Mountain Springs Omegas #1
When Liam's Christmas plans are upended he decides to take his mom's advice and plan a friends' getaway at the family cabin.
Liam's loved his alpha best friend, Alex, ever since he presented as an omega, but he'd rather keep the other man in his life as a friend than scare him off as a lover. That doesn't keep him from wanting to spend every possible second with him, so he invites the alpha to help plan the getaway at the cabin.
Alex has loved his best friend Liam for years, but kept his attraction to the beautiful omega to himself.
Alex would like nothing more than to claim and breed his best friend, but doesn't want to risk losing the omega if the interest isn't mutual. So he hides his feelings. But that doesn't stop him from jumping at the opportunity to spend several days with the other man at the secluded mountain cabin.
Arriving several days ahead of the rest of the group, Liam and Alex set about readying the cabin for the holiday getaway, but a surprise heat in the middle of a snowstorm means they are forced to confront their emotions. Do they dare admit their mutual attraction, or do they attempt to fight their instincts?
Recipe for Romance
One Alpha
One Omega
10 Years Mutual Pining
One Cabin
One Snowstorm
One Heat
Mix well, garnish with peppermint hot chocolate.
Peppermint Kisses for the Omega is an 11.5K word , non-shifter, M/M, Mpreg romance, featuring two obvlivious men, some knotty fun, and plenty of peppermint hot chocolate.
Some might see Peppermint Kisses as a story about two people who love each other but don't admit it or perhaps even miscommunication/lack thereof trope. Those people wouldn't exactly be wrong but for me it's more than that. Yes, Alex and Liam do love each other and yes, leave it unspoken but they both do so because they don't want to risk losing the other's friendship. Definitely not communicating their feelings but they do so with a specific reason in mind which to me is so much more than just not giving voice to their true heart.
Despite having read a dozen, give or take, in the mpreg trope/genre, published reads is still very new-to-me and having only experienced a couple of authors' take on the fantasy I can't truly attest to which author does it best but I really love the way Lacey Daize creates a blend in details from subtle to specific. Mountain Springs Omegas may be a novella series but by the time I've swiped the last page, I feel as if the author has created a bodily function that is more realistic than fantasy.
One element I will make note of: loved that Liam's parents presented as his mom's the alpha, his dad's the omega and that she knocked up him. Not something I've seen before in my mpreg reads which is reasonably minimal as stated in the above paragraph. Or perhaps it has been mentioned in other of my reads and just didn't stand out as wonderfully as in Peppermint. Either way it added another level of yum.
Alex and Liam are so darn cute that it's perfect for the holiday setting. From being saddened by family traditions being scrapped to fears of the truth peaking through to friends arriving in a not so opportune moment, Peppermint Kisses is a delightfully fun, sweet, friends to lovers romance that can only make your day lighter and brighter.
Summary:
Slow Burn Holidays #2
It’s only a matter of time until Christmas works its magic on them...
Jack and I lived together for our entire twenties, friends so close that everyone just assumed: if we weren’t already together, we would be soon. Honestly, I believed it too.
Then Jack got married. I was his best man. Jack moved in with his new wife. And I was alone.
Four years later, with Jack’s terrible marriage over, we're roommates again—and it's all too easy to slide right back into the rhythm and comfort of living together. But something is different this time. Warmer. Closer. And just like before, everyone can see it.
When we agree to host my parents for the holidays, the slow countdown to Christmas wraps us in all the cozy, intimate warmth of holiday preparations. There are so many almost moments I think I might go mad… along with all our friends and family, who have been watching this dance for far too long. But when a friend talks me into buying Jack a romantic Christmas gift, the old fear comes rushing back. Revealing my feelings seems so dangerous, even after all these years. Especially now that I know what it’s like to lose Jack.
Have I waited too long? Is the risk too great? Or could this Christmas be the day we finally admit what’s been between us all along?
Say It Out Loud is a 19,000-word low-angst M/M romantic novella featuring roommates-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, meddling friends and family, warm Christmas feelings, and a super steamy and romantic first time. All books in the Slow Burn Holidays series can be read as standalones and in any order.
Summary:
Con Riley's Christmas Collection #2
All Sebastian Street wants for Christmas is justice. Oh, and some privacy to kiss his flatmate.
Heat shouldn't sizzle between best friends like it does between me and Patrick. He's my flatmate, not my boyfriend, a gym-bro powered by peace, love, and understanding. In comparison, I'm a yappy terrier fuelled by rage and sugary baked goods.
Expect a third flatmate to understand our opposites-attract dynamic?
No.
This could be our last December together. Our first alone in this flat.
I can’t share it. Or Patrick.
Not when we only kiss at Christmas.
Perfect for fans of friends to lovers and found families, visit London and Cornwall in We Only Kiss at Christmas, or double your festive enjoyment with His Last Christmas in London, the first standalone romance in this shared-world series.
Summary:
Heat of Love #2.7
Winter-fox brings Viro some surprising truths for the holiday
Viro Sabel is eleven years old and still entirely innocent about life. This year winter-fox brings him some surprising truths that alter the way he sees the world and his place in it.
Learn more about the character of Viro, Slow Heat’s Vale and Jason’s son, in this winter holiday-themed novella. This medium-sized bonus book features spicy scenes between Vale and Jason, family scenes, and emotional moments. While the novella’s epilogue teases a relationship for an adult Viro, it ends with a mystery regarding this person's identity.
This story is not a standalone and is best read as an addition to the Heat of Love series, preferably after reading Slow Heat, Alpha Heat, and Slow Birth. But if you should happen to read it out of order, you can find the rest of the books in the series on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited.
Christmas Falls #3
For years, Mik has wanted nothing more than to put coal in Rudy Snow's stocking.
