Creatures of the Night and Santa’s Christmas duties don’t mix. Every myth and bedtime story tells you so. But on Christmas Eve, when the Elves walked off the job over pension rights, it was time for me—Irwin, the only vampire on Santa’s payroll, despite recent diversity initiatives—and my trusty team to help out.
Just deliver a few parcels, Santa asked me. Just help out on your local patch. Just for one night. Armed with my reluctance to face all that human sentimentality, and accompanied by a wise-cracking werewolf and an unruly fairy with a taste for vodka, I did my best. Honest.
But we were heading for disaster until I came face-to-face with cute babysitter Benny. It’s Santa’s Number One Rule—no fraternising with the clients. But Benny somehow managed to upset my appetite, inflame my libido, and restore my faith in the Christmas spirit, with one cheeky smile and a tasty body piercing. It’s Christmas, and the show must go on!
When we think of Christmas reads we think emotional, reconnecting, heartwarming, reaffirming of the common good of one's neighbors . . . basically sappy happy to the Nth degree. I love all of that, I really do but I also enjoy a good "out there" take on holiday lore. This is exactly what Clare London's Bite Night is. Bite is not dark, it is not scary, but it is definitely not typical holiday fare.
Vampire, werewolf, sprite oh my! Oh my indeed! Yummy! It's like going to a Christmas party and finding a platter of all your favorite Christmas cookies waiting just for you.
Bite Night might be short in quantity but it is long on fun quality. If you have never read Clare London before, this is a perfect introduction to her work. You won't regret it.
RATING:
Summary:
Skins #3.5
Angelo Giordano and Dylan Hart are more in love than ever, but their reality is far from ideal. With Dylan working in London, and Angelo recovering from chronic illness in Cornwall, they rarely spend more than few nights under the same sky.
Dylan is struggling. Being apart from Angelo is killing him, and he’s at the end of his rope. Angelo can’t live in London anymore, but can Dylan give up his whole life and move to a place that often feels like the end of the world?
As the end of a tough year approaches, they reach a crossroads. Dylan returns to Cornwall for Christmas and Angelo can’t imagine watching him leave again. Can the love that surrounds them on Whisper Farm show them the way home?
Summary:
Mated to His Reindeer
The last thing an omega reindeer shifter wants to do is piss off his alpha flight instructor on the first day of school.
Alpha Jingle is the instructor at a magical version of a top gun flight school in the North Pole for reindeer shifters who can fly. His students are the best and brightest and all want jobs pulling one of dozens of the Santa Collective’s sleighs on Christmas Eve.
December, who prefers to be called Ember, is an omega with a keen mind for math and a talent for flight. But he’s one of the youngest students ever and is nervous and klutzy. His own youthful enthusiasm could be his undoing.
Jingle wants to see the young omega flourish, but Ember has a way of getting under his skin and irritating him, and he is not sure why.
Soon the two realize there is something happening between them that is more than teacher/student. Perhaps a bit of Arctic mysticism. Perhaps a little Christmas magic. Annoyance turns to attraction.
In this sweet, fairytale-esque Christmas novel, love finds its way toward two souls who need each other more than they realize, and soon even the coldest of northern winter nights melt under the twin heartbeats of fated mates.
MM, mpreg, flying reindeer shifters, Christmas romance, opposites attract, teacher/student, steamy heat, silly Christmas sweaters at the North Pole, a collective of real Santas, Christmas Eve magic, HEA. Part of the Mated to his Reindeer: Love at Frost Bite Christmas series. (All books in this series are standalone reads.)
Summary:
Anthony has a secret.
One Christmas Eve when he was twelve, he found Santa laying presents under the tree.
He never told a soul. And the following year he snuck out of bed to see if he could repeat the event.
Every Christmas Eve for more than forty years, he and Santa have met, only now, they’re friends. But although Anthony is ageing, Santa hasn’t changed since that first night.
Something has changed in Anthony, however.
He wants more than one night a year.
He wants Santa.
Except he knows it’s a fantasy.
Everyone knows there’s a Mrs. Claus, right?
Santa has a secret.
And when he finally shares it with Anthony, the consequences will rock both men.
But what will it take to make both their dreams come true?
Summary:
Can love melt a man's frozen heart after he's snowed in for one steamy night with a Christmas fanatic?
Nico
I hate all things winter, but when my best friend begs for a favor involving her sexy roommate, I can't bring myself to say no. That's how I wind up sharing a bed with him on Christmas Eve while a blizzard rages outside. We share a passionate night together, but that's all it can ever be. Right?
