Let it Snow #1
Summary:
The weather outside is frightful, but this Minnesota northwoods cabin is getting pretty hot.
Stylist Frankie Blackburn never meant to get lost in Logan, Minnesota, but his malfunctioning GPS felt otherwise, and a record-breaking snowfall ensures he wonât be heading back to Minneapolis anytime soon. Being rescued by three sexy lumberjacks is fine as a fantasy, but in reality the biggest of the bears is awfully cranky and seems ready to gobble Frankie right up.
Marcus Gardner wasnât always a lumberjackâonce a high-powered Minneapolis lawyer, heâs come home to Logan to lick his wounds, not play with a sassy city twink who might as well have stepped directly out of his past. But as the northwinds blow and guards come down, Frankie and Marcus find they have a lot more in common than they donât. Could the man who wonât live in the country and the man who wonât go back to the city truly find a home together? Because the longer it snows, the deeper they fall in love, and all they want for Christmas is each other.
Summary:
The weather outside is frightful, but this Minnesota northwoods cabin is getting pretty hot.
Stylist Frankie Blackburn never meant to get lost in Logan, Minnesota, but his malfunctioning GPS felt otherwise, and a record-breaking snowfall ensures he wonât be heading back to Minneapolis anytime soon. Being rescued by three sexy lumberjacks is fine as a fantasy, but in reality the biggest of the bears is awfully cranky and seems ready to gobble Frankie right up.
Marcus Gardner wasnât always a lumberjackâonce a high-powered Minneapolis lawyer, heâs come home to Logan to lick his wounds, not play with a sassy city twink who might as well have stepped directly out of his past. But as the northwinds blow and guards come down, Frankie and Marcus find they have a lot more in common than they donât. Could the man who wonât live in the country and the man who wonât go back to the city truly find a home together? Because the longer it snows, the deeper they fall in love, and all they want for Christmas is each other.
Summary:
The way to a manâs heart is on a sleigh.
Arthur Anderson doesnât want anything to do with love and romance, and he certainly doesnât want to play Santa in his motherâs library fundraising scheme. He knows full well what she really wants is to hook him up with the townâs lanky, prissy librarian.
Itâs clear Gabriel Higgins doesnât want him, eitherâas a Santa, as a boyfriend, as anyone at all. But when Arthurâs efforts to wiggle out of the fundraiser lead to getting to know the man behind the story-time idol, he canât help but be charmed. The least he can do is be neighborly and help Gabriel find a few local friends.
As their fiery arguments strike hotter sparks, two men who insist they donât date wind up doing an awful lot of dating. And it looks like the sleigh they both tried not to board could send them jingling all the way to happily ever after.
Warning: Contains a feisty librarian, a boorish bear, small town politics, deer sausage, and a boy who wants a doll.
Arthur Anderson doesnât want anything to do with love and romance, and he certainly doesnât want to play Santa in his motherâs library fundraising scheme. He knows full well what she really wants is to hook him up with the townâs lanky, prissy librarian.
Itâs clear Gabriel Higgins doesnât want him, eitherâas a Santa, as a boyfriend, as anyone at all. But when Arthurâs efforts to wiggle out of the fundraiser lead to getting to know the man behind the story-time idol, he canât help but be charmed. The least he can do is be neighborly and help Gabriel find a few local friends.
As their fiery arguments strike hotter sparks, two men who insist they donât date wind up doing an awful lot of dating. And it looks like the sleigh they both tried not to board could send them jingling all the way to happily ever after.
Warning: Contains a feisty librarian, a boorish bear, small town politics, deer sausage, and a boy who wants a doll.
Let it Snow #1
Original Review December 2014:
I'll admit I never really gave much thought to the "bear" character before. I like a little scruff but full-on bear never really appealed to me but this was recommended to me by a couple of ladies who's opinion I highly respect. I'm glad I listened and read because I loved these boys! It showed me that I had a preconceived idea of the definition of "bear" and I was wrong. You can't help but love poor lost Frankie and Arthur and Paul are definitely friendly and accepting. Marcus on the other hand is very gruff and standoffish, which only makes his connection to Frankie that much sweeter.
Born and raised in Wisconsin only minutes from the Minnesota border only added to my love of the story and the setting. I had a healthy respect for the weather scenario the boys found them in and for me that just gave me a more "personal" connection that drew me in even deeper.
I'll admit I never really gave much thought to the "bear" character before. I like a little scruff but full-on bear never really appealed to me but this was recommended to me by a couple of ladies who's opinion I highly respect. I'm glad I listened and read because I loved these boys! It showed me that I had a preconceived idea of the definition of "bear" and I was wrong. You can't help but love poor lost Frankie and Arthur and Paul are definitely friendly and accepting. Marcus on the other hand is very gruff and standoffish, which only makes his connection to Frankie that much sweeter.
Born and raised in Wisconsin only minutes from the Minnesota border only added to my love of the story and the setting. I had a healthy respect for the weather scenario the boys found them in and for me that just gave me a more "personal" connection that drew me in even deeper.
Sleigh Ride #2
Original Review December 2014:When I finished Let It Snow, I immediately started Sleigh Ride. Often what happens for me when reading a series that centers on a different pairing with each book, I have a hard time connecting with the new couple because I just am no ready to let go of the first. No surprise, that happened here as well. So it took me a few chapters to really get into the book but once I did, I really couldn't stop. Arthur really came around once he met Gabriel. Perhaps "came around" isn't really the best description, but I think "grown" isn't really accurate so I'll stick with "came around". He wasn't looking for a relationship but his mom was determined to find him some happiness that she was sure he was lacking. I loved her not-so-subtle matchmaking for both Arthur and the librarian, Gabriel. I guess a case of "mother knows best" is proven right again. There is some moderate D/s relationship between Arthur and Gabe but it's not at the center of the story.
I've never read this author before but I certainly will be checking out their other works and I can't wait to read Paul's story down the road.
RATING:
Let it Snow #1
Somehow, despite a brand-new GPS and strict oral directions from his father, Frankie Blackburn had managed to get himself lost. Because there was no way, despite what the GPS insisted, the left turn down yet another winding, tree-lined road would get him back to Minneapolis. The fact that heâd gotten himself lost in the middle of nowhere as a blizzard swelled around him was simply icing on the cake.
Squinting, Frankie fussed with the view screen, but in deference to the now-steady veil of snow coming down he looked away from the road as little as possible. The snow had been his first clue something was wrong. Heâd checked the radar before leaving his parentsâ house in Duluth. While they were due to get six to twelve inches by morning, half an hourâs drive south should have taken Frankie out of the trouble rather than deeper in. As the ground around him already sported well over three inches and was gaining additional snow cover fast, clearly heâd done something wrong.
Way to go, Frankie. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and tried to ignore the fear clawing at his stomach. It was moments like this he could see the attraction of smoking, because if nothing else, it would force him to take deep breaths. Josh, one of his roommates, used to smoke. Heâd always said the buzz was fantastic, that it made his mind expand and calmed him right down no matter how stressed out he got. Frankie could totally go with some mind expansion and calm right now.
Of course, he didnât dare take his hands off the wheel, so how he would manage a cigarette without crashing the car or burning himself, he didnât know.
What Frankie really needed was to stop the car, make some phone calls and ask for directions. The trouble was he couldnât find anywhere decent to pull over. Awhile back there had been a roadside bar, but it all but screamed, Hey, gay boy, get over here and let us rough you up a bit, so Frankie decided to opt for safer ground. Except this was northern Minnesota, the backwoods of the backwoods, and a safe haven for a guy like Frankie was even more ephemeral than Santa Claus. Nobody had ever looked at Frankie and thought anything but that he was gay. A few times in high school heâd wondered if he were gay by suggestion, but then heâd had his first taste of c**k and knew t*ts and pu**y were never going to be his thing, so he simply appreciated the heads-up.
Since it hadnât been a very pleasant heads-up, and since heâd done his coming of age in one of Minnesotaâs southern small towns, he knew better than to try his luck in this place. Whatever this town was, it was officially Not For Frankie. Proceed with caution.
The problem was civilization of any kind up here was hard to come by. It had been fifteen minutes since the roadside bar, and all Frankie had passed since then had been four unplowed driveways. At this point all he wanted to do was turn around or call his mom and freak out, but, again, he didnât want anything to distract him from the road because it was starting to get bad. Turning around assumed he knew how to go back the same way heâd comeâhe could just as easily end up in a different part of the backwoods.
There wasnât anything for it. He had to stop somewhere. When he finally approached what looked like the fringes of a town, he made his way down Main Street until he saw the faint, faded glow of a sign that read Logan CafĂ©.
Frankie didnât bother to scope it for redneck warning signals. He pulled straight into the parking lot in the back and killed the engine.
Huddled over the GPS view screen a few seconds later, he started to swear. He didnât understand where the map said it was taking him to, just that his final destination landed him east of International Falls. No wonder it seemed like he was driving into the back end of nowhere. The back end of nowhere was a booming metropolis compared to his current location. He was in the only town for fifteen miles in all directions, hell and gone from any kind of interstate or even a decent highway. Frankie didnât need radar to tell him heâd driven into the heart of one mother of a blizzard instead of toward the comforting lanes of I-35.
Calling his parents was a given now, but first he thought he should use the bathroom, splash some water on his face and get some honest-to-God human directions from one of the patrons inside.
