Summary:
Harrisburg Railers #12
Family comes first in all things. Whatever the cost.
Ten had always heard the saying, âOut of the mouths of babes,â but he hadnât expected it to hit home as it had. After a comment from their daughter, Ten and Jared ponder an addition to the family. Moving into the adoption process is nerve-wracking and riddled with anxietyâkind of the way the Railers have been playing as of late. Bringing two young men into their homes and hearts wonât be a smooth ride. But with patience, humor, and love, the bumpy road might just be a little easier to travel.
Expanding their small family was always in the cards, but no one could have foreseen the process clashing with the worst ever start to a Railers season. A string of losses, a vital player missing from the defense, a captain in the emergency roomâand winning a single game seems impossible, let alone getting the team to the playoffs. Faced with hard decisions, Jared refuses to take his work home, but itâs difficult when your husband is at the leading edge of the losing streak. His focus fractures when one sibling theyâre matched with is frustrated, angry, and has a healthy dose of mistrust.
Jared and Tenâs parenting skills are tested, but theyâll do anything to make a place in their home the perfect gift for two children lost in the system.
Gotta start by saying: YAHOO!!!! Another Railers holiday tale!!!!
The authors may have tagged this a Christmas Railers novella but it actually encompasses multiple holidays including Turkey Day and that is a holiday that is rarely touched on, or at least not nearly enough. That right there is worthy of 1 bookmark alone. Being Harrisburg is worthy of another. What gave it the other 3? Read on.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: love, love, LOVE men who care for kids! Seeing Ten and Jared's family grow is so heartwarming, watching them tackle fostering and adoption of older kids turned me into a big puddle of sappy goo. Now that's not to say this leg of the crowned Princes of Scott & Locey's hockey universe is cliche by using the term "sappy" oh no, no, no, no. Sure some moments may seem cliche but that doesn't make it bad. With so many health issues in our family, status quo or cliche, is often a welcomed treat so when I say "sappy" all I'm really saying is "can we bundle those boys in layers and layers of bubblewrap so harm never comes to them?"
Soren and Milo are amazing! Milo is the quintessentially adorably loveable little boy. Soren is the epitome of "give me your best shot and I'll tell you what for" chip on his shoulder older brother. Some might say Soren is a little brat but not me, what I see is a scared boy having to be older than his years to protect his little brother. He's thrown for a loop when he meets Ten and Jared and it raises his guard up even higher. Now I'm not going to say more because despite this being a holiday novella and Scott & Locey are always about the HEA, I don't want to spoil any of the journey the Madsen-Rowe household embarks on, just know that your heart will thank you for the experience. Seeing little, itty bitty Lottie walking and talking and being all kinds cute is plus.
How can I write a review for a Railers tale without mentioning one of the funniest scenes I've read in ANY story in a long time? Adler and Stan loudly discussing naughty Valentine gifts as Ten tries to shut them up as a reporter is only 10' away. How can that not leave you ROTFLYAO? Trust me, I'm glad I read this when I was at home and not in the waiting room at Mayo Clinic, they may just have had to call security because I would literally have been on the floor laughing hysterically. Thank you, ladies for including a convo that could only work with Adler and Stan.
The hockey universe consisting of Harrisburg, Owatonna, Arizona, & Boston Scott & Locey has created should be read in order, especially those involving Ten and Jared. Will you be lost if you read Perfect Gifts without having read any of the other universe? Probably not but there are other characters mentioned and seen who make a lasting impression if you know their individual stories as well. None of the stories will leave you sorry you picked them up. Just so much yumminess all over the place and I don't mean just the sexy times, but overall heartwarminess(yeah I know that's not a word but I think it sums it up pretty spot on).
Summary:
Alpha Kissed #3
Of course Iâve noticed him.
Heâs Hal, the singer who everyone loves and fawns over all night. There is no shortage of suitors surrounding his piano while he sings songs that drive directly into my heart. I wouldnât stand a chance. So I sit here on my barstool and listen and pretend he might know Iâm alive.
But he never takes anyone home, and I doubt heâs going to start with me.
Iâm not the type of guy who approaches a man like him. I see him every night I perform at the Moonlight Lounge. The songs I choose are pointed in his direction, but nothing seems to make him look my way for more than a few seconds. His sweater vests and ties make him look a little uptight but I know thereâs more. The way he bites his lip. The smooth manner in which he tips back his drink. The outline of biceps under the button down shirt I need to know him. Because my gut says heÂŽs mine.
The Alphaâs Cranberry-Kissed Omega is a MM non-shifter mpreg with a hot musical alpha, a ninja competitor, psychologist omega, and a holiday surprise meeting that sets everything in motion. The Alphaâs Cranberry-Kissed Omega is part of the Alpha Kissed series but can be read as a standalone.
Summary:
Nick & Carter Holiday #20
Thursday, November 27, 1947
It's Thanksgiving and Nick is cooking a veritable feast!
Roast turkey, sausage stuffing, mashed potatoes, an assortment of vegetables, and even Nick's first attempt at an apple pie are all on the menu.
Nick and Carter have been dating for just over three months and it's their first holiday together.
It's also an opportunity for Nick to introduce Carter to all his friends.
However...
Jeffery is out of town... Mack is in one of his moods... Janet isn't returning Nick's phone calls...
Oh, well...
At least Mike is available to join Carter and Henry for dinner at Nick's new apartment on Jones Street.
There's certainly plenty of food!
So, won't you join in on all the food, the fun, and the festivities?
What can go wrong when two new lovers bring their old flames to dinner and everyone gets a chance to meet?
More turkey, anyone?
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!
This is the twentieth in a series of short stories and novellas all centered around specific holidays.
Each story is a vignette that stands on its own and takes place from the 1920s to 2008.
Yet another winner in the Nick and Carter Holiday series. I'm really loving this novella/short story series as it hits so many holidays not spoken of nearly enough in literature of any genre but especially LGBT stories. I do have to say that of all the shorts in this collection I've read, Thanksgiving, 1947 probably left me with the most blanks/gaps in character references and relationship elements having not read the original Nick and Carter series. Were these gaps wide enough to take away enjoying? Not at all. I was never lost, if anything it just furthered the steps up on my TBR list for the originals. Hopefully in 2023 the clock will allow me to jump into them.
Not going to spoil anything(like you didn't know that was coming) but once again a glimpse into the couple's early days together is lovely done and definitely leaves a smile on your face. I will say that two points that really stood out for me was Nick listening to The Guiding Light on the radio and him making sausage stuffing. My parents bought me a cassette of an episode of Fibber McGee & Molly for my 10th birthday and I fell in love with it and have collected hundreds of hours of Old Radio Shows over the years, even got a subscription to Sirius XM just to listen to the old radio shows network in the car so including listening to Guiding Light was a welcomed moment. As for the sausage stuffing? That's the only kind of stuffing we've ever had in our family and yet it is so rarely used in fiction. Honestly there are so many odd recipes out there for stuffing/dressing that are used more that I personally wouldn't want to even touch let alone taste so Nick going old school(and yes I know it's set in 1947 so of course it's going to be old school/old fashioned) for stuffing was another welcomed touch.
Summary:
Delaney Roberts and Marcus Worthy-Davis have quite a few things in common. Both blue-collar workers in their forties, theyâve experienced the tragic loss of their wives and meet through their monthly grief group. Their connection is immediate, their friendship solidifying over texts and barstool confessions, neither feeling quite so lonely in the otherâs presence.
When Marcus reveals to the group that heâs considering dating, it shakes Delaney to his core. Heâs nowhere near ready, not when he feels on unstable ground with his teenage son and has vowed not to uproot his life again. Even if it means pushing his own needs aside. Even if Marcusâs announcement stirs something else inside Delaney, something heâs kept at bay for twenty years, and he suddenly sees their more tender moments in a different light.
