🎅💕🎅🎆🎄🎇🎄🎆🎅💕🎅
I've wanted to do a Christmas in July series for a few years now but time just didn't seem to agree. I wanted to feature stories that I have recently re-read but once again, time had other plans so for my first Christmas in July series, I'm featuring 20 of my favorite Christmas set LGBT reads. I say "Christmas set" because some are not really holiday-centric but set, at least in part, during the holiday season and for me that is all it takes to be a Christmas read. Some I've had opportunity in the past to re-read or re-listen and I've included the most recent review. As always, the purchase links are current as of posting but if they no longer work for a dozen different reasons, be sure to check out the author's website/social media sites for the latest links. There are genres of all kinds here, whether you are a holiday lover or perhaps you just want to read something set in cooler weather on a long hot summer night, either way there is something for everyone here.
🎅💕🎅🎆🎄🎇🎄🎆🎅💕🎅
Summary:
Toby Kincaid loves being the junior librarian in his hometown of Sandy Lake, Ohio. He spends his days surrounded by books and chatting with the library patrons. He especially adores the head librarian, Mr. Miggles, who is kind, witty, knowlegable about everything, and hopelessly addicted to Christmas. Sean Miggles is also pretty cute—especially for an older guy who wears ties and suit pants every day.
But Sean keeps himself at a distance, and there’s a sadness about him that Toby can’t figure out. When Sean is accused of a crime he didn’t commit, he gives up without a fight. Toby realizes that he alone can save the library—and their head librarian.
Toby will need to uncover the darkness in Sean’s past and prove to him that he deserves a second chance at life and at love too. And while Christmas miracles are being handed out, maybe Toby will get his own dearest wish—to love and be loved by Mr. Miggles.
I won't lie, after reading the title I thought Mr. Miggles was going to be a cat that factored into bringing a couple together, then I read the blurb and realized otherwise. Mr. Miggles may be a bit of a loner but he runs the library well and made it a place of comfort and fun, not to mention he is a hopeless Christmas geek. Toby loves his job as Junior Librarian and it doesn't hurt that he has a massive crush on Mr. Miggles. My heart breaks for the head librarian when his kindness is slandered in one of the worst ways possible but Toby spurs into action and realizes that his boss has actually been doing a lot more than anyone realized. Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles is an excellent example of what Christmas means and has just cemented Eli Easton as the Queen of Christmas romance in my book. I'm already looking forward to whatever tale she brings us next year.
RATING:
Summary:
Adrien English Mysteries #6
Adrien English Mysteries #6
God Help You Merry Gentlemen…
Arriving home early after spending Christmas in jolly old England, sometimes amateur sleuth Adrien English discovers alarming developments at Cloak and Dagger Books--and an old acquaintance seeking help in finding his missing boyfriend.
Fortunately, Adrien just happens to know a really good private eye…
Re-Read Review 2020:
Arriving home early after spending Christmas in jolly old England, sometimes amateur sleuth Adrien English discovers alarming developments at Cloak and Dagger Books--and an old acquaintance seeking help in finding his missing boyfriend.
Fortunately, Adrien just happens to know a really good private eye…
I will never have enough of Adrien English and Jake Riordan. I know their push and pull relationship and Jake's alpha male attitude isn't for everyone and there are more times than not that I want to smack him but honestly his feelings for Adrien were never in doubt in my mind, even when he fought them you good feel them resonating off the page. In So This is Christmas, we get to see them, well I won't say "settled down" but in a place of steady homebodies, or at least as much that makes them happy😉😉. Maybe it's just my love of these two but I have a feeling So This is Christmas will become my The Thin Man of holiday reading(BTW: The Thin Man with William Powell and Myrna Loy is an absolute viewing must in my house at Christmas).
Overall Series Audiobook Review August 2019:
Adrien with an "e", what can I say that I haven't already said? Nothing really because I absolutely adore Adrien and Jake. Yes, there are multiple times I want to whack Jake upside the head but he's learning, albeit slowly sometimes but still learning. There's heartbreak, there's joy, there's murder, and well there's plenty of love(even if it takes Jake a little longer to accept).
All but the final Christmas novella is narrated by Chris Patton and his voice is perfect for these two. I couldn't imagine listening to anyone else bring life to the pair but then when I listened to So This is Christmas, read by Kale Williams, he too is . . . well for the lack of a better word(and not to sound redundant😉) . . . brilliant. Obviously there is a difference between the two narrators but since Adrien and Jake are settled, or as settled as they can be considering Adrien's knack for stumbling into mayhem, which changes people and so the difference in narrators kind of reflects that I thought. So I say spot on to all involved bringing Adrien English and Jake Riordan to life.
Original Review December 2016:
RATING:
Adrien with an "e", what can I say that I haven't already said? Nothing really because I absolutely adore Adrien and Jake. Yes, there are multiple times I want to whack Jake upside the head but he's learning, albeit slowly sometimes but still learning. There's heartbreak, there's joy, there's murder, and well there's plenty of love(even if it takes Jake a little longer to accept).
All but the final Christmas novella is narrated by Chris Patton and his voice is perfect for these two. I couldn't imagine listening to anyone else bring life to the pair but then when I listened to So This is Christmas, read by Kale Williams, he too is . . . well for the lack of a better word(and not to sound redundant😉) . . . brilliant. Obviously there is a difference between the two narrators but since Adrien and Jake are settled, or as settled as they can be considering Adrien's knack for stumbling into mayhem, which changes people and so the difference in narrators kind of reflects that I thought. So I say spot on to all involved bringing Adrien English and Jake Riordan to life.
Original Review December 2016:
I hate to say the words "what a great ending to a fantastical series" because I dread the idea of it being the end. Whether this new Christmas novella is an end or not, it is still great and I am already looking forward to re-reading this one for many holidays to come(and all other series long re-reads). There may not be the relationship drama that has often followed Adrien and Jake in So This is Christmas but that alone shows how far the couple has come as well as the growth they've experienced as individuals. Of course, that's not saying the bantering between the boys is non-existent because you can't have Adrien and Jake without at least some of the back-and-forth they are known for. This is just an an all around great addition to the series(end or not) and to my Christmas library.
RATING:
Josh has stepped back into the closet for a guy, but how long can he stay there?
Life in a college town suits Josh Cassidy. He has good friends and neighbors, and the bookshop café he runs with his family is thriving. As the winter holidays begin, Josh finds himself enamored with police officer Alex Curiel, an old friend who has recently moved back to town. The trouble is, Alex isn’t ready for the world to know he’s attracted to men.
At Alex’s request, Josh agrees to closet their relationship, though the secrecy quickly becomes a burden. When Josh realizes he is falling for Alex, his ability to hide his feelings from the world begins to slip, and he’s forced to decide if love is enough to keep him hiding behind closed doors.
A Hometown Holiday is a 21.5K sex-buddies-to-lovers MM novella. It features a bookshop owner with a fondness for jazz music, a closeted cop who could be Mr. Right if only he’d give himself a chance, and the warm, fuzzy HEA that both guys deserve.
Josh Cassidy is happy and thriving in his college town family owned bookshop cafe and he has been out and proud since high school. After reconnecting with old friend, Alex Curiel, a cop who recently returned he has potentially found love. Unfortunately, Alex is not out and asks Josh to keep their new relationship quiet. Will Josh be able to live in the relationship closet while he waits for Alex to come to terms with telling people or is there no hope this holiday?
Another absolutely lovely holiday novella that entertains. One asks themselves just how many holiday romances can one person read? I don't have an answer because I've been reading them now for a solid month and not tired of the holiday-spirit-filled pages yet. As for A Hometown Holiday by K Evan Coles? Holiday romantic yumminess from beginning to end that is an even blend of humor, drama, and romance. I wouldn't call Hometown a rom-com because most of the humor comes between Josh and his sister that adds an extra layer of holiday cheer.
Keep in mind that as a forty-five year old woman in 2018 I am speaking as an ally and friend not personal experience. Society has come a long way towards acceptance when it comes to loving who we want but there is still a ways to go and that is where Alex comes in. I think what I loved most about K Evan Coles story is that it is more about Alex's fears of his family accepting him and not that he knows where the truth will lead. When we think of holiday romances we don't often think of fear, we think of spirit, helping each other, and Tiny Tim saying "God Bless Us, Everyone" but the truth is that fear is with a person every day and for some the holiday just magnifies that. It is easy for me to say how I wanted to shake Alex and scream "Just come clean, the 'what ifs' are worse than the 'not knowings' you're not giving your loved ones enough credit" but that isn't how fear works. The "what ifs" often outweigh the "not knowings" in our own hearts.
Following Josh and Alex's holiday relationship journey is an absolute treat that makes this holiday short novella a lesson in love, acceptance, and discovering that bit of happiness we all deserve. Miss Coles is definitely well on her storytelling way and A Hometown Holiday is not only a must read this holiday season but it is a definite must for anytime of year.
Another absolutely lovely holiday novella that entertains. One asks themselves just how many holiday romances can one person read? I don't have an answer because I've been reading them now for a solid month and not tired of the holiday-spirit-filled pages yet. As for A Hometown Holiday by K Evan Coles? Holiday romantic yumminess from beginning to end that is an even blend of humor, drama, and romance. I wouldn't call Hometown a rom-com because most of the humor comes between Josh and his sister that adds an extra layer of holiday cheer.
Keep in mind that as a forty-five year old woman in 2018 I am speaking as an ally and friend not personal experience. Society has come a long way towards acceptance when it comes to loving who we want but there is still a ways to go and that is where Alex comes in. I think what I loved most about K Evan Coles story is that it is more about Alex's fears of his family accepting him and not that he knows where the truth will lead. When we think of holiday romances we don't often think of fear, we think of spirit, helping each other, and Tiny Tim saying "God Bless Us, Everyone" but the truth is that fear is with a person every day and for some the holiday just magnifies that. It is easy for me to say how I wanted to shake Alex and scream "Just come clean, the 'what ifs' are worse than the 'not knowings' you're not giving your loved ones enough credit" but that isn't how fear works. The "what ifs" often outweigh the "not knowings" in our own hearts.
Following Josh and Alex's holiday relationship journey is an absolute treat that makes this holiday short novella a lesson in love, acceptance, and discovering that bit of happiness we all deserve. Miss Coles is definitely well on her storytelling way and A Hometown Holiday is not only a must read this holiday season but it is a definite must for anytime of year.
RATING: 
Summary:
It's been far too long since Christian Matthews has seen Daniel Bailey. In fact the last time they met Chris was a senior in college and he was the TA tasked with helping Daniel who was a way too confident freshman.
Seven years down the road, Chris is licking his wounds after being asked to leave the private school where he was teaching. He has no job, no money, and has to rely on his friend Amelia for the job and a room to live in. He needs a freaking Christmas miracle to make this Season anything other than a total loss.
Then Daniel comes back into his life and suddenly everything seems possible. Not only is Daniel still the man Christian wants more than anything, but this time Chris may well actually tell Daniel how he feels.
Original Audiobook Review September 2019:
My original review from 5 years ago is short and to the point. Well, guess what? Short and to the point states it perfectly. I haven't re-read New York Christmas since, not because I didn't enjoy it, not because I didn't take the time, but because it was a holiday story and unfortunately I just have too many Christmas tales to read each year that I tend to not re-visit no matter how much I loved it the first time. One of these years I will do a Re-Read Christmas in July Edition but until then, audiobooks make for a great chance to experience the magic again.
So the only thing I really have to add to this story is the narration. Once again Sean Crisden brings to life the amazing-ness of RJ Scott's words. Could another narrator do just as good a job? Probably but at this time I can't imagine any other voice other than Crisden's. New York Christmas is a bit sugary sweet(perhaps for some too much so) but if you can't have sugary sweet romance for Christmas then when can you? This is a story of romance, friendship, discovery, all wrapped up in a lovely Chrismtas bow and Sean Crisden resonates that with every word.
Original ebook review December 2014:
We all have that one person we wonder about, "the one who got away" or more precisely "the one who never was but always wanted and wondered about." Well this story is exactly that. And perfectly done, in my opinion. You can't help but love both Chris and Daniel and cheer them on from page one.
The Mystery of Nevermore by CS Poe
Summary:Snow & Winter #1
It’s Christmas, and all antique dealer Sebastian Snow wants is for his business to make money and to save his floundering relationship with closeted CSU detective, Neil Millett. When Snow’s Antique Emporium is broken into and a heart is found under the floorboards, Sebastian can’t let the mystery rest.
He soon finds himself caught up in murder investigations that echo the macabre stories of Edgar Allan Poe. To make matters worse, Sebastian’s sleuthing is causing his relationship with Neil to crumble, while at the same time he’s falling hard for the lead detective on the case, Calvin Winter. Sebastian and Calvin must work together to unravel the mystery behind the killings, despite the mounting danger and sexual tension, before Sebastian becomes the next victim.
In the end, Sebastian only wants to get out of this mess alive and live happily ever after with Calvin.
He soon finds himself caught up in murder investigations that echo the macabre stories of Edgar Allan Poe. To make matters worse, Sebastian’s sleuthing is causing his relationship with Neil to crumble, while at the same time he’s falling hard for the lead detective on the case, Calvin Winter. Sebastian and Calvin must work together to unravel the mystery behind the killings, despite the mounting danger and sexual tension, before Sebastian becomes the next victim.
In the end, Sebastian only wants to get out of this mess alive and live happily ever after with Calvin.
Audiobook Review November 2020:
I'm not going to say "I forgot how great the beginning of this series was" because I didn't forget, how could I? Sebastian Snow & Calvin Winter are so brilliant. Like I said, I didn't forget but it was still exciting and fun to go back and revisit the beginning of their journey. The fact that The Mystery of Nevermore is set at Christmastime is just icing on the cake . . . or better yet frosting on the Christmas cookie😉. Now that I discovered the audiobook version with the amazing narration of Derrick McClain, I think it's safe to say this may actually become an annual holiday tradition. With names like Snow & Winter, I can't think of a better or more fitting couple to help celebrate the season, even if their lives are filled with murder and mayhem😉😉.
Original Review September 2018:
When Sebastian Snow comes into his antique shop one morning he can smell something isn't right and when a heart is found under the floorboard, suddenly his life is changed. When Calvin Winter and his partner are sent to Snow’s Antique Emporium to investigate a heart under the floorboard he never expected to find his life changed. Will Snow and Winter find a connection beyond the murders straight out of Edgar Allan Poe and will they even survive?
I'm just going to jump out of the gate and say WOW!!! How this series has slipped my reader radar I have no idea but now that I found it I am loving it! I'll admit that Snow & Winter may not make my annual re-read list but I do know that I will pay them another visit down the road😉 They may not be at the top of my Top 10 Crime-Fighting Duo list but they certainly made the list and to be completely honest the notches between numbers 4, 5, & 6 are so small I would never want to place a bet on something so minute.