The Logan CafĂ© was narrow, wide and old, clearly not just modeled from the days of diners but a direct descendant. The restaurant itself wasnât that big, but it had plenty of seating, from the booths around the edges to the tables in the middle and the long counter in front of the beverage station and the window into the kitchen. The decor was mostly industrial white, though faded to a sad cream with age, especially on the linoleum floor. Some color could be found in the green vinyl cushions of the chairs, stools and booth seats, but this too was worn, patched with duct tape in more than one instance. The menu was listed in block plastic lettering on black signboards above the kitchen window, but both the board and the letters were aged as well, the letters yellowed and the black sign ghosted with the faint impressions of menus past.
The way everyone turned to look at Frankie as he jangled the bell above the door made him feel like he was in a spaghetti western. Every single face in the room was white, which when heâd grown up in Saint Peter hadnât been unusual, but after the cornucopia of ethnicity that was metro Minneapolis, the lack of contrasting skin tone was the first thing Frankie noticed. The age range ran the gamut from old men and women to a few teenagers, but every one of them eyed Frankie as if he had just escaped from the zoo.
Cautioning himself not to court drama, Frankie ignored the stares and focused on shaking the snow from his body and his shoes as best he could before heading to the restroom. It was as grim and aged as everything else, the urinal and sink drains both sporting rusted stains in the porcelain, something that had creeped Frankie out ever since heâd been a kid. After hurrying through washing his hands, he returned to the main restaurant area and made himself smile at the matronly woman behind the counter. Patty, her name tag declared. Sitting in front of her, Frankie attempted to look less freaked out than he actually was.
âHow can I help you?â she asked, her tone seeming to imply he sure needed a lot of it.
âHi.â Frankie did his best to keep his smile in place and free from strain. âIâm a bit lost. Iâm trying to get to I-35.â
Pattyâs eyebrows reached up into her tightly permed hair, which was teased into a careful nest of flat, box-dyed auburn in front of her diner cap. âHoney, youâre hell and gone from Duluth.â
Donât panic. Frankie pressed his hands against the countertop to keep them from shaking. âI know. My GPS malfunctioned, or I entered my destination wrong, and now Iâm way, way off course. Do you have a map or something I could look at?â Remembering his manners, he added, âAnd if you have a mug of hot tea and a quick chicken or turkey sandwich, mustard, no mayo, thatâd be great.â
Frankie felt her size him up, her gaze raking him, taking in his carefully styled hair, his fussy, modish clothing, his bright red Columbia ski coat that would never see a lift chair but sure looked fashionableâhe watched her make a judgment about him, and he had to say, it likely wasnât far off. He waited for her disdain and hoped sheâd still give him a map along with it.
Disdain didnât come, though she did shake her head and put an empty cup in front of him. âMapâs in the back. Iâll get it for you while you wait for your order. Better make it to go, though. This storm isnât going to mess around. Cherieâs knee is acting up something fierce, and she says weâre in for days and days of snow, by her reckoning.â
âThank you,â Frankie replied, and tried not to panic.
The waitress put a Lipton tea bag in his cup and poured hot water from a pot over the top of it as she spoke. âYou from the Cities then?â
âYes, though my parents live in Duluth. They just moved there from Saint Peter.â
The womanâs face brightened. âSay. Thatâs just south of the Cities, right? Has a college? I think Lacey Peterson went there a few years back.â
âGustavus Adolphus. My dad was a professor there, though he just took a position at the University of Minnesota at Duluth.â
âPretty place, Duluth.â The woman wiped the counter in front of Frankie. âI was all set to get some of my Christmas shopping done there this weekend, but Cherie called in sick with the knee, and here I am.â
âMiller Hill was really busy.â Frankie remembered his trek to the mall escorting his mother the day before all too well. âYou might be glad you waited.â
The woman smiled at Frankie. âMaybe so.â She nodded back to the kitchen. âIâll see to your map and put your order in.â
Well, that hadnât gone so badly. Frankie sipped his tea, focusing on the fact that he wasnât driving in the wrong direction anymore and would soon have a map. He also pretended this wasnât the worst cup of tea heâd ever had in his life, tasting like stale coffee and soap.
There werenât many other customers in the cafĂ©, but they all seemed to keep an eye on Frankie. The elderly couple at a nearby table didnât bother him half as much as the trio of bulky, bearded men in deerstalkers in the booth near the bathrooms. They looked like they might have literally just come off a lumberjack gig, wearing industrial overalls, heavy plaid shirts and clunky steel-toed boots. The three bears, Frankie thought, trying to make light of the situation. It worked better than it had a right to, mostly because, yeah, were these guys gay, theyâd be bears all right. They were even three variations on the theme: one was sandy-haired and slight, curling hair sticking out from beneath his cap, his beard subtler, suitable to a baby bear. The one who sat next to him had carrot-red hair and a guffaw of a laugh that went with his stocky body. Across from them, though, was definitely Papa Bear, a man who was big, dark and cranky.
Outside of a few suspicious glances, the three bears didnât pay Frankie any particular kind of mind. Even so, he didnât see any profit in hanging around and giving them a reason to get bored and decide to poke at the skinny guy from the city.
Patty reappeared with his map and his sandwich, and what little appetite Frankie might have been able to muster died when Patty illustrated via Rand McNally just how far Logan, Minnesota was from where Frankie was supposed to be. He felt stupid for not figuring it out sooner, but heâd thought that was the whole point of following a GPS, trusting the directions it gave. His dad had explained it to him, and Frankie had tried to program it correctly.
âTheyâre talking about closing roads just north of here.â Patty frowned, but the expression seemed more about concern than dismissal. âYouâd best be careful.â
âIf I can just get back to Duluth, Iâll stay at my parentsâ place until it blows over. They ought to get the interstate open pretty quickly, Iâd think.â
Patty nodded. âTheyâre supposed to get the least of it too, down in Duluth, and everything south of there should be fine. Of course, now thereâs some storm pushing across western Iowa. If that swings north and the two meet up, things could get nasty fast.â
Frankieâs stomach hurt thinking about that. âI should call my boss and tell him I wonât be in tomorrow, and my mom to tell her to expect me.â
âCall your mom quick and save the boss for Duluth.â Patty nodded at the window. âItâs really coming down now.â
It certainly was. Frankie left a ten on the counter and gathered his sandwich, but Patty pushed the map toward him.
âTake it. And here.â She scrawled a number on the top of the legend. âThatâs the cafĂ©âs phone number. You get lost or stuck, you give a holler. Iâll be here all night. Heading for Highway 53 is your best betâthough if you get nervous, swing over to Eveleth. They have a Super 8.â
Riding out a days-long blizzard in a small-town hotel seemed worse than facing the drive back to Duluth, but Frankie nodded. âThank you. I really appreciate it.â
âI just hope you have a blanket in that tiny little car of yours.â Patty frowned at the parking lot where Frankieâs green Festiva quietly drowned in flakes.
âI do, and a gallon of water, warm clothes, a scraper and even a shovel,â Frankie assured her. âI may come from southern Minnesota, but itâs still Minnesota.â
Patty nodded in approval and waved him on. âYou get going then. Call me when you get wherever you land just so as I donât dream about your dead body in a ditch somewhere.â
Her concern for him was touching, and this time Frankieâs smile was all genuine. âI will,â he promised and took up the map. âThanks.â
âGet on then,â Patty said, her shooing motions getting urgent.
Sparing just a quick glance at the three bears to catch Papa Bear glaring at him, Frankie headed out into the storm. It took him five minutes to unbury the car, and while the engine heated, he picked at his sandwich as he studied the GPS. The food was a lot better than the tea, though eating was mostly just something to do while he girded his loins for his adventure. According to the map, he had to go back the way he came, take the first right at a major intersection ten miles south, and use the county road to go back over to the highway. That would take him straight back to Duluth and the warm comfort of his parentsâ spare bedroom. Yes, his boss would be upset at his missing work, but better to have Robbie upset than to die in a ditch.
Giving up on his sandwich, he dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed his parents.
âAre you home already?â his mother asked. âHow fast did you drive?â
âActually, Iâm not even close to home. I took a wrong turn, and Iâm in Logan.â
âWhat? Why? Whereâs Logan?â
âAbout an hour north of Duluth. I screwed up the GPS, and before I realized how badly I was lost, here I was.â
âOh, honey.â
The weariness in her voice made Frankieâs gut twist. âSorry, Mom.â
The phone muffled as Melinda put her hand over the receiver. âItâs Frankie. Heâs lost an hour north of Duluth.â A pause, then, âWhat? What?â She unmuffled the phone, and when she spoke to Frankie next, her tone made her panic clear. âSweetheart, your dad says thereâs a terrible storm up there. Terrible.â
âYeah, I kind of figured that one out.â Frankie glanced out the window at the snow, which seemed to be coming faster and faster. âMom, I better go if Iâm going to have any chance of making it back to your place tonight.â
âSweetheart, no. Find a hotel and ride this out. I want you safe.â
âI donât want to be stuck up here in Podunk, Minnesota. Oh my God, you should have seen these three crazy lumberjacks in the cafĂ© where I stopped for directions. Anyway, there isnât a hotel close to here as far as I can tell, unless I go west.â
âFranklin Nelson Blackburn, you get lost trying to find the bathroom in the middle of the night. I wonât have you driving in the snow.â
âLook, Mom, I gotta get going. Iâll call you once I get on the highway, okay?â
âOh my God. Let me put your father on.â
âNo. Iâm hanging up. Please call the guys for me and let them know Iâll be staying with you.â
âFrankie,â she demanded, but he didnât hear the rest because heâd hung up. For good measure, he turned the phone all the way off.
No way was he getting stranded here. No. Way.
