Summary:
Snowed Inn
When a travel blogger with a serious love for color and a billionaire with the most gorgeous dark eyes serendipitously meet at a hotel in the Colorado mountains, could it be the start of a true holiday romance?
Quirin Brukmiller grumbles when he is told he must go into the snow and cold to write a travel report about The Retreat, aka The Rainbow Inn, an LGBTQ-friendly hotel high up in the mountains. After some gentle persuasion in the form of free clothing from his favorite company, he packs his bags and is now ready to brave the snow for the first time. At the hotel, he has the most perfect meet-cute ever to be written for a rom-com and chooses to make the best of this golden opportunity fate has given him.
Kaimana Tilo just sold his biotech company for several billion dollars and came out to his parents. Both decisions went down like lead balloons with his conservative, money-loving family. To get some distance, a clear head, and to have his first appearance as an out gay man, he takes a trip to a charming inn deep in the mountains of Colorado. Before he has a chance to check into his room, he meets the man of his dreams. For once, life is smiling down on him, and Kai has every intention of keeping the colorful man who practically landed in his lap at his side.
When an avalanche blocks the road to the hotel forcing them to stay together longer, it is just the last sign that what they have is bound to last forever.
Summary:
Jack Frost is all about the freezing cold, and he not only wants to freeze the earth, but he also wants to freeze people's hearts. When he sees two lovers kissing under the mistletoe, he vows to split them up. Teddy and his husband, Kirk, are still in love. Will they let a little frost come between them?
Summary:
When Kendall is let down by the Santa and photographer he’s booked for his garden centre, he frantically tries to find replacements. But no one is available to step in at the last minute and he’s running out of time and options.
Then Alfie arrives, with his electric-blue hair, piercings, megawatt smile, and three cute reindeer. And, he just happens to be a photographer. Finally, Kendall sees a glimmer of hope. So what if he hates Christmas, kids, beards and missing Santas? Kendall can play Santa himself, if he just learns how to smile.
As Kendall thaws and gets into the role, Alfie has renewed hope that he’ll manage what he came all the way here to do. It all depends on Kendall believing him, and that suddenly becomes a mountain Kendall won’t even try to climb. But Alfie won’t give up. It’s not over yet. This is Christmas and there’s magic in the air!
Summary:
A stolen Christmas present brings together two strangers who long for hearth and home at the holidays.
It’s mere days before Christmas when the gift Clayton intends to give to his nephew, an antique Bowie knife and hand-beaded sheath, is stolen. Clayton must track them down before Christmas morning.
A lost & found ad is posted for the Christmas knife’s safe return, bringing scammers crawling out of the woodwork who only want the reward. That is, until Clayton gets a call from a man named Kyle, who says he just wants to return the knife and sheath to Clayton, and he doesn’t want the reward.
Is it just another scam or can Clayton trust him? Clayton takes a risk and heads to Kyle’s house to pick up the Christmas knife. Over the phone, Kyle’s voice becomes Clayton’s only beacon as he makes his way through a whiteout blizzard.
After a long drive across the prairies during a raging, pre-Christmas winter storm, will Clayton find more than what he is looking for?
Contemporary m/m romance, holiday blizzard, fireplace kisses, lost presents, long drives, family, contemporary, sweet, HEA.
Crispin Henry isn’t an adventurer. He learned early on that the world is a frightening place and that home is rare and precious. If his friends didn’t drag him to sports games and ill-advised trips to Vegas, he wouldn’t get out at all—and his trip to Munich for Oktoberfest is no exception. But it’s there that he meets Luka Gabriel, and he learns to take a chance.
Luka is a free-spirited world traveler, working at Oktoberfest to feed his enchantment with new places and new people. His only possessions fit in his backpack, and he depends on the kindness of strangers for a place to sleep. Crispin should know better—but he takes Luka’s hand anyway, and together they turn three nights in Munich into the relationship neither of them has been brave enough to risk—and neither can let go of.
When Luka turns up on Crispin’s doorstep before the holiday season, Crispin takes him in on hope alone. Yes, he knows the odds are good Luka will flutter out of his life again and leave him bereft, but isn’t it worth it to see if Luka is a homebird after all?
Random Tales of Christmas 2022
The Real Kaimana by Xenia Melzer
Chapter One
QUIRIN
“Explain to me again, Melissa, why in all the possible monochromatic hells, I, a sun-loving California boy, should go to Colorado of all places and in winter of all times? I mean, you must see how that’s not a good fit.” Quirin Brukmiller, travel blogger extraordinaire and connoisseur of all things colorful, was pacing his cozy apartment in San Rafael, a town on the outskirts of San Francisco. It had all the advantages of a big city, but none of the noise and crowds he disliked. He wondered if his editor at the It’s a Beautiful World magazine had finally caved under the stress. It sure sounded like it. Colorado in December meant tons of snow. He’d seen it on TV. It was real.
“Come on, Q, you’re a travel blogger. You go everywhere to find beautiful places to spend a vacation. Think of it as a service to your loyal fans.” Melissa was wheedling, so she at least knew how abysmal her idea was.
“First of all, it’s Quirin, please, or I don’t know maybe Sugarcheeks or even Honeybun but never, ever call me Q again. We never liked his character on Star Trek to begin with, and since the second season of Picard, we hate him!” He couldn’t stress that enough. Q outranked even the Borg Queen, and she was a nasty piece of work.