As former pro hockey players, they’ve been rivals for years. It started in Mik’s rookie season, when a reporter pitted him against his older brother's best friend. Rudy pushes Mik’s buttons like no one else, going out of his way to one-up him at every turn.
Now they’re both pub owners in a small town that takes Christmas to a level best seen in Hallmark movies, but not much else has changed. They’re still rivals, this time pitting gingerbread martinis against pomegranate sangria.
But when they’re forced to work together to plan a special holiday party, sparks ignite. Maybe it's a bad idea to put coal in Rudy's stocking after all. They both might just catch fire.
Then again, what better way is there to stay warm on a cold winter's night?
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.
Peppermint Kisses for the Omega by Lacey Daize
Chapter 1 - Liam
“What do you mean you’re going to Hawaii for Christmas?”
My mom turned from the sink, crossed her arms and fixed me with a stare. “Just what I said, your father and I are headed to Hawaii for Christmas.”
“But… Christmas dinner… seeing everyone.”
She shook her head. “Christian has that big case, and he can’t get away from the city. Philip is spending the holiday with his new girlfriend. It would just be us, and you.”
My mother sighed, walked over and set her hand on my shoulder. “Your father has always wanted to go to Hawaii, and we were able to get a deal on a travel package. I want to do this for him while we’re still young enough to enjoy it.”
The tone was soft, but firm, my mom’s alpha stubbornness clear. It had been decided. I was on my own for the holiday.
I sighed and sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
She sat across from me. “It’s time for you to spread your wings a bit Liam. Why not plan something fun with your friends?”
“Like what?” I asked, crossing my arms on the table and dropping my forehead to them.
“Why don’t you head up to the cabin? It’s a nice drive, and the roads stay pretty clear. You can invite some friends and celebrate your own Christmas. Make it a few days, and you can go skiing as a group.”
“But the store…” I protested, raising my head again.
Mom smiled and rested her hand on my arm. “You’re not the only employee sweetie. I think James and the part-timers can handle the last of the Christmas shopping.”
“What if there’s a rush?”
Mom laughed. “Maybe that new mall in Mount Sable will see a rush, but most of our holiday season is over. We don’t stock the latest and greatest, so we get the stragglers who are in for a last minute gift.”
I took a deep breath and released it slowly.
Mom frowned. “You don’t have to go to the cabin sweetie, but you should at least try to do something fun.”
“No… I’ll go. It sounds better than moping around here.”
Mom patted my arm. “Just you wait. You’ll realize that hanging around your friends is much more entertaining than spending the holiday with us old people.”
I snorted. “You aren’t old. You’re barely fifty.”
Mom smiled. “Thanks, but you should still spend time with people your own age. It seems you live at the store some days.”
“Who else is gonna take it over when you retire? Christian is off being a big-shot lawyer, and Philip seems intent on his art.”
Mom stood and rested her hand on my shoulder. “Just because you’re taking over the store, doesn’t mean you should ignore your life. You have time to learn. Ok? Have fun. Find a mate, or heck, a date. The store isn’t going anywhere.”
I sighed. I had no intention of finding a mate, or even dating. I’d fallen for my alpha, Alex, years ago, and he showed no interest in me. But a holiday dinner and skiing with him and our other friends did sound fun.
“There’s gas up there for the stove, and plenty for the generator in case the power goes out?” “The propane tank was filled a month or so ago, before your father and I went up for the weekend. We took up gas cans too. There’s plenty of wood for the fireplace. There’s no reason not to go.”
“Ok.”
“Good,” Mom said. “You’ve got your own keys, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Ok. Just clean up when you’re done.”
Mom patted my shoulder and wandered off.
I stood and made my way to the living room, where my dad was busy knitting what looked to be a receiving blanket. I plopped down on the couch.
“Have a nice chat with your mother?” he asked as he counted the stitches.
“She told me you two are headed to Hawaii. Then somehow got me to agree to host my own party at the cabin.” I paused, then motioned at the blanket. “Who’s pregnant?”
“Your cousin Jeffrey. He’s due in a few months, so I need to work fast.”
“Send my regards.”
“You know I wouldn’t mind knitting one of these for you one of these days.”
“Not this again dad. I’ll mate when I’m ready.”
“I’d just like to enjoy my grandkids before I get old. Besides, you’ll love being pregnant. I always did.”
“And mom hated it the one time she was pregnant.”
Dad laughed. “Yeah. Point zero five percent chance of an omega male getting an alpha female pregnant, and we beat those odds in the handful of times I topped. But we got your little brother from it.” He smiled. “Though I don’t know which she hated more, the pregnancy or breastfeeding.”
“And yet you think I’ll love it?”
He glanced up and smirked. “It’s an alpha thing. Alphas love being in control, and the baby is in control while pregnant. It’s different for us omegas, and beta women. The instincts don’t fight it.”
Dad finished the row and set the blanket aside. “What’s bothering you kiddo? Are you really that upset that we’re going to Hawaii?”
I sighed. “It’s not that… sorta. I want you two to enjoy yourselves. I was just looking forward to seeing everybody.”
“Can’t do anything about Christian and Philip though. They’re not going to be here.”
I slumped. “I know.”
“You said you’re going to the cabin?”
“Yeah, mom seemed to think spending the holiday up there with friends was the right solution.”
“It’s not the worst idea.”
“It’s just… different.”
“Nothing bad about different. One day you’ll be the host, so might as well get a taste of it now.”
“Gee dad… thanks.”
Dad chuckled and picked up his knitting again. “You’ll see Liam. This is gonna be a good thing.”
I stood. “I’m gonna head home. If I’m hosting a party, I’d better invite some people.”
Dad laughed as I walked to the door. “I swear you’re the only person I know who’s not excited to get together with friends.”
I rested my hand on my coat. “It’s not that. I’m just going to miss you guys.”
