Summary:
It takes an impossible Christmas wish for Bailey to find forever love with his brother’s best friend.
Turning twenty-five and still a virgin, Bailey has barely dated, let alone acted on the private fantasies featuring his brother’s best friend, newly retired hockey star, Kai. All he wants is for Kai to love him, but after a summer when Kai’s anger drove them apart, love doesn’t seem possible at all.
When Kai goes home to Wishing Tree, he knows he owes everyone an apology, not least of all to the man he loves. He’s convinced he can be the man Bailey deserves, and he needs to show Bailey how much he’s changed.
The only problem? Bailey has secrets he’s scared will drive Kai away, and Kai is running out of time to convince Bailey that falling in love starts with a wish, and can end up in forever.
The Wishing Tree is a standalone small-town Christmas MM romance with perfect snow, twinkling lights, a first real kiss, a shy virgin with a silken kink, a retired hockey player, and all the Christmas feels.
As always, RJ Scott's talent for romance is spot on, she has never let me down yet and The Wishing Tree is another great holiday story that I've come to expect from her. Don't get me wrong, no matter how many stories an author has written that I loved I always go in with an open mind so my past story love doesn't cloud my judgement.
Bailey and Kai's journey is an amazing balance of love, friendship, drama, romance, and holiday festiveness. No one element overshadowed the others and I think that was one of the things that really spoke to me here. Having grown up in a small town I can honestly say the author captures the feel that comes with a smaller community, good and bad, it's spot on.
Another factor I really loved was how this story is a combination of on page and off page love. What do I mean by that? Well Bailey's kink is made known but not so much the exploration of it. Stories with kinks to any degree can be great fun, be incredibly passionate both in discovery and execution but sometimes I don't need to have said heat in graphic detail and when done right, off page heat will pull me into the story even deeper. You ask "how?" well the author is leaving it up to the readers' imagination and that can actually be immensely fun, by letting my mind write the scene I feel like I'm part of the story. So Kudos to RJ Scott for letting me be part of this holiday story.
The Wishing Tree is definitely a winning holiday gem and has me already missing Bailey and Kai but also has me wondering what creative holiday story Miss Scott will bring us when Christmas 2022 nears.
RATING:
Summary:
Hartbridge Christmas #3
After a year of tragedy, forty-four-year-old Gunter Zuniga is leaving heartbreak behind and moving to the peaceful and picturesque town of Hartbridge, Montana. He buys an old house in need of some work, which he naively thinks he can manage now that he’s single and retired—he has nothing but time.
Clay Henderson runs the local sawmill with his dad, and it’s the busiest time of year. Firewood and Christmas trees are in high demand, and a delivery of firewood to the old house on Cedar Bark Road leaves him curious about the new man in town.
Clay has never had time for romance and Gunter certainly isn’t looking, but Hartbridge has a way of working its Christmas magic; the jingle of Christmas bells, snow, and love are ringing in the air. And Gunter and Clay are about to get the best Christmas gift they never asked for.
Summary:
A soot-haired chimney sweep, an exploding flue and an uncooked turkey. It’s an unholy trinity that may make all of Dominic’s Christmas wishes come true.
Recently divorced, Dominic is celebrating alone this Christmas and he’s fine with that, really he is. Until the one Christmas tradition he’s determined to keep—a roaring fire in his hearth—is under threat from a blocked flue. Only Reagan, a handsome, soot-haired chimney sweep, can salvage the season’s celebrations. Dominic is just lucky the man had a cancellation on Christmas Eve.
He doesn’t feel so lucky about his crush on Reagan which has been growing each Christmas for the last five years, along with awareness of his own sexuality. But now there’s nothing to stop Dominic from acting on his desires—except this year has left him bruised, battered and insecure.
Reagan has always been attracted to his client, but, with an impressive house and beautiful wife, Dominic Pearson always seemed out of reach. This Christmas, though, there have been huge changes in both Dominic and the house. Changes that may allow Reagan a chance to impress. But with his head and shoulders up Dominic’s chimney, casting soot all over Dominic’s sumptuous carpet – how can that be seductive in any way?
An exploding flue provides the opportunity for more than just polite conversation and could be the catalyst for a perfect Christmas. But Dominic will need to stop hiding who he really is before a special sweep can light a fire in his heart.
Publisher's Note: This book was previously released by another publisher. It has been revised and now has an added epilogue for release with Finally Love Press.
Summary:
Hobson Hills Omegas #2
Greyson Bishop is a hot mess. He's pregnant, and his alpha dumped him. His boss is stealing his work and claiming it as his own. His roommate is abusive, and his landlord just gave him a week to move out. Most importantly, he's in love with a man that's way out of his league. He needs to get his shit together so he can be a good father and maybe, just maybe, catch the alpha of his dreams.
Harper Wilson has his shit together, but desperately wants the omega he's fallen in love with. Grey knows Harper is a demisexual and accepts him, lock, stock, and barrel. All he needs to do is figure out how to get his omega out of Florida and into Harper's home in Maine.
The two men are meant for each other, but vile exes and lying bosses do their best to ruin the happily-ever-after Grey and Harper deserve.
Author's Note: 30,000+ words. This is a m/m, non-shifter, mpreg love story with no angst and no cheating, just a HEA. There are a few potty mouths, so beware. 18+ readers only, please. It is the second book in the series but can be read as a stand alone.
Summary:
The Christmas Eve Dance six years ago was the scene of angry words and heartbreak. This Christmas, it’s time for forgiveness and second chances.
Hunter Cavendish fled his hometown six years ago and has avoided returning ever since. Now an up-and-coming designer, he succumbs to family pressure and agrees to come home for Christmas. But the fates must be conspiring against him, because the very first person he runs into is Aaron McBride—the man he’s never been able to resist. The man who broke his heart.
Aaron McBride loves his small town, loves the gift store he owns, and absolutely adores Christmas—it’s his favorite time of the year. That is, until this year. This year he’s forced to work alongside the infuriating and entitled Hunter Cavendish on the Christmas Eve Dance decorating committee. There’s no way he’s going to fall under the spell of his charms again—absolutely not.
But the Christmas spirit weaves its magic, bringing the two of them together and providing the perfect opportunity for apologies, fresh starts, and falling in love again. So long as they can put the past behind them…
A Christmas Reunion is a cute, feel-good holiday romance featuring enemies-to-lovers, forced proximity, second chances, lots of Christmas sweetness, and a well-deserved happy ending.
Random Tales of Christmas 2022
The Wishing Tree by RJ Scott
Chapter One
BAILEY
Back then
The Wishing Tree is beautiful, a dark shape towering over me against a pale dawn sky in the middle of the park. It was magic to me as a child, a place to leave Santa a wish for the gift I wanted the most, which then appeared magically on Christmas Day. It had stood here longer than this town, the streets built around it, with room for the small park where the fountain ran with spring water, and for the bandstand, which was lost in the snow in the far corner. No one really knew the history of the huge, spreading oak, only that at some point in the past the people who lived in Buchanan Springs had decided to start tying ribbons to the branches in winter and make wishes.
It became something more— a tourist mecca. So much so that the town changed its name in 1952, and the thriving existence of Wishing Tree, Vermont, owed everything to this silent witness of the changing years.
“I don’t know what to wish for,” I murmured, the words echoing in the hush of the blanket of snow that had fallen overnight. Dawn painted the sky with the first blush of sunrise, and I was early enough that I was the only one there, staring up at the branches and then down at the blank card in my hand, not knowing what to write.
This could be the most important wish I’d ever make.
More important than the make-your-own-jewelry set I’d asked for when I was ten, or the paints and sketch books I’d requested at eleven, or even the theatrical makeup set I’d wanted when I was twelve. I was fifteen, gay, searching for meaning in my small-town life, and desperately in love with my brother’s best friend.
And today was the day I told my family everything. Not about who I loved, but who I was. Gay. Different. Wrong.
“Just write the words, Bailey,” I admonished, but the words wouldn’t come.
I was terrified of what my family would say, how things might change, and worst of all if they would ever love me again.
I wish that my family won’t hate me. I wish I didn’t feel so wrong in this world.
The wish had to be perfect. What did I want more than anything else?
Kai Buchanan. That was who I wanted.
An image of Kai slipped into my head, and I just let it stay there, used to thinking about him because he consumed my waking thoughts and followed me onto heated dreams. It didn’t help that he was in town for a couple of days— a quick visit with his family before heading back to the Albany Harriers and his professional hockey career. I’d seen him three times— managed to avoid him on two of those occasions, never knowing what to say to him. I huddled further into my coat as a cold breeze collected fallen snow and flung it at my face.
The sound of approaching footsteps on the icy trail made me shuffle forward a few inches to hide, vainly hoping no one would notice my bright yellow coat, but I’d been spotted. In horror, I saw that it was one person I didn’t want to see who’d caught me there so early. Kai.