“Fine, I’m sorry. Still, you need to go to Colorado. I’ve already booked the flight and room for you.”
“You should have asked me before. I’ve never even seen real snow in my life, Melissa. What am I going to do with so much of it I can be buried underneath?”
“But can’t you see? That’s the beauty of the whole thing. You get to experience something completely new. Not only for yourself but also for our readers and your fans. You can give them a first-hand description of what snow feels like. Isn’t this opportunity too good to pass up?”
“Desperate is not a good look on you, Melissa.”
“Fine. Here is the cold—pun definitely intended, now that I think of it—hard facts. The higher-ups want more winter-themed contributions in the mag, and you’re our star travel journalist. The Retreat has been recommended to us often enough to stand out, and I have already booked several activities for you to get a good impression of what the hotel has to offer. You can’t back out because you still owe me for Hawaii if you need reminding. Now clench up or man up or whatever upping you have to do to get in the right frame of mind and start packing. Your flight is in two days on the nineteenth and you will be back on the twenty-third right before Christmas.”
Quirin ground his teeth. Mentioning Hawaii was a low blow. It wasn’t his fault that the hotel he’d been checking out hadn’t been as queer-friendly as they had portrayed themselves to be. And that guest could have just said no and been done with it instead of a little harmless flirting being blown so wildly out of proportion that Quirin had looked like a bad guy. Which was absolutely laughable given his measly five-foot-four inches and plump figure compared to the six-two man he had invited for a drink. As it had turned out, that man’s ego had been as fragile as he had been tall and good-looking. The hotel got pissed, and Quirin was asked to leave. What a shame.
“That was mean. This is the last time you’re allowed to invoke Hawaii.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Melissa replied, barely suppressing a snort. Quirin just knew it.
“I don’t even have the appropriate clothes. The warmest thing I own is a jacket.” Quirin wasn’t above whining. To avoid a meeting with the cold, white fluff, he was willing to do a lot more than just whine. Actually, vanishing without a trace sounded very good at the moment. Or he could go visit his sister in Peru and help her dig new fountains.
“Actually, that’s not true.” Melissa sounded entirely too happy. “I’ve talked to CreativeEco. You know that new clothes company you’ve been gushing about in your latest blog?”
How could he not know? They were everything Quirin thought perfect in a new company for a new time full of challenges like climate change and the dwindling of resources.
“What about them?”
“Get this. They’ve seen your blog and were over the moon with the exposure you brought them. Because of this, they’re willing to outfit you for the trip. You have a meeting with them tomorrow at five.”
Quirin hesitated. Clothes from CreativeEco. For free. Probably from their newest collection. For a trip to Colorado. He sighed. If he had to brave the white and cold, he deserved to do it in the best and prettiest clothes he could find. Melissa, who seemed to have sniffed his weakening resolve, dealt the killing blow.
“You can also select from their summer collection and keep up to four items as long as you mention and wear them at your next sunny destination.”
Immediately Quirin saw the gorgeous flowing tunic in yellow, orange, seafoam green, and deep blue in front of his inner eye. When he’d first spotted it on CreativeEco’s website, he’d started debating whether he should save up for it. With the money he had put away in his piggy bank—aka the always empty pit where hopes and dreams died—he could probably afford the espadrilles in bright orange that would go perfectly with the tunic. Which meant he would be ready when the beach season started.
“Fine, but if I freeze to death, I reserve the right for an ‘I told you so.’ And you have to sing ‘Sleeping Sun’ at my funeral.”
“Deal. I’m sending you the travel details and the address where you’re meeting the people from CreativeEco. Have fun. And make a killer blog. People love you.”
After she had exhausted her supply of niceties—Melissa was one of those people who had to ration it because politeness didn’t come naturally for her—she ended the call with a short bye. At the beginning of their working relationship, Quirin had found her rude and thought she had it out for him until he had witnessed her being actually rude to some entitled douchebag who thought he could dictate what the magazine wrote about his travel company just because he had a full-page ad in it. Now Quirin knew Melissa was being practically affectionate with him. As with so many things in life, it all depended on one’s point of view.
A ping announced an incoming email on his laptop. He sat down on his sofa to look at it and found the details for his trip to The Retreat. Curious where he would be going, Quirin opened the file. Melissa had sent him his flight information as well as his itinerary. A snowboarding course, shudder, a crocheting class where he would be making his very own woolen hat, interesting, and a speed dating event organized by an outside source on the twenty-second, the night before he would leave. Perhaps he had to kill Melissa after all.
Clicking on the link brought him to the website for The Retreat, also referred to as The Rainbow Inn by the locals according to the short text under the huge picture of a cozy-looking building with at least two feet of snow on the roof. It was four miles from a small town called Chester Lake and was located close to Thurlo Peak on the other side of the more touristy skiing places. A shuttle transported those that wanted to go skiing or snowboarding to Storm Peak from which the entire skiing area of Thurlo Peak—a network of over fifty miles of course—could be accessed. He would be landing at Thurlo Valley Regional Airport, a forty-minute drive from The Rainbow Inn.
