Summary:
Winter Magic #2
What happens when a player gets played?
Actor Dylan Frasier is known as one of the biggest playboys in Hollywood, infamous for seducing men and women alike. He’s also half in love with his two best friends. Unfortunately, Jason and Ben are madly in love with each other, leaving Dylan the odd man out. When Ben suggests an extended Christmas vacation at a resort modeled after his favorite 80s TV show, Dylan reluctantly agrees. Sure, his heart breaks a bit every time he sees them together, but it’s a vacation in the Bahamas. How bad can it be?
At first, the resort seems like any other. Dylan plans to work on his tan, get laid, and hunt for Hollywood’s most in-demand director – not necessarily in that order. Then he meets Connor, a tennis instructor still hurting from a bad breakup. Connor knows Dylan’s reputation and refuses to be seduced. Dylan sees Connor as just another conquest, but this tropical island isn’t as mundane as it appears. It has its own kind of magic, and it’s about to make things interesting.
Original Review July 2023:
I wanted to read Winter Dreams last Christmas but time had other plans so what better time than Xmas in July to sink my teeth in?😉
Is Dreams as good as the first one, Winter Oranges? No but let's be honest, how many sequels/follow-ups in any form of entertainment is as good? Very few. So I was okay with Dreams not grabbing me quite as tightly as Oranges because it is still a brilliant read. We got to catch up with Jason and Ben and Dylan gets to discover a little winter magic of his own.
Fantasy Island. Awesome scenario for this magical holiday series. I always loved the show when I was a kid, don't recall watching it when it was on primetime but in reruns in the afternoons. So fun. Watching Dylan navigate his not-quite-believing despite what he witnessed with Ben and the snowglobe two years earlier makes for some interesting moments as well as provides me with the urge to smack him one or two times(okay maybe it's in the low double digit area but you get the idea😉). Connor may speak to my more Mama Bear hugs side but he's not without his moments of getting a light smack or two as well.
As equal parts heartbreaking and heartwarming, Dylan and Connor's journey is entertaining, memorable, and worthy of Marie Sexton's Winter Magic moniker. I think it was the friendships that spoke to me the most. Yes, I was rooting for the pair from the minute they met but watching the friendship form first was a nice twist. I say "twist" because we all know that Dylan is not a commitment type of guy so seeing the flirting grow into more was quite lovely.
But it isn't just the budding friendship between our two MCs but also between Dylan, Jason, and Ben. Is Jason a bit too hard or snarky with Dylan at times in reference to his non-commitment history and habits? Sure, but I think if he wasn't Dylan would think something was wrong and that it's just their way because let's face it, Dylan isn't exactly snarky-less toward Jason either.
As for Dylan and Ben, well through Dylan's inner monologues we know he believes himself to be in love with Ben and wonders what would have been had he met the young man first but we also know he understands the boundaries which to me is the first sign that maybe Dylan is finally ready for a change, even if he doesn't see himself. Ben is a very unique gentlemen and it's because of his importance to Dylan that I highly recommend reading Winter Oranges first.
I feel like I've been a bit vague in places but I don't want to spoil anything about Dylan and Connor's story nor do I want to risk spoiling Jason and Ben's story for those who haven't read Winter Oranges. Just know that Winter Dreams, Winter Magic(currently a duology as I have no idea whether the author has plans to expand) really is just that: magical. it is what the holidays are all about: friends, happiness, love, and plenty of heart all wrapped up with a magical infused bow.
Summary:
Christmas Falls #1
I'm the grinch who saves Christmas …
Yep, you read that right. Every year I save Christmas--and Christmas Falls--by organizing a massive festival that sustains tourism for our little town.
But it turns out when Christmas is your life 24/7, the shine wears off the twinkly lights after a while. The holidays are a heck of a lot of work, and when I go home, I want peace and quiet, not fa-la-la'ing on my porch.
That all changes when my sister brings me an early Christmas gift. One I didn't ask for. One that's tall, broad, and handsome...
Suddenly this season got a whole lot brighter.
Christmas Falls is a multi-author M/M romance series set in a small town that thrives on enough holiday charm to rival any Hallmark movie.
Summary:
Holiday Surprise #8
Justin's dating life has just gone from bad, to worse.
Justin's never had the best luck meeting alphas, and for more than a year it's been a string of disappointing dates. So when he meets a seemingly nice guy at a charity party for the Valle Granja Art Museum, he thinks his luck has changed. Instead he finds himself trying to ghost a man who refuses to take 'no' for an answer.
Max can't help but protect the omega living in his apartment complex.
Max is newly single, and still rying to find out what signs he missed before his last relationship ended. However all those thoughts come to a screeching halt when he finds his neighbor hiding on his porch. He quickly learns that the omega is scared of another alpha, and decides that he'll do whatever is needed to protect the handsome man.
However, will Justin return Max's feelings as they shift from protection to attraction?
Tinsel Time Treasure is a 35K word , non-shifter, M/M, mpreg, omegaverse romance
Content note: A stalking ex-partner plays a role in this book. Therefore it may not be suitable for readers sensitive to this topic.
Summary:
Camp Bay Christmas #1
Located on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille in beautiful Northern Idaho, Camp Bay Chalet is a discrete and cozy B&B, popular with both locals and minor celebrities for its fabulous holiday weekends.
The pic seen around the world….
The son of Hollywood royalty, North Astor-Ford has lived his entire life in the public’s eye. He knows better than anyone that someone is always watching.
So when one not-so-innocent picture meant for a hook-up accidentally ends up crossposted across all his social media, North is left humiliated and scared. With no one to turn to, he flees to Camp Bay Chalet to be close to the one person he used to count on to protect him from the world.
Liam’s life has been in a holding pattern since the moment North fired him three years ago, even if it was for the best. A romance between a bodyguard and his client would’ve caused exactly the sort of scandal Liam was hired to prevent.
Now that North is back in his orbit, Liam’s going to do what he does best, protect North from the world. And maybe, just maybe, the charm of a Camp Bay Chalet Christmas will be enough to both heal North and bring about the romance they’ve both always wanted.
North’s Pole takes place in the Camp Bay shared universe, but can be read as a stand-alone. Look for more of the Camp Bay universe in Stolen Christmas by Marie Sexton.
Con Riley's Christmas Collection #1
Falling for his final client won’t make leaving London easy…
Ian ~ A talented, young photographer desperate to stay in London.
Guy ~ An older, fierce food critic, determined to keep him in his city.
Ian shouldn’t be attracted to a scathing food critic like Guy Parsons, not after the last time he fell for someone older, arrogant, and gorgeous. He knows better than to let dramatic good looks sway him since his last heartbreak. Besides, he’s accepted a new job at the far end of the country and won’t be staying in London.
Having one month left doesn’t seem enough now Ian’s fallen in love with the city. Working as Guy’s photographer for December might help him afford to stay for longer, even if he hates Guy’s brand of restaurant reviewing. When Guy turns out to be worlds away from the last man Ian fell for, shared meals soon result in shared secrets and feelings.
More than attraction sparks between them as Christmas approaches. Intimate moments lead to intense passion, but is being well matched in the bedroom enough to stop the clock counting down to Ian leaving London, and Guy, for good?
♥ Steamy, snarky, and sweet, His Last Christmas in London is an utterly British, low-angst, age-gap, workplace gay romance set in London and Cornwall. ♥
Celebrate the holidays with a lovely long novella full of heartfelt hurt/comfort and second chances from Con Riley, author of the much adored Charles: Learning to Love.
Winter Dreams by Marie Sexton
Chapter 1
They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. It must be true. God knows it could only be insanity that made me agree to this vacation. Why else would I spend the next thirty-one days with Jason and Ben knowing it’ll result in nothing but heartache? I love them both so much it hurts. Watching them together is like feeling my heart slowly shatter over and over again, and yet I can’t stand to stay away from them either.