“Angel! Hi!” He bent at the waist, stretching, but turning his face as he did, so he could send me a smile. His eyes were such a beautiful shade of caramel, just this side of topaz, and his lips were lush and pink and pillow soft. He called me Angel because, according to him, my hair, all blond curls and long, made me look like an angel. I secretly loved him calling me that, and he was the only one who did.
“Hey.” I sketched an awkward wave, the card obvious in my hand and, embarrassed, I shoved it deep into my pocket, hoping he didn’t notice.
“Are you adding a wish?” he asked, then he jumped over a mound of snow and headed my way. I swear I was going to die on the spot. “I should do that before I go.” He lifted the lid to the sheltered card box, and picked up a pen, which he proceeded to tap on the surface. “I’ll have to owe the tree a dollar. I’ll bring it back later.” He glanced up at the tree as if he was apologizing to the skeleton of branches. “I don’t know what to wish for.” He side-eyed me. “What are you wishing for?”
Oh god, my tongue was a hundred times too big for my mouth. I couldn’t tell him all my secrets; I wouldn’t have known where to start. I let out what sounded like a squeak, and same as my brothers, he didn’t pause to let me answer because he knew as well as they did that I didn’t talk much, that I was shy.
He tapped the pen on his lip, leaned on the small table next to the honesty box, and crossed his legs at the ankles, staring up at the branches and frowning. “I guess I could wish for the Harriers to go all the way to the Cup, but I don’t want to tempt fate.” He glanced at me, and smiled, and my chest got so tight I forgot how to breathe, my greedy inhalation of air so dramatic.
He frowned at me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. He was so beautiful, and I was so besotted that talking was hard. Talking was impossible. He smiled at me, and his smile was my undoing. I edged deeper into my shaded hiding place— just a small shuffle step— but everything was too loud, and the peace I’d found under the tree had gone. My safe space was more like a prison because I was frozen to the spot, and what had started out as a simple act of putting a wish on the tree was now me not being able to breathe.
Fuck. That happened fast.
Cold sweat trickled down my spine, and I shivered, clutching my arms to my chest, and not looking up at Kai in case I gave too much away. He’d been a witness to these short panic attacks since I was a toddler, and wouldn’t think anything of it, but I didn’t want to be this stupid thing. I wanted to be confident. I stared down at the snow and waited for him to comment, but he was focused on the wish, and I had space to try to settle the panic. I hadn’t slept at all last night, knowing what I was going to do today How I was going to tell my family I was gay and how I might lose everything if they didn’t understand.
Kai tapped his pen against the card, and I focused on the rhythmic tapping and the husky depth of his perfect voice. “Maybe I should wish that I get called up for the All-Star team?” The last comment, he phrased as a question. I made a humming noise to indicate I agreed, and all I could wish for at that moment was for the ground to open and swallow me.
“Nah, that’s not likely. I think I’ll just go for winning the next game,” he announced with added jazz hands, then scribbled on the card with his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth, before threading a ribbon through a big hole and tying his wish to one of the higher branches. “There.” He patted the wish and held his hand out for my card. “You want me to tie yours up?” Not only was he six years older than me, but he was also a foot taller, sexy, and confident with cropped dark hair, and so handsome it made me want to cry. I’d known him my entire life— his sister Brooke, was dating my oldest brother, Callum; he was best friends with brother number two, Lucas; and he played pool with brother three, Duncan. He knew me better than most, and this was where it was going to go to shit because when I didn’t say anything, he rested a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
“It’s okay, Angel, you do it on your own time.” He stretched away from me, touching his toes. “I’ll see you after Christmas.”
“You’re going already?” Did I sound desperate? I think I sound desperate.
“Yeah, later today.”
“Oh.” Words had long since fled. Shit. Shit. Shit!
“Bye.” He picked his way over the snowdrift, and I wish he’d jump it again because that was sexy. But then, I didn’t want him to go. I wanted him to stay here and tell me what to wish for. I didn’t know how to word it so that people would understand who I was and wouldn’t hate me for my secrets. I didn’t want to lose everything. I had to tell someone, I had to try to see if I could still be loved if my secrets were out in the world.
“I’m gay,” I blurted, and wished I hadn’t spoken at all when the words drifted toward him.
He turned to face me, as I blundered ahead with the list of things I wanted people to know. “I’m gay, there, I said it. Gay. And I like wearing… I mean, I have this silk that I like to have with me all the time, and I hold it tight, and it makes me feel…” sexy, special… “good. I want to have it next to my skin. I want to wear silk panties like I’ve read about, and I want to get a corset, so it’s real tight, but soft, and it’s the only way I can get off… fuck… I want to love all those parts of myself, and I’m terrified my family will hate me, and that the town won’t understand, and that I will never get anyone to get the real me.” I tipped my chin and stared at him. “And worst of all, I love you.”
Kai’s mouth dropped open— he didn’t look shocked at my outburst, or disgusted, or any of a million hateful, hurtful things I assumed I’d see. But as I watched him unpick all the words, he didn’t immediately pull me into his arms and kiss me senseless either. If anything, he seemed confused and wary.
“Oh, Angel,” he sounded resigned, overcome, and after a moment’s hesitation he picked his way back over the snow to me. He wasn’t exactly throwing himself at me and answering with vows of undying affection. Humiliation began to curl inside me. “It’s okay,” he added.
“It’s not okay,” I managed to force out in desperation, then pressed my hands over my chest. “I’m all wrong, it’s all wrong. You don’t love me, and why can’t I just be normal. I’m not right inside…”
To my shame, hot tears spilled over, and coursed down my cold face, and I couldn’t catch a breath.
“Come here, Angel.” Kai stepped into my space and held me tight, comforting me as if I’d had a nightmare and had just woken up. He rocked me and told me all kinds of things. “It’s okay to be who you are, and to love anyone you want to. Just don’t waste your time on me, okay?” My heart cracked then, and I tugged myself away. “As for your family? They’re good people, and you know that they’ll one-hundred-percent have your back.”
He patted my shoulder as if I was a dog who needed a reward. “Nothing has to change— but you know, you might want to keep some of your secrets for a while, like thinking you have feelings for me, and the silk, yeah? But the big stuff, being yourself, being gay, that’s just you, and they’ll know that.”
“I don’t think I have feelings for you, I know I do.”
I wish my heart wasn’t breaking. I wish Kai was mine. I wish I was more the kind of person that Kai might hold and love.
“I have a girlfriend,” he began carefully.
“But you’ve kissed a boy, too.” I know I sounded desperate.
“What?” he glanced around us, and he looked scared. “Who told you that? It’s not true.”
I lowered my voice. “Yes it is. A man in a nightclub; I heard you and Lucas talking about it.” My heart was pounding.
“Shit. You can’t tell anyone that,” he said with urgency, leaning close so he could whisper his fears. “No one but Lucas knows; it’s a secret, okay? No one on the team knows, okay? You can’t tell anyone. Swear to me.”
“I won’t, I wouldn’t…” He looked so accusing, as if I’d done something awful, and I hated the way it made me feel.
“Sorry, I know you wouldn’t. Fuck!” He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, clearly fighting something I couldn’t understand. “I have to keep my secret, but you don’t need to keep yours, okay. I know that’s double standards, but…” He ran out of words.
“We both have secrets,” I said softly, tears pricking my eyes.
“But mine could ruin my career, and I’m not going there.”
“I’ll be sixteen soon, and I could come to Albany with you and—”
“We’ll always be friends, Angel.” He made as if to touch me but then thought better of it and dropped his hand. “I can’t be anything else. I have to go.”
Kai shivered. He wasn’t wearing a coat like me, the only concession he’d made to the weather was the woolen hat that covered his hair and ears. He made as if he was going to ruffle my hair, and I ducked and would have toppled back into the snow if he hadn’t caught me. He was so close. All I needed to do was reach up and press my lips to his, and that would’ve been my first kiss, and then he’d see that he could love me the same way as I did him. But he set me away from him and patted my shoulders all the while looking around us as if he expected someone to notice us.
“Bye, Angel.” I usually loved that he called me Angel, but right then it felt like an insult as I watched him leave.
“Bailey. My name is freaking Bailey,” I murmured as he reached the path. He must have heard me, because he turned to face me, and I couldn’t read his expression at all.
“You’ll always be Angel to me,” he said clearly. “My Angel,” he tagged on those two words wonderingly, and with hesitation, and that made me furious.
“I’m not your anything!” I whispered brokenly.
For a moment, I thought he might come back to me, but I realized how wrong I was when he winced, and then ran off along the trail, disappearing around the corner in the blink of an eye.
I wished he loved me, I wished he’d wanted to kiss me. I loved him with all my heart and tears blurred my vision as I pulled out the wishing card. Somehow my poor bruised heart helped me to know exactly what I wanted to say. It was everything I wanted.
I wish my first kiss was with Kai Buchanan and that one day he’ll love me back.