The roads around Logan, Frankie discovered as he pulled out of the cafĂ© parking lot, had worsened considerably while heâd been inside. Tall, narrow trees surrounded him on either side, a few evergreens but most of them northern hardwoods without leaves, making it seem like Frankie drove through a tree graveyard drowning in a blizzard. He could still see the pavement, but just barely, and several times he found heâd wandered into the left-hand lane because the snow had drifted the right side of the road shut.
Just get to the highway, he coaxed himself, and put on the Gregorian Christmas album his mother had given him. Get to the highway, get to your parents and never use GPS again.
As the monks sang serenely about Ave Maria, Frankie white-knuckled the steering wheel and tried not to get hypnotized by the falling snow. It felt very surreal, the music drifting around him as snow and darkness threatened to engulf him should he lose control of his car. The woods were pretty, even if they were in the middle of nowhere and full of backwater yokels and prejudiced âChristiansâ who voted against marriage equality and thought Twin City residents were yuppie snobs, so out of touch they hadnât heard of hipsters.
The monks shifted to âSilent Nightâ, and Frankie thought of the three bears, especially surly Papa Bear. They were exactly the kind of guys that had given Frankie so much hell growing up. Funny, heâd been in Minneapolis for almost ten years, but ten minutes in that cafĂ© had taken him right back to being fourteen and queasy while he got ready for gym. Saint Peter was slightly refined because of its proximity to the Cities and to Mankato, and also because of the college, but it had its share of rednecks too. Sometimes they seemed angrier and nastier because they had to live alongside what they considered uppity people, like Frankie and his family.
Frankie had taken piano and violin lessons, and until heâd been able to beg his mother to let him drop out, dance. It didnât matter that Frankie had enjoyed those activities and that theyâd been soothing and peaceful to himâFrankie never played baseball or dreamed of buying a killer car or went hunting with cousins, and that made him somehow a threat in the eyes of Saint Peterâs differently cultured. It didnât matter that Frankie had a whole circle of friends, some of them even other boys, in his familyâs social set. When it was Frankie versus the redneck boys, Frankie always lost.
Those three lumberjacks, no question, were more of the same. He bet none of them had sported Vote No car decals during the marriage amendment fight in 2012 or urged their representatives to help pass marriage equality. Heâd put money too on them being the guys who had threatened to hold the heads of guys like Frankie over stunk-up toilets. They probably wrote FAG in black marker on the lockers of Frankieâs Logan, Minnesota spiritual brothers. They had every mark of small-town bully written on them, and Frankie was oh so glad to be leaving them behind.
Still, there wasnât any denying that even in the snow the landscape was beautiful up here. When Frankie had been little, heâd dreamed of running away to a cabin up north, where everything would be quiet and quaint like Mayberry and everyone would like him for a change. Of course, then heâd grown up and realized the farther north he went the less it would be like Mayberry and the more it would turn into Deliverance. Still, that fantasy had never quite died, and especially with the lilting voices of the monks drifting around him, the scene made Frankie nostalgic, wishing a life like that truly could happen to a guy like him.
He stopped daydreaming and made himself focus on the road. Just a few more miles to the turnoff, he reminded himself, not sure if it was actually a few more miles or not. Soon, he amended. Soon youâll be on the highway and scot-free.
That was when he saw the moose.
The animal came out of the brush just as the music swelled to a dramatic, hopeful climax. Frankie couldnât make it out at first, but as soon as he did, the only thought he had time for was that he was screwed. The moose was bigger than a cow, dark and hairy and so full of antlers it was hard not to be hypnotized by them. Frankie shouted and braked, but he might as well have pushed on the accelerator. Turning its head to look at Frankieâs car, the moose didnât so much as blink, let alone move.
Shouting again, Frankie swerved around the moose, caught the edge of a snowdrift and spun out.
Snow on snow, the monks sang as the Festiva sailed into the ditch and down into a shallow ravine, where the engine sputtered and died but the music played on, eerily upbeat as the snow came down faster and faster, the monks oblivious to Frankieâs doom.
Squinting, Frankie fussed with the view screen, but in deference to the now-steady veil of snow coming down he looked away from the road as little as possible. The snow had been his first clue something was wrong. Heâd checked the radar before leaving his parentsâ house in Duluth. While they were due to get six to twelve inches by morning, half an hourâs drive south should have taken Frankie out of the trouble rather than deeper in. As the ground around him already sported well over three inches and was gaining additional snow cover fast, clearly heâd done something wrong.
Way to go, Frankie. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and tried to ignore the fear clawing at his stomach. It was moments like this he could see the attraction of smoking, because if nothing else, it would force him to take deep breaths. Josh, one of his roommates, used to smoke. Heâd always said the buzz was fantastic, that it made his mind expand and calmed him right down no matter how stressed out he got. Frankie could totally go with some mind expansion and calm right now.
Of course, he didnât dare take his hands off the wheel, so how he would manage a cigarette without crashing the car or burning himself, he didnât know.
What Frankie really needed was to stop the car, make some phone calls and ask for directions. The trouble was he couldnât find anywhere decent to pull over. Awhile back there had been a roadside bar, but it all but screamed, Hey, gay boy, get over here and let us rough you up a bit, so Frankie decided to opt for safer ground. Except this was northern Minnesota, the backwoods of the backwoods, and a safe haven for a guy like Frankie was even more ephemeral than Santa Claus. Nobody had ever looked at Frankie and thought anything but that he was gay. A few times in high school heâd wondered if he were gay by suggestion, but then heâd had his first taste of c**k and knew t*ts and pu**y were never going to be his thing, so he simply appreciated the heads-up.
Since it hadnât been a very pleasant heads-up, and since heâd done his coming of age in one of Minnesotaâs southern small towns, he knew better than to try his luck in this place. Whatever this town was, it was officially Not For Frankie. Proceed with caution.
The problem was civilization of any kind up here was hard to come by. It had been fifteen minutes since the roadside bar, and all Frankie had passed since then had been four unplowed driveways. At this point all he wanted to do was turn around or call his mom and freak out, but, again, he didnât want anything to distract him from the road because it was starting to get bad. Turning around assumed he knew how to go back the same way heâd comeâhe could just as easily end up in a different part of the backwoods.
There wasnât anything for it. He had to stop somewhere. When he finally approached what looked like the fringes of a town, he made his way down Main Street until he saw the faint, faded glow of a sign that read Logan CafĂ©.
Frankie didnât bother to scope it for redneck warning signals. He pulled straight into the parking lot in the back and killed the engine.
Huddled over the GPS view screen a few seconds later, he started to swear. He didnât understand where the map said it was taking him to, just that his final destination landed him east of International Falls. No wonder it seemed like he was driving into the back end of nowhere. The back end of nowhere was a booming metropolis compared to his current location. He was in the only town for fifteen miles in all directions, hell and gone from any kind of interstate or even a decent highway. Frankie didnât need radar to tell him heâd driven into the heart of one mother of a blizzard instead of toward the comforting lanes of I-35.
Calling his parents was a given now, but first he thought he should use the bathroom, splash some water on his face and get some honest-to-God human directions from one of the patrons inside.
The Logan CafĂ© was narrow, wide and old, clearly not just modeled from the days of diners but a direct descendant. The restaurant itself wasnât that big, but it had plenty of seating, from the booths around the edges to the tables in the middle and the long counter in front of the beverage station and the window into the kitchen. The decor was mostly industrial white, though faded to a sad cream with age, especially on the linoleum floor. Some color could be found in the green vinyl cushions of the chairs, stools and booth seats, but this too was worn, patched with duct tape in more than one instance. The menu was listed in block plastic lettering on black signboards above the kitchen window, but both the board and the letters were aged as well, the letters yellowed and the black sign ghosted with the faint impressions of menus past.
The way everyone turned to look at Frankie as he jangled the bell above the door made him feel like he was in a spaghetti western. Every single face in the room was white, which when heâd grown up in Saint Peter hadnât been unusual, but after the cornucopia of ethnicity that was metro Minneapolis, the lack of contrasting skin tone was the first thing Frankie noticed. The age range ran the gamut from old men and women to a few teenagers, but every one of them eyed Frankie as if he had just escaped from the zoo.
Cautioning himself not to court drama, Frankie ignored the stares and focused on shaking the snow from his body and his shoes as best he could before heading to the restroom. It was as grim and aged as everything else, the urinal and sink drains both sporting rusted stains in the porcelain, something that had creeped Frankie out ever since heâd been a kid. After hurrying through washing his hands, he returned to the main restaurant area and made himself smile at the matronly woman behind the counter. Patty, her name tag declared. Sitting in front of her, Frankie attempted to look less freaked out than he actually was.
âHow can I help you?â she asked, her tone seeming to imply he sure needed a lot of it.
âHi.â Frankie did his best to keep his smile in place and free from strain. âIâm a bit lost. Iâm trying to get to I-35.â
Pattyâs eyebrows reached up into her tightly permed hair, which was teased into a careful nest of flat, box-dyed auburn in front of her diner cap. âHoney, youâre hell and gone from Duluth.â
Donât panic. Frankie pressed his hands against the countertop to keep them from shaking. âI know. My GPS malfunctioned, or I entered my destination wrong, and now Iâm way, way off course. Do you have a map or something I could look at?â Remembering his manners, he added, âAnd if you have a mug of hot tea and a quick chicken or turkey sandwich, mustard, no mayo, thatâd be great.â
Frankie felt her size him up, her gaze raking him, taking in his carefully styled hair, his fussy, modish clothing, his bright red Columbia ski coat that would never see a lift chair but sure looked fashionableâhe watched her make a judgment about him, and he had to say, it likely wasnât far off. He waited for her disdain and hoped sheâd still give him a map along with it.