So here I am, on an airplane with them two days after Thanksgiving, bound for a tropical resort, Christmas be damned. We’d debated flying first class, but we were already spending a fair amount on this month-long vacation, so we settled for business class instead. Still not enough leg room for my six-foot-one body, but the drinks are free, so I’m not complaining.
“I’m so excited,” Ben says. “Can you believe we’re actually going to Fantasy Island?” He’s sitting between Jason and I on the airplane, having volunteered for the middle seat. Even now, almost two years after his miraculous appearance in Jason’s life, Ben comes across all innocence and bright-eyed enthusiasm. He’d sent off for a paper brochure from the resort because he said reading it on his phone was “dumb.” Watching him flip through it, I wonder if he’ll ever become as jaded as the rest of us.
I hope not.
“They have nine restaurants,” Ben tells us as he studies the brochure. “Two golf courses, plus miniature golf. Oh my gosh, I love miniature golf! A bunch of tennis courts. That’s boring. Four pools, one with a swim-up bar. Dylan will like that. A lazy river. I love lazy rivers! A zipline course, and parasailing. I’m working up my nerve for those. Birdwatching and dolphin-watching cruises. We have to do both of those. Scuba diving. Nope, that’s way too scary. Snorkeling. That’s less scary. Kayaks and canoes, plus stand-up paddle surfing.” He frowns. “I don’t even know what that is. A full gym. Yuck. I’m not going there. And a full-service salon and spa.”
“Definitely going there,” I say. Although unlike Ben, I’ll have to spend a fair amount of time at the gym as well. My current role is a recurring part on the HBO series Lords of Dragon Beach, often described as Baywatch meets Sons of Anarchy. I’m thirty-one years old. My metabolism still keeps me thin, thank God, and given my tall, lanky frame, I’ll never have huge, bulging muscles like the rest of the Dragon Beach cast, no matter how many weights I lift. I aim for strong, wiry, and toned. My character, dubiously named Houston McCormick, is scripted for five of each season’s ten episodes, and somehow, the writers always find an excuse for me to be shirtless.
I’ve never been so aware of my abs.
Ben laughs and holds the brochure up for me to read. “Look, this line is right out of the TV show. ‘A place where all your fantasies come true.’”
“I still can’t believe they can call it Fantasy Island, if it was a TV show first,” I answer. “Isn’t that a copyright violation or something?”
Jason shrugs. He took the window seat, and he sits with his forehead against the pane. He hasn’t cut his hair in a while, and the sun shines through his dark blond waves and highlights the faint freckles across his nose. “Fantasy Island Vacation Resort. I assume it’s owned by the same company that made the show. MGM or whoever.”
“Columbia Pictures,” Ben says. When I turn to him in surprise, he shrugs. “What? It says it during the opening credits.”
Jason and I smile at each other over his head, like parents amused by their child.
Ben turns to me. “So, what’s your fantasy, Dylan?”
Doesn’t he know better than to ask me loaded questions?
“Being sandwiched between you and Scarlett Johansson—all of us naked, of course—in a giant bowl of lime Jell-o.”
Ben blushes, just like I knew he would. Jason calls him Snow White sometimes, and it’s an apt description. Ben has blue eyes, and hair even thicker and darker than mine, so black it reflects shades of purple. He’s not as pale as he used to be, but it’s still easy to see the heat rise up his cheeks.
I lean close enough to kiss him. I can’t help but think how sweet it would be to do just that. “You’re wondering if you’re in front of me or behind me in this fantasy, aren’t you?”
Ben grins and ducks his head. Jason turns away from the window long enough to glare at me. “Dylan’s fantasy is to fuck every single person on this island before the month is out.”
I laugh. “That’s not a fantasy, honey. That’s a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.”
Jason rolls his eyes at me at and goes back to staring out the window. Annoyed, because I never change? Hurt, because of our shared past? Or simply bemused, because he and Ben have something I’ll never be privy to, and he knows it’s far better than what I have?
I wish I knew.
“I don’t understand the premise of this TV show anyway,” I say. “People could go to this island to live out their fantasies, and yet it wasn’t all porn?”
Ben’s stunned. “You haven’t seen it?”
“It went off the air years before I was born.”
“There’s a reboot,” Jason offers. “And Blumhouse made a movie.”
“Still haven’t seen it.”
“It’s all about being careful what you wish for,” Ben tells me. “Like one couple thought they wanted to go to a time and place with old-fashioned, traditional values, so Mr. Roarke sends them to this colonial village. They love it at first, but then they realize they’re in Salem, and the rules are super strict. They can’t even dance or play music. And then this little boy gets a fever, and the woman gives him an aspirin out of her purse, and she gets accused of witchcraft, so she has to run from the mob so they don’t burn her alive at the stake.”
“Jesus,” I say, shocked. “That’s not a fantasy. That’s a nightmare.”
“Mr. Roarke liked scaring the shit out of people,” Jason says. “It’s melodramatic, but it gets pretty dark at times, too.”
“That’s what I’m in for?” I ask. “Dark melodrama?”
Jason laughs. “Something like that.”
“You still haven’t given me a serious answer,” Ben says to me. “If this were really Fantasy Island, like on the TV show, what would your fantasy be?”
It’s a good question. Sometimes, I wish I’d realized how much I needed Jason before he’d stopped needing me, but to claim Jason for myself would have meant leaving Ben trapped in his magical prison forever. As much as I wish things had gone differently, I can’t look in Ben’s sweet, guileless face and wish him gone.
In all actuality, my fantasy would be to stop being myself and become either one of them, for the rest of my life. I’ve spent untold hours wondering which would be better—to be Ben, and have Jason’s undying devotion? Or to be Jason, and have Ben’s sweet, pure heart? Being either one of them would be a thousand times better than being me.
Jason speaks up before I can formulate another smartass answer in lieu of the truth.
“If this were really a place where somebody’s greatest dreams could come true,” Jason says, “Dylan’s would have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with his career.” He stares at me in that way he’s always had, with an expression that tells me he knows me front to back. I’m an old, ratty script he’s read a hundred times. He knows every line of dialog.
And every gaping plot hole, one of which he’s just remembered.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Four weeks at Fantasy Island, missing casting calls? Only if there’s something else to be gained.”
“The next season of Lords of Dragon Beach starts filming in January. I’m tired of being the palest guy on the set.”
“There’s no way you agreed to a whole month on this island just so you can work on your tan,” Jason says. “You could have done that in California.”
See? He could always see right through me.
Except when it had mattered the most.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I have an ulterior motive.” I pull out my phone and show them a picture. “This is who I’m looking for. I hear he likes to winter here. So if you see him, do me a favor and let me know.”
Ben eyes the picture, shock and disdain warring on his face. “Oh my gosh, Dylan. He’s twice your age. And…” He frowns and pats the air around his stomach, too sweet to say the word “fat.”
“Dylan’s not out to seduce him,” Jason explains. “Although I’m sure he’d be willing, if he thought it would help.”
“I don’t understand,” Ben says.
“That’s JP Frederick,” Jason tells him. “He’s one of the most in-demand directors in Hollywood right now.”
“Exactly,” I say, putting away my phone. “Rumor has it, he’s been asked to direct two Marvel films over the next six years.”
And Jason’s right. There’s nothing I won’t do to land a role in that universe. I’ll beg. I’ll bargain. I’ll suck his cock. I’ll let him fuck me every conceivable way, if that’s what it takes, although admittedly, I hope it doesn’t go that far. I never have learned to bottom with any kind of grace. With any luck, a few drinks and a round of golf will suffice.
“What about you?” I ask Ben. “If this is really Fantasy Island, then what’s your fantasy?”
“Oh, I don’t have one. I already got my biggest wish ever. I know better than to tempt fate.”
Jason elbows Ben and nods toward me. “Maybe you should wish for Scarecrow over there to grow a heart.”
Ben frowns at him. “You’re thinking of the Tin Man. Scarecrow needed a brain.”
Jason grins at me. “Dylan needs both.”
“Boy, you crack yourself up, don’t you?” I ask.