Snowed Inn is a sexy winter novella with one Grinch, one Christmas lover, one bed, a one night stand, and a whole lot of feels. An HEA is guaranteed.
Random Tales of Christmas 2022
Bite Night by Clare London
Snowed Inn by Riley Long
I WASN’T meant to be caught.
I mean, it’s Santa’s #1 Rule for Gift-Delivery Operatives. No visibility with the clients. Ever. Get in the house, deliver the gifts, eat the cookies—or carrots, whatever’s there, get over yourself and any of your food fads—and get out as fast as possible.
This was a detached, double-fronted house in an affluent, peaceful street. Large garden, large drive, and equivalently large car parked in front. Stylish and smart and reeking of new money. We’d visited plenty of these places tonight on Stacy Street, and the blatant privilege thing was starting to irritate my skin, like I imagined microdermal piercings would do if my unique physical status didn’t rule them out. Pity: I’d always liked the look of body jewelry.
I slid through the wall into the house in my usual fashion, shaking off that prickly nausea I got from dry wall insulation, and arrived with my sack of goodies in just the right place beside the Christmas tree. It was obvious there was a small kid in the house because the tree was, one, better anchored than most people’s, two, artificial so no pine needles would fall on the furniture and get eaten by mistake, and three, with decorations placed high enough to be out of the reach of small hands. The thought of a kid’s innocent delight at the season should have warmed me from the inside out, right? Instead, I thought I might vomit from an excess of sentimentality.
“Irwin?” came a harsh whisper from behind me, at the window. “You eating all the cookies, you greedy bastard?”
I winced. That was another of the rules: no cursing or abusive behavior while on the client’s premises. Guess at least one of my team needed refresher training. Or would Wulf start arguing semantics, that he wasn’t actually on the premises until I let him in? I bit back a snappy reply and unlatched the patio window.
With a rush of hot breath and prickly fur, Wulf burst into the room and skidded to a halt beside me. On all fours, of course, with his sack clutched in his teeth. He’d leaped the fence and approached through the back garden. I could only hope he’d kept his claws sheathed: they wreaked havoc with clients’ lawns.
“I don’t eat cookies,” I said to him. “As you very well know. The food is for you, and the milk or juice for Zilith.”
“Any sherry?” The mention of her name—and the promise of booze—had brought in the third person on my team. There was a swish of air as her butterfly-sized wings fluttered past, followed by a trail of glittery pink light from her miniscule toes. It never ceased to amaze me how she could also carry a sack a hundred times her personal size.
“Drinking on the job must be moderated,” I quoted from Santa’s handbook. Did I love being Mr. Human Resources, or what? Or maybe that should have been Mr. Inhuman Resources…. “You’ve had three sherries and a whiskey already from this street. Luckily, there’s only milk left out here.”
Zilith’s disappointed sniff expressed her opinion of the word “lucky”.
“Artificial tree. Huh. It’s a modern disease.” Wulf had finished the plate of cookies already—an expensive, organic brand, I noticed—and was prowling around the tree.
“Don’t you dare!” I snapped at him.
“What?” His body was long, lean and lupine, but the eyes were all mischievous bad boy.
“Piss up that tree,” I hissed. “I’ve seen you do it before, remember?”
“That other household wouldn’t have noticed.” Wulf yawned, his bright, white canines reflecting the twinkling tree lights. “Didn’t look like they’d cleared anything away from the previous Christmas. And did you see what their own dog left on top of the TV remote control? A delightful nugget of steaming—”
“Enough!” This was only the beginning of a long, long night, and I was already losing patience with the pair of them.
And then the guy walked into the room. We all stopped dead, him included. He looked to be in his early twenties, blond and blue-eyed. Mussed hair, barefoot, and dressed in loose jeans and a thin T-shirt that showed off some modest muscle definition and a couple of really tight, luscious nipples. One had the shape of a tiny metal bar threaded through it.
My mouth went dry.
“Bollocks,” Wulf growled, his hackles rising.
“Hush. Maybe he won’t see us.” Zilith’s best baby-girl voice tinkled in my ear.
The guy looked from her to me, to Wulf. And then back to me, probably because I was the one nearest his own height. The bowl of popcorn in his hands dropped to the floor with a crash.
“Pass on that, princess,” Wulf growled to Zilith.