Dad met my eyes with a smile. “We’ll do something when we get back. Ok?”
I smiled. “Ok.”
I pulled my coat on and strode out into the cold. I had a party to plan.
Say It Out Loud by Nico Flynn
Chapter One
Tess Navarra is a woman on a Christmas mission, and I am firmly in her clutches. I've begged, I've bargained, but she refuses to be swayed.
I'm currently backed into a corner of an adorable bakery draped in gauzy fake snow and cheerful twinkling fairy lights, pinned there by the force of her glare. She presses her lips together into a thin line and stares me down.
"Ezra, you knew my opinion on this when you texted me this morning. I'm not sure why you thought it would change in the last..." She checks her watch. “Six hours?”
"Because your opinion is stupid and I hate it," I say with absolutely no whining in my voice. I pull my coat tighter around my thin frame, my shoulders rounded in what is definitely not a petulant sulk, and shove past her, out the door, into the chilled evening air. Tess jogs after me, blinking against the flurries of fine snowflakes that land in her eyelashes. As soon as she catches up, I try another tactic.
"How about a—"
She cuts me off. "No. Unless you're going to say a kiss, a card that includes the words 'I'm in love with you,' or you're planning to put a bow around your own dick—"
"Oh my god, you are the most mortifying human—"
She barrels on, completely ignoring the glare of a passing middle-aged man in an unfortunate scarf. "If it's not one of those things, then Jack doesn't want it, and I don't want to hear it."
I scowl. She makes it sound so easy. Like Jack and I don't have years of baggage working against us. We met in our freshman year of college when we were in the same core requirement history class. We started living together our sophomore year, then got a place off campus our senior year and just... stayed there. We have all the same friends. We've traveled together, spent holidays with each other’s families... and I've been in love with him the whole time.
Well, probably. There were a few years there in the beginning where I swore we were just really great friends. Best friends, the kind you have for life. In hindsight, though... I'm pretty sure it's always been more than that.
I just didn't realize it until Jack started dating the woman that would become his wife.
If we really were just best friends, then being the best man at his wedding would have been one of the highlights of our friendship. Instead, the day he asked me was one of the worst I've ever had. The whole experience left me sick. It was right after one of our biggest almost moments, too, the night of Jack’s twenty-seventh birthday, when we’d had way too much whiskey and I nearly fucked up our entire friendship.
I guess in the back of my mind, I thought we would always be together. Even throughout the whole wedding preparation year, I kept thinking... this will all go away. Something will happen, the wedding will get called off, and everything will go back to normal. I always thought... eventually, it'll just happen. We'll get there.
We didn't get there. Jack married Hannah four years ago. He moved out, and I stayed. We were still best friends, but he had a wife. Things were different.
Then they split up six months ago, though Jack was uncharacteristically vague on the 'why' of it. He moved back in a few months later. And now, everything is almost back to normal.
Almost.
"Look, Tess," I say, struggling to master my temper. "I’m not going to turn Christmas morning into some kind of grand romantic gesture. Especially not while hosting my parents. And you’re one to talk. You’ve been mooning over Imani’s sister for the last year. Why do you have to keep picking at this?"
"Because, Ezra—"
She snags me by the crook of my arm and tugs me to a halt. The grumbling, holiday-rushed crowd pushes us against the wall of yet another glittering shop, this one full of toys and delicate ornaments and a thousand other things I study intently instead of meeting Tess's gaze.
"Because you've been through enough," she says, her voice low and gentle. "The both of you have been through so much, and it's time to just be happy, okay?"
My throat goes thick, and I blink hard until the lights through the shop window lose their blur.
“It’s not like I’ve just been waiting around. I’ve dated. I have a job I love, and a seat in the orchestra—"
She cuts me off.
"It's time, Ez. You asked for my help, and I'm giving it. Let yourself be happy." She runs a comforting hand down my arm, then takes a deep breath and steps back. "Now, why don't we—"
I slip away before she can finish that sentence, already halfway across the street before she starts to follow. The light changes, and she gets stuck on the other side of the crosswalk while I disappear into the craft beer and wine shop I spotted in the reflection of the window. I have an idea. Maybe it's a stupid one... but it's the only idea I've had all day. It's worth a shot.
I must give off helpless vibes, because seconds after I stop in the middle of the store, a woman with a kind smile approaches me.
"Shopping for a gift?" she asks.
"How could you tell?"
She shrugs, eyebrows raised. "Just a lucky guess. Who's it for?"
"It's, uh..."
This question shouldn't be hard. It's for my roommate? It's for my best friend? It's for... the man I've been in love with for my entire adult life? I don't know how to answer without spilling way more than this poor woman asked for. She seems to sense my internal angst and comes to my rescue, thankfully.
"Is it for someone... special?" she asks delicately.
My cheeks go hot, and I look away, sure it's written all over my face.
"Possibly," I say, then immediately have to fight the urge to run away. Before I can flee, the woman's smile deepens. She waves for me to follow her.
"I think I know just the thing," she says as we weave through aisles of craft and imported beer toward the wine section. "Do they like red wine?"
"He does," I say, and the urge to flee overtakes me again as soon as I realize that I've just come out to this random stranger, which shouldn't be a big deal but always feels like it. She doesn't react at all, though, just scans a rack of red wines and gently withdraws a bottle with a quiet 'ah hah!'
"This merlot is deep and rich,” she says, angling the bottle for my inspection. “Beautifully seductive color, full-bodied flavor, very warming. It's a fantastic wine for a special occasion, or... a night in."
The flush spreads from my cheeks to the tips of my now burning ears, but I nod, a vision of Christmas possibilities unfolding in my mind. This wine, the right atmosphere, a touch of bravery, and maybe…
"I'll take two," I say, once my throat lets me.