But to my surprise, Ben doesn’t laugh. “Dylan already has a heart and a brain,” he says to Jason. “What he needs is—”
“A clue?” Jason says.
“A drink,” I tell him, looking around for the flight attendant.
Ben scowls at us both. “Fine. Don’t listen to me.” He elbows me, harder than he needs to. “Let me out. I need to use the bathroom.”
I do as he says, letting him slip past me before reclaiming my seat. Jason’s gone back to staring out the window. “Hey, JayWalk.”
He smiles. I haven’t called him that in a while. “What?”
“Ben knows this isn’t really a magical island, right? I mean, it isn’t even all-inclusive.”
“Of course he knows it isn’t magical. You know Ben. He’s just…” He waves his hand, trying to find a word.
“Fanciful?” I offer. “Romantic?”
He smiles, his love for Ben written all over his face. “Adorable.”
And there it goes again, my heart shattering into a thousand little pieces.
The Commonwealth of the Bahamas is comprised of more than seven hundred islands, cays, and islets. One of these, roughly nine square miles in size, is our destination.
After a brief layover in Miami, we board a smaller plane and take to the skies again. I’m on my third drink by then and feeling damned good. Ben’s frowning at me. Jason doesn’t bother being annoyed.
We have to clear customs before leaving the airport. All three of us hold our breath when it’s Ben’s turn. His ID and passport are fake, but they’re the best money can buy—I should know, I’m the one who paid for them—and the customs agent barely bats an eye as she waves Ben through.
From the airport, we’re shuttled to a seaside dock. On the bright side, we get to surrender our luggage, with assurances it’ll be delivered to our rooms after we check in. I’m happy I don’t have to lug mine the rest of the way. Jason and Ben can tease me about having an extra-large suitcase, plus a garment bag, but I don’t expect them to understand. After all, Jason lives in jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies, but when it comes to fashion, I have higher standards. I prefer a more tailored, upscale look, and like it or not, that means luggage, and lots of it. I thought I did well packing only one garment bag instead of two, even though it means I’ll have to iron most of my shirts before I wear them.
We’re herded onto a small, enclosed water taxi that smells like sweat with an underlying taint of vomit. We find three empty seats and sit shoulder-to-shoulder with two dozen other travelers, all bound for Fantasy Island Vacation Resort. The sea’s bumpy, the boat cramped and stuffy. I’d much rather be on the deck, but it seems to be reserved for the crew and the few people who are already seasick.
“I hate to complain,” Ben says quietly, “but this isn’t feeling very magical right now.”
For Ben, who’s always cheerful no matter what, this simple statement borders on mutiny. “Hey,” Jason says, “even on the show, guests had to fly on that tiny little pontoon plane to get there, right?”
“True. But somehow, it seemed a lot more romantic.”
I want to touch his cheek. Maybe kiss him and promise him he’ll have plenty of romance this month. Mostly, I just want to see him smile again, but of course it’s not my place, and Jason’s already on it, whispering in Ben’s ear. Whatever he says makes Ben grin and shift in his seat, trying to hide an erection.
One more little crack in my heart.
We eventually dock and emerge from the water taxi. As soon as the sun hits his face, Ben’s lack of faith disappears and his smile returns.
“Oh my gosh. Jason, look!” He bounces on his toes in excitement, pointing. “It really does look like Fantasy Island.”
I’ve never seen the show, but based on Ben’s gushing, the resort has gone to great lengths to replicate the set of the old TV show. We disembark onto a dock, then through a thatched hut, although Ben assures me this one’s twice as big as Mr. Roarke’s. Ahead of us, the gates to Fantasy Island Vacation Resort loom. Women in red and white flowered dresses line the sidewalk along the way, offering trays of fruity drinks.
“What is it?” Ben asks as we each take one.
“A mango daiquiri,” the woman tells him.
“Oh, that sounds yummy.” He takes a sip, and his eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh, this is so good, isn’t it? I think this is my new favorite thing.”
Despite his enthusiasm, he won’t finish it. Sometimes I think his time in the globe messed with his metabolism. He eats like a horse, but never gains weight. He only sleeps about five hours a night, and he’s a serious lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Half a daiquiri will make him loopy. A full one will put him right to sleep.
Not to worry though. A double-shot, double-pump caramel latte will have him awake and ready to go again in no time.
We’re in no hurry to get inside. The weather’s a perfect seventy-six degrees, the sun warm on our faces. In addition to the hotel, there’s an elaborate garden and a sprawling white house, just like Mr. Roarke’s, according to Ben. The building’s utilitarian in nature, housing an urgent care and pharmacy in one half, and island security in the other, but that doesn’t diminish Ben’s excitement. He oohs and aahs, and I hold his drink while he takes a billion pictures with his phone. Thirty minutes later, we make it through the front door of the towering hotel, where it soon becomes clear the drinks are only to distract us from the enormous line for check-in. We opt to lounge in the boxy pink lobby chairs instead, biding our time until the line subsides.
Jason—known to most of the world as Jadon Walker Buttermore, or JayWalk to his fangirls—is in the middle of a career reboot. After our last movie together, which did well at the box office, for a horror “requel,” he landed a supporting role in a romantic comedy starring Jennifer Lopez. That led to a spot on Dancing with the Stars, where he was eliminated early, much to his relief. More recently and most importantly, he played the quirky sidekick in a Netflix treasure-hunting action movie that, last time I looked, had almost three hundred million views. He’s already signed for a sequel which begins shooting in February. I’ve never seen him so happy, but I know that has more to do with Ben than with his career.
I’m no JayWalk, but Dylan Thomas Frasier has his fangirls too. Or at least, Houston McCormick does. Between the two of us, we soon have a small line of people asking for autographs and taking pictures. Jason’s better at this than he used to be. In the past, he hated this kind of attention. Now, he takes it in stride, although he’s careful to keep Ben out of the limelight and is clearly relieved when the autograph session ends. I, on the other hand, soak it up. I sign anything anybody puts in front of me, including one woman’s cleavage. I take selfies with a dozen different people. I ask anybody who’s halfway attractive and appears single how long they’re staying. By the time the fans are gone, I’ve finished my drink. Ben nudges me and hands me the second half of his, squinting at me as if he can’t quite focus. As predicted, half a daiquiri, and I know it’s a good thing he’s sitting down, or he’d be swaying on his feet.
“You okay?” I ask him.
He blinks at me. “Jus’ a lil sleepy.”
Jason’s right. Ben’s adorable.
I leave them and hunt down the hotel’s coffee station, where I fill a medium-sized cup and add cream and five packets of sugar. The smile Ben gives me when I hand it over is worth the few minutes it cost me.
“No caramel latte, but it’s still caffeine with plenty of sugar.”
“Thanks, Dylan.”
“Anything for you, honey.”
Jason ignores the entire exchange. He never bats an eye when I flirt with Ben. Then again, why would he? Ben’s one hundred percent, head-over-heels in love with Jason. Besides, Jason’s my oldest, dearest friend. I’d never do anything to hurt him, even if Ben was willing.
Which he isn’t.
I never flirt much with Jason anymore either, because I know it makes Ben uneasy. The last thing I want to do is cause trouble between the two of them, or between them and me. Sometimes I wish somebody had told me, on that first night in Jason’s new house back in Idaho, that it would be the last night I ever had with him.
Would I have done things differently?
Would I have pulled my ignorant head out of my selfish ass sooner?
I’ll never know. And now, I’ll never share his bed again. If they were any other gay couple, I might have a chance of being invited for a threesome. I’ve thought about it more times than I can count, but I also know it’s the type of thing that’s best left to the imagination. Ben would be too shy. Jason would be too possessive. And at the end of the day, I’d still be a third wheel, deeply in love with both of them, but never part of the love they have for each other.
I do what anybody in my position would do.
I finish the daiquiri and go in search of another.
Grinch Kisses by DJ Jamison
CHAPTER 1
GRIFF
I held my breath as the mayor flicked the switch on the long winding strings of lights that wrapped around the town’s official Christmas tree. Beside her, NFL star Jem Knight waved to the crowd, a home-grown celebrity to add a dash of excitement to the tree-lighting.