The guy swallowed really, really hard and took a step backward. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jeans.
“He has a gun!” Zilith squeaked.
“Please don’t call the police,” I said quickly.
“Or post a photo on Facebook,” Wulf muttered at my side.
The guy’s mouth opened—a very cute, full mouth it was, too—and then closed again. Words obviously failed him. But he slowly removed his hand from his pocket and, presumably, his phone.
“Consider this just a bad dream,” I said. I was searching my mind for the instructions on Stacy Street. Had I missed the number of children at number 36? This guy was surely too young to be the dad of a toddler and an eight-year-old, but too old to be… another child? I tried the mind-meld thing. I did a couple of courses in Enhanced Hypnotism last summer while I was… you know… indisposed indoors. “You’ve had a few drinks too many. Things have been very stressful at work.”
Crossroads by Garrett Leigh
One
Dylan paced the draughty seating area of Truro train station, clutching a paper cup of cinnamon-spiced coffee from the dodgy Costa stand. It tasted like soap, but he hardly noticed. Back home, coffee was his drug of choice—lifeblood when the chaos of reality frayed his nerves—but he wasn’t in Romford now. He’d left the city behind, and within the hour, he’d get his reward . . . if anyone ever showed up to give him a lift.
He circled around the glass entrance doors again, scanning the traffic outside for a familiar vehicle. When he found none, he pulled his phone from his pocket and scanned his message threads, wondering if he’d missed something—instructions to make his own way to Newquay or any clue who was picking him up. Over the past few months, he’d seen them all—Harry, Joe, Emma, even old George in the stinky horsebox. But the WhatsApp chats revealed nothing. Just a vague notion that someone he recognised would be there to meet his afternoon train. Someone who was either late as fuck or had clean forgotten.
Fuck it. Dylan eyed the taxi rank. He could’ve done without spending twenty quid, but—
“Hey.”
Relief punched Dylan in the gut. He whirled around. Blinked. And threw himself into the embrace he’d been dreaming of all the way from London. Clutched the lithe, sinewy body against him, and buried his face in silky hair that smelt of real coffee and grass.
I’ve missed you.
I love you.
I know.
For a long moment, they simply held each other, until Dylan pulled back to check his Angelo-starved imagination wasn’t playing tricks on him. “God, it’s really you.”
Angelo laughed. “Who else would it be?”
“Everyone. You’ve never come to the station before.”
Smoky brown eyes clouded with guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Shit. That’s not what I meant—I just wasn’t expecting to see you for a little while longer.”
“Oh.” Mollified, Angelo grabbed Dylan’s hand to tow him out of the station. “Come on then. Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait! I need my stuff.” Dylan doubled back and grabbed the hold-all and messenger bag he’d hulked on the train. He shifted the larger bag out of Angelo’s reach but gave up the one carrying his laptop.
Harry’s car was outside, but there was no sign of the man himself. Dylan cocked an eyebrow. “You drove?”
“Uh-huh. I do have a licence, you know.”
“I know that, you just haven’t driven for, like, a year.”
Angelo rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to back home when everything’s on our doorstep. Down here I have to ask for a lift anytime I run out of lube, so Harry lent me his car for a while.”
A while. Dylan’s stomach clenched as he stowed his bag in the boot of the borrowed Ford Focus. It had already been a couple of months since Angelo had come to Harry’s rehabilitation retreat to recover from a severe ME relapse. Dylan wasn’t sure he could handle the prospect of a lonely train home in two weeks’ time.
He slid into the passenger seat and shamelessly ogled Angelo as he slipped behind the wheel. It had been thirteen days since they’d last seen each other in the flesh, but the difference in Angelo—as Dylan was becoming accustomed to every time he made the six-hundred-mile round trip to visit—was maddeningly clear. “You look so well.”
Angelo fixed him with a disbelieving frown. “Really? I had trouble getting up this morning.”
Another kick to the gut. Guilt replaced frustration, and Dylan covered Angelo’s hand with his own. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Do you feel better now? I hate it when you’re in pain.”
“I’m not in pain, babe. I promise. Harry had me doing yoga with the donkeys before I could think about it too much. It hurt then, but I feel good now.”
And there it was—the elephant in the room, and the reason they’d wound up at the end of the world in the first place. Harry was Angelo’s long-time physiotherapist, and the only one who could help Angelo when his ME made life so hard. The only one who could set him back on his fatigue-ravaged feet when all Dylan could do was angst himself into a migraine and make the fucking tea.
