Summary:
Slow Burn Holidays #1
What do you do when you can’t figure out if your roommate is interested in more?
Try out the Five Love Languages on him, of course.
Like bros do.
I’ve wanted my roommate, Oliver, since the day we moved in together five years ago. There’s just one problem: I’ve never been in a relationship with a man before. And I don’t know if Oliver is into men… or anyone other than his microscope. And I’ve been doing everything I can to not think about it. Okay, three problems, but who’s counting?
But when our sweet-but-nosy landlady forces a copy of the Five Love Languages on me, the sight of the book sends Oliver into some kind of dark mood. I’m skeptical about the whole love language thing, but my curiosity gets the better of me: What is Oliver’s love language, and why won’t he talk about it?
If I want to find out, I'll just have to take a leaf from Oliver’s book and perform a science experiment of my own. I'll try showing him how I feel using all five love languages, record the results... and hope that by the end of our upcoming Friendsgiving gathering, I’ll have something new to be thankful for.
Speak My Language is a 15,000-word low angst M/M romantic novella featuring cozy fall vibes, unexpected birds, roommates-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, a feastworthy Thanksgiving meal, and a super steamy and romantic first time. All books in the Slow Burn Holidays series can be read as standalones and in any order.
I'll admit I never gave "love language" a thought until reading Speak My Language and since reading it I've seen it in at least 4 fanfictions as well as heard it on 2 shows/films. I guess I'll never not think about it again😉. I believe in it, I just never thought about it. Nico Flynn is a new author to me and I can't think of a better intro to their work than Speak My Language. Definitely going on my authors-to-watch list.
Some readers don't care for stories where the biggest speed bump is miscommunication or lack thereof and I can understand their points about "all the ridiculousness/heartache could have been avoided if they just talked" well of course it could but its not always easy for people to open up. So long as the communication hiccups are done believably and not just to further the drama or lengthen a story, I'm okay with it because sometimes emotions have to be explored at the right time. I think that's what Oliver and Chris have faced: the right time.
The duo have been friends for years and you know they both want more but are too unsure how to go about taking the plunge. Chris takes the initiative and creates a little science experiment after their landlord brings out a book on love language. I loved watching Chris trying to discover Oliver's love language. I won't say more but just know that his journey of discovery is wonderfully written that is both fun and heartwarming, you will not regret giving Speak My Language a read.
Summary:
Dangerous Ground #5
Be careful what you wish for...
Financial pressures and a brutal workload are not quite what former DSS Agents Will Brandt and Taylor MacAllister signed on for when they decided to open their own security consulting business.
When they bump into an old adversary while undercover, and the job goes south, Will braces himself and suggests they head up to Oregon to celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday with his family.
Unfortunately, not every member of the Brandt clan loves Taylor the way Will does. Then again, not everyone loves the Brandts. In fact, someone has a score to settle--and too bad for any former feds who get in the way when the bullets start to fly.
Another great entry in the series. Loved seeing Will in his hometown family element, even with the ups and downs. I truly enjoyed the build-up for the next entry, whenever that will be. I haven't been disappointed yet by this author.
Overall Series Re-Read Review June 2020:
As I said previously, Dangerous Ground was the second Josh Lanyon reading after her Adrien English series and I absolutely loved Will and Taylor. Equals, friends, partners, lovers. They truly are everything to each other, throw in the job and the cases(mysteries as they tend to find trouble even on vacation) and it's just all around brilliant storytelling. I may not re-read this series as often as my annual revisit of her Adrien English series, I will never tire of Will & Taylor. They are captivating, mesmerizing, intriguing, and just plain wonderfully fun even when the danger is high and they aren't necessarily on the same page they still have each other in mind. As I said, I will never tire of Will Brandt and Taylor MacAllister and their brilliant journey.
RATING:
As I said previously, Dangerous Ground was the second Josh Lanyon reading after her Adrien English series and I absolutely loved Will and Taylor. Equals, friends, partners, lovers. They truly are everything to each other, throw in the job and the cases(mysteries as they tend to find trouble even on vacation) and it's just all around brilliant storytelling. I may not re-read this series as often as my annual revisit of her Adrien English series, I will never tire of Will & Taylor. They are captivating, mesmerizing, intriguing, and just plain wonderfully fun even when the danger is high and they aren't necessarily on the same page they still have each other in mind. As I said, I will never tire of Will Brandt and Taylor MacAllister and their brilliant journey.
Summary:
A mysterious bookstore, two lonely guys and pie...
Keith is lonely and unsure and it's almost Thanksgiving. He doesn’t know what he wants or where he’s going in life until a storm forces him inside out of the rain.
Sadler runs his family’s bookstore. He’s open to possibilities. Success. Magic. Love. A future. He only needs one more ingredient—maybe the sexy wet guy who just walked in?
This is an insta-love, magical realism romp with a happy ever after ending.
This story was part of the Between The Covers limited edition anthology.
Love Potion No 69 is a fast, short read that will make you smile. Touch of paranormal-ness, touch of realism, a bit of humor, and of course a lot of heart. Keith and Sadler's holiday story is a testament to fate knowing what it's doing even if the MCs don't. Honestly I don't know what more to say about this little magical Turkey Day gem other than I loved it and it left a huge smile on my face and brought a lift to my day.
* Instant NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY bestseller *
* GOODREADS CHOICE AWARD WINNER for BEST DEBUT and BEST ROMANCE of 2019 *
* BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR* for VOGUE, NPR, VANITY FAIR, and more! *
What happens when America's First Son falls in love with the Prince of Wales?
When his mother became President, Alex Claremont-Diaz was promptly cast as the American equivalent of a young royal. Handsome, charismatic, genius—his image is pure millennial-marketing gold for the White House. There's only one problem: Alex has a beef with the actual prince, Henry, across the pond. And when the tabloids get hold of a photo involving an Alex-Henry altercation, U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse.
Heads of family, state, and other handlers devise a plan for damage control: staging a truce between the two rivals. What at first begins as a fake, Instragramable friendship grows deeper, and more dangerous, than either Alex or Henry could have imagined. Soon Alex finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with a surprisingly unstuffy Henry that could derail the campaign and upend two nations and begs the question: Can love save the world after all? Where do we find the courage, and the power, to be the people we are meant to be? And how can we learn to let our true colors shine through? Casey McQuiston's Red, White & Royal Blue proves: true love isn't always diplomatic.
"I took this with me wherever I went and stole every second I had to read! Absorbing, hilarious, tender, sexy—this book had everything I crave. I’m jealous of all the readers out there who still get to experience Red, White & Royal Blue for the first time!" - Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
"Red, White & Royal Blue is outrageously fun. It is romantic, sexy, witty, and thrilling. I loved every second." - Taylor Jenkins Reid, New York Times bestselling author of Daisy Jones & The Six
Original Audiobook Review September 2023:
I have been listening to audiobooks for way too many years to count, I go all the way back to when they were on audio cassettes and were never unabridged. In all these years I can honestly say I have NEVER listened to a book within a month of the original reading so that right there goes a long way as a testament to how much love I have for this story and the characters. It's been about a week since I finished listening and I am already seriously contemplating listening again . . . that is great storytelling in my opinion.
I really can only think of one thing to talk about that I didn't touch on in my original review: Zahra Bankston! How in the world did I fail to mention this brilliantly created character? I gave voice to how much I enjoyed June, Nora, and Bea but not Zahra?!?!?! We all know Nora is Alex's best friend but seriously Zahra is the second best friend he probably didn't even realize he needed or she would even contemplate the possibility of being. She keeps him, well I can't say she keeps him in check because there is no keeping Alex in check but she definitely calls him on his BS and holds nothing back doing it. Just love her! I want a Zahra in my life.
As for the narrator, Ramon de Ocampo does the story justice. Familiar and fresh all at the same time. Because I watched the film prior to reading the story I was able to picture the film actors while reading and though it can be hard to do with an audio narration becoming the characters, De Ocampo's voice "fits the features" of the actors making it quite easy to continue picturing Taylor Zakhar Perez and Nicholas Galitzine as Alex and Henry. I'm not ashamed to admit I've watched the film multiple times in the past month but while listening to Ramon de Ocampo bring Casey McQuiston's words to life I swear I could see the written version playing out in front of me like my own little personal Saturday-in-the-park production and that speaks volumes to how incredibly blended voice and word is making Red, White and Royal Blue not only one of my absolute favorite reads of 2023 but also top audios.
Original Review August Book of the Month 2023:
I've had many friends whose opinions I highly respect say how much they loved Casey McQuiston's Red, White and Royal Blue and it definitely sounded good so I knew I would read it one day but that day had yet to cross my reading journey. A couple of years pass and I discover it's being made into a movie and that the film would be on Prime in August of this year so it seemed that the time may be getting nearer. Since I hadn't read it yet I decided to wait until after I saw the film so there wouldn't be any preconceived expectations of what should or shouldn't be in the film.
Glad I did. I loved both the book and the film, equally brilliant, equally entertaining and any changes that were made most likely for time constraint helped the film flow better but at the same time those scenes that got cut/changed helped to create a fuller visual reading experience in my mind's eye. So again both brilliant in their own way.
