preserved forever. The camera captures a likeness exactly, which is why portrait artists must do something more or become irrelevant. That is what the old school realists refuse to accept!”
As always when speaking about art, Teddy grew passionate. He could go on a tangent for minutes at a time, but I loved his passion. Actually, I loved him in every mood, even when he was frustratingly stubborn, pushy, or impulsive.
“Will you pose for a tintype with me?” he wheedled. “It will be a perfect Christmas gift we can share to celebrate our first year together.”
“If that is what you want, I’ll do it.” I’d become more comfortable with my body and modeled for Teddy in the privacy of his studio wearing fewer clothes than I would wear for this tintype, but posing in front of a strange photographer would be difficult for me. My aversion to my appearance was a battle I might never completely win.
Dolly stopped by our table, her square, ruddy face beaming above her high lace collar. “May I refill your pot, gentlemen? Or perhaps you’d care for more buns.”
“No, thank you,” Teddy replied. “We’re off on a holiday errand. I’ve got Mr. Abernathy to agree to a tintype. What do you think of that?”
Her low voice dropped to a murmur. “Wonderful. You make a lovely couple, if you ask my opinion. Ah, how I miss my dear Harry during this festive season. I wish I had a tintype of him.”
Dolly’s love had died almost a decade ago, but she continued to hold vigil for him in her heart. When she spoke, one would think he had passed only yesterday. I imagined I would feel the same if I ever lost Teddy. The very idea made me ill.
“Have you someone with whom to spend Christmas, Miss Dolly?” I enquired, thinking to invite her to pass the day with us if she would be alone.
“I’m afraid I’ve promised to spend the season with my brother’s family. The teahouse will be closed while I don trousers and waistcoat and conduct myself as a jolly old fellow.” She shook her head.
“We shall celebrate the holiday when you return,” Teddy said. “The three of us and some of our other friends who enjoy a more unconventional sort of gathering.”
“Sounds divine, my dear. I shall look forward to it while I’m suffering suet pudding and my brother’s memories of the good old days.”
We bid Dolly goodbye and donned our outdoor clothing.
I unfurled my umbrella to shelter us as we hurried through the drizzle. Already the white blanket had melted to dingy gray, and the snow would soon be gone. But it had certainly been pretty while it lasted.
The Twelve Dates of Christmas by Andi James & Lila Wilde
Chapter 1
“Palmer!”
Aiden looked up from his laptop — where he was absolutely not playing a farming game — and tried to disguise his sigh. He had a ten minute window to breathe before his next meeting, and he just wanted to harvest his corn before it wilted. Of course, the senior partner took that exact moment to come into his office.
“Mr. Meriwether,” he acknowledged with a nod, furtively minimizing his game and trying to determine if he should be concerned about the visit.
“I heard you closed the Eagleton case.”
Aiden felt himself physically relax. “Yes, sir.”
“And you didn't have to worry about their threat of a preliminary injunction?”
“No.” Aiden shook his head. “We were able to get them to settle before it came to that.”
Meriwether nodded. “Well, good work.”
He turned to leave, and Aiden wondered if he had time to get back to his game. His tomato crops weren’t looking too great.
When he reached the door, Meriwether turned around. “Oh, Palmer, did your secretary let you know about the location of the holiday party for this year?”
Aiden cringed. If Chelsea heard Meriwether call her his secretary, no one would ever hear the end of it. “Yes, she did.”
Aiden knew he was currently in Meriwether's good graces since his closing of the Eagleton case had just made his firm a small fortune, so he decided to take advantage of that. “Actually, sir, I don't think I'll be able to attend the holiday party this year.”
“What?” Meriwether stared at him. “Nonsense.”
“It's just that I have this huge case I'm working on, and these family priorities…” And there is someone I really don't want to spend an evening with.
Meriwether shook his head. “No. You will be there.” He gave Aiden an assessing glance. “You'll be there.”
With that, he turned and quickly left the room.
Aiden slumped down into his chair and groaned, and Chelsea flounced back into the office.
“Did I just see Meriwether leave?” She pushed a lock of her curly auburn hair behind her ear and moved to sit behind her desk on the far side of the room.
Aiden nodded miserably.
“What did he want?”
“Oh, just to remind me that my presence is required at the holiday party and that I should prepare for the worst night of my life.”