The hotel itself looked rustic in the pictures, with lots of wood everywhere and appearing as if it served as the setting for a Hallmark movie. It offered forty-five rooms, all on the smaller side because the building was historic, plus a honeymoon suite and five one-bedroom cabins along with two bunk cabins with ten sleeping places for team-building events. There were several meeting rooms available, some stores next to the reception desk, a spa and gym complex with a small pool, a large pond where people could go ice-skating, a hot spring, and a cable course. Reading the description, Quirin thought maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea. He loved unique hotels and this one even had a ghost in one of the elevators who he couldn’t wait to meet.
A Frostbite Christmas by Lynn Michaels
Kirk wrapped his arm around Teddy’s side and pulled him closer. “You smell good.”
“The whole house smells good.” Peppermint and holly permeated the living room from the candles he’d lit earlier.
“I smell that, but it’s you I want to eat up.” He licked under Teddy’s earlobe, making him squirm.
“Stop.” He swatted playfully at Kirk’s arm. They could play the scene over a million times, and it would never get old.
“Mm…I’ll stop.”
“No. Don’t stop.”
Kirk chuckled. “Make up your mind, Pupo.”
Teddy loved it when Kirk called him that. It was Italian for baby, but it meant more than any generic baby ever could as far as pet names went. Teddy practically purred as he wiggled his backside against Kirk.
For a few minutes, they settled in, Teddy loving the warmth of Kirk’s body behind him and the tree lights blinking in front of them. The holiday scent surrounded them in warmth like an invisible blanket. Teddy couldn’t be happier.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” Kirk interrupted his lovely peace.
“Sure, hun.”
“So…” He ran his fingers through Teddy’s hair. “Who was that guy?”
“What guy?” Teddy closed his eyes, enjoying Kirk’s ministrations.
“That Jack guy.”
“Oh. One of your employees, maybe? He said he knew you.”
“Yeah? I don’t know. As an instructor, I have a lot more people in front of me, but the class only has me. They all remember me a lot easier than I can remember all of them, but…”
“But what?”
“I think I’d remember Jack. He was, uh, distinctive.”
Teddy suspected Kirk was a bit jealous. “Mmm.”
“What he’d want? I mean—”
“He was being sociable, then asked me about helping him with a party. That’s all.”
Kirk grunted.
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.”
Teddy waited.
“He was flirting with you. I didn’t like him.”
The Santa Problem by Barbara Elsborg
By the time Kendall got round to his coffee, it had gone cold. With a surge of annoyance, he shoved it across his desk and only just managed to catch it before it slid over the edge. That morning, he’d had to deal with one problem after another. Lazell’s Garden Centre was an albatross around his neck. He’d taken the job because the pay was good, and now he couldn’t find anything that paid better, not that he was qualified to do. If his CV didn’t inspire him, then it wasn’t going to inspire anyone else.
He’d come to work with a headache and it had intensified to the point that he thought he might need to find a dark place to lie down if it didn’t ease off.
Could he sort out the non-arrival of Christmas ornaments specifically ordered by an increasingly belligerent customer who had phoned every day for the past two weeks demanding to know when the miniature gnomes were going to arrive? What did the guy want him to do? Hop on a plane to China and stand over the suppliers until they sorted themselves out? Fortunately, he managed not to say that.
Then Danny had tripped over a wire deer in the outdoor section and broken his ankle, as well as crushing the deer. An accident waiting to happen. The guy was the clumsiest person Kendall had ever met. The deer was a write-off and so was Danny at their busiest time of the year. Though Kendall was already wondering if there was something Danny could do while he was recovering. Probably not. The centre’s insurance policy wouldn’t let that happen.
When news came that the Christmas tree netting machine had broken down, Kendall began to think he should have stayed in bed. Though it turned out to be an easy fix, something jammed that he’d been able to unjam. Not so the lights going out in the Christmas section. Flicking a switch on the circuit board hadn’t worked and Kendall had been forced to call an electrician. Still, the lights were on again now.
His phone rang and he glared at it. The way today was going, he was almost sure he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
“Kendall Blackstone.”
“Ah Mr Blackstone. This is Santas Are Us. I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem.”
Of course you fucking do. Kendall closed his eyes and put the palm of his hand to his throbbing forehead. “Right.”
“The Santa we’d allocated for Lazell’s has been sent a plane ticket to visit his daughter in Australia. It will be the first time he’s seen his grandchildren, so you can imagine how excited—”
“Get to the point,” Kendall snapped.
“You were very specific with your requirements with regards to the Santa you wanted and we don’t have anyone else to send.”
Kendall unclenched his teeth. “Wonderful. So I have children booked to see Santa at the garden centre tomorrow and I have to tell them he’s gone to Australia?”
“Well, no, you don’t have to tell them that.”
Kendall rolled his eyes. Sarcasm was lost on this idiot. “Then what do you think I should tell them? There must be someone else you can send. What if I revise my requirements?”
“I’m sorry. It would make no difference. There’s no one else on our books at all.”
“Then you come and do it!”
“I’m a double amputee.”
That’s convenient.
“I lost my legs in a motorcycle accident.”
Shit. “Sorry to hear that. I’m sorry for snapping. I’m just… What about the photographer? Is he or she still coming?”
“Ah…”
Kendall could almost feel his blood pressure rocketing.