Disdain didnât come, though she did shake her head and put an empty cup in front of him. âMapâs in the back. Iâll get it for you while you wait for your order. Better make it to go, though. This storm isnât going to mess around. Cherieâs knee is acting up something fierce, and she says weâre in for days and days of snow, by her reckoning.â
âThank you,â Frankie replied, and tried not to panic.
The waitress put a Lipton tea bag in his cup and poured hot water from a pot over the top of it as she spoke. âYou from the Cities then?â
âYes, though my parents live in Duluth. They just moved there from Saint Peter.â
The womanâs face brightened. âSay. Thatâs just south of the Cities, right? Has a college? I think Lacey Peterson went there a few years back.â
âGustavus Adolphus. My dad was a professor there, though he just took a position at the University of Minnesota at Duluth.â
âPretty place, Duluth.â The woman wiped the counter in front of Frankie. âI was all set to get some of my Christmas shopping done there this weekend, but Cherie called in sick with the knee, and here I am.â
âMiller Hill was really busy.â Frankie remembered his trek to the mall escorting his mother the day before all too well. âYou might be glad you waited.â
The woman smiled at Frankie. âMaybe so.â She nodded back to the kitchen. âIâll see to your map and put your order in.â
Well, that hadnât gone so badly. Frankie sipped his tea, focusing on the fact that he wasnât driving in the wrong direction anymore and would soon have a map. He also pretended this wasnât the worst cup of tea heâd ever had in his life, tasting like stale coffee and soap.
There werenât many other customers in the cafĂ©, but they all seemed to keep an eye on Frankie. The elderly couple at a nearby table didnât bother him half as much as the trio of bulky, bearded men in deerstalkers in the booth near the bathrooms. They looked like they might have literally just come off a lumberjack gig, wearing industrial overalls, heavy plaid shirts and clunky steel-toed boots. The three bears, Frankie thought, trying to make light of the situation. It worked better than it had a right to, mostly because, yeah, were these guys gay, theyâd be bears all right. They were even three variations on the theme: one was sandy-haired and slight, curling hair sticking out from beneath his cap, his beard subtler, suitable to a baby bear. The one who sat next to him had carrot-red hair and a guffaw of a laugh that went with his stocky body. Across from them, though, was definitely Papa Bear, a man who was big, dark and cranky.
Outside of a few suspicious glances, the three bears didnât pay Frankie any particular kind of mind. Even so, he didnât see any profit in hanging around and giving them a reason to get bored and decide to poke at the skinny guy from the city.
Patty reappeared with his map and his sandwich, and what little appetite Frankie might have been able to muster died when Patty illustrated via Rand McNally just how far Logan, Minnesota was from where Frankie was supposed to be. He felt stupid for not figuring it out sooner, but heâd thought that was the whole point of following a GPS, trusting the directions it gave. His dad had explained it to him, and Frankie had tried to program it correctly.
âTheyâre talking about closing roads just north of here.â Patty frowned, but the expression seemed more about concern than dismissal. âYouâd best be careful.â
âIf I can just get back to Duluth, Iâll stay at my parentsâ place until it blows over. They ought to get the interstate open pretty quickly, Iâd think.â
Patty nodded. âTheyâre supposed to get the least of it too, down in Duluth, and everything south of there should be fine. Of course, now thereâs some storm pushing across western Iowa. If that swings north and the two meet up, things could get nasty fast.â
Frankieâs stomach hurt thinking about that. âI should call my boss and tell him I wonât be in tomorrow, and my mom to tell her to expect me.â
âCall your mom quick and save the boss for Duluth.â Patty nodded at the window. âItâs really coming down now.â
It certainly was. Frankie left a ten on the counter and gathered his sandwich, but Patty pushed the map toward him.
âTake it. And here.â She scrawled a number on the top of the legend. âThatâs the cafĂ©âs phone number. You get lost or stuck, you give a holler. Iâll be here all night. Heading for Highway 53 is your best betâthough if you get nervous, swing over to Eveleth. They have a Super 8.â
Riding out a days-long blizzard in a small-town hotel seemed worse than facing the drive back to Duluth, but Frankie nodded. âThank you. I really appreciate it.â
âI just hope you have a blanket in that tiny little car of yours.â Patty frowned at the parking lot where Frankieâs green Festiva quietly drowned in flakes.
âI do, and a gallon of water, warm clothes, a scraper and even a shovel,â Frankie assured her. âI may come from southern Minnesota, but itâs still Minnesota.â
Patty nodded in approval and waved him on. âYou get going then. Call me when you get wherever you land just so as I donât dream about your dead body in a ditch somewhere.â
Her concern for him was touching, and this time Frankieâs smile was all genuine. âI will,â he promised and took up the map. âThanks.â
âGet on then,â Patty said, her shooing motions getting urgent.
Sparing just a quick glance at the three bears to catch Papa Bear glaring at him, Frankie headed out into the storm. It took him five minutes to unbury the car, and while the engine heated, he picked at his sandwich as he studied the GPS. The food was a lot better than the tea, though eating was mostly just something to do while he girded his loins for his adventure. According to the map, he had to go back the way he came, take the first right at a major intersection ten miles south, and use the county road to go back over to the highway. That would take him straight back to Duluth and the warm comfort of his parentsâ spare bedroom. Yes, his boss would be upset at his missing work, but better to have Robbie upset than to die in a ditch.
Giving up on his sandwich, he dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed his parents.
âAre you home already?â his mother asked. âHow fast did you drive?â
âActually, Iâm not even close to home. I took a wrong turn, and Iâm in Logan.â
âWhat? Why? Whereâs Logan?â
âAbout an hour north of Duluth. I screwed up the GPS, and before I realized how badly I was lost, here I was.â
âOh, honey.â
The weariness in her voice made Frankieâs gut twist. âSorry, Mom.â
The phone muffled as Melinda put her hand over the receiver. âItâs Frankie. Heâs lost an hour north of Duluth.â A pause, then, âWhat? What?â She unmuffled the phone, and when she spoke to Frankie next, her tone made her panic clear. âSweetheart, your dad says thereâs a terrible storm up there. Terrible.â
âYeah, I kind of figured that one out.â Frankie glanced out the window at the snow, which seemed to be coming faster and faster. âMom, I better go if Iâm going to have any chance of making it back to your place tonight.â
âSweetheart, no. Find a hotel and ride this out. I want you safe.â
âI donât want to be stuck up here in Podunk, Minnesota. Oh my God, you should have seen these three crazy lumberjacks in the cafĂ© where I stopped for directions. Anyway, there isnât a hotel close to here as far as I can tell, unless I go west.â
âFranklin Nelson Blackburn, you get lost trying to find the bathroom in the middle of the night. I wonât have you driving in the snow.â
âLook, Mom, I gotta get going. Iâll call you once I get on the highway, okay?â
âOh my God. Let me put your father on.â
âNo. Iâm hanging up. Please call the guys for me and let them know Iâll be staying with you.â
âFrankie,â she demanded, but he didnât hear the rest because heâd hung up. For good measure, he turned the phone all the way off.
No way was he getting stranded here. No. Way.
The roads around Logan, Frankie discovered as he pulled out of the cafĂ© parking lot, had worsened considerably while heâd been inside. Tall, narrow trees surrounded him on either side, a few evergreens but most of them northern hardwoods without leaves, making it seem like Frankie drove through a tree graveyard drowning in a blizzard. He could still see the pavement, but just barely, and several times he found heâd wandered into the left-hand lane because the snow had drifted the right side of the road shut.
Just get to the highway, he coaxed himself, and put on the Gregorian Christmas album his mother had given him. Get to the highway, get to your parents and never use GPS again.
As the monks sang serenely about Ave Maria, Frankie white-knuckled the steering wheel and tried not to get hypnotized by the falling snow. It felt very surreal, the music drifting around him as snow and darkness threatened to engulf him should he lose control of his car. The woods were pretty, even if they were in the middle of nowhere and full of backwater yokels and prejudiced âChristiansâ who voted against marriage equality and thought Twin City residents were yuppie snobs, so out of touch they hadnât heard of hipsters.
The monks shifted to âSilent Nightâ, and Frankie thought of the three bears, especially surly Papa Bear. They were exactly the kind of guys that had given Frankie so much hell growing up. Funny, heâd been in Minneapolis for almost ten years, but ten minutes in that cafĂ© had taken him right back to being fourteen and queasy while he got ready for gym. Saint Peter was slightly refined because of its proximity to the Cities and to Mankato, and also because of the college, but it had its share of rednecks too. Sometimes they seemed angrier and nastier because they had to live alongside what they considered uppity people, like Frankie and his family.
Frankie had taken piano and violin lessons, and until heâd been able to beg his mother to let him drop out, dance. It didnât matter that Frankie had enjoyed those activities and that theyâd been soothing and peaceful to himâFrankie never played baseball or dreamed of buying a killer car or went hunting with cousins, and that made him somehow a threat in the eyes of Saint Peterâs differently cultured. It didnât matter that Frankie had a whole circle of friends, some of them even other boys, in his familyâs social set. When it was Frankie versus the redneck boys, Frankie always lost.
Those three lumberjacks, no question, were more of the same. He bet none of them had sported Vote No car decals during the marriage amendment fight in 2012 or urged their representatives to help pass marriage equality. Heâd put money too on them being the guys who had threatened to hold the heads of guys like Frankie over stunk-up toilets. They probably wrote FAG in black marker on the lockers of Frankieâs Logan, Minnesota spiritual brothers. They had every mark of small-town bully written on them, and Frankie was oh so glad to be leaving them behind.