I'm not going to talk too much about the plot as I know I'm not the only one who is late to the reading party and I don't want to spoil the book or film. I will say I don't think there was a single character I didn't like. Well, sure there were a few I didn't like but you weren't suppose to like them for reasons I won't spoil. Red, White and Royal Blue is a wonderful rom-com dramedy that makes you smile, swoon, and sweat. Alex and Henry are the epitome of swoony-ism. Going from lust to love while navigating life in the public eye had me falling even more deeply for the pair, I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to be in their shoes. In this day and age you'd think society would be more tolerant and accepting but we all know there is still too many who hate to accept differences in people. Humanity may have come a long way but there is still a long road ahead. I think the author has hit that part of Alex and Henry on point.
I've heard some say there is too much politics or at least too one-sided, that it makes all Republicans into the big bad and Democrats can do no wrong. I don't see it that way. Yes, there is more negativity from the GOP-referenced parts of the story but let's face it, like it or not that is how the American political scope trends: GOP = anti LGBTQ and DFL = ally. There are exceptions on both sides of the aisle of course but not many and I think the author has incorporated those viewpoints perfectly as to how it pertains to the guys' journey. I also feel that some people tend to forget this is a work of fiction not Political Science 101.
As for the friends and family of our star couple, I loved every bit of their interactions with the men and each other. I think June, Nora, and Bea have more scene time and they definitely steal the spotlight when they appear. Madame President Ellen Claremont is in a tough spot balancing her role as leader of the country and mother and though there were a couple of times I wanted the mother side to shine more I understood why the leader had to step up. As an American woman who is only a couple of months away from her 50th birthday, I firmly believe I will see the day we finally break through that final glass ceiling and have Madame President, but until that day arrives, fictional characters such as Ellen Claremont give us hope.
I can't believe I waited so long to read Red, White and Royal Blue and now that I have, I look forward to listening to the audio in the near future and though time may not allow this to be added to my annual re-read/re-listen list, it will definitely be explored again and again for years to come. What I wouldn't give to see a follow-up novel to see where Alex and Henry are once his mother's term is up or the pair dating now that Alex has been marked as the official royal suitor😉(and these are not spoilers because the meat and potatoes of the story is the journey getting here not whether or not they arrive).
So much goodness from yet another new-to-me author. I know not everyone enjoys rom-com, feel good, HEA yumminess and that's okay because it would be a pretty boring world if we all liked the same books just don't yuck in somebody else's yum.
RATING:
Cole is Alex's best friend and long time crush, and he just moved back to town with his baby girl. Alex is determined to give them both a great Thanksgiving, but can he set aside his feelings for Cole and just be friends with him?
Cole is wondering the same thing. After all he left town because he couldn't watch Alex dating anyone else. But then he missed Alex too much, and now he's back and ready to reconnect with him.
Will they finally come together, admit their feelings and have the best Thanksgiving ever?
Trina Solet has always been pretty spot on when it comes to Turkey Day stories. Fun, short, romance, friendship, and just the right amount of drama to tie it all together. Thanksgiving for Baby is no different. It's been a few years since checking out one of Solet's November holiday stories but I never doubted that I'd love it and I was right.
Cole and Alex are so perfectly suited and yet their fears of ruining their friendship keeps them out of sync. I know some people don't like miscommunication or lack thereof drama but long as it's done right I love it. We all misread things in life, some more than others, and sometimes it robs us of happy times so why shouldn't fictional characters suffer the same way?
I wanted in equal parts to crush the pair in Mama Bear Hugs to give them the courage to speak up and smack them in the back of the head with an iron skillet while screaming "Wake up and see what's in front of you!". For me that want is one of my top indicators that I'm reading a fabulous story. Throw in the mens' love for Cole's little girl, Z, and you have an absolutely heartwarming Turkey Day gem and the perfect way to kick off the holiday season.
Speak My Language by Nico Flynn
Chapter One
Oliver and I love our landlady. Really.
After five years of renting her basement apartment, Mrs. Thomas is like a mom to us. We have Sunday dinners together, she checks in when one of us gets sick, and she talks some no-bullshit sense into us when necessary. When we first moved in together as a broke grad student (Oliver) and the owner of a brand new business barely off the ground (me), she was exactly what we both needed, and she’s at least a part of why neither of us moved out even when we could afford to. She’s perfect in every way… except for one.
She likes to chat.
Often.
"And so I told Melinda she was being silly," Mrs. Thomas says with a wave. "She insisted on buying me this book for my birthday. She said it was something I needed to read because of that little fight with my Jerry. Such an overreaction, don't you think, Chris?"
Oliver's lip twitches with a suppressed laugh, and I cut him a quick look over the dinner wreckage sprawled across Mrs. Thomas's dining table. Jerry is Mrs. Thomas’ new boyfriend, and we have spent far too much time speculating on the relationship. Oliver isn’t known for his tact and manners, but when it comes to Mrs. Thomas, he has a hidden but well-documented soft spot. He’s managed to go the whole evening without saying something oblivious or unintentionally insensitive which, even when it comes to his beloved Mrs. Thomas, is rare.
I, on the other hand, can’t deny the woman a single thing, no matter how hard I try.
"Oh yeah? What's the book about, then?" I ask, managing to sound only slightly pained. Mrs. Thomas lays a hand on my shoulder, and I could swear her smile turns almost… mischievous? Secretive? The hairs on the back of my neck prickle in warning.
"Oh, I thought it was silly at first, but it's actually quite interesting! It's called The Five Love Languages, and it's about how everyone has a particular way they prefer to receive love."
Oliver lets out a barely audible sigh, no more than a faint whisper of air, exasperated by what he no doubt considers ‘complete nonsense.’ I bite back a grimace at the minor flare of pain in the general region of my heart.
Oliver doesn’t do love, or romance, or… anything. The one drunken time I managed to get up the courage to ask about his love life, Oliver insisted he wasn’t asexual or aromantic. But he also doesn’t date. Which would be totally fine if not for the very minor, totally insignificant fact that I have, against my better judgment… fallen in love with the asshole.
Years ago.
I sigh and give in to my curiosity.
"Okay, I’ll bite. How can you ‘receive love’ in different ways? You just... love someone or you don't, I thought."
"Oh, I'm not saying it right,” she says, flapping her hand as if to dismiss her earlier explanation. “It's like this. My ex-husband always used to show me he loved me by buying me expensive gifts and the like. Now, don't get me wrong, I did love the fancy cars, though I wish he had put a dime in the bank so I’d have a bit more to go on at my age. But what I really wanted was for him to tell me he loved and appreciated me. He bought me gorgeous diamonds, but all I needed was for him to say the words 'I love you' more often."
Well, that sounds simple enough.
"Okay, so, he was telling you he loved you in one way, but you wanted to hear it in a different way."
Mrs. Thomas nods emphatically. "Exactly. And it's so common. Most people don't even realize that a lot of their gripes with their spouses, friends, and family all come down to a simple miscommunication on a very basic level. And it gets even more complicated, too. The way you tend to show love to others isn’t necessarily the way you want to receive it. So you can be ‘speaking’ one language, but that doesn’t mean that’s the language you want to ‘hear’ in return."
Oliver shifts in his chair and knocks his foot against mine under the table with a pleading expression, as if to say get me out of here. I shoot him a dirty look and can't resist the opportunity to get under his skin.
"So, five love languages you said? What are they? Can you list them all?" I ask, my voice syrupy sweet and innocent. Oliver kicks my ankle harder. Mrs. Thomas beams.
"Let me think for a moment... there's words of affirmation," she says, ticking each one off on her fingers. "Gift giving, acts of service, physical touch, and quality time."
"Huh." I think back through a dozen failed relationships, but can't find the common thread. What have I always wanted that I haven't gotten? What had they wanted from me that I didn’t give?
Or was it just that they weren’t Oliver?
"She was right, though," she continues. "Jerry and I had a lovely talk about it and I understand now that his need for physical touch is much greater than I'd previously—"
I cough hard, bringing that particular line of discussion to a sharp close.
"So, love languages, yeah. They can help friends and family too, you said? What about you, Oliver, what's your ‘love language’?"
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could snatch them right back out of the air. Too obvious, damn it. Pressing Oliver about feelings is a guaranteed way to ensure awkward, irritated silence around the apartment for the next two days. But now that Mrs. Thomas has put this idea into my head, I have to know. If there’s a way I can show him how I feel without actually saying anything, to get a read on whether there’s a chance without risking the friendship…
But Oliver's mouth tightens, and his eyes reflect something dark and tense.
"I've had enough. Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Thomas."
He pushes back from the table to stand, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. I can’t resist. The conversation has led us to this point, and the information is right there. So close.
Does Oliver want to be loved in a particular way?
Does Oliver want to be loved at all?
"Come on, Oliver, it's just for fun," I say, keeping my voice light. "I know you don't do the whole feelings thing, but we all know how much you love to be told how brilliant you are. What is it, then, words of affirmation?"