Merry Christmas Cupid by NR Walker
CHAPTER ONE
GUNTER
I pulled the car up beside the house, not deterred by the snow already sticking to the ground. I looked up at the front porch and grinned. The house was a folk Victorian style, with a cute awning, double-hung windows, and intricate wood-carved trims. It was gorgeous.
Well, it would be.
If it weren’t in such disrepair.
Ridiculously excited, I climbed the steps, took out the keys I’d just collected from the realtor, and unlocked the front door. Letting the door swing inward, I stepped inside.
The front living room was small and cozy. The original fireplace hadn’t seen a lick of warmth in years. The wooden floorboards were blanketed in dust, but sunlight cracked in through the bare windows, making dust motes spin like allergy galaxies through the empty room.
The tall ceilings made the room feel bigger but the house had a chill in its bones. Being empty and unloved for a few years would do that.
I knew exactly how it felt.
Walking through the arch to the kitchen and running my hand across the countertop, I then had to wipe my hand on my jeans. I didn’t care. In fact, it made me smile.
Maybe I hadn’t stopped smiling yet.
My new house. My new life.
In Hartbridge, Montana.
The tiny, little town where Dad and I’d stopped last Christmas, the bed and breakfast having been kind enough to give us a room at the last minute. The tiny, little town I’d come back to in June, very much alone instead of with my husband who’d decided the day after my father’s funeral was the perfect time to announce he was leaving and wanted a divorce.
“Life’s too short to be unhappy,” he’d said.
So I’d arrived to spend the weekend in Hartbridge feeling all kinds of lost, and I left having found a new sense of purpose.
A charming town full of friendly faces, smiles, and warm hellos. The perfect place for me to start again.
I found a house—a very rundown house—on the outskirts of town. I’m sure the realtor thought I was crazy, but I wanted it. Given I was no longer employed, no longer married, I had nothing but time to fix it up.
To make it really mine.
I turned on the kitchen faucet. A pipe somewhere clunked and whined, a puff of resistance coughed into the sink, followed by a trickle of water, but after a few moments, a decent stream poured out.
I wasn’t game to try the hot water faucet. I hadn’t even turned on the power on yet. I wanted a plumber and electrician to look at it first. They were scheduled to come out the next day, so I wasn’t in any hurry to burst a pipe or start an electrical fire.
Old houses, especially those left unlived in for a time, were known for such things.
Apparently.
Not that I had any clue.
I could barely change a light bulb.
Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Absolutely.
I was way in over my head . . . I was so out of my depth, not even the coast guard could find me.
But what I was, more than overwhelmed or scared, was determined.
I was going to make this place mine.
Before I’d even had another look at the bathroom, a loud rumbling noise got closer and closer, and I realized it was a truck approaching.
I guess I had new house sounds to learn now.
An old red dump truck with Henderson’s Sawmill written in cracked yellow on the side panel came slowly down the drive, and I checked my watch. A little early, but I’d take that over being late.
I walked out onto the porch, and the driver’s window rolled down. “Morning,” I said cheerfully.
All I could see in the darkened cab of the truck was a brown beard and a wide smile. “Where would you like it?” he said over the rumble of the engine.
Looking at the load of chopped firewood in the back of the truck, which I assumed he was referring to, I pointed past my car, down the side of the house. “Uh, there’s a shelter . . . thing . . .” I yelled over the sound of the truck. “I think that’s for firewood?”
Well, it was now.
He gave a wave and the truck rumbled louder and chugged down the side of my house. He turned the truck away, backed it up, cut the engine, and tipped the bed up.
I stood back and watched the load of firewood tumble to the ground, and when it was done, the bed went back down, the cab door opened, and the man got out.
He was a giant.
Well, not literally.
At about six-foot-four, he was also at least three feet wide. His shoulders and arms . . . He had Popeye arms. He had short brown thick, woolly hair and a scruffy brown beard. He wore denim overalls over a red plaid shirt as if he’d stepped right out of an old Mountain Lumberjack magazine.
As stereotypical as it could get, but somehow . . . perfect.
His smile was wide and warm, and his greeny-blue eyes were bright and friendly. He offered me his huge hand, which I shook.
Without knowing why, I liked him immediately.
“Clayton Henderson,” he said, his voice deep. “Folks around here call me Clay.”
“Gunter Zuniga. Nice to meet you, Clay.”
He looked back at the load of firewood. “You’ll be okay to stack this? You coulda got the smaller bundles already wrapped, but you wanted a full load?”
“I did,” I said. It would probably take me half a day to stack it, but it was what I was here for. It was crazy how excited I was to get this place into shape. “And it’ll be fine. I’ll get it done.”
He looked at the side of the house and up to the roof. “Rumor has it you’re the new owner,” he said. Then he shrugged apologetically. “Small town. People gonna talk.”
I turned to the side of the house—at the peeled paint, the falling-down fascia, the broken skirting boards—and put my hands on my hips and sighed. “Yep. Just got the keys today. I have a lot of work to do.”
Clay looked at me, then at the house, then back at me. “Did you clean out the chimney flue yet? If you’re gonna use that firewood—she’s been sitting empty awhile now, and you gotta be careful—”
“Oh no, I’m not staying here,” I said. Was he concerned for me? I wasn’t used to strangers caring so much. I wasn’t used to even not-strangers caring, to be honest. “Not yet, anyway. I’m staying at the bed and breakfast for a few weeks. Until I can get the place cleaned up and livable.”
He seemed genuinely relieved. “Oh, okay. Did you want me to take a look at your flue for ya? Won’t take a second.”
Oh.
It’s a small town, Gunter. Get used to friendly people doing friendly things. Don’t upset the locals on day one.
“Oh. If it’s no bother, that’d be great.”
With a nod, he followed me to the front porch and up the steps. I was very aware of how he looked at the disrepair: at the cracked paint, the few boards in the porch that had seen better days.
“Leave your boots on,” I offered. “The floor is a mess.”
As soon as we were inside, I turned to see him smiling at the old beams that ran across the ceiling. “She’s a classic,” he said. There was no mocking, no hint of sarcasm. “Can I ask what kind of work you’ll be doing?”
“Uh.”
“Cosmetic or structural?”
“Oh. Cosmetic only. I bought it because it was old and full of character. I’d like to keep as much of that as I can.”
He seemed to sigh with relief, happy to hear that. “I was just going to say, if you’re ripping out posts or beams, I’ll come take them away for ya.” Then he added, “She’s old-school. Bet the frame and trusses are hand-hewn. Beautiful work.”
It took me a second to remember he was from a sawmill, which explained his excitement. “I’m afraid structural changes are out of my realm of expertise. I had a building inspection before I bought it. They said it was sound, aside from a few cosmetic changes. The plumbing was updated in the seventies, I think. The electrical was rewired around the same time, so it’s not as bad as it could be. I mean, it’s not new by any stretch. I have a lot of work ahead of me. And I’m short on time because the bed and breakfast will be busy with Christmas and I told them I’d be out by then. Admittedly, it’s not the best time of year. So I have about three to four weeks to make it livable.”
I looked around the room toward the kitchen through the arch. “Well, the kitchen will need updating. And the bathroom. I have a plumber coming to look at it tomorrow, and the hot water. I mean, the tiles they chose in the seventies were a crime.”
Clay smiled at me. “You said the inspector said there was no water damage, so the tiling and plumbing must be good. Just paint the tiles, change the fixtures, and you got yourself a new bathroom. Well, a usable bathroom for a coupla years, till you get settled.” He shrugged again. “If you’re short on time.”
That was a good idea. It really would save a lot of time.
“Stop in and see Ren at the hardware store,” he said with a nod. “He’ll getcha everything you need.”
“Oh, perfect. I actually have a list. Mostly cleaning stuff. Sandpaper. Paint. That kind of stuff. I was going there first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You got yourself a big job. Not afraid of hard work then.”
I grinned at him. “I’m so excited to get started. I was literally waiting outside the realtors before they opened.”
“Where are you coming from? You’re not a local.”
“Mossley. Down the mountain.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Hartbridge called to you, huh?”
I was still smiling. “Something like that.”
He stood there staring at me for a beat too long and then jolted away. “Right. Your fireplace . . .” He went to it and kneeled down.
“The floor’s all dusty,” I said apologetically.
He didn’t seem to care. “Don’t suppose you got a mirror and a flashlight here anywhere?”
“Uh . . . no. The only thing I have here is the load of wood you dropped off and my luggage in the car . . .” I tried to think if I had a mirror in my bags. I shook my head. “I have a flashlight on my phone, if that helps.”
“Nah. Old fashioned way it is then.” He ran his huge hand over the bricks in the bottom of the firebox. “Well, there’s no creosote. Looks like it was cleaned pretty good. No critter poop either, which is a good sign.” Then he lay down on his back, his head in the fireplace so he could look up the chimney. He really was a very big man. “The damper looks decent. Can’t see any blockages, but I can’t see the lining properly without any gear.” Then he shuffled out, the inspection over, and got to his feet. “No birds nests, so that’s good. Unless you like smoked pigeon.”