He left his hand where it was as Angelo started the car and backed out of the parking space. Truro disappeared and rugged Cornish countryside took its place. Dylan gazed out of the window, absorbing the familiar heat in his veins from Angelo’s touch, and pondered what lay ahead. Spending Christmas on Joe and Harry’s farm had seemed a no-brainer a few weeks ago. With Angelo on the mend, he’d looked forward to long, lazy days of eating, fucking, and just being together, but he felt antsy now, like he’d stepped into a puddle of quicksand. He’d avoided asking himself why while he’d been snowed under at the office, but with the end of his working year behind him, reality was hitting home. Angelo looked well because he was well. Because farm life suited him—healed him—and sooner or later, one of them would have to voice the idea that something in their current way of living had to change.
* * *
Angelo took Dylan’s bags to the chalet he called home right now, and relief washed over him as he dumped them on the bed. I miss him so much.
“All right, mate?”
Angelo spun around.
Harry blocked the doorway with his large frame, handsome face amused. “Dylan got caught by Sal. She’s taken him inside for tea and cake.”
“Sal’s back?”
“Only for the day. She came to tell Joe she’s spending Christmas with Bob.”
“Ouch.” Angelo winced. “What did Joe say to that?”
“About his mother ditching him to shack up with her fella? What do you think?” Harry grinned, but his face said it all. “Put it this way, I’m glad we have a full house to distract him, even if she hasn’t gone very far.”
“Me too.”
“I bet. You’ve been counting down the weeks, eh?”
“You know it.” Angelo sat on the edge of the bed, the energy he’d ridden to the station suddenly deserting him.
Attuned to the entire world as ever, Harry frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar. What is it? Something sore?”
“No . . . it’s not that.”
Harry waited, believing Angelo, as always, but giving him time to figure out the real answer.
“I’m scared,” Angelo admitted when the silence became too much.
Harry knelt in front of him. “Of what?”
“Of telling him I don’t want to go home.”
Understanding dawned in Harry’s gentle eyes. “So, you’ve seriously considered my job offer?”
Angelo nodded. “Of course I have. I’d be a fool to turn you down—and I don’t want to—but I can’t see how it’s ever going to work.”
“You don’t have to decide any time soon,” Harry said. “We’d be lucky to have you, so it’s an open-ended offer.”
“It’s a ridiculous offer,” Angelo muttered. Flexible hours, free accommodation, and a competitive salary, it was a disabled therapist’s dream job. It was Angelo’s dream job, and Harry was wrong about having unlimited time to decide. “My sick pay at the Blackberry Clinic is about to expire. They’ve said they’ll keep my position open for a while, but if I’m not back by spring, they’ll have to replace me.”
“You’ve only been gone a few months.”
“I know, but I didn’t have a good summer. The heat got to my muscles and I couldn’t get out of bed for most of August, remember? Besides, I wasn’t coping there anyway. I love the job, but the commuting is killing me. That weekend Rhys broke into my flat, I fell off the bus on the way home.”
“You never told me that.”
“Yeah, well. I figured I’d embarrassed myself enough by needing your brother and his new boyfriend to babysit me, then pretty much dying in your boyfriend’s mum’s bed.”
Harry grunted, clearly remembering the dark days a few months ago when Angelo had been so weak he could hardly raise his head. “That’s whatever at this point. You needed help, so your friends helped you. It’s not like you haven’t returned the favour by working here for free.”
“In exchange for your undivided attention, and I’m still getting a fucking good deal.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue but seemed to think better of it. “We could ride this circle all day. Bottom line is you’re as helpful to me as I am to you, but I know it’s not that simple—hence the open-ended offer. Have you talked to Dylan about it at all?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
Angelo shrugged. “Because he’s super frazzled with work and travelling down here to see my sorry arse every other week.”
“So maybe Dylan’s life needs to change too.”
“Right. ’Cause wouldn’t that be a fucking fairy tale?”
“Cynic.”
“Realist, actually. It’s me stressing Dylan out right now. He could handle work if I was there to have his back.”
“You are there for him, Angelo. Don’t write your entire relationship off because circumstance has forced you apart for a couple of months. Talk to him. You might be surprised by what he has to say.”
Love at Frost Bite: Jingle by Wendy Rathbone
1
Jingle
I could have gone to any of the dozen outposts through Norway or Russia, but this year I signed up for Outpost Q, short for Qiajivik, the closest city to Santa Kringle’s secret abode in the Arctic Circle.