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “Okay, whatever you say. I pulled up those notes from that other case, and I did the research you asked for. It turns out…”
Aiden knew he should focus on what Chelsea was saying, but his brain had other plans. The senior partners looked down on Chelsea because she’d started with Aiden as a personal assistant, but that had been several years ago, when she had been between jobs and Aiden had taken the biggest risk of his life by offering his best friend a temporary position at his firm. He hadn’t been sure it was the smartest move, but she had been out of work for several months, and it was either get her a job or let her move in with him.
Chelsea had no experience, with personal assisting or with law, but her innate ability to control situations and think on her feet made her the best assistant Aiden had ever had. Now years later, Chelsea was the most competent paralegal in the firm, and because she was so good at it, she still managed his calendar as well. Aiden was grateful to call her his partner and his friend.
“And then you have that appointment with the alien overlord at four thirty.”
Aiden's brain seemed to jolt him back into the present. “I'm sorry, what was that?”
She rolled her eyes again. Chelsea was very good at rolling her eyes at Aiden. “Pay attention, or I'm going schedule that lunch with Justin — the one he's been trying to get on the books for months.”
“You wouldn't,” Aiden said, eyes wide.
“Try me.”
He was fairly certain Chelsea would not use her powers for that kind of evil, even if pushed to her limits, but he wasn't sure he should take the risk. “Sorry, I'm paying attention.”
“Good.” She started again, just as Aiden heard a familiar voice outside his office. Operating on pure instinct and adrenaline, his brain went into fight or flight mode, and he chose flight. He always did.
The voice got louder, and Aiden dove into the large space under his desk. There was a quick knock at the open door.
“Hey, Chelsea,” came the voice Aiden still heard in his dreams.
“Justin,” she said coolly. “How may I help you?”
“I could've sworn I just heard Aiden's voice.” Justin sounded confused.
“Hmm,” Chelsea pondered. “Weird, since he's not here. Maybe you should get your hearing checked,” she suggested sweetly. “I heard that’s usually the first thing to go with men your age.”
Justin chuckled. “I'm thirty-six. Do you expect him back soon? I was hoping we could finally get lunch.”
Aiden heard Chelsea clicking her mouse. “Let me see. I actually think he does have an opening today.”
Aiden recoiled and bumped his head on the underside of the desk.
“Did you hear that?”
Chelsea’s voice was sickly sweet. “Hear what?”
After a long pause, Justin muttered, “Never mind.” His voice brightened. “So, he has time for lunch today?”
Aiden felt the space closing in on him.
“Sorry, no. That opening was for this date next year.”
“Oh.”
Aiden could hear the sadness in Justin’s voice, and he felt a pull in his chest. He took a deep breath and strengthened his resolve to not care. Justin had broken his heart enough for one lifetime.
“Did you want me to pencil you in?”
“Um, no.” After a long pause, Aiden heard, “Thanks anyway, Chelsea,” then the shuffle of overpriced shoes on overpriced carpet.
A long moment later, Chelsea's auburn curls appeared in Aiden's line of sight. “The coast is clear,” she said, smirking.
With a grumbled word of thanks, Aiden climbed out of his hiding place, brushed lint off his pants, and leaned against the desk.
“I don't know why you’re still hiding from him. He’s been here for two months.”
“I maintain it was an act of aggression for him to break up with me and then get a job at the firm I've been working for since law school.”
“That sounds like a declaration of war if I ever heard one,” Chelsea said as she sat in Aiden’s chair. “I don't know why you can't just talk to him.”
“And say what? Why did you break my heart into a million pieces?” Aiden shook his head. “It's not worth opening that wound.”
“Aiden, that wound is already open. You've been peeling back the Band-Aid every single day. You need to leave it alone so it has time to heal.”
“How am I supposed to do that when I see his stupid beautiful face every single day?”
Chelsea spun back and forth. “Why do you have the good chair?”
Aiden groaned. “Chels, what am I supposed to do?”
She bit her bottom lip. “I actually heard something today that's not gonna make this any better.”
“What?”
“I think Justin is seeing someone,” she said slowly.
Because of course he is.
“I cannot go to the stupid holiday party alone and watch my ex walk around with my replacement hanging off his arm.”
“So why don't you bring someone too? Show him that you're not still pining over him.”
Aiden groaned. “My last several dates have all been disasters.”
“Maybe that's because you just haven't met the right guy. The one.”
After three years together, Aiden had been sure Justin was the only one for him. And now he had to look for someone else? How many soulmates would he be lucky enough to find?