Still, there wasnât any denying that even in the snow the landscape was beautiful up here. When Frankie had been little, heâd dreamed of running away to a cabin up north, where everything would be quiet and quaint like Mayberry and everyone would like him for a change. Of course, then heâd grown up and realized the farther north he went the less it would be like Mayberry and the more it would turn into Deliverance. Still, that fantasy had never quite died, and especially with the lilting voices of the monks drifting around him, the scene made Frankie nostalgic, wishing a life like that truly could happen to a guy like him.
He stopped daydreaming and made himself focus on the road. Just a few more miles to the turnoff, he reminded himself, not sure if it was actually a few more miles or not. Soon, he amended. Soon youâll be on the highway and scot-free.
That was when he saw the moose.
The animal came out of the brush just as the music swelled to a dramatic, hopeful climax. Frankie couldnât make it out at first, but as soon as he did, the only thought he had time for was that he was screwed. The moose was bigger than a cow, dark and hairy and so full of antlers it was hard not to be hypnotized by them. Frankie shouted and braked, but he might as well have pushed on the accelerator. Turning its head to look at Frankieâs car, the moose didnât so much as blink, let alone move.
Shouting again, Frankie swerved around the moose, caught the edge of a snowdrift and spun out.
Snow on snow, the monks sang as the Festiva sailed into the ditch and down into a shallow ravine, where the engine sputtered and died but the music played on, eerily upbeat as the snow came down faster and faster, the monks oblivious to Frankieâs doom.
Sleigh Ride #2
Chapter One
Everyone in Arthur Andersonâs life was fixated on happily-ever-after, and it was seriously pissing him off.
He was happy for his friend Marcus, now all but married to Frankie, the cute little hairdresser who had been stranded with them in a blizzard last year. Arthur had known since high school that Marcusâs grumpy exterior hid a soft and gooey centerâthe burly lumberjack-turned-lawyer longed for nothing more than someone to love. Frankie wanted to cut hair on Main Street while Marcus sat in on Chamber of Commerce meetings and ran a law office on the other side of Frankieâs shop. This was all fine, but their domestic bliss was giving everyone dangerous ideas. Now everyone thought Arthur should get lovey-dovey too.
The worst offender was Arthurâs mother, who after fifteen years of letting Arthurâs love life be his own business, now routinely asked him when he would be making an honest man of Paul, Arthurâs other best friend. Paul wasnât Arthurâs boyfriend, never had been. Paul and Arthur lived and slept together, but they werenât dating, and they saw other guys. Sometimes they saw them at the same time. Every so often Paul decided he had a boyfriend and slept on the couch instead of next to Arthur in the loft, but that never lasted for more than a week. The arrangement suited Arthur fine, and he figured it would continue until he was too old to get it up anymore.
Except now Marcus and Frankie were together, and somehow that meant everything changed. Marcus had only lived with Paul and Arthur a little while before moving out to be with Frankie, but within two months of Marcusâs departure, Paul started dropping hints he and Arthur should be officially a couple too. As the year wore on, those hints became outright statements, and after seven months of watching Marcus and Frankie play house, Paul threw down an ultimatum. Arthur would stop seeing other people and go on the record as officially dating Paul, or Paul would leave.
Arthur dealt with this by ignoring the nonsense completely. Which meant by the first week in August, Paul started packing his bags.
Arthur got annoyed. âYou want a boyfriend? Fine. We can stop f**king. You can go out with guys and still live here. Weâll build you a bedroom. Iâll install a lube dispenser above the headboard.â
âNo, I canât stay here. If I bring them to the cabin, youâll scare them away or try to have a three-way.â
Arthur failed to see how this was a problem, but whatever. âSo we wonât have three-ways. Problem solved.â
Paul wouldnât budge. âI canât date anyone else while I live with you. I have to move.â
This argument went on and on, until Paul found a duplex for rent on the south end of town and didnât just talk about moving out or packing up boxes, he actually did it.
Arthur refused to help him, which meant he paced the edge of his property like a pouting child while Frankie and Marcus loaded up Paulâs things and took him away. Before they left, Marcus glowered at Arthur. âYouâre being an idiot, and youâre hurting him.â
Folding his arms across his chest, Arthur stared across the grassy hayfield behind the tree line. âYeah, well, itâs mutual.â He paused, frowning as he weighed whether or not his words made sense. âI mean, heâs an idiot too.â
âHe still wants to be friends with you, but youâre making this all or nothing. Except it isnât all or nothing. Heâd marry you if you askedââ
Arthur made outraged noises through his nose.
ââexcept he knows he canât even get an exclusive commitment out of you, let alone a house and kids. So heâs doing the smart thing and backing out before you hate each other.â
âI wouldnât ever hate Paul.â He glared at Marcus. âAnd thatâs a load of crap about him wanting a house and kids. I donât buy for one second he asked for kids.â
Marcus looked Arthur dead in the eye. âNo. But once upon a time, you did.â
Arthur turned away with a hiss. âJesus. I was ten. I still pretended I could marry a girl.â
âYesâbecause it was the only way you could get babies. You bragged all the time about how you were going to take your son hunting, teach him hockey. How youâd beat down anybody who treated your girl wrong.â
âYeah, well, people change. I got Thomas and Brianna and baby Sue.â
âYouâre deliberately missing the point. Iâm telling you I donât think, I know you want what heâs asking for, and more.â
âI donât, and stop f**king talking about it.â
Marcus threw up his hands. âFrankie and I are going to go help move your best friend and try to cheer him up, because some asshole keeps breaking his heart and f**king up his head. You do whatever you need to do.â
Arthur winced but said nothing, didnât move until he heard Marcusâs SUV and Paulâs car pull out of the drive. He went back to the house, which was lonely and still with Paul and all his things removed.
It really sucked. And as the days wore on into weeks, it didnât suck any less.
With nothing else to do at the end of a workday, Arthur got in the habit of hanging out in his work shed and sorting junk, tackling his fix-it pile and the projects his mom had been after him to finish. He repaired a toaster and refinished the old dresser sheâd used when she was a little girl. He repaired the dining room chairs too, even the one broken into six pieces, and on the first Sunday of September he dropped everything off at his parentsâ house.
âOh, Arthur, thank you.â Corrina Anderson kissed her son on the cheek and waved him inside with the first load of furniture. âDinnerâs almost ready.â
Big Tom glanced up with a nod over his glasses from his post by the window, where he sat reading the paper and sipping out of a mug with his grandchildrenâs pictures on it. âGood to see you, son.â
Arthur set the chairs down. Laughter echoed in from the living room, where Arthurâs niece and nephew played. Thomas ran toy trucks up and down the carpet while his younger sister ran, giggling, in clumsy circles.
Becky sat in the rocker with the baby on her knee. âHey,â she said wearily when Arthur entered the room.
Arthur leaned against the doorway. âHowâs everything with you?â
âSame. No job, deadbeat ex not paying child support, out of unemployment and living with my parents.â
Arthur frowned. âThe restaurant in Eveleth didnât pan out?â
âThey kept sticking me with evenings. I never got to see Thomas except to put him on the bus in the morning, and I never got to put him or Brianna to bed.â
Six-year-old Thomas looked up at Arthur with a bright smile. âHi, Uncle Arthur.â
Arthur grinned and crouched beside him on the carpet. âHey, sport. You gonna help me fix Grandmaâs water heater?â
Thomas beamed at him and hurried to his feet. âIâll get my toolbox.â
While Thomas pounded up the stairs and rooted through his closet, Arthur spun Brianna around until Becky yelled at him, at which point he went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and waited for Thomas.
His mom glanced at him from the stove as she stirred gravy. âDid I hear you say you were going to fix the water heater?â
Arthur nodded over the rim of his cup. âI think you need a new anode. Picked one up yesterday when I was in town.â
âThank you, honey. Youâre so helpful.â Her stirring took on a deliberation and focus, warning Arthur something unpleasant was coming. âI saw Paul at the market yesterday. You never told me he moved out. Did you two have a fight?â
Arthur pursed his lips and picked up his mug. âWhen Thomas comes down, tell him Iâm in the basement.â
Corrina followed him down the stairs, still carrying her whisk. âYou did have a fight. Oh, honey.â
Arthur stalked to the water heater and pulled the screwdriver from his back pocket so he could unfasten the access panel. âMom, leave it alone.â
âCan you talk to him? You never communicate with him enough, you know. Youâre always so distant.â
âMom.â Arthur let out a heavy breath and clenched his fists at his sides. âI donât want to talk about Paul.â God, if she started in about how he should have kids, heâd stick his head in a snowbank.
She didnât talk about kids, but she sighed heavily, and he could all but hear her gears turning as she tried to figure out how to talk about Paul without talking about Paul. âI should check on my gravy, I suppose. Though that reminds meâcan you look at my burner before you go? Itâs fritzing again.â
She didnât bring up Paul the rest of the day, Arthur and Thomas replaced the anode no problem, and they enjoyed a pleasant meal. He heard all about his motherâs prospects for a new job for Becky at a dentistâs office in Eveleth and Thomasâs upcoming school pageant. While Becky and Corrina did the dishes, Arthur fixed the burner, with more help from Thomas.
It felt good to be at the house, and Arthur started dropping by more frequently. It was nice to have a meal made for him, but there was also plenty that needed doing, and with his bum leg and arthritis, Big Tom couldnât manage much. Becky needed someone not-Corrina to talk to, and Thomas needed a good male role model.
Never mind that Arthur hanging out with Frankie and Marcus had become politically tricky because of Paul.
