Summary:
One Christmas, two lonely hearts, five portions of sparkle!
Gray isn’t enjoying December. The weather’s grim, his job’s a struggle, and his useless boyfriend ran out on him months ago. He’s a walking Mr Christmas Grump. And then he delivers a parcel to Alec, a bright, sparkly, over-earnest vlogger who’s going through his own hard times.
Over the course of five days, accompanied by an irritating but relentlessly cheerful pop song, Gray and Alec share secrets, kisses, regrets, triumphs, some truly awful fashion—and maybe a love that will last far beyond the new year.
This short novella was previously published in the 2020 anthology “Gifts for the Season”. It is a standalone Christmas romance.
Original Review January 2023:
Another delightfully fun and short Christmas story. Hard to call it a slow build in a story so short but it was or maybe a timely progression over five days. However you label the pace, it's a winning gem that is creatively present day with a blend of traditional holiday cuteness. Could it have been better had it been longer so we could delve into the personalities of Gray and Alec more? Perhaps, but for a holiday short it puts a smile on your face and happiness in your heart, what more could one ask for?
Summary:
Tinsel & Tentacles #8
If angels get wings, what do monsters get?
Brody Hawkins was living the good life. Unattached, young, attractive, with a great job at the Shangri-La La Land gay bar and bringing men and women back to his bed most nights without ever being tied down.
Until the night he stumbles upon an injured man in the snow.
Wary of the circumstances that might have left someone for dead so near to Christmas, instead of taking the man to a hospital, Brody brings him home. He dubs the man Goldie, having no other name offered to him when Goldie wakes, but his golden hair and eyes are like tinsel on a tree.
Goldie couldn’t have anything to do with the murders or missing person from a few blocks down. He couldn’t. He’s too sweet and soft-spoken and even a little sad. He’s no monster.
But he also might not be human.
It’s a Tenta-ful Life is part of the Tinsel and Tentacles multi-author collaboration and a complete standalone. Expect to find a lifelong bachelor who never planned to fall in love, an eldritch horror in disguise who longs for love, mutual pining, strangers to friends to lovers, dark and deadly secrets, tentacles with hidden talents, and more in this slightly darker take on a holiday MM romance. Want more tantalizingly tentacular winter holiday romances? Grab the whole series!
Summary:
Mated at the North Pole #4
An all-star flying reindeer shifter. A shy but clever elf. One is overworked, the other excited to take on his new first job.
Coco:
This is the story of how I got stranded in a snowstorm at my boss’s house. And never left. (Did I mention my boss is a flying reindeer?)
Vixen:
This is the story of how I reluctantly went on a mandatory vacation and lied to Santa, all of which brought me the greatest love of my life.
Falling in love is not on their agenda, but love strikes when least expected. Can Coco and Vixen make things work in their personal lives while helping Santa have a low-stress, smooth delivery run on Christmas Eve?
Mpreg. Grumpy/sunshine. Age gap (22-40). A suspected alpha rut. An omega heat. A cool reindeer legend. Possibility of coal in a stocking. An adorable baby. Decorations, snow and roaring fireplaces. Steaming up those frosted windowpanes. HEA.
Vixen is the fourth book in the multi-author M/M Shifter Mpreg Christmas romance series Mated at the North Pole, featuring Santa’s reindeer who find their mates while on a mandatory vacation. There are ten books in the series. Why not read them all?
Summary:
Haunted Souls #17
With only a week until Christmas, Detective Jude Byrne is wrapping up final preparations for his family’s celebration. He’s made a list and checked it twice, bought presents, planned the neighborhood cookie exchange, and hung mistletoe. Jude’s got a handle on everything, that is, until his son asks if his grandfather is coming to celebrate with them—a man Jude hasn’t seen in six years.
Meanwhile, psychic Copeland Forbes is busier than ever, helping grieving family members reunite with loved ones who won’t be with them this season. When Jude mentions inviting his grandfather to spend the holidays with them, Cope thinks it’s a great idea, but doesn’t hold out much hope Eagle will make an appearance.
When Running Eagle shows up on their doorstep, Jude must face his past and decide how his present will play out. Thanks to long talks and spending time with family and friends, Eagle realizes Jude has found the one thing he never could give him. A home.
Can Jude and Eagle lay the ghosts of the past to rest or will the last tattered remains of their bond break forever?