“He’s Santa’s son and he’s going with him to Australia.”
For fuck’s sake!
The Christmas Knife by Jackie North
Chapter 1
It all began with the two-part gift, out of the blue, from Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill, who ran a dude ranch in Farthing, Wyoming, was always coming up with something he'd dug up in the barn, which had been used as a repository of detritus for years. Sometimes what he'd found was just old junk, good for a curious look, but other times, he'd come up with pure gold. And, as he had a generous heart, he'd give it away without a thought to the monetary value of it.
Hence, the antique, bone-handled Bowie knife belonging to Uncle Bill's Great Grandad Pete had come into Clayton's possession, he being one of Uncle Bill's many, many favorite nephews. They were all his favorites, and all of them knew it, but perhaps Clayton held a special place in his heart. Which was why there'd been such a fond look on Uncle Bill's face when he'd gifted the Bowie knife to Clayton.
"You might give it to that nephew of yours," Uncle Bill had said. "He's old enough, ain't he?"
He might be, but as Clayton clutched the knife in his hand, he looked down at the floor of the old barn at the dude ranch, inhaled the smell of horses and hay, and nodded even as he frowned.
"No time for hesitation," said Uncle Bill in that firm, commanding way of his. "Your sister's newly married and, from the sounds of it, this new husband isn't like the old one. He won't keep her from her own family because he ain't like that. Didn't he just invite you for Christmas?"
Having not seen his sister Sarah for over two years, Clayton's heart jumped with hope that the visit would be a good one and a start to their relationship beginning anew.
"That first husband kept her away, but she let him," said Clayton. He didn't mumble this, as Uncle Bill did not like mumblers. "She let him."
"She did at that," said Uncle Bill, in that prosaic way of his. "But she saw the sense of it and divorced that shitty guy and married this better one. She wants you in her life, she wants you in little Shawn's life. I've talked to Luke, that husband of hers, on the phone. He don't care about your nature, from what I can tell. He just wants a table full of family at holiday time with a big, golden turkey in the middle."
Nature was how Uncle Bill referred to Clayton's being gay, but he said it with affection, with nary an ounce of reproach. That's just how Uncle Bill was; he used words as he saw fit and you couldn't contradict him, or he'd get riled, and you didn't want Uncle Bill riled because he would go on and on.
"Here's the other part," said Uncle Bill. With two hands, he held out a newspaper wrapped article. "Go on now, take it."
As Clayton took it, Uncle Bill told the story of it, as he liked to do.
"This is a bone-handled Bowie knife in a beaded leather sheath, which was hand done by a half-Native American woman of the Arapaho tribe. Her name was Adeline, and she was a good friend of your Great Grandad Pete's."
Clayton unwrapped the faded yellow newspaper until the shimmer of beads was laid bare. The sheath was made of thin leather that crackled with age, the fringes of it broken and worn at the ends. The beads shone as though they were newly made, though the line of the pattern was ragged where the thread that held the design was breaking. When he drew out the Bowie knife, the blade glinted, worn thin, and he could easily see the stories it could tell.
"Now, you take that—" Uncle Bill shook his finger as he pointed at the knife and sheath in Clayton's hands. "There's a very skilled fellow in Dickinson, South Dakota, by the name of Ricky Patterson. His family has lived in those parts since the town was born. You take that up to him, and he'll remake it—"
"Take it up?" asked Clayton.
"You don't send something that valuable through the mail, boy. You babysit it every step of the way," said Uncle Bill, scolding. "It's too fragile for the mail, and I wouldn't trust anybody with it but you. And Ricky, of course. He can make a new pouch, and re-bead it exactly like it is right now, with good, new thread, and sturdy, thick deerskin leather."
Clayton took a breath and thought this through. He was off from his long-distance truck driving job for the holidays, so the thought of doing exactly that, driving across the empty plains, made him feel tired.
On the other hand, he could drive his own car, and wouldn't have to pull off every time there was a weigh station or a state line with a port of entry where he'd have to register. He could just sail on by drinking fountain soda and munching on whatever salty snack he'd gotten from the gas station. He could listen to his music at full volume without having to also listen for a phone call from the trucking depot.
"Okay," said Clayton. He looked at Uncle Bill and smiled. "It's a good idea. Thank you, and for these." He gestured with both his hands full of the two-part gift. "Shawn will love them."
"And he'll love you for giving them to him," said Uncle Bill. "Which is the point, of course." Uncle Bill smiled with his teeth, his head tilted back, pleased with himself. "I'll call Ricky to tell him you're on your way."
"Now?" asked Clayton, though he realized it was already too late to object; Uncle Bill had made his mind up and that was that. "Today?"
"You can plow on up to Dickinson and meet him at the bowling alley by nighttime—"
"The bowling alley?" asked Clayton.
"There's only one," said Uncle Bill, calm in the face of Clayton's concern. "Everyone hangs out there, and Ricky likes to bowl."
"How long will it take him once I get up there?" asked Clayton, already arranging in his mind how long it would take him to gas up the car and get up there.
"A few days, if he's got nothing else going on," said Uncle Bill. "You'll have enough time to drive down to south Denver and join your sister on Christmas Eve."