“I know you said the last guy had no sense of humor… but maybe you were too hard on him?”
“Chelsea, he didn't even think Tina Fey was funny.”
“What? No. You're right, that guy was obviously the worst.” She smiled wistfully. “But he was so hot.”
“There's more to a guy than being hot.”
“Like what?”
Aiden sighed. “I don't know, Chels.”
“Tell me.” She clasped her hands together excitedly. “Tell me about your perfect mate. He obviously has to be funny and insanely hot.”
Aiden rolled his eyes. “Good job?” Aiden knew this would be over much sooner if he just went along with her interrogation. He shrugged. “I mean, someone who loves his job maybe? Someone who is passionate about what he does.” Aiden ran his hand through his hair. “That sounds so dumb. I don't even know.”
“No… That's good. What else? Keep going.”
At that moment, the phone rang on his desk. He looked at his watch. “Shit. I’m late.”
“No!” Chelsea pouted. “We were so close to discovering your perfect match.”
As he grabbed his laptop and regretted his lack of farming time, Aiden tried to imagine what his perfect match would look like, but all he saw was Justin.
He Sees You When You're Sleeping by Sara Dobie Bauer
He went by Kris, although little children knew him by another name. When December 24 arrived, so did the woman in black, her face always hidden by a hood. Together, they would spend a night of toil that felt much longer than only one night. They had spent Christmas Eve together for decades, maybe more. Kris wasn’t clear on time. The only thing clear was his annual duty: walk the world every Christmas Eve, protect children, and leave gifts for the ones who believed.
There weren’t as many believers anymore; several houses didn’t glow as Kris walked a poor street on the outskirts of New York City. Sadly, most of the small houses were dark, which meant the children who lived there no longer awaited the entity known as “Father Christmas.” That meant Kris could pass by those homes. He and the woman in black had no time for unbelievers.
They stopped in front of one house, though, and Kris tilted his head to the side, curious. The house was ramshackle, probably built in the 1970s or early 80s. Bright white snow sat heavily on the roof—at least six inches—and Kris wouldn’t have been surprised if the roof caved in. He was impressed the house still stood at all with its decrepit, cracked siding; one broken window, covered in thick paper and tape; and not a single Christmas light.
Yet, the house …
It didn’t glow, per se. It flickered. Kris couldn’t remember seeing anything like it, and although his ageless memory was vast, he knew it couldn’t be trusted. There was a big, empty space in his life before he became “Kris.” He remembered nothing before that one Christmas Eve when he woke up and started walking with the woman in black, visiting all the houses that glowed—so many back then. So few now.
Why did this house flicker, like an aged light bulb about to go out?
He didn’t bother asking his companion for answers. In all their time together, the woman in black never spoke. When Kris approached the front door, made of scraped and weatherworn wood, she followed. Kris took them to The Other Place where they couldn’t be seen. Then, they walked through the front door.
As soon as they entered the cramped foyer, Kris smelled cigarettes and heard shouting. A child cried, “Run! Go!” followed by the sound of furniture being knocked over.
An adult voice joined the hubbub: “You little shit.”
Kris actually startled at the vicious smack of flesh hitting flesh. Then, the echo of a body hitting the floor. The misleading quiet swish of bodies in an altercation. The child cried out again just as Kris turned a corner, and the woman in black lingered behind, as usual.
Kris entered a living room with a threadbare couch, cheap TV, and dark fireplace. An overflowing ashtray was knocked over, spilled beside a three-legged coffee table held up by a stack of phone books.
Invisible to all present, Kris ground his teeth at the scene as a father knelt above his son, who couldn’t have been older than ten, and smacked him repeatedly, while the child flailed his skinny arms to no avail.
The father kept cussing, mumbling to himself, and Kris smelled alcohol from where he stood. A soft whimper caught his attention. In the back corner, beneath a kitchen table, two children—smaller than the one being attacked—stared in horror but remained hiding. Apparently, this was a usual occurrence, their bigger brother defending them by accepting the brunt of their father’s ire.
Kris’s heart ached.
After one more solid whack, the drunken dad pointed in the boy’s face.
The boy bled from his mouth but didn’t shed a tear.
“That’s what you get for asking for a goddamn fire because it’s Christmas.” The word came as a taunt. “Christmas ain’t even real, you fucking halfwit. It’s just another useless day.” Then, the father pushed to his feet and wove across the room unsteadily before disappearing down a dark hall.