A wash of red, green, blue, and white flickered to life, and a cheer went up from the crowd that had assembled in Sugar Plum Park.
Thank fuck something had gone right today. I’d been running nonstop putting out last-minute fires as we prepared for the kickoff of our five-week holiday festival that kept our businesses afloat by drawing tourists from near and far.
Even now, before Thanksgiving weekend when we’d really see our numbers swell, people crammed into our little park, standing shoulder to shoulder. They clutched hot chocolate or cider and snickerdoodles from Ginger’s Breads bakery in their mittened hands, eyes bright as they delighted in the sight of the twenty-foot evergreen.
I envied them a little. They’d come out for a bit of holiday cheer, not because their job required it. They got to enjoy those lights without knowing how many it took to illuminate that tree. Eleven hundred bulbs to be exact—and only because we used a larger size than the standard indoor Christmas tree. When we’d used smaller ones, it had taken closer to three thousand to get the job done.
The crowd here also hadn’t needed to scramble to problem-solve when one of the twenty strings of lights didn’t come on during our final test this afternoon, nor call Joel from Ginger’s Breads for a last-minute favor when Joelle and Holly of Jolly Java came down with the flu and couldn’t deliver the treats we’d promised.
There were a million little parts to an event this large, and there was one man responsible for everything running smoothly.
And that man was me.
So while townspeople and tourists rubbed elbows, smiling and chatting about the start to the season, I simply breathed a sigh of relief that everything had gone as planned and I could check off one more item on my to-do list.
“You’d think they’d never seen a Christmas tree before,” Bruce Brooks grumbled beside me.
I snorted with amusement. “Don’t pretend you don’t like everyone oohing and ahhing.”
Bruce was the owner of the Milton Falls Tree Farm, which had donated the tree. He hummed. “Well, everyone likes to be appreciated.”
“Although, I’ve been considering switching it out for a fake one. Maybe a fifty-foot-tall symbol of Christmas kitsch.”
He gave me a disapproving look. “But mine are real, Griff. No one wants some cheap silicone knockoff when I can satisfy just fine.”
I chuckled. “I think those fake trees are plastic, not silicone.”
“Oh, are we still talking about trees?” He attempted to maintain a straight face, but he failed, lips twitching. “My mistake.”
I laughed. “Get your mind out of the gutter. There are happy families here!”
Bruce gave a mock shudder. “Scary. I think I’ll head out for a beer. Gonna need one to make it through the madness ahead of us in the next few weeks.”
“Good idea. I could use a drink too. Let’s head over to Rudolph’s.”
Frosty’s was closer—and looked a little less like a bunch of Christmas elves threw up all over the place—but I suspected it’d be even busier than usual with the spillover of tourists from the tree-lighting.
The ceremony had gone off without a hitch. Mayor Grayson had made her speech, the crowd had pretended to be interested until the highlight of the evening, and now they were happily drinking their hot chocolate, the locals in little clusters where they could indulge in a bit of small-town gossip.
No doubt they were speculating about how long Jem Knight would remain in town, or perhaps another rumor had started up that the rivalry between pub managers Mik Gilmore and Rudy Snow was born of more than dislike. Either way, my job was done.
I’d nearly escaped before my mother waved at me. “Griffy! Wait. Where are you going?”
I groaned under my breath, and Bruce shot me a look of pity right before abandoning my ass like a prisoner fleeing Alcatraz. “See you over there.”
“Disloyal bastard,” I muttered, but without heat. I’d have done the same damn thing.
My mother tugged me close enough to kiss my cheek above my beard. “Griff, the tree looks amazing!”
I smiled gamely. “Thanks, but you know it looks the same every year.”
“Oh, hush. It’s been better every year since you came home.” She looked to my father for backup. “Hasn’t it, Arthur?”
“Sure has.”
He’d learned a long time ago not to argue with my mother.
“Well, we transitioned to LEDs around that time,” I said. “Makes for brighter lights.”
My mother beamed. “There, you see! You’re doing great work for the town. I don’t know where we’d all be without you.”
I certainly hoped LEDs weren’t the only great work I’d done in seven years on the job—seven years that I’d been divorced, seven years without my children—but I wasn’t about to sink into a debate over everything my job entailed. One thing I’d learned was that people wanted to enjoy the holiday magic, not see the man performing tedious tasks behind the curtain.
Holiday magic I’d once thought might help bring me and my children closer together, but I’d been wrong.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m actually headed out, though, so…”
“Griff,” she said, a world of disappointment in her tone. “You did all this for us.” She swept her arm toward the rest of the park, encompassing the Christmas tree, the bakery stand, and the milling residents. “You should take time to enjoy it. I noticed Katie Foster looking a little lonely in the line for hot chocolate. Maybe—”
“I did enjoy it,” I cut in before Mom could continue that line of thought. “I enjoy that all those lightbulbs work, but tomorrow I’ll be onto another event, and I could really use a beer with a friend right now.”
She perked up. “A friend, you say?”
“Easy there. It’s just Bruce.”
She deflated with a frown. “He’s about as cheerful as those grumpy-faced gnomes that Murphy carves.”
“Eleanor,” my dad gently chastised.
She sighed. “Sorry. You go. So long as you promise to enjoy your night.”
“You have my word,” I said as I hurried to escape before someone else spotted me and insisted I have a cup of hot chocolate for my hard work, or perhaps wanted to pitch a brilliant idea for a new event that I should most definitely work into the schedule despite it being set months ahead.
Rudolph’s was a short walk down the street, and it was glowing with warm light as I approached. A Christmas tree stood in the window, advertising holiday cheer, but that was Christmas Falls. Every business had to play to the tourists they wanted to lure inside. As a result, it was damn hard to find a quiet spot to enjoy a beer.
“What can I get ya?” Rudy, the manager, asked when I stepped up to the bar. He was a good-looking man with the strong body of a one-time professional athlete, but the scruff on his jaw made him look a little more at home here. He’d come to town only a couple of years ago after retiring from a hockey career.
“Whatever’s on tap, as long as it’s not seasonal.”
He chuckled as he grabbed a chilled mug to pull my beer. “Just wait until the festival cocktail hours start. We’re taking seasonal to a whole new level.”
I sighed, resigned to the fate of my hometown during this season, but as the man pulling the strings, I could hardly complain. The festival kept this town going, and my job did the same for me.
“Just promise you’ll keep my wheat beer on tap,” I said.
“You got it.”
I carried my beer over to the dark-wood booth where Bruce was already seated.
“You look tired,” he said.
“Christ, don’t say that,” I said as I slid into the seat. “It’s only the first day of festival season.”
He grinned. “Sorry. I meant to say, you look peppy.”
“Never been accused of that before,” I said with a rueful smile.
“Don’t worry, Grinch. You’re in no danger of losing your nickname.”
I flipped him my middle finger and took a big gulp of beer. I’d picked up the nickname partly because I wasn’t the cheeriest festival planner and partly because I had the bad fortune of a name that started with G. The folks of Christmas Falls couldn’t resist a little good-natured ribbing.
It was done with love, so I smiled through my annoyance. Besides, it wasn’t like I didn’t bring it on myself. I was a mopey asshole at the best times, and the years since my divorce? Not my best times.
My phone rang in my pocket. I set down my beer to fish it out. “There better not be something wrong already.”
“They couldn’t pay me enough to do your job.”
“Who says they pay me enough?” I muttered as I checked the screen, relieved to see it was my sister, Jessica.
She rarely called, so I clicked Accept. “Hey, Jess. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Can’t a sister call her brother?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t happened in so long…”
“Ha-ha. As if you ever pick up the phone yourself.”
Fair point.
“What’s up?” I asked. “I’m out with a friend, and you know the holiday season is madness around here.”
“I know. Actually, I’m coming up for Thanksgiving.”
“Well, I figured.” Our parents hosted a big family gathering every Thanksgiving, and every branch of the family tree was invited to visit during the festival. Some of them left after a few days, and others stayed all the way until Christmas.