A shadow passes over Oliver's face, and he stands so fast that his chair skids backward with a clatter.
"This is bullshit," he spits, and he storms out of Mrs. Thomas's kitchen, slamming the door on his way out.
I blink, my heart deflating.
"Well, that seemed a bit of an extreme reaction, even for him."
"Bit of a sore subject for him, dear. He'll come around," Mrs. Thomas says with a pat on my arm.
Sore subject?
"I know he doesn't really… want love in that way, but I don't see why it would make him so angry."
Mrs. Thomas fixes me with an incredulous stare.
"Chris Greene, you aren't a stupid man, so why do you insist on saying such stupid things?"
I blink again, struck by her bluntness.
"Come again?"
Mrs. Thomas shakes her head sadly and begins to clear the dinner dishes.
"How have you been showing him how you feel so far?"
I sputter a weak protest but quickly give up at the look on Mrs. Thomas's face. Apparently, I haven’t been as subtle as I thought about the whole bisexuality thing. Or more specifically… the whole Oliver thing. Of course she knows how I feel about him. She sees everything.
My shoulders slump as I drop my face into my hands.
"I do everything to take care of us. I do all the grocery shopping, I clean up his messes, and I make most of the weekend plans with our friends. What don't I do?"
Mrs. Thomas hums. "And what's something he's done or said that meant a lot to you?"
I sit back in my chair and think it over. Oliver has done a lot to infuriate me over the last five years, that’s for sure. He’s not the easiest man to get along with. But he's also said some things, here and there, that have moved me.
"Well, there was this time when he was finishing up his doctorate. He was going out of his mind with stress, spending so much time in the lab I hardly saw him. And he was just sleep-deprived enough to let slip that…”
I swallow hard against the rush of remembered feeling. It was so small, and it’s so pathetic of me to be clinging to such a tiny moment. But Mrs. Thomas’s eyes are filled with such gentle kindness, with no judgment at all, and the words rush out all on their own.
“He said he missed me. He missed me when he was gone at the lab so much. And that nothing made him feel human again after living in his research for weeks at a time… except coming home to me.”
Mrs. Thomas blinks rapidly, her face going soft, clearly seeing the same thing I did in the moment. Oliver has so few people in his life. To be one of the ones that matter feels… immense.
And, remembering that moment, I fall for him all over again.
"Well,” Mrs. Thomas says, clearing her throat. “It seems to me that you've been trying to show him through acts of service, but that's apparently not his love language. Perhaps you should try something else."
"Perhaps he doesn't have a love language because he thinks the whole thing is ‘bullshit,’" I grumble, and Mrs. Thomas fixes me with a terrible glare.
"Chris, you know better than anyone how deeply that man cares for the people in his life. You just proved it yourself!"
"He has a funny way of showing it," I say, resigned. Mrs. Thomas shakes her head with a sigh, disappearing for a moment before returning with her copy of The Five Love Languages.
"Maybe he's just not speaking the language you want to hear,” she says, pushing the book into my hand. “Think about it, Chris. Really."
I look down at the book, tempted to “accidentally” leave it on the table when I go.
So tempted.
Instead, I shove it in my back pocket as I stand from the table.
"Fine. Sure."
I gather up my dishes and load them into the dishwasher, then do the same with Oliver’s, because of course he didn’t bother before storming off. Mrs. Thomas tries to catch my eye as I thank her for dinner, but I manage to avoid her until I can step out the front door into the late evening darkness.
The bite of the autumn air chills me even through my knit sweater, but I take a few minutes to walk the length of the property anyway. I’m not ready to face Oliver and our shared space yet. I check the fence line and Mrs. Thomas’s beehives for damage from the day’s gusty wind, though Oliver will need to suit up and come do a real hive inspection tomorrow. There are no major tree limbs down, but the leaves are piling up. I take my time, going over everything in detail, needing some space to mentally lick my wounds and steel myself before heading inside.
I always feel raw after looking straight at my feelings for Oliver. Most days, they’re tucked safely into a corner, just an unacknowledged but constant hum in the background. I’ve never been in a relationship with a man before, so I don’t even know exactly what I’m missing. That helps, in a way. We go about our lives, working and living and getting older, and never straying too close to the topic of feelings.
I have to remember that last part, no matter how hard it is.
With my brain sufficiently re-calibrated, I finally turn and back toward the house, fallen leaves crunching under my feet. I’ll need to rake tomorrow, or else Mrs. Thomas will get it in her head to attempt it herself, bad hip be damned. I’ll need to pick up some salt before the first snow, too, so Oliver won’t end up ice skating off the back porch again this year. The bulb next to our basement apartment entrance flickers in that way that says it’s about to burn out. And, of course, there’s the Friendsgiving party we’re supposed to be helping Mrs. Thomas and her sister throw at the end of the month. Those are the kinds of things I need to be focusing on. The practical day-to-day elements of the life I love.
I’m happy. I don’t need anything more than I already have. I need to let it go.
No more thinking about love languages and feelings.
Just life and the business of living it.
But I do think about it.
For weeks.
What is Oliver's love language? If he were to want love, how would he best receive it? How would he hear it?
It clearly isn't acts of service, since I’ve tried that plenty over the entirety of our five years living together. But that still left four options.
Gift giving. Quality time. Words of affirmation. Physical touch.
I’ll just have to take a leaf from Oliver's book and perform a scientific experiment.
I’ll try all four. And if after all that, I still have no luck… then I’ll let it go.
Once and for all.
Kick Start by Josh Lanyon
Taylor yanked the wheel, pulling over to the side of the road. The car bumped over rough ground onto the narrow shoulder, and rolled to a stop. He cut the engine and turned to Grant who, even in the enveloping woodland darkness, he could feel watching him warily.
Taylor said, “You have something you want to say to me?”
“No, sir.” Funny how disrespectful “sir” could sound, depending on the tone and the expression.
“Sure you do,” Taylor said easily. “Let’s hear it.”
Grant unsnapped his seatbelt, shoved open his door and got out. “I’ll walk back,” he said, and slammed shut the door with all his force.
“Shit.” Taylor undid his seatbelt and opened the driver’s door. The night air was very cold and rich with the spicy scent of pine and earth.
He followed Grant who was moving fast, fueled by rage, and already several yards away. Grant’s compact silhouette stomped up the steep incline. Taylor loped after him.
“Do I really scare you that much?”
Grant rounded on him. “You don’t scare me at all.”
“Then why are you running away?”
“Because Will won’t like it when I kick your skinny ass from here to Portland.”
Taylor chuckled.
“You think that’s funny?”
He did, yeah. And the offended note in Grant’s voice struck him as even funnier, but Taylor didn’t want to escalate this any higher than necessary.
“Kind of. Don’t you? What are we really fighting about?”
“We’re not fighting. And we won’t fight so long as you stay the fuck away from me.”
“Only the problem is, we’re family now. So I can only stay so far the fuck away from you.”
“You’re not family! You’re just Will’s…friend. He’s not going to—you’re not going to be here forever.”
Ouch. Would it have been different for David Bradley? Taylor had to wonder. Bradley’s military background, even his size and looks, would probably have been more palatable to Grant.
“I wouldn’t bet on that. Why don’t you just tell me what the problem is.”
He could feel anger and frustration coming off Grant in waves. “You know what the problem is.”
“Sure. I have a pretty good idea, but why don’t we get it out in the open.” Taylor gestured at the towering trees and moonlit mountains. “It doesn’t get more open than this, right?”
He could feel Grant’s inward struggle. At last, Grant spat out, “You’re a queer.”
“I don’t like that word, but yep. I’m gay. And you have a problem with that.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you are,” Grant said. “I don’t care about you. I care about Will.”
“I understand that. But Will is who he is. He didn’t become gay for me. I didn’t make him gay.” Taylor’s sense of humor sparked back into life—did Grant think he’d forced Will to watch musicals? Eat quiche?—but he squelched it. This was serious because this angry young man was Will’s little brother and his feelings and opinions mattered to Will. Therefore they needed to matter to Taylor.
“He was never queer before.”
“He’s been queer for as long as I’ve known him.”
Grant made a sound of fury and launched himself at Taylor.
Taylor was ready. Mostly. He had known from the minute he forced Grant to go with him, this was probably going to happen. In fact, he had been pushing Grant into it. Even so, he’d had a long and exhausting day, and as Grant piled into him like a young bull charging a red cape, he felt a flicker of alarm.
He had underestimated his own weariness and stiffness. He had also underestimated Grant, who had been taught to fight by Will.
Grant tackled him low, burying his head in Taylor’s gut, wrapping his arms around Taylor’s knees, and Taylor, who relied on kicks and footwork to avoid getting thrown to the ground where his lack of weight was a dangerous liability, couldn’t maneuver. The wind was knocked out of him and he went down hard in the damp earth with Grant on top.
Worst case scenario. Thirty seconds in and he was about to be pinned in a double leg takedown his own sister could have avoided.