The first time Marcus holds Delaney during a particularly rough night, the ache in Marcusâs chest, the one he tries hard to ignore, only intensifies. And when their slow-burning friendship sparks into a blazing fire, they finally indulge in each other to satisfy their needs. Marcus knows the arrangement is only temporary, but he feels a rightness with Delaney he canât easily explain.
Soon enough, their longing becomes difficult to ignore. But love after loss is terrifying, the familiarity with pain and despair too close to the surface. To fan the flames of their connection, theyâll not only need to make room in their hearts but also take an enormous leap of faith.
Summary:
Cost of Repairs #3
Gavin Perez is fully aware that he's kind of a clichĂ©. He works a dead-end job, shares a trailer with his waitress mom, has an abusive, absentee sperm donor, and he's poor. So color him shocked when middle-class, white-bread Jace Ramsey agrees to hang out with him. Granted, Gavin is trying to make it up to Junior McHottie for dumping a bowl of cranberry sauce on him at Thanksgiving dinner. And boy does Jace forgive him, over and over againâŠuntil he goes back to college and stops returning Gavin's calls. Oh well. Life goes on.
After living through the semester from hell, Jace Ramsey doesn't want to do anything more complicated than sleep through winter break. He has no idea how to come out to his family, never mind tell his parents he wants to quit college. He also has zero plans to socialize while heâs home, but Gavin's ready forgiveness draws them back togetherâboth in and out of bed. But Gavin is out, and Jace knows he won't be able to stay in the closet much longer.
Gavin isn't good enough for Jaceâat allâbut Gavin simply canât stay away from the younger, haunted man. Something happened to Jace during those weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Jace trusts Gavin with his body. He might even trust Gavin with his heart. But can he trust that a devastating secret thatâs eating him up inside wonât destroy everythingâand everyoneâhe loves?
NOTE: This book was previously published under the same title. It has updated cover art and has been re-edited. 3700 words of new content has been added, including a brand-new epilogue.
You can't help but love both Jace and Gavin. They both seem so disheartened by life but in each other they find a little piece of what life could really be. But are they both too jaded to take a chance on love and each other? For that you have to read Weight of Silence for yourself but trust me, you won't regret it. Definite win all the way around.
Perfect Gifts by RJ Scott & VL Locey
âSo, where do we think she got on the brother kick?â Jared asked as he stirred some of the honey that Adlerâd brought us into his mug. Ad had taken up beekeeping. Why? Not a clue, but we all suspected that it was so he could brag about having a big stinger in the locker room. Theyâd found out Layton was allergic, so he watched the bees from a distance.
âProbably at the indoor playground over in Camp Hill earlier,â I said while dunking a Stella Dâoro cookie into my tea. Iâd have a few. Cookies were not recommended by the Railers nutritionist as healthy afternoon snacks. âShe was playing with Michelle Khan.â
âOh, yes, Mrs. Khan just had a baby,â Jared replied, then added one more dollop of honey to his mug. âA little boy.â
âYep. She was cooing and cuddling the baby until we left. She even skipped the jungle gym and slide to tickle tiny Joeyâs chin.â
Jaredâs eyes flared. Lottie never passed the jungle gym and slide. Ever. Iâd had to climb in a time or two to extract her when it was time to go. Jaredâthe old D-man that he wasâwas too burly to fit. The parents who had gotten to witness a hockey player trying to wedge his shoulders into a skinny tube with monkeys painted on the sides had found it pretty amusing. As had the local press the following day. Nothing says professionalism after just signing a new multi-million dollar contract like being photographed wriggling through the monkey tumble tube.
âThat explains it,â he commented as he began thumbing languidly through his daily read of The Patriot News online. The man looked sexy AF in those reading glasses.
âYeah, I guess.â I nibbled on my cookie, my phone showing a half-read article in The Athletic waiting for me to return to it. âYou know we could consider it.â That brought his gaze up from the local news. He studied me over the top of his DILF glasses. âWhat? Itâs not as if we havenât discussed having another baby. It was kind of always our plan.â
âWell⊠yes, I know weâve discussed it.â He removed his glasses, folded them, and laid them by the cookie box. He assessed me intently. âDo you think itâs something we should look at more closely?â
âMaybe?â I reached for another cookie, my sight darting from the cookie to Jared to the window where the glass was coated with a touch of frost around the edges. Fall was here, and it was glorious. We had pumpkins to carve, cider to drink, and Halloween costumes to decide on before the end of the month rolled around. âI mean she is here alone all the time.â
âSheâs not alone. She has us, a nanny, and now, a dog.â
âWell yeah, I donât mean like we Kevin McAllister her or anything, itâs justâŠâ I plucked the cookie from its wrap, then dunked it quickly into my tea, hurrying to get the shortbread treat to my mouth. I chewed, then swallowed. Jared sat across from me waiting patiently for me to make my point. âOkay, so, and never tell themâespecially Bradyâbut having siblings to grow up with was pretty nice. Most of the time.â
The Alpha's Cranberry-Kissed Omega by Lorelei M Hart
Chapter One
Hal
The week before Thanksgiving brought more kids in since school started. With the almost-year-round school schedule giving them the entire week off, parents tried to schedule their cleanings and fillings and since we were only open three days, they all had to cram into that time frame. Not that we minded, but by Wednesday afternoon, Dr. Patrick Chen, my boss, his assistant, Suzi, and I were more than ready for some time off.
And while they were done working, I had my other job to do every night starting tonight at the Moonlight Lounge. Usually I only played piano there three or four times a week, but the other entertainer was heading for Hawaii and her family for the holiday, and we always filled in for one another.
Still, at this point, Iâd welcome any environment that didnât involve screaming toddlers and cranky parents who were making them scream because they were in a rush to get to the market to buy a turkey. Apparently, theyâd just gotten the memo that they should serve that on Thanksgiving.
To make matters worse, the pre-Thanksgiving night crowd at the lounge was a crowd in name only. It seemed even half-price beer and wine wasnât enough inducement to bring the folks in. Hell, they were probably home making pies. Tomorrow was going to be even worse. With the twenty or so people scattered around the maroon leather booths and seated at the bar, there was no chance of missing the one omega Iâd hoped to see.
Heâd been in a few times, either by himself or with a friend, and he wasnât without a date because he had no offers. Heâd sit on a barstool and have a glass of cab, leaning against the bar and watching me play. Alphas approached him every time, but he waved them off. I couldnât figure out his game. He seemed to enjoy my music, but never came and joined the crowd around the piano. Never called out a request or approached me when I took a break.
And since lots of guys wanted to chat up the piano player, I never managed to get to him, either. Okay...and because I wasnât sure if heâd want me to and didnât want to be embarrassed. Cowardly.
But this weekend, no more cowardly lion. The guy looked like an ad for surfing the waves in on a California beach. His sun-bleached hair was a little long, like getting it cut wasnât a priority. He had deep-brown eyes and full lips that revealed very white teeth when he laughed at something his friend said. His usual tight T-shirts showed admirable upper-body development. Not like a weight lifter, everything just as it should be. If you were a hot beach guy, that is. The bartenders didnât know a thing about himâa total rarity for those nosy parkersâand I didnât want to keep asking because they liked razzing me about it.
The night fizzled to a close with not much in the tip jar and only one slightly inebriated alpha requesting a lot of Black Sabbath. Not that I couldnât accommodate him, but it wasnât really lounge fare.
Maybe my surfer boy was out of town with his folks. He sure wasnât born and bred here, and those who werenât cooking dinner for twenty people tomorrow were attending a dinner for that number, so the manager made the decision to call an Uber for tipsy-Sabbath guy and shut down early.
A dreary, cold late fall weekend seemed in my future. Awesome.
But once I drove home and climbed into bed, the long day and night overwhelmed me and I fell asleep right away.