Anna Martin's Christmas Short Stories #5
Jack Daly owns a toy shop nestled away down one of Bath’s cobbled streets, and he has big plans: in the new year, he’s going to expand to include a book shop. So when a seasonal pop-up shop selling children’s books opens on the other side of the street, he’s livid — is he about to lose everything he’s worked so hard for?
Oliver Rowe would much prefer to be writing books than selling them, but since writer’s block hit he doesn’t have much choice. With his agent breathing down his neck and inspiration at an all time low, all he can do is daydream about the grumpy toy shop owner who won’t stop scowling at him.
Five Gold Blings by Clare London
ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS
The radio presenter gleefully announced ‘It’s the coldest day of the year—so far! Let’s brace ourselves for near-Arctic temperatures in the middle of suburban London. Maybe there’ll be snow this Christmas, and won’t that be fun?’
Bloody hysterical, I thought sarcastically as I backed my van into the narrow access road behind the local shops. The gearbox crunched and the engine clunked to a stop. The heater ticked on for a few beats, maybe still trying valiantly to warm up the freezing gusts it had been sending to my feet all day. The radio continued warbling the opening verse of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” sung by this year’s TV talent show winner, then sputtered to silence. Great. Now that wasn’t working either. My vehicle wasn’t so much an old model as a spin off from Noah’s Ark. Okay, it had done me and my local delivery business proud for many years, but this winter could be its death knell.
I struggled out of the van, wrapped already in a sweater and a thick coat. The edge of the door scraped against the damp wall, adding another dent to its history, and I nearly went arse over tit on the slippery paving. I suppose gently falling snowflakes should be romantic for Christmas, now only those twelve days away. But the snow so rarely settles in central London: it turns to slush, then treacherous ice underfoot.
I hauled the last remaining box from the back of the van and turned to face the metal fire escape, leading to the apartment above the charity shop. Final delivery of the day. Deep breath, Gray. You can make it. I’d been to the shop before, but they’d recently hired out the upstairs rooms to supplement their income, and these were parcels for the tenant, Mr A Partridge. Hrmph. I put my foot on the lowest step of the staircase, testing the frost that was already settling. I wondered if Mr Partridge’s business had insurance for when I went flying.
Then sighed to myself. When did I get to be such a miserable ‘old’ git, at the age of only twenty-five? Mr Grumpy Grinch, that was me. With less than two weeks to go until the celebration of tinsel, baubles, and a hairy, red-suited guy with his own line in deliveries, my only dream for Christmas was a work-free huddle on my sofa with hot chocolate, fleecy pyjamas, and a few comforting evenings of gay porn.
I used to love Christmas: all the cheesy charm, the glitter, the eternally-looped pop songs, even the rampant commercialism—which I managed to avoid most years, because I’m always so strapped for cash. Last year had been a blast: I’d made mulled wine, got tangled in holly-decorated sticky tape, bought a pair of Santa hats at the market stall, even eaten Brussel sprouts…
Ah well. Happier, though bittersweet, times.
I climbed the stairs as carefully as I could—thank God someone had salted them—until I could safely put down the parcel while I knocked on the door. It wasn’t a heavy box, but large and difficult to handle. As the door opened, I had to peer over the top of it to see the customer.
“Hello?” The guy in the doorway was short, very slim, with spiky bleached hair that draped across his forehead into a cute curl at his temple, and eyes so wide he looked like the proverbial deer in headlights. A cute mouth framed a startled O, and in his ear…
Wow. It was maybe just a trick of the light, but a diamond stud winked like the most precious gem in a jeweller’s window. Nestled in a soft-looking, very biteable-looking lobe. I like bling on a man, you know? I have a couple of plain gold rings in each ear, but this… this was magical. The twinkling fascinated me, like it was casting its spell on me—
And then I registered what he was wearing.
Or not. In complete disregard for the wind whistling from behind me into the building with its freezing death ray in hand, he was wearing a pair of luridly-patterned swim shorts that hung down to his knees. And only the shorts. There was a very delicious moment where I gazed at his smooth, bare chest, then down to well-shaped calves and bare feet. I thought briefly: he doesn’t look like a Mr Partridge at all, like I’d imagined an old man with beady eyes and a puffed belly. Then I thought: Oh, but he’s pretty. So, so pretty, it all but took my breath away. And finally: Wonder if he’s gay, with hair like that, and doesn’t he look fabulous in eyeliner!
“Delivery?” I muttered, still rapt.