I took the Dempster Highway through Canada’s Northwest Territories.
It was a beautiful drive, but all gravel, and though my Jeep was equipped for the rough terrain, it was slow going.
As I bounced along the road, the stars swarming in the black sky overhead, my playlist on repeat, I ate the sandwiches and snacks I’d brought, and stopped once to sleep for a few hours.
It took me two days before I finally reached the waystation where I could safely leave my Jeep.
I pulled into the ice garage and was greeted by Timor, a Yeti shifter with a hundred white braids that fell to his waist. He worked for Kringle as keeper of the waystation and lived in a nearby ice cave with all the amenities along with his polar bear mate and their two twin Yeti-bear kids. A real cute family.
“Hey, Jingle.” He’d been expecting me.
“Hi, Tim.” I stepped out of my Jeep, stretching my muscles and groaning a little at the pain.
“You got your pack and all your things?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll help you on with it once you shift.”
“Thanks.”
Most reindeer shifters that worked the outposts all over the north in half a dozen countries flew from the drop-offs to the outposts. And by “flew” I do not mean by plane. They shifted and flew, as Santa’s reindeer naturally did.
I was one of the few reindeer shifters who worked in the far north during the late fall months who couldn’t fly. In fact, I hated to fly. I traveled by ocean liner or train when I needed to move. And even in the far north away from prying human eyes, I never hired a sleigh.
From the waystation to Q, I’d go the rest of the way on foot.
The temperature was near zero Fahrenheit, but I’d never feel it while shifted. I’d travel the last fifty miles to Q in my reindeer form, no problem, it was just slow-going.
I got my pack out of the back of the Jeep. It contained my laptop, my cell, a fur-lined parka, snow pants and boots. I’d also packed two thick sweaters, mittens and scarves and a thick cap. I probably wouldn’t need any of it, but just in case I encountered any problems and shifted into human form, I had warmth. Plus rations. A sleigh would bring the rest of my luggage in a few days.
The pack was long and thin, specially made to fit my reindeer form.
“Wanna stop by the homestead for cocoa before your journey?” Tim offered.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. How is your family doing?”
“Great. Jinny and Daro are four now, just about to start school online.”
“That’s great.”
Tim spoke softly about his family as I undressed and folded all my clothes properly, placing them in my pack. I had to be quick. Even at the stop-off and out of the wind, the garage was not heated. My bare skin could freeze quickly. But I liked everything neat and tidy and in its place.
Finally, my bare feet burning against the icy floor, I was ready.
Tim held my pack as my muscles tensed, readying for the shift. It started with a tingling, then stabs of lightning-like fire as my reindeer self itched to get free. My blood heated and my mind spun as everything around me seemed to change. It was a simple perception shift, but it always took a moment for me to steady myself.
I stood on all fours and the ice no longer hurt my feet—they were hooves now, and suited for snowy, wintry climes.
I turned my big head and watched Tim lift the long, flat pack onto my back. It rode from my shoulders to my haunches, and I barely felt the weight.
“All set,” Tim said, walking around my large form to face me.
I nodded my head, aware of my antlers coming a little close to his chest.
“You know the route.” He patted my furry shoulder. “Have a good journey.”
I nodded again, a slight shame washing through me that I couldn’t fly. Tim never said a word about it, nor questioned the fact that a reindeer flight instructor could not lift himself even an inch off the ground.
But I was the best at my job and proud to do it. Proud to serve the Santas that formed the Collective. Every year I was in demand. I had my pick of the outposts, but I liked working for Santa Kringle and Santa Odin the best. This year I’d picked Kringle.
I flicked my ears in a goodbye gesture to Tim and walked out of the garage and into the star-filled night.
The white landscape glittered, reflecting the stars, sending flashes of light into my vision and lighting up my way.
Another day or so and I’d arrive at my destination. It was a lonely trip, but I was used to it.
A snowy wind keened through the ice henges. I barely felt it as I made my way north.
Santa's Secret by KC Wells
The Present
Christmas Eve.
I glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. That meant he’d be arriving any second. Butterflies rampaged through my stomach, and my hands were clammy.
What do I say to him? What if I say yes, and he’s changed his mind?
Can I say yes?
I’d thought of nothing else for a whole year. No, longer than that, if I was honest. The idea had first come to me back in 2014, when I’d finally learned his secret, and I’d dwelt on it since then.