Thanksgiving dawned bright and clear. At least I think it did. I didnât wake up until nearly eleven and then had to scramble to get showered and shaved and dressed for the Friendsgiving at Patrick and his omega, Damonâs house. I didnât really know why I was going. It was just another day for single guys who didnât have any local family and especially single guys who had to work afterward.
But they were so anxious to have me, Damon so worried about me being all alone, that Iâd caved. With my tremendous lack of cooking abilities, Iâd been assigned to bring assorted olives and âfancyâ paper napkins. As usual. It didnât bother me, much. Nobody wanted scorched pumpkin pie or half-raw mashed potatoes, both of which Iâd managed to create in the past. With a fine plan in place to grab what I needed at the store then hit the coffeehouse on the way to Patrick and Damonâs house, I climbed in my convertible and zoomed down the street.
The grocery store was mobbed. Iâd made fun of the patientsâ parents who didnât know they had to buy a turkey on Wednesday, but Iâd had no idea how many would be buying them at noon on Thanksgiving Day. Even with my lack of skill in the kitchen, I knew it took a long time to cook one of those big birds. What time were they planning to eat?
I stood in line at the olive bar and when I got my turn, grabbed two plastic tubs and filled them with the varieties that looked tastiest. Then, swinging my plastic basket by the handles, I headed for the paper products where I spent fifteen minutes trying to determine what made paper napkins holiday worthy vs. not holiday worthy. Finally, an elderly lady took pity on me and showed me the ones on the top shelf that cost five times what the others did and actually were called âdeluxe.â I also picked up a couple of bags of ice just to be extra helpful.
There. I had accomplished my Thanksgiving Day shopping and filled with a sense of accomplishment, added a box of cookies decorated like pumpkins and pilgrims to my purchases.
I ate half of them standing in line at the self-checkout, starving and pretty sure I was going to be late.
Turned out self-checkout was not a good choice on Thanksgiving. People were buying things they bought only on that holiday. Oddly shaped vegetables and strange-looking cheeses. Most either didnât have barcodes, or they were so messed up, the readers couldnât handle them. And, frankly, since I hadnât had coffee yet, I couldnât handle any of them. If I didnât want to show up at a meal where everyone else had made something amazing with nothing in my hands, Iâd have dumped my plastic basket and left.
But I persisted. As I shuffled forward, I became aware that the store was playing Christmas music. I had nothing against carols, but felt they were best after Thanksgiving. Or at least after coffee. Finally, after two hundred ten years or fifteen minutes, one or the other, I was in purchasing position. I lifted the napkins from the cart and slid them over the reader and froze.
âOh my godsâŠâ A guy was heading out the door, and not just any guy. I couldnât be sure from the back, but the man exiting had that same sun-streaked hair, tight little butt, and was wearing a jacket Iâd seen on the guy at the bar.
âSir?â The high whining pitch of the self-checkout assistant cut through my stasis. âAre you having trouble?â
âIâŠâ What to do? I shoved the three items over the reader, figuring if I moved fast enough, my quarry would still be heading for his car. I swear I finished in under twenty seconds and was racing for the door, chased by the assistant holding the game cards Iâd earned and didnât want for their holiday sweepstakes.
Outside, I stopped and looked around, and my heart sank into my stomach.
He was gone.
Thanksgiving, 1947 by Frank W Butterfield
550 Jones Street, Apartment 3-C
San Francisco, Cal.
Thursday, November 27, 1947
Just before 11 in the morning
Nick was listening to a conversation between Ned and Julie as they discussed the possibility of having a baby. The Guiding Light was on the radio.
"It ain't worth it, Julie," was his only comment as she began to tell Ned she was worried about how her mother would feel.
He was peeling and scoring a pound of Brussels sprouts in the kitchen when he heard someone knock on the door. Drying his wet hands on the towel resting on his shoulder, he walked through the living room, stopping to switch off the R.C.A. table radio.
He then opened the door to reveal Mike Robertson, his best friend and first lover, standing there with a couple of grocery bags in his arms.
"What's that?" asked Nick.
Mike looked into one of the bags. "The makings of fruit salad."
Nick rolled his eyes and sighed. "I thought I told you to make the stuff before you came over."
Being 6'5" and a cop, Mike ignored Nick and pushed his way inside. "I'm gonna make it here. I don't have a bowl to put it all in."
Shutting the door, Nick replied, "Well, neither do I. That's why I wanted you to make it before you came over."
Mike put the bags down on the dining table that was just outside the kitchen and then turned to take a look at the place. "So, this is your new home, huh?"
"Yeah. Whaddaya think?"
Crossing his arms, Mike nodded and offered Nick a friendly smile. "I like it. How much is the rent?"
"The landlord's a real ass, but I pay him eighty bucks a month."
"Eighty! You're being robbed." Mike walked over and got close. Looking down, he said, "You're a rotten landlord, Nick. You outta give the poor sucker who lives here a break. I wouldn't pay sixty-five bucks for a dump like this." He kissed Nick on the forehead and then made his way to the bay window. "And all you get is a view of Jones Street and that fleabag hotel across the street."
"Well, whatcha gonna do? Want some coffee?"
"Sounds good."
Nick walked into the kitchen, grabbed a cup from the little shelf on the wall, and poured some Joe out of the electric percolator that was sitting on top of the icebox.
"Fancy," said Mike as he took the cup from Nick.
"What?"
"All new furniture, from the looks of things. New stove, new icebox, and an electric percolator." He took a sip. "Must be nice to be the wealthiest guy in town. Not only do you own the building, you get all the newest appliances."
"There's an opening here if you want it."
"Nah. I like my place South of the Slot."
"Which I've never seen the inside of," said Nick as he went back to peeling and scoring his mound of Brussels sprouts.
"So, what's on the menu? Somethin' smells good."
"Before I tell you, don't forget what I said."
Mike put his fingers to his mouth and made a motion that looked like he was turning a key. "My lips are sealed. As far as I'm concerned, you're just a Navy vet who's an orderly at City Hospital who dumps out bedpans for a living." He grinned a little. "I promise not to mention you could buy City Hospital several times over if it ever caught your fancy."
"Mike..."
Holding up his hands in a motion of surrender. "Don't worry. I won't say a word." He took a sip of his coffee. "Now, what smells so good?"
"That's the turkey. Twelve pounds. I put it in the oven at 8:30. It should be ready by noon."
"What time are we eatin'?"
"As soon as Carter gets here, which should be about 12:45 or so. He gets off at noon and then he'll take a quick shower and then they'll head over. They only live a few blocks away."
Mike leaned against the doorframe. "They?"
"I told you. He lives with his ex-boyfriend, Henry. He's coming, too."
"So that makes four of us."
Nick nodded and finished with last of the sprouts. He put them all in the colander and then ran the water so he could rinse them off.
"What about Jeffery?"
"He's down in L.A. for the holiday weekend. Some guy he met."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. The guyâI think his name is Ralph." Nick thought for a moment. "Or maybe Ralph is the other one. This one, maybe, is Robert. Anyway, Ralph and/or Robert lives in Hollywood and works for Metro, according to Jeffery." He turned off the water and then looked over at Mike. "They met when the cops raided La Vie Parisian right before Halloween. Jeffery got his charges dropped along with all the others who were arrested."
Frowning (an act that turned his otherwise handsome face into something closer to the monster in Frankenstein), Mike crossed his arms. "Yeah. I managed to miss that one. But I did help Jeffery out as much as I could."
"He told me. How's your promotion to lieutenant coming along?"
Mike shrugged. "It could be next week, next month, next year... Who knows?"
He started smiling again and Nick melted just a little, like he had when they first met in the summer of '39.
"But La Vie seems to be a good place for love to bloom."
Nick laughed. "Yeah. Worked for Carter and me."
"What about Janet? Is she coming?"
"I think she's mad at me although I don't know why. I called to invite her, but she never answered."
"How's she doing?"
"Fine, as far as I know." Nick didn't really want to talk about his sister, to be honest. He hoped Mike got the hint.