Edgar Allan Poe has been the basis for many book mysteries and I have yet to read any that aren't uniquely done. The books and stories the writers use may have been used before but there is so much room for interpretation with Poe's work that they are always originally done and CS Poe has put her own intriguing spin to it. That's all I'm going to say towards the mystery side of The Mystery of Nevermore except I will add that I was guessing all the way to the reveal and that alone makes this a keeper as I am rarely surprised right up to the end anymore because I have been reading/watching mysteries for nearly all of my 44 years on this earth.
As for Snow and Winter themselves, well what's not to love? Sebastian Snow is an antique dealer that has an unlikely(or not so unlikely in fictional settings) ability to find himself in the middle of trouble. Who knew antiquing could be so dangerous? I love his respect for history and his determination to discover what's going on. As for Calvin Winter, he may not be out of the closet yet but he knows that Seb is a special person even if he is a trouble magnate who doesn't exactly listen. Together they have the potential be extraordinary.
When Sebastian Snow comes into his antique shop one morning he can smell something isn't right and when a heart is found under the floorboard, suddenly his life is changed. When Calvin Winter and his partner are sent to Snow’s Antique Emporium to investigate a heart under the floorboard he never expected to find his life changed. Will Snow and Winter find a connection beyond the murders straight out of Edgar Allan Poe and will they even survive?
I'm just going to jump out of the gate and say WOW!!! How this series has slipped my reader radar I have no idea but now that I found it I am loving it! I'll admit that Snow & Winter may not make my annual re-read list but I do know that I will pay them another visit down the road😉 They may not be at the top of my Top 10 Crime-Fighting Duo list but they certainly made the list and to be completely honest the notches between numbers 4, 5, & 6 are so small I would never want to place a bet on something so minute.
Edgar Allan Poe has been the basis for many book mysteries and I have yet to read any that aren't uniquely done. The books and stories the writers use may have been used before but there is so much room for interpretation with Poe's work that they are always originally done and CS Poe has put her own intriguing spin to it. That's all I'm going to say towards the mystery side of The Mystery of Nevermore except I will add that I was guessing all the way to the reveal and that alone makes this a keeper as I am rarely surprised right up to the end anymore because I have been reading/watching mysteries for nearly all of my 44 years on this earth.
As for Snow and Winter themselves, well what's not to love? Sebastian Snow is an antique dealer that has an unlikely(or not so unlikely in fictional settings) ability to find himself in the middle of trouble. Who knew antiquing could be so dangerous? I love his respect for history and his determination to discover what's going on. As for Calvin Winter, he may not be out of the closet yet but he knows that Seb is a special person even if he is a trouble magnate who doesn't exactly listen. Together they have the potential be extraordinary.
RATING:
Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles by Eli Easton
Chapter One
“To everything, there is a season, and every season has its work of the day. Do you know what today’s work is, Toby?” Mr. Miggles hovered over my desk like the Ghost of Christmas Present.
I glanced at the date on my computer screen. It was Friday, November 18th. I groaned. “No. No, please. It’s too early for that.”
“Nonsense! There’s far too much to be done to let it wait until the last minute. Come along! We’re off to plunder the hidden treasures of this noble edifice.”
“This place? Noble? What, have you been tasting the eggnog already?” I put the computer on screen saver and got up from my seat at the front desk with a show of great reluctance.
“The Sandy Lake Library is as noble as the Vatican. After all, it’s filled with books.”
I rolled my eyes behind Mr. Miggles’s back as I followed his dramatic sweep toward the back of the library and the steps that led up to the unfinished attic. It was time for the annual—and far too early, in my opinion—ritual of Bringing Down the Christmas Boxes.
It wasn’t that I really minded the task all that much. It was slow in the library after lunchtime during the week, and I could use a break from the endless work of digitizing our archives. But this was a game he and I played, our familiar roles.
He was the buttoned-up, tie-wearing head librarian and my boss. He acted older than he actually was. He was probably in his thirties,
but he dressed up for work every day in a suit and tie. The honorific, “Mr. Miggles,” aged him too. The previous librarian had been Mrs. Wisener, and she’d been there since the dawn of time. No one ever called her by her first name. I’m not sure she even had one. So when she died and a new librarian was appointed, everyone called him “Mr. Miggles.” It suited him. He was always serious, often sad, and he had an ageless, professorial thing going on. I thought of him as the Socratic ninja of the Sandy Lake Library. He moved around stealthily, getting invisible shit done. And when he did speak, he sounded like he was reading from one of the high-brow books he loved.
It was kind of awesome.
My role, on the other hand, was to be the smart, hip, and mildly jaded young employee. I played it to perfection, if I do say so myself.
“It’s not even Thanksgiving yet,” I muttered, tromping up the attic stairs behind him.
“You’ve mastered the calendar. Good for you, grasshopper.”
I rolled my eyes again, even though his back was to me.
That wasn’t a retro Kung Fu reference, by the way. He’s speaking of Aesop’s fable, the one with the ant and the grasshopper. The grasshopper is the lazy one who doesn’t store food up for the winter but spends the summer playing around instead. So you can see where he was going with that one. Or maybe the shade he was throwing.
The attic of the library was an unfinished space that managed to be hot even in November in Ohio, and we both had to duck our heads to avoid hitting the bare struts in the roof. There were cobwebs and spiders too. I was not a fan of the attic.
“Now then.” Mr. Miggles took a clean rag out of a pocket and dusted off some boxes. “All these. And this whole stack. Don’t be shy.”
“Are grasshoppers shy?” I feigned innocence. Honestly, it was entertaining to hear Mr. Miggles talk when he was in a philosophical frame of mind, so I hoped for more. But no such luck. He gave me a hairy eyeball.
“Lift, Toby. Don’t think you can talk your way out of this.”
“Who, me?” I grabbed a couple of cartons. They must have contained ornaments because they were light.
“Put them in Santa’s Headquarters.”
“You do realize it’s just you and me, right?” I asked. “So there’s no reason to call it ‘Santa’s Headquarters’ right now.”
“You’re missing the spirit of the thing. And it’s always best to start as you mean to carry on.”
Bit by bit, we moved all the Christmas boxes down to the small conference room, which no one ever used this time of year and was, therefore, our temporary Christmas closet aka “Santa’s Headquarters.”
After the last of the boxes were put on the table, Mr. Miggles looked them over with a satisfied smile. “There! That’s all for now, Toby. Thank you for your assistance. Tomorrow we’ll start the Christmas Surprise Box.”
“Sure thing. Oh, and if I caught Hantavirus in the attic, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Mr. Miggles replied cheerfully. He opened a box, clearly already thinking of other things.
I left him to it and returned to the front desk. No one was waiting. There were a handful of people in the library at this hour, but they were all occupied. I returned to my archiving work with a sigh, glancing toward the conference room now and then. I could see Mr. Miggles through the small window in the door as he opened the boxes and checked the contents.
Why did I keep looking at him? Procrastinating, probably. Anything to avoid buckling back down to archiving. I was tempted to check my email, see if there was anything from Justin. I resisted the impulse and tried to focus. Inexplicably, I had a craving for Christmas music to listen to in my earbuds while I worked.
Ugh, Mr. Miggles. It was his fault. He had a thing about Christmas. And even though I’d only been working at the library for two years, it was starting to rub off on me.
Not a shred of tinsel ever appeared in the library until the Monday after Thanksgiving, but the groundwork began in mid-November. Mr. Miggles liked to review the boxes of decorations as though they were troops and he was mapping out a battle plan. He was so serious about it, so engaged. There was a light in his eyes and a slight smile on his face that wasn’t there at other times of the year. Honestly, it warmed the little cockles of my heart to see him like that.
Through most of the year, Mr. Miggles had a sadness about him, as if he carried around an invisible cloak made of some suffocating weight. But this weight seemed to be lifted in those few weeks between mid-November and December 24th. He insisted on keeping the library open until noon on Christmas Eve day. It was always with a great show of reluctance that he locked the door for the holiday break, wished me and my family a very Merry Christmas, and trudged away through the snow. Alone.
Sitting there watching him unpack boxes in Santa’s Headquarters, I remembered that moment last Christmas Eve. I’d felt a niggle of guilt and worry as he’d walked away. As far as I knew, he lived by himself and probably didn’t have anyone to spend Christmas with. Maybe that’s why the library’s Christmas was such a big deal to him—because it was the only one he got.
Last Christmas Eve, I felt guilty, as if I should have invited him to share Christmas with my family. I always spend the holiday at my parents’ house with my four brothers, my boyfriend Justin, and about a gazillion other relatives. But I hadn’t invited Mr. Miggles. That seemed like a line you didn’t cross with your boss.
Why didn’t he have a family? He was a bit of an odd duck, but handsome enough for, you know, an older guy. He was tall and in decent shape, had curly brown hair and wore sturdy horn-rimmed glasses that were retro enough to be almost cool. But, like I said, he had this sadness to him most of the time. I had a theory there was something tragic in his past, something mysterious and painful. He reminded me of a brooding character in a Charlotte or Emily Bronte novel. Sort of a Mr. Rochester meets the Phantom of the Opera only with invisible scar tissue.
In case it isn’t obvious, I freaking love those books, so that does not put me off in the slightest. Quite the contrary. I found my boss intriguing.
But whatever his story was, Mr. Miggles wasn’t talking.
Wasn’t there a theory about diminishing returns from repeated exposure to a pleasure source? I’m sure Mr. Miggles could quote me a volume on the subject if I asked him.
“Hey.” Justin came to a stop a foot from the front desk. He put his hands in his back pockets, which was a bit of a trick given how snug his jeans were.
“Hi. I thought we were meeting at Al’s.”
Justin looked frustrated. “Yeah. Well, the truck was making a weird noise today so I took it over to Simpson’s, right? Wouldn’t you know it, turns out I need new plugs. Three hundred bucks! I was hoping I could borrow it and go get that taken care of before he closes. I have to drive to Clinton tomorrow and don’t want to risk it.”
My insides twisted into a sour, miserable knot. “I’ll be done in ten minutes.” I looked at the clock. “Can we talk about it then?”
Mrs. Rosenberry came up to the desk to check out her books. She stood politely behind Justin, waiting.
“That’ll be too late,” Justin insisted with a note of petulance. “I want to get this done before the shop closes. Can’t you just write me a check or something? Then I can meet you over at Al’s later. Like in an hour.”
The knot in my gut intensified. I lowered my voice. “You already owe me a lot of money you haven’t paid back.”
His handsome face flashed with annoyance. “Don’t be a dick! I don’t get paid until the 15th, and I need to get this done today. Do you want me to break down on the highway somewhere? Don’t be so selfish!”
Mrs. Rosenberry looked extremely uncomfortable. She studied the library carpeting. I felt a rush of shame. I pulled my checkbook from my backpack under the counter.
“How much exactly?”
“Just make it out for $300. To me.”
I paused, looking up at him. “Why not Simpson’s?”
He rolled his eyes. “Because it’s not exactly $300, that’s why. I’m going to add a little from my account. Jesus, do you seriously not trust me?”
I made the check out to him, ripped it off, and handed it to him.
“Hello, Justin.” Mr. Miggles stopped at the desk, a frown on his brow.
“Hey, Mi—uh, Mr. Miggles,” Justin said flatly. He folded the check, his gaze returning to me. “See you in an hour.” He winked at me, flashed his cheeky grin, and walked away.
I checked out Mrs. Rosenberry’s books. My cheeks felt hot with a noxious mix of annoyance and embarrassment. Part of me thought Justin did that on purpose—showing up just before the end of my shift, knowing I wouldn’t be able to argue with him while I was at work. And another part of me thought that was unfair. He’d probably just found out he needed the new plugs. Why did I doubt him? Maybe I really was selfish.
Two years ago, I’d finished my master’s in Library Sciences and moved back to Sandy Lake. I started going out with Justin shortly afterward. We’d gone to high school together, only we hadn’t exactly been BFFs back then. In high school, I was out to two of my closest friends, but otherwise mum on the subject. I never dated girls, though. Justin, on the other hand, had been a jock. He’d dated a cheerleader.
It’s not like Justin was my big high school crush or anything. My life wasn’t that much of a Nicolas Sparks book. But Justin Tremont was seriously hot, and I’d definitely noticed him back then. So when I moved back to Sandy Lake and learned he’d come out as gay, and then I saw him at the diner and he showed an interest in me, it had been pretty thrilling. It seemed like another indication that my decision to work for my hometown library had been the right call. Go me.
It was true we didn’t have a lot in common. My passion was English Lit and Justin hoped to take over his dad’s hardware store one day. But opposites attract. Right? Plus, I was young and healthy and horny. It’s a medically known fact that if you don’t use your penis regularly it will wither and fall off. I firmly believe that.
I scanned Mrs. Rosenberry’s books—six Regency romances and a book on comfort food casseroles—and put them in a paper bag with handles for her, the way she preferred. She was a tiny thing, Mrs. Rosenberry, and probably in her seventies. She thanked me and tottered off, already trying to read one of the books as she walked and nearly bumping into a pillar. It made me smile.
There were some very nice people living in Sandy Lake. And I had a theory that the library saw all of them.
“Are you, uh, all right, Toby?” Mr. Miggles gravitated to the front desk. He looked worried, and he swayed awkwardly, hands behind his back. There was a knowing, dare I say pitying look on his face that made me feel embarrassed and angry all over again, as if he were judging my relationship with Justin.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I boldly met his gaze.
He swallowed, looked like he was going to say something, then nodded. “Very well. Have a nice evening.” He wandered off.
What had he been about to say? Whatever it was, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear it.
It was after five, so I grabbed my bag and headed out. The November day was overcast and cold, but I decided to walk around the town park until it was time to meet Justin at Al’s. I spent too much time sitting at work.
Sandy Lake has a Main Street, like most American towns. The town park is right in the middle, and it’s across the street from Al’s Pizza, the bank, the clock tower, and the J&J Shop. It’s a big park with a bandstand in the middle, a playground area, and lots of wandering paths and benches. I ignored the benches and walked around, trying to get a little exercise and stay warm.
Do you ever have that feeling something’s wrong, but you don’t know what it is? Like, your stomach and your body are all tense and tight and stressed, as if there’s something important you should do, or some life-altering plot point is about to smack you upside the head, but your conscious mind has no freaking clue what it is?
I’d been feeling that way lately. It had something to do with Mr. Miggles. Or at least, that itchy do-something-itis was worse around him. And after that stupid scene with Justin, I was particularly tense and unhappy.
There was nothing wrong with my relationship with Justin, I reminded myself. He was gorgeous, fit, and gay, and that was a hell of a lot of check boxes ticked in a small Midwestern town like Sandy Lake. So he wasn’t an intellectual giant. Or particularly ambitious. Or conscientious about things like borrowing money—he owed me almost two thousand dollars now. But that was only because he didn’t think it was a big deal. And money wasn’t a big deal. Not in the larger, utopian, Thomas More-ish, nonmaterialistic view of life. Which was an admirable way to think, really.
If you wait for perfect in life—the perfect job, the perfect house, the perfect love—you’ll never do anything. All relationships have their challenges.