Tess sidles up and bumps her shoulder against mine, having finally caught up. She nods at the wine.
"Good choice.”
I slide my card across the checkout counter and can't help the tiny, private smile that curls at the corner of my mouth.
"We'll see," I say.
The snow is falling in earnest by the time we get home from our shopping trip, my cheeks wind-burned and my hair dusted with fine powdery flakes. Tess and I chat on our shared front porch for a moment, then head for our respective doors. Jack and I have been renting this same duplex since college, and when our terrible previous neighbors moved out we begged Tess to apply to rent the other unit. One good word to the landlord later, and she was in. Good thing, too, because it made things at least slightly less desolate when Jack moved out.
I unlock the door, and a warm, sweet scent immediately fills my senses. What is that? Chocolate? As soon as I step inside, I see him. Jack, standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon and humming quietly to himself. My heart gives a painful contraction at the sight of him, so perfectly at home here, as much a part of this place as the walls. Some part of me is still expecting him to leave again, to come home one day and find it empty and quiet.
But he’s here.
"Welcome home," Jack says in that warm southern drawl of his. He doesn't look up, intent on whatever his project of the day is—the man can never just sit still and relax for an afternoon. I should reply. Thanks, or hello, or something.
Instead, I flee into my bedroom, darting past Jack with something like guilt or embarrassment twisting in my stomach. I practically slam the door behind me and shove the wine under my bed like a porn magazine hidden from a parent.
What am I doing?
I slump onto the floor next to the bed, forearms propped on my knees, waiting for my heart to stop trying to break out and fly away. Somehow, having the wine in the same physical location as Jack makes the reality of giving it to him, drinking it with him, so much more immediate.
Honestly, there’s probably nothing to worry about. It's wine. Jack will drink it and completely fail to understand the significance. He'll be a little confused, but he'll say thank you, compliment the wine's characteristics, appreciate its color without ever applying the word seductive like the woman in the shop did.
Things will continue as they always have.
I'll want him. Jack will be oblivious.
Fine.
But... agh. Tess's words are like a nagging fly I can't shake. On our walk home, I actually tried to backpedal and make her take the wine. The look she gave me was so fierce I thought she might eat my face off.
"Look, I understand that before he got married, you had lots of reasons to doubt,” she’d said. “But I just don't understand what you're so afraid of now."
I'd barked a harsh laugh right in her face, shaking my head.
"How am I not supposed to be afraid? I could lose my best friend. Again."
"You're not going to lose him, Ez. He's a sure bet. You have nothing to worry about."
"So everyone keeps telling me. Everyone thinks they know. But do they really? How sure are all of you?" I'd had to pause and rein myself in, hearing the ragged edge of hysteria in my voice. "No, I think it's a lost cause. If he wanted me, I'd know by now. I need to let this go. Jack isn't interested in me like that."
"Then why did he come running right back to you as soon as his marriage was over?"
"He's only been back for three months. They've been broken up for six."
Tess had hesitated for a moment then, setting off alarm bells in my brain. But she’d continued.
"He wanted to come straight back to you. But he didn't want you to feel like he was only coming back because he had nowhere else to go. He wanted you to know he was choosing to live with you again because it's what he wanted."
If only I could believe that.
"I think you're reading too much into the situation."
"It's literally what he told me. I'm not 'reading into' anything."
"But he never told me that."
"Because you are two thirty-something men who can't figure out how to talk about feelings. At some point, Ez, you're going to have to open your mouth and say words, and I can't help you with that."
I was grumpy and silent the rest of the way home, digesting that bit of info. Against my better judgment… it does give me a bit of hope.
And yet, here I am, sitting on my bedroom floor and running a thousand scenarios through the logical machinery of my brain. As always, I’m getting nowhere. It’s been a lifelong problem; I’m either thinking with my math brain or I’m drowning in my feelings. It even came out in my choice of college majors. I majored in math but minored in music because I couldn’t bear to put down the flute entirely. Everyone always said, ‘oh, yeah, there’s so much math in music!’
But they don’t understand. To me… I just can’t integrate them. They’re wholly separate parts of me that can’t seem to take possession of my body at the same time. Even now, I have a day job running probability models and managing statistics for a climate nonprofit. But I have a seat in the community orchestra, too.
Logic and feelings. And I can’t make myself accept logic where Jack is concerned, so my feelings just… overwhelm me.
Maybe I need more opinions here. Tess is too close to the situation. Maybe a different friend. I pull one of the wine bottles back out, snap a picture of it, then send it along with a text to one of the only people who might understand what I’m struggling with. Our friend Oliver is a genius scientist who finally just got together with his boyfriend, Chris, after years of pining. Maybe he’ll have some insight.
Ezra: Is this a terrible idea? Too obvious?Oliver: Not obvious enoughOliver: Get out a sharpie and write I FUCKING LOVE YOU on the label and you'll be halfway there.Ezra: Shit, if that's halfway then what's all the way??Ezra: Never mind, please don't answer thatOliver: Look, I know it’s terrifyingOliver: But it’s worth itOliver: Trust me
Ugh, smug bastard. He’s been like this ever since they got together. The sex must be really good.
Ezra: Easy for you to say. Chris did the wooing. All you had to do was be wooed.Oliver: Wooed? What are we, 16th-century ladies of the court?Ezra: I regret texting youOliver: Most people doOliver: But look, I DO know what it’s like to not trust what your eyes are seeingOliver: And to be too afraid to hope that it might be trueOliver: But you have to trust Jack, and trust the rest of usOliver: It’s going to happen. You just have to say something.
Ugh. It’s Tess all over again. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the bed, letting the tide of my feelings carry me out to sea. Jack. What am I going to do? Can I really go through with this?
A knock on the bedroom door startles me from my thoughts.
"Ez? You okay? Are you busy?"
Shit.