Instinct and adrenaline saved him. That and Grant’s unsportsmanlike attempt to knee him in the balls. Possibly a subconscious wish to neuter him, or maybe not subconscious, but Grant’s shift allowed Taylor to twist and bring his own knees up. He used his left forearm to trap both of Grant’s in an arm bar. That left his right hand free. Taylor swiveled, grappling under Grant’s legs, and throwing his left leg behind Grant’s neck. He was trying to pin Grant face down, but Grant knew that move and yanked out, rolling away to his knees.
Taylor let his own momentum carry him to his feet, and he scrambled ungracefully up. Standing, he was no longer vulnerable. He faced Grant who was upright again as well.
He needed to prevail here. It was that simple. Partly because he would not be able to live down the embarrassment of pushing for a fight he couldn’t win. Partly because with a young guy like Grant, winning was nine-tenths of the law. The law that said Might Makes Right. But he had to do it without seriously hurting Grant—and without letting Grant seriously hurt him. Because Will wouldn’t forgive either of them for seriously harming the other.
Now aware of his own limitations, Taylor waited, breathing hard, for Grant to charge back in—which he did, still too angry to be cautious, throwing a powerful right punch that would have taken out a rib or a lung had it connected. Yeah, that power strike was straight out of the Will Brandt book of hand-to-hand combat. Taylor deflected, grabbed Grant’s lapel and hauled him sideways while delivering a hard kick to the inner knee area of Grant’s weight bearing leg. He was careful not to take out Grant’s knee, but even so the strength and speed of that blow should have brought Grant down.
No such luck.
Love Potion No 69 by Lynn Michaels
Chapter One – The Bookstore
Keith
The thunder cracked, making me jump. It was going to pour any second, and it would probably be freezing. It would soak me to the bone, since I’d left home with only a light jacket. Why would nature’s fury still surprise me? The story of my life—if something bad could land on me, it would. Forget Murphy’s Law. I lived Foxworth law. I’d been living it since Nana died.
Missing her was the crux of my misery. With Thanksgiving coming up fast, it looked like I would be spending another year alone. No family. No close friends. And no Nana. Even after the five years she’d been gone, I still missed her terribly.
I wanted to do something about the loneliness and the memories. Instead of picking up some shit freezer meal, I wanted to cook something. Make it feel homey, even if it was only me at home.
The thunder rolled, and a flash of lightning lit the sky. I needed to get inside, but the grocery store was still a few blocks away. I searched the storefronts for a coffee shop to wait it out. My favorite place, Coffee Kraze, was near the grocery, so that was out. I did see a used bookstore up ahead.
Drops fell, splattering on the glass as I reached the door and opened it, the bell jingling as I stepped inside. It was warm…and dry, and it smelled like old books. The musty old kind with a slightly sweet tinge to them. I breathed in deeply. Yes, old books and maybe coffee.
“Hello. Can I help you?” a young man asked, grabbing my attention. He was cute with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. A zebra-print strap connected to the arms and stretched around his long neck. He stood behind a long counter where I assumed people would check out their books. He ran his hand through his shaggy, black hair, so dark and luscious, and pushed the overgrown locks from his eyes.
I offered him a shrug. “Guess I’m just looking.”
“Sure. Browse all you want. I’m Sadler, if you need anything.”
“Okay. Nice to meet you, Sadler.” His sweet smile made me want to wink at him. I stared at my feet instead and shuffled off to look at the books.
I trailed my finger over the bindings of some thick, ancient tomes. I could lose myself in this place. I’d have to come back some time. “Hey, uh…Sadler?” I looked down the aisle to see him glance up at me. “Got any cookbooks in this place?” Maybe I could find an old recipe like my nana used to make. “Maybe deserts? Pies?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Come this way.” He rounded the counter and nodded for me to follow him around several shelves and toward the back of the store. I followed, noticing how his tan slacks outlined his cute ass.
Sadler stopped at a long shelf that held all kinds of cookbooks. He squatted down and hummed, searching for something I might be interested in. “This one, maybe.” He pulled a small, hard-bound book from the shelf and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed.
“Yeah? Have you read this?”
He quirked an eyebrow behind those glasses. “It’s a cookbook.”
“And?”
“You don’t actually read them, you know. You find what you want to make and follow the recipe.” He pulled his glasses off and let them hang at his chest by the cute zebra strap. “Not like a cover-to-cover read. It’s not a novel.”
“You would still want to know what’s in it. Right?”
Sadler shrugged. A big golden cat rounded the corner and wound around his legs, but he ignored it.
I flipped through the book. Cookies, cakes…pies. It looked pretty good. “Okay. I’ll take it.”
“Great.” Sadler headed back to the front of the store, and I followed, pleased to get another view of his ass.
I put the book on the counter for him to ring up.
Sadler slid his glasses back over his pretty hazel eyes. They glimmered in the light and contrasted beautifully with his darker hair. “Is Sadler your last name?”
“Uh…no. Raegan.” He pointed to the sign over the counter.
Raegan’s Books & More
A picture of a crow was drawn beside the words.
“Oh! You own the place.”
He smiled, lighting up the storefront that had been darkened from the storm raging outside. It made the place feel even cozier, a respite. I didn’t want to leave.
Sadler picked up the cookbook. “No. Not really. My sister, Mirah owns it. I work here though. It’s great for while I’m in school.”
“Ah…it would be. I need to get back to school. Stopped at the associate level. Some day.”
“Yeah. You should. What’d you say your name was?” He was definitely flirting, caressing the book, but not bothering to actually ring it up. He peered over his glasses at me with teasing eyes.
“I didn’t. But it’s Keith. Keith Foxworth.”
“Nice to meet you, Keith. Foxworth is a great name. There’s a lot to someone’s name.”
“I suppose. I’ve never thought about it before.” I grabbed the edge of the counter, wishing it would disappear so I could get closer to him. Maybe Foxworth’s law was changing.
“Well…it is.” He turned to his register and rang up the cookbook.
I glanced around while I waited. The cat came out of hiding, wound between my legs then jumped on the counter. “What’s his name?” I reached up to pet him, but Sadler glared at me, and I stopped mid-stretch.
“I wouldn’t. She likes you now, but Tricky is slightly psychotic. And finicky.”
“Her name is Tricky?”
“Uh-huh.” He put my purchase in a bag. “It’s only five bucks.”
I grabbed my wallet and made the purchase. I tried to stall because I didn’t want to leave. I needed an excuse to stay, but the rain stopped and the sun was trying to make a comeback. If I wanted to make it home dry, I needed to make a run for it. “Thanks, Sadler. I’ll be back.” I shook the book at him.
“We’d be happy to have you any time.”
I smiled at him and hesitantly opened the door. Tricky meowed, and I left feeling a little lighter than when I’d arrived.
Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey Mcquiston
CHAPTER 1
On the White House roof, tucked into a corner of the Promenade, there's a bit of loose paneling right on the edge of the Solarium. If you tap it just right, you can peel it back enough to find a message etched underneath, with the tip of a key or maybe a stolen West Wing letter opener.
In the secret history of First Families — an insular gossip mill sworn to absolute discretion about most things on pain of death — there's no definite answer for who wrote it. The one thing people seem certain of is that only a presidential son or daughter would have been daring enough to deface the White House. Some swear it was Jack Ford, with his Hendrix records and split-level room attached to the roof for late-night smoke breaks. Others say it was a young Luci Johnson, thick ribbon in her hair. But it doesn't matter. The writing stays, a private mantra for those resourceful enough to find it.
Alex discovered it within his first week of living there. He's never told anyone how.
It says:
RULE #1: DON'T GET CAUGHT
The East and West Bedrooms on theb second floor are generally reserved for the First Family. They were first designated as one giant state bedroom for visits from the Marquis de Lafayette in the Monroe administration, but eventually they were split. Alex has the East, across from the Treaty Room, and June uses the West, next to the elevator.
Growing up in Texas, their rooms were arranged in the same configuration, on either side of the hallway. Back then, you could tell June's ambition of the month by what covered the walls. At twelve, it was watercolor paintings. At fifteen, lunar calendars and charts of crystals. At sixteen, clippings from The Atlantic, a UT Austin pennant, Gloria Steinem, Zora Neale Hurston, and excerpts from the papers of Dolores Huerta.
His own room was forever the same, just steadily more stuffed with lacrosse trophies and piles of AP coursework. It's all gathering dust in the house they still keep back home. On a chain around his neck, always hidden from view, he's worn the key to that house since the day he left for DC.
Now, straight across the hall, June's room is all bright white and soft pink and minty green, photographed by Vogue and famously inspired by old '60s interior design periodicals she found in one of the White House sitting rooms. His own room was once Caroline Kennedy's nursery and, later, warranting some sage burning from June, Nancy Reagan's office. He's left up the nature field illustrations in a neat symmetrical grid above the sofa, but painted over Sasha Obama's pink walls with a deep blue.
Typically, the children of the president, at least for the past few decades, haven't lived in the Residence beyond eighteen, but Alex started at Georgetown the January his mom was sworn in, and logistically, it made sense not to split their security or costs to whatever one-bedroom apartment he'd be living in. June came that fall, fresh out of UT. She's never said it, but Alex knows she moved in to keep an eye on him. She knows better than anyone else how much he gets off on being this close to the action, and she's bodily yanked him out of the West Wing on more than one occasion.