After looking at the floor for a long moment, Mike turned and walked over to the table. "You have something I can use? These apples and bananas and fruit and say aren't gonna cut and peel themselves."
Nick pulled open a drawer and grabbed a knife. Then he stopped. "Well, wait a minute."
"What?" asked Mike as he unloaded smaller sacks out of the larger bags.
"Lemme think."
"Don't blow a fuse there."
"Ha, ha." Nick looked at the stove and then at all the things on the counter. "So, I've got deviled eggs that I made this morning. A pickle and olive tray that I'll put together after the turkey comes out of the oven. Then there's the stuffing that's cooking with the turkey along with come sliced carrots."
"What kind of stuffing?"
"Sausage." Nick realized he was still holding the knife, so he put it on the counter.
"Where from?"
"A new market I like. Kessler's, down Geary between Hyde and Larkin. Why?"
"Just curious. Now that you're a free man, I thought maybe you might have gone to whoever that gal who cooks for your old man might go to."
Nick snorted. "I'm not gonna get anywhere close to that big pile of rocks up on Nob Hill just for groceries and meat. And what, exactly, do you mean by me being a free man?"
"Free of Jeffery."
Nick sighed. "Yeah. I still feel a little bit bad about all that."
"Don't. I wish I would've never let him convince me to track you down at the Mark Hopkins last summer like I did."
"You seemed pretty convinced we should stay together when you tackled me to the floor that morning."
Mike rolled his eyes and glanced at the stove. "So, turkey, stuffing, carrots. What else?" "Mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts, creamed broccoli au gratin, and, of course, bread and butter."
"Not oleo?"
"You know I hate that stuff."
Mike laughed. "I do. What about dessert?"
Reaching behind the percolator, Nick pulled out a towel-covered tin tray. "I tried my hand at making an apple pie."
Mike jumped up and wandered over to inspect the finished product. He lifted the towel. "That looks almost too good to eat." He stared at Nick with his electric blue eyes. "Why didn't you ever make me a pie?"
"In that kitchen?" Nick put the pie back. "There was barely enough room to make a pot of beans."
"True," said Mike, sounding a little wistful.
"You miss those days?" asked Nick.
"Sometimes."
Looking up at his friend, Nick quietly asked, "You're gonna be nice to Carter, right?"
Mike pressed his lips together as he nodded. "I'll try."
Getting up on his toes, Nick kissed the big man on the cheek. "Thanks."
With a resigned sigh, Mike replied, "You're welcome."
Incandescent by Christina Lee
1
Delaney
September
I pulled into Edgewater Park, glad the rain had held off. Planning an outdoor event in Cleveland was always tricky, even in the late summer months. A storm could blow over the lake at a momentâs notice, but given the stifling humidity in the air, it might almost be a welcome change.
The upper pavilions were located near the auxiliary entrance, and the beach was down below, which was a sight all its own. Even if sunbathers werenât in view from this location, Lake Erie was a glorious, sprawling backdrop, the smooth surface glinting like diamonds in the sun.
My cell buzzed with a text from my friend, Marcus.
Good luck.
I breathed out and quickly fired back a thanks once Iâd pulled into a space.
My sixteen-year-old son, Grant, was sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, holding a plate of brownies weâd made using his late motherâs recipe. Itâd been a tough twenty-two months since Rebecca passed due to long-term complications from a stroke sheâd suffered after his birth. There had always been the risk of another occurrence, a topic weâd tiptoed around for years, and in the end, itâd been a powerful enough one to take her life.
Iâd stepped in to fill her shoes as much as I could, but it definitely wasnât enoughâit would never be enoughâbecause sheâd been the rock of our little family and the love of both our lives. She and Grant had connected on a level he and I never would. He was quirky and brilliant, just like his mother. Whereas she geeked out on science, he loved history, and when their passions overlapped, they were a force to be reckoned with. Grant went all in, collecting relics heâd found in various locations, and she indulged his hobby more enthusiastically than me. Not that I didnât make an effort, but he could tell I was trying too hardâand failing miserably.
Grant adjusted his colonial-era tricorn hat, which was a bit snug on his head. I could already see the sweat forming at his temples, but I kept my lips in a neat, straight line, hoping to get through the day without much fuss. Not that Rebeccaâs family wasnât used to him wearing one period piece or another, despite the temperature. Thankfully, heâd left his militia coat with the hundred silver buttons in the back seat, possibly deciding the humidity might do him in.
I glanced toward the pavilion, spotting her parents and various aunts and cousins already gathered there. My father-in-law, Howard, was in his wheelchair for this event, but around the house, he normally used his walker. His health had deteriorated the past few years, and now that he needed dialysis, he was mostly homebound.
My gut tightened. It was bittersweet coming to their annual family reunion. Weâd nearly passed on attending last year because we justâŠwerenât ready. Weâd only stayed an hour, Grant swiping at his eyes the whole way home. We were a disaster, and it took time to process our sorrow.
I tried to stay strong for Grant, breaking down only after he was in bed. But heâd called me on it more than once. âMom always said to get stuff out and not hold it in.â So now, I tried to be more open when I was having a bad day. Tried being the key word. Sometimes there was no other way around it. When you went through this sort of grief, it was hard to hide the balder moments from each other.
âAll good, kiddo?â I asked as I cut the engine.
âIâm not a kid anymore,â Grant replied in a tight voice, the tension rolling off him. âMom would never call me that. I wish she were here with us.â
I swallowed down the acid in my throat. It was always this way with Grant. Either I said the wrong thing, or he complained I was overprotective. He wasnât wrong, but I still couldnât win where he was concerned. And I certainly didnât want to make a scene in front of family.
âMe too,â I confessed in a softened tone. No truer words could be spoken. âRemember how she loved Aunt Janeâs oatmeal-raisin cookies?â
âYeah.â The corner of his mouth lifted, the taut set of his shoulders easing. At least it wasnât a memory that stabbed us in the gut. âShe always made an extra batch for Mom to take home.â
âThen sheâd sneak them after bed,â I said, and he snickered, likely remembering how she was overly careful with her diet but couldnât help indulging every now and again. Her health was the one thing that always hung over our heads. The stroke had left her with a weakened right arm, and she sometimes wore a brace. But in the end, I wished sheâd allowed herself to indulge more. âWhich was fine by me because theyâre not my favorite.â
âMine neither. Who wants to eat healthy-sounding cookies when thereâs chocolate?â
I chuckled. It was always a family debate and one of the only times Grant sided with me.
âExactly.â
We stared at the lake for a few seconds more, both of us trying to get up the courage in our own ways. It felt serene being near the water again. In fact, Rebecca and I originally lived in a nearby neighborhood until we found our first home on the east side, closer to her parents and my father. Cleveland Heights was a distance from the lake, so the ride here was always a pleasant one, with the boats and the downtown skyline in view.
âWhat do you call a fish wearing a bow tie?â I asked with my hand on the door handle. It was showtime, and even if I wasnât feeling up to it, I needed to act the part. At least for my child.
He rolled his eyes. âWhat?â
âSofishticated,â I replied, pushing the door open.
He groaned, but I spotted the hint of a smile, which was just the effect I wanted. âYouâll have to work on your dad jokes. That was pretty bad.â
âNoted,â I said as I rounded the car, and we inched toward the pavilion.
Rebecca wouldâve said the same. It was a ridiculous thing Iâd started when Grant was in sixth grade and being teased relentlessly by classmates, and apparently, itâd stuck. Middle school had been a challenge for him, so I was relieved when heâd found his stride in high school.
âWait, I forgot my jacket,â he said, handing me the plate and turning back.
Following behind him, I pointed the key fob at the car, unable to stop the words from forming. âItâs really hot out. You sure you shouldnât leave that in theââ
âIâm sure,â he said, yanking it from the back seat, then slamming the door. âMom never cared what I wore.â
His words delivered like a dagger, and I stepped back, my legs momentarily unsteady. âWatch your tone,â I warned. âI know you miss Mom, and so do I. But like it or not, we still need to navigate through life together.â
He grumbled under his breath as he slipped the heavy coat over his shoulders.