I shove the wine back under the bed and scramble to my feet, schooling my features into something less obvious, then crack the door open. A hand holding a cheery red mug pushes through.
"Come on," Jack sings, waggling the mug as much as he can without spilling. "Come join me. I built a fire in the fireplace, and I just made real hot chocolate from scratch. Try some."
My throat constricts at the sight of Jack's warm, crinkled smile, so all I can do is nod and take the mug, following him out into our living room. Jack picks up his own mug and goes to stand by one of the big windows overlooking the road. After a moment of hesitation, I join him. I'm careful to place myself a comfortable distance away, but Jack ignores it and shifts closer until our arms brush with each sip of hot chocolate. Outside, the fine powdery snow shifts to fat, wet flakes, falling in a thick rain over the dusted streets.
"Beautiful, right?" Jack asks. "I wonder if we'll get snow like this for Christmas."
He turns to me, as if I could possibly provide the answer to such an impossible, changeable thing... and my gaze falls to his lips. My mind automatically maps out the motions needed to bring our mouths together, the possible actions and reactions, the—
I drag my eyes back up to Jack's, finding them soft and glowing with something. And I think of the wine. Of that full-bodied flavor on Jack's mouth, of seductive red, warmth in my belly, first kisses, and laying Jack down in front of the fire while a winter wonderland swirls outside our window.
I take in a shuddering breath and lean away from Jack, bracing my forearm against the window. A topic of conversation, something to distract, anything, what can I say...
"My parents want to stay here for Christmas," I blurt, knowing the surprise of it will knock Jack off balance. I wasn't planning to bring this up until later, but needs must. “Instead of a hotel. They want a ‘cozy Christmas at home.’”
Jack predictably flounders, his mouth gaping open for a long moment. "What, here as in our house? Where will they..."
Jack pauses, his face shadowed with disappointment and hurt. "I guess I can call my sister, see if I can spend Christmas Day with them so your parents can stay in my room and—"
"No," I interrupt, half-panicked. "Stay. Please. They want to see you, too. I already talked to Tess and she’s going to let them sleep there while she’s out of town. Please stay here."
Okay, I’m practically begging now. Does this count as talking about feelings? I feel like I should get credit for this. Regardless, I catch the quirk of a small smile at the corner of Jack's mouth.
"All right, Ez. I'll stay, if you're sure you want me to."
Ha. As if we don’t all already know that I want him around at all times. I think back to the wine bottles hidden away under my bed and swallow hard, the anticipation of merlot on my tongue.
"Yeah. I really do."
We Only Kiss at Christmas by Con Riley
1
I play a game at Christmas involving Mariah Carey and my auntie. Not in person—I don’t move in the social circles of the rich and famous. When I’m not yawning through law lectures, I take temp jobs waiting tables. And my auntie? These days, she’s soaking up Barbados rum and sunshine, but we still text each other every time we hear All I Want for Christmas and include a photo of our location.
I don’t make the rules of this game we’ve played since she left London. I just stop in my tracks on Regent Street and send her a photo of the department store pumping out those high-pitched, fluting top notes. Then I type my thirty-seventh message of the season, which is impressive, given it’s not quite December.
Seb: mariah again pls god make it stop
I can already imagine her reply.
Auntie: Sebastian Street, DO NOT take that name in vain.
She won’t mean Mariah’s. My auntie sleeps with a Bible on her bedside table and collects guardian angels. Not real ones; she’s in her seventies, not delusional. She spends her old-age pension on angels from the shopping channel, but she’s worked hard for decades. She deserves a few wings and halos.
I also send her a selfie, trying to fit a good view of the street into the frame with me. It isn’t easy in these late-afternoon crowds, not when I’m what my flatmate describes as a six-foot bundle of rage stuffed into a five-foot-seven body, but I angle my phone to capture this not-quite-Christmas scene of shoppers and black-cab traffic. She’ll love to see it, I hope.
My finger hovers over the Send button.
Will she?
It’s been years since she was in the same city as me, and she’s not even my real auntie, just a children’s home cook and care worker who fed my love for cake and told the best bedtime stories.
Maybe she’s tired of this game—my last Mariah Carey selfie still has grey ticks, not blue ones, which gives me a sense of humour failure right here in central London on the last day of November. That isn’t only down to Auntie’s silence. It’s also down to getting a summons from the temp agency that usually sends me to wait tables when I’m not in the lectures that bore me rigid lately.
They’ve asked me to come in right before the office closes, and I guess my days on their books are numbered. After last night, I only have myself to blame if they sack me.
No, the devil on my shoulder whispers as I fight my way down a West End shopping street still full of families and little kids despite it already being after sunset. Don’t you dare take the blame, my devil insists. What happened last night was that twat of a photographer Lito Dixon’s fault, and you know it.
Who’s to blame doesn’t matter—whether it’s Lito’s fault or mine, I’m still ninety-nine percent sure I’m about to lose my income.
I feel it in my bones as Mariah’s voice follows me down the street while shoppers fail to grasp the first rule of city living. They stop and start, going slow instead of marching to London’s fast-paced rhythm. Even worse, they cluster together. Whole families block the way with no warning to ohh and ahh over festive windows.
The urge to shout, “Coming through,” or even, “Get the fuck out of my way,” to prod them into moving is overwhelming, but I’m pretty sure that if I have a guardian angel on my other shoulder like Auntie always promised, he’d be the twin of my flatmate.
Do angels speak with accents? Mine would have Pat’s same soft Cornish rasp and would probably whisper, “But look at their kids, babe. They love getting to see Christmas.”
He’d be right—from tiny infants to preteens, these kids are spellbound, all soaking up being in this dark city while lights twinkle and snow falls in pretty flurries. Their wonder-filled eyes dredge up a memory of a much younger me under the same spell right here outside London’s flagship toy shop, Hamleys, with my auntie’s hand around mine.