One night after he and Thomas snaked the sewer line, Arthur got dinner and dessert, the pudding-and-ice-cream one his mom knew was his favorite. Heâd thought it was his reward for an afternoon of hard work, but no. The pie was a lure, and as Arthur carried his empty dish to the kitchen, she sprang her trap.
âYou know,â she said in a tone of voice that should have tipped him off right away, âI think the night nurse at the care center is single.â
Arthur froze with his dish halfway into the sink. âMom, Iâm not dating Kyle. Iâm not dating anybody, because I donât date.â
âWhatâs wrong with Kyle? Heâs a sweet boy.â
âBoy, Mom. Heâs what, nineteen?â
âI suppose that is a bit young for a forty-year-old.â
Arthur glowered. âIâm only thirty-nine.â
Corrina waved this away. âYouâre forty in April.â She tapped the side of her cheek, clearly indexing the gay men she knew in a fifty-mile radius.
Arthur decided to cut this serpent off at the head. âMom, donât fix me up. Iâm fine.â
âYouâre certainly not fine. I saw Paul with two different men this week. Heâs not coming backâand youâre not getting any younger.â
âMom.â
âWhat about that nice man who runs the bed-and-breakfast in Cloquet Valley? Heâs gay, isnât he?â
It went on and on like this the whole month of September, until when Arthur saw his mother coming up his drive, he braced himself for another onslaught of potential dates. There had been one horrible moment when heâd caught Corrina trying to log in to Grindrâheaven help Arthur if sheâd actually found his profile. Though after the adolescence heâd put her through, he doubted anything could surprise her.
His mother playing yente was problematic, not only because Arthur didnât want to date, but because he if he did date, heâd never go in for nice boys, which was always how Corrina introduced her prospective sons-in-law. There wasnât any way to explain Arthur wanted a man, big and rough and raw. Some cuddling was nice, but only after some serious pounding and a lot of raunchy talk. Nice boys werenât ever going to private message RedBear69 with a dirty pic. And until they did, Arthur had no time for them.
Corrina was undaunted by Arthurâs refusals. She started stopping by the cabin a lot, usually with Tupperware containers full of freezer meals, always with news of another prospective mate. The Monday before Halloween she was at Arthurâs place when he arrived home from work. She was putting a roast together on the counter, and she beamed at him as he came in. âArthur, sweetheart, youâre home early.â
Arthur sank into his easy chair with a grunt. Today was a day he wanted to see his mother. âTheyâve closed the mill until after the first of the year. We just found out.â
âWhat?â Corrina put down the carrot she was peeling. âThe mill is shutting down?â
âTemporarily.â Though rumor was if it started up again, theyâd be reducing the work crews by half.
âBut what will you do for a job? What will everyone do for a job?â Corrina clucked her tongue in disapproval. âTo do such a thing so close to Christmas. Itâs a crime.â
âWeâre collecting unemployment, so I guess itâs something. Figure Iâll get some good hunting in if nothing else.â Hunting which, he realized, heâd do without Paul for the first time in forever.
His mother busied herself with her roast for a moment. Then she said, far too casually, âThereâs something else I wanted to talk to you about.â
Arthur shut his eyes and tipped his head back. âMom, Iâm not dating anyone, so save your breath.â
She went on as if he hadnât spoken. âIt works out youâre laid off, I suppose, because I worried you wouldnât have time otherwise. Thereâs a project Iâve been setting up with the library.â
Library? Arthur sat up, frowning. His mom was on the library board, he knew, but how in the world he could help the library was something he had to hear. âWhat is it?â
âThe board wants to have a fundraiser for Christmas. Weâre almost out of our grant, you see, and though Gabriel is looking for a new one come spring, we thought weâd give him a leg up. Weâll do a little to stir up some funds, help patch up any gaps and buy us a few more months if the worst happens.â She beamed. âWeâre going to have sleigh rides.â
Arthur laughed. âWhatâare you going to pull Grandpa Andersonâs old beast out of storage?â
âI thought so, yes.â She leaned against the counter. âI wanted to make it a big deal. Get Frankieâs friends up from the city, maybe people from Duluth. It could bring money to the downtown as well as the library. Everybody would win. ExceptâŠthe sleigh needs a little work. Do you think you could take a peek at it?â
God, Arthur hadnât thought about that sleigh in years. âIâm not sure how much I can do, but Iâll give it my best shot.â
âExcellent. Next time youâre over, weâll pull it out and give it a look.â She pushed off the counter and nodded at the oven, where sheâd tucked the roasting pan. âGive this until six, sweetheart, and youâll have yourself a nice dinner. Iâll ask around too, see if anyone has jobs for you. It wonât be good for you to sit idle, not with the mill shut down and Paul moving on.â
The comment about Paul made Arthur worry this was a setup, that somehow agreeing to repair the sleigh was giving her a matchmaking opening, but no matter how he turned it around in his head, he couldnât see how even Corrina Anderson could spin carpentry into happily-ever-after. So he settled into researching sleigh restoration with Thomas, holding baby Sue while Brianna got her bath, and in general picking up his ex-brother-in-lawâs slack.
See? He got to be a dad, sort of, sometimes, and if he ever logged onto Grindr again himself, he could get his kink on. He told himself it was the best of both worlds.
Except every time he went home to his empty cabin, he had a hard time believing he had it all.
There were many things about small-town libraries Gabriel Higgins had acclimated toâmicro-budgets, monthly battles over content, a library board full of retirees living out high school vendettas and grudges. But Corrina Anderson? He was fairly sure nothing in the known universe could have prepared him for the president of the library board.
When heâd accepted the position as director for Logan, Minnesotaâs tiny, failing library, heâd done so knowing at some point it would come out he was gay, and his orientation would likely cause some friction. While that friction had technically come to pass as he predictedâsome of his patrons definitely gave him side eyes, making it clear they fretted for the state of his soulâhe also found PFLAG flyers displayed in the brochure area before he arrived, and of course there was Corrina. When she asked after his girlfriend and he explained he was gay, she became excitedâand began suggesting potential partners. She never missed a chance to point out so-and-so was gay and unattached, and she always happened to have the phone numbers of the men in question. The fact that Gabriel had yet to do anything more than shred the phone numbers didnât slow down the stream.
He couldnât simply throw them awayâshe pulled the papers from the wastebasket, smoothed them out and left them on his desk.
For eighteen months he endured her efforts, willing to pretend heâd act on her suggestions for potential suitors in order to keep the peace. But in October she began hinting he consider her son, and Gabriel felt the time had come to be not only firm but unequivocal.
He stood in front of her, for once glad for his six-foot-three inches, because God knew he needed every advantage he could get over his personal termagant. âCorrina, Iâm sure your son is a wonderful man, but Iâm not interested.â
She crossed her arms, unbowed as ever. âYouâre never interested, young man, not even in friends. I know for a fact Frankie Blackburn has invited you to movies and dinner dates and meals at his house with Marcus, and you always turn him down. I canât so much as get you over for Sunday dinner. I know you arenât refusing because you think youâre better than we are.â
That barb caught. âNo, I donât.â He sighed. âIâm not very social. Itâs nothing personal to you or anyone else.â
âNo one can be this antisocial.â She smiled and patted his arm. âCome for dinner. My house. You have to eat.â
Gabriel knew there was no way a dinner at her house would feature anything less than Arthur Anderson. âPerhaps another time.â
He was surprised how easily she gave in to his refusal, and he stood on guard all the rest of the week, waiting for another strike. It did eventually come, but it was so out of left field he wasnât sure what to do with it. âYou want to haveâŠa sleigh-ride fundraiser?â
Corrina beamed. âYes, I do. Everyoneâs so excited about it. Oh, itâll be a grand time. Old-fashioned sleigh rides up and down Main Street. It was my dadâs sleigh. He bought it from an estate sale when he came home from World War II, repaired it, and every Christmas heâd get it out, give us rides like the good old days. Itâll need some refreshing before we use it, but I thought some old-fashioned feeling might be just what we need around here, with the mill closed and winter coming so early. We could make it more than rides. Maybe we could have a party afterward.â
âThat soundsâŠfine.â Gabriel kept trying to find the catch. With Corrina, there would be one. âAre you asking me to plan the party?â
âHeavens no. Iâll take care of everything. But I wanted you to know we were making plans. Hopefully weâll make enough money to cover your salary if we canât get the grant renewed.â
This was a recurrent conversation with the whole library board, and now the strange fundraiser made sense. âCorrina, as Iâve told you, Iâm not concerned with the grant. If it runs out, Iâm certain youâll still find a way to pay me.â
She frowned, gesturing to his desk. âIâve seen the job offers you get. I donât want someone taking you away from us because weâre too cheap.â
âItâs kind of you to think of me, but I assure you money wonât be why anyone takes me from Logan.â
Corrina regarded him warily. âBut why on earth would you stay, if youâre not attached to anyone here?â
Oh, that was why she was so fixated on partnering him up. Gabriel relaxed. âRemember, Iâm from a small town too. I donât really want to live in a city anymore, and small libraries are where my passion is. I like Logan, and I like your library. I donât need a boyfriend to be happy here. I donât need a boyfriend, period. Iâm married to my job.â
Heâd said the lie so many times now he almost believed it.
âBut youâd be happier here with a boyfriend. Or at least a friend.â
Gabriel threw up his emotional walls before Corrina could barrel any more down. âThe fundraiser sounds lovely. Now, if youâll excuse me, I have some books to shelve.â
She didnât bother him any further about it that day, and blessedly her matchmaking cooled down as well. She continued to update him on the fundraiserâhe got an earful at the next board meeting, and she came to the library every other day with additional ideas. She showed him the Santa-suit pattern her friend was sewing, which briefly had him nervous, but thankfully the suit wasnât nearly big enough for Gabrielâs long, lanky legs.