Behind his bedroom door, he can sit and put Hall & Oates on the record player in the corner, and nobody hears him humming along like his dad to "Rich Girl." He can wear the reading glasses he always insists he doesn't need. He can make as many meticulous study guides with color-coded sticky notes as he wants. He's not going to be the youngest elected congressman in modern history without earning it, but nobody needs to know how hard he's kicking underwater. His sex-symbol stock would plummet.
"Hey," says a voice at the door, and he looks up from his laptop to see June edging into his room, two iPhones and a stack of magazines tucked under one arm, and a plate in her hand. She closes the door behind her with her foot.
"What'd you steal today?" Alex asks, pushing the pile of papers on his bed out of her way.
"Assorted donuts," June says as she climbs up. She's wearing a pencil skirt with pointy pink flats, and he can already see next week's fashion columns: a picture of her outfit today, a lead-in for some sponcon about flats for the professional gal on the go.
He wonders what she's been up to all day. She mentioned a column for WaPo, or was it a photoshoot for her blog? Or both? He can never keep up.
She's dumped her stack of magazines out on the bedspread and is already busying herself with them.
"Doing your part to keep the great American gossip industry alive?"
"That's what my journalism degree's for," June says.
"Anything good this week?" Alex asks, reaching for a donut.
"Let's see," June says. "In Touch says I'm ... dating a French model?"
"Are you?"
"I wish." She flips a few pages. "Ooh, and they're saying you got your asshole bleached."
"That one is true," Alex says through a mouthful of chocolate with sprinkles.
"Thought so," June says without looking up. After riffling through most of the magazine, she shuffles it to the bottom of the stack and moves on to People. She flips through absently — People only ever writes what their publicists tell it to write. Boring. "Not much on us this week ... oh, I'm a crossword puzzle clue."
Following their tabloid coverage is something of an idle hobby of hers, one that in turns amuses and annoys their mother, and Alex is narcissistic enough to let June read him the highlights. They're usually either complete fabrications or lines fed from their press team, but sometimes it's just funny. Given the choice, he'd rather read one of the hundreds of glowing pieces of fan fiction about him on the internet, the up-to-eleven version of himself with devastating charm and unbelievable physical stamina, but June flat-out refuses to read those aloud to him, no matter how much he tries to bribe her.
"Do Us Weekly," Alex says.
"Hmm ..." June digs it out of the stack. "Oh, look, we made the cover this week."
She flashes the glossy cover at him, which has a photo of the two of them inlaid in one corner, June's hair pinned on top of her head and Alex looking slightly over-served but still handsome, all jawline and dark curls. Below it in bold yellow letters, the headline reads: FIRST SIBLINGS' WILD NYC NIGHT.
"Oh yeah, that was a wild night," Alex says, reclining back against the tall leather headboard and pushing his glasses up his nose. "Two whole keynote speakers. Nothing sexier than shrimp cocktails and an hour and a half of speeches on carbon emissions."
"It says here you had some kind of tryst with a 'mystery brunette,'" June reads. "'Though the First Daughter was whisked off by limousine to a star-studded party shortly after the gala, twenty-one-year-old heartthrob Alex was snapped sneaking into the W Hotel to meet a mystery brunette in the presidential suite and leaving around four a.m. Sources inside the hotel reported hearing amorous noises from the room all night, and rumors are swirling the brunette was none other than ... Nora Holleran, the twenty-two-year-old granddaughter of Vice President Mike Holleran and third member of the White House Trio. Could it be the two are rekindling their romance?'"
"Yes!" Alex crows, and June groans. "That's less than a month! You owe me fifty dollars, baby."
"Hold on. Was it Nora?"
Alex thinks back to the week before, showing up at Nora's room with a bottle of champagne. Their thing on the campaign trail a million years ago was brief, mostly to get the inevitable over with. They were seventeen and eighteen and doomed from the start, both convinced they were the smartest person in any room. Alex has since conceded Nora is 100 percent smarter than him and definitely too smart to have ever dated him.
It's not his fault the press won't let it go, though; that they love the idea of them together as if they're modern-day Kennedys. So, if he and Nora occasionally get drunk in hotel rooms together watching The West Wing and making loud moaning noises at the wall for the benefit of nosy tabloids, he can't be blamed, really. They're simply turning an undesirable situation into their own personal entertainment.
Scamming his sister is also a perk.
"Maybe," he says, dragging out the vowels.
June swats him with the magazine like he's an especially obnoxious cockroach. "That's cheating, you dick!"
"Bet's a bet," Alex tells her. "We said if there was a new rumor in a month, you'd owe me fifty bucks. I take Venmo."
"I'm not paying," June huffs. "I'm gonna kill her when we see her tomorrow. What are you wearing, by the way?"
"For what?"
"The wedding."
"Whose wedding?"
"Uh, the royal wedding," June says. "Of England. It's literally on every cover I just showed you."
She holds Us Weekly up again, and this time Alex notices the main story in giant letters: PRINCE PHILIP SAYS I DO! Along with a photograph of an extremely nondescript British heir and his equally nondescript blond fiancée smiling blandly.
He drops his donut in a show of devastation. "That's this weekend?"
"Alex, we leave in the morning," June tells him. "We've got two appearances before we even go to the ceremony. I can't believe Zahra hasn't climbed up your ass about this already."
"Shit," he groans. "I know I had that written down. I got sidetracked."
"What, by conspiring with my best friend against me in the tabloids for fifty dollars?"
"No, with my research paper, smart-ass," Alex says, gesturing dramatically at his piles of notes. "I've been working on it for Roman Political Thought all week. And I thought we agreed Nora is our best friend."
"That can't possibly be a real class you're taking," June says. "Is it possible you willfully forgot about the biggest international event of the year because you don't want to see your archnemesis?"
"June, I'm the son of the President of the United States. Prince Henry is a figurehead of the British Empire. You can't just call him my 'archnemesis,'" Alex says. He returns to his donut, chewing thoughtfully, and adds, "'Archnemesis' implies he's actually a rival to me on any level and not, you know, a stuck-up product of inbreeding who probably jerks off to photos of himself."
"Woof."
"I'm just saying."
"Well, you don't have to like him, you just have to put on a happy face and not cause an international incident at his brother's wedding."
"Bug, when do I ever not put on a happy face?" Alex says. He pulls a painfully fake grin, and June looks satisfyingly repulsed.
"Ugh. Anyway, you know what you're wearing, right?"
"Yeah, I picked it out and had Zahra approve it last month. I'm not an animal."
"I'm still not sure about my dress," June says. She leans over and steals his laptop away from him, ignoring his noise of protest. "Do you think the maroon or the one with the lace?"
"Lace, obviously. It's England. And why are you trying to make me fail this class?" he says, reaching for his laptop only to have his hand swatted away. "Go curate your Instagram or something. You're the worst."
"Shut up, I'm trying to pick something to watch. Ew, you have Garden State on your watch list? Wow, how's film school in 2005 going?"
"I hate you."
"Hmm, I know."
Outside his window, the wind stirs up over the lawn, rustling the linden trees down in the garden. The record on the turntable in the corner has spun out into fuzzy silence. He rolls off the bed and flips it, resetting the needle, and the second side picks up on "London Luck, & Love."
* * *
If he's honest, private aviation doesn't really get old, not even three years into his mother's term.
He doesn't get to travel this way a lot, but when he does, it's hard not to let it go to his head. He was born in the hill country of Texas to the daughter of a single mother and the son of Mexican immigrants, all of them dirt poor — luxury travel is still a luxury.
Fifteen years ago, when his mother first ran for the House, the Austin newspaper gave her a nickname: the Lometa Longshot. She'd escaped her tiny hometown in the shadow of Fort Hood, pulled night shifts at diners to put herself through law school, and was arguing discrimination cases before the Supreme Court by thirty. She was the last thing anybody expected to rise up out of Texas in the midst of the Iraq War: a strawberry-blond, whip-smart Democrat with high heels, an unapologetic drawl, and a little biracial family.
So, it's still surreal that Alex is cruising somewhere over the Atlantic, snacking on pistachios in a high-backed leather chair with his feet up. Nora is bent over the New York Times crossword opposite him, brown curls falling across her forehead. Beside her, the hulking Secret Service agent Cassius — Cash for short — holds his own copy in one giant hand, racing to finish it first. The cursor on Alex's Roman Political Thought paper blinks expectantly at him from his laptop, but something in him can't quite focus on school while they're flying transatlantic.
Amy, his mother's favorite Secret Service agent, a former Navy SEAL who is rumored around DC to have killed several men, sits across the aisle. She's got a bulletproof titanium case of crafting supplies open on the couch next to her and is serenely embroidering flowers onto a napkin. Alex has seen her stab someone in the kneecap with a very similar embroidery needle.