It took a moment for the child on the floor to sit up, but he did eventually, dark hair a mess. He wiped his bleeding face on the sleeve of an oversized flannel shirt with a hole in the elbow. Kris recognized the boy, although on previous Christmas Eves, he had never looked so malnourished, so sick.
After a silent moment, the two other children exited their hiding spot and joined their brother in the center of the room.
The little girl, hair in a messy ponytail, said, “Told you,” and poked her brother in the knee.
He didn’t acknowledge her, just stared into the empty fireplace.
“Yeah,” the other child said. Although probably no older than six or seven, he had a rough appearance as though he’d spent several years living on the street.
The smaller children recovered fast and left, probably off to their bedrooms to play. Kris hated how fast they recovered, because it meant this third child—the elder child who had protected them—received beatings often. And no one cared.
Kris observed as the bleeding boy continued staring into the fire with his arms wrapped around his bent knees. That was when he noticed.
It was this boy who flickered. This boy had called Kris into the house.
With a snap, Kris produced a fire in the fireplace, and the child skidded backwards across the warped wooden floor. Then, Kris wrapped the boy safely in The Other Place and sat at his side. Kris might have expected some kind of reaction—a scream, perhaps, which was why he’d wrapped them in the place where no one could see or hear them until Kris allowed.
But the child didn’t scream. He looked at Kris, at the fire, and glanced over his shoulder down the hall.
“No one will bother us,” Kris said quietly.
The kid wrinkled his nose. “Shit, he must have hit me really hard this time.” The profanity sounded extra ugly coming from the mouth of someone so young.
“Does your father hit you a lot?” Kris asked. He felt huge next to someone so small and frail. He wondered when the child had last eaten.
The boy winced. “That’s not my father.” He shrugged. “I don’t know my father. Frank is just my foster asshole.” He wiped a drop of blood from the side of his mouth with his thumb. “Who are you anyway?” Reflected flames danced in his wide eyes, green as a freshly cut pine tree.
“Father Christmas.”
The child’s head whipped toward him. “What? Like, Santa?”
“Yes.” Kris nodded. “And you believe in me.”
Snowed by RJ Scott & VL Locey
One
Kyle
The flurry of action in the corner had my attention.
Our captain was locked up with Alex Garcia, one of the young stallions on the Arizona Raptors’ roster. The puck was under Alex’s skate by the looks. To be honest, it was kind of hard to tell from my position in net, as more Rebels and Raptors joined the knot.
I glanced back when a shout nearby erupted. Apparently, Austin Rowe had said something that had an incredibly bad impact on the Raptors captain, Vladislav Novikov, the massive Russian who looked like Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV and was nicknamed “Iceberg” due to his icy personality. Vlad looked furious, which was rather scary.
It was unusual for Austin to say anything that would ever make anyone mad. My roommate was one of the sweetest guys I had ever met. Well, Austin might be second to Christian Gauthier from back home in Eagle Ridge, Manitoba. Thinking of Christian was too distracting, so I shook away the bittersweet images of times past and glanced to the corner.
One of the linesmen had started shouting at the players to break it up and get the puck into play. Something— or someone— impacted me hard. As I went down in a tangle with Vlad on top of me, my shoulder popped out of the socket. The pain was incredible. My left arm went completely numb after a few seconds. My net popped off its moorings. A rush of shapes— my teammates, I was sure— moved around me as I lay on the ice moaning in pain.
“Sorry, he pushed me,” Vlad said as he was pulled off me by Marquis, then slapped upside his head. Vlad, being a hockey player, slapped Marquis back. Tate Collins got into the scrum, but not to throw punches. He was on one knee beside me, protecting me from the snarl of players now throwing down gloves.
“You hurt?” Tate asked as I was finally freed from the massive Russian. I growled out a reply, then rolled from my injured shoulder to my good one. Jaw locked, fighting back tears, I cursed madly, knowing this was far more than a dislocated shoulder. I’d felt something rip. “Lie still,” Tate said, his hand on my hip as he turned to bellow for our trainer. “It’s okay, man, you’re good. Here’s your captain.”
“Renco, hey, Wally’s coming,” Xander said, trying to get me to my skates. I nodded, gritted my teeth, and cradled my left arm in my right hand. Blinking away the dampness, I saw our new backup goalie getting on his gear. Generally, I would have fought to stay in, but there was no way I was going to finish this game. That sucked. We only played the Raptors twice a year, and the next time would be in late April out in Arizona. I’d really wanted a win against this team that had clawed its way out of the NHL sewers to be a true contender for the Cup. Wally arrived, his face a mask of concern, and started peppering me with questions.