It might sound farfetched, and though Clayton had some reservations, Uncle Bill's ideas were usually good ones. Besides, he could already imagine the look on his nephew Shawn's face when he got the Bowie knife and beaded sheath on Christmas morning.
He and his sister had not seen each other in over two years. He'd gone to visit Sarah right before the holidays, and Sarah's now ex-husband had found out that Clayton was gay. The ex had stormed and raged and thrown Clayton out, denouncing him as an unnatural sinner and, what's more, a pedophile.
Clayton had been horrified at the idea, and brokenhearted that Sarah had not stood up to the ex. And it wasn't only that he'd been thrown out of the house; any future contact had been forbidden. It had been positively medieval, the whole thing, and the emptiness in Clayton's heart had yet to heal. But this was a start, and it was all because of his favorite uncle.
"Thank you, Uncle Bill," said Clayton. "I really mean it, this is something special."
"And you can clear your head of all that hate for her ex, and let the high prairie soothe your heart while you drive, you hear me?" asked Uncle Bill.
"Yes, Uncle Bill," said Clayton obediently, but it was with a smile. He was Uncle Bill's favorite nephew, after all.
This idea of his uncle's would work. It would break the ice with Sarah and allow them to rebuild their relationship. He missed her something fierce, and he missed the way Shawn would look up at him with wide eyes when Clayton told of his drives across the country. And then he'd call him Uncle Clayton, and Clayton's heart would melt like butter on a hot griddle. He missed all of that, and more, and he wanted it back. Uncle Bill had just given him a shove in the right direction.
Homebird by Amy Lane
A Domestic Sparrow
“SO YOU’LL fill the bird feeder every other day?” Crispin Henry asked his sister. “I know they’re migrating soon, but I want them to think this is a good place.”
“Yes, Potato Crisp. Every other day. Do you even know what kind of birds they are?”
“I keep meaning to look it up,” Crispin confessed, counting seven pairs of socks and putting them in the bottom of the suitcase. “I’m afraid to find out that they’re not really the same birds I see every year. Right now I feel like we’re bonding.”
Millie smiled cheekily and leaned against the doorframe of his bedroom, holding his cat, Steve Rogers. Steve, being the genial beast he was, rolled over in her arms so his silver-gray belly turned up and she could give him a luxurious tummy scratch while they spent time together.
“Oh, Captain,” Millie cooed. “You’re getting fat!”
“He won’t stop eating,” Crispin told her, folding the last shirt for his suitcase. “Every time I look, he’s got his face in the trough. If I try to measure out the food over the day, he waits until night when I’m asleep and bats the back of my head.” He ignored Millie’s laughter while he did a quick count. He would be gone six days, so he needed three pairs of pants—two jeans, one pair of slacks—six T-shirts, two dress shirts, seven pairs of socks, and seven pairs of underwear—
“You know, that’s a lot of clothes to haul around,” Millie said, dubious. “You can wear the pants more than once, and you only need two sweaters.”
“For just in case,” Crispin said, pulling his fingers through his dark, curly hair. “You know I don’t like to get caught—”
“Unprepared,” she finished, rolling her eyes. “It’ll be okay, Crispy. What’s the worst that can happen? You end up washing your underwear in the hotel sink? I’m sure they’ve seen worse.”
Crispin darted his eyes at her and fidgeted, wishing he had her confidence. Millie wasn’t, strictly speaking, his sister by blood. His parents had passed away when he was young, and she’d been his foster parents’ surprise baby—as in “Surprise! We just got cleared for foster parenting and we’re having a baby!”
They’d both lucked out, it seemed, because her parents, Carmen and James Henry, had been lovely people, born to be parents. They’d died in a car accident when Millie was sixteen, but Crispin had been in college then, and they’d each had a small inheritance. He’d moved back to Sacramento and finished his degree at the local state school so Millie could finish high school in the house she’d grown up in. She’d moved on and gone to college on her own, and then moved back with her husband. They rented an apartment downtown, and Crispin stayed in the little house in Fair Oaks. He’d redecorated it in the ten years since he’d returned—light paneling instead of dark, bold single colors on one wall in each room instead of fussy wallpaper, comfortable corduroy on the couches instead of tapestry—but it was still, better or worse, their home.
Millie and Todd came over for dinner twice a week, and Crispin kept their pit bull/shepherd mix for them during the week so they could come play with him over the weekend.
Home. Safety. Security. It was in every brush stroke of paint and panel of the hardwood floor.
“You know, Sherman might not be okay without me here during the nights—”
“Don’t worry—we’ll stay in the guest room. I told you that.” Millie rubbed whiskers with Captain Steve. “He’s being a big baby, isn’t he?”
“This whole thing is really very ill-advised,” Crispin muttered, closing his eyes. “I should just—”
“If you say cancel, I’m smacking you,” Millie snapped. She had a spill of blonde hair and big blue eyes and a little kewpie doll mouth—and right now she looked about as cuddly as a cactus. “Come on, Crispy—when was the last time you went on a vacation?”
Crispin sighed. “I… there was Comic-Con last year, and me and the guys went to Vegas two years ago.”
Millie raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “I remember. Vegas.”
“Yes.”
“They wanted to see a strip show.”
Crispin’s ears got hot. “Yes.”
“And gamble.”
“So I said.”
“You hate gambling.”