The butterflies in my stomach continued to vomit regardless. With a sigh, I headed to Al’s. I’d have a beer while I waited.
“So, then Jimmy was like ‘I ordered ten packs of them! I know I did!'” Justin took the last slice from the pizza pan. “Of course, when I checked with the distributor, no order had been placed. Big surprise.”
“Hmm. Maybe the order got lost.” I tried to sound empathetic, though it was hard to get worked up over M6 bolts. I filled both our glasses from the last of the pitcher of beer.
“I’m sure he just forgot. Fucking Jimmy.” Justin gave an exasperated shake of his head. Jimmy was an older man who worked at the hardware store with Justin. Justin was always complaining about him. “I swear he can’t remember jack shit. Probably has Alzheimer’s or something.”
“He’s not that old, is he?”
Justin gave me a look. “He’s, like, in his fifties. Sort of like Migs, I guess.”
I gave a gasp of surprise. “Mr. Miggles is not in his fifties!”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s not!”
“Well, he dresses like an old man. He looks like my grandpa.”
“He dresses like a professional. He’s the head librarian. What do you expect him to wear? Jeans? Rolling Stones T-shirts?” I tried to keep my tone neutral but wasn’t super successful. Justin liked to rag on Migs. That is, Mr. Miggles. I didn’t like it.
Justin studied my face. “Christ, Tobe, I just said he dressed old. Why do you always defend him? I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have the hots for him.”
I let out a breathy huff of derision. “No. But he’s a good boss. I don’t see why we’re talking about him in the first place.”
“Whatever.”
When in doubt, retreat. I changed the subject. “So… the weather’s supposed to be nice on Sunday. Sunny and 60 degrees.” I smiled. “We’re still on for Columbus, right?” We’d planned to drive to Columbus for lunch and an early movie, maybe some shopping.
Justin rubbed his beard, his face guilty. “About that.”
“Oh, no.”
“Sorry. We’re expecting a big shipment Saturday afternoon, and Dad wants it unpacked and shelved by Monday morning. We’re low on all kinds of stuff.”
“But it’s Sunday!” I gave him a pleading look.
He huffed. “You know those big blue eyes won’t work on me. It’s my job, Toby. I can’t just blow my dad off. Jesus, what do you want me to do?”
I picked at my pizza with my fork, but my appetite was gone. “Can’t you do inventory Saturday afternoon or really early Monday morning?”
“I don’t know what time the shipment’s going to arrive, do I? And Dad wants it out first thing Monday morning. You know I’m not a morning person. And it might take hours.”
“So we can’t do anything on Sunday?”
“I didn’t say that.” Justin’s voice was thin, like I was being unreasonable. “I should be done by five or so. We can watch a movie at my place.”
“That’s what we always do. I wanted to get out of here for a few hours.” I liked living in Sandy Lake, but sometimes I needed time away. I loved big cities too.
“So go, Toby, Jesus. No one’s stopping you. Text me when you get back into town. If I’m still around, you can come over.” Justin ate the last bite of his pizza, watching me with a wary expression I’d come to think of as his “is Toby going to be a baby?” face. I hated that face.
I swallowed down my irritation. I could argue that it was a date we’d arranged weeks ago. I could argue that he always wiggled out of going out of town with me. Justin didn’t really like Columbus and seemed more than happy to hang around Sandy Lake until he grew mold. That was his right, obviously, but it annoyed me that he seemed to make less and less of an effort to do the things I wanted to do the longer we dated. But I’d just sound like a nag if I said any of that. I finished off my beer and said nothing.
“You coming over tonight?” he asked. He nudged my thigh suggestively with his knee under the table.
What can I say? I was twenty-four and my body responded instantly to the nudge. I sighed in resignation. “Yes.”
Justin grinned and wiped his beard with his napkin. “Cool. I’ll see you over there.” He winked, stood up, tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table, then strode away.
I finished my beer a bit more slowly and paid the bill. It was almost thirty bucks with the tip, but at that point, I wasn’t thinking about much other than driving over to Justin’s apartment and getting naked.
For the moment, the butterflies fell silent.
“To everything, there is a season, and every season has its work of the day. Do you know what today’s work is, Toby?” Mr. Miggles hovered over my desk like the Ghost of Christmas Present.
I glanced at the date on my computer screen. It was Friday, November 18th. I groaned. “No. No, please. It’s too early for that.”
“Nonsense! There’s far too much to be done to let it wait until the last minute. Come along! We’re off to plunder the hidden treasures of this noble edifice.”
“This place? Noble? What, have you been tasting the eggnog already?” I put the computer on screen saver and got up from my seat at the front desk with a show of great reluctance.
“The Sandy Lake Library is as noble as the Vatican. After all, it’s filled with books.”
I rolled my eyes behind Mr. Miggles’s back as I followed his dramatic sweep toward the back of the library and the steps that led up to the unfinished attic. It was time for the annual—and far too early, in my opinion—ritual of Bringing Down the Christmas Boxes.
It wasn’t that I really minded the task all that much. It was slow in the library after lunchtime during the week, and I could use a break from the endless work of digitizing our archives. But this was a game he and I played, our familiar roles.
He was the buttoned-up, tie-wearing head librarian and my boss. He acted older than he actually was. He was probably in his thirties,
but he dressed up for work every day in a suit and tie. The honorific, “Mr. Miggles,” aged him too. The previous librarian had been Mrs. Wisener, and she’d been there since the dawn of time. No one ever called her by her first name. I’m not sure she even had one. So when she died and a new librarian was appointed, everyone called him “Mr. Miggles.” It suited him. He was always serious, often sad, and he had an ageless, professorial thing going on. I thought of him as the Socratic ninja of the Sandy Lake Library. He moved around stealthily, getting invisible shit done. And when he did speak, he sounded like he was reading from one of the high-brow books he loved.
It was kind of awesome.
My role, on the other hand, was to be the smart, hip, and mildly jaded young employee. I played it to perfection, if I do say so myself.
“It’s not even Thanksgiving yet,” I muttered, tromping up the attic stairs behind him.
“You’ve mastered the calendar. Good for you, grasshopper.”
I rolled my eyes again, even though his back was to me.
That wasn’t a retro Kung Fu reference, by the way. He’s speaking of Aesop’s fable, the one with the ant and the grasshopper. The grasshopper is the lazy one who doesn’t store food up for the winter but spends the summer playing around instead. So you can see where he was going with that one. Or maybe the shade he was throwing.
The attic of the library was an unfinished space that managed to be hot even in November in Ohio, and we both had to duck our heads to avoid hitting the bare struts in the roof. There were cobwebs and spiders too. I was not a fan of the attic.
“Now then.” Mr. Miggles took a clean rag out of a pocket and dusted off some boxes. “All these. And this whole stack. Don’t be shy.”
“Are grasshoppers shy?” I feigned innocence. Honestly, it was entertaining to hear Mr. Miggles talk when he was in a philosophical frame of mind, so I hoped for more. But no such luck. He gave me a hairy eyeball.
“Lift, Toby. Don’t think you can talk your way out of this.”
“Who, me?” I grabbed a couple of cartons. They must have contained ornaments because they were light.
“Put them in Santa’s Headquarters.”
“You do realize it’s just you and me, right?” I asked. “So there’s no reason to call it ‘Santa’s Headquarters’ right now.”
“You’re missing the spirit of the thing. And it’s always best to start as you mean to carry on.”
Bit by bit, we moved all the Christmas boxes down to the small conference room, which no one ever used this time of year and was, therefore, our temporary Christmas closet aka “Santa’s Headquarters.”
After the last of the boxes were put on the table, Mr. Miggles looked them over with a satisfied smile. “There! That’s all for now, Toby. Thank you for your assistance. Tomorrow we’ll start the Christmas Surprise Box.”
“Sure thing. Oh, and if I caught Hantavirus in the attic, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Mr. Miggles replied cheerfully. He opened a box, clearly already thinking of other things.
I left him to it and returned to the front desk. No one was waiting. There were a handful of people in the library at this hour, but they were all occupied. I returned to my archiving work with a sigh, glancing toward the conference room now and then. I could see Mr. Miggles through the small window in the door as he opened the boxes and checked the contents.
Why did I keep looking at him? Procrastinating, probably. Anything to avoid buckling back down to archiving. I was tempted to check my email, see if there was anything from Justin. I resisted the impulse and tried to focus. Inexplicably, I had a craving for Christmas music to listen to in my earbuds while I worked.
Ugh, Mr. Miggles. It was his fault. He had a thing about Christmas. And even though I’d only been working at the library for two years, it was starting to rub off on me.
Not a shred of tinsel ever appeared in the library until the Monday after Thanksgiving, but the groundwork began in mid-November. Mr. Miggles liked to review the boxes of decorations as though they were troops and he was mapping out a battle plan. He was so serious about it, so engaged. There was a light in his eyes and a slight smile on his face that wasn’t there at other times of the year. Honestly, it warmed the little cockles of my heart to see him like that.
Through most of the year, Mr. Miggles had a sadness about him, as if he carried around an invisible cloak made of some suffocating weight. But this weight seemed to be lifted in those few weeks between mid-November and December 24th. He insisted on keeping the library open until noon on Christmas Eve day. It was always with a great show of reluctance that he locked the door for the holiday break, wished me and my family a very Merry Christmas, and trudged away through the snow. Alone.
Sitting there watching him unpack boxes in Santa’s Headquarters, I remembered that moment last Christmas Eve. I’d felt a niggle of guilt and worry as he’d walked away. As far as I knew, he lived by himself and probably didn’t have anyone to spend Christmas with. Maybe that’s why the library’s Christmas was such a big deal to him—because it was the only one he got.
Last Christmas Eve, I felt guilty, as if I should have invited him to share Christmas with my family. I always spend the holiday at my parents’ house with my four brothers, my boyfriend Justin, and about a gazillion other relatives. But I hadn’t invited Mr. Miggles. That seemed like a line you didn’t cross with your boss.
Why didn’t he have a family? He was a bit of an odd duck, but handsome enough for, you know, an older guy. He was tall and in decent shape, had curly brown hair and wore sturdy horn-rimmed glasses that were retro enough to be almost cool. But, like I said, he had this sadness to him most of the time. I had a theory there was something tragic in his past, something mysterious and painful. He reminded me of a brooding character in a Charlotte or Emily Bronte novel. Sort of a Mr. Rochester meets the Phantom of the Opera only with invisible scar tissue.
In case it isn’t obvious, I freaking love those books, so that does not put me off in the slightest. Quite the contrary. I found my boss intriguing.
But whatever his story was, Mr. Miggles wasn’t talking.
*****
A little before 5 o’clock, Justin walked into the library. His blond hair was shoulder-length and naturally turned up at the ends. His beard was close-cropped and his eyes were pale blue. He wore his lined denim jacket, a red T-shirt, and tight jeans. I admired the view, as I always had. Though these days, I had to admit, the view had less effect on me than it once did.Wasn’t there a theory about diminishing returns from repeated exposure to a pleasure source? I’m sure Mr. Miggles could quote me a volume on the subject if I asked him.
“Hey.” Justin came to a stop a foot from the front desk. He put his hands in his back pockets, which was a bit of a trick given how snug his jeans were.
“Hi. I thought we were meeting at Al’s.”
Justin looked frustrated. “Yeah. Well, the truck was making a weird noise today so I took it over to Simpson’s, right? Wouldn’t you know it, turns out I need new plugs. Three hundred bucks! I was hoping I could borrow it and go get that taken care of before he closes. I have to drive to Clinton tomorrow and don’t want to risk it.”
My insides twisted into a sour, miserable knot. “I’ll be done in ten minutes.” I looked at the clock. “Can we talk about it then?”
Mrs. Rosenberry came up to the desk to check out her books. She stood politely behind Justin, waiting.
“That’ll be too late,” Justin insisted with a note of petulance. “I want to get this done before the shop closes. Can’t you just write me a check or something? Then I can meet you over at Al’s later. Like in an hour.”
The knot in my gut intensified. I lowered my voice. “You already owe me a lot of money you haven’t paid back.”
His handsome face flashed with annoyance. “Don’t be a dick! I don’t get paid until the 15th, and I need to get this done today. Do you want me to break down on the highway somewhere? Don’t be so selfish!”
Mrs. Rosenberry looked extremely uncomfortable. She studied the library carpeting. I felt a rush of shame. I pulled my checkbook from my backpack under the counter.
“How much exactly?”
“Just make it out for $300. To me.”
I paused, looking up at him. “Why not Simpson’s?”
He rolled his eyes. “Because it’s not exactly $300, that’s why. I’m going to add a little from my account. Jesus, do you seriously not trust me?”
I made the check out to him, ripped it off, and handed it to him.
“Hello, Justin.” Mr. Miggles stopped at the desk, a frown on his brow.
“Hey, Mi—uh, Mr. Miggles,” Justin said flatly. He folded the check, his gaze returning to me. “See you in an hour.” He winked at me, flashed his cheeky grin, and walked away.
I checked out Mrs. Rosenberry’s books. My cheeks felt hot with a noxious mix of annoyance and embarrassment. Part of me thought Justin did that on purpose—showing up just before the end of my shift, knowing I wouldn’t be able to argue with him while I was at work. And another part of me thought that was unfair. He’d probably just found out he needed the new plugs. Why did I doubt him? Maybe I really was selfish.
Two years ago, I’d finished my master’s in Library Sciences and moved back to Sandy Lake. I started going out with Justin shortly afterward. We’d gone to high school together, only we hadn’t exactly been BFFs back then. In high school, I was out to two of my closest friends, but otherwise mum on the subject. I never dated girls, though. Justin, on the other hand, had been a jock. He’d dated a cheerleader.
It’s not like Justin was my big high school crush or anything. My life wasn’t that much of a Nicolas Sparks book. But Justin Tremont was seriously hot, and I’d definitely noticed him back then. So when I moved back to Sandy Lake and learned he’d come out as gay, and then I saw him at the diner and he showed an interest in me, it had been pretty thrilling. It seemed like another indication that my decision to work for my hometown library had been the right call. Go me.
It was true we didn’t have a lot in common. My passion was English Lit and Justin hoped to take over his dad’s hardware store one day. But opposites attract. Right? Plus, I was young and healthy and horny. It’s a medically known fact that if you don’t use your penis regularly it will wither and fall off. I firmly believe that.
I scanned Mrs. Rosenberry’s books—six Regency romances and a book on comfort food casseroles—and put them in a paper bag with handles for her, the way she preferred. She was a tiny thing, Mrs. Rosenberry, and probably in her seventies. She thanked me and tottered off, already trying to read one of the books as she walked and nearly bumping into a pillar. It made me smile.
There were some very nice people living in Sandy Lake. And I had a theory that the library saw all of them.
“Are you, uh, all right, Toby?” Mr. Miggles gravitated to the front desk. He looked worried, and he swayed awkwardly, hands behind his back. There was a knowing, dare I say pitying look on his face that made me feel embarrassed and angry all over again, as if he were judging my relationship with Justin.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I boldly met his gaze.