Dwelt on it alot.
Eight years was a long time. Eight years of dancing around the subject, but never coming right out and speaking it into existence. And this past year had been tough.
No man alive has ever been faced with a choice like this.
I knew he wanted an answer. My problem was I still hadn’t decided which one to give him.
Let me look him in the eye first. Maybe that will help.
I gazed at my reflection. I’d spent ages deciding what I would wear for this night. In the end, it had come down to jeans, a white shirt, and my favorite shawl collar brown sweater.
My hair was that color once. Not anymore. My beard was mostly gray, with a little darkness lingering in my mustache and below my bottom lip. My eyes still held some of the twinkle of my youth, thank God. But I had to be honest. The man I saw in the mirror bore little resemblance to the twelve-year-old boy who’d walked into the living room back in 1979, to discover he’d been wrong.
So,sowrong.
That morning I’d told my little brother Ben that Santa wasn’t real, that it was just Mom and Dad.
That first encounter had rocked my world to its core.
The following encounters had woven themselves into the pattern of my life.
Forty-three encounters, to be precise. And while all of them had been wonderful, some stuck in my mind more than others.
Some of them had been nothing short of magical.
I took two glasses from the cabinet, along with a bottle of whiskey. His favorite.How many people can say they know what Santa’s favorite drink is?I poured a generous measure into each then settled in the armchair, waiting for him to appear.
1979 seemed like a lifetime ago, but I could remember it as if it were yesterday.
I sipped the fiery liquor, hoping to get the overactive butterflies in my belly drunk enough to quit their fluttering and leave me alone.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about it.
Instead, I let my mind drift back to some of those memorable nights, dipping into the decades as though I were leafing through a book.
The only place to begin was at the start.
When I was twelve
1979
I couldn’t sleep. But then, I never could the night before Christmas. Some of my friends at school had saidtheirparents opened gifts on Christmas Eve, but where was the fun in that? The anticipation? The excitement, going to bed, longing to discover what lay in those enticing packages beneath the deep green boughs of the tree?
Okay, so I was always bleary-eyed by the time morning arrived, but that wasn’t going to stop me getting up at the crack of dawn to bounce on my parents’ bed, demanding that they get upright that second.
I knew why I wasn’t sleeping that particular night, and it all came down to guilt.
I’m evil. I’ve ruined Christmas for Ben.
Had I still believed in Santa whenIwas eight? Probably. And I had no clue what had made me tell him Santa wasn’t real.
Yeah, that was a lie. I knewexactlywhy I’d done it. I was pissed because his Outstanding Achievement award was stuck on the fridge door, and I hadn’t gotten one. And for an eight-year-old boy,God, he could be smug.
I’d wanted to wipe that smile from his face.
Of course, it had backfired. Ben erupted into oceans of tears, Mom asked me how I could lie to him like that, and Dad sent me to bed early with the threat of withholding presents hanging over me. I hadn’t even finished my supper.
So there I was, in the middle of the night, and I was hungry.
I crept out of the room I shared with Ben, taking care not to awaken him, because I didn’t want to be on the receiving end ofmoreof my dad’s wrath, and went downstairs to the kitchen. I moved a chair so I could stand on it to reach the cookie jar—except it wasn’t in its usual cabinet.
Then I remembered. There were cookies in the living room on the fireplace, along with a glass of milk, and a couple of carrots for the reindeer.
Well, Santa wasn’t going to eat them, was he? And ifIdid, that would only make Ben believe I really had lied to him, that Santawasreal, and that he’d stood in our living room, munching on Mom’s oatmeal raisin cookies. Because my parents sure weren’t going to accusemeof eating them, not when perpetuating the myth of Santa Claus would mean a less upset Ben.
I’d get my mom’s side-eye, but I was used to that.
I pushed the door to the living room open, and—
Holy shit. There was a guy in a red suit, putting presents under our tree.
No way.
No fuckingway.
Mom always left a lamp on in the corner, so there was no missing him.
Sanity returned.It’s my dad, dressed up as Santa.Except I’d heard my dad’s familiar snore as I’d passed their bedroom.
Sothatmeant…
I stood by the door in my boring striped pajamas, my jaw on the floor, my heart pounding.
Look at him.