Crispin carefully stacked his jeans in the pristine new suitcase, not looking at her. “It’s statistically not going to turn out in your favor. It’s not logical. I don’t understand the urge to do it.”
“I know. I get that. But you went gambling anyway. You also saw a strip show, and you’re gay.”
Crispin’s eyes darted around the room, like suddenly their parents might pop out and remind him that they had known, before they’d been hit by a drunk driver in the rain. “Yes, but you’re the only one who knows that.”
Millie let out a sigh. “Why? Why am I the only one who knows that? I’ve met your friends—they don’t seem bad.”
“You don’t even know their names,” Crispin said suspiciously.
“Sure. There’s Tom, Dick, That Guy Over There, and Some Other Asshole—that’s not the point.”
Crispin smirked, because God love his baby sister anyway. “What’s the point?”
She sighed and set Captain Steve on the bed, where all his fur promptly stuck to Crispin’s one good dress shirt.
“Dear Lord,” he muttered, turning around and grabbing the lint roller from his dresser. “It’s like a whole other cat is going to come with me to Oktoberfest.”
“Crispin!” Millie took the lint roller out of his hand and threw the dress shirt in anyway. “Honey, I love you, but you have got to relax! Your friends in Germany know you have a cat—they’ll be fine. Strangers in Germany will know you have a cat. They too will be fine. The point is that your friends are your friends—they’re not going to turn on you because you’re gay. I don’t mean to belabor the point here, big brother, but you are the shyest man I know. If they got through your glasses and your comb in your pocket and your ‘oh my God I can’t stand out!’ wardrobe, they’re not going to dump you for being gay. And how are you ever going to meet anybody if nobody knows you’re looking?”
Crispin shrugged and inventoried his shaving kit, since Millie was determined to pack his bag for him. “I’m not looking.” This was true. “Not really. I… you know. It’s all good here. You and Todd can have babies, and I’ll just be their gay uncle. It’s a good plan.”
“It’s a horrible plan!” Millie sat down on the bed abruptly, making a hash out of his pile of neatly folded boxer briefs. “Todd’s got a good job teaching science now, but he’s been writing grants. Honey, we may need to go traveling for a couple of years so he can do fieldwork. Where’s that going to leave you?”
Crispin bit his lip, not wanting to think about Millie and Todd disappearing out of his life. “Holding down the fort with a really big dog and making sure the guest room is ready when you visit for Christmas,” he said practically. “I can also do your taxes, because you don’t let me now, but it’s harder when you’re out of state or even out of the country, and you’ll need me then.”
“I need you now!” Millie protested. “But I also need to know you’re not all alone!”
“Well I’m not going to go manhunting in Germany!” Crispin retorted. “For one thing, I don’t speak German! For another, why would I even be looking for someone so far away from home?”
“Why are you going to Germany anyway?” Millie asked, exasperated. “In addition to not gambling and not watching strippers—”
“Female strippers,” Crispin corrected, because he had a full porn library on his computer, and it was an important distinction.
Millie’s lightly penciled eyebrows shot up. “Oh my God. Crispin has a sex life.”
Crispin’s face got so hot his glasses steamed over. “Imaginary,” he mumbled, taking his glasses off and wiping them on the microfiber cloth he had in his shaving kit.
“I don’t care if you’re going to Mars and finding a rent boy,” Millie argued. “It’s a sex life. Crispin, look.” She took the shaving kit from his hand and frowned into it, then set it on top of the suitcase. “Honey, I’m not trying to get too personal, but… but you and me, we’re family. We’re it. I’ve got Todd and I’ve got you. And Todd and I are going to move around and maybe come back and have babies and maybe have them somewhere else—but the point is, we’re in our twenties and our lives are not locked in stone. But you turned thirty-one this year. And besides that guy you were dating in college, the one who came to Mom and Dad’s funeral, I haven’t seen a single guy in your life—and it’s been ten years. I worry about you. You… you went away to college, and you seemed to be doing okay, but… but Mom and Dad died, and that… that adventuresome part of you, I guess it died too. You need to take some risks, baby. I swear, if you get your heart broken, I will fly in from any corner of the earth to help you patch it together, but you’ll never learn to fix it if you don’t at least take a risk.”
“I’m going to Germany,” he said brightly, although his stomach knotted up over spending five days with his friends drinking beer.
“As I was saying,” she told him, all gentleness. “You don’t like beer. You’re going to Germany to watch your friends get drunk and pretend you’re having a good time.”
“Yes,” Crispin agreed, keeping his pride. “Yes, I am. But it will still be fun.”
Millie nodded and cupped his cheek. “Okay, then. Maybe I’m thinking about this all wrong. You updated your passport, bought a ticket, made hotel reservations—you’re going on an adventure. But maybe, while you’re out and about and bonding with Tom, Dick, Asshole, and Some Other Guy, you may want to think about letting them in a little. Being a real friend and telling them you don’t like girl parts. Asking if you can drink wine instead of beer. See a rom-com instead of an action movie. You know—being you.”
“I like action movies,” Crispin said with dignity. He did. It had taken six years of going out with his friends, but he’d finally learned the exquisite primal joy of watching something CGI get beat up, blown up, or eaten.
“You also like movies with subtitles and Merchant Ivory weepers—but I bet they don’t know that, do they?”