Just before Halloween she began to tell him about the sleigh, which apparently her son was restoring, and her dinner invitations now included encouragements to come see how grand the progress was. She showed him pictures on her phoneâit was still mostly a mess from the look of things, but Gabriel could imagine it swishing through the snow.
Corrina smiled when he told her that. âI canât wait to see it all finished.â
âWhoâs driving?â Gabriel asked, starting to become enchanted by the scheme despite himself.
âArthurâs going to take lessons from Mr. Peterson as soon as he gets it finished. Gary has draft horses who know how to drive. We need to teach Arthur, and weâre set.â She patted Gabrielâs arm. âI was going to ask you to learn, but it wouldnât really look right, would it, to have the elf driving Santa?â
Gabrielâs heart thudded a terrible beat. âElf?â
âDidnât I say? Youâll be playing Santaâs helper. Your costume is almost doneâitâs so adorable. The children will love it. They love you, and theyâll be so charmed by the idea that youâre friends with Santa.â
Gabriel realized how well heâd been played, how this had been a matchmaking setup after all. âI assume Arthur is playing Saint Nick?â
âOf course. His hair will be a trick to hide, with all that red, but weâll make it work somehow. Frankie will help.â
Gabriel didnât know where to start objecting, only that he had to extract himself from this now. âMrs. Anderson, Iâm flattered butââ
âIt truly is going to be the most charming event weâve had in Logan in years. My grandson is already so excited I can barely get him to bed at night. Youâll be perfect as you always are. Everyone loves you, you know this, and such a feather in our caps this will be. A big event like something theyâd do in the Cities. Donât you worry about a thing, either. Arthurâs a good boyâheâll take care of everything. All you need to do is show up on the day of the fundraiser and be your charming self. I want the childrenâs home in Pine Valley to come, perhaps have a special gift delivery by Santa.â
Dear God, this was the train wreck to end all train wrecks. Sheâd waited this long to set her trap too, laying so much bait there was no way Gabriel could tell her no, he didnât want to pass out presents with her son because he found Arthur Anderson to be a boorish, untutored oaf. And yet he could not do this. âMrs. Anderson, I honestly canâtââ
She glanced at her watch. âOh, dear me. Nine thirty already? Becky just took a new job, and Big Tom, bless his heart, isnât much help with morning routine. Iâll stop by with them for afternoon story time, and Iâll chat with you then.â
Gabriel watched her go, torn between chasing after her and pleading for mercy, and shutting himself in his office to stick his head between his legs. This was worse than matchmaking. This was putting on a happy holiday face for the entire town, getting roped into a gala where he would stand along the wall as usual and watch other families and couples play and be happy while he remained alone. He had to find a way out of this.
Perhaps you wonât have to, he consoled himself. Perhaps Arthur will do the objecting for you. Which, honestly, was the most likely outcome. Because the only thing more incredulous than Gabriel dating Arthur Anderson was that foul-mouthed man-whore playing Santa Claus.
Silent Sin by EJ Russell
Chapter One
July 28, 1921
Robbie slid the last crate of fruit out of Mr. Samsonâs truck and only wobbled a little as he handed it off to a grocerâs assistant on the dusty Bakersfield road. He took off his battered straw hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the side of his arm, and settled the hat back on his head. Not that it kept out much sunâit was more holes than straw by this time.
Mr. Samson, the orange grower Robbie had been helping for the last two days, strolled out of the little store, tucking a wallet into his back pocket. Robbie snatched his hat off his head again.
âWill there be anything else, sir?â
âNot here.â Samsonâs gaze slid away from his. âDonât have the cash to pay you anything now, but I might have something for you back home at the groves.â He nodded at the truck. âIâll give you a lift.â
Robbieâs empty belly sank toward his toes, but he forced a smile. Heâd learned in the last six weeks that the promise of a job rarely translated into money in his pocket, even if he actually did the work. A lift with the promise of work at the end of the rideâanything that got him farther from Idaho, reallyâwas more than he could hope for. âThank you, sir.â He stumbled toward the truck cab.
âHold on, you. Not up front.â Samson jerked his thumb toward the truck bed. âBack there. But give us a crank first.â
Robbie nodded and scuffed through the dirt, where a pebble worked its way through the hole in the bottom of his right boot. He waited for Samson to get behind the wheel and then gave the handle a practiced crank. The engine caught, and the truck belched exhaust. Robbie hurried to the rear before Samson could change his mind about the lift too.
As he was about to scramble over the tailgate, he spotted half a dozen discarded half-squashed fruitsâa lemon and five orangesâalmost beneath the wheels. He scrabbled them out of the dust, rolled them into the truck bed, and heaved himself in after them. The jerk when Samson put the truck in gear nearly sent Robbie over backward, but he grabbed on to one of the rough slats that bracketed the bed to save himself, driving a sliver into his thumb.
He crawled forward, herding his contraband in front of him until he could sit with his back to the cab. As the truck jounced along, raising clouds of dust in its wake, Robbie gathered the precious fruit in his lap and hunched over his knees. Fingers trembling, he tore into the skin of the first orange and dropped the peel through the slats. He shoved the first section into his mouth and moaned as the tart juice hit his parched mouth and throat. Squashed or not, this is pure heaven. How wonderful that people can grow something this marvelous, let alone make a living at it.
His last meal was nothing but a hazy memory, so he ate one fruit after anotherâeven the lemon, so sour it made his eyes waterâas the string of discarded peels fell behind, a trail of gold dimmed by dust.
After he polished off the last orange, he licked his fingers. Then he picked at the sliver in this thumb as he tried to dodge puddles of fermenting juice whenever Mr. Samson took a corner too sharply. The exhaustion of weeks of rough travel, most of it on foot, caught up with him, and he fell into a fitful doze.
With a bone-rattling thump, the truck pulled to a stop. Robbie blinked, disoriented, and peered around in the glare of the setting sun. Where are we? His heart sank when he took in the sturdy buildings lining both sides of the road. A good-sized town. He tried to keep to open country whenever he couldâless chance of getting work, but easier to find a stream for a drink and a wash or a secluded barn where he could catch enough shut-eye to go on the next day.
Mr. Samson slapped the side of the truck. âEnd of the line, kid.â
Robbie scrambled to his feet and wiped his hands on his trousers, not that it did much good. His pants were as sticky as the truck bed.
He hopped down onto the road and caught the tailgate when a wave of dizziness threatened to take him down for the count. âThanks for the lift. I appreciate it.â
Mr. Samson tilted his cowboy hat back and scratched his forehead. âNo skin off my nose. You were a good worker. But turns out, now I think about it, I donât need any help on the farm.â He shrugged. âSorry.â
âI understand. Thanks anyway.â He wished he hadnât fallen asleep on the ride. He had no idea where he was. âDoes this road lead to Mexico?â
Mr. Samson hitched his dungarees up under his prosperous paunch. âWhatta you want to go there for? Nothing you can get there that you canât get here.â
âWhereâs here?â
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. âHollywood.â
Robbie shaded his eyes with one hand and scanned the storefronts across the road. Hollywood Dry Goods. Hollywood Haberdashers. Hollywood Drug Store. âI guess it is.â
With a touch of his hat brim, Mr. Samson climbed into his truck. âGive us another crank, will you?â
Robbie complied and then backed away as the truck rattled off up a side street.
What the heck can I do in a place like this? Robbie doubted his years of scratching out a living on a potato farm would qualify him for work in some other growerâs orange grove. There werenât any factories that he could see, and Hollywood Haberdashers wouldnât hire somebody with only one set of clothesâand those almost too worn to be decent.
Mexico still seemed like the best bet, but suddenly he couldnât muster the energy to take the next step or cadge the next lift or scrounge the next dime.
So he shoved his hands in his empty pockets, forced his back straight, and strode down the sidewalk as though he truly had someplace to go, as though he wasnât adrift or as castaway as his namesakeâRobinson Crusoe Goodman. He shook his head as he followed the route Mr. Samsonâs truck had taken, away from the main street and up a slight hill. Ma sure had some odd notions when it came to naming her sons. Eddie had been lucky. At least Pa had put his foot down over Oedipus.
At the back of Mr. Samsonâs orange grove, Robbie found a wooden shack worthy of his old manâs farm and secured with nothing but a two-by-four across its door. He slipped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the brightness of the westering sun. The dirt floor was littered with arm-long sections of metal pipe as big around as his head, and a stack of broken crates leaned against the wall like a rummy whoâd never heard of the Volstead Actânot the most comfortable flop but better than he had any right to expect.
He curled up on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped across his belly, and begged sleep to take him before he cried.