“So, I’m bringing a date with me this time,” she said.
“A date? Jess, you know Mom and Dad will never let you share a room with a boyfriend. They’re old-fashioned that way.”
“I know, which is why I was hoping he could stay with you.”
I scowled, making Bruce raise his eyebrows.
“Jess, the last thing I need right now is a houseguest. Besides,” I teased, “I don’t want to be on Mom and Dad’s shitlist for letting you sin under my roof instead of theirs.”
“I said, I was hoping he could stay with you. Not both of us. I’ll be with Mom to keep the natives happy.”
“I don’t know…”
“Please, Griff? It hasn’t been that long since Rob and I broke up. If I come alone, I’ll spend the whole visit with Mom and Dad worried about my last relationship when they could just be happy for me instead. And you know how Mom gets when she’s worried.”
Did I ever. I was the target of Mom’s worry more often than not.
“Yeah.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Work is crazy—”
“And you’ll barely know he’s there,” she promised. “He’ll sleep there, but he’s my date, not yours.”
I smiled wryly. It had been so long since I had a date there was no danger anyone would make that mistake. Still, my house was my only escape from the holiday cheer everyone insisted I should share. I wasn’t exactly eager to offer it up to a virtual stranger.
“Please,” Jess said when I took too long to answer. “Pretty please with a cherry on top, my favorite brother in the—”
“All right,” I blurted in exasperation. “He can stay with me.”
“Really? Thank you, Griff. You’re a lifesaver!”
Before I could second-guess my decision, she disconnected the call. I set my phone on the table and took a big gulp of my beer.
Bruce gave me a curious look, and I shook my head in resignation.
“My sister better get me a damn good present for Christmas this year.”
Tinsel Time Treasure by Lacey Daize
Chapter 1 - Justin
~October~
Iforced a smile as the alpha across the table droned on about how bad his ex was—which was never a good sign on the first date.
The language was another red flag. He was using whatever terms he could to dehumanize the poor man who’d been with the insufferable bastard, and I could see why the other omega bailed after only a couple months.
“Sluts like him just don’t understand that alphas have needs,” he continued. “I’m never dating a prude like that again.”
Was he a slut or a prude? I wondered to myself. The terms kinda cancel each other out.
“You understand, right?”
“Umm…” I started, scratching my short dark beard.
“Of course you do,” the alpha continued before I could come up with an answer. “You look like a proper omega: one who knows his place in a relationship.”
I replied with a nervous chuckle, then felt a wave of relief as I saw a waitress approaching our table.
“Excuse me,” I said softly. “I’d like to wash my hands before we eat.”
“Um… ok,” he replied, obviously put off by my interrupting his sexist monologue.
“I’ll be right back,” I promised.
He nodded as he picked up his silverware to start eating.
Of course he wouldn’t wait. Why would an alpha ever wait for an omega?
I pretended to hurry, and as soon I was in the relative privacy of the restroom I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent a quick text to my best friend, Kaleb.
Disaster date! Call in five and give me an excuse to leave.
I received a thumbs-up emoji almost immediately. I quickly deleted the messages so that there would be nothing there if my date tried to protest and demand to see my phone. Then I splashed some water over my hands so that they would be cold and slightly moist if he wanted to check that I’d actually washed them.
“Sorry,” I replied as I took my seat again, adjusting my glasses where they’d slid down my nose.
He merely nodded, staring at his phone.
I noticed that half his meal was already gone, and my pile of fries looked suspiciously smaller than it had been when I’d left the table.
“This looks great,” I said as I picked up my burger.
“It’s ok,” he shrugged and scrolled something on his phone. “It’s edible. Next time I’ll introduce you to something better.”
Not gonna be a next time, I thought as I chewed and nodded.
My date continued onto a tirade about how restaurant quality had gone down over the past several years, and somehow he tied his rant to more omegas in the workplace. Something about how with omegas working there were more customers, meaning that cooks had to make food faster, thus resulting in lower quality.
I could have cried with relief when my phone rang.
My date scowled as I pulled it out of my pocket, not recognizing the hypocrisy that he’d just been on his own phone.
“Kay?” I asked, putting on a concerned voice. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
Kaleb snickered. “Putting it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
“Oh Kay,” I sighed. “I’m so sorry. How old was she?”
“If your date is buying this, he must be all of five.”
“Sounds like she had a good life.”
Kaleb wailed on demand, loud enough that one of my date’s eyebrows rose.
“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” I announced. “You wrap yourself in a blanket and I’ll pick up your favorite ice cream. Is there a date for the funeral yet?”
Another wail from Kaleb.
“I’ll wait with you until your mom calls with more details.”
“Thanks Just,” Kaleb sniffled exaggeratedly. “I’ll see you soon.”
I hung up the call, noting the deep scowl on the alpha’s face. I pulled out my wallet, estimated my half of the meal and threw some cash on the table.
“You’re leaving?” my date asked incredulously.
“Sorry. My best friend just lost his grandmama, and they were super close. He’s devastated.”
“We’re in the middle of a date!”
“And he’s at home, sobbing his eyes out.”
“He can call somebody else.”
“He doesn’t need to, because I’m going.”
I walked away before my date had a chance to respond. I’d figured out almost immediately that he was a pig, but any man who argued with the ‘dead relative’ excuse was automatically upgraded to piece of shit.
Sure, it was a lie, but that was one of those situations where a person should be believed. Though I bet he had more sudden emergencies during dates than not.
I got into my car and placed a to-go order from Cluck Hut—fried chicken for me and a chicken pot pie for Kaleb, then I drove to the nearest grocery store and grabbed a couple pints of Rocky Road.
It was only about twenty minutes after his call that I pulled into the parking lot for his apartment and carried our food to his place.
“Uh-oh,” he said, eyeing the bags.
“Yeah,” I sighed as I carried them in and set them on the table.
“How bad was it?”
I passed over his chicken pot pie, and he shook his head. “Damn.”
“He tried to argue that I shouldn’t leave.”
“The fuck?”
“Yeah.”
Kaleb stood, put the ice cream in the freezer, and returned with plates and silverware.
“So who did I lose this time?” he asked.
“Your grandmama.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I swear, she has more lives than a cat.”
“How’s she doing?”
He laughed. “Fine, no thanks to you.”
“Say hello for me, and tell her I killed her off again.”
“Can do.”
“So besides arguing with the dead relative escape, what else was wrong about this one?”
“Shall I start with the ex-bashing, or the blatant sexism.”
“Oof. Sorry Justin.”
I shook my head. “What can I say? I’m just doomed to date all the worst alphas.”
“You’ll find a good one eventually.”
I snorted. “Maybe if I switch to female alphas. But…”
He nodded. “Yeah. They’re pretty, but not my thing either.”
I sighed and plowed some chicken into my mouth.
“Well, you’re here,” Kaleb said. “We can spend some more time working on your costume.”
“Works for me.”
My luck with alphas sucked, but at least I had Kaleb.
North's Pole by Leta Blake
North Astor-Ford, son of hotel heiress Susan Astor and actor Deacon Ford, is in piping hot—yes, that’s boiling hot—water! This time over an, ahem, inappropriate upload to his social media accounts. The internet is burning down over this scorching and raunchy shot!
“Why are you looking at that garbage?” I asked my sister.
“What? TikTok?” Maeve ran her thumb over the screen, navigating away from the video discussing the latest bumble my former protectee, twenty-one-year-old North Astor-Ford, had made.
She reclined on the sofa, propping up her swollen feet after a shift on the ER’s hard floors and scrolling TikTok like her life depended on it. “Your ‘garbage’ is my ‘yummy treat.’”
“It’s shameless gossip about a guy who—” I stopped myself.
Maeve glanced up, one perfectly shaped, black brow lifting, as her lips twisted into that annoying smirk, which, as her twin, I was all too familiar with. I’m pretty sure she’d smirked at me like that in the womb.