He swallowed, looked like he was going to say something, then nodded. “Very well. Have a nice evening.” He wandered off.
What had he been about to say? Whatever it was, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear it.
It was after five, so I grabbed my bag and headed out. The November day was overcast and cold, but I decided to walk around the town park until it was time to meet Justin at Al’s. I spent too much time sitting at work.
Sandy Lake has a Main Street, like most American towns. The town park is right in the middle, and it’s across the street from Al’s Pizza, the bank, the clock tower, and the J&J Shop. It’s a big park with a bandstand in the middle, a playground area, and lots of wandering paths and benches. I ignored the benches and walked around, trying to get a little exercise and stay warm.
Do you ever have that feeling something’s wrong, but you don’t know what it is? Like, your stomach and your body are all tense and tight and stressed, as if there’s something important you should do, or some life-altering plot point is about to smack you upside the head, but your conscious mind has no freaking clue what it is?
I’d been feeling that way lately. It had something to do with Mr. Miggles. Or at least, that itchy do-something-itis was worse around him. And after that stupid scene with Justin, I was particularly tense and unhappy.
There was nothing wrong with my relationship with Justin, I reminded myself. He was gorgeous, fit, and gay, and that was a hell of a lot of check boxes ticked in a small Midwestern town like Sandy Lake. So he wasn’t an intellectual giant. Or particularly ambitious. Or conscientious about things like borrowing money—he owed me almost two thousand dollars now. But that was only because he didn’t think it was a big deal. And money wasn’t a big deal. Not in the larger, utopian, Thomas More-ish, nonmaterialistic view of life. Which was an admirable way to think, really.
If you wait for perfect in life—the perfect job, the perfect house, the perfect love—you’ll never do anything. All relationships have their challenges.
The butterflies in my stomach continued to vomit regardless. With a sigh, I headed to Al’s. I’d have a beer while I waited.
“So, then Jimmy was like ‘I ordered ten packs of them! I know I did!'” Justin took the last slice from the pizza pan. “Of course, when I checked with the distributor, no order had been placed. Big surprise.”
“Hmm. Maybe the order got lost.” I tried to sound empathetic, though it was hard to get worked up over M6 bolts. I filled both our glasses from the last of the pitcher of beer.
“I’m sure he just forgot. Fucking Jimmy.” Justin gave an exasperated shake of his head. Jimmy was an older man who worked at the hardware store with Justin. Justin was always complaining about him. “I swear he can’t remember jack shit. Probably has Alzheimer’s or something.”
“He’s not that old, is he?”
Justin gave me a look. “He’s, like, in his fifties. Sort of like Migs, I guess.”
I gave a gasp of surprise. “Mr. Miggles is not in his fifties!”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s not!”
“Well, he dresses like an old man. He looks like my grandpa.”
“He dresses like a professional. He’s the head librarian. What do you expect him to wear? Jeans? Rolling Stones T-shirts?” I tried to keep my tone neutral but wasn’t super successful. Justin liked to rag on Migs. That is, Mr. Miggles. I didn’t like it.
Justin studied my face. “Christ, Tobe, I just said he dressed old. Why do you always defend him? I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have the hots for him.”
I let out a breathy huff of derision. “No. But he’s a good boss. I don’t see why we’re talking about him in the first place.”
“Whatever.”
When in doubt, retreat. I changed the subject. “So… the weather’s supposed to be nice on Sunday. Sunny and 60 degrees.” I smiled. “We’re still on for Columbus, right?” We’d planned to drive to Columbus for lunch and an early movie, maybe some shopping.
Justin rubbed his beard, his face guilty. “About that.”
“Oh, no.”
“Sorry. We’re expecting a big shipment Saturday afternoon, and Dad wants it unpacked and shelved by Monday morning. We’re low on all kinds of stuff.”
“But it’s Sunday!” I gave him a pleading look.
He huffed. “You know those big blue eyes won’t work on me. It’s my job, Toby. I can’t just blow my dad off. Jesus, what do you want me to do?”
I picked at my pizza with my fork, but my appetite was gone. “Can’t you do inventory Saturday afternoon or really early Monday morning?”
“I don’t know what time the shipment’s going to arrive, do I? And Dad wants it out first thing Monday morning. You know I’m not a morning person. And it might take hours.”
“So we can’t do anything on Sunday?”
“I didn’t say that.” Justin’s voice was thin, like I was being unreasonable. “I should be done by five or so. We can watch a movie at my place.”
“That’s what we always do. I wanted to get out of here for a few hours.” I liked living in Sandy Lake, but sometimes I needed time away. I loved big cities too.
“So go, Toby, Jesus. No one’s stopping you. Text me when you get back into town. If I’m still around, you can come over.” Justin ate the last bite of his pizza, watching me with a wary expression I’d come to think of as his “is Toby going to be a baby?” face. I hated that face.
I swallowed down my irritation. I could argue that it was a date we’d arranged weeks ago. I could argue that he always wiggled out of going out of town with me. Justin didn’t really like Columbus and seemed more than happy to hang around Sandy Lake until he grew mold. That was his right, obviously, but it annoyed me that he seemed to make less and less of an effort to do the things I wanted to do the longer we dated. But I’d just sound like a nag if I said any of that. I finished off my beer and said nothing.
“You coming over tonight?” he asked. He nudged my thigh suggestively with his knee under the table.
What can I say? I was twenty-four and my body responded instantly to the nudge. I sighed in resignation. “Yes.”
Justin grinned and wiped his beard with his napkin. “Cool. I’ll see you over there.” He winked, stood up, tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table, then strode away.
I finished my beer a bit more slowly and paid the bill. It was almost thirty bucks with the tip, but at that point, I wasn’t thinking about much other than driving over to Justin’s apartment and getting naked.
For the moment, the butterflies fell silent.
So This is Christmas by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
I looked up from the latest love note sent by the California State Franchise Tax Board and offered what I hoped was a pleasant smile. Between the taxes, the jetlag, and the unwelcome discovery that my soon-to-be-demoted store-manager stepsister was using the flat above Cloak and Dagger Books as some kind of love shack, pleasant was about the most I could manage.
Medium height. Blond. Boyish. As I stared into an eerily familiar pair of green eyes, recognition washed over me. Recognition and astonishment.
“Kevin? Kevin O’Reilly?” I came around the mahogany front desk that served as my sales counter to give him a… well, probably a hail-fellow-well-met sort of hug, but Kevin didn’t move. He grinned widely, nodded, and then— unexpectedly— his face twisted like he was about to burst into tears.
“Adrien English. It’s really you.” His voice wobbled.
“Hey,” I said. I was responding to the wobble. My tone was a cross between warm and bracing. Alarmed, in other words.
Kevin recovered at once. “It’s only… I figured it couldn’t be the right store. Or if it was, you’d have sold the business and moved to Florida.”
“Moved to Florida?” Did anybody move from Southern California to Florida? Did Kevin remember me as an elderly Jewish retiree? No. Kevin was just talking, mouth moving while he stared at me with those forlorn eyes. Trying to make his mind up.
About what?
He looked… older, of course. Who didn’t? And thinner. And tired. He looked unhappy. There was a surprising amount of that during the holidays. And even more after Christmas. Which is what this was. The day after Christmas.
Boxing Day, if we had stayed in London.
Which we hadn’t.
“Wow. This really is a surprise,” I said. “Is it a coincidence? Or were you actually looking for me?”
“Yes.” Kevin hesitated. “No.”
I laughed. “Good answer.”
Kevin opened his mouth but changed his mind at the thump of footsteps pounding down the staircase to our left.
Natalie, my previously mentioned stepsis and soon-to-be-demoted store manager, appeared, looking uncharacteristically disheveled— though I’ve been duly informed that smudged eye makeup and “bed head” is a real thing and supposedly sexy. Angus, my other business investment mistake, was on her heels. Right on her heels. In fact, they nearly crashed down the staircase in their hurry to stop me from whatever they thought I was about to do.
“Adrien, it’s not what you think!” Natalie clutched the banister as Angus lurched past her.
Why do people always say that?
I spluttered, “Seriously? Really? Are you kidding me, Nat?” Angus, having avoided knocking Natalie down, promptly tripped over Tomkins, the beige alley cat I’d rescued six months earlier. The cat was apparently also fleeing my wrath, though he’d been the only innocent party at that… party.
I held my breath as Angus managed to hurdle the last three steps and deliver a barely qualifying 12.92 landing on the ground floor.
I glared at him. “And you. You stay out of my sight.”
He shrank inside his gray hoodie like a retiring monk, which he was demonstrably not. Note to self: next time hire a headless monk.
“I’m fired?” he gulped.
Natalie gasped. “
Hell no, you’re not fired. In the middle of the holidays? Wait. Maybe you are fired. I have to think about it. Meantime maybe you could bring yourself to reshelve the week’s worth of books sitting on this cart?”
Angus leaped to obey.
“It’s not a week’s worth,” Natalie said with a show of defiance. “You haven’t been gone a week. That’s two days’ worth, and we didn’t have time to reshelve because we were busy selling books.”
“And you were busy not selling books. But we’ll discuss it later.”
“Fine. Okay. Yes, Mr. Scrooge, we did take Christmas off.”
“And other things too, it seems, but like I said, we’ll discuss later. Right now we have customers.”
She looked at Kevin.
“Not him.”
“Where?” she demanded, mutiny in her blue eyes. Flecks of green glitter dusted her model-like cheekbones.
Right on cue, the bells on the door chimed in silvery welcome, and I had to smother a grin at her irate expression as a pair of elderly, male professorial types wandered in, each clutching what looked ominously like bags of books for return.
“Want to grab a cup of coffee?” I asked Kevin, who had observed the last three minutes in astonished silence.
“Sure,” Kevin said.
“We’ll let these two get their story straight before I cross-examine them.”
“Oh, so funny,” Natalie muttered.
I did laugh then, although she was right. It wasn’t funny, and Natalie + Angus was an unexpected and unwelcome equation both in the work place and every other place I could think of. Which is why it seemed like a good idea to step away before I said things I might regret.
Plus I desperately needed caffeine. To add to their other offenses, Natalie and Angus had pinched every last coffee bean in the building. I’d had to choose between coffee and nine more minutes with Jake that morning. Which went predictably. My gaze veered automatically to the clock on the faux fireplace mantel. Jake ought to be walking into his meeting about now. He’d headed out to meet a client as I’d left for the bookstore. We were hoping to rendezvous for lunch— and just the idea of that, of being able to casually meet Jake for lunch, instantly warmed me.
We left Natalie distractedly greeting customers, and I led the way out of the store into the damp, chilly Monday morning. The smell of last night’s rain mingled with street smells. The gutters brimmed with oily water, and the street was black and slick. The fake evergreen garland and tinsel-fringed boulevard banners looked woebegone and windblown— like they’d gone to bed without taking their makeup off.
All the same, it felt weirdly festive. Like the dark side of Christmas.
“Is it always like that?” Kevin asked as we jogged across the already busy intersection.
“More or less. I prefer less.” I threw him a sideways smile. His brows drew together. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“Now there you’re wrong.”
“No, but I mean you look exactly the same. You look great.”
“Thanks. It’s the Wheaties.” And the successful heart surgery. Being happy probably didn’t hurt either. I pointed down the street at the blue and white umbrellas crowding the sidewalk in front of the indie coffeehouse, and we veered from the crosswalk and hopped the brimming gutter, just missing getting splashed— or worse— by a Mercedes who didn’t notice the crosswalk or us.
I said, “How long has it been? Three years?”
“About. It feels like thirteen.” He looked like it had been thirteen. There were shadows beneath his eyes and lines in his face even though he couldn’t be much more than twenty-eight. Out of college and doing archeology for a living? Could you make a living doing archeology?
Probably as easily as you could selling books for a living.
“So how’ve you been?” I prodded his sudden and complete silence. “How was your holiday?”
His face twisted again. “If you’d asked me last week—”
We’d reached the coffeehouse. I held the short, wrought-iron gate for Kevin, and as we reached the glass door entrance I gave him an encouraging shoulder squeeze— hold-that-thought! The life-affirming fragrance of hot coffee and baked goods wafted out.
“Find us a table.” I headed for the mercifully short line. “What do you want?”
“I don’t care,” he said. “A tall, pumpkin spice latte with caramel drizzle and no foam.”
Uh-huh, as the philosophers say.
“Got it.”
I placed our orders and eventually located Kevin at a tiny table behind a large potted tree festooned with red bows and white fairy lights. He had his head in his hands, which is never a good sign in someone you’re planning to have coffee with.
I pulled out the chair across from him. “Something tells me this is about more than not getting a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
The words came out muffled behind his hands. “I don’t know where to start.”
I sighed mentally. I’m all for extra helpings of comfort and joy this time of year, but I was more than a bit sleep deprived, and I was worried about the situation with Natalie and Angus. Still.
“Start at the beginning. What are you doing in my neck of the woods? Are you visiting family?”
“No. My family’s all up north.” He raised his head and took a deep breath. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Ivor. I’ve checked the hospitals, the morgue. The police won’t help because his family won’t report him missing and he’s an adult. They say he’s got a right to disappear if he wants.”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “Ivor is…?”
“Missing.”
“Right. I mean, who or what is Ivor to you?”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“Oh, that’s great!” Possibly I sounded overly enthused, but as I recalled, Jake had not taken kindly to Kevin’s, er, boyish interest in me. Or mine in him. Not that I’d ever really been interested in Kevin.
Anyway, it was all a long time ago.
“Yes. It was. Is. And that’s why—” Kevin broke off as the barista brought our coffees and a couple of pastries on a tray.
In a mystery novel, that would have been the point at which a silencer would have appeared through the branches of the potted tree to take out Kevin, but in real life we just waited politely until she departed.
“Have some baklava,” I said, “and let’s walk this back a few steps. Ivor is your boyfriend, and he came down south to spend the holidays with his family, and now he’s missing?”
“Yes. Right. Exactly.” Kevin reached for a slice of baklava.
“And his family is saying… what?”
“Nothing.”
“Meaning they won’t talk to you or they don’t have any information?”
Kevin chewed like a threshing machine and spit out, “Both.”
“It can’t be both.”
“First they said he wasn’t there. Then they stopped talking to me.”
“Ah. So you think—”
“He didn’t change his mind about us! I know he’s there. Something happened while he was down here visiting them.”
Yep. And that something had led Ivor to change his mind about being with Kevin. Been there and done that. And honestly, it had all turned out for the best. As painful as it had been getting dumped by Mel, I didn’t regret a minute of that heartbreak because my path had ultimately led to Jake.
I didn’t try to tell Kevin that, though. I didn’t tell him if it was meant to be, it would happen. I didn’t reassure him about all the fish in the sea. Because it doesn’t help when you’re in love with a particular fish.
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Realistically, I mean.”