“It’s bad,” I ground out and that was it. I was helped to my skates and then off the ice, Wally and Xander at my side, as the Rebels fans clapped and both teams tapped their sticks on the ice.
“It’ll be fine, Renco,” Xander said before I stepped off the ice, my vision blurring at the white-hot pain in my shoulder. I appreciated his cheery words, but knew, deep down, it was going to be anything but fine.
* * * * *
It took a little over two hours for the surgeons at the hospital to verify what I already knew. I’d torn something in my rotator cuff upon impact with Vlad, who, as it turned out, had been shoved into me by Austin. I’d watched the replay a dozen times as I’d been poked, prodded, x-rayed, and flirted with by a really cute nurse named Tim. Not that I was interested in Tim or any other guy right now. I was in too much pain and feeling as low as a seal’s belly, as Pop would say. Ugh. I’d have to call my parents when I got home and tell them the bad news. Both had been watching the game— they never missed one. Mom had already called as I’d been riding to the hospital in the back of an ambulance. Nick had insisted on the ambulance, and who was I to argue with the team owner?
The tear would require arthroscopic surgery and would put me on the injured reserve list for one to six months. My eyeballs nearly fell out of my head when the chief of sports medicine said that. I doubted it would be six months. I’d work hard, do therapy several times a week, and be back in net by the end of the All-Star break. At least I didn’t have to worry about a place on the Olympic team representing Canada, because DiCosta and Delaney had those main spots, each the best kind of goalies in their own right.
My heart hadn’t been in it because I wasn’t even disappointed.
I sighed, wincing at the dull throb in my shoulder, and watched the replay of the end of the game on my phone as a nurse— not cute Tim— fiddled with the IV in my right arm. They were giving me some pain meds, which was nice. I was scheduled for surgery tomorrow at six a.m. and would be sent home a day or two later. The nurse was humming “Jingle Bells” as she moved around the room taking vitals and plumping pillows.
“You have some company waiting in the hall.” I looked up from my phone. She was an older woman with graying hair and a kind smile. Her name tag said “Mona.” My head was getting a little sloppy as the pain meds kicked in.
“Is it my parents?” I asked, then corrected myself. “No, I know it’s not them. They’re in Eagle Ridge. That’s in Manitoba. Right on Hudson Bay. Pops says we have more polar bears than people in Eagle Ridge.”
She gave me a smile. “I’d stay away from the polar bears, if I were you.”
“Oh yah, we do.”
“Visiting hours are over, but Dr. Kalmar said they could come for a few minutes.” She offered me some water, which I declined, as the creeping dread I carried deep in my psyche flared up.
“Who is it?” I asked, clutching my phone in my hand as a wave of something near panic bubbled to the surface. My heart rate started to spike. Not even the meds that made things soft could keep away the sudden fear that gripped me— that someone was out there wanting to hurt me. The fears that I always carried with me, and the shadows I jumped at, were right next to me as Mona gave me a worried look.
“Your teammates. Shall I send them home?”
Relief flooded me. No one was here to hurt me. No one was waiting for a moment to drag me from my bed and kill me. I was safe.
I’m safe.
“No, no, please send them in.” The unexplained anxiety quieted a bit, knowing that someone would be in the room with me.
She gave me a long look. “I’m good. Just feeling a little funny from the medication. I’d like to see them.” She gave me a maternal look that made me pine for my mother. “Five minutes, no more.”
I worked up a smile. “Thank you. Five minutes.” She left, and I melted back into the too-stiff pillows behind me. Eyes closed, I took a cleansing breath. It was fine. All was fine. There was nothing here to hurt me. The hospital was safe. Filled with people. The shadow man couldn’t get me in here. I was fine. Safe. I was safe.
“Hey,” Xander’s soft voice pulled me from the abyss of mysterious, unnamable fear that rode my back. “Nurse Mona said we had five minutes.”
I saw Austin slip in behind Xander with a hangdog look, his bright eyes melancholy.
“I’m having surgery tomorrow,” I said for no sensible reason. “I have a sling.” I tried to lift my arm and was rewarded with a zing of pain that raced to my toes. “I have medication too.”