“Oh, thank God!” he cried. He took his hand away from his waist where he was clutching at the fabric of the shorts, reached for the box—and the shorts fell to his ankles.
You remember I said all I was looking for at Christmas was hot chocolate and gay porn? Well, it looked like Santa had been half-listening. A beautiful young man was less than two feet away from me—and stark, bollock naked.
It's a Tenta-ful Life by Amanda Meuwissen
Brody
Only three days until Christmas and after a long shift at the bar, the lit tip of my Marlboro Light in the cold dark was more magical than the glittering lights of the closed shops lining the streets to my apartment.
Those multi-colored lights weren’t enough to illuminate the shadowy patches between streetlamps. A cigarette shouldn’t be enough either. But somehow, tilting my head from the wind to spark my lighter for that first buzzing breath was enough to alert my eyes to a glimmer in the snow.
A gold glimmer with a swath of red.
Blood. Not tinsel or holiday lights reflecting, but blood spilling from the golden man face-planted on the sidewalk.
A mugging gone south? Wrong place, wrong time?
Yeah, for me. This late at night—or early in the morning—every direction I looked was nothing but empty streets, with the faint sound of sirens in the distance.
It must have been the holiday spirit or some other bullshit that prompted me to heft the stranger upright and drag his ass to safety. Not smart safety either, like to a hospital, but straight upstairs to my second-floor apartment.
He wasn’t dead weight. His feet moved, almost mechanically, and though I couldn’t make out any of the words he mumbled, I heard clearly the honey sweetness of his voice.
When I laid him down to divest him of his wet clothes and jacket—and scarf, soaked in blood, with no hat or gloves, which was dangerous at this temperature, especially not knowing how long he’d been out there—I finally saw his face.
Early-twenties, beautiful, flawless really, almost surreally so, like his skin didn’t have a single pore. When his eyes fluttered open, I was even more certain this was an angel with its wings clipped because I’d never seen someone with eyes the same color as their golden hair.
And his eyes were filled with grief.
“Matthew…” he said like he was looking for someone else.
Then he passed out on my rug.
How the hell did I end up here tonight?
Especially when this wasn’t the first time I’d found a body at Christmas.
Vixen by Wendy Rathbone
1
Vixen
The number of toys on the requisition forms weren’t adding up and I couldn’t figure out the mistake.
My vision blurred as I stared at the computer screen. I pressed my fingertips to the bridge of my nose. A dull headache threatened to become something worse. I needed my afternoon coffee. And I needed the noise in the main hall to simmer down.
By the end of September, in every Santa’s office, things got busier. And noisier.
I got up and shut my door. The noise level lowered.
During the summer, my assistant had moved on to another job. I had too much to do and not enough time to hire a new one. Finally, last week, I asked the main office to hire someone for me. They said they were also over-run and would get back to me soon.
I went to my sideboard and brewed a fresh cup of coffee in my special mug with antlers for handles. I added six sugar cubes the way I liked. Most flying reindeer shifters had a sweet tooth, and I was no exception.
Coffee in hand, I walked to my office window and looked out over Christmas Village. We’d gotten our first significant snow a week ago. The rooftops and surrounding land sparkled in the stark, afternoon light. Red and green elf-lights outlined every building and winked in every tree. All the streets and walkways were clear of snow. The elves made sure of that day to day.
Christmas Village was a wonder, but neither the sugary coffee nor the beauty of the early fall day did anything to alleviate my sour mood. All the extra workload for the next three months leading up to Christmas Day crowded in on my mind.
It also began to weigh on me that the excessive hall noise meant people were talking more than working which, for me as the boss, meant even more of a pile up. I could hear the yammering even through my closed door.
I stomped to my office door and flung it open hard enough that it hit the side wall with a bang. Groups of employees, some visiting with their families, including kids, all froze and looked straight at me.
“Quiet! Now!” Well, that sounded far too grumpy, even though I was. “Please,” I added, lowering my tone. “If you’re done with work for the day, go home. If not, get back to work.”
No one moved. No one replied. The kids, which were too often annoying at best, stared at me with wide, startled eyes. Like reindeer caught in the headlights, I thought, suppressing a snarky chuckle.
Just then, the elevator dinged. A young man walked out of the car. He had on a silvery overcoat with a white, faux fur collar. Black mittens dangled from the sleeve ends. His heavy black boots were still damp from the outside. His golden hair was slicked back from his forehead, gleaming over a sweet-cheeked face with berry-hued lips.