“Realistically, I don’t know. Nothing they could say would make any difference to him. I know Ivor. I know he loves me.” I have to admit his absolute certainty was convincing. Or maybe it was just poignant.
I said tentatively, because sometimes hearing it aloud jolts you back to reality, “Do you think he’s being held against his will?”
“Maybe.” He said it more in challenge than in belief.
“What do you think would be the purpose of that?”
“Maybe they would try to force him into conversion therapy? They’re really conservative. I mean like something out of the nineties.”
“Uh…” Presumably he didn’t mean 1890s.
“I didn’t even think normal people could feel that way now,” he said all wide-eyed and shocked-looking. Seven years wasn’t a generation, but Kevin had grown up in a different world than me. Certainly a different world than Jake.
“I’m not sure how normal they are if they’re really holding their son against his will so that they can force him into conversion therapy.”
“I mean normal-seeming. People who live in the real world. Who’ve been to college. Who have jobs. Friends. Who have money.”
That caught my attention. “They have money?”
“A lot of money.” He said it with complete disgust.
“What’s Ivor’s last name?” I asked.
“Arbuckle.”
“Arbuckle? As in Candace and Benjamin Arbuckle?”
Kevin watched me, torn between hope and unease. “Right. Why? Do you know them?”
“My mother knows them. I went to school with Terrill.”
I hadn’t thought of Terrill in years. And I’d have been happy to go on never thinking of him.
Kevin was staring at me expectantly. I admitted, “I vaguely remember Ivor. There was a sister too, I think.”
“Jacintha. Yes.” Kevin continued to wait for my pronouncement.
I didn’t have a pronouncement. If I did, it would be something along the lines of Run for the hills! Terrill and I had been doubles partners on the tennis team back in high school. He was a good player but a total prick off the court. Happily, once my health had sidelined me, I’d never had to deal with Terrill again. As in literally never. I’d never seen or heard from him again after I got sick.
Terrill Arbuckle as an in-law was something I wouldn’t wish on anyone— or at least not the Terrill Arbuckle I’d known back then. And I couldn’t imagine the rest of the clan was any better. That was an assumption. I didn’t know it for a fact. Maybe Ivor was the white sheep of the family.
Kevin gazed beseechingly at me with those wide green eyes. He said huskily, “Do you— could you— can you help me, Adrien?”
“Me? Well, I don’t know how much help I’d be. I do know—”
“You saved me,” Kevin broke in, and he sounded startlingly passionate about it. “I’d have gone to prison for murder if you hadn’t stepped in three years ago. Nobody else believed me. Only you. Well, also Melissa. Anyway, I never got the chance to tell you. Never got the chance to say thank you.”
“That’s okay. You didn’t have to.”
“When I saw your bookstore, it was like a sign. I mean, I know that probably sounds crazy, but I was driving around feeling so— so desperate and alone, and then when I saw you, I knew it would be okay. I knew you would help. That I’d managed to find the one person who could help.”
“Okay, but wait,” I said quickly. “First of all, you’re welcome for three years ago. I couldn’t have done that on my own, though. And really the same goes for now. I’d like to help, but probably the most helpful thing I can do is put you in touch with someone who can get you some answers.”
“Who?” Kevin asked blankly.
I smiled. Because even in these not very cheerful circumstances, knowing I could call on Jake for help, could count on Jake now and forever, filled me with… happiness.
Yeah. Happiness.
“Jake Riordan,” I answered.
A Hometown Holiday by K Evan Coles
After work, Josh walked four blocks down Pleasant Street to Jamison’s Pub. He smiled as he imagined his sister’s knowing look, especially after he found Alex at the bar talking with Matt, who was pouring drinks for the after-work and -school crowd. Alex glanced up at Josh’s approach and his smile seemed to light the room.
“Hey, Josh.” Matt set his hands on the bar top. “Alex was just telling me that you’ve been making him listen to your old man music.”
Alex grimaced. “I never called it old man music.”
“No, I did,” Matt countered.
“And I said that I didn’t mind listening to it,” Alex said. “A roommate of mine in college liked jazz.”
“Then your roommate had crap taste in music, too.” Matt moved to pour a pint of Josh’s favorite ale. “Listen, man. Josh and I met on the first day of kindergarten. He’s always been a scrawny, ginger-headed fuckface who listens to oldies and worships the Rat Pack.”
Josh shrugged out of his coat and pulled up a stool. “Now you’re just making shit up. I didn’t start listening to jazz until middle school and I’ve never worshipped the Rat Pack. I’m not even scrawny anymore. It’s not my fault you can’t see past Coldplay and Radiohead. Both bands I like, by the way,” he said to Alex.
Matt made an exasperated sound. “And you wonder why you’re still single.”
“Some people like a little variety.” Josh accepted the pint Matt handed him with a smile. “And one of these days, the right man is going to figure out that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to the old man music. Now shut up and give me a menu, please, because I feel the urge to eat myself into a food coma.”
Matt slapped some menus down before he moved away to take another order, and Alex eyed Josh with a grin.
“The right man, huh?”
Josh smiled. “It could happen. Sorry I was late.”
“I should hope so. Matt started harassing me the minute I set foot in the door, and I’m so hungry I could eat my own hand.”
“Oh, shit.” Josh laughed. “Well, that’s easy enough to fix. How about we split an order of poutine? Would that make you happy?”
“Yes, it would.” Alex’s eyes gleamed. He loved the decadent combination of French fried potatoes, brown gravy, and cheese curds. “But I thought you weren’t a fan?”
“It’s growing on me. Besides, the look on your face every time you eat it makes up for the weird, funky cheese.”
“Okay then, poutine to start.” Alex laughed and ran a hand over his chin. “I sort of dig your music, you know, no matter what Matt says. It’s wild and beautiful.” He dropped the hand to his beer glass and brushed his knuckles against Josh’s. “Like you. You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
For a moment, Josh forgot where they were. He forgot that he and Alex were keeping a secret, and were far more than friends behind closed doors. His cheeks flushed, his heart beat a little faster, and he simply admired Alex’s handsome face.
“You’re the beautiful one,” he said, voice quiet.
They continued like that while they ate—flirting while pretending they were not, almost touching but never quite daring—and Josh’s desire burned hotter with every minute. After dinner, the short drive from the pub to Josh’s house seemed to take forever, and the front door had hardly closed behind them before they pounced on each other.
“Hey, Josh.” Matt set his hands on the bar top. “Alex was just telling me that you’ve been making him listen to your old man music.”
Alex grimaced. “I never called it old man music.”
“No, I did,” Matt countered.
“And I said that I didn’t mind listening to it,” Alex said. “A roommate of mine in college liked jazz.”
“Then your roommate had crap taste in music, too.” Matt moved to pour a pint of Josh’s favorite ale. “Listen, man. Josh and I met on the first day of kindergarten. He’s always been a scrawny, ginger-headed fuckface who listens to oldies and worships the Rat Pack.”
Josh shrugged out of his coat and pulled up a stool. “Now you’re just making shit up. I didn’t start listening to jazz until middle school and I’ve never worshipped the Rat Pack. I’m not even scrawny anymore. It’s not my fault you can’t see past Coldplay and Radiohead. Both bands I like, by the way,” he said to Alex.
Matt made an exasperated sound. “And you wonder why you’re still single.”
“Some people like a little variety.” Josh accepted the pint Matt handed him with a smile. “And one of these days, the right man is going to figure out that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to the old man music. Now shut up and give me a menu, please, because I feel the urge to eat myself into a food coma.”
Matt slapped some menus down before he moved away to take another order, and Alex eyed Josh with a grin.
“The right man, huh?”
Josh smiled. “It could happen. Sorry I was late.”
“I should hope so. Matt started harassing me the minute I set foot in the door, and I’m so hungry I could eat my own hand.”
“Oh, shit.” Josh laughed. “Well, that’s easy enough to fix. How about we split an order of poutine? Would that make you happy?”
“Yes, it would.” Alex’s eyes gleamed. He loved the decadent combination of French fried potatoes, brown gravy, and cheese curds. “But I thought you weren’t a fan?”
“It’s growing on me. Besides, the look on your face every time you eat it makes up for the weird, funky cheese.”
“Okay then, poutine to start.” Alex laughed and ran a hand over his chin. “I sort of dig your music, you know, no matter what Matt says. It’s wild and beautiful.” He dropped the hand to his beer glass and brushed his knuckles against Josh’s. “Like you. You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
For a moment, Josh forgot where they were. He forgot that he and Alex were keeping a secret, and were far more than friends behind closed doors. His cheeks flushed, his heart beat a little faster, and he simply admired Alex’s handsome face.
“You’re the beautiful one,” he said, voice quiet.
They continued like that while they ate—flirting while pretending they were not, almost touching but never quite daring—and Josh’s desire burned hotter with every minute. After dinner, the short drive from the pub to Josh’s house seemed to take forever, and the front door had hardly closed behind them before they pounced on each other.
New York Christmas by RJ Scott
Chapter 1
Wednesday, November 21st
Everything started between one breath and the next, with the seventy-fifth repeat of Lennon’s Christmas classic in his ears and the smell of Amelia’s cranberry muffins in his nose. It was heaven and hell and all the clichés in between, a surprise that kicked him in the butt so hard that he almost fell down.
Daniel.
Daniel Bailey, of the Boston Baileys, the boy who Daniel had wanted with a passion.
Tall. Way, way tall, with chestnut brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes, a dimpled chin and high cheekbones, Daniel freaking Bailey was perfection personified. They had studied together. Daniel was in English Lit 101 for easy credit; Chris was the TA for the English professor. Daniel had been assigned remedial English because he was so good with “special needs” students. Special needs was, in this case, a euphemism used by those that actually worked hard at college. Used with much disdain to describe those students who just didn’t seem to care enough. That was Daniel, the boy who never had to try. He never ever appeared to work at anything. Yet, somehow Daniel always managed to scrape through.
Then again, why would Daniel even want to work at school? He didn’t need to. A trust fund at twenty-five, a Ferrari—two actually—in the campus parking lot. Holidays in Europe, no need to worry about planning a career—it was expected he would join the family firm when he left college. Daniel had it easy really and was a person with a stunningly bright light about him.
He still looked good at twenty-nine, which is what he must be considering Chris had just scored the big three-oh plus two. Still tall. Well, duh. Still with the long bangs that curled and flicked artfully around his face, still in denim that cost more than Chris probably made in a week at the café, and still with those god-awful, if expensive, sweatshirts he was so fond of. This one was a curious mix of brown and blue, and on a lesser man, a shorter, wider, uglier man, it would have been an awful sight. On Daniel however, the cotton curved over defined muscles and clung to his torso before skimming hips and covering the very area that Chris had defined in college as sheer heaven.
“Chris? Chris Matthews, is that you?” Chris blinked at the deep, cultured voice, his dick hardening impossibly against the zip of his pants. Daniel had that effect on him at college, and apparently nothing had changed. Thankfully, what was happening was hidden under the apron declaring he was one of Amelia’s puffs. Daniel was talking to him. The last time Daniel had talked to him it had been at graduation ten years ago. Then there was the Christmas eggnog incident. Fuck. Why did he have to remember that now? Here? In the middle of the freaking midmorning rush?
Both having stayed at college over Christmas, they were the only two left in their respective shared houses and, more by luck than judgment, had met at the campus coffee shop. Coffee led to a debate on Grand Theft Auto, which led to a grudge match back at Daniel’s house. Daniel’s house had been so different from the dump Chris shared with seven others. Daniel shared with only two others and they each had their own bathrooms. Luxurious and yet another example of the difference between them. To this day, he couldn’t remember whose idea it was to introduce eggnog into the situation but the memories of what had happened next sustained him for quite a few years.
Daniel had tipped the contents of the bag gently onto the work surface and Chris held a hand out to stop the bottle of bourbon from rolling off the side. Following the recipe, they concentrated as only two young guys full of beer could on creating what was described in the recipe as the perfect eggnog. Eggs, sugar, nutmeg, cream, then brandy, a bit more brandy, and then some bourbon, which Chris had tried with a healthy swallow to make sure it was okay. The alcohol made him bold. The man of his dreams was standing not more than a foot from him and was waving bourbon under his nose, demanding Chris tell him if it was okay to use. Then he had added nearly half the bottle.
The first taste of the concoction had Chris gasping for air. Then the second numbed the pain. He had very few memories of the next few hours apart from exchanging sloppy under-the-mistletoe Christmas kisses. Which was a total waste given his dick was alcohol affected. The fickle thing couldn’t have risen to the occasion even if Brad Pitt had walked in the room naked and asking for butt sex. He’d woken on the floor with a mouth full of dead something, Daniel snoring on the sofa, and his butt untouched. Chris left. Walked the two blocks to his home and spent the rest of the day clutching the porcelain god, losing his stomach contents ten times over. But the kiss… he’d wanted more of those. He never got them though.
And now the man he’d tried to forget was standing here looking for a rational response from a normal guy and suddenly Chris’s head was empty. In his head he knew exactly what he should be saying and how he should say it. But just like the nerd in every cliché movie ever, what actually came out was little more than a squeak and probably could only be heard by teenagers and small dogs. He coughed, made a show of patting his throat after the cough, and swallowed before starting again.
“Hey.” Eloquent. Not.
“From college. Chris Matthews, right?” Daniel added carefully. He looked a bit confused, an expression that spoke of worry that he had misstated Chris’s name, or indeed that he didn’t really know Chris at all.
“Muffins,” Chris began, “uhmm, yes, Chris, college, I do… I work… erm… muffins.” Well, that killed his hard-on. Four years of college education and he was reduced to blind idiocy with zero verbal skills at the sight of tall, dark, and sexy.
Daniel smiled. An easy, broad, happy smile that reached his hazel eyes and creased his entire face. And goddammit, there were his dimples, all kind of cute and pitted and— was he actually thinking the word?—dimply.
“Long time no see.” Daniel clearly wanted to carry on a conversation, and Chris was right there with that. It was just a shame that his brain and his mouth were having a lot of trouble connecting with any level of coherence.
“Uh huh,” Chris managed; Daniel always had this way of making him so damn tongue-tied. He shifted from one foot to the next, hoping that he was being subtle. Then, with nothing else he could think of to say, blurted, “What can I get you?” He hadn’t meant his tone to be brisk, but that was the way it came out. Chris cursed inwardly at the social ineptitude that only manifested around really hot guys.
It seemed it was now Daniel’s turn to go quiet as the enthusiastic brightness in his eyes faded a little and his broad shoulders stiffened just a fraction. It didn’t last long, Chris may even have imagined it, it was so brief, then Daniel pulled those same amazingly broad shoulders back, concentrating avidly on the tempting layout of muffins under the glass and finally pointing at the cranberry muffins.
“Twelve of those please.”
Chris boxed them, taking careful interest in what he was doing so he wasn’t looking at Daniel or meeting his eyes. He handed the box to the other man, offering a small smile, but Daniel didn’t exactly smile back. Instead, he handed over a twenty-dollar bill. Chris fumbled with the change, counting the two dollars and twenty-five cents carefully into Daniel’s outstretched palm before the other man looked at him expectantly, then expectation turned to confusion, and finally he turned on his heel and just left.