“Yeah, we can see.” Xander nudged Austin forward as he smiled at me. I liked Xander. He was gay, like me, and was a good captain. Just as good as Brady Rowe, Austin’s cousin, had been. “Austin wanted to talk to you badly. I told him you needed rest, but he insisted.”
“Okay.” I felt sluggish and silly, the creeping unseen that prowled my nightmares pushed back into the shadows by the arrival of my friends. This was why I always had a roommate. The unseen only came at me in the darkest, loneliest places like sleep.
“I’m super sorry,” Austin stated, standing beside my bed, looking blue. “I was trying to get under Novikov’s skin, you know, like Marquis and Moral do, right? But when I try to chirp people, they either snort at me as if I were stupid or they get mad. Vlad got mad. He called me a stupid baby who could never hope to be as talented at Tennant and should stick to sharpening Ten’s skates.”
“Ouch,” I said, and not because my shoulder hurt.
Austin sighed. Xander patted his shoulder.
“I lost my temper and shoved him. Right into you,” Austin whispered as he stared down at his sneakers.
“It happens. Accidents. It’s slippery on the ice,” I replied, hoping I didn’t sound as fuzzy as I was feeling. Austin’s bright eyes lifted from the floor. “It’s good yeah. I get to go home for the holidays. It’s been years. Pops and Mom will make food for days. Did you know that polar bears can smell their prey up to a kilometer away?”
“We didn’t know that. Cool trivia!” Xander said as Austin gaped at me. “So, now that Rowe has apologized for being a bonehead and you’re not mad at him, we’re going home. We’ll drop by tomorrow after your surgery, okay?”
“I bet Mom makes flapper pie,” I replied. They both smiled, then kind of melted away as I slipped into a deep and thankfully dream-free sleep.
* * * * *
I did a lot of sleeping for a day or so after the surgery. All of it at home and with Austin there most of the time. He still felt bad and was fetching me everything I asked for, as well as things I didn’t ask for. He heated me soup, changed my socks, made me tea, and tried to comb my hair. When he offered to help me use the toilet, I drew the line. Politely of course because I am Canadian, and Austin is a nice guy. We watched old movies— lots of Rocky, as I loved Sly Stallone flicks— and wrapped presents. Austin wrapped. I sat there in my pajamas with my arm in a sling being utterly useless and grumpy. Austin claimed I was far from grumpy, but I felt grumpy. Like a polar bear with a burr on its butt. I was beginning to notice that people from Eagle Ridge have a lot of polar bear references.
When Austin wasn’t home, I pulled my old wooden goalie paddle out from under the bed and tucked it under the covers. No one knew I did that, thank God. It was a childhood thing, a way of calming myself when the unseen would appear at night or in my dreams. It was stupid for a twenty-five-year-old man to sleep with a kid’s hockey stick… I knew that. My life would be better if I slept with men. A man. Christian. The only man I’d ever slept with, if I were being honest. Not that I hadn’t had chances to have sex with guys. I did, lots of them, but they weren’t quite what I was looking for in a man. They weren’t Christian.
For a long time, I wondered if there was something off with me and my libido. I wanted sex. I enjoyed sex, I even yearned for it at times, but when the opportunity presented itself, I would balk. As when I’d been in Aruba with the guys for Xander’s thirtieth birthday. One of the hotel bellhops had come onto me big time, making it really clear he would bring me whatever I wanted. He was cute in a blond twink sort of way, and no one would have known.
Being gay wasn’t the issue. It was me. After a long time spent reading and dwelling on my sexuality, I came to the conclusion that I was gay and demiromantic. Having casual sex just didn’t do it for me. I had to have a romantic connection first. And since I traveled all the time, and was on the ice when I wasn’t in the air, that left little time for romance. Seeing as how I had to have that connection to a person before I could sleep with them…
Yeah. I spent a lot of time jerking off while fantasizing about the way Christian kissed or the way he would call my name in a heated rush as he came.
But Christian was a thing from the past, and he’d moved on when I’d moved away. He was in Manitoba ‘being fabulous’ according to my parents. Working in the Gauthier family store, part-timing as a search and rescue volunteer, and coaching the Eagle Ridge Eaglets junior hockey team. And here I was in Boston, playing on an NHL team and being… well, not fabulous.
“Do you want help packing?” Austin asked as I lugged a suitcase out of my closet, then tossed it to my bed. He was hovering, being sweet and solicitous, as I bumbled around with my arm in a sling.