I made a face. “No.”
He laughed, a deep rumbly sound. “I can swing past tomorrow with some gear to have a better look. You’re gonna need a grate though.” He gestured to the empty fireplace. When I didn’t say anything, he added, “To put the wood on in the fire.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
He met my gaze and held it for a long moment. “Right, then,” he said, dusting his hands off and heading toward the door. “Work to do.”
I followed him out. “Thank you so much.”
He was down the steps and rounding the corner of the house toward his truck. “My pleasure. Tomorrow, yeah?”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
A second later, the truck rumbled loudly to life, and with a wave, he drove out. I stood there smiling until the red truck had disappeared through the trees.
I think I’d just made my first friend in Hartbridge.
Many hours later, I pulled my car up to the bed and breakfast and was met by Jayden. He was wiping his hands on his apron, smiling widely as he came down the steps to greet me.
I groaned as I got out of my car; the knot in my back was in dire need of a hot shower.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
I waved him off. “Oh yes. I spent all day moving and stacking a truckload of firewood at the house.”
“Oh, you got the keys already?”
“This morning.”
“You’re technically a local now.”
“Isn’t there some twenty-year waiting period for being called a local in a small town?”
He grinned at that. “Probably. But it’s real good to see you again. I’m glad you’re here. Let me help you with your bags.”
Once we had my things in my room, Jayden left me to it. “Tacos for dinner. And maybe a margarita or two.”
“Perfect.” So, so perfect.
“And you can tell me all about your house and show me all the photos. I want to know everything.”
“Sounds great.”
I really liked Jayden. And Cass, his partner. Jayden had been so kind to me the first time I’d come here with my father, and then the second time when it was just me. I’d told him about the funeral, about the separation from my husband, and Jayden had taken it upon himself to be my merrymaker, always there with a wide smile, with food, and with something to make me laugh.
When I’d hinted that I could see myself moving to Hartbridge, he’d even helped me with some real estate searches and advice. He’d taken me into town, shown me around, introduced me to a few new faces. I knew he didn’t do that for all their bed and breakfast clientele . . .
So maybe I had two friends in Hartbridge already.
It was a nice feeling.
One steaming-hot shower later and dressed in comfier clothes, I found Jayden in the kitchen. He was, true to his word, making margaritas.
“Figured you’d want an early dinner if you’ve been working hard all day,” he said.
I showed him my hands, how red they were. Thankfully not blistered, but still sore. “Wore the wrong gloves.”
“Ouch.”
“I’ll have to go to the hardware store in the morning.”
Just then, Cass came inside from the back. Handsome as ever, his smile wide, he shook my hand. “Glad you made it.”
“He has the keys to his house already,” Jayden volunteered. “And I was just about to tell him that I can help him out tomorrow. We can have breakfast here, then hit up the hardware store for whatever you need, then I can go see your new place. I’m good with cleaning and organizing.”
“Oh.” I was not expecting that. “You don’t have to—”
Cass laughed and kissed the side of Jayden’s head. “Gunter, I hope you like being organized and bossed around. He will have a list or two.”
Jayden grinned at me, and it made me laugh. “The company would be great.”
He handed me a margarita. “Awesome!”
I sipped the drink. It was delicious. “Oh, I met Clay Henderson today,” I said. “He seems nice.”
Cass nodded. “He is a nice guy.”
Jayden frowned. “Do I know him?”
“Yes. Cliff’s son. At the sawmill. Cliff delivered the Christmas trees, but you met Clay at the spring festival. He did the sapling giveaway.”
Jayden’s face lit up with recognition. “Oh yes. He was cute! In a total teddy-bear, garden-gnome kind of way.”
Cass’ eyes went wide in a you-can’t-say-that way. “Jayden!”
But it made me laugh. “He totally does look like a teddy-bear garden gnome.”
Big and cute.
I didn’t say it out loud, but apparently I didn’t have to.
“Oh?” Jayden quirked an eyebrow at me. “And just how do you find teddy-bear garden gnomes?”
I shook my head and sipped my margarita. “I’m definitely not looking. He was just kind enough to check my chimney.”
Jayden snorted. “Oh really?”
I ignored the innuendo, but . . . “And he offered to come back tomorrow.” I cleared my throat. “To give it a better look.”
Cass pressed his lips into a line so he didn’t smile too big, but Jayden’s smile was so huge, not even his drink could hide it. “Sounds like you don’t even have to be looking,” he said, “when he’s already looking at you.”
“Jay,” Cass murmured, a gentle warning.
“What?” he said, unbothered. He winked at me without shame. “Christmastime in Hartbridge is known for its romance magic.”
When Love Flue In by Lillian Francis
Chapter One
In the end, it was surprise more than shock, really. That Dominic’s world would be forever turned upside down—his father had used the word ruined, but Dominic wasn’t so sure—by the sight of one skinny, bordering on bony, arse.
The arse in question wiggled enticingly, forcing Dominic to shift uncomfortably on the soft leather of his chair. He knew that the movement meant nothing. It was neither encouragement nor even flirtation. Reagan was obviously just jiggling his pole. And didn’t that statement bring all sorts of other images to mind that would do Dominic no good whatsoever in his current predicament.
He shifted again; unable to get comfortable in his favourite chair. What was the etiquette for adjusting one’s self while the cause of one’s discomfort had his head jammed up a chimney? Did the fact that Reagan couldn’t see him do it, make palming himself more or less acceptable?
Dominic tightened his grip on the arm of the chair. He should just leave the room and let the chimney sweep get on with his job without being subjected to Dominic’s lustful gaze.
But he wouldn’t.
He never had before.
Of course, before, his wife, Eleanor, had always been present. A buffer to stem the immediacy of his thoughts—images and fantasies that he stored away until the darkness of those lonely nights when she was on spa retreats with her friends. Or, when those weekends were too far away and he was desperate and craving, he would ensure the bathroom door was locked before he stepped into the shower and beat one off to his favourite fantasy.
Dreams of stepping up behind the sweep, positioned just as he was now, arse high in the air while his head and shoulders were buried somewhere deep in the flue of Dominic’s chimney.
Not that there was any reason to hide Reagan’s head in the chimney. The sweep might not be handsome in the traditional sense that Dominic had often been told he was, but Reagan was interesting in a quirky, impish way that would have made him desirable even without the physical package of a tall, lithe body. Even in Dominic’s fantasies, he found it hard to believe Reagan would ever want him.
Who would crave the touch of a man who had injudiciously shackled himself to a woman for nearly a decade and pushed down that fledgling need to explore his own sexuality, just to please his father?
Why would Reagan, whose blue eyes twinkled with amusement when he spoke and who exuded a reserved self-confidence in his own sexuality, knowingly accept the hands of a weak fool on his skin?
So, Dominic banished thoughts of sucking up bruises on that pale column of lean flesh, which stretched from just below Reagan’s ear to the neck of his cotton T-shirt, or running his tongue over smiling lips to beg entrance. He refused to give headroom to burying his fingers in Reagan’s scruffy black hair, dark as the soot that fell in puffs and clouds from the chimney breast. He definitely didn’t imagine his fingers trailing down Reagan’s long face, exploring the rise of high cheekbones with just his fingertips while Reagan smiled at him fondly.
What he did allow himself to imagine was an anonymous fuck, no kissing or gentle touches—no matter how much he wanted that—with Reagan not knowing who was giving him pleasure. In Dominic’s fantasy, Reagan’s arse would be bare, pale like the moon in the night sky. On his knees, with his shoulders buried in the hearth, Reagan wouldn’t be able to see who stepped up behind him but he would be begging and eager, anonymity saving him the disappointment of realising it was Dominic. And despite never having experienced any part of this fantasy with anybody, Dominic would ease his way into Reagan’s willing body until he was buried balls-deep in the sweep’s tight heat.
Dominic had at least watched enough gay porn in the last seven months to be able to imagine what they would look like—his cock hidden by the grip of that ring of muscle, their balls brushing occasionally as his thrusts got more erratic and out of control. A low groan escaped his lips before he could stop it, but luckily Reagan chose that moment to speak, the faint twang of his West Country accent rousing Dominic from his inappropriate thoughts.
Dominic loved that accent on Reagan and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would speak like that too, if public schools and Cambridge University hadn’t trained it out of him. Once more his father’s doing, insisting that he speak the Queen’s English and not like some Somerset yokel.
“Looks like you’ve got a blockage up here.” Reagan’s voice echoed from inside the chimney breast.
The body in Dominic’s line of sight flattened, long legs stretched out over the sheet laid down to protect the cream carpet from any incidental overspill of soot, and wriggled back out of the fireplace. At some point, the T-shirt Reagan wore snagged on something in the grating, first revealing an inch of stripy boxers above the waistband of Reagan’s jeans and then a strip of pale flesh. His throat suddenly dry, Dominic couldn’t stop himself from licking his lips at the sight.