*******
âIâm not working with Boyd Brody again, Sid. I canât.â Martin Brentwood met his own gaze in the mirror over the drink cart in his living room. God, he looked like ten miles of bad road. âHe tried to drown me.â
Sid Howard, Martinâs manager, emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. âCome on, Marty. He was just kidding. Giving you the business, same as he does with any actor. You canât take this personal.â
âI damn well do take it personally. Heâd never try that shit with Fairbanks.â
âShite.â
Martin frowned at Sid. âWhat?â
âA baronetâs son from Hertfordshire wouldnât say âshit.ââ
âBut Iâm not a baronetâs son from Hertfordshire.â Martin sloshed more gin into his glass. âThat would be you. Me? Iâm only a tailorâs apprentice from Flushing.â
Sid tossed the towel on top of the piano and pried the glass out of Martinâs grip. âNo. That would be me. And donât forget it, even when weâre alone. Even in your own head. Itâs easier to remember the lies if you live âem full-time.â Sid sniffed the contents of the tumbler and made a face. âAnd donât drink this shit. Youâll go blind.â
âIâll have you know this gin was brewed in Barstowâs finest bathtubs.â Martin shuffled to the davenport and flopped down on the cushions. âBut youâre right.â He bared his teeth. âItâs shite.â
âThatâs more like it.â Sid settled in the wingback chair across from Martin. âSo. I met with Jacob Schlossberg today.â
âBetter you than me,â Martin muttered. âI loathe the bastard, and the feeling is decidedly mutual.â
âMaybe. But the reasons for the hate are different. You hate him because heâsââ
âA pontificating blowhard with delusions of grandeur and the morals of a weasel?â
âBecause,â Sid raised his voice over Martinâs, âheâs the one who controls your career.â
âHeâs not the only one. Ira owns half the studio.â
âYeah, but Iraâs the talent-facing brother. Jacobâs got his sausage-like finger on the studioâs financial pulse. And when it comes down to it, at Citadel Motion Pictures, moneyâll trump talent every time.â
Martin snorted. âSo much for art.â
âPictures arenât art, Marty. Theyâre business. Big business. And if nobody pays to see your picture, it donât matter if itâs as arty as the Russian crown-fucking jewels.â
âReally, Sid,â Martin murmured. âYour language.â
Sid grinned. âUnlike some, I donât forget who Iâm supposed to be.â Sid folded his hands on his knee, and no matter how much he might be able to ape a working-class stiff from Queens, if anybody in Hollywood paid attention, his hands would give him away. Tailorâs apprentices didnât have the kind of practiced grace that had been drilled into Sid when he was busy getting kicked out of every prep school in England.
âAs I said, I met with Jacob today.â
âAnd?â
Sidâs heavy brows drew together. âHe and Ira are split on whether they want to re-up your contract. Iraâs liked you since he brought you in from Inceville and put you in a suit instead of a cowboy hat. He thinks youâre the best bet the studio has to counter Valentino. But Jacob⊠wellâŠ.â
âI know, I know. He hates queers.â
âNobody knows for sure that youâre queer, Marty.â Sidâs scowl said, âAnd keep it that wayâ louder than words could. âAnyway, Jacob may hate queers personally, but he depends on them too, as long as theyâre in their place.â
Martinâs snort was a low-class sound, but nobody could hear him except Sid, who already knew the truth. Sid had invented Martinâs backstory. Hell, Sid had lived Martinâs backstory and heâd traded it with Martinâs when it became obvious which one of them could make a go of it in pictures.
âRight. In wardrobe. In the art department. Where the public never sees.â
âItâs not the invisibility that he cares about. He covets their taste. He knows heâs got none. Heâs a stevedoreâs son from the Bronx. He craves sophistication, so youâll keep delivering it, because the only thing Jacob really hates is a threat to his profits. You can be as queer as Dickâs bloody hatband and he wouldnât care as long as your pictures make money. But they wonât make money if your fans turn away. Remember what happened to Jack Kerrigan.â
âKerriganâs popularity dropped because he made that asinine comment about being too good to go to war, not because heâs queer.â
âExactly. But with the Hollywood press in their back pocket, the studio didnât lift a finger to save him. Heâd become a liability with all his talk about no woman measuring up to Mother, and his lover tucked cozily away downstairs, masquerading as his secretary. You donât want to be in that position.â
Martin pinched his eyes closed. âIf itâs not because they suspect Iâm in the life, then what is it? The cocaine? Because I told you, Iâm never taking that stuff again, no matter how much the studio doctor prescribes.â
âNo. Itâs because of your last driver. What was his name? Homer?â
âVernon, actually.â
âRight. Well, they donât like that you fired him.â
âI fired him because he was a manipulative son of a bitch who saw driving a studio car as a sure way to stardom, provided he could fuck the right people.â
âSwive.â
âWhat? Are you telling me a baronetâs son wouldnât say fuck?â
âBaronetsâ sons definitely do, especially when imprisoned at boarding school with dozens of other baronetsâ sons. But Martin Brentwood, leading man and one of Hollywoodâs finest gentlemen, does not.â
Martin leaned his head on the cushions. âJesus, Sid. Donât you ever get tired of the act?â
âIâll keep up with the act as long as it pays the bills. And so will you.â Sid crossed his legs. âI met with Ira too. He needs you back in to do retakes on that pro-Prohibition picture you wrapped last week.â
Martin groaned. âGood lord. Must we pander to the temperance unions and morality clubs even more? Wasnât it enough that I died horribly in the gutter at the end?â Martin should have gotten a clue about where his career was headed when he was cast as the drunken lout instead of the fellow who heroically takes an axe to the kegs of evil whiskey.
âIt has nothing to do with your performance. There were light flares in some of the scenes, and the cutter canât fix it.â
âVery well. Iâll return tomorrow to die again.â
âGood. They expect you at ten.â
âTen.â Martin cracked open an eye. âThatâs a civilized hour, but how am I supposed to get there? No chauffeur, remember? The studio still wonât let me drive, and you refuse to learn how. Iâd take the streetcar, butââ
âNo. The last time you tried that, you nearly caused a riot.â Sid stood up and collected his briefcase from the ormolu side table. âIâll contact the studio. Theyâll assign you a driver, although you may have to share.â He lifted one perfectly straight eyebrow. âYouâre not Valentino, after all. Yet.â
âIsnât it grand that I donât want to be, then?â
Sid sighed. âMarty, you need to think about your image. The studioâll only protect you as long as youâre an asset, and youâll only be an asset ifââ
âIf I make Jacob enough money.â
âIf you donât make their job harder. Having a car at your disposal twenty-four hours a day is more of a temptation than you need right now.â
Martin pushed himself upright with clenched fists. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âLay off the steak and pinochle parties with Bill Taylor and George Hopkins. Stay away from Pershing Square. The only reason Homerââ
âVernon,â Martin murmured.
ââwas a real threat was because he suspected what was really going on there. If one of those jokers decides to spill to the pressââ
âThey wouldnât. Nobody whoâs in the life would ever give me away. We donât do that to one other. Not ever.â
âThatâs what everyone says until the first time. If anyone suspects the truthââ
âTruth? This is Hollywood, Sid. Truth is what the fan rags print, and the studios have all of them in their back pockets, cheek by jowl with their string of crooked cops.â
âMaybe. But you canât depend on that lasting forever. Remember Kerrigan.â Sid settled his straw boater on his head. âA studio driverâll pick you up tomorrow by nine thirty. Iâll take care of it.â
Martin heaved himself to his feet to walk Sid to the door. âThanks, Sid.â
âAnd next time? If youâre gonna fire your driver, at least make sure you wait until he takes you home.â
âYeah, yeah.â
Sid grabbed Martinâs wrist, his dark eyes serious. âI mean it, Marty. Be careful. This may be your last chance at Citadel, but if you pick the wrong man, you may not have another chance at anything.â
Martin opened his mouth to argue, but Sid walked out before he could gather his thoughts. He stood in the doorway as Sid strode down the sidewalk, the July sun beating down on the dusty boxwood hedges that lined the bungalow court.
Damn it, heâs right.
The places where it was safe to be a man who preferred men were fewâNew York, San Francisco, Hollywood. And even there, security was an illusion. The only thing that shielded them was the total obliviousness of most of the country. Hell, they didnât even have a word for it.
In the life. A nice, nondescript phrase that could mean anything. But to the men and women who sought their partners from their own gender, its very blandness was the only thing that stood between them and ruin, scandal, imprisonment⊠worse. With sodomy laws on the books in every state, the punishment for a conviction could be positively medieval.
Martin shuddered, and as he wandered back to the drink cart, the streetcar bell clanged on Alvarado. Iâve still got some of my costumes from my vaudeville days. I could take the trolley to Pershing Square. Just for a little while. If he dressed in the rough clothes of a dockworker or the cheap suit of a salesman, nobody would know him for Martin Brentwood, movie star.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, excitement warring with shame in his belly. One last time. Without a driver, nobody would know.
So much of being a star was in behaving like one. Presenting yourself like a person who would prompt people in middle America to shell out their dough for the privilege of watching you caper around on a screen for an hour or two. Hell, heâd heard United Artists was going to charge a two-dollar admission for Fairbanksâs next picture.
It was nuts.
It was nuts, but Sid was right. It paid the billsâhis and Sidâs. He owed it to them both not to destroy his career, not to destroy his life. Because the sailors in Pershing Square might be thrillingly rough, but you never knew where theyâd been. The last thing he needed was a case of the clap. Sid was right about that too.
Martin wandered over to his desk. He had a pile of fan mail that needed answering. He probably should do thatâhe had few enough fans left. Heâd best keep the faithful remnants happy.
With one last sorrowful glance at the gin bottle, he sat down and picked up his fountain pen.
đ
đđSunday's Safe Word-Xmas in Julyđđđ
: The Christmas Fling
Author of over thirty novels, Midwest-native Heidi Cullinan writes positive-outcome romances for LGBT characters struggling against insurmountable odds because they believe thereâs no such thing as too much happy ever after. Heidiâs books have been recommended by Library Journal, USA Today, RT Magazine, and Publishers Weekly. When Heidi isnât writing, they enjoy gaming, reading manga, manhua, and danmei, playing with cats, and watching too much anime.
Heidi goes by Jun when being spoken to in person or online, and Junâs pronouns are they/them.
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The Christmas Fling(Christmas Town #1)
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