I was the overprotective and unreasonable one in the family. The one always worried that Grant would be bullied again. But somehow, my tone resembled my own fatherâs disapproving one a little too well. Still, I wasnât going to allow Grant to call the shots. I was the parent.
Thankfully, my mother-in-law, Donna, flagged us over right then, and I could feel Grant relax as we greeted them with hugs. He loved his grandparents, and theyâd been quite accommodating since Rebeccaâs passing, even though they were grieving too. They showed up at all of Grantâs school events and made dinners when I was running late at work. They helped get us through the overwhelming moments. Between them and my monthly grief group, I was slowly coming out on the other side.
Speaking of the grief group, I didnât see Tristan anywhere and felt a bit disappointed. Weâd immediately connected as outliers in the family, only related by marriage, and both having lost our significant othersâTristanâs late husband was Rebeccaâs cousin. Tristan had referred me to the group at this event last year. Said it helped him not feel so alone when he was grieving Chrisâs death.
âHowâs work?â one of the great-aunts asked, taking the plate of brownies off my hands. Grant had gone off with his younger cousins, who asked him about his hat and begged him to play a game of cornhole. Heâd rolled his eyes when his grandfather had nudged him in their direction, but I think he enjoyed helping them and being admired in return.
âBusy, as usual,â I told her. I was an electrician for a well-known company, and there was plenty on my plate these days.
âPete says the same,â she replied, referring to her husband, who was a roofer. Heâd mentioned once how busy he was in the summer months. âI, on the other hand, am enjoying my summer off from teaching.â
I smiled. âIâll bet.â
As I moved closer to the cooler of beverages, I became reacquainted with the other family members and tried like hell to field all the questions and stories about Rebecca because I knew they meant well. Rebecca had always acted as a buffer and did most of the talking at these things, but in her absence, I was learning to hold my own.
I was able to escape one of the more involved conversations by volunteering to make a run for more ice. I nearly texted Marcus again on the way before remembering he had his own plans with family. Weâd met in the grief group, had grown closer over the past year, and he wouldâve totally understood how overwhelmed I was feeling in that moment.
Once I returned, I watched Grant and his cousins play a game of tag, then headed to the pavilion to load up on cheese and crackers while we waited for the food to be served. When the delicious scent of charred meat wafted toward me, I was pleasantly surprised to spot Tristan near Rebeccaâs uncles, who were manning the grill. I raised my hand in a wave, and he grinned.
Normally, he stayed close to Chrisâs mom and sister, using the opportunity to check in with them. But heâd obviously made other connections along the way, even five years after Chrisâs death. Tristan had shared once that heâd been raised in foster care, so it made sense heâd want to hold on to that sense of belonging with both hands.
I glanced over my shoulder to where Grant was sitting with his cousins, downing a glass of his grandmotherâs raspberry iced tea. The stitch in my chest intensified. It was definitely important to keep this connection for him as well. I felt lost without Rebecca, but this wasnât about me so much as about Grant creating memories and spending as much time with this side of the family as he could.
Heâd begun his junior year two weeks ago, and I prayed it was even better than the last. I certainly never imagined experiencing his first steps into adulthood, let alone high school, without Rebecca.
Once the food was served, I got Grant situated in line with a plate and utensils. His grandmother had done the rest, pointing out all the foods he should try. Along with the meat from the grill, there were all sorts of side dishes that had become staples for me after nearly two decades of marriage to the same person.
âGood to see you,â Tristan said, stepping in line behind me. âYou doing okay?â
âGetting there,â I replied with a smile. I loaded some macaroni salad onto my plate before looking at who was nearby and lowering my voice. âDoes coming to these things ever get easier?â
He frowned. âIn a way, yes. The pain is still there, but it sort of settles into the cracks, if that makes sense.â I nodded because it did. Totally. My heart was shattered, and I wasnât sure Iâd ever be able to patch it up well enough to go on without her. But every day, I proved myself wrong.
âThe way I see it, being here is a way to honor them,â Tristan said closer to my ear. âI donât know how much longer Iâll attendâŠmaybe as long as theyâll have me.â
I felt that tightness in my throat again. âMakes sense.â
He lifted a bun, then passed me the tongs to help myself to the cheese slices and tomatoes for my burger.
âAnd you?â I asked. âHowâs the dog-grooming business?â
Tristan and Chris had opened Doggie Styles together in Rocky River, and Tristan had continued the business solo after his passing, even expanding it and offering day care to their clientele. What a concept. But apparently, it was very popular.
âBusier than ever.â
âThatâs good news.â I winked. âNow get working on an east-side location so we can bring Ruby.â Our golden retriever was eleven years old but still acted like a puppy sometimes, especially when we brought out the tennis ball. But sheâd also slowed down in other ways the last couple of years, and Iâd always wondered how an ownerâs death affected animals. Sheâd taken Rebeccaâs spot in our bed, almost like she wanted to comfort me at night, and I certainly wasnât complaining.
âHell no. Iâm stretched thin enough as it is,â he replied. Likely because his boyfriend, West, took up any remaining time he had. Iâd only met him once, and they made a nice couple. There was maybe a ten-year age difference between them, which wasnât obvious at all, and Tristan was very supportive of Westâs aspirations to be a chef.
I followed Tristan to the nearest picnic table to take the last couple of empty spots. Before getting situated, I checked to make sure Grant was still eating beside his grandparents at the next table.
I greeted Chrisâs mom and sister before finally taking a bite of my burger and savoring it. Iâd slept in late and forgotten to eat breakfast and hadnât realized I was starving. Plus, I always enjoyed the food her family made. I missed Rebeccaâs cooking as well. But we made do, using Rebeccaâs recipes for Grantâs favorite dishes, and over the past few months, weâd brought our own recipes into the mix.
âStill attending the group?â Tristan asked in a quieter voice, which I appreciated. No way I wanted to have that uncomfortable conversation with anyone else, about how someone grieved, or how long, for that matter. At least not today.
âUh-huh.â I wiped my mouth with a napkin. âIâll always be grateful for the referral. Itâs helping me work through my grief, and Iâve made some friends in the process.â
âHow is Marc, by the way?â he asked with a grin. Marcus had joined the group the year before me, and he remembered Tristan from a few sessions before Tristan felt healthy enough to step away for good.
Before I could reply, Chrisâs mom asked Tristan a question about the restaurant where West worked. The conversation spun into other favorite places to eat in town, and I patted Tristanâs shoulder as I stood to throw away my empty cup and plate.
I wandered back over to the pavilion, and after loading dessert on a new plate, I brought it over to Grantâs table to share with him. He immediately reached for the peanut butter cookie while I went for chocolate chip.
âYour mother always loved my oatmeal raisin,â Aunt Jane said to Grant from across the table, and I felt guilty that I didnât include any of her cookies on the plate.
âYeah, she did.â Grantâs smile was sad, making my heart lodge in my throat.
âMaybe we can take some home?â I suggested, if only for nostalgiaâs sake. When Grantâs gaze met mine, I couldnât exactly read his wavering emotions, but I thought maybe there was gratitude there.
Aunt Jane nodded enthusiastically. âIâll pack some up for you.â
âThanks,â I mouthed to her, and Rebeccaâs dad cleared his throat and looked away.
âI like your brownies,â Donna said before taking another hearty bite of one, and it was the perfect transition. âYou added nuts. I approve.â
âIt was Grantâs idea,â I replied, remembering how heâd made the suggestion tentatively, as if it would offend Rebecca. But it was another one of those little changes, nearly undetectable to outsiders, that showed we were moving forward.