“It’s also cat-in-Santa-hat videos and old people dancing and puppies in the rain and babies tasting sour things for the first time and KPop idols and holiday memes and—”
“Stop. I get it.”
“Clearly, you don’t.”
“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t get it.”
Immature and ineffective as a come-back goes, sure, but it was all I had in me when my mind kept circling back to the implications of that TikTok about North.
I gave myself a stern, internal lecture.
You have no right to give a damn anymore when it comes to North Astor-Ford and his sexy problems.
Avoidance had worked in the past, and I could make it work again. I turned my focus to helping my four-year-old nephew put all his Tonka Trucks, Matchbox Cars, and Paw Patrol figures back in the big, blue bin they belonged in. We crawled around on the floor together as Aiden sang the “clean up” song I’d taught him.
A few seconds passed.
“Give me that,” I said, crawling over to Maeve and surrendering to my curiosity.
Grabbing the phone from her hand, I accidentally cued the next video. “How do I…?” I tried swiping up and down, but that just brought me to a video of a black cat eating a holiday-themed treat with a superior expression on his face while a male voiceover narrated the cat’s smug inner-thoughts. “Christ, get that video back, will you?” I thrust the phone back to her.
“Yeah, Christ, Mama,” Aiden echoed. “Get the bideo back.”
“I’ve told you not to teach him to take God’s name in vain,” Maeve scolded. “Mom will have a heart attack.”
“He didn’t take God’s name—”
“He did, Liam.”
“He took His Son’s name in vain.” Shockingly, she didn’t fry me with her glare. “Never mind. Just find that video again.”
She frowned at the phone as she scrolled. “I don’t know why you still care about that spoiled kid. He left you jobless during a pandemic in the middle of a crap economy. You owe him nothing.”
“I know.”
It was true, but it wasn’t the whole story.
I’d never told Maeve the truth about North and why he’d let me go during his senior year of high school. Having a bodyguard, even a nineteen-year-old one like I’d been back then, was always going to be a pain in North’s ass. But having a bodyguard he was attracted to was oh-so-much worse.
I couldn’t blame North for wanting to put himself out of his misery by putting me as far away as possible. The fact it’d helped me out of my misery, too—because the attraction was very much mutual—was something I hadn’t shared with anyone in my family. Though something told me Mom and Maeve both suspected the truth.
“Here,” Maeve said, passing the phone over before heaving herself upright. She patted the sofa next to her. “I want to watch too.”
The TikTok-er was a young brunette woman with hair that was half-long, half-short, but not really a mullet either. She wore enormous peppermint candy-shaped earrings and very long fingernails that were painted with sparkling candy-cane stripes. She seemed more gleeful than outraged as she described North’s mishap.
And it truly seemed like a mishap to me.
Though some on the internet were apparently calling it a gross violation of human decency, and others were saying it was sexual harassment via non-consensual worldwide web exposure.
“It’s true I never consented to see that pic,” the woman said, eyes wide with delight. “But it’s not like I’m mad about it!” She laughed. “If you’re going to upload your tool to the bona fide inter-damn-net in this year of our Lord twenty-twenty-two, at least make sure you’re showing off a nice hammer, am I right? And, oh my God, North Astor-Ford has one divine hammer!” The TikTok-er pretended to gag on a dick before adding, “Just call him Thor! Whew, what a dick pic!”
Not my protectee. Not my problem.
I mentally repeated the mantra: Not my problem. So why did North still feel like my problem?
His Last Christmas in London by Con Riley
1
Snow at Christmas is magical, especially in London, where department store windows glow, each street brightened by festive lighting. At least that’s what the TV ads all promise, along with snow flurrying around Big Ben’s clock face and crowds of cheerful shoppers exchanging season’s greetings. And cameras don’t lie, do they?
Of course they bloody do.
I’m a photographer.
Making cameras lie is my literal job definition.
Or it was until Lito fired me and then withheld my reference so none of the top agencies would hire me. Now I’m faced with a stark choice. A heartbreaking one. I can sell the camera with the best resale value and tough out one last month here, hoping for a big break, or accept a job offer I know I’m lucky to have waiting in my email inbox. It’s a decent job, if short-term, working as a photography-degree technician for my old dissertation supervisor. But…
It means moving back to Cornwall.
I’m not ready to leave London. Not yet. Not when I’m still a romantic at heart, hoping for a happy ending.
It’s why I stalk one of Westminster tube station’s crowded entrances while still torn, waiting for my best camera’s lucky new owner.
He’s late, maybe stuck between these tides of home-bound commuters and arriving tourists surprised by the snowfall. I watch as another tide filters through the chaos, London’s night shift of restaurant servers and office cleaners leaving the station, their already-weary faces painted by Christmas streetlights as they exit. I’d photograph that switch from dull to decorated if unpacking my Nikon wouldn’t break my heart all over again.
I settle for killing time by counting bankers on their way home to the suburbs. More of them wearing bowler hats pass me than the population of the village I grew up in, but for all their bonuses and stock options, not a single one looks as jolly about the snow as those TV ads all promise.
For a solid thirty seconds, I wish I never came here—that I never left Cornwall, where snow’s so rare and special.
I need to be careful what I wish for.I’ll see home soon enough at Christmas. That’s less than a month from now. Twenty-five days left to try to make it.
Another thought also tickles, icy like the Thames breeze.
If this guy doesn’t show up, I might as well get on the Megabus to Penzance tonight. Call it quits and accept that Lito was right—I won’t ever make it here. Not without his connections.
Big Ben tolls another unwelcome reminder. My Nikon's potential new owner isn’t the only thing late; my rent will be, too, if I don't get lucky. I don’t want my flatmates to cover the gap between my share and what I’ve scraped together from temp jobs. Not again. Seb and Patrick have done enough for me already, but it turns out that freelancing is exactly as tough as Lito threatened before I left him.
Fucking, fucking Lito.
I’d score something permanent if he’d give me a reference.
I hold my camera case tighter, even though it’s no shield from the real truth: I’ve already sold off several lenses and parts of my lighting gear. I’ll have even less chance of scoring decent work if I sell my very best equipment.
Caught between a rock and a hard place, half of me hopes for a no-show. The rest of me prays I’ll go back to our flat with enough cash to catch my breath. Even one deep inhale would do to fill my lungs with hope instead of this ever-increasing panic.
I am in the right place, aren’t I?
And I don’t only mean the right location to meet this guy.
No.
Is London the right place for me at all? How can it be if I’m about to sell the graduation present Mum worked God knows how many hours to pay for?
And that makes my decision for me.
Even though London’s sunk her hooks into me, I back away from the station entrance. Because she has, well and truly. I’d stay in a heartbeat if I could find a way to swing it. Stay for all her hustle and bustle contrasting with secretly quiet corners. For all her sharp, unforgiving edges hiding soft surprises. For the passion around every corner that gets my heart thumping and also shatters it—like now.
I shift away from the shelter of a pillar to pull out my phone, ready to cancel this meetup, only for snow to find a gap my scarf would have covered if I hadn’t rushed out without it. More flurries dust the Houses of Parliament across the road too. It softens the outline of the building, the traffic as well. Black cabs and scarlet double-deckers are speckled with white and, for a fleeting, magical moment, I’m under her spell all over again because London in the snow is magic.
A little kid leaving the station must agree. He shouts, “Snow!” like he’s never seen it, and I remember having the same spellbound moment, only mine was on a beach, not in this crowded and soul-crushing city I must be mad to want to sink my claws into as well, in a desperate attempt to stay for longer.
“Snow!” he shouts again, and I’d catch his wonder with my Nikon if I could. His sheer bloody joy and Christmas spirit. Then I’d send it to Lito, reminding him that I do have talent, despite his years of gaslighting. Instead, I spot someone else staring at the sky as if they’ve never seen snow fall from it, and this time, I act, only by texting instead of taking a photo.
I bite the fingertip of one of my gloves and pull it off so I can thumb a quick message on my phone to Patrick.
Ian: What’s your bf doing in SW1?