“Oh!” He jumped a little when he saw the crowd in the hall. “Did I interrupt something?”
My mouth went suddenly dry. My fingers began to curl. He was just about the prettiest little omega I’d ever seen. Possibly an elf, but I couldn’t be sure.
It had been a long time since I’d noticed anyone in any way based on something as shallow as looks. And an even longer time since I’d had any sort of personal life that wasn’t me alone rattling around my big house in the next village over.
No.
This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all.
“Who are you?” I realized I’d asked the question as if I were some glorified interrogator, flinging my hand forward. Unfortunately, it was the hand holding my coffee and it sloshed out of my cup and onto the bright, white tile floor.
At that, people began to disperse, flinging me confused and startled looks. I had excellent hearing, and someone whispered, as they left, “It’s fall. The boss always gets this way in the fall.”
But instead of turning away, the man from the elevator jogged forward, setting aside his small backpack and kneeling before the largest coffee puddle. He produced a cloth handkerchief as if from thin air and wiped at the puddle as he gazed up at me.
“Hello, sir. You must be Mister Vixen. They told me to look for the one with the hair, um, well, they said it, not me. They said, ‘Look for the guy with the long black hair down to his ass.’ Um, that was them, sir, not me saying that.” On his hands and knees, he continued to scrub his now soaked hankie against the floor, looking all bundled up and adorable if one could be that while cleaning up spilled coffee.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” The headache expanded to now include the back of my neck.
He quickly stood. He was stunning. Like a fairy-elf. Though it would have insulted him if I’d said that out loud. Elves hated the word fairy.
“Oh, yes, sir. My name is Coco.” He shoved the wet hankie into his pocket and held out his hand. “I’ve been sent from the main office. I’m your new assistant. Sir.”
I didn’t take his hand. “My new assistant? It’s about time. I contacted the office for you weeks ago.”
“Uh, sorry, sir. I would have been here sooner, but they only hired me yesterday and there was a lot of paperwork to fill out and sign.”
“Not your fault.” That came out insincere to match my mood, though it was the truth. Coco had no control over who he would be assigned to, once hired. “Follow me.”
“Uh, sir, if you have a mop nearby, I can finish cleaning. It’ll just take me a minute.”
“No. I don’t. I’ll notify maintenance to send a janitor.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.”
Coco grabbed his backpack from the floor and followed me into my office. I motioned him into the plush, red leather chair facing my desk and walked around to my seat. Quickly, I sent a text to maintenance.
“There. That’s done.” I looked up to see he had taken off his coat. He had on a white shirt, black pants and red suspenders. He looked fresh and clean and too cute for words. He watched me carefully, his dark eyes full of concern.
“Your job here is not about cleanup,” I said. “We have staff for that. You’re here to assist me in my work. Sometimes I work late, especially this time of the year. Will that be a problem?”
“No, sir. I’m okay with extra hours.”
“You’ll be compensated for them.”
“That’s fine, sir. I’m just happy to be here. I’ve wanted to work in the Santa industry for a long time. And now, to find out I’m actually working with you, a famous flying reindeer shifter.” His cheeks widened. His smile was like the midnight sun. “It’s a dream come true.”
Hell’s jingle bells. This was not what I needed, a young, starstruck elf who might only be here for the bragging rights.
“What’s your experience?”
“Oh, they should have sent you my file.” He licked his berry lips and tilted his head, making my heart skip a beat. “I can send it to you.”
“No need. It’s probably in my backlogged email.”
“Sir, that’s what I’m here to help with. Any backlogs you have, things that need to be organized or that I can take care of without bothering you. I have a two-year admin degree and though I don’t have a lot of racked up years of experience, I did a six-month administrative internship at the toy factory. Mostly paperwork. Very boring. But they did like me and wanted to hire me permanently. Instead, I applied at the Santa Consortium Main Office. And now, here I am.” He held out his arms. “I love this place. I’m so happy to be here.”
I cleared my throat, toying with my now almost empty coffee cup. Hmm, how to put this delicately. But, no, I wasn’t in a delicate sort of state at the moment. “Fine. We’ll try it out. One month. If we work well together, I’ll notify the office that you’re to be instated as permanent.”
“Yes, sir. I knew there would be a probationary period. I’m ready to show you what I can do and get to work!” His eyes were actually gold, and they sparkled. He stood up. “I can see right now, sir, that you are in need of more coffee. May I get you a fresh cup?” He held out his hand toward my antler mug.