That curbs the urge to yell over the rumble of passing double-deckers. For once, I make a more restrained request.
“Excuse me.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that no one moves or listens—I grew up in this mad and magical city that must look warm and festive to these wide-eyed kids. In reality, it’s stone-cold beneath this sparkling surface, especially for people who can’t speak up, which means I engage the second rule of city living and get assertive in a hurry.
“Mind your backs,” I bark, but not to make these crowds part for me. “You need to move so the kids can see,” I tell grown adults who gawp at me while sheltered by Hamleys’ bright red awnings. “Let the little ones get out of the snow,” I bark louder, and they do it. They also shift enough that I can make it to my destination with time to spare, but I don’t cross the street to the temp agency quite yet, even though arriving early might make a good impression. I delay by pulling out my phone again instead.
Still no blue ticks under my latest Mariah message.
I send a new one, this time to my flatmate, and I don’t mention any singer.
Seb: fucking people patrick they’re everywhere make it stop
He responds right away, calling me instead of texting.
“Punctuation, babe.”
Pat never calls me Sebastian. I have no idea when he stopped calling me that—or Seb, like our last flatmate used to—or why I never told him that I’m no one’s baby. All I know, as crowds jostle me into moving again, is that London isn’t half as cold when he names me with four letters.
It melts me just enough that this slips out. “I’m about to get fired, Pat.”
He doesn’t ask why. He only rumbles, “About to?” as something clanks in the background and music pumps, but I tune it out, caught on what he asks me.
“So you haven’t been fired yet? You know what assuming bad shit will happen to you is called?”
I do. We’ve had versions of this conversation several times already, the last one in bed yesterday morning. Not because we sleep together. Pat’s my flatmate, remember? He’s also my bestie, and a good enough friend to suggest that sharing breakfast in bed would be warmer than both of us freezing our tits off in our frosty kitchen.
He was right about that. He’s also right about this. “It’s called catastrophizing. And what do we do with that kind of self-defeating bollocks?”
I find a spot out of the foot traffic, listening as he counts quietly while something clanks again in the background. Weights, I decide as he continues. He must be training one of his fitness family—the group he’s gathered as a sample for his sport and exercise science dissertation. He’s getting each one of them fitter even though the jury’s still out on whether he’ll make it to graduation. Pat’s grades are shocking, which isn’t fair when he’s so good at coaching.
Pat finishes his count and his voice gets louder. It’s still hard to hear over traffic and shoppers’ chatter plus blasts of music, but I have no trouble registering his message. “We punt that self-defeating bollocks straight into the sun.”
There’s more background clanking coupled with him counting, but I don’t point out that he’s skipped the number three in his countdown. Nor do I picture Lito fucking Dixon, who’s the reason for this catastrophizing. I picture a football instead—the same one that Pat taught me to kick so high I almost smashed a tower-block window.
“Into the sun, babe,” he repeats. “So stop expecting the worst.”
He says something else, but more music drowns it. This time it’s from closer, and you-know-whose voice spills through another department store door, one that also spills more shoppers carrying gift-wrapped presents. They flood out, jostling me again, and it isn’t often that I wish I was built like Pat, but what I lack in height I make up for in volume. I bark again, much louder, “Do you mind? I’m standing right here,” and a pool of space clears around me.
Very satisfying.
“Babe.” That’s not quite an admonishment in my ear. Pat’s voice is too gentle, too angelic for this city. I huff at his quiet reminder to chill out, to be kind, to stop acting as if the world is out to get me. Only it is out to get me, and I hate what’s surely coming so much that I actually snap at the sole flatmate I’ve ever managed to hang onto.
We’ve been together for two years. In the same flat, I mean. It’s a personal record. A miracle that Auntie might have prayed for. One I shouldn’t mess up, and yet...
“The agency is going to fire me, Pat. And then how will we cover the rent? We won’t,” I insist, my voice rising. “I’ll have to get a shitty room in a shitty student house share, and your dad will set you up in that swish one-bed he offered to rent for you. Or you’ll go home, full stop.”
“Nope, nope, and nope.” I don’t know how Pat can sound this certain. “I’m only going home early for Christmas, not forever. And as for paying the rent, we’ve still got other options.” He’s all rough West Country patience that’s easier to hear once a door closes with a click. He must have shut himself into the room that passes for an office at the gym. “But we won’t need other options because the agency won’t fire you. You’re a banging waiter. And a shit-hot bartender. You never spill a drop, do you?”
After last night, I can’t answer that without lying. I also wince as he lists skills I won’t include on my CV, not when getting to be a prosecutor means fighting for a place in legal chambers, not pouring Prosecco while wearing an apron.
Pat fights too, only for me, which I’m still not used to.
“The agency is lucky to have you,” he promises, gravelly with conviction. It’s followed by a different kind of background rumble—something in the office must be toppling over. Protein powder tubs, I bet. “Shit,” he says. “Stay right there.”
I do, breaking one of those city-living rules by going still instead of hurrying. Time ticks closer to my date with doom as Pat sets right an office I can visualise as clearly as the images on those tubs of protein powder. They all show an Adonis from the neck down, and Pat could have been the model, but that’s only him on the outside.
Inside, he’s...
I don’t know how to describe him. All I can do is picture his face, which unlike his torso, is the opposite of etched. It’s as soft and comfortable as the oversized armchair that we share more often than our sofa. I also strain to listen when Pat speaks again.
Another double-decker bus passes. Its rumble drowns what he says, despite me clutching my phone tighter. “What did you say?” I bellow, because that’s London’s third rule, even when snow softens all its sharp edges—if you can’t move fast or be assertive, you better be ready to shout your fucking head off.