Clear of the fireplace, Reagan jumped to his feet, the T-shirt falling back into place—much to Dominic’s disappointment. Flashing Dominic a smile that caused the remaining moisture to vanish from his mouth, Reagan squatted down and started rummaging through his bags of rods.
“When Mrs P didn’t call to make the appointment this year I thought maybe you’d got rid of your fire.” Reagan chatted casually, his concentration still focused on the contents of his bag. “A lot of people are changing to the wood-burning stoves these days.”
“Is business bad?” Dominic enquired, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could while his tongue felt like sandpaper on the roof of his mouth.
“Ah, not so much. Luckily, there’s not an abundance of sweeps in the area. It just means I have to go further afield to make the same sort of money as previous years.”
Reagan picked a collection of brush heads and a rod from the bag, before he straightened. Stretching out his back muscles caused the T-shirt to rise up once more and Dominic watched intently in his search for skin. Guilt flared in a kneejerk response, but he pushed the feeling down before it knotted his insides. He had no reason to feel ashamed, not anymore.
“I was surprised when you agreed to come out on Christmas Eve,” Dominic said, shifting his gaze to avoid getting caught staring. A faint blush coloured the apples of Reagan’s cheeks and Dominic wondered if he hadn’t torn his gaze away fast enough.
“I, er, I only work until lunchtime today and luckily for you I had a last minute cancellation.” Reagan stepped back over to the fireplace, his back to Dominic, and started to tug the extended rod from where it was still tightly embedded in the flue. “It’s not like Mrs P to forget to book me.”
“My wife doesn’t live here anymore.” The words spilled from his lips before Dominic had a chance to consider the wisdom of them. He continued rapidly before Reagan could express an opinion either way. “I assumed you were a permanent booking. You’ve always turned up the Monday before Christmas. It wasn’t until you didn’t arrive on Monday that I realised I would need to phone you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr P. About your wife,” Reagan added awkwardly.
Dominic shrugged. “Sometimes total honesty isn’t always the best policy. Not in a marriage.” Not in one built on such rocky foundations as his had been, anyway. “And please call me Dominic.”
“Wouldn’t know,”—Reagan paused and glanced over his shoulder—“Dominic. I’m single. Mr Right hasn’t turned up at my door yet.”
Without even asking, the information he’d been searching for had been dumped straight into his lap. Dominic tried not to show any outward display of the cartwheels he was performing in his head.
Turning back to the fireplace, Reagan screwed the new brush onto the end of the rods and knelt in the hearth to feed it back into the chimney. Sliding back onto his stomach, Reagan followed the path of his rods and once more, half of him disappeared into the fireplace, effectively cutting off any further conversation.
Reagan’s dedication to his work gave Dominic the chance to go back to admiring the view unhindered. Unfortunately, the mention of Eleanor gave rise to other less enjoyable thoughts to fill the void left by the lack of conversation.
His eyes snapped open as she laughed lightly above him.
“Who are you thinking about?” she teased him. “Tell me. Share.”
She often shared her fantasies with Dominic—muscle-bound stable hands in the hay mainly, with the occasional fireman thrown in for good measure—while Dominic remained tight-lipped. If truth be known, he always tried to keep his own mind surprisingly blank. A prude, she’d called him more than once.
“No one.” His protest faltered as he slid his eyes shut once more to recapture the image of black hair and blue eyes, which he rarely indulged in her presence.
“Tell me,” she urged. “What’s she doing to you?”
She rotated her hips and let out a groan. “You’re harder than I can ever remember. You can think about her and what she’s doing to you again, if it makes you this horny. God, I won’t be able to walk straight in the morning.”
He was sinking deeper and deeper into the fantasy. This was why he didn’t normally pander to this desire while they were together. The moan started low in his chest and there was nothing he could do to stop the sound escaping.
“Tell me.”
“Fuck.” Dominic was lost now, chasing his own pleasure. His breath came in short pants. “Reagan.”
Eleanor stilled above him. He continued to thrust deep into the willing body of the chimney sweep. Too late he realised his mistake and he forced his eyes open to survey the damage his confession had wrought.
“Reagan? The chimney sweep?” she spluttered, her face twisted in shock and anger and her hands planted on his chest. Not even the look of revulsion on her face could prevent the explosion of his orgasm as he came with Reagan’s name on his lips.
That had been the last time he had touched her. With the pretence over, he had no reason to, even if she would have allowed him. She’d been packed and gone within the week with so little histrionics that he had to wonder if she’d suspected where his interests lay all along. She’d wanted no part of the house, or the village. In fact, she’d gone as far as to leave the county, moving to London. Out of guilt, and against his father’s express wishes, Dominic had bought her an apartment by the Thames and allowed her to take whatever furniture she wanted from the house. Their home had been decorated to her taste anyway.
First, Dominic had attempted to fill the gap in his life with work, but his sister, Catherine, had soon put a stop to that, initially inviting him, then dragging him round to her house for dinner on a regular basis. That had been followed by furniture shopping, prompted when she came round to visit a week after the removal men had been to pick up Eleanor’s things, and realised just how little Dominic’s soon-to-be ex-wife had left him with.
Three months after Eleanor had walked out, Catherine had started inviting unattached females to their bi-weekly meals. After five awkward encounters in the space of a fortnight, Dominic had confessed the true nature of his breakup with Eleanor. First to his sister then, mortifyingly, to his father. That was a conversation Dominic would quite happily scrub from his memory with bleach.
With Catherine bemoaning her lack of any gay friends, let alone available ones, Dominic had found himself suddenly free to explore his late-blooming sexuality in bars far from home. He had bottled it on the first few occasions, just watching and running—literally in one case—when approached by men who just wanted to talk to him. He was quite ashamed now, looking back, that he’d viewed everyone who had attempted to talk to him as some sort of sexual predator determined to take his virginity. Most of them were just looking for a chat and some company, and it turned out that wasn’t a euphemism.
Even now, three and a half months after he’d stepped inside his first gay bar, while Dominic had received his fair share of kisses, he’d done little more. There had been a serious make-out session with a fireman called Jason who was in Somerset for a cider convention. That had gone beyond kissing, the pair of them rutting and thrusting against each other, which had seen Dominic coming in his pants like a teenager and waking up with a string of love bites that had been difficult to conceal beneath his work shirts. Mortified, Dominic hadn’t gone back to the club the next night even though Jason had wanted to hook up again before returning to Manchester.
Then there had been last Monday. Disappointed that Reagan hadn’t turned up to clean his chimney—and how he wished that was a euphemism—Dominic had gone to one of the clubs he regularly frequented. The fact that he’d got blind drunk on a weeknight had been bad enough but letting some fey, dark-haired stranger blow him in the alley behind the club, while eminently enjoyable at the time, had been instantly regrettable when he’d woken the next morning with a pounding head and memories of a slim, soot-headed man who wasn’t Reagan.
An enthusiastic grunt from the direction of the fireplace drew Dominic’s attention back to the man in question. He was wasting the limited time he would get to spend in Reagan’s company this year by daydreaming.
Rolling to brace himself on one arm, Reagan rammed the rod into the flue with the other hand, his elbow disappearing then reappearing as he worked the brush forcefully past the blockage.
Who would have thought somebody so slight could be so strong? Reagan looked like a good wind would blow him over.
“That’s got—” Reagan coughed and spluttered his way through the remainder of his words as soot burst in cloud from the hearth. “—it.”
Wriggling back out of the fireplace, Reagan reappeared, covered head to foot in fine black dust. He coughed violently, the movement disturbing the soot that layered his clothes and hair.
“All clear now,” Reagan said, quite unnecessarily, as he smiled at Dominic, his teeth white in his blackened face. He tugged on the end of the pole, disturbing a smaller cloud of dust and started to dismantle his rods. “I’ll just tidy up here then I’ll be out of your hair for another year, Dominic.”
“You can’t go home like that,” Dominic said, his voice rising in protest. He pushed himself to his feet.
“It’s fine. I’ve got clean clothes in the van.” Reagan glanced over Dominic’s shoulder toward the hallway.
Twisting slightly to follow his gaze Dominic could only imagine Reagan was contemplating the expanse of cream carpet between the edge of the sheet and the relative safety of the parquet flooring in the hallway. There was no way he would get across that gap in those clothes without leaving a trail of soot on the expensive carpet.
“I can get your clothes from the van,” Dominic volunteered. “The shower is the second door on your left upstairs.”
Even as he made the suggestion, anticipation churned in Dominic’s belly. He knew nothing would happen, but just the thought of Reagan in his shower, a place where he’d—
His gaze flicked over to the soot-covered man, the guilt of those memories warring with his desires. He pushed down both of the destructive emotions, neither having any place here. He was just being considerate.
Yeah, carry on telling yourself that, Dominic Pearson.
“I couldn’t impose.” Reagan glanced up and faltered. “I shouldn’t…”
Dominic wondered what Reagan read in his face at that moment because he plucked a set of keys from the side pocket of his bag and held them out to Dominic.