Numbly, I held out my cup. He took it and went to my sideboard. In a minute, he called out, “Sugar, am I right? And a lot of it?”
“Yes. Six cubes.”
“Coming right up.”
My last assistant often admonished me for my sugar habit. He had been efficient, but we weren’t friends. We tolerated each other. But Coco didn’t even flinch when I told him how many cubes to put into the drink.
When he came back to hand me my mug, there was a little candy cane sticking out of it. “Is this okay?” he asked.
Steam rose from the brown liquid. It smelled like Christmas had already arrived. I couldn’t find a thing to critique about his first task.
“Perfect.” My voice came out as a whisper.
Ghosts of Christmas Present by Pandora Pine
PROLOGUE
Running Eagle
Kingman, Arizona, June 1997…
Eagle always had a difficult relationship with his son, Victor. It started when his boy was a child, wanting to go to the white school in Kingman instead of the one on the Navajo reservation. He wanted a better education, a wider view of the world. Freedom from who he was and who he’d been born to be: Howling Wolf. The next tribal medicine man.
Things had gone from bad to worse when Victor decided to attend the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. Not only was he five hundred miles away, but he never came home, not even during summer break. He’d gotten a job and an apartment, settling easily into a new life. He’d completely turned his back on his people and his way of life. No matter what wise words Eagle used, Victor was unmoved. His plan was to stay in New Mexico, and he wanted nothing to do with his Navajo roots, which crushed Eagle.
There had been scattered phone calls over the next few years. Eagle’s son graduated from college and had a new girlfriend named Carol. She was the woman of his dreams, according to Victor, who’d brought the girl home around Christmas for a short visit. It was the first time he’d seen Victor in five years. Carol had been nice enough and seemed to love Victor endlessly in the way only people in their early twenties could do.
A year later, there had been a wedding. An elopement. Victor had sent pictures. Soon after was a baby announcement. He’d gotten a grainy sonogram image, which he’d stuck to his refrigerator. Only a few short months later, Eagle got a call from his devastated son. Carol had died in childbirth, but his grandson was safe. Victor didn’t think he could handle being a single parent.
Eagle had gone to Albuquerque to help his son and meet his grandson, Jude. He’d done everything he could to help his grieving son as he buried his wife and took on the duties of father to a motherless boy. He’d begged Victor to come home, telling him the Navajo elders and others would help raise the boy. His answer had been a firm no. Victor wanted his son raised off reservation.
Heartbroken himself, Eagle had gone home alone.
Over the next thirteen years, there were sporadic visits. Pictures showing Jude growing up happy and healthy. Even the occasional letter or card from Jude himself. Eagle had stopped asking Victor to come home.
Life went on, as did tribal business. Until one day, when a phone call shattered Eagle’s carefully compartmentalized life. Victor was dead, killed by a man allegedly on drugs, but Eagle knew better. It was a skinwalker, a malevolent, shape-shifting witch. Worse, the murder happened in front of Jude, who’d been unable to save his father.
He’d caught the first plane to Albuquerque and found Jude being interviewed by the police. Through the one-way glass, his grandson looked small and frightened. His dark eyes sunk deep in his skull, while his shaking hands wrapped around each other, bloodless from the pressure he exerted, as uniformed cops grilled him.
“You were standing right there, kid. You had to have seen what happened!” a skinny cop with flared nostrils shouted at Jude.
“I-I…” Jude began, tears streaming from his eyes.
The big cop slammed his beefy hands on the table, making Jude jump. “Spit it out! What the hell did you see?”
Enraged beyond measure, Eagle burst into the interrogation room. “Enough! This child is a minor and cannot be questioned without a parent or guardian in the room.”
Jude burst from his seat, throwing himself against Eagle’s middle and holding on for dear life.
“I’m here, Jude. Everything is going to be okay.” Eagle’s eyes were on the cops who’d been shouting at the boy.
“Who the hell are you?” Big and beefy asked.
“Eagle Byrne. I’m Jude’s grandfather. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m taking him home.” As far as he was concerned, the matter of Victor’s death was closed. The Albuquerque police would never catch the killer. It would be up to him to ferret out the killer, which was neither here nor there at the moment. Getting Jude out of there was his first priority; getting him back to the reservation was his second.
“We’re not finished with him,” the skinny cop said, standing up and striding toward them.