Pat huffs again. “Chill, babe. I only said that I can always make up the rent if you do need time to look for a new side hustle.”
“How?” I face the window, cursing that I look elf-like instead of professional. I shake snow from my hair and turn away, only the next view is worse. The temp agency looms across the street, waiting for me.
“How will I make up the rent?” Pat laughs like the answer is obvious. “By taking on some more shifts.”
“At the gym?” I drop my voice. “You can’t.”
“Yes, I can. They’ve already offered me the daily Mums, Bums, and Tums classes for the week until I go home. You know, the ones with loads of babies?”
I have no idea why he’s so happy about what sounds like hell in scrunch shorts and leaking Pampers. Like my law lecturers insist, I stick to the facts, and only the facts. “No. You really can’t do any more shifts, Pat.”
“Why not?”
I don’t want to say it. I really don’t. Not here, surrounded by strangers hopped up on too-early Christmas spirit. If we were at home, both of us squeezed onto our favourite seat, we’d be close enough that he’d see I wasn’t being a grinch on purpose. Then I’d spill the truth in a heartbeat. But we aren’t, so I settle for saying, “Because extra classes with babies won’t happen at night, will they?”
I’m not certain if that’s factual. What do I know about babies apart from the fact that not everybody wants one?
But here’s the thing about what my lecturers insist on compared to what I see all the time on Suits whenever we binge Netflix while snuggled under a fuzzy throw together—winning legal arguments doesn’t always hinge on being factual. It comes down to sounding convincing, so that’s what I aim for.
“You’ve got to study, remember? For your repeat exam. But you can’t go to any of the daytime support sessions at uni if you teach extra gym classes at the same time.”
“And?”
Here’s the deceptive thing about my flatmate. For someone with a soft face and even softer accent, he’s no pushover. He won’t let me off the hook until I answer, so I blow out a sigh that clouds the air and I get honest.
“And then you’ll fail your biomechanics exam.” Again. “For a third time, which is the limit. You can’t graduate without it.” That’s all true. I still hate it for him almost as much as I hate what else will happen—Pat won’t only go home to Cornwall for Christmas. He’ll stay there. “Sorry, sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“Nothing to be sorry for, babe. I’m manifesting a better result for me this time.”
Here’s the problem with me—I don’t believe in manifesting, in expecting the best from people or the universe. I believe in what’s black and white, in what’s right or wrong. Like this injustice. “You shouldn’t even have to retake it. They should make allowances because the playing field isn’t level, is it? I mean, the faculty love you when you win all those varsity medals for them. When you go to Nationals and come back with weightlifting trophies. But then they let you drown in exam season.” That’s what happens each time—Pat gets swamped by sums he can’t solve even with a calculator. “It gives me the fucking rage that they know it but still let it happen.”
All that does is prompt a chuckle, although that’s not the right word for what sounds kinda sad, and I can’t stand to hear it. Not from someone I—
Not from Pat.
And here’s that rage again. Fuck the faculty, fuck Lito too, and fuck the rent going up just as our last flatmate left us. Not that I blame Ian. He’s not responsible for greedy market forces, but splitting our rent between two instead of three is why I’m getting jostled in one of London’s most expensive postcodes, hoping against hope I’ll still have a job after this meeting so Pat can focus on what’s important, which is staying in London.
With me.
I also shiver at snow finding its way under my collar, but Pat’s next laugh is as warm as that fuzzy throw at home. One that you better believe I’ll fight to keep snuggling under with him. That means I stride across the street, all guns blazing, only to almost get mown down by a Just Eat moped when Pat speaks again.
I stop dead like I’m new in town, not born and bred here, then I hurry to a door that opens onto a hallway where a staircase leads to the temp agency.
I close the door behind me, shutting out the sound of traffic, standing alone in a space as narrow as our hallway at home, only it isn’t cluttered with Pat’s weight bench or his bike that always trips me. There aren’t airers here holding our shared laundry, or the cardboard box full of Christmas decorations it isn’t time yet to put up.
This hallway only holds me. I’m one staircase away from a meeting that might decide our future together, and my voice strangles. “What did you just say? I missed it.”
“Only that maybe it’s time to rethink what we agreed to last December.” It’s so much quieter in this hallway that I can hear Pat’s swallow and his quieter, “You remember what we agreed together?”
Me? I remember every word of our agreement. I can’t say it aloud though, not when Pat hasn’t mentioned it even once since.
Just like that, I’m not at the foot of a staircase, certain that bad news waits at its head. Catastrophizing that no-job-no-money outcome will have to wait because right now I’m too busy reliving what happened when Pat pinned a sprig of mistletoe over our living room door last December, and I...
I climbed him like a tree and kissed him.
Heat climbs my throat like I should climb this staircase right now, yet I can’t move. Not when Pat might as well be right here with me. I clutch my phone the same way I’d clutched him almost twelve months ago, clinging, fucking clinging, until he took my weight and hoisted me up higher.
Did he kiss me back though?
I still can’t process if he did or didn’t. Now I repeat his question, hedging for time, because yes, one of London’s rules is hurry-hurry-hurry, but I can’t rush this conversation. “D-do I remember what we agreed?”
“Yeah,” he rumbles while someone in the agency above me sings along with what could be text number thirty-eight or nine to my auntie. Something swoops in my chest like Mariah’s high notes at what he reminds me. “Do you remember what we decided last Christmas? Both of us. Together.”
“You mean...” I also still can’t process how we went from me throwing myself at him to us agreeing to a new house rule designed to preserve what I value most in this whole city. In this city? When it comes to friendship, I value Pat’s more than anything on this whole planet.
My best friend raises a completely different subject. “Yeah, when we agreed not to get another flatmate for the third bedroom.”
“Oh.” I close my eyes. “That. Yes. Yes, I remember.”