He wasn’t at all like the Santas in pictures and in the movies. He wasn’t fat, for one thing. His cheeks weren’t round and rosy-red. His eyebrows were dark, and yes, even at that distance I could see his eyes were brown. His mustache was a dark steel-gray. He did have a beard, though it wasn’t that overabundance of stark, thick white curls I’d seen on every Santa whose knee I’d perched upon since I was old enough to demand being taken to see him.
Hisbeard was something else.
It was silvery white, encasing his cheeks, and had grown into a gossamer bush, curling at the ends, as delicate as spider silk. It framed his face.
It most definitely wasnotmy dad in a Santa suit. The long cloak was a gorgeous shade of deep red, reaching the ankles of his jet-black, shiny boots, into which were tucked his black pants. Beneath the cloak, he wore a jacket in that same shade of red, his gold belt buckle gleaming in the lamplight.
And then he reached for the plate of cookies…
With no thought to waking my family, I emitted a strangled sound. I couldn’t decide whether it was incredulity at finding Santa in my living room, or pain that my plan to eat the cookies was about to be thwarted.
Santa turned to look at me, those dark brows arched, his expression amused. “Something wrong?” His voice was light, almost musical. I’d expected a booming, deep voice that rattled the house.
Somethingelseeveryone had gotten wrong.
“I was going to eat them.”
His lips twitched. “Then how about I make you a deal? We can share them. And the milk too, if you want that as well.”
I snorted. “You can have the milk.”
He picked up the plate and inclined his head toward the large leather couch. “Shall we sit while we eat? I promise not to leave any crumbs.”
I didn’t move. “You’re really here. This isn’t a dream.”
Santa smiled. “You’re not dreaming, Anthony.”
“How do you know I’m not Ben, my brother?”
His eyes sparkled with humor. “Because if you were, that would mean the elastic Superman under the tree would be for you, and I think you’re a little old for that, don’t you?” He sat, the plate balanced on his lap. “I thought you wanted a cookie?”
I sprang over to him and grabbed one. “Does this mean I end up on the naughty list? You know, the whole bit about you seeing when I’m sleeping, knowing when I’m awake? Gotta be honest. I always thought that was a little creepy, you know? I mean, this guy in a red suit, watching me all the time?” He stared at me, and my face grew hot. I coughed. “Yeah, I guess that means I’m definitely on the naughty list, right?”
I still couldn’t believe my eyes.
Santa is real.
Santa is sitting on my couch.
If this was a dream, it was the coolest dream ever.
His eyebrows went high once more. “Please sit, Anthony. I’d like your company.” Then he smiled. “And about that list… You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. The fact that you walked in and caught me is something of a miracle. I was obviously a little distracted tonight.” Santa bit into the cookie. “Your mom makes the best cookies.”
I blinked, flopping onto the couch without a second thought. “You really eat them?”
He chuckled. “I’m not going to feed them to the reindeer. Dancer’s getting too fat anyway. She can have the carrots.”
“That part’s true? The reindeers’ names?” This had to be a dream. I was going to wake up any second, burrowed beneath my comforter.
“Sure it is. Except the Rudolph part. He’s a myth.”
“Until I walked through that door, I thoughtyouwere too.”
He locked gazes with me. “And now you know I’m not? Are you going to tell anyone?”
I squared my shoulders. “Nope. This is gonna bemysecret.” No one would believe me anyhow.
Santa beamed. “Good boy. In that case, we might get to do this again sometime. Would you like that? We could share some more cookies, and I could tell you things.”
“What kind of things?” I ate my cookie in two bites.
“Well, do you want to knowwhythere’s no Rudolph? All my reindeer are girls, and there’s no way they’d let a boy lead them.” He chuckled. “The very idea.”
“Do you really have elves?” This was fascinating.
Santa laughed. “I’m sorry, but that’s a story for another Christmas Eve. My night isn’t over yet, so I’d best be on my way.” He stood. “But thank you for keeping my visit a secret.” He cocked his head. “You like drawing, don’t you?”
I gaped. “How did you—” Then the light dawned. “You know that because of something you just put under our tree, don’t you?”
Those brown eyes really did twinkle. “Maybe?”
“Did you mean it?” I demanded.
“Mean what?”
“About us doing this again sometime.”
He frowned. “Of course. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” He held out his hand, and I shook it. His skin was smooth and warm to the touch. “Now go back to bed and at leasttryto look surprised tomorrow when Ben opens his elastic Superman.” He released my hand before stroking my hair. “You’re a good boy, Anthony. He’ll forgive you.”