“Oh, yes you are. I will not allow my grandson to be subjected to your browbeating. He’s an innocent boy whose father was murdered in front of him, making him an orphan.” Eagle’s heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his toes.
Neither cop’s face softened to Jude’s plight, and that was just fine with Running Eagle. He was taking his grandson out of here, come hell or high water. “Is my grandson under arrest?”
The cops looked at each other, as if neither knew what to say. “No,” Big and Beefy said. “But…”
“No buts. The boy comes with me.” Without waiting for permission, Eagle walked Jude to the door and out into the hallway.
Fat tears rolled down Jude’s face. “I couldn’t save him,” he whispered. “I didn’t know what to do. I should have listened to you. I should have learned our ways. If I had, Dad wouldn’t be dead.”
“Everything happens according to Father Sky. This was His will; there was nothing you could do to stop it from happening.” Eagle hated lying to his grandson, but there was no other way. He didn’t want Jude’s entire life defined by this one moment. On the other hand, if Victor had brought the boy to the reservation and let him learn their ways, there was a good chance they would have been able to defend themselves against the monster who took his son’s life.
Running Eagle knew his son’s killer wasn’t some crazed drug addict but rather something far more sinister. A force so evil that to speak its name would conjure it. Had Victor manifested his own demise, or had someone else orchestrated the murder of his only son?
Victor was dead, and there was nothing Eagle could do about it. All that mattered now was protecting Jude until he was able to protect himself.
Father Sky willing…
Mistletoe & Whine by Anna Martin
The rain floated down outside—a fine, gentle, misty rain that clung to eyelashes and soaked through socks in moments—and inside in his shop, Jack Daly scowled fiercely at the activity across the street.
Festive Children’s Book Shop! the banner screamed in garish red.
Closing Christmas Eve!
Jack’s scowl deepened.
People rushed down the cobbled alley, obscuring Jack’s view in flashes of jewel-coloured coats, black umbrellas, armfuls of shopping bags. The terrible weather clearly hadn’t put anyone off coming out to get some Christmas shopping done.
The bell above the door jingled and Jack forced himself to paste on his professionalsmile as a woman clattered in with three children in tow.
“We’re just looking,” she said, warning them and flashing Jack an apologetic grin.
The kids were already running away from her and if they had heard, they were pretending they hadn’t.
The Magic Toy Shop had been open for a little over four years now, and Jack had a solid business plan of slow and steady growth. The shop was nestled down one of Bath’s twisting cobbled streets, which gave the whole area a quietly magical feel, and at this time of year, when the Christmas lights were strung between the buildings, the magic was dialled up a little higher.
The kids seemed initially less interested in the toys as they were in the slide and the treehouse—something that was vitally important when Jack had been drawing up the designs for the shop. The treehouse, and the slide, and the crawl-spaces between the shelves that kids loved to hide in. The antique wardrobe with the false back, where it was practically required to push aside the faux-fur coats to get to the next room and look at the rows and rows of fairy dolls and ugly gnomes for sale.
It was as much an experience as it was a shop, and Jack had plans, damn it, for a second-floor bookshop next year.
And now this… this… amateur across the street was going to throw a spanner in his plans and Jack thought he was entirely justified in being annoyed by that.
“We’ll just be five minutes,” the woman said, and Jack forced himself to pay attention to his customers. “They’ve been begging to come here since we got into town.”
“It’s fine,” Jack said with a smile, waving away her apologies. “I didn’t put a slide in just to turn away kids who want to play on it.”
“I’ll be back on Wednesday,” she said in a low voice. “To get the last of the shopping done when they’re in school.”
“If you need me to put anything aside for you just let me know,” he replied. “You can send me a message on Instagram if that helps. I can arrange for home delivery, too.”
“Why would anyone want home delivery?” she said, shaking the water from her cropped brown hair. “I want to go down the slide.”
Jack laughed. “You’re welcome to.”
“Kids!” she yelled, turning away from Jack and towards the squabbling which had broken out around whose turn it was. “Time go!”
The kids made the appropriate protests but trudged obligingly towards the door. The woman turned back and grinned at Jack over her shoulder.
See you Wednesday, she mouthed at him. Then, to the kids, “Come on, we’ll have a look in the book shop before we go home.”
Jack’s returning smile turned into a scowl.