“No thanks. I can do it.” I gave him a forced smile. It felt odd to be getting ready to go home with presents in red and green wrapping paper to take to my parents. Generally, it was the summer whenever I managed short trips home but I mostly stayed in Boston and invited my parents visit me. I cited my need to be here as business. Which was partly true. I did own half of a whale watching/ deep-sea fishing charter business that operated out of the harbor. So, I spent a lot of time on the sea, which was something I’d grown to love as a kid being raised beside Hudson Bay. But a lot of my reticence about going home was because Christian was there. I think Mom suspected that, but she never said it. “I’m going to miss traveling with you guys.”
“I’m sorry,” Austin whispered. I knew he was.
“It’s okay. Really, I needed to go home and recharge.” That was a lie. I did not need to go back to Manitoba and see Christian. “This will be a nice break! I’ll do my rehab at home, eat lots of great food, and come back in time for the playoff run.”
He tried to smile, but failed. “Yeah, sure. Let me carry that to the curb when you’re ready to go, okay?”
“I’m not leaving for another two days,” I reminded him. Two days. Shit. Maybe I should actually tell my parents I was coming home. My last call with them was all about rehab and how Christmas would be quiet, but there was something in Mom’s tone, a deep sadness that slapped me around the face and told me I needed to man the fuck up and get my weary ass home— if only for a few days. Best-case scenario I would roll up to their house and surprise them, see their excited faces, and we would have the best Christmas ever— I could even see Christian. But my alternative best-case scenario was that something would happen to keep me in Boston, and maybe I paid for them to come here instead. Maybe I should do that? Then I wouldn’t have to see Christian at all. Or Eagle Ridge. Or the resignation in my parents’ eyes because I hardly ever went home.
“Yeah, I know,” Austin continued and yanked me out of my thoughts. “I just want to help. You should keep an eye on the weather. Carl the weatherman on WCBV said something about a winter storm they’re keeping an eye on.”
“I’m from Manitoba. A tiny blizzard don’t bother us none.” I said it just to razz him a little since he was from Toronto. It was a thing we did. Saying Manitoba was colder and snowier than Toronto and vice versa. Just posturing a little as friends did. “But thanks for the heads up. You can go see Robbie now. I’ll be fine.”
“Sure, yeah, of course you will be.” He blushed, then muttered something before backing out of my room. I dropped down on the bed, shoulder aching, and nudged the little wooden goalie paddle back under the bed with my heel. I hoped I wouldn’t need it back home. Sometimes the unseen was stronger around my parents for some bizarre reason. And this time, I couldn’t rely on Christian to hold onto when the nightmares came for me because I doubted he’d even talk to me.
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.
Dear Readers, I began telling stories as a child. Whenever there was a sleepover, I was the designated ghost tale teller guaranteed to frighten and thrill with macabre tales. I still have a story printed on yellow legal paper in second grade about a ghost, a witch and a talking cat.
As an adult, I enjoy reading stories about people damaged by life who find healing with a like-minded soul. When I couldn’t find enough such books, I began to write them. Whether you’re a fan of contemporary historical or fantasy romance, you’ll find something to enjoy among my books.
To stay informed about new releases, please sign up for my newsletter. You can also find me on Facebook and Twitter Bonnie_Dee.
Andi James has been in love with books and words her entire life. She writes about people finding things — themselves, happiness, love — and edits all kinds of stories. Her two dogs and three cats are her favorite co-workers. She adores coffee, the night sky, and horror movies.
Lila Wilde writes books about people who fall in love with other people. She is obsessed with unicorns and glitter and cupcakes and suspects that her St. Bernard is smarter than she is.
Sara Dobie Bauer is a bestselling author, model, and mental health / LGBTQ advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. She lives with her hottie husband and two precious pups in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film.
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.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, 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 flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey 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 hand.
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.
Bonnie Dee
GOOGLE PLAY / CARINA / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: bonniedeeauthor@gmail.com
Andi James
Lila Wilde
Sara Dobie Bauer
VL Locey
Drew Marvin Frayne
EMAIL: drewmarvinfrayne@gmail.com
Phin's Christmas by Bonnie Dee
KOBO / WEBSITE / GOODREADS TBR
The Twelve Dates of Christmas by Andi James & Lila Wilde
He Sees You When You're Sleeping by Sara Dobie Bauer
Snowed by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
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