“They’re in the back. The left door sticks sometimes, so you might need to give the handle a tug.” Letting go of the keys almost reluctantly, Reagan continued with his protest. “I’ve still got to get across your carpet.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Dominic shrugged. “I can always get it cleaned.”
Turning toward the door, Dominic paused; his mouth unbelievable dry at the thought that had suddenly entered his head. Such a bad idea. But Reagan was a grown man, thirty or thereabouts, near as damn it Dominic’s age. He could say no if he wanted to.
“You could take your clothes off here. The soot can’t have gone all the way through to your boxers, surely.”
“Boxers?” Reagan exclaimed with a start. “How d’you—”
“That belt doesn’t do the best job of keeping your jeans up, what with you having no arse or hips to speak of.” Dominic waved his hand vaguely in that direction until realisation struck and Dominic became painfully aware of the last words to leave his mouth. Feeling awkward and embarrassed, he dropped his gaze to the carpet and, with a mumbled “I’ll get your clothes”, he fled the room.
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Author:
Lillian Francis is an English writer who likes to dabble in many genres but always seems to return to the here and now.
Their name may imply a grand dame in pink chiffon and lace, but Lillian is more at home in jeans, Converse, and the sort of T-shirts that often need explaining to the populous at large but will get a fist bump at Comic-Con. Lillian is a self-confessed geek who likes nothing more than settling down with a comic or a good book, except maybe writing. Given a notepad, pen, her Kindle, and an infinite supply of chocolate Hobnobs and they can lose their self for weeks. Romance was never their reading matter of choice, so it came as a great surprise to all concerned, including their self, to discover a romance was exactly what they’d written, and not the rollicking spy adventure or cosy murder mystery they always assumed they’d write. Luckily there is always room for romance no matter what plot bunny chooses to bite them, so never say never to either of those stories appearing.
Lillian lives in an imposing castle on a windswept desolate moor or in an elaborate shack on the edge of a beach somewhere, depending on her mood. And while they’d love for the heroes of their stories to either be chained up in the dungeon or wandering the shack serving drinks in nothing but skimpy barista aprons, more often than not they are doing something far less erotic like running charity shops and shovelling elephant shit.
Drawn to the ocean, although not in a Reginald Perrin sort of way, they would love to own a camper van and to live by the sea.
Snow Kisses for My Omega by CW Gray
Chapter 1
Harper Wilson steadily fed the piece of cedar through the wood planer, leveling it out. Soon enough, he’d moved on to cutting and shaping the wood for the bookcase. Snow fell outside the windows, a silent and beautiful contrast to the warmth of the woodshop. The hum of the planer and the smell of cedar soothed, strengthened, and stabilized him.
His workshop was a place of peace. Stacks of wood were separated into piles, waiting on him to decide what new project he wanted to work on. Each of his tools and equipment had a purpose and a place. It was his space, which is why his alpha dad stood out so much. The large man was sprawled in a chair a few feet away, resting his feet.
“When are you going to Florida to get that boy?” Marco Wilson was a big, broad-shouldered alpha. He looked rough around the edges, but the man was one of the kindest people Harper knew.
“Dad, I can’t just go kidnap him,” Harper said. “He keeps putting me off about meeting in person.” He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Maybe he just wants to stay friends.”
Marco snorted. “Bullshit. You two talk to each other every single night. That doesn’t say friends to me.”
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know what to do.”
“Go visit him and see him in person. Then bring him home, so we can meet him.”
“You just want another kid to love on,” Harper teased.
“Maybe,” Marco said with a grin. “Your papa wants to have another baby before we get too old.”
“Aren’t you already too old,” Harper said, setting his clean board down and picking up another rough piece.
“Thanks, son,” Marco said wryly. “Anyway, I’ve never seen you smile so damn much over someone. This man is special.”
“He is,” Harper agreed.
Greyson Bishop was a joy to know. He was handsome and honey colored. He had light brown hair streaked with a warm blond, complimenting his golden-brown skin and eyes. To Harper, Grey was pure sunshine.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Marco said, throwing his hands up. “That tone of voice, that look in your eyes. I know love when I see it, Harper.”
“I’m not saying I don’t love him,” Harper said. “I’m saying I don’t think he loves me. It doesn’t mean I’m not going after him. It just means it may take some time.”
“Fine,” Marco said, sighing. “I guess you’re young, so I shouldn’t push you to settle down so soon.”
“Oh, I’m ready to settle down,” Harper said.
He’d been ready since he was sixteen. All he’d ever wanted was a warm, cozy home and a loyal omega that loved him. Babies would be great, but they weren’t a requirement. Love and acceptance were.
“I just have to woo my omega a bit first. There’s no rush.” Harper’s phone chimed, and he paused to look at the screen. “Fuck, not again.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Andrew has been posting disgusting comments on my website as reviews. I blocked him twice now, but he just creates a new account.”
“You two broke up over two years ago, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and we only dated for two months. He’s a whacko, Dad.”
“Should we talk to someone about it? Maybe one of the Bensons or the police?”
“I don’t want to drudge up old memories. I’ll just block him again.”
After cutting another board, he set it aside and walked to one of his worktables. His most recent batch of wooden ornaments were dry and ready to pack up.
Marco peeked over his shoulder. “Annie will love those. They’ve been selling like hotcakes in the store. Do you have more wreathes too? With Christmas coming up, she wants a bunch to set back. When they start going, they go fast.”
“I do. I have fifty ornaments to bring her and about ten bowls, tons of decorated wooden utensils, and twenty-two wreathes. I’ll make more this weekend. I have a few large projects to finish.”
“She’ll be a happy woman. You taking a turn at the Christmas tree farm this weekend? If you don’t have time, I’ll do a shift.”
“I should be good for it.”
Marco clapped him on the back. “I’ll bring your goods in to Annie on the way home. I need to shovel the damn snow from the walk before your papa murders me.”
Harper smiled. His dad hated shoveling snow. He was fine when he was hip deep in the stuff, tending to the cattle, but when it came to simply shoveling it, he became a big whiney baby. “Now I see why you really came over. Yes, Dad, I will shovel the walks tomorrow morning. Tell Papa not to worry about it.”
“You’re a good boy, Harper,” Marco said, his smile wide, showing off the gap between his two front teeth that every Wilson inherited from Grammy. “Your brother is going to be working at Zac’s auto shop after school for a while. He’s convinced he wants to be a mechanic.”
“He does good work on my truck,” Harper said. “It’s his kind of thing.”
Marco smiled proudly. “Well, help me load up and I’ll get out of your hair.”
Harper boxed up the ornaments and added them to the stack of boxes near the door, then helped his dad load them in the back of his truck.
Marco grabbed him and hugged him tightly. “Say hi to your omega for me, okay?”
Harper watched him drive off and turned back to his home. When he’d turned eighteen and told his dad and papa that he was going to work on selling his furniture and crafts, they’d gifted him twenty acres in place of college tuition. It was up the mountain, isolated, and surrounded by forest. The acreage itself was heavily wooded but had a few acres of clear space. It had taken months, but Gramps, Marco, and him had built the cabin by hand.
It was a two story with four bedrooms, one set up as an office, and two bathrooms on the second floor. The first floor was an open plan containing a large kitchen with an attached mudroom, a living room with a large stone fireplace, and another bathroom. To finish it off, they’d added a wrap-around porch and a detached garage. Harper loved it.
The only thing missing was his omega.
Shaking his head, he turned away and headed toward the back. His workshop was attached to a large barn. Harper crunched through the snow and opened the big barn doors, slipping in. He closed the cold back out, then grabbed the hayfork and loaded fresh hay into the two occupied stalls.
Dumpling was a fuzzy, brown miniature Shetland pony. His cream-colored hair needed a brushing, so Harper grabbed the brush and got to work. Dumpling didn’t care. His nose was buried in his hay. Boon, his black and white miniature Shetland, poked his nose over to investigate.
“I’ll get to you, Boonie-boy,” Harper said, laughing.
After grooming and pampering his boys, Harper went to a small corner of the barn. He had a chicken coop set up in the warmth. They had an outdoor run, but the girls really didn’t like the snow. He collected eight eggs, washing them and setting them aside. He only had ten hens and a rooster, but they produced plenty of eggs. The customers loved the blue and green eggs his girls laid. He’d take a few dozen down to the store to sell tomorrow on his way to shovel his papa’s walks.
Back in his workshop, he looked at the half-finished sled in the corner. He needed to get to work if he wanted to have it completed in two weeks. His phone rang from his back pocket, and he checked the number. Andrew, yuck. He pushed ignore and got back to work.
Later that night, Harper sat in the kitchen with his laptop. Grey’s sweet face popped up on the screen, his smile as silly and joyous as usual. Harper’s sunshine was adorable.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi, Harper,” Grey said. “How’s business going?”
“The website is perfect,” he said. “I’ve already sold about a third of my stockpiled furniture, and I have contracted projects scheduled for the next several months.”