My mouth fell open again. “You know about that?”
Santa gave a shrug. “Perhaps that’s why I let you see me. I wanted you to know I was real. But it might be a good idea to take Ben aside tomorrow, and tell him you didn’t mean it, that of course I’m real. Let him hold onto his childhood a while longer. Pretty soon there’ll be plenty of things to occupy his thoughts, and I’ll become nothing more than a myth.”
My heart quaked. “Does that mean one day I’ll forget about you too?”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “You will believe in me for as long as you want to believe.” His voice had a grave tone to it, and for some reason it did little to ease my troubled mind. He ruffled my hair. “But now—bed. Enjoy tomorrow. Remember what the day means, though.”
Oh God.“That part is real too?”
He nodded. “We celebrate His birth, which is why it should be a day filled with love. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always end up that way.” For a moment, his eyes held such sadness they sent a sharp pain spearing into my gut.
He blinked, and just like that, warmth radiated from his face. “Merry Christmas, Anthony.” And then he was gone, without a flash or a fanfare, just a simple click of his fingers and a swirl of red.
“Goodnight, Santa,” I whispered. One thing I knew with absolute certainty—I would be waiting for him the following year.
Snowed Inn by Riley Long
One
Adam
I’d muttered something stupid and run the opposite direction, while he stood there, all tall and lean and sexy, glaring at me through narrowed, bright green eyes. Erica laughed again. “That sounds like Nico, all right.” I sighed. “Do I have to?” She put an arm around me, careful not to spill her wine as she did. “No. But if you don’t, you’ll be alone for Christmas. Your favorite holiday. And wouldn’t that suck?” “Fine. I’ll invite him over for Christmas dinner. Under one condition.” “Name it.” “He has to come caroling with me at the nursing home on Christmas Eve, too.” She took another sip of her wine and squealed, releasing me from her grasp. “Perfect! I’ll text him right now.” She scooped up her phone and headed to her room. I flopped on the couch and watched the lights on my Christmas tree twinkle and chase each other around the tree while Erica sealed my fate.
Clare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter-three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her on all her social media.
Garrett Leigh is an award-winning British writer and book designer.
Garrett's debut novel, Slide, won Best Bisexual Debut at the 2014 Rainbow Book Awards, and her polyamorous novel, Misfits was a finalist in the 2016 LAMBDA awards.
When not writing, Garrett can generally be found procrastinating on Twitter, cooking up a storm, or sitting on her behind doing as little as possible, all the while shouting at her menagerie of children and animals and attempting to tame her unruly and wonderful FOX.
Garrett is also an award winning cover artist, taking the silver medal at the Benjamin Franklin Book Awards in 2016. She designs for various publishing houses and independent authors at Black Jazz Design, and co-owns the specialist stock site Moonstock Photography with renowned LGBTQA+ photographer Dan Burgess.
Hi, I'm Wendy and I'm a voracious reader as well as an author.
Currently, I write all male/male romances and am lately focused on omegaverse. For many years mm has been my first love.
The stories of my characters rattle around in my brain until I have to write them down or lose sleep!
All my books are available in Kindle Unlimited. Happy reading!
KC Wells
K.C. Wells lives on an island off the south coast of the UK, surrounded by natural beauty. She writes about men who love men, and can’t even contemplate a life that doesn’t include writing.The rainbow rose tattoo on her back with the words 'Love is Love' and 'Love Wins' is her way of hoisting a flag. She plans to be writing about men in love - be it sweet and slow, hot or kinky - for a long while to come.
Riley Long is an author of gay romances novels spanning many genres from contemporary to paranormal, she is a wife and mother living a quiet life in Virginia, with her husband, son, and two very silly pit bulls.
She spends her evenings writing, reading, and watching bad television (or not so bad television).
For fun, Riley participates in NaNoWriMo, GISH, and reads with her book club, the BAMFs.
She likes things with silly acronyms.
The craziest thing Riley has ever done involves lots of butter and a time lapsed video.
Clare London
EMAIL: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk
Garrett Leigh
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
EMAIL: garrettleighbooks@gmail.com
Wendy Rathbone
KC Wells
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
iTUNES / AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
FB GROUP / SMASHWORDS / B&N
EMAIL: k.c.wells@btinternet.com
Crossroads by Garrett Leigh
Love at Frost Bite: Jingle by Wendy Rathbone
Santa's Secret by KC Wells
Snowed Inn by Riley Long
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