We stayed for an hour more before we said our goodbyes and drove back to the east side, to the home where Grant had grown up. In my darker moments, I wanted to sell everything and move, to escape all the memories, but that was another thing the grief counselor didnât adviseâmaking split-second decisions about huge things. Besides, I didnât want Grant to have too many changes in his young life. And most importantly, the house brought him solace, so we kept everything the sameâexcept for Rebeccaâs clothing and the bedding in our room. While the latter had been comforting at first, it became painful soon after. It felt good to opt for fresh sheets that only smelled like detergent. I finally went through her closet around the one-year mark, and having Grant help me was one more step for both of us.
âDid you have fun?â I asked as we turned onto our street.
âI guess so,â he replied with a shrug, keeping his eyes fixed out the window.
Our neighborhood was charming, and our house was too. As I pulled into our driveway, I noted the other Tudors and colonials surrounding us that were also over a hundred years old. They had aged well, along with the quaint businesses in the area. Rebecca and I liked it here and chose not to upgrade because weâd made plans, so many plans, for after Grant graduated from high school and went off to college. They mostly involved traveling and, of course, I could still go alone, but the idea had lost its appeal.
Time. Give yourself time.
âI know itâs hard without Mom,â I said as Grant balanced the plate of oatmeal-raisin cookies on his knee so he could remove his hat. His hair was sweaty underneath, but I resisted pointing it out. That would only lead to another argument. It was actually fitting that he wore the tricorn to Rebeccaâs family reunion because theyâd bought it together from a thrift shop. Halloween was always interesting with the two of them.
Once inside, I fed Ruby, then let her out. Grant got on the computer with one of his two friendsâEllie, I thought, was the most likely option. Jeremyâs time was more limited on the weekends because of his job at the local movie theater.
There were years when Grant didnât have any friends to speak of, not only because of his unique interests but because he was painfully awkward and shy. Kids developed differently, and though he was extremely smart, heâd suffered socially. And just as heâd finally found his footing, the rug was pulled from under his feet again with his motherâs death.
Opening the cupboard where our mugs were stored, I started unloading the dishwasher, my eyes briefly focusing on the different-colored paint stains on the wall. It was the project Iâd abandoned when Rebecca got sick. We had plans to modernize the kitchenânot that I knew what I was doing, but I wouldâve at least made an attempt before asking for backup. Now the idea sat heavy in my gut. I supposed if I was going to stay here and have Grant visit often, I could still finish it.
I headed to the living room, sat down, and propped my feet on the coffee table. Flipping through the television channels, nothing held my interest. I considered working out or taking Ruby for another walk but just wasnât feeling it. She obviously wasnât either because sheâd plopped down by my feet and snored contentedly.
I finally settled on a home-improvement show Rebecca had enjoyed watching. It was how sheâd gotten the idea about the kitchen. She loved looking at all the different tiles and countertops, whereas I always noticed the shoddy electrical work.
Grant had apparently abandoned his computer game because he was suddenly in the room, holding the plate of goodies heâd brought home.
Settling down beside me, he handed me a cookie. âIâm sorry I snapped at you.â
It was a peace offering, and hell if I wouldnât take the opportunity to connect with him like this.
âIâm sorry too,â I said after nibbling the edge of the cookie. âIâll work on not hovering so much.â
âI know you mean wellâŠâ He sighed. âSometimes I get frustrated about, well, everything.â
His confession made my stomach tighten. I wanted to remind him to speak to his therapist about those feelings but didnât want to rock the boat. Besides, he was becoming more self-sufficient and didnât need any reminders from me. That was more obvious than ever.
âSuppose we both got stuff to work on,â I murmured, and he nodded.
We watched and chewed as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And in some ways it wasâŠexcept the cookie part.
âNot bad,â I said, trying not to cringe at the sweetness of the raisins. Who in the hell thought this combination was a good idea?
He smirked, then burst into a full-on chuckle. âYes, they are.â
His laughter was contagious and felt so good, loosening my chest.
I held up what was left of my cookie and clanged it against his half-eaten one. âTo Mom.â
âTo Mom,â he replied before taking one more bite, then setting the unfinished portion on the plate.
I popped the last bite into my mouth and quickly chewed it down. âIt sort of grows on you.â
âWhatever you say.â He cringed, then glanced back at the television. âIs this the show Mom always liked?â
âYup.â I stretched my arm behind his shoulder, and we settled in to watch. As he relaxed against me, I briefly buried my nose in his hair, memorizing his scent.
Weight of Silence by AM Arthur
One
Thanksgiving Day
At precisely 1:21 p.m., Gavin Perez dumped an entire serving bowlâs worth of cranberry sauce on the most adorable boy heâd ever seen. Gavin knew the exact time of the saucing because his mother had just asked him for it (the time, not the sauce), and the only reason he wasnât looking in front of him was because heâd glanced down at his cell phone.
Head down + Push door = Disaster.
He couldnât blame his mother. Sheâd asked an innocent question. Gavin should have stopped walking long enough to check his phone and answer her question. Should have. Did not. Usually did not and/or could not. Theyâd never had the money for an official doctorâs diagnosis, but Gavin had all the major traits of adult hyperactivity.
Plus heâd read a bunch of books on the topic. After twenty-three years, he figured he knew a heck of a lot about himself, including his incurable need to multitask from waking to bedtime. He also had a long mental list of mishaps and accidents caused by his need to be on the move and going at optimum speed. The cranberry sauce collision just jumped to the top of said list.
And to be fair to himself, the incredible cutie heâd sauced hadnât seen him either, or gotten out of the way. They were both trying to go through the same door at the rear of the dinerâGavin into the back room and Cutie Pie out of it and into the dining room. The door had a wide window at eye-level, probably to prevent such accidents during regular business hours, and neither of them had used it.
Gavin had stopped short the moment he realized heâd caused an accident, and Mama ran right into his back, which nearly made him ram into the door a second time. He grabbed it as it swung back at him, ignored Mamaâs curious squawk, and peeked around the corner.
Cutie Pie gaped down at the huge splotch of red goo clinging to the front of his white dress shirt. Most of the sauce was still in the bowl, but some had dripped to the floor and onto his shoes. He hadnât even looked up yet to see whoâd dressed him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But in a diner as small as Dixieâs Cupâand with so many people rushing around getting food out to the counterâtheyâd already drawn a small audience.
âDios mio,â Mama said. Sheâd inched around Gavin to see what had stopped him. âOh dear, thatâs going to stain.â
âMy mother made this from scratch,â Cutie Pie said to the bowl of sauce.
âMost of it is still in there,â Gavin replied.
He thought it sounded helpful, but Cutie Pie gave him a sour look. âIt splashed all up on my shirt. Do you think people want to eat cotton fibers with their cranberry relish?â
âSorry.â That sounded horrible, even to Gavinâs ears. âI mean, Iâm sorry about hitting you with the door.â
âMy fault too.â He gave the cranberry relish such a forlorn, kicked-puppy look that Gavin was struck momentarily speechlessâand that didnât happen often.
âLook, dinner doesnât start for twenty minutes,â Gavin said. âIâm sure we can find some canned sauce somewhere.â
âOn Thanksgiving Day?â
âNo need,â Mama said. âWe have some in the stock room. We can doctor that up and use it for today.â
Cutie Pie blinked. âWhy does Dixie have canned cranberry sauce in stock?â
âFor Barrettâs Gobbler Panini. Itâs a lovely sandwich he does on special once a week.â
âOh.â
Gavin gave himself a mental head-knock. Ever since Dixie had splurged on a Panini press two months ago, her night cook Barrett McCall had been experimenting with combinations. The Gobbler had been a success from the first day. Mama had called Gavin in to taste test it before it went public, and heâd called it âThanksgiving on a bunâ.
Barrett had corrected him and said it was âThanksgiving on ciabattaâ.
âGreat. Problem solved,â Gavin said.
Mama ushered the three of them into the small, cramped back room of the diner. She took the bowl of ruined sauce from Cutie and stuck it in the large industrial sink, then disappeared to root around for the canned sauce.