“Awesome! I knew people would love your stuff. I seriously love those bookshelves you added with the vines carved on the side. Your work is amazing. Is your family doing okay?”
“They’re fine. Janelle dropped off another fern for me to try not to kill, and Uncle Barry keeps nagging Zoe about settling down. Same old, same old.”
“What does your family’s store do for Christmas? I can’t believe you all hosted a whole Halloween party.” Maybe Harper was wrong, but Grey’s golden-brown eyes seemed to be full of longing.
“We have the Christmas tree farm up and going. We’ll host ice skating parties for the next few months, and the town will have a winter festival in a couple of weeks. The store gets super busy too. People are Christmas shopping, so my smaller crafts are going fast. The chair and bedframe sales have gone up too.”
“That sounds like so much fun,” Grey said, hints of wistfulness in his voice.
“Tell me about your favorite Christmas,” Harper said. He loved to hear about Grey as a kid.
“Oh my god,” Grey said, laughing. “So one year, Rue and I were so horrible. We fought all the time, and my parents were probably about to sell us to a circus or something. A few weeks before Christmas, they kicked us out and made us go play with one of our neighbor’s kids. The boy was a jerk though. He was an alpha and thought omegas should wait on him hand and foot. Of course, I didn’t, so he got really mad and called me names. Rue was a year younger than me, and three years younger than the asshole, but he got in the kid’s face and made him shut up. The neighbor wasn’t happy, but when we got home, we were fine, no more arguing. My parents were so happy, they went all out that year with a huge tree, lots of decorations, and cookies. Christmas eve night, Rue snuck in my room. We read comics and talked all night. It was awesome.”
“I have to admit, siblings can be both a pain and a joy,” Harper said with a laugh. “I wonder if Dad or Papa ever wanted to sell us to a circus.”
“Surely not,” Grey said, smiling. “You’re always so patient. Your brother and sister probably adore you.”
“Hmm, I’ll have to remind them that they should, indeed, adore me.” Harper watched Grey laugh, eyes sparkling. Oh, his omega was so beautiful.
A Christmas Reunion by Nic Starr
1
The little bright orange warning light on the dashboard seemed to mock Hunter Cavendish; a final nail in the coffin, so to speak. As if this day could get any worse. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. Don’t break down, for God’s sake, just let me get there soon and in one piece.
Hunter repeated the mantra in his head and then snorted—this was the one and only time in recent memory he could remember wanting to get to Cavendish Crossing. He just hoped the Jeep would hold out for the last few miles. He knew enough to know the little blinking symbol meant the car was overheating, but he didn’t have any spare water for the radiator, assuming it was empty, and if it wasn’t and the problem was a leak, he had no idea what he’d do. He wished he knew more about cars, but mechanics wasn’t his thing.
His thoughts swirled with the list of things that could go wrong if the Jeep finally decided to give up the ghost. What was the worst thing that could happen? The motor would just cease running and he’d coast to a stop on the side of the road? Or maybe the whole engine would blow up. He hoped not; the Jeep was nearly ten years old, but it went well, and he loved the old thing—bought with the proceeds of his first job. Hunter crossed his fingers as he kept one eye on the road and the other on the display. Luckily the interior heating was still working, and everything sounded okay. He huffed out a laugh. He could just imagine telling his dad that he kept driving because the car sounded okay—his dad with his small fleet of cars that were no doubt serviced to a military schedule.
The Jeep rounded the corner of the mountain road, and Cavendish Crossing, in all its glory, came into view. Hunter’s breath caught. No matter what his personal thoughts about the town, or more precisely its people, he couldn’t deny its beauty. Tall forests of pine trees had lined the road on the last part of the trip, but as he’d come over the last rise, he saw a sprawling mix of A-frames and homes built from wood and stone with gabled roofs. As he neared, he noticed new buildings constructed of steel and huge glass panes. Progress. Things hadn’t stayed still in his absence, and he wondered what else had changed.
Hunter hadn’t been back to Cavendish Crossing for four years. In fact, if he had his way, he’d never come back to this town. But after successfully managing to avoid his mother’s pleas in recent years, he’d finally succumbed. It was hard to come up with a good enough reason to keep him away from his grandparents’ golden wedding anniversary. And God help the fallout if he simply hadn’t shown up as he’d been wont to do.
Hunter adjusted in his seat, rolling his shoulders to help rid them of kinks. After nearly five hours in the car, he needed to get out and stretch properly, but it was a two-edged sword. Reaching town without breaking down and getting out of the cramped car would mean he’d arrived at his destination. He sighed and resigned himself to the next two weeks.
No going back now.
Cavendish Crossing was a small town about thirty minutes’ drive from the nearest Lake Tahoe resort town. It always amazed people when Hunter told them that his parents had a vacation house in Cavendish Crossing—despite their last name, which gave a big hint as to why—and not in some swanky resort village. But Hunter’s family had been some of the original inhabitants of Cavendish Crossing, helping to establish the town and living there for multiple generations. Hunter’s great-grandfather, Gerald Cavendish, had owned multiple businesses in the area, employing many of the people who lived there. He had become a powerful and wealthy man, controlling much of the town. He passed the business on to his son, Gerald Junior, who was now the patriarch of the family. Hunter supposed that half the properties in Cavendish Crossing were once owned by his family; if not by his grandfather, then by one of his other relatives. Real estate and hospitality were the main focuses of the company now. Cavendish Properties was well known in the broader Tahoe area, establishing a number of successful resorts.
Hunter’s parents no longer lived in Cavendish Crossing full-time—thankfully—having moved to Los Angeles to expand the family company across the nation. Their proximity to him meant Hunter could see them a few times a year without having to come up to the mountains. He much preferred the quick trip to LA from his home in San Francisco. But his mom and dad returned every year to stay for at least a month at what was now their vacation home. They spent time with the rest of the Cavendishes and participated in all the Christmas activities around town. Hunter always thought it strange that his parents didn’t want to vacation somewhere larger and more prestigious, somewhere with more parties and with more people to make an impression on. He could hear his father’s voice in his head. Appearances are everything, Hunter. Or they could even stay and have Christmas home some years or visit one of the company’s other resorts. But his mother liked the idea of a picturesque white Christmas, and he could only assume that both his parents liked the fact they were treated like returning royalty in Cavendish Crossing.
Royalty. What a joke.
The final approach to town meant facing the music wasn’t far away. A headache nudged at Hunter’s temples, no doubt the result of the tension that had been building for weeks in the lead-up to his trip. He rolled his shoulders and straightened his back as much as he could in the confines of the vehicle in an effort to loosen up.
Please, please, please let the next two weeks be bearable.
He knew it was too much to hope for a pleasant vacation, so bearable would have to do.
Someone must have been listening to his pleas about the Jeep or luck was on his side, because he made it to the main street. By the time he pulled up outside the auto repair shop, the temperature gauge was maxing out. Unfortunately, his luck stopped there. The closed shutters didn’t bode well for getting the car fixed tonight. Fuck!
Hunter didn’t want to risk driving any farther in case the Jeep blew up or he couldn’t get it back in the morning, so he moved it into the parking lot outside the shop. He made a quick call, although just the thought of asking his father for help made his skin crawl, as did the thought of being trapped with no quick escape. After arranging for his father to come and pick him up, Hunter shrugged on a coat and gathered the things he needed immediately—his duffel and his suit bag (God help him if he forgot the suit)—unplugged his cell, and shoved it into his messenger bag alongside his laptop. Confident the Jeep would be okay overnight, he locked up and lugged his belongings across to the sidewalk, his breath clouding in front of him.
The town was quiet at this time of the late afternoon, and the weather no doubt kept most people inside. It was freezing and overcast, dusk well and truly on its way. It had been raining during the day, and the pavement was wet. The only thing keeping the town from looking bleak and unwelcoming was the twinkle of fairy lights up and down the main street. Every business had gone overboard with the holiday spirit. Windows glowed with Christmas displays; even the streetlamps were adorned with boughs of pine, giant red-and-white-striped candy canes, and sparkling red baubles.
Hunter caught a smile at his lips—the whole place looked like a postcard. He had to give the town that. For a moment, he appreciated his mom’s love of Christmas. Red, green, and silver decorations in store windows, twinkling lights reflected in the glistening surface of the street, remnants of snow piled along the sidewalk, giving that white Christmas feel.
Ice-cold water put a dampener on his happy thoughts. Literally.
“Fuck!” Hunter automatically jumped back as the water, a veritable torrent, hit him from the waist down, drenching his clothes and luggage. It immediately soaked through his jeans, icy-cold. “Fuck!” Curses tumbled from his lips as he held his belongings high. “Watch where you’re going, you idiot!” he shouted at the slowing truck.
The truck pulled over, its taillights reflecting on the wet surface of the road before the ignition was turned off and the door opened. “Sorry,” the guy called as he got out of the vehicle.