“Talk about hot.” Chris heard the soft words and the low whistle. He turned to face Amelia, his boss, who was juggling more muffins and a platter of replacement cream cakes.
“Hmmm?” He hadn’t been following what Amelia said, but obviously she was talking about the muffins, right? Chris immediately took the new batch from her, sliding them into the glass case.
“That guy you just served: tall, dark, and sexy.”
“Daniel.”
“Oh. My. God,” Amelia half whispered under her breath. “Christian James Matthews, you slut, you got his name already? It’s true when they say that the quiet ones are the wildest.”
“I knew him in college, okay? ‘M not a slut, Ame,” Chris said. He managed to mutter this before the next person in the winding line demanded his attention with an order for three muffins, one cream cake, a macchiato, a flat white, and a mocha.
He dealt with that customer and the next, thoughts of Daniel being pushed aside by masterful coping with the pre-Thanksgiving, still at-work, need-a-muffin rush.
Thinking back, even the eggnog incident and the fact that after this Daniel seemed to avoid him at college outside study sessions, hadn’t dampened Chris’s crush on the younger man. Still, he left college without taking that crush into the open. The only other thing that stuck in his mind was the memory of his last day at college. Daniel had cornered him in the parking lot and pulled him into a tight hug.
“Thank you for all your help with my coursework,” Daniel had said.
“You’re welcome,” Chris said. His response was the same one he gave to all the first-year students he had helped. Short and to the point.
“I’ll see you in a few years,” Daniel offered.
“Okay.”
It was only later when he was in the car listening to his mom’s crappy choice in music that he considered what Daniel had said. A few years? He doubted he would see the man again.
So what if Daniel had been the subject of more than one of Chris’s right-hand fantasies over the last eleven or so years? So what if he had probably just lost his entire life’s chances of actually talking to the guy as a grown and confident adult. He was never going to see Daniel again. New York was a huge city, and Amelia’s, while popular, was just one coffee shop off the beaten track.
Shame. Because really? Daniel Bailey was still freaking hot.
* * * * *
Daniel changed into his uniform in the locker room and then hurried to his desk. He dropped the box of twelve cranberry muffins on the table in the middle of the bullpen. Counting down in his head from ten he wasn’t surprised when it was his partner, Alex Strachen, who made the first comment.
“Muffins are just ever-so-slightly gay, Bailey,” he said. “Hell, sugar, couldn’t you get doughnuts or cookies or something a bit straighter?”
“Ha ha, Strachen,” Daniel said drily. He scooped the box out of Alex’s way and closed the lid. “I’ll just take them to admin then.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” Alex said. He held out a hand and shook it, palm up. “Gimme.”
Daniel placed the box very deliberately in front of his partner and then settled himself on the nearest chair before scooting forward to help himself to a muffin.
“These are from Grand Street?” Alex commented around a mouthful of muffin. He pointed at the address on the side of the box. “That’s like ten blocks away.” He swallowed his mouthful and took a swig of coffee, grimacing at what Daniel knew was disgusting caffeine. “And in the opposite direction from where you live.”
“Great detective work,” Daniel said. He bit into a whole cranberry and the juice of the tart fruit sparked on his tongue. God. These muffins were heaven in a box. He watched as one by one they disappeared as other officers took them. A small part of him regretted sharing. Still, an empty box meant he could go back after Thanksgiving and see Chris again.
“Is this something to do with your guy? Did you track him down?” Alex leaned in and spoke quietly. Despite the fact that every single person in the department knew Daniel was gay, Alex respected that he didn’t want to talk details with everyone getting up into his private life.
“We’ll talk later,” Daniel offered. Unspoken was ‘when we’re out and away from here’.
They settled into the routine of the new day, checking reports, briefing, and organizing themselves into what they needed to do. It was nearly midday before they hit the streets, and the snow was a blessing in that it slowed everything down. People still milled around; cars still forced their way through lights and around corners narrowly missing the feet of the waiting pedestrians. But there was a buzz of excitement in the air. The first snow was always an exciting one, before it melted or, worst case scenario, turned to slush. The bitter November air stung Daniel’s face but it was okay. He was home here.
“So tell me? Did that guy you tracked down, the brother or something, give you good intel?”
Daniel hated to use police information to track down the man he wanted to find and had instead relied on good old-fashioned detective work. Knowing Chris’s brother worked at the Times was a good place to start, asking for details of where his brother worked the next step. Address in hand—and leaving two hours early for work—meant that finally, after all these years, he had seen Chris again. Strange that the man who had given Daniel’s studies purpose had ended up in a coffee shop of all places. In his head Chris had become a teacher, or gone on to further study and become a doctor of English lit. Anything but someone who made coffee and sold muffins for a living.
“Yeah, and he was working behind the counter there.”
“Hence the muffins. Did he recognize you?”
“Yeah he did. I could see he realized it was me immediately.”
“Were you in uniform?”
“Left it here yesterday and changed when I arrived. Didn’t want to scare the guy off at first sight.” Daniel shrugged. “He looked like a scared rabbit, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses.”
“You remember he wore glasses?” Alex laughed. “Man, you have it bad. Have you really liked him for this long?”
Daniel hadn’t shared a lot of his backstory with Alex. His partner knew the headlines: son of rich parents, private education, college degree, cop. He didn’t know about Chris and the effect the senior had had on his freshman self. Why would he? Daniel kept everything very close to his chest. He sighed.
“It’s unfinished business. I should have looked him up way before this.”
Alex looked at him thoughtfully while he deftly avoided colliding with a woman who had stopped to look in a shop window with very little consideration for the people around her. He grimaced but continued walking. They were used to much worse. Everyone out here had an agenda and it was a cop’s job to make sure they handled whatever the City threw at them.
“So why didn’t you look him up?”
Daniel spotted a scruffy Santa with a charity box on the corner and looked pointedly at the guy, who seemed to get the hint and disappeared. He had mastered the art of the steely-eyed take-no-shit glare from Alex and he used it to good effect. Sometimes body language and the uniform were more effective than words.
“The time wasn’t right. I was at college, then battling family, then training, then beat. Only just settled I guess.”
“Dangerous game if he was that important. What if he up and met some other way-tall, hazel-eyed studmuffin and eloped to Tortuga?”
“You calling me a studmuffin, Strachen?”
Alex huffed a laugh and answered a call to his radio. There was a situation a street over and suddenly talking was done.
As they dealt with the details—a dead rabbit, a conman, a wailing kid, and the kid’s mom—Daniel attempted to get his own thoughts in order. Chris had been shocked to see him this morning but he had recognized him. That was a good thing, right? Chris was still just as Daniel remembered. Flustered, cute—not cute, gorgeous—and still with that smile that caused butterflies in the pit of Daniel’s stomach. He would go back soon, maybe even pluck up the courage to ask the guy out.
Decision made, he concentrated on the story of why a four-year-old had found a dead rabbit inside a shoe box.
Only in New York City.
The Mystery of Nevermore by CS Poe
Chapter One
SOMETHING WAS rotten.
I didn’t mean in a figurative sense. I meant something smelled like it was decaying.
“Shit,” I muttered. I stood at the door of my antique shop, hand to my nose.
Tupperware. It had to be an old lunch.
It was a wintry, miserable Tuesday in New York City, two weeks’ shy of Christmas. The snow was coming down heavily at seven in the morning, blanketing the city and producing an eerie, muted effect. I had shown up early to my business, Snow’s Antique Emporium, in downtown Manhattan, with the intention of going through some newly acquired inventory. Instead, I was dripping melted snow onto the welcome mat and trying to pinpoint that god-awful stench.
I quickly hung up my jacket and hat and changed out of my boots into an old pair of worn loafers beside the door. I ran my fingers through my unruly hair and smoothed the front of my sweater while walking down the tiny, crowded aisles. I stopped to turn on old lamps as I followed the smell. The glow of the lights was subdued, creating a cavernous look for the shop.
At the counter that had an old brass register on it, I took the step up onto the elevated floor, scanning the shop. It smelled even worse here. I reached into my sweater pocket and replaced my sunglasses with black-framed reading glasses. Turning on the bank lamp, I winced and looked away from the light.
I stared at the door standing ajar to my right. It was a tiny little closet that served as an office, with a computer and chair and mini fridge all tucked away for my use.
Does forgotten Thai food smell like death after two days?
I walked in, opened the fridge, and hesitantly sniffed a few cartons. Okay, I needed to do some serious cleaning, but what seemed like a half-eaten burrito was not the source of the odor.
I walked back to the register, groaning loudly as I looked around. Something had to have died—a rat, perhaps? I cringed at the thought of finding a New York City rodent in my shop, but I crouched down and started shoving aside bags and boxes used at checkout while I looked.
The front door opened, the bell chiming overhead. “Good morn—what’s that smell?” my assistant, Max, called. “Sebastian?”
“Over here,” I grumbled.
Max Ridley was a sweet guy, a recent college grad with an art degree he realized rather too quickly wasn’t going to pay his rent. He was smart and knew his history. I’d hired him the same day he’d come in to fill out an application. Max was tall and broad-shouldered—a handsome young man who was maybe bisexual or maybe just out to experience it all. I’d heard enough stories over morning coffee, reading mail, and pricing antiques to know Max’s preference seemed to be mostly anyone.
Call me old-fashioned, but I’m a one-man sort of guy.
“God, the weather sucks today. Do you think it’ll be busy?” Max asked as he strolled through the shop.
“Usually is,” I said, looking up over the counter.
“What did you leave sitting out?”
“Nothing. I think a rat died or something.”
“Can I turn on more lights? It’ll be easier to find.”
“I already have a headache,” I said absently. I crouched back down to finish moving out the supplies from under the counter.
I was born with achromatopsia, which means I can’t see color. We have two types of light receptor cells in our eyes, cones and rods. Cones see color in bright light, rods see black and white in low light. My cones don’t work. At all. The world to me exists only in varying shades of gray, and I have a difficult time seeing in places with bright lights because the rods aren’t meant for daylight purposes. Usually I wear sunglasses or my special red-tinted contacts as an extra layer of protection….
“I forgot my contacts. And the snow was too bright.”
“Even for shades?”
“Yes. Damn, where is that smell coming from?” I asked while standing.
Max motioned to the register. “Smells the worst right here.”
“Yeah.” I walked back to the steps and promptly fell forward when the creaky floorboard underfoot skidded sideways.
Max lunged out and grabbed me before I could plant my face on the floor. He held me tight, my face smooshed against his armpit. “Did you have another fight with Neil last night?”
“Why?” I asked as I pulled myself free from his hold.
“You’ve got some bad mojo following you around this morning.”
“It wasn’t a fight. It was—you know, I’m not talking about it while the smell of rot continues to permeate my shop.” I turned back to the step and bent to examine the floorboard that had become free.
Bad idea. The stench of decay filled my nostrils, and I fought back the urge to gag.
“I think you found it,” Max muttered, looking down over my shoulder. “I’ll get a bag.”
I nodded silently, holding my nose while I looked into the opening under the floor. It—the thing—wasn’t dark, like a dead rat. It didn’t appear to have fur, but I’d be lying if I said I had great vision when it came to close-up details.
“Max? Come here.”
“What?” His voice came from the office before he joined me with a garbage bag. “What’s up?”
“Look in there.”
“Oh come on. You don’t pay me enough for that.”
“No, I mean, I don’t think that’s a rat.”
Max got down on one knee and glanced inside before quickly pulling back. “What the hell!”
I stared at the floor. “Tear up the planks! Here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
“What is that?”
“Poe,” I replied.
“God, you’re so weird, Seb,” Max muttered.
“What else am I supposed to say?” I asked, pointing at the rotting flesh. “It’s a heart.”
“Who did you kill?”
“I’ll call the cops.”
“Shit,” I muttered. I stood at the door of my antique shop, hand to my nose.
Tupperware. It had to be an old lunch.
It was a wintry, miserable Tuesday in New York City, two weeks’ shy of Christmas. The snow was coming down heavily at seven in the morning, blanketing the city and producing an eerie, muted effect. I had shown up early to my business, Snow’s Antique Emporium, in downtown Manhattan, with the intention of going through some newly acquired inventory. Instead, I was dripping melted snow onto the welcome mat and trying to pinpoint that god-awful stench.
I quickly hung up my jacket and hat and changed out of my boots into an old pair of worn loafers beside the door. I ran my fingers through my unruly hair and smoothed the front of my sweater while walking down the tiny, crowded aisles. I stopped to turn on old lamps as I followed the smell. The glow of the lights was subdued, creating a cavernous look for the shop.
At the counter that had an old brass register on it, I took the step up onto the elevated floor, scanning the shop. It smelled even worse here. I reached into my sweater pocket and replaced my sunglasses with black-framed reading glasses. Turning on the bank lamp, I winced and looked away from the light.
I stared at the door standing ajar to my right. It was a tiny little closet that served as an office, with a computer and chair and mini fridge all tucked away for my use.
Does forgotten Thai food smell like death after two days?
I walked in, opened the fridge, and hesitantly sniffed a few cartons. Okay, I needed to do some serious cleaning, but what seemed like a half-eaten burrito was not the source of the odor.
I walked back to the register, groaning loudly as I looked around. Something had to have died—a rat, perhaps? I cringed at the thought of finding a New York City rodent in my shop, but I crouched down and started shoving aside bags and boxes used at checkout while I looked.
The front door opened, the bell chiming overhead. “Good morn—what’s that smell?” my assistant, Max, called. “Sebastian?”
“Over here,” I grumbled.
Max Ridley was a sweet guy, a recent college grad with an art degree he realized rather too quickly wasn’t going to pay his rent. He was smart and knew his history. I’d hired him the same day he’d come in to fill out an application. Max was tall and broad-shouldered—a handsome young man who was maybe bisexual or maybe just out to experience it all. I’d heard enough stories over morning coffee, reading mail, and pricing antiques to know Max’s preference seemed to be mostly anyone.
Call me old-fashioned, but I’m a one-man sort of guy.
“God, the weather sucks today. Do you think it’ll be busy?” Max asked as he strolled through the shop.
“Usually is,” I said, looking up over the counter.
“What did you leave sitting out?”
“Nothing. I think a rat died or something.”
“Can I turn on more lights? It’ll be easier to find.”
“I already have a headache,” I said absently. I crouched back down to finish moving out the supplies from under the counter.
I was born with achromatopsia, which means I can’t see color. We have two types of light receptor cells in our eyes, cones and rods. Cones see color in bright light, rods see black and white in low light. My cones don’t work. At all. The world to me exists only in varying shades of gray, and I have a difficult time seeing in places with bright lights because the rods aren’t meant for daylight purposes. Usually I wear sunglasses or my special red-tinted contacts as an extra layer of protection….
“I forgot my contacts. And the snow was too bright.”
“Even for shades?”