Which leaves June, next to him, leaning on one elbow with her nose buried in the issue of People she's inexplicably brought with them. She always chooses the most bizarre reading material for flights. Last time, it was a battered old Cantonese phrase book. Before that, Death Comes for the Archbishop.
"What are you reading in there now?" Alex asks her.
She flips the magazine around so he can see the double-page spread titled: ROYAL WEDDING MADNESS! Alex groans. This is definitely worse than Willa Cather.
"What?" she says. "I want to be prepared for my first-ever royal wedding."
"You went to prom, didn't you?" Alex says. "Just picture that, only in hell, and you have to be really nice about it."
"Can you believe they spent $75,000 just on the cake?"
"That's depressing."
"And apparently Prince Henry is going sans date to the wedding and everyone is freaking out about it. It says he was," she affects a comical English accent, "'rumored to be dating a Belgian heiress last month, but now followers of the prince's dating life aren't sure what to think.'"
Alex snorts. It's insane to him that there are legions of people who follow the intensely dull dating lives of the royal siblings. He understands why people care where he puts his own tongue — at least he has personality.
"Maybe the female population of Europe finally realized he's as compelling as a wet ball of yarn," Alex suggests.
Nora puts down her crossword puzzle, having finished it first. Cassius glances over and swears. "You gonna ask him to dance, then?"
Alex rolls his eyes, suddenly imagining twirling around a ballroom while Henry drones sweet nothings about croquet and fox hunting in his ear. The thought makes him want to gag.
"In his dreams."
"Aw," Nora says, "you're blushing."
"Listen," Alex tells her, "royal weddings are trash, the princes who have royal weddings are trash, the imperialism that allows princes to exist at all is trash. It's trash turtles all the way down."
"Is this your TED Talk?" June asks. "You do realize America is a genocidal empire too, right?"
"Yes, June, but at least we have the decency not to keep a monarchy around," Alex says, throwing a pistachio at her.
There are a few things about Alex and June that new White House hires are briefed on before they start. June's peanut allergy. Alex's frequent middle-of-the-night requests for coffee. June's college boyfriend, who broke up with her when he moved to California but is still the only person whose letters come to her directly. Alex's long-standing grudge against the youngest prince.
It's not a grudge, really. It's not even a rivalry. It's a prickling, unsettling annoyance. It makes his palms sweat.
The tabloids — the world — decided to cast Alex as the American equivalent of Prince Henry from day one, since the White House Trio is the closest thing America has to royalty. It has never seemed fair. Alex's image is all charisma and genius and smirking wit, thoughtful interviews and the cover of GQ at eighteen; Henry's is placid smiles and gentle chivalry and generic charity appearances, a perfectly blank Prince Charming canvas. Henry's role, Alex thinks, is much easier to play.
Maybe it is technically a rivalry. Whatever.
"All right, MIT," he says, "what are the numbers on this one?"
Nora grins. “Hmm.” She pretends to think hard about it. “Risk assessment: FSOTUS failing to check himself before he wrecks himself will result in greater than five hundred civiliancasualties. Ninety-eight percent probability of Prince Henry looking like a total dreamboat. Seventy-eight percent probability of Alex getting himself banned from the United Kingdom forever.”
“Those are better odds than I expected,” June observes.
Alex laughs, and the plane soars on.
London is an absolute spectacle, crowds cramming the streets outside Buckingham Palace and all through the city, draped in Union Jacks and waving tiny flags over their heads. There are commemorative royal wedding souvenirs everywhere; Prince Philip and his bride’s face plastered on everything from chocolate bars to underwear. Alex almost can’t believe this many people care so passionately about something so comprehensively dull. He’s sure there won’t be this kind of turnout in front of the White House when he or June get married one day, nor would he even want it.
The ceremony itself seems to last forever, but it’s at least sort of nice, in a way. It’s not that Alex isn’t into love or can’t appreciate marriage. It’s just that Martha is a perfectly respectable daughter of nobility, and Philip is a prince. It’s as sexy as a business transaction. There’s no passion, no drama. Alex’s kind of love story is much more Shakespearean.
It feels like years before he’s settled at a table between June and Nora inside a Buckingham Palace ballroom for the reception banquet, and he’s irritated enough to be a little reckless. Nora passes him a flute of champagne, and he takes it gladly.
“Do either of y’all know what a viscount is?” June is saying, halfway through a cucumber sandwich. “I’ve met, like, five of them, and I keep smiling politely as if I know what it meanswhen they say it. Alex, you took comparative international governmental relational things. Whatever. What are they?”
“I think it’s that thing when a vampire creates an army of crazed sex waifs and starts his own ruling body,” he says.
“That sounds right,” Nora says. She’s folding her napkin into a complicated shape on the table, her shiny black manicure glinting in the chandelier light.
“I wish I were a viscount,” June says. “I could have my sex waifs deal with my emails.”
“Are sex waifs good with professional correspondence?” Alex asks.
Nora’s napkin has begun to resemble a bird. “I think it could be an interesting approach. Their emails would be all tragic and wanton.” She tries on a breathless, husky voice. “‘Oh, please, I beg you, take me—take me to lunch to discuss fabric samples, you beast!’”
“Could be weirdly effective,” Alex notes.
“Something is wrong with both of you,” June says gently.
Alex is opening his mouth to retort when a royal attendant materializes at their table like a dense and dour-looking ghost in a bad hairpiece.
“Miss Claremont-Diaz,” says the man, who looks like his name is probably Reginald or Bartholomew or something. He bows, and miraculously his hairpiece doesn’t fall off into June’s plate. Alex shares an incredulous glance with her behind his back. “His Royal Highness Prince Henry wonders if you would do him the honor of accompanying him for a dance.”
June’s mouth freezes halfway open, caught on a soft vowel sound, and Nora breaks out into a shit-eating grin.
“Oh, she’dloveto,” Nora volunteers. “She’s been hoping he’d ask all evening.”
“I—” June starts and stops, her mouth smiling even as her eyes slice at Nora. “Of course. That would be lovely.”
“Excellent,” Reginald-Bartholomew says, and he turns and gestures over his shoulder.
And there Henry is, in the flesh, as classically handsome as ever in his tailored three-piece suit, all tousled sandy hair and high cheekbones and a soft, friendly mouth. He holds himself with innately impeccable posture, as if he emerged fully formed and upright out of some beautiful Buckingham Palace posy garden one day.
His eyes lock on Alex’s, and something like annoyance or adrenaline spikes in Alex’s chest. He hasn’t had a conversation with Henry in probably a year. His face is still infuriatingly symmetrical.
Henry deigns to give him a perfunctory nod, as if he’s any other random guest, not the person he beat to aVogueeditorial debut in their teens. Alex blinks, seethes, and watches Henry angle his stupid chiseled jaw toward June.
“Hello, June,” Henry says, and he extends a gentlemanly hand to June, who is now blushing. Nora pretends to swoon. “Do you know how to waltz?”
“I’m… sure I could pick it up,” she says, and she takes his hand cautiously, like she thinks he might be pranking her, which Alex thinks is way too generous to Henry’s sense of humor. Henry leads her off to the crowd of twirling nobles.
“So is that what’s happening now?” Alex says, glaring down at Nora’s napkin bird. “Has he decided to finally shut me up by wooing my sister?”
“Aw, little buddy,” Nora says. She reaches over and pats his hand. “It’s cute how you think everything is about you.”
“It should be, honestly.”
“That’s the spirit.”
He glances up into the crowd, where June is being rotated around the floor by Henry. She’s got a neutral, polite smile on her face, and he keeps looking over her shoulder, which is even more annoying. June is amazing. The least Henry could do is pay attention to her.
“Do you think he actually likes her, though?”
Nora shrugs. “Who knows? Royals are weird. Might be a courtesy, or—oh, there it is.”
A royal photographer has swooped in and is snapping a shot of them dancing, one Alex knows will be leaked toHellonext week. So, that’s it, then? Using the First Daughter to start some idiotic dating rumor for attention? God forbid Philip gets to dominate the news cycle for one week.
“He’s kind of good at this,” Nora remarks.
Alex flags down a waiter and decides to spend the rest of the reception getting systematically drunk.
Alex has never told—will never tell—anyone, but he saw Henry for the first time when he was twelve years old. He only ever reflects upon it when he’s drunk.
He’s sure he saw his face in the news before then, but that was the first time he really saw him. June had just turned fifteen and used part of her birthday money to buy an issue of a blindingly colorful teen magazine. Her love of trashy tabloids started early. In the center of the magazine were miniature posters you could rip out and stick up in your locker. If you were careful and pried up the staples with your fingernails, you could get them out without tearing them. One of them, right in the middle, was a picture of a boy.
He had thick, tawny hair and big blue eyes, a warm smile, and a cricket bat over one shoulder. It must have been a candid, because there was a happy, sun-bright confidence to him that couldn’t be posed. On the bottom corner of the page in pink and blue letters: prince henry.
Alex still doesn’t really know what kept drawing him back, only that he would sneak into June’s room and find the page and touch his fingertips to the boy’s hair, as if he could somehow feel its texture if he imagined it hard enough. The more his parents climbed the political ranks, the more he started to reckon with the fact that soon the world would know who he was. Then, sometimes, he’d think of the picture, and try to harness Prince Henry’s easy confidence.