It was practically theft, was what it was. He’d established this shop and built his presence here. He’d done the outreach and worked with the children’s hospital in Bristol and painstakingly built his social media presence until The Magic Toy Shop had been listed as one of the top five toy shops in the UK by the Guardian.
Instead of moping, Jack forced himself to get up from behind the counter (polished oak—his granddad had come out of retirement to make it for him bespoke) and tidy up the display of stuffed animals and their adorably quaint matching clothes that he imported from a small business in Romania.
That had been part of the plan he’d refused to budge on, even when everyone was telling him he needed to move with the trends. The shop wasn’t filled with ‘plastic tat’, as his friends with kids had called it, or whatever was the latest must-have toy of the season. He worked with suppliers from around the world to offer unique or bespoke or limited edition toys that you couldn’t just order online for half the price. The shop was a lifestyle brand, and deliberately so.
The sun set early these days, but the steady stream of customers lasted right up until he closed the doors at six—later than usual for December, so people could stop in after work for some last minute shopping. Some came in with the intention of dropping a few hundred pounds on Christmas gifts, some others just wanted to play in the treehouse, and both types of customer was fine by him. As far as Jack was concerned, footfall was footfall. He’d lost count of how many times someone had warned a child that they weren’t buying anything today, and the kid had left with one of Jack’s distinctive black card bags with the black ribbon drawstrings. He’d joked plenty of times that the magic of the shop was the ability to change parents’ minds.
Once the displays were tidy and everything was ready for the next morning, Jack started to close down. His evening routine was quiet and familiar, flicking off the lights, transferring the receipts to the safe, pulling down the shutters and locking them.
The drizzle had stopped, thank God, but the cobbles were still slippery and Jack grabbed the gold door handle as he stepped outside to make sure he didn’t end up on his arse.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Jack forced himself to look up.
It was the bastard thief from across the street.
Jack hadn’t managed to get a good look at him until now, and of course he was ridiculously handsome, because that was what bastard thieves looked like in all of the Hollywood movies. He was tall and broad-shouldered with golden stubble over his jaw and pretty pink lips.
“I’m fine,” Jack said tightly.
“Ooo-kay,” he said, pushing his stupid floppy hair back from his stupid beautiful face. “I’ll see you around.”
“Hopefully not,” Jack muttered and stormed away—in the wrong direction—down the street before the book shop guy could follow him.
Clare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter-three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her on all her social media.
Amanda is a life-long geek and regularly attends local comic conventions for fun and to meet with fans, where she will often be seen in costume as one of her favorite fictional characters. A published author since 2012, she manages a private author group on Facebook sharing exclusive news, images, and fun, and lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband, John, and their cat, Helga.
Hi, I'm Wendy and I'm a voracious reader as well as an author.
Currently, I write all male/male romances and am lately focused on omegaverse. For many years mm has been my first love.
The stories of my characters rattle around in my brain until I have to write them down or lose sleep!
All my books are available in Kindle Unlimited. Happy reading!
Sick of the slogging rat-race of her 9-5 job, Pandora Pine put pen to paper (literally!) to make her ambition of becoming a romance novelist a reality. She cut her teeth in the dog-eat-dog world of fan fiction, still dreaming of the day when she would be a published author.
In her spare time, Pandora fancies herself an amateur nature photographer. She enjoys mucking around in swamps, hiking through the woods and crawling around on her hands and knees in her backyard seeking out the perfect shot. Pandora is a fan of roadside seafood shacks and always thinks Mexican food is a good idea at the time.
Some of Pandora's favorite things are chocolate, writing longhand with purple pens, and handsome men falling in love with each other.
Anna MartinAnna Martin is from a picturesque seaside village in the southwest of England and now lives in the Bristol, a city that embraces her love for the arts. After spending most of her childhood making up stories, she studied English literature at university before attempting to turn her hand as a professional writer.
Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, Anna is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theater (especially at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where she can be found every summer), going to visit friends in other countries, and reading anything thatís put under her nose.
Anna claims her entire career is due to the love, support, prereading, and creative ass kicking provided by her best friend Jennifer. Jennifer refuses to accept responsibility for anything Anna has written.
Clare London
EMAIL: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk
Amanda Meuwissen
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: ak.meuwissen@gmail.com
It's a Tenta-ful Life by Amanda Meuwissen
Vixen by Wendy Rathbone
Ghosts of Christmas Present by Pandora Pine
Mistletoe & Whine by Anna Martin
No comments:
Post a Comment