“Yes. Damn, where is that smell coming from?” I asked while standing.
Max motioned to the register. “Smells the worst right here.”
“Yeah.” I walked back to the steps and promptly fell forward when the creaky floorboard underfoot skidded sideways.
Max lunged out and grabbed me before I could plant my face on the floor. He held me tight, my face smooshed against his armpit. “Did you have another fight with Neil last night?”
“Why?” I asked as I pulled myself free from his hold.
“You’ve got some bad mojo following you around this morning.”
“It wasn’t a fight. It was—you know, I’m not talking about it while the smell of rot continues to permeate my shop.” I turned back to the step and bent to examine the floorboard that had become free.
Bad idea. The stench of decay filled my nostrils, and I fought back the urge to gag.
“I think you found it,” Max muttered, looking down over my shoulder. “I’ll get a bag.”
I nodded silently, holding my nose while I looked into the opening under the floor. It—the thing—wasn’t dark, like a dead rat. It didn’t appear to have fur, but I’d be lying if I said I had great vision when it came to close-up details.
“Max? Come here.”
“What?” His voice came from the office before he joined me with a garbage bag. “What’s up?”
“Look in there.”
“Oh come on. You don’t pay me enough for that.”
“No, I mean, I don’t think that’s a rat.”
Max got down on one knee and glanced inside before quickly pulling back. “What the hell!”
I stared at the floor. “Tear up the planks! Here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
“What is that?”
“Poe,” I replied.
“God, you’re so weird, Seb,” Max muttered.
“What else am I supposed to say?” I asked, pointing at the rotting flesh. “It’s a heart.”
“Who did you kill?”
“I’ll call the cops.”
HAVING TO explain to the dispatcher that I needed police not because of a dead body, but there was a body out there missing an essential part, was certainly the strangest thing I’d done in some time. I’ll admit the situation piqued my interest, but there are 101 things in life I simply don’t have the patience for, and finding someone else’s rotting heart in the floorboards of my shop just about topped the list.
Max sprayed nearly an entire can of air freshener while we waited after the phone call. “Smells like fresh laundry,” he stated while reading the can.
“Oh good,” I said.
“Laundry and death,” Max corrected after a pause. “Sometimes I want to die instead of dragging my dirty clothes to the Laundromat.”
“Max.” I sighed.
“Sorry.”
I crossed my arms, looking toward the back of the shop at the piles of boxes that had been left there. When new inventory arrived, it needed to be carefully inspected, priced, and arranged in the shop. If it was too priceless for the shop, it needed to be listed for auction, not sitting in a damn box on the floor. Those and several more were collecting dust in my apartment. So much for finally getting around to it all this morning.
There was a rap at the door, and I walked over to unlock it. “Good morning.”
“Sir,” one of the uniformed officers said. “We got a call—”
“There’s a body part in my floor,” I quickly answered, leading them through the aisles toward the register.
It was pretty clear they’d been sent to dispel whatever fear or confusion the dispatcher thought I was experiencing, yet they followed without complaint or comment. The first officer removed his cap as he bent down to the opening I pointed at. He only glanced inside before shaking his head and rising.
“Brigg,” he spoke to his partner, and the woman approached.
I watched them confer briefly before she got on her radio. “So,” I said, “do we need some hazmat team or something?”
“Can I get your name, sir?” the officer replied as he removed a notepad from his belt.
“Sebastian Snow.”
“And do you run this business?”
“Yes.”
“Own the building?”
“No. I wish.”
He looked up. “Approximately when did you suspect something was in the store?”
“You mean—that?” I asked while looking down at the floor. “When I opened the door this morning, I could smell it. It was about seven.”
“Does anyone else have access to the store?” The officer looked over my shoulder at Max.
“Max has keys, but only I and—only I have access to the security code,” I explained.
The truth was, my partner of four years, Neil Millett, also had keys and the code, but mentioning his name around cops was a bit tricky. He was a detective with the NYPD’s forensic investigations unit, and very much in the closet. So much so that the only people who knew we were living together were Max and my father. Neil didn’t want other officers knowing he was gay, and when I was twenty-nine with a heart all aflutter for a sexy detective, I didn’t mind. Now I was thirty-three, and it was wearing me out.
The officer wrote down a few notes. “Do you have cameras? You have a lot of expensive-looking items in here.”
“I have one, but it’s been on the fritz for the past month.” I had been suffering from a lack of mental stamina lately and just hadn’t found the energy to give a shit about a number of things, camera included.
It wasn’t like me. I knew that.
Neil made a point of bringing up my recent attitude. A lot. It only pissed me off more.
The officer continued taking down my contact information, then asked for Max’s as well. A few more basic questions followed, and then Brigg led two plain-clothed cops from the front door toward us. Glancing around the now congested aisle, I saw yet another woman entering, carrying some sort of medical kit.
The overhead lights, which I never used, were switched on without warning, and the entire room was washed out of sight. I hastily covered my eyes and turned away, stumbling and reaching around the countertop. Max went to the other corner to avoid the police and the heart, grabbed my sunglasses, and handed them over just as someone spoke my name.
“Mr.… Snow, is it?” a woman asked.
Turning as I put on my shades, I was confronted with the two new cops. The woman who spoke was maybe my age and couldn’t have been an inch over five feet, with a strong build and closely cropped hair. The other, a man, was tall and big and filled out his suit with nothing but muscle. He looked older than Neil, who was thirty-seven. His hair was light, so I guessed it was what I have been told is blond.
I squinted to better study him. He had freckles. A lot, actually. I kind of had a thing for guys with freckles. Cheeks, nose, forehead—he had freckles all over, and it gave him a sort of sweet look initially. Maybe his hair was red instead.
“Sebastian Snow,” I agreed.
The woman took the lead, extending her hand to shake. “I’m Detective Quinn Lancaster, and this is my partner, Detective Calvin Winter.”
“Uh, hi.”
Lancaster smiled. “How’s business been, Mr. Snow?”
“Fine,” I said, confused. It was strange to be looking down at such a short figure of authority, but she had an air of confidence I wasn’t willing to question.
“What can you tell me about your clientele?” Lancaster continued.
I shrugged while crossing my arms. “Regular folks, some with big money, some looking for curiosities. Corporate types, hipsters—I get a little of everyone in here.”
She nodded. “Would it be all right if you removed your sunglasses, sir?”
“I can’t.”
Lancaster looked up at Winter briefly before asking, “Why’s that?”
“I have a light sensitivity. If you turn the overheads off, I will,” I said while pointing up.
Winter turned away and gave an order to one of the uniformed officers. The lights died and the shop was once again illuminated by the strategically placed lamps.
“Better?” Lancaster asked, her tone not mocking or unkind.
I pulled the sunglasses back to rest on my head as I put my regular glasses back on. “Thank you,” I said briskly.
“That’s called photophobia, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I have achromatopsia.”
“I see.” She didn’t bother for more details. “Has anything out of the ordinary happened in the past few weeks?”
“Nope.”
Lancaster frowned. “Who found the body part?”
“I did, when I came in. I smelled something awful and started looking for it.”
“Have there been any break-ins or stolen items?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “What’s this about? I’m assuming something bigger is at play here, otherwise you two wouldn’t be grilling me.”
“Why do you say that?” Lancaster asked.
“I live with a cop” was what I wanted to say. Four years of stories from Neil had, admittedly, given me an unhealthy interest in whodunit mysteries.
Instead, I just shrugged.
Winter spoke for the first time. “Do you know Bond Antiques?”
“Yeah, on Bond Street and Lafayette,” I confirmed.
“How is your relationship with the owner?”
“I fail to see what that has to do with anything,” I responded. “Mike Rodriguez and I have known each other for a while.”
“How do you get along?” Winter asked.
“He’s competition,” I stated. “What’s going on?”
“Sebastian!” called a familiar voice.
Ignoring the towering mountain that was Detective Winter, I looked around him to see Neil walking through the shop, shaking snow from his coat. I was immediately both happy and frustrated to see him, which didn’t seem like the right response. I hadn’t called to tell him what happened, so there should have been no reason for his appearance.
I turned to the counter. Max raised his hands up defensively and shook his head.
“What’s going on?” Neil asked upon reaching us. He looked at the two other detectives and removed a badge from inside his coat. “Detective Millett, CSU.”
Lancaster didn’t seem interested. “Detective Lancaster, homicide,” she replied with a nod. “My partner, Winter. We haven’t requested forensics yet.”
“Homicide?” I echoed. I mean, sure, I guess technically a heart without a body could mean something more sinister was at work besides a medical cadaver showing up to class and some poor student flunking when he had no heart to dissect.
I looked at Neil. He seemed concerned and maybe nervous, and for a minute, I was happy because he was worried about me. The annoyance I had been harboring toward him all morning suddenly washed away, and I had the urge to reach out for a hug.
“Sebastian is—a friend,” Neil said.
“Friend,” Winter repeated in a tone I didn’t like.
“He called me.”
Goddamn it, Neil. He was so convinced he’d lose his shield for having a life outside his job, that after four years I was still just his friend in public.
“We’re in the middle of asking Mr. Snow some questions,” Winter said before looking back at me. I swear his gaze was intense enough to strip me down to bare bones. “Mr. Rodriguez’s business was broken into Sunday night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I answered, turning away from Neil. “Was anything stolen?”
“The investigation is still underway. He pointed a finger at you, though.”
“M-Me?” I asked in surprise. “What—Mike thinks I broke in?”
“Why would he say that?” Winter asked.
“I have no idea,” I quickly answered.
“Where were you Sunday night?” Lancaster asked. “After eight.”
I could feel Neil’s desperation rippling off his body. I had been at home with him. I believe around eight we had been fucking, which had ended prematurely and dissolved into an argument until about nine. That’s where I had been.
“Home,” I said simply. “Look, I’m not answering any more questions without a lawyer, if that’s what I need. I called because I found a human heart in my shop, and now you’re accusing me of robbing someone.”
Neil’s hand was on my elbow next, and he was excusing us while dragging me away. Stopping near the back of the shop, he let go and turned to tower over me. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered.
“What’s going on?” I repeated. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m a cop, Sebby—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What human heart? Why didn’t you call me?”
I honestly hadn’t thought to ring Neil. Maybe a year or two earlier, the first reaction I’d have had would be to call my cop boyfriend to come solve this peculiar little problem. Now, he hadn’t even crossed my mind. It was disconcerting.
“Nice lie you told, by the way,” I said instead. “I called you? Why the hell did you come if it wasn’t to be here for me?”
“Stop it,” he ordered in a harsh whisper. “We’re not having this argument again.”
“Go back to work, Neil. Everything is fine,” I said stubbornly.
“You didn’t….” He hesitated.
“Tell them about you? No. I know the drill.”
Neil gritted his jaw. He looked angry. He turned back to the other detectives before saying, “Is that Calvin Winter?”
“What? Yeah, why?”
“Be careful what you say to him.”
“Why, Neil?” I repeated.
“Because I hear he’s a homophobe,” Neil said.
Without thinking I replied, “You’re a homophobe.”
Neil looked back at me with a strange expression I couldn’t place. “Real nice, Sebby,” he said after a moment.
I couldn’t take it back, but when I stared up at Neil, when all of our recent arguments over the past month came rushing back, I didn’t care and didn’t want to take it back.
“Go back to work,” I said again. “We’ll talk at home, behind locked doors.”
I was making him angry, and I couldn’t stop myself. I don’t know what had gotten into me lately. Neil and I had been at each other’s throats for weeks. I provoked him, or something he said got under my skin in ways it never did before.
Neil didn’t say another word. He turned while zipping up his coat and brushed by the other detectives in silence on his way out.
I took a breath. It was shaky. I was being cruel to the most important man in my life.
I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose as Lancaster left the woman with the medical supplies and walked toward me with a smile.
“Good news, Mr. Snow.”
“Oh boy.”
“It’s not human.”
Who, Neil? “The heart?”
“It’s a pig’s heart,” she replied.
“A minor relief.” I took another breath, working harder than necessary to calm myself. “So can I open for business?”
She spread her hands. “There’s been no foul play, although it seems like someone wanted to pull a prank on you. I highly suggest you invest in some tighter security.”
No foul play. My gut said otherwise. Two detectives—from homicide, no less—had shown up right away, and I played twenty questions regarding the unfortunate pig and Mike Rodriguez, the latter of which I found extremely strange. Why would time be wasted to send out detectives for something that proved to be nothing? And it still didn’t explain how the pig heart ended up in my shop to begin with.
Lancaster thanked me for my time, to which I muttered some pleasantry. She turned to leave with the medical examiner.
Winter, however, approached me. “Your friend seemed upset.”
I frowned while looking up. I was on the shorter side, only five foot nine, and both Neil and Winter stood a good half a foot taller. Neil was a leaner build, like myself, which was a stark contrast to the brick body that was Detective Winter. He was close enough again that I could study his freckles—which to me actually looked like gray blemishes. They’d be clearer if I invaded his personal space or looked at his skin with a magnifying glass.
Neither of those do I recommend doing to someone you’ve just met.
In comparison, his light-colored eyes were so brilliant and sharp, it was almost unnerving. They reminded me of minerals on display at the Museum of Natural History. They were gorgeous, but also maybe just a little weary. They looked like they’d seen something that had hardened and tired him considerably.
Winter swallowed up the air around me. He was both intimidating and somewhat comforting to be in the presence of. He smelled nice too. Some kind of spice—really different from Neil’s cologne.
“I didn’t break into Mike’s shop,” I said again. For the record.
His gaze shifted slightly to the boxes behind me. “What’s all this?”
I looked over my shoulder, then back at him. “New inventory.”
“From where?”
“Bond Antiques,” I retorted. “Jesus. It’s from an estate sale.”
He reached into his suit coat next, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he pulled his gun with the way I was shooting my mouth off. Instead, he handed me a business card. “Should you conveniently remember something.”
“Like slaughtering some pigs?” I shoved the card in my pocket.
“Have a good day, Mr. Snow.” He turned and walked out of the shop.
THE STORM seemed to have scared off the day’s foot traffic, which on any other afternoon would have worried me, being so close to the holidays when the sales are needed. But I couldn’t concentrate on anything business-related. My salad sat beside me at the register, half eaten and getting soggy as it settled into the pool of vinaigrette dressing. I held a magnifying glass to the mail as I read.
“Why not get bifocals?”
I looked up to see Max staring at me, pulling up the spare stool to sit. “What?”
“The magnifying glass is sort of silly. You pull them out of pockets like you’re an old-timey detective.”
“I tripped down the stairs wearing bifocals when I was younger,” I answered while setting the glass aside and stacking the junk and bills together. “Broke my arm.”
“Yikes.” Max reached out to push my salad around with the fork. If he planned on scalping my meal, the sogginess must have changed his mind. “So why was Neil here?”
“I don’t know.” I stood, brought the mail into the office, and dropped it on the desk.