âHalf the problem is solved,â Cutie said. âI need to change.â
There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, sweetie, very nearly popped out of Gavinâs mouth. That would have been incredibly embarrassing. The simple fact that Cutie Pie was here helping out with Dixie Foskeyâs annual Thanksgiving Feast meant she knew his family, which meant Gavin should know him too. After all, Gavinâs mom had worked for Dixie for over ten years and Cutie Pie was awfully familiar.
âI mean, my shirtâs ruined,â Cutie added.
âNot necessarily,â Gavin said.
âSo big red spots on white shirts are fashionable now?â
The light-hearted tease gave Gavin hope that he hadnât made a total disaster of a first impression. âWell, maybe in a hipper town than Stratton, but we can save the shirt.â
âHow?â
âTake it off.â
âHey, Jace, whatâsâoh.â A brown-haired girl stopped in the back room doorway, eyes wide as she took in the pair of them. âWhat the hell happened to you?â
âMinor accident,â said Cutie Pie, whose name was apparently Jace.
Light bulb!
Gavin knew exactly who they both were now. Jace and Rachel Ramsey, twins, college sophomores, children of Keith Ramsey, local police officer. The Ramseys had been staples of the diner for years, and Gavin had seen Jace dozens of times before without getting lost in the dark shaggy hair, the wide brown eyes or the dimples that wanted to say hello even when he wasnât smiling.
College had been good to Jace Ramsey.
âBut weâre going to fix it,â Gavin said, giving Rachel a bright smile.
âHow?â she asked. âWith blindfolds?â
âCute. No.â
Gavin rescued the ruined cranberry relish from the sink, grabbed Jace by the wrist, and dragged both items around to the small bathroom. He ran the water in the sink until it warmed up, then pulled the stopper and dumped half the cranberries into it.
âTake your shirt off, please,â he said again.
Jace gave him a dubious look but unbuttoned his shirt. Gavin reigned in his instinctive need to check him outâogling while trying to be helpful was rudeâand took the shirt once Jace had stripped it off. Gavin shoved the whole thing into the pink water, which enticed an adorable squeak of protest from Jace.
âTrust me,â Gavin said.
âDo I have to?â
âItâs too late now.â
When the sink was half-full, Gavin turned off the water and swirled the shirt around in it. He realized too late he should have been using gloves, because the water quickly stained his cuticles pink. After a minute of soaking in silence, he released the stopper.
âThere should be a hair dryer in that basket of stuff beside the toilet,â Gavin said. âCan you find it and plug it in?â
Jace hesitated then turned around to rummage. He bent over, instead of squatting down, and the narrow room gave Gavin a lovely view of his ass in those black linen dress pants. An ass that was connected to a trim waist and a lean, smooth back⊠Nope. Gavin snapped his attention back to rinsing out the shirt. The white material was now stained pink all over, instead of only on the front, and by the time the rinse water ran clear, Jace was back with the hair dryer at the ready.
They tag-teamed the shirt until the newly pink fabric was dry enough to wear and only smelled slightly of fruit.
âThat was kind of brilliant,â Jace said after heâd put the hair dryer away.
âI was an accident prone kid. Sometimes you have to get creative when thereâs no money to buy new clothes.â Gavin wasnât ashamed of growing up poor. Most people in Stratton knew him and his mother, and they also knew his father was a deadbeat asshole who Gavin had vowed to kill if he ever laid a hand on him or his mother again.
Jace eyed the shirt but didnât put it on. He didnât seem to know where to focus his attentionâthe shirt, the floor or Gavin. The bizarre nervousness made hopeful little butterflies spring loose in Gavinâs stomach. He hadnât actually lucked into meeting someone his own age in town who wasâ
âHey, you guys coming?â Rachel asked. She appeared in the doorway, and her thin eyebrows shot up when she saw the shirt in Jaceâs hands. âWow, you fixed it.â
âKind of,â Jace said.
âItâs all one color now. I call that fixed.â
âItâs pink.â
âYeah? So are roses and baby butts. Suit up, bro, Iâm hungry.â
Gavin laughed before he could stop himself. He liked Rachel already.
Jace gave him a look that seemed to say, âDonât encourage her,â then put on the shirt. Gavin didnât say it out loud, but he allowed himself a moment to appreciate the fact that Jace looked very good in pale pink. It lightened up his brown hair and made him even more boyishly adorable than he already was. Gavin, with his mixed Mexican and Hawaiian heritage, never had the complexion for pastels.
âAll you need is a black string tie,â Gavin said once Jace buttoned back up and presented himself for inspection. âAnd maybe a jacket to sling over your shoulder. Itâs very Sinatra.â
âGreat, Iâm channeling a dead singer,â Jace said. He was smiling though, which gave Gavin hope that he hadnât made a complete fool of himself.
âA dead singer who had men and women falling all over him.â
Jaceâs eyebrows jumped. âAnd probably a mafia boss or two puppeteering his entire career.â
âA man who knows old Hollywood.â Gavin had to mentally stop himself from falling head over heels into insta-crush with Jace. âWhere have you been my whole life?â
A clever comeback failed Jace, and Rachel turned away with a soft giggle that made the hairs on the back of Gavinâs neck prickle. Gavin had come out to his mother when he was fourteen, and heâd never been shy about his sexuality around his peers. A small town like Stratton left him with few dating options, which mean frequent trips into Harrisburg for more exciting weekend entertainment than watching his straight friends get laid. But Jace Ramsey, who Gavin had always considered a straight WASP from the suburbs, was actually blushing over Gavinâs comment.
Jace + Gay = Too good to be true.
âAnywho,â Gavin said, âtheyâre probably ready to start serving out there.â
âYeah, we should go.â
And they did, out into a diner full of people chatting in small groups. Dixie had begun the Thanksgiving Day tradition more than ten years ago when she found out her recently hired waitress LucĂŹa and her son Gavin didnât have money for even a basic Turkey Day meal. She invited them to eat with her and her nephew Schuyler, who was home from college with a roommate who couldnât afford the trip home to be with his own family. The following year, Dixie held the dinner in the diner and invited more people. By its fifth year, Thanksgiving at the diner was a tradition, with more than a dozen families coming to eat. Most contributed some sort of side dish or dessert, and all of the food was set up at the counter assembly-line style.
Schuyler Rhodes, local art teacher and snazzy dresser, was in his usual spot at the far end of the counter, ready to carve the first of two turkeys. Several other folks were lined up with him to help serve different dishes that included sweet potatoes, cracker dressing, cornbread dressing, several different kinds of vegetables, macaroni and cheese and a green bean casserole that Barrett McCall had deconstructed and remade from scratch.
Deconstructed for the fun of it, heâd told Gavin earlier that morning, to which Gavin had rolled his eyes. His own culinary endeavors extended to frozen dinners and instant rice. The microwave was his best friend in the kitchen. He was the only person he knew who could burn water.
Jace and Rachel rejoined their familyâKeith and his wife, Becky, and their older sister Lauren. The five of them made a perfect middle-class unit, with their nice clothes and matching brown hair and smiles. Gavin was used to sticking out in a crowd, but for some reason, today his unique look and the thrift store dress shoes made him feel uncomfortable. He hadnât felt so uncomfortable in a crowded room of people since heâd presented an eighth-grade science project in front of an auditorium full of his classmates.
Gavin joined Dixie, Schuyler, Barrett, Mama and their overnight cook Old Joe behind the counter to serve. Gavin had volunteered to serve this year when Rey King bowed out of the entire dinner. Apparently heâd gone to New Mexico with his boyfriend to spend time with Samuelâs family; but nice guy (and fantastic chef) that he was, heâd left a cold broccoli slaw behind to be served to Dixieâs guests.
A new bowl of cranberry sauce sat next to the other cold salads. Gavin glanced down the line to Mama and she winked.