Three dots wave as Patrick types a reply, but I get busy snapping a pic of our third flatmate with my phone’s camera, his cheeks bulging like a hamster’s as he stares up at the sky, his mouth full, probably with a Yum Yum. He’s addicted to those long stick doughnuts. To anything sweet and deep-fried, which is ironic once I read Patrick’s answer.
Patrick: Seb picked up a shift at a fancy fine-dining place. Still not my boyfriend tho.
Sure, he isn’t. I smile for the first time since packing up my camera, glove still caught between my teeth until I shove it in my pocket. How many times have I watched Seb and Patrick orbit each other in what amounts to flatmate foreplay?
Shame I won’t get to see them finally realise they’re it for each other.
I focus on calling out, “Sebastian! Seb!” rather than yelling that truth at him.
Seb looks my way, cheeks still bulging, and I was right. Half a Yum Yum sticks out of a bag he holds, his coat sprinkled with flakes of sugar that could pass for a dusting of snow. I take another photo, only I swipe a few more times first, changing my phone settings so London becomes a festive blur around him, the city in motion while he sparkles as if frozen. He’s an elf dusted with magic instead of a student lawyer moonlighting as a fine-dining waiter. A sprite with a snub nose and wary eyes who’s way too slim to be a Yum Yum repeat offender.
I send it to Patrick and get a heart eyes emoji response just as another message hovers at the top of my screen. Perhaps my face tells its own story as I read that my camera’s purchaser isn’t coming.I’d already made my mind up not to sell it, but losing the choice is still gutting. Another rejection.
Seb weaves through the foot traffic, swallowing his huge mouthful. “Ian? What’s wrong?” There’s no bullshit with Seb. He’s a straight talker. “Don’t tell me Lito’s trying to get back in your pants.”
“Lito? No. No chance.” I already learned that don’t mix work and pleasure lesson.
“You sure?” He eyes me, Christmas lights illuminating a face too sweet for what then spills from his mouth. “Because he’s a weeping sore on a syphilitic dick and you deserve so much better.” He checks his watch. “Listen. I can’t stop. I’ve—”
“Got to get to a fancy-pants fine-dining gig? Your boyfriend told me.”
He smiles then, and it’s better than anything those TV ads promise. Better than any department store’s glowing window. Better even than snow at Christmas. “Not my boyfriend,” he says, uncharacteristically quietly after I show him Patrick’s hearts-in-eyes response. Seb takes the phone, cradling it for a moment while jostled by passersby. Then he rallies as I take it back. Or as I try to, because give Seb an inch and he’ll always take more than a mile. He darts ahead, my phone still in hand, heading for Westminster Bridge.
Being taller, I see what he is doing as he picks up speed—touching the screen and scrolling.
“Hey! Get out of my messages.”
He doesn’t, instead scuttling away faster, still scrolling as he slips between nose-to-tail vehicles, making it onto the bridge before I catch up.
“I told you, stop.”
Seb doesn’t even aim for apologetic. “I’m checking you really aren’t banging that bastard again.” He sobers. “I am sorry about you not getting the cash for your camera though. But you know you don’t have to sell it for your share of the rent, right? We’ve got you, me and Patrick, I mean. You’ll get a job. Or something freelance and brilliant will turn up. Your big break, at last. And uni’s over for me until the new year so I can pick up more shifts.” His breath puffs, fierce like a dragon. “Don’t try to sell any more of your kit, Ian. Just don’t, yeah?”
He surrenders my phone, which I pocket while nodding but not confessing that I already made that decision. I won’t sell anything else but I won’t stay here either. I’ll accept that job and go home, which means saying goodbye to this dick who’s become a good friend—a best friend—along with his not-boyfriend. I can’t make myself say it. Not yet. But I do manage to grit out one clear statement. “I’m really not banging Lito.”
Seb puffs out a misty laugh. “Don’t sound so sad about it. Lucky fucking escape, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask.” And that’s not what sprinkles me with sadness like the snow the wind blows in our faces. I search for my glove in my pocket as we walk, my unlucky streak continuing when I realise it’s gone. I look behind us—no sign of it, the bridge crowded with commuters. “Besides, we weren’t ever really together.” I know that now, two years too late maybe, but I never said I was the fastest at giving up on people.
“I knew that,” Seb huffs. “Lito knew it. The whole agency knew you weren’t really together. The only one who didn’t was you, but did he ever think to tell you he was banging every new intern?” He pulls up his collar against more flurries of snow. “No, he fucking well didn’t. He saw your potential at your dissertation exhibition and swept you here from Cornwall, promising you a big break and seducing you with all that swoony, chin-length Poldark hair of his.” He flicks his head in a fair approximation of a move that had first caught my attention. “So, I’m going to keep reminding you that his hair was the one and only nice thing about him. No amount of PrEP could have saved you if you’d stayed working for him. The man’s an STI waiting to happen. You’re well rid of him, his wandering cock, and his coke habit.”
He thrusts his bakery bag at me, offering me a Yum Yum that’s his own version of crack. I decline as Seb waves one like a baton, conducting our conversation as we hurry across the bridge. “He wants to have his cake and eat it. That’s why he dangles that reference he owes you like a carrot whenever he needs a favour. That’s him holding all the cards, Ian. Extortion.” He raises his voice over the traffic. “Obtaining benefit via coercion.”
“Careful, your two thirds of a law degree is showing.”
“Huh,” Seb chuffs. “I don’t need to be fully qualified to know what he does is immoral. He made out like he was doing you all the favours but who ended up virtually running his agency while he banged every intern? You did. And for what? A hand up in the business he never came through with? A reference he always wants one more favour before giving? It’s some kind of weird emotional blackmail, Ian, only saying emotional suggests he’s capable of having actual feelings.”
No.
I was the only fool who caught those.
I’m glad then that I didn’t accept Seb’s offer of a Yum Yum. Doughnuts should be sweet, but it would taste like ashes. I settle for grumbling, “Won’t all this relationship advice make you late for work?”
“Shit. Yes. Yes, it will.” Seb walks faster, taking two steps to each of my longer strides, but I’m the one who falters as he casts a surprisingly emotional glance up at me. “Something good will come up for you, Ian,” he promises. “You’re so”—he stretches for a descriptor, settling on one I’m starting to think is the root of all my problems—“nice.”
How far has being nice got me? Almost all the way back to Cornwall for good. Someone sharper would have realised that sooner. But at least Lito taught me one lesson I won’t forget in a hurry: nice guys don’t ever prosper in this city.
We get to the end of the bridge and Seb gestures at an imposing hotel on the Embankment. “This is me. See you later.” He heads for the entrance before doubling back to stand on tiptoes, his kiss on my cheek as warm as the bakery bag he presses into my un-gloved hand. “I mean it, Ian. Something good is gonna come up for you, and I don’t mean Lito’s weepy penis.” He backs away, but as if summoned, my phone plays Britney singing “Toxic”.
Lito calling.
“Don’t answer that,” Seb warns, torn, I can tell, between staying and going. “And for fuck sake, please don’t bang him again.”
“Go,” I tell him, making the decision for him by starting to leave, but I hold my phone up first so he can see me decline the call. “I won’t do Lito any more favours, I promise. Definitely won’t bang him either.” It’s been so many months, I’m not going back now.
“Promise you won’t bang any bastards at all, yeah?” Seb suggests. “You deserve so much better.” He searches my face, snow falling between us until I nod, then he goes, the hotel door closing behind him.
My phone rings for a second time, Britney warning me again about poisonous people, and maybe it’s because I can see Big Ben’s clock from here, bright against an almost-night sky like in those TV ads I grew up believing, but I’m so done with liars.
Anger rises.
My hand does as well, holding my phone to my ear as I bark, “What do you want?”
“Ian, gorgeous!” Lito slurs. “How are you? Long time no see,” he says, as if he isn’t the sole reason for that. I hear noise in the background, so I press a hand over my free ear. The sound of a party becomes clearer. There’s music and glasses clinking, which accounts for his slurring. “Can you do me a favour, lover?”