(He also thought about prying up the staples with his fingers and taking the picture out and keeping it in his room, but he never did. His fingernails were too stubby; they weren’t made for it like June’s, like a girl’s.)
But then came first time he met Henry—the first cool, detached words Henry said to him—and Alex guessed he had it all wrong, that the pretty, flung-open boy from the picture wasn’t real. The real Henry is beautiful, distant, boring, and closed. This person the tabloids keep comparing him to, that he compares himself to, thinks he’s better than Alex and everyone like him. Alex can’t believe he ever wanted to be anything like him.
Alex keeps drinking, keeps alternating between thinking about it and forcing himself not to think about it, disappears into the crowd and dances with pretty European heiresses about it.
He’s pirouetting away from one when he catches sight of a lone figure, hovering near the cake and the champagne fountain. It’s Prince Henry yet again, glass in hand, watching Prince Philip and his bride spinning on the ballroom floor. He looks politely half-interested in that obnoxious way of his, like he has somewhere else to be. And Alex can’t resist the urge to call his bluff.
He picks his way through the crowd, grabbing a glass of wine off a passing tray and downing half of it.
“When you have one of these,” Alex says, sidling up to him, “you should do two champagne fountains instead of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain.”
“Alex,” Henry says in that maddeningly posh accent. Up close, the waistcoat under his suit jacket is a lush gold and has about a million buttons on it. It’s horrible. “I wondered if I’d have the pleasure.”
“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Alex says, smiling.
“Truly a momentous occasion,” Henry agrees. His own smile is bright white and immaculate, made to be printed on money.
The most annoying thing of all is Alex knows Henry hates him too—he must, they’re naturally mutual antagonists—but he refuses to outright act like it. Alex is intimately aware politics involves a lot of making nice with people you loathe, but he wishes that once, just once, Henry would act like an actual human and not some polished little wind-up toy sold in a palace gift shop.
He’s too perfect. Alex wants to poke it.
“Do you ever get tired,” Alex says, “of pretending you’re above all this?”
Henry turns and stares at him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, you’re out here, getting the photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate the attention, which you clearly don’t since you’re dancing with my sister, of all people,” Alex says. “You act like you’re too important to be anywhere, ever. Doesn’t that get exhausting?”
“I’m . . . a bit more complicated than that,” Henry attempts.
“Ha.”
“Oh,” Henry says, narrowing his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m just saying,” Alex says, resting an overly friendly elbow on Henry’s shoulder, which isn’t as easy as he’d like it to be since Henry has about four infuriating inches of height on him. “You could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.”
Henry laughs ruefully. “I believe perhaps you should consider switching to water, Alex.”
“Should I?” Alex says. He pushes aside the thought that maybe the wine is what gave him the nerve to stomp over to Henry in the first place and makes his eyes as coy and angelic as he knows how. “Am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”
“Do you know what?” Henry says. “I think you are.”
Alex’s mouth drops open, while the corner of Henry’s turns smug and almost a little mean.
“Only a thought,” Henry says, tone polite. “Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been exhaustively civil every time we’ve spoken? Yet here you are, seeking me out again.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “Simply an observation.”
“What? I’m not—” Alex stammers. “You’re the—”
“Have a lovely evening, Alex,” Henry says tersely, and turns to walk off.
It drives Alex nuts, that Henry thinks he gets to have the last word, and without thinking, he reaches out and pulls Henry’s shoulder back.
And then Henry turns, suddenly, and almost does push Alex off him this time, and for a brief spark of a moment, Alex is impressed at the glint in his eyes, the abrupt burst of an actual personality.
The next thing he knows, he’s tripping over his own foot and stumbling backwards into the table nearest him. He notices too late that the table is, to his horror, the one bearing the massive eight-tier wedding cake, and he grabs for Henry’s arm to catch himself, but all this does is throw both of them off-balance and send them crashing together into the cake stand.
He watches, as if in slow motion, as the cake leans, teeters, shudders, and finally tips. There’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop it. It comes crashing down onto the floor in an avalanche of white buttercream, some kind of sugary $75,000 nightmare.
The room goes heart-stoppingly silent as momentum carries him and Henry through the fall and down, down onto the wreckage of the cake on the ornate carpet, Henry’s sleeve still clutched in Alex’s fist. Henry’s glass of champagne has spilled all over both of them and shattered, and out of the corner of his eye, Alex can see a cut across the top of Henry’s cheekbone beginning to bleed.
For a second, all he can think as he stares up at the ceiling while covered in frosting and champagne is that at least Henry’s dance with June won’t be the biggest story to come out of the royal wedding.
His next thought is that his mother is going to murder him in cold blood.
Beside him, he hears Henry mutter slowly, “Oh my fucking Christ.”
He registers dimly that it’s the first time he’s ever heard the prince swear, before the flash from someone’s camera goes off.
Thanksgiving for Baby by Trina Solet
Chapter 1
"Oh my God, you're a crazy person," Nat told him while she lounged in his living room and he flitted around getting ready for his guests.
"I know. And I'm not," Alex told her in a totally sane way.
He didn't really blame her since she just saw him run into the kitchen then out then back in without actually doing anything because he couldn't remember why he went in there.
"The secret to being a good host is to relax so your guests can do the same, not to be a nervous wreck who makes everyone else tense," she lectured him.
"There's going to be a baby in my house. That's a lot of pressure," Alex told her. It was Cole's baby no less. He was Alex's friend and former crush. He had the baby with a surrogate only a few months ago, and this was their first visit since Cole moved back to town.
"Where's the pressure? The baby is going to drool and go to sleep. She won't care which napkins you put out," Nat said.
"Sleep? What?" Now Alex was panicking even more. "Where's she going to sleep? Oh God, I need to change the sheets on the guest bed. No, I need to buy new sheets for the guest bed." The sheets he had couldn't possibly be good enough for a baby.
"She's a baby," Nat told him and her voice clearly implied he was an idiot. "They sleep in their baby carriers, or Cole will just hold her."
"I'm not ready," Alex said. As he thought about everything he needed to do, the doorbell rang. "Oh my God, I'm not ready."
"And you never will be," Nat said. "You want me to open the door?"
"No. I'm the host, a bad host," he said and decisively went to the door.
"I think we're a little early," Cole said as he stood on his doorstep holding a tiny baby. "Hi, Alex. Hi, Nat." Cole smiled at him until Alex realized he needed to move out of the way and let them come in from the cold.
God, Cole was still so incredible. Damn it. He used to make Alex incoherent. More incoherent. With his strong build, his intense blue eyes on a face covered with a dark beard, he made Alex crazy.
"Is it the baby?" Cole asked him. "Did she make you speechless?"
"Am I speechless?" Alex asked.
"Those are the first words you said to me, so yes," Cole told him.
"Sorry. Hi. Welcome. Make yourself at home, I mean comfortable. Or both," Alex told him.
Smiling at him the way he always did when Alex was losing his head over him, Cole took the baby's little hand and made her wave. "Want to say hi to my friends? What do you say, Z?"
"Z? You actually call her that?" Alex said. "I thought you just did that in texts."
"No. I call her Z all the time," Cole said while the baby stared all around. "I think she likes your house."
"And how does she like your new place?" Nat asked Cole.
"No complaints. The best thing is that Paula, Z's new nanny, lives in our building," Cole said while still standing in the middle of the living room holding the baby plus her stuff.
Alex finally realized what he needed to do about that. "Where do you want to put all that stuff?" he asked.
"Anywhere you want. You can't step one foot out the door with a baby without all this," Cole said.
Showing him into the guest room, Alex hoped it wasn't too cheerless for the baby, too angular and modern. Of course it was. It was a terrible room. He needed to redecorate right now.
"We won't mess up the room too much," Cole assured him as he set up a few things.
"Mess it up all you want. I was just thinking it wasn't good enough for the baby," Alex confessed, and Cole laughed.
"You don't ever change, do you?" Cole said.
"You don't either."
"I have a baby. That's a pretty big change," Cole said.
"So you think becoming a dad has changed you? We'll see," Alex told him and Cole just grinned. He noticed that the baby was closing her eyes. "Is she sleepy already?"
"She might be, but I was going to feed her first. She looks like she can't stay awake for it," Cole said.
"Poor thing," Alex said and Cole chuckled.
"She's OK. She's only taking a nap," Cole told him.
"I should let you do what you need to do instead of hovering anxiously," Alex said.
"Z doesn't mind. And I'm here to spend time with you."
"And Nat," Alex added quickly as a reminder to himself that Cole wasn't here for some alone time with him.
"It's really good to see you guys," Cole said and put the baby down in a carrier. She made a complaining noise and Alex thought Cole would pick her up again, but he just said some soothing words to her and she settled down, closed and opened her eyes a few times and then went to sleep.
"Wow, you're like a baby whisperer," Alex said, in owe of his dad skills, but made sure to keep his voice down even though they were stepping out of there to let her sleep.