“And so you goddamned should be. Driving like a lunatic—”
“Hey, there’s no need to curse me out. It was an accident. It’s not like I intentionally— Hunter?” The guy paused as he rounded the car. “Hunter Cavendish?”
“Aaron?” Holy shit. He took a step or two back, speechless as he tried to determine if the man heading his way was an apparition, the manifestation of his fears. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach. Aaron McBride—one of the main reasons Hunter had stayed away. Six years of successfully avoiding him, four of those by avoiding the town completely, and now he’d run into Aaron within his first five minutes of being in town. What was it he’d said earlier about this day not getting any worse?
“I’m surprised to see you.” Aaron held out his hand as he approached, and Hunter automatically responded by passing his bag to his left hand so he could grasp Aaron’s hand in a firm handshake. “I didn’t expect you’d be coming. Your grandparents will be happy.”
Hunter swallowed heavily and did his best to ignore the thrill of Aaron’s warm and strong grip. He didn’t dare consider dwelling on the feelings just seeing his old friend instilled. The dread mingled with something else, something that had his chest fluttering… No. Instead, he focused on the revolting sensation of his wet, clinging jeans and his quickly numbing legs. He released Aaron’s hand and hauled his suit bag higher to keep the tail ends from dragging in a puddle. “And why the hell not? You think I’d miss the big party; a party being put on to celebrate a key milestone in my grandparents’ life?”
Aaron had the decency to look embarrassed. “Er… you haven’t been around for a while, so I thought—”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Hunter snapped. “Not anymore. So don’t presume.”
Aaron raised his hands, palms out, and took a step back. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Anyway, I’m sorry about the water. I didn’t realize the puddle in the gutter was so deep and you were standing so close—”
“So now you’re blaming me?” Hunter’s voice rose. He knew he was being unreasonable, but he couldn’t hold back where Aaron was concerned—too many memories, so much history. “I’m standing on the sidewalk, exactly where pedestrians are supposed to stand. It’s not my fault that you weren’t paying attention.”
“I was paying attention to the road, and I was hardly doing much past twenty. And I can’t control the weather and the melting snow. And I have no say in the maintenance of the streets around here either.”
Hunter gripped the handles of his bags tightly. “If you’re insinuating that I have something to do with that because I have family on the town council—”
“I didn’t say that. Listen, Hunter, I don’t want to argue. I just stopped to apologize and see if you needed a ride. Actually, scrap that. If I’d known it was you, I might have apologized but I sure as hell wouldn’t have offered you a ride anywhere. Not with that damned attitude you’ve got.”
Hunter stiffened. “I’m perfectly capable of getting my own way around.”
Aaron scoffed and looked him up and down, the judgment in his gaze grating on Hunter, but he stood firm under the inspection. “What are you doing standing in the middle of the street anyway?”
“I’m on the side—” Hunter paused as he took in Aaron’s smirk. Asshole. He knows he’s getting to me. As Aaron smiled, Hunter’s anger began to fade. It was hard to be in a bad mood as he responded to seeing Aaron for the first time in so long. It seemed his body hadn’t forgotten the attraction. He swallowed heavily, clearing his throat. “I had car trouble. The old man’s coming to get me.”
“So you don’t need a ride then?” Aaron said, his breath clouding in front of him.
“I thought there was no way you’d let me in your truck?”
“It’s freezing.” As if to prove the point, he blew on his hands then rubbed them together before shoving them into his pockets. “I wouldn’t leave anyone wet, cold, and stranded on the side of the street.”
“Especially since you’re the cause—”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Aaron rolled his eyes. Those gorgeous blue eyes that Hunter had always gotten lost in.
Before Hunter could respond, a car pulled up. Hunter didn’t recognize the dark sedan, but as the driver stepped from the vehicle, he saw Don, the maintenance guy who’d been employed by his parents for as long as Hunter could remember.
“Hunter,” Don called. “Your dad sent me to collect you.”
“Of course he did,” Aaron muttered under his breath.
Hunter narrowed his eyes at Aaron before turning his attention to Don. Don was the one person Hunter had missed seeing these last few years. He refused to acknowledge that he’d missed Aaron, pushing aside the memories. They shook hands, the warmth of Don’s palm reminding Hunter how cold he was. “Hey, Don. It’s great to see you.”
“You too, kid. It’s about time you showed your face around here.” He gave Hunter a warm smile, and Hunter’s bad mood lowered another notch. “Your mother is going to be so pleased.”
Hunter chuckled. “Why is it that everyone keeps saying that?”
Don shrugged. “It’s Christmas. You know she lives for Christmas, and it’s not the same without you around.”
“I’ll bet,” Aaron said, and Hunter could hear the sarcasm in his voice.
Don seemed oblivious to any tension. “Evening, Aaron. How ya doing?”
“Good thanks, Don. And you?”
“Can’t complain. Anyway, it’s damn cold out here, and you look a little worse for wear, Hunter, so I suggest we get moving. I think your mom has some sort of welcome event planned too.”
Hunter almost groaned out loud but forced a smile. “Yes, I’m late as it is.”
“Let me take your luggage.” Don reached for Hunter’s duffel, but he moved it out of the way. There was no way he was making someone else carry his bag when he was perfectly capable of handling it on his own.
“I’ve got it.” He smiled his thanks. “If you could just pop the trunk.”
“Sure.” Don nodded, then turned to Aaron. “Pass on my regards to your folks. I guess I’ll see you all at the fundraiser.”
Hunter cringed at the words.
Oh, God. The annual Cavendish Crossing Christmas Eve Dance. Kill me now.
Things were going from bad to worse to even worse—he adamantly refused to acknowledge the part of him that was excited to see Aaron again—and he hadn’t even made it to the house yet.
Hunter gave Aaron a curt nod as he passed, placing his belongings carefully into the trunk before joining Don in the thankfully warm car. Don pulled out, and Hunter couldn’t resist keeping an eye on Aaron as they passed. He stood on the sidewalk dressed in dark pants and rich red sweater, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He watched the car as it progressed down the street, and Hunter found his gaze glued to the retreating figure in the side mirror—Aaron, still standing there as the sedan rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
It didn’t surprise Hunter that he couldn’t tear his gaze from Aaron. The man had always been impossible to resist. Hunter knew he’d only be hurt—the past had shown that—but as always, Hunter was drawn to the man, like a moth to a flame. And he now knew the time away hadn’t changed that.
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.
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.
She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.
She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.
She’s been writing ever since...
Lillian Francis is an English writer who likes to dabble in many genres but always seems to return to the here and now.
Their name may imply a grand dame in pink chiffon and lace, but Lillian is more at home in jeans, Converse, and the sort of T-shirts that often need explaining to the populous at large but will get a fist bump at Comic-Con. Lillian is a self-confessed geek who likes nothing more than settling down with a comic or a good book, except maybe writing. Given a notepad, pen, her Kindle, and an infinite supply of chocolate Hobnobs and they can lose their self for weeks. Romance was never their reading matter of choice, so it came as a great surprise to all concerned, including their self, to discover a romance was exactly what they’d written, and not the rollicking spy adventure or cosy murder mystery they always assumed they’d write. Luckily there is always room for romance no matter what plot bunny chooses to bite them, so never say never to either of those stories appearing.
Lillian lives in an imposing castle on a windswept desolate moor or in an elaborate shack on the edge of a beach somewhere, depending on her mood. And while they’d love for the heroes of their stories to either be chained up in the dungeon or wandering the shack serving drinks in nothing but skimpy barista aprons, more often than not they are doing something far less erotic like running charity shops and shovelling elephant shit.
Drawn to the ocean, although not in a Reginald Perrin sort of way, they would love to own a camper van and to live by the sea.
I have been self-publishing since October 2018. My books are extremely light and fluffy m/m romance with mpreg, and while they span a few subgenres of romance, they have similar themes of found family and love at first sight. Besides writing, I enjoy reading everything I can get my hands on, especially m/m romance. My personal favorites are mpreg, sci-fi, fantasy, and paranormal.
Nic Starr lives in Australia where she tries to squeeze as much into her busy life as possible. Balancing the demands of a corporate career with raising a family and writing can be challenging but she wouldn't give it up for the world.
Always a reader, the lure of m/m romance was strong and she devoured hundreds of wonderful m/m romance books before eventually realising she had some stories of her own that needed to be told!
When not writing or reading, she loves to spend time with her family-an understanding husband and two beautiful daughters-and is often found indulging in her love of cooking and planning her dream home in the country.
You can find Nic on Facebook, Twitter and her blog. She'd love it if you stopped by to say hi.
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
NR Walker
Lillian Francis
EMAIL: lillianfrancis@rocketmail.com
CW Gray
EMAIL: cwgrayauthor@gmail.com
The Wishing Tree by RJ Scott
KOBO / iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY
B&N / SMASHWORDS / BOOKS2READ
Merry Christmas Cupid by NR Walker
When Love Flue In by Lillian Francis
Snow Kisses for My Omega by CW Gray
A Christmas Reunion by Nic Starr