Lover?
Never again.
Do him a favour?
He can fuck off.
Frankly, if Lito was on fire, I’d have trouble summoning the piss to save him. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him, which reminds me to swipe to another app and press it.
“What do you want, Lito?” I repeat once the audio recorder’s running and I find a sheltering doorway.
“Go and take a few food shots for me, will you?” he asks as if that’s my specialism instead of human-interest stories. “It’s a high-profile client. I’d go myself, but something came up—” I hear a familiar snort and can picture what he’s sniffing. Then someone who sounds too young to be left unattended with him laughs, and that’s followed by the stomach-churning sound of lips smacking before he returns to the phone call.
“You know Guy Parsons? Restaurant critic? He’s an arsehole,” Lito says, although I’m none the wiser and I don’t care either because I have no intention of being his stand-in. Lito continues as if I already agreed to take the assignment. “It’ll be quick. He won’t want you to stay or eat with him. Just as well—he thinks he’s really something special, as if food critics aren’t all wannabe chefs who can’t cook for toffee. Go for me?”
“No. I’m busy.”
It takes a while, but the shock of my refusal finally registers. Big Ben chimes three times before Lito says, “Busy?” as if he can’t believe it. “Doing what?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. The coke kicks in and he gabbles. “What will it take for you to be un-busy for me?” Then he croons, “You’re the only one I trust, Ian,” like he knows what that word means. “Cover for me and I’ll make it worthwhile for you, baby.”
He hasn’t got anything I want. Not a single thing. Nada.
I go to end the call, then stop, raising the phone to my ear once more.
“Where’s my reference?”
“Reference?” For once, Lito hesitates. “Didn’t I email it to you already? I definitely wrote a glowing one for you.”
I check the recorder app. Still running. Good. “Because I was an excellent employee, right?”
“Yes,” Lito says, sounding solemn. Pompous too. “You learned so much from me.”
I did, but only life lessons that hurt. “Press send and I’ll think about standing in for you. Also, my rate doubled. No, tripled. Payment in advance.”
He must be desperate. I hear the huff of his breathing, and I count passing double-deckers, my coat pulled tight against me, until my email pings. I scan the few lines confirming my work dates and that I’m a safe pair of hands with a camera. It’s about all I could hope for, enough to fill the gap in my CV that’s been causing my hiring problems. My banking app also looks more cheerful when I check it. “Go ahead. Give me the assignment details.”
Lito brightens. “Messaging you the address right now. It’s not much of a challenge, Ian. Even a novice like you can handle it. Guy Parsons only ever wants the same shots. Zero imagination. Take a couple of his plates before and after he’s eaten, and a headshot of him looking intelligent and moody. Good luck with the intelligent part.”
He cackles, and I’d forgotten his booze-and-blow lack of filter. Can’t say I missed it either.
“He fancies himself as a bit of a looker. Intense and Byronic,” Lito offers. “Maybe a decade ago. Byronic?” He cackles again. “More like moronic. Looks a bit tragic these days, if you ask me. Longer hair can be so ageing on the wrong person, can’t it?”
I picture Lito shoving back his own glossy black hair that, now I think about it, is his only redeeming feature, a personal kryptonite that got my motor running in the past but in no way excuses him for being an arsehole.
Lito makes one more request. “For the love of mud, Ian, avoid his left side. I had a hell of a job getting a decent headshot for his website. I mean, I’m the best of the best, but there’s only so much photoshop can make up for.” There’s that cackle again. “Got a nose Captain Hook would envy. He got touchy when I pointed it out, which is funny given his literal job is being a bastard who dishes out criticism. But can he take it? No, he fucking cannot. Email the shoot to me, not to him, when you’re finished. I’ll pick out the best ones in the morning. Doctor them to make him prettier, if I have to, but hurry, will you?”
“When’s he expecting you?” I check the address, already summoning an Uber.
“Twenty minutes ago.” Lito rings off, expecting me to save his bacon without even a simple thank you.
Because only nice guys have good manners.
I remember that a half hour later while getting out of my ride in an unfamiliar part of town. My quick googling of Guy Parsons on the way here suggests that, like Lito, he’s also a stranger to good manners, his reputation built on sniping about food and taking no prisoners in his write-ups.
His reviews are described as career-ending. Business-crushing. Knife-through-the-heart brutal, leaving chefs and servers weeping.
I picture Seb, working an extra shift to help cover my rent, facing someone like him. I picture Lito’s new interns too. They won’t know that all the career help he promises will come to nothing more than him cornering them in a darkroom.
I’m so over wankers who take and take without giving.
Without caring.
I’m so incredibly over the lot of them and their bad manners.
My chest aches with how done I am as I stand outside the restaurant with no snow falling to soften the reality of this part of the city. It’s grey and slushy underfoot now, gritty like my inner voice.
Walk away.
Keep the reference, send back the cash, and get on the bus home.
I almost do. The restaurant window reflects my conflict: a nice guy who usually does what he’s asked—first to offer help to friends, brought up to see the best in people—warring with a worm that’s slowly but surely turning.
I shove a hand through my hair, thinking.
The same movement catches my eye from inside the restaurant.
Guy Parsons pushes back hair much longer than mine. His shines, chin-length black strands winding around his fingers while he listens to a waitress. And yes, he does look intense, but he’s also compelling as he discards a menu to listen, his head cocked and beetle-black eyes lively at whatever the waitress tells him. I’d describe that smouldering attention as warm and genuine if I didn’t also see those dark eyes narrow as she leaves his table, maybe thinking about how to trash this business. It reminds me of what Lito mentioned.
He’s a bastard. Even my brief googling agrees with that viewpoint. One who fancies himself as a bit of a looker. Byronic.
He is that too.
To be fair, he’s exactly my type, from his hair to the way he looks down his nose at the menu. Order from it? He looks as if he’s more likely to spank someone with it.
I swallow, watching a repeat of that broad hand shoving through the kind of hair I used to wish would spill across my pillow until I finally woke up next to Lito.
Seb’s voice also echoes.
Don’t bang another bastard.
A nice guy might keep that promise.
Turns out I’m all out of good manners.
Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.
DJ Jamison writes romances about everyday life and extraordinary love featuring a variety of queer characters, from gay to bisexual to asexual. DJ grew up in the Midwest in a working-class family, and those influences can be found in her writing through characters coping with real-life problems: money troubles, workplace drama, family conflicts and, of course, falling in love. DJ spent more than a decade in the newspaper industry before chasing her first dream to write fiction. She spent a lifetime reading before that and continues to avidly devour her fellow authors’ books each night. She lives in Kansas with her husband, two sons, one snake, and a sadistic cat named Birdie.
Lacey lives in New Mexico with her four critters. She’s a Jill-of-all-trades by day, but loves writing in her spare time. She dabbles in a variety of pairings, but jumped feet-first into the deep end of omegaverse the first time she read it. She loves the play on social expectations and the different ways to express romance.
Author of the bestselling book Smoky Mountain Dreams and the fan favorite Training Season, Leta Blake’s educational and professional background is in psychology and finance, respectively. However, her passion has always been for writing. She enjoys crafting romance stories and exploring the psyches of made up people. At home in the Southern U.S., Leta works hard at achieving balance between her day job, her writing, and her family.
CON RILEY lives on the wild and wonderful Welsh coast, with her head in the clouds and her feet in the ocean.
Injury curtailed her enjoyment of outdoor pursuits, so writing fiction now fills her free time. Love, loss, and redemption shape her romance stories, and her characters are flawed in ways that make them live and breathe.
When not people-watching or reading, she spends time staring at the sea from her kitchen window. If you see her, don’t disturb her — she’s probably thinking up new plots.
Marie Sexton
DJ Jamison
Leta Blake
Winter Dreams by Marie Sexton
Grinch Kisses by DJ Jamison
Tinsel Time Treasure by Lacey Daize
North's Pole by Leta Blake
His Last Christmas in London by Con Riley