Crispin shrugged, suddenly defeated. “What do you want me to say?”
“Say that you’ll be going to Germany with guys you can trust. Say that you’ll be having fun with guys you won’t worry about making you feel bad. Say you’ll flirt with a man and smile and feel brave while you’re there.”
Crispin pulled up a corner of his mouth. “That’s pushing things too far,” he teased.
She nodded, her eyes overbright. “Sure.” She kissed his cheek. “Here—you go finish dinner, I’ll finish packing for you, okay?”
Oh no! “Oh God—do you think the chicken is burn—”
“Go check!” she urged, and he ran out of the room without another thought.
IT WASN’T until he was in line at the TSA, Link and Cam in front of him, Nick and Ray behind, that he realized his sister had added something to his shaving kit he hadn’t been prepared for.
“Oh my God,” he muttered, unzipping the kit and double-checking that all his liquids were travel-sized.
“Oh my God, what?” Nick Andrews looked over his shoulder, his haze of superfine picked-out hair tickling Crispin’s cheek. “Oh my God.” Nick turned to Ray. “Maldo—Ray—Crispin’s got plans we don’t know about!”
“I do not!” Crispin protested, putting the kit in the bucket and adding his phone, wallet, and shoes. “I didn’t even know that was in there.”
Ray Maldonado looked from the shaving kit to Crispin’s flushed face and smiled, kind as always, his sloe eyes crinkling in the corners. “Do you have plans we don’t know about, Crisp? I mean, the rest of us left girlfriends and wives at home—you trying to find a guy while we’re in Germany?”
Crispin gaped at him. “Uh… I mean—”
“Move it, Crispin,” Nick muttered. “You’re holding up the line.”
“What’s up with you?” Cameron Soong asked as Crispin made it to the other end of the TSA line to get his shoes and retrieve his luggage. Crispin looked at him greenly, still holding his glasses because he knew he was sweating enough to make him steam. “Nick, what’d you and Maldo say to him?”
To his credit, Ray Maldonado grimaced. “Sorry, Crispin—didn’t mean to embarrass you. But, you know, we just thought you knew we knew.”
“Knew about what?” Link asked, his deep voice rumbling out of his football player’s chest.
“About the gay,” Ray tossed off, like it was no big deal.
“Oh,” Cam said, shrugging. All casual here. “Yeah. We felt really bad about that stripper thing in Vegas once we figured it out. We won’t do that again.”
Crispin gasped, put his stuff back in his carry-on, and zipped it up, hiding the shaving kit and the healthy stash of condoms and lubricant Millie had apparently stowed in it while he’d been preparing the chicken piccata. “How did you… why do you—”
“God, he’s adorable,” Link said, bumping shoulders with him. “We just put it together. You don’t watch football for the score, Crispin. I mean, you named your cat after Captain America. My wife named hers after Iron Man so she could sleep with Tony Stark when I was on business trips. Was it supposed to be a secret?”
Crispin shook his head, still a little mortified but also hugely relieved. “No. Just… didn’t want to….” He shrugged and settled his luggage, roller bag on the ground, carry-on over his shoulder. “You know.”
“Tell us and lose us as friends?” Cameron asked, dropping his voice. “Yeah. We figured that. Until Ray said something—out loud and in public, way to go, Ray—we were just sort of waiting for you to trust us.” He bit his lip and shrugged. “Hope you, uh… trust us now, after this.”
Crispin smiled gamely, remembering Millie’s words about being brave. “Sure. If you let me drink wine instead of beer in Germany, we’re fine.”
“I knew it!” Link crowed. “I told you he was killing my plants after football games!”
“That was me,” Nick told him, grimacing. “Man, he might actually like beer if you bought something besides Miller Lite for every game, Link. A microbrew? A blonde? Something with a little citrus? We’ll make a convert out of him yet.”
Crispin smiled, his flush easing up, some of the mortified horror easing up too. Yeah, Ray had been sort of a dick about it—but he’d only been a dick because he’d thought Crispin was his friend.
Crispin was his friend.
“You might have better luck getting me to like girls,” he said, putting his glasses on before grabbing his roller bag.
Ray guffawed. “Nice one. Now it’s a challenge.”
“The beer or the girls?” Cam asked, dubious.
“The beer, dumbass. Not even I’m enough of a prick to try to get him to like girls.”
“You say that, but I’ve heard your wife. She’s been trying to set him up for years!”
Ray shook his head. “Well, yeah. But once I told her he didn’t like girls, she’s been talking about her cousin in San Francisco that everybody thinks is gay but won’t admit it.”
“Oh Jesus,” Nick muttered. “It’s not like he’s a troll. Let him find his own guys—as long as he knows they can come along when we go out.” Nick turned to him, not stopping the ground-eating walk they were all employing to get to the next gate. “You do know whoever it is can come along, right?”
“Well, now,” Crispin admitted. “But seriously, I’m just hoping to get through the next week without getting sick.”
“Yeah, well, just don’t let Link pick out the beer!” Nick shot back, glaring at Link’s big linebacker body as he plowed through SAF.
“I heard that!” Link called. “If you try to get me to drink beer with strawberries in it, I swear, I’ll show you epic book of world records, call the doctors, I’ve-never-seen-this-before style puking.”