"She was halfway asleep. It's not always that easy," Cole said.
"And she's OK by herself in the dark?" Alex said as he looked back while following Cole into the living room.
"It's not that dark. She'll sleep better that way and the door is open," Cole told him like Alex was the anxious father who needed to be reassured.
"OK, sorry," Alex said with an apologetic smile. "I'm just not used to babies, and you're so at ease with this."
Cole burst out laughing. "I'm what? I'm a nervous wreck," he claimed, while Alex looked back toward the guest room to make sure Cole's loud laugh didn't wake the baby. As if to prove him right, Cole wasn't worried.
"But you're so good at this and so calm." Alex pointed at him, the picture of hunky, confident fatherhood.
"Not on the inside," Cole told him.
"He just doesn't wear his craziness on his sleeve like you do," Nat said as Cole sat on the opposite side of the couch from where she was lounging already armed with her glass of wine.
"Nat has been beating me up about being nervous about playing host," Alex explained.
"I'm sure that helped," Cole said and gave Nat a dirty look.
"Ooh, I remember this, Cole's protective side," she said.
"Huh," Alex said confused. What was Cole being protective about?
For dinner, Alex made a stuffed pork loin and roasted potatoes, carrots and squash. As they sat down to eat, he told Cole, "I remember you liking all kinds of roasted vegetables."
"True, and pork any way it can be made," Cole said as Alex loaded up his plate. "Looks so good. Thank you. I can't believe what a good cook you are."
"Can't believe it? Why?" Alex wondered while Nat shook her head at him.
Cole chuckled. "I just mean you didn't used to be."
"Oh right. I took a few classes," Alex said sheepishly because he did it while thinking of him and his big appetite.
"It paid off," Cole told him.
Alex was glad, but he hadn't thought he would ever get to cook for him much. Cole was just the only guy he could picture who made it seem worth it to try and better himself.
Realistically, he figured he'd find someone who was Cole's opposite, approachable, a little nerdy, maybe shy, maybe socially inept, but nice and hopefully cute too. Definitely not any brawny hunks like Cole, who would only remind him of what he couldn't have.
After dinner, they went back to the living room and Alex served dessert. "Did you want to try some of this peanut butter cheesecake?" he asked Cole. "I know you don't like anything sweet but I didn't want to deprive Nat."
"I could have some," Cole said. "Cheesecake is a dessert I could almost get around to liking."
"Most people don't have to try to like cheesecake," Nat told him like she took any slight against cheesecake personally. "They have working taste buds."
"Don't berate him," Alex told her.
"Cole is the last guy on earth who needs to be defended from me by you." Nat looked him up and down to remind him of his weight class.
"Alex is just being nice," Cole told her as he had a bite of the cheesecake. "And this is pretty good."
Alex was happy to hear that, even too happy. "The peanut butter isn't the sweet kind and it's dark chocolate on top."
"You deliberately made dessert that Cole might actually like," Nat accused him like that was a crime.
"I appreciate it," Cole told him. He was such a good guest.
Over dessert, Cole told them about his job managing a sports car and motorcycle rental place. Alex could picture him behind the wheel of those machines better than he could imagine him behind a desk.
Next they talked about how he was settling in. Alex wished he had been able to help him out with the move, but Cole had arranged for everything himself. He tried not to take that personally, but failed. But maybe they just weren't that close. It was true that they hadn't been in constant touch since college. They had drifted apart.
While Alex was lost in thought, Cole had gotten out his phone to show them some videos of the baby when he first got her home.
"Dude, a shirtless pic," Nat was saying and Alex made sure not to jump to have a look.
Cole was sitting next to Nat on the sofa while Alex leaned over so be could see. And there was a picture of a shirtless Cole holding a teeny-tiny baby.
Cole patted the space next to him. "Get over here so you can see better."
"Yeah, Cole is showing off his muscles. You don't want to miss that," Nat said.
"These are pictures of the baby," Cole insisted.
"Right, just ignore the boulder of a man holding her," Nat said.
"I'm not a boulder," Cole said then they heard the baby and he went to get her.
But this time Nat was right and Cole had no clue about the impression he made. Burly and manly and so hot while holding the tiny Z, he was a dream that would never come true for Alex. As Cole brought the baby over, she was fussing a little, and Alex had the urge to reassure her that he wasn't thinking anything dirty about her dad.
Nat left while Cole was changing Z, and Alex wondered if she did that deliberately to give them some time to themselves. Of course they weren't alone. Z was there.
Watching Cole with her, Alex wondered what it was like to hold her. Probably nice.
"Did you want to hold Z?" Cole said, guessing what he was thinking. "She's pretty mellow right now. Shouldn't give you any trouble."
"Can I be trusted to hold her?" Alex wondered half as a question to Cole and half to himself.
"As long as you don't drop her," Cole said.
The thought of that scared Alex away from even trying. "I better not. Let's leave her where she's safe, in Daddy's arms."
"OK," Cole said and Alex made an unhappy noise. "You want to hold her." This time Cole wasn't asking because it was obvious.
"I do but I'm too nervous," Alex admitted.
"You know what, sit on the couch and hold her then there won't be anywhere to drop her," Cole said and went over to the couch. "Right there. I'll hand her to you."
Alex agreed and sat down and then he was holding Z. "She's squishy and alive and oh, hi, Z. I won't drop you," Alex promised her.
"She's not worried. Want to try feeding her too?" Cole asked.
"Uh, maybe," Alex said, feeling more confident now that he had successfully held Z for all of two seconds.
Getting a bottle from the fridge, Cole sat next to him and showed him how to feed Z. It turned out that she did most of the work, he just had to keep the bottle tilted right.
"She's so good at this. She finished almost the whole thing," Alex said amazed.
"She's a good eater like her dad," Cole said and he beamed at her.
"She makes you smile a lot, doesn't she. I mean, before Z, I bet there wasn't one picture of you smiling," Alex said.
"There is at least one. And you know the one I mean. From when you spilled beer all over your shirt because you turned your head just as you were about to drink. You have this look on your face like a kid who just dropped his ice cream cone in the dirt."
"And you were laughing at me. I know that picture. That's not you smiling. That's you laughing your ass off at my expense," Alex accused him.
Cole shrugged. "Close enough."
"I was already drunk, that's why I didn't know how to drink," Alex said and looked down at Z. "She knows how to drink and she's almost asleep again."
Cole leaned over for a better look and Alex was reminded of how good he smelled. He could get drunk on just the manly scent of him. "Yes, she is. Let me hold her up in case she wants to burp."
"Is she really going to sleep already," Alex asked. He had already gotten addicted to holding her.
"Yeah and I should probably be going," Cole said and now Alex was crushed.
"Really?" Alex didn't hide his disappointment.
"Or I could put her back in her carrier, let her sleep and stick around," Cole said.
"You could, and we could watch something," Alex said that way he wouldn't start babbling just to keep the conversation going.
"Not one of those foreign films you pretended to like," Cole said.
"I didn't pretend. OK, sometimes I pretended." And sometimes he fell asleep and woke up with his head on Cole's shoulder or with him leaning on Cole's muscular arm.
Why did he have to think of that? It's not like that was going to happen again.
They didn't watch a boring foreign film, but somehow Cole ended up asleep with his head on Alex's shoulder. That used to happen sometimes too. Alex didn't want to disturb him, he even breathed softly so he wouldn't wake him, but Z wasn't that considerate. She was making complaining sounds so Alex nudged Cole. "I think Z wants something."
Cole blinked and looked around like he was reminding himself where he was. He then smiled at Alex and got up saying, "Just like old times."
Nico Flynn is all about stories that are heartwarming and steamy in equal measure, always with a healthy dose of humor. Bring on the snappy banter, mutual pining, and well-earned happy endings!
Nico lives a wild life out in the country with too many dogs, a family, video games, and a whole lot of books. If new releases suddenly stop, you can assume Nico was swallowed up by an out-of-control tomato plant or eaten by a bear.
After years of writing across age groups and genres in the traditional publishing arena, Nico is thrilled (and terrified) to finally be taking this first step on the indie side. It's a wide and wonderful world out here!
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Lynn Michaels lives and writes in Tampa, Florida where the sun is hot and the Sangria is cold. When she’s not writing she’s kayaking, hanging with her husband, or reading by the pool. Lynn writes Male/Male romance because she believes everyone deserves a happy ending and the dynamics of male characters can be intriguing, vulnerable, and exciting. She has both contemporary and paranormal titles and has been writing since 2014. Her stories don’t follow any set guidelines or ideas, but come from her heart and contain love in many forms.
Casey McQuiston is the New York Times bestselling author of Red, White & Royal Blue, as well as a pie enthusiast. She writes books about smart people with bad manners falling in love. Born and raised in southern Louisiana, she now lives in New York City with her poodle mix and personal assistant, Pepper.
Nico Flynn
EMAIL: nicoflynnauthor@gmail.com
Josh Lanyon
Lynn Michaels
Love Potion No 69 by Lynn Michaels
Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
Thanksgiving for Baby by Trina Solet
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