The morning had been resting heavily on my mind. Usually I was closed on Mondays, but holiday demands often changed my schedule, so I had been open yesterday. When I closed the shop last night just after six, it gave someone a thirteen-hour window to break inside. Max and I had spent the remaining hours of the morning going through the Emporium, and from what we could tell, not a single item had been misplaced.
It was that concept that puzzled me the most. Why break into an antique shop, get past the security alarm, only to steal nothing?
So someone came in, put a decaying pig heart under the floorboards, and hightailed it without taking so much as an old button?
More upsetting was the matter with Mike Rodriguez. I had worked for Mike for a few years before going into business for myself. I respected his knowledge and the success of his shop—he’d been in this line of work for over twenty years now—but he was a cranky old fuck. He hadn’t liked me all that much when I worked for him, and I’m certain he felt slighted, to say the least, when I took everything I had learned to open the Emporium.
Mike specialized in higher-end antiques. Georgian and Victorian furniture, clothing, paintings, and other works of art. It wasn’t where my interests were, and the Emporium was cluttered and stuffed instead with books and old documents, maps, photos, and every little gizmo and gadget from another century. People enjoy the odd and bizarre, like Victorian glove stretchers or tear bottles. The Emporium was doing very well after only a few years of business, and I suspected Mike was insulted.
I walked back out of the office, leaned against the doorframe, and crossed my arms. Mike and I weren’t exactly on friendly terms these days—we certainly weren’t mailing each other Christmas cards—but how the hell had he come to the conclusion that I should be looked at as a possible suspect? Had he waited three years to seek revenge against me? And it wasn’t even revenge so much as insulting my integrity and character.
“Man, look at it coming down,” Max murmured as he stared out toward the front door, watching the storm continue.
“Jingle Bells” started to play on the shop’s speakers. Dashing through the snow, all right. The city was getting buried.
“Why don’t you get out of here early, Max.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The subways are going to be a wreck, I bet,” I said while walking to the counter.
“Are you leaving?”
Honestly, I wanted to swing by Mike’s place and ask him what was going on, but it didn’t seem like the smartest idea. Maybe I’d give him a call. That was less threatening. As much of an asshole as he was for accusing me of doing something like breaking into his place of business, we had a long history and I did want to make sure he was okay.
“Probably.”
“I’ll walk out with you, then,” Max replied as he stood and started cashing out the register for me.
The shop phone rang, and I reached to take it off the receiver. “Snow’s Antique Emporium.”
“It’s me.”
Neil. I collected myself. “Hey.”
“Busy?”
“We’re closing up early. The weather’s getting bad, and Max has to take the subway to Brooklyn.”
“I’m ducking out,” he replied. “I’ll swing by for you.”
“I can walk home.”
Neil took an aggravated breath. “Sebby, please don’t argue with me just once this month, okay? Let me pick you up.”
Why was I getting angry at him for wanting to drive me home instead of making me walk in this nasty weather? “All right. Thanks.”
“Want me to grab anything for dinner?”
“I thought I’d cook,” I said offhandedly. I was getting sick of takeout. Neil couldn’t cook to save his life, so it was up to me if we wanted a homemade meal.
“That sounds great,” he replied happily. “I’ll be there in twenty, tops.” He hung up, and I put the phone down.
“Neil’s coming to pick me up,” I said to Max. “I’ll finish closing. Why don’t you get out while you can.”
Max laughed and finished his counting. “Thanks, Seb.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow if the weather looks like we may have trouble opening.”
“I’ll plan to come in unless I hear otherwise.” He was out the door within moments, disappearing into the storm.
I locked the front door and collected my belongings. I packed my laptop into my messenger bag. On the off-chance we stayed closed, I could at least start cataloging the inventory I had at home. Of course, I’d been telling myself that for two weeks and never seemed to have the energy for it.
By the time I’d shut off the lights, secured the shop, and changed into my winter attire, Neil’s black BMW was parked out front.
The car had been another source of aggravation between us. I don’t have a license because of the amount of work those with achromatopsia have to go through in order to be permitted to drive. It isn’t worth the headache when I live in a city with such incredible public transportation. That being said, I had agreed to buy a car with Neil and pay for it together so we could vacation out of New York every once in a while.
Neil has expensive taste. He wouldn’t settle on anything less than a new luxury coupe. I didn’t understand the point—we’d save so much money with a decent used car. That argument had ended with me saying that I’d refuse to help with the payments, to which he had stubbornly agreed and told me to fuck myself. Out of childish spite, I had tried to refuse every ride offered thus far.
The car was warm when I opened the door and sat in the passenger’s seat. The windshield wipers worked hard to keep the heavy, sticky snow off the glass. Neil was listening to some Christmas tunes and looking like his cool, sexy self. I had to admit he looked good behind the wheel of this car.
He smiled. “Ready?”
“Yup.”
Neil pulled back onto the road, taking it slow down the streets already buried in snow and brown slush. “You may get snowed in tomorrow if this keeps up like the weather predictions claim.”
“Will you have to go in?” I asked.
“Public servants don’t get snow days. Warm enough?”
I muttered a response and fell silent. We lived in a cramped, too-small-for-two Manhattan apartment not far from my store. It wouldn’t usually take so long to reach, but the road was completely buried, and cars ahead were already slipping and sliding. Neil wasn’t taking chances by driving fast.
I looked at his profile, seeing the same handsome face I’d known for years. He told me he had brown eyes and sandy brown hair, comparing it to coffee with too much cream in it. Whatever the color, he had always been attractive to me, and he aged wonderfully. I saw the man I had fallen in love with, staring at him.
Why had we been fighting so much?
My good old dad said it was because I was losing my mind being shoved back into the closet for the sake of Neil’s paranoia. I had denied it for years, that it would eventually make me nuts, but lately it seemed like Pop had been on to something. I had been out since college, and I was proud of who I was. Neil had been my first serious relationship, and it had thrown me for a spin to learn he wasn’t out.
It still threw me.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“For what?”
“For giving you attitude this morning.” I stared at my hands. “Why did you come to the Emporium?”
He sighed. “I was in the right place to overhear detectives being dispatched to the address. I thought something was wrong—something happened to you.”
“Thanks for being worried.” I snorted and shook my head. “That sounds weird.”
“I get what you mean.” He removed one hand briefly from the steering wheel to pat my thigh.
NEIL DROPPED me off on our street and went to find a place to park. I let myself into the building, hiking the three floors of old, rickety stairs to our one-bedroom apartment. The pipes were clanking loudly as the water heaters were turning on. I hung up my coat and hat and put my boots in the closet. I dropped my bag on the foot of our bed before turning on a few lamps around the apartment.
I know Neil didn’t like living in such a dark home, but he was polite and dealt with it without a word of complaint so I didn’t need to wear sunglasses inside. I had tried to keep my condition a secret from him for a long time. It got really hard when he’d ask something like “Could you grab my navy blue button-down for me?” or “Pass the green salsa?” while eating Mexican. It ended up coming out when he found my collapsed walking stick in my bag one evening while searching for a condom.
I laughed quietly to myself, opening the fridge in the kitchen. That had killed the mood. I thought then and there he’d break up with me. Both boyfriends I had had before left me because of my condition. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it was a burden, I guess. Neil had stayed with me, though, and that mattered.
I heard Neil at the door, removing his coat and shoes while I was chopping onions and peppers in the kitchen. I tossed the diced veggies into a pot to let them cook while I opened two cans of tomato sauce.
“Spaghetti?” Neil called, the smell familiar.
“We need to go shopping,” I answered. “Not many other options.”
He stepped around me and opened the fridge. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
He popped the tops off two bottles, set one on the counter beside me, and leaned back against the opposite side. “So tell me what happened this morning.”
I recited the story again for what felt like the hundredth time while I doctored up the sauce with salt, pepper, Tabasco, and whatever spices I could find deep in the cupboard. “But it wasn’t human. It was a pig heart.”
“What did the detectives say?”
I shrugged. “Lancaster told me to open for business and get better security.”
“And that Winter fellow?”
I looked over my shoulder. “Why don’t you like him?”
“I told you why.”
“He let the questioning about Mike drop and left.” I had turned back to stir the sauce, but paused and looked at Neil. “You haven’t heard anything about that, have you? Mike’s break-in?”
Neil shook his head before taking a swig of beer. “Someone else’s case, not mine.”
“Why do you think Mike would accuse me of breaking into his store?”
“Because he’s a prick.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothing,” Neil interrupted. “He’s always had it out for you, Seb.”
Taking a drink of beer, I considered my next comment. “I was thinking about giving him a call tonight.”
Neil stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “You’re not stupid, are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sebby, stay the hell out of it. Let the police investigate what happened to Mike, and don’t be an idiot and harass him.”
“Who said anything about harassment? I was just going to see if he’s all right.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Neil replied. “The police don’t need to see you’ve been contacting him after he pointed his finger at you in the first place, okay?”
Neil had a valid point, of course, and who would know better what a cop would think than another cop?
Taking a drink and giving dinner my full attention, I zoned back in when I heard him saying my name.
“Seb, promise you won’t stick your nose where it’s not supposed to be.”
“Why do you think I will?”
That question made Neil laugh. “Because you like the thrill. The two hundred mystery novels on the bookcase in the living room say so.”
“I don’t have two hundred,” I said defensively. But so what? I liked a good brainteaser.
“Seb,” he said again, more sternly.
“I won’t,” I insisted, getting annoyed. “I get it.” Before Neil could say another word, I said, “How the heart ended up in the shop has yet to be explained.”
“Hmm?”
“How’d a pig’s heart get under the floorboards, Neil?” I asked while turning. “I didn’t put it there, and I was the one to close up last night. I didn’t forget to lock the gate or set the alarm.”
“It was probably a prank,” he said simply, shrugging.
“A prank?” I echoed. “By who?”
“I don’t know. Kids—teenagers. Someone sick in the head. Come on. You’ve been busy as hell at the Emporium. You and Max can’t keep an eye on everything all the time.”
Again, what Neil said could have very easily been true. Minus today, we had been slammed since before Thanksgiving. There was always a handful of customers roaming about at one time, inventory coming in, items going out for auction—I couldn’t always watch everything.
“But what’s the point?”
“What’s the point of a hotdog-eating contest?” Neil countered with a laugh. “People do stupid things sometimes, Seb.”
“I guess. It’s a little dramatic, though. ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’”
“The what?”
“Poe,” I said. “It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
“Oh, yeah, I think I remember reading that in school,” Neil replied thoughtfully.
“An old man with a blind eye is murdered and cut up. The murderer thinks he hears the heart under the floorboards where he put the body,” I explained. “He goes mad with guilt while the police are there looking into a possible disturbance.”
“Well, damn.”
“Good thing I’m only legally blind,” I said sarcastically.
NEIL AND I watched some police procedural drama while we ate, which really was just Neil complaining for forty-five minutes that the forensics team was handling the scene incorrectly, and no one got DNA results back that quickly. Disgruntled, he ended up channel-surfing before finding Home Alone and settling on that.
“I always wanted to do this,” he said as we sat in the dark, sipping wine later in the evening.
“Be Macaulay Culkin?”
“Catch bad guys,” Neil replied.
“You do,” I pointed out. “Just with big-boy toys. You’re a little too old for tar on the stairs and BB guns.”
Neil wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and I got comfortable in his embrace. It was nice to be enjoying the evening together and not fighting about stupid shit. Neil must have been thinking the same thing, because he leaned close and kissed the top of my head.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Hey, what?” I responded, looking up. Believe it or not, my vision was considerably better in the dark. Neil’s finer details were easier for me to see here.
“Why don’t we hightail it out of here?”
“To where?” I laughed.
“The next room over.” Neil leaned forward, setting our glasses on the coffee table before getting to his feet.
I stood, taking Neil’s offered hand, and let him lead me into our cramped bedroom.
He stopped to put my bag against the wall and shut the door.
“Afraid someone will see?”
He paused before turning to look at me. “To keep the cold air out, Seb,” he corrected in that voice I’d come to learn as the Sebastian, you’re being irrational tone. I did not like it, because he used that tone on me whenever a discussion of his sexuality reared its ugly head.
Neil reached out, grabbed my waist and the back of my head, and kissed me hard. He tasted a little sweet and a little bitter, which about summed up our relationship. He had lost his suit coat and tie since arriving home, but I quickly helped with the remaining shirt and trousers. Neil was busy tossing aside my slacks and sweater when he laughed against my mouth.
“What?”
“You dress like a grandpa,” he whispered.
“I like that sweater.”
“It’s older than you.”
“I’m not trying to win a fashion contest.”
Clothes shopping was stressful for me. Department stores were so bright, and there was apparently a concept of clashing colors. My idea of adding new options to my wardrobe was heading out to secondhand shops with Pop, letting him grab a dozen items in dark colors he says won’t hurt anyone’s eyes if I mix and match, then we’re out in ten minutes.
“We’ll get you a nicer sweater,” Neil said, kissing my neck.
“I like that one,” I replied.
“It’s from Goodwill.”
“So? I don’t need some three hundred dollar Ralph Lauren sweater when that one does a fine job of keeping me warm,” I said defensively.
“Are you done, Sebby?” Neil asked, pulling back to stare at me. “Do you really want to argue right now?”
I didn’t, of course not. I was sick of fighting, tired of every conversation ending in one of us getting frustrated with the other. Staring at Neil in the near dark, a familiar and awful thought came to mind again.
I wasn’t what he really wanted.
It was stupid shit like the sweater. What did it matter if I wore something a little frumpy? He wanted to have me wear something chic and fashionable, like the damn car.
“Seb?”
I shook my head, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed Neil, trying to get back into the mood.
When was the moment our relationship turned?
He pushed me down onto the bed, kissing and sucking down my chest and stomach.
When we moved in together, maybe.
I was turned onto my belly, and the snap of a bottle preceded a warm, oily finger pressing into me.
When had I grown so defensive? So bitter and resentful toward my partner?
Neil’s hands were on my hips, raising me up before he pushed in roughly.
I gritted my teeth as he started thrusting.
I didn’t like who I had become.
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
K. Evan Coles is a mother and tech pirate by day and a writer by night. She is a dreamer who, with a little hard work and a lot of good coffee, coaxes words out of her head and onto paper.
K. lives in the northeast United States, where she complains bitterly about the winters, but truly loves the region and its diverse, tenacious and deceptively compassionate people. You’ll usually find K. nerding out over books, movies and television with friends and family. She’s especially proud to be raising her son as part of a new generation of unabashed geeks.
K.’s books explore LGBTQ+ romance in contemporary settings.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.
She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.
C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.
Eli Easton
EMAIL: eli@elieaston.com
Josh Lanyon
SMASHWORDS / iTUNES / BOOKBUB
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
K Evan Coles
GOOGLE PLAY / BOOKBUB / B&N
EMAIL: coles.k.evan@gmail.com
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles by Eli Easton
So This is Christmas by Josh Lanyon
A Hometown Holiday by K Evan Coles
New York Christmas by RJ Scott
The Mystery of Nevermore by CS Poe
KOBO / iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