After a piercing whistle quieted the room, Dixie stood up on a chair to address everyone. Her wild, frizzy white hair was tied back beneath a pilgrim hat-printed bandana, and she was wearing her favorite turkey apron. âHey, everyone,â she said. âWelcome. As always, weâve got some new faces, and weâve got some old faces. Weâve also got some really old facesââ she pointed at herself, and everyone laughed, ââand a few faces who arenât here this year. But now that weâre together under one roof, letâs celebrate what weâre thankful for and eat some fabulous food.â
Dixie went on to say a brief grace, which Gavin tuned outâhe didnât see much point in thanking someone who never seemed to pay much attention to him or his motherâand then it was time to serve. He chatted with everyone who came through the line. Even if his mother didnât still work here, heâd been a busboy all through high school, so he knew pretty much everyone anyway.
The Ramseys came through with their plates and Gavin doled out spoonfuls of their chosen vegetables. Jace was last, and he couldnât seem to look Gavin in the eye, which Gavin found incredibly endearing. Jace did, however, manage to ask for a little extra of the candied carrots and creamed spinach, which Gavin filed away for future reference. He never knew when favorite foods might become useful information.
Once the line was down and everyone else was served, the servers grabbed plates and helped themselves. Gavin loaded his with turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, and as many of the other sides as he could handle without it all spilling onto the floor. His somewhat plump mother always bemoaned his bizarre metabolism and ability to eat anything he wanted and still stay thin as a rail. Gavin blamed it on being tall. And hyperactive.
All of the tables had been arranged in the center of the diner as one long, continuous line so they could eat community-style. Gavin was mildly disappointed that Jace was sandwiched on both sides by his sisters, so Gavin took a seat near the far end with Mama, Schuyler and Barrett.
ââswear his shirt was white when they got here,â Schuyler was saying when Gavin sat down.
âWhose shirt was white?â he asked innocently.
âJaceâs. It was white and now itâs pink.â
âAre you sure?â
Mama laughed and covered with a cough. Barrett patted Schuylerâs shoulder and said, âItâs okay. I think youâre just getting senile.â
Schuyler frowned. âLook whoâs talking, old man.â
Gavin grinned. The pair were nowhere near old, but they were pretty funny to watch together. Outside of his art room at school, Schuyler had always been so stiff and boring. Barrett seemed to bring out his fun, livelier side.
Gavin was too busy stuffing his face to contribute to the various conversations happening around him. He ate fast, always had and always would, because he hated sitting still for too long. Even for meals. Mama said heâd been a terror as a toddler, never wanting to stay put longer than three minutes at a time before running off to play. It had been hell on his fatherâs temper, though, which heâd take out on Mama, and that was one of the few things Gavin actively regretted.
Heâd filled his plate so well that he didnât need to go for seconds, but the opportunity to chat with Jace presented itself when the object of his attention stood up and headed for the food. Gavin grabbed his plate and quickly excused himself. His stomach was tight and full to bursting, and his neck prickled with awareness when he stood next to Jace in front of the vegetable dishes.
âSo howâs the cranberry sauce?â Gavin whispered.
Jace choked and nearly dropped the carrot spoon. âApparently your mom explained the accident to my mom, and now my mom is considering the merits of natural fruit fabric dyes.â
Gavin snickered. âI didnât know your mom was that crafty.â
âSheâs not, she just spends too much time on Pinterest.â
âAh.â He watched Jace scoop up more carrots, spinach and someoneâs three-bean salad. Gavinâs stomach hated him for the spoonful of carrots he added to his own plate. He would never take food he didnât intend to eat, but he didnât want to be so obvious about why heâd returned to the counter.
âSo you go to Temple, right?â Gavin asked, hoping to stall the conversation a while longer.
âYeah, Rachel and I both go there.â
They moved out of the way of some other folks who wanted food and stood off to the side with their plates.
âDo you like it?â
Jace hesitated. âItâs okay. Iâve never been the academic type like my sisters, so itâs hard for me. Weâve got finals two weeks after I get back.â He said the word finals like it tasted nasty in his mouth.
âI was never great at school.â Gavin got in trouble so often that he was lucky heâd graduated on time with his classmates. âLoved sports, though.â
âYeah?â Jace gave him a once-overâprobably confirming that yes, Gavin had an athleteâs bodyâbut it came off as checking him out. And Jace blushed for the second time that day. Adorable. âWhat sports?â
âFootball, basketball, baseball, you name it and Iâve played it. I wasnât great at all of them, but I tried them all at least once.â
âItâs good to try new things.â
âSo Iâve heard.â Jace seemed to correctly interpret the flirty line. Only instead of getting embarrassed, his awkward smile actually looked interested. Even though this was too good to be true, Gavin sped forward because he had nothing to lose. âYouâre home for the whole weekend?â
âUntil Sunday morning, yeah,â Jace said. âItâs not a long drive to Philly, but I have a paper due Monday and I didnât want to bring the work home with me.â
âMakes sense. Look, my buddy Casper is having a party tomorrow night. Not a huge one, but some people I know, so if youâre interested it could be fun to hang or something.â Gavin was babbling, so he shut up and let his offer stand.
âYou have a friend named Casper?â
âNickname. Dude wouldnât tan if you spray-painted him.â
Jace laughed, then his smile turned upside down. âYou know Iâm only nineteen, right?â
âOh, well, you donât have to drink. I usually donât.â And that wasnât a line. He hated alcoholâyet something else he could thank his jerk of a sperm donor for. âIt was just a thought.â
âOkay.â
âOkay?â
Jace grinned. âI donât have any plans tomorrow. What timeâs the party?â
âNine-ish. I can pick you up.â
âOkay, cool. Iâll get your number before I leave today.â
âSure, awesome.â
Gavin stood there for several seconds after Jace walked back to his family. He wasnât going to make anything out of the âdateâ until something actually happened, but the fact that he was going to hang out with this crush-worthy boy for a few hours was enough to float him through the rest of the afternoon.
College had definitely been good to Jace Ramsey.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after â 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 isnât with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a weekâs break from writing, she didnât like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldnât 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.
Lorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming. Friends for years, the duo decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;).
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
Once upon a time, Christina Lee was a wardrobe stylist in New York City. She spent her days schlepping clothes, hailing cabs, and on the hunt for the perfect lip gloss, which became a bit of an addictionâalong with books and coffee. You could always find her perched in a corner booth of a favorite diner sipping a dark roast and reading.
She currently lives in the Midwest with her husband and sonâher two favorite guys. Sheâs been a clinical social worker and a special education teacher and while very rewarding, they still didnât feel like an exact fit. It wasnât until she began writing a weekly column for the local newspaper that the bells went off in her head. She could finally draw from her real-life experiences and vivid imagination to write fictionâand sheâs never looked back.
Christina writes romance in different sub-genres, but mostly with LGBTQ characters because representation matters and everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.
A.M. Arthur was born and raised in the same kind of small town that she likes to write about, a stone's throw from both beach resorts and generational farmland. She's been creating stories in her head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long, in a losing battle to make the fictional voices stop. She credits an early fascination with male friendships (bromance hadn't been coined yet back then) with her later discovery of and subsequent love affair with m/m romance stories. A.M. Arthur's work is available from Carina Press, SMP Swerve, and Briggs-King Books.
When not exorcising the voices in her head, she toils away in a retail job that tests her patience and gives her lots of story fodder. She can also be found in her kitchen, pretending she's an amateur chef and trying to not poison herself or others with her cuisine experiments.
Lorelei M Hart
EMAIL: Lorelei@mpregwithhart.com
Christina Lee
Perfect Gifts by RJ Scott & VL Locey
The Alpha's Cranberry-Kissed Omega by Lorelei M Hart
Thanksgiving, 1947 by Frank W Butterfield
Incandescent by Christina Lee
Weight of Silence by AM Arthur
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