“Your wife calls that Sunday morning,” Cam retorted, and the banter was on.
Crispin trotted along with the four of them, letting their shit-talking wash over him like always but enjoying it just a little more. Finding a peer group had never been easy for him—it was why he’d stuck so hard with his “guys” after he’d started working at their accounting firm. It didn’t matter if they didn’t like the same movies or if he had to learn things about football he’d never wanted to know. And baseball. And soccer. And, God help him, hockey. It hadn’t even mattered that they didn’t know he was gay. All that mattered was that a couple of times a month one of them popped up in his chatbox at work and said, “Hey, we’re going to a movie/sporting event/somebody’s house—be there at X time and bring Y!”
And Crispin had plans. He had friends. Sure, Vegas had been a mistake—but it had also been an adventure, and if he hadn’t spent that weekend in Vegas, he would have spent it on his couch with his cat in his lap, reading something that made him cry for the hell of it.
And no, he wasn’t excited about the next juice cleanse/workout regime Link was trying to start them all on—but he had to admit, his muscle tone had improved a lot in the last six years, and he spent way less time in the bathroom.
It was like this group of friends, who did all the things he had no interest in, were nature’s way of making sure he didn’t just shrivel up into spinsterhood, turn 105 before he turned 32, and blow into the wind like dust, or better yet, become a rock and get shoved to the corner of the living room to balance drinks on at parties.
And they’d known he was gay for years and hadn’t stopped calling or inviting or cooking for him.
He was definitely keeping them.
XENIA MELZER was born and raised in a small village in the south of Bavaria. As one of nature’s true chocoholics, she’s always in search of the perfect chocolate experience. So far, she’s had about a dozen truly remarkable ones. Despite having been in close proximity to the mountains all her life, she has never understood why so many people think snow sports are fun. There are neither chocolate nor horses involved and it’s cold by definition, so where’s the sense? She does not like beer either and has never been to the Oktoberfest—no quality chocolate there.
Even though her mind is preoccupied with various stories most of the time, Xenia has managed to get through school and university with surprisingly good grades. Right after school she met her one true love who showed her that reality is capable of producing some truly amazing love stories itself.
While she was having her two children, she started writing down the most persistent stories in her head as a way of relieving mommy-related stress symptoms. As it turned out, the stress relief has now become a source of the same, albeit a positive one.
When she’s not writing, she translates other authors’ manuscripts to German, enjoys riding and running, spending time with her kids, and dancing with her husband.
Lynn Michaels lives and writes in Tampa, Florida where the sun is hot and the Sangria is cold. When she’s not writing she’s kayaking, hanging with her husband, or reading by the pool. Lynn writes Male/Male romance because she believes everyone deserves a happy ending and the dynamics of male characters can be intriguing, vulnerable, and exciting. She has both contemporary and paranormal titles and has been writing since 2014. Her stories don’t follow any set guidelines or ideas, but come from her heart and contain love in many forms.
Barbara Elsborg lives in Kent in the south of England. She always wanted to be a spy, but having confessed to everyone without them even resorting to torture, she decided it was not for her. Volcanology scorched her feet. A morbid fear of sharks put paid to marine biology. So instead, she spent several years successfully selling cyanide.
After dragging up two rotten, ungrateful children and frustrating her sexy, devoted, wonderful husband (who can now stop twisting her arm) she finally has time to conduct an affair with an electrifying plugged-in male, her laptop.
Her books feature quirky heroines and bad boys, and she hopes they are as much fun to read as they are to write.
Jackie North has been writing stories since grade school and her dream was to someday leave her corporate day job behind and travel the world. She also wanted to put her English degree to good use and write romance novels, because for years she's had a never-ending movie of made-up love stories in her head that simply wouldn't leave her alone.
Luckily, she discovered m/m romance and decided that men falling in love with other men was exactly what she wanted to write about. In this dazzling new world, she turned her grocery-store romance ideas around and is now putting them to paper as fast as her fingers can type. She creates characters who are a bit flawed and broken, who find themselves on the edge of society, and maybe a few who are a little bit lost, but who all deserve a happily ever after. (And she makes sure they get it!)
She likes long walks on the beach, the smell of lavender and rainstorms, and enjoys sleeping in on snowy mornings. She is especially fond of pizza and beer and, when time allows, long road trips with soda fountain drinks and rock and roll music. In her heart, there is peace to be found everywhere, but since in the real world this isn't always true, Jackie writes for love.
Amy Lane has two kids who are mostly grown, two kids who aren't, three cats, and two Chi-who-whats at large. She lives in a crumbling crapmansion with half of the children and a bemused spouse. She also has too damned much yarn, a penchant for action adventure movies, and a need to know that somewhere in all the pain is a story of Wuv, Twu Wuv, which she continues to believe in to this day! She writes fantasy, urban fantasy, and gay romance--and if you accidentally make eye contact, she'll bore you to tears with why those three genres go together. She'll also tell you that sacrifices, large and small, are worth the urge to write.
Xenia Melzer
Lynn Michaels
Barbara Elsborg
EMAIL: bjelsborg@gmail.com
Jackie North
Amy Lane
The Santa Problem by Barbara Elsborg
The Christmas Knife by Jackie North
Homebird by Amy Lane
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