He says, “Maybe we should rethink it,” and my eyes shoot open. “Because even if you are fired, I’m sure you’d get more work, no problem, but someone else paying rent would solve all of our problems, wouldn’t it? Did...” He pauses, and I don’t know how his voice gets even lower. “Did you think I meant we should rethink something else we agreed on?”
My phone beeps a five-minute warning that’s also a reprieve from a conversation I can’t have here. “Sorry, Pat. I’ve got to go. It’s time.” I mean for my meeting, but it’s also way past time we did have a conversation now that Christmas is right around the corner—only a little over a week away if I count down to when Pat goes home. “We’ll talk later,” I promise.
“At dinner with Ian and Guy if you aren’t working? They’ve booked a table at the usual place. Come too,” Pat suggests. “I’m about done here. Just need to shower.” I blink away a slick and soapy mental visual as he adds, “Then I’ll leave to meet them.” He must have opened the office door again.
Music pumps, racing like my heart at him saying, “Come if you can, but even if you are working tonight, think about having a third person chipping in with the bills. It would take off a hell of a lot of pressure, and I spoke to Ian earlier. He knows someone who needs a place to stay right away. Something to do with his ex.”
“Lito?” That tosser is the whole reason I’m here instead of earning money. “Ugh.”
“Yeah,” Pat agrees. “Ugh. But Ian says we could meet this potential flatmate tomorrow if you wanted. That wouldn’t hurt, would it? At least have a think about it?”
Think about it?
Once he rings off, I think about nothing else, frozen by indecision at the foot of this staircase until my phone pings another reminder to get moving. I finally climb the steps up to the agency office only certain of one thing—I’ll have to fight like hell to keep my job. Because the other option can’t happen.
It can’t.
Have a third person in the flat over the holiday season?
No way. Not when I’ve waited all year for the other rule Pat and I agreed on.
We only kiss at Christmas, a once-a-year neutral zone of physical contact that neither of us will let wreck our friendship.
Let a stranger get in the way when this could be our last Christmas together?
Never gonna happen.
Winter's Truth by Leta Blake
CHAPTER ONE
Vale
Vale hadn’t been alone in his study for very long when the door creaked open, and his son’s dark head appeared around the edge of the wood along with the side of his pale face and the shadow of his dark lashes.
“Pater?” Viro asked, staying just at the threshold, waiting for an invitation inside just as Vale had instructed him to do long ago during his toddler days. His voice was firm and serious. Not unusual for his and Jason’s thoughtful son. At eleven, Viro—Ro for short—was full of questions and, frankly unearned, confidence. Vale suspected Ro would present as an alpha when the time came—and it could come any day. The dominant vibe in him was quite strong.
“Pater? I have a question,” Ro called into the room. Even now, he struggled not to barge in; Vale could tell by the way the door nearly vibrated with Ro’s restrained energy, but he kept his feet outside the threshold.
Vale looked up from the poem he’d been toying with. “Yes, my love?”
Ro’s head ducked back from view. His voice came disembodied from the doorway. “Winter-fox isn’t real, is he?”
Vale glanced toward the windows of his study, out to the garden, seeing Jason hard at work draping colored paper and adding glittery bulbs to the shrubs, trees, and bushes. His Érosgápe had festooned the top of the fence, too, because Jason had always claimed that more was always better, especially when it came to celebrating.
It was true that every year Jason went overboard with Feast of Winter’s Heart decorations, and every year Vale indulged Jason’s enthusiasm with a devastating fondness which he still found mildly embarrassing even after so many years together. Vale didn’t know why he was still slightly mortified to be so besotted with his alpha. There was nothing shameful in adoring him. Their age difference was still stark, but despite Jason being so much younger, he was determined to be the best at everything he did: the best alpha, the best father, the best at his work. Vale thought Jason was, in fact, the best human being alive. His earnestness hadn’t faded away along with his once-terrifying youth.
Not that Jason wasn’t still a young man. With Vale having just celebrated a birthday that had him edging up on decidedly middle age, Jason was still far too many years younger by society’s standards. But Érosgápe were Érosgápe, and Jason’s youth was something Vale had long ago made his peace with. Indeed, it was something he now cherished when in the throes of a ferocious heat. Jason could always keep up with his needs, even when he was wild with them.
“Pater?” Ro said again, this time rattling the doorknob a little impatiently. “Winter-fox is a lie, isn’t he?”
Vale sighed.
Jason would be so disappointed. The Feast of Winter’s Heart was the holiday wherein wolf-god’s younger brother, a magical winter-fox, was lured into homes by beautiful decorations and the ringing of bells. In exchange for being invited to a feast, he left presents behind for the children. The joy of it was already so short-lived, only possible for a handful of years in any family’s life. Once Ro no longer believed…well, that would be the end of winter-fox’s visits. That was the way of it and always had been.
“Pater!” Ro demanded earnestly, making the door creak. “Answer me!”
Vale slid his unfinished poem into his desk drawer and turned the lock. The poem was nothing serious or deep, not like some of the more radical material from his youth. Still, it was definitely sexual and entirely about the activities he and Jason had gotten up to the night before. Nothing appropriate for eleven-year-old eyes.
That accomplished, he cleared his throat and called, “Why don’t you come in so we can talk?”
Ro didn’t hesitate, entering the often-forbidden room with alacrity. His dark head whipped back and forth between the windows and the fireplace, taking it all in again, and he nodded with satisfaction as he stretched his ever-growing legs by walking around the space. “I like it in here.”
Vale almost felt guilty about not allowing Ro access to his sanctuary more often, but as their son had grown, he’d become more and more dominant, taking over more and more of their lives. The high level of attachment wasn’t one-sided in the least. Neither Jason nor Vale enjoyed leaving Ro for any length of time even though they knew he was in perfectly good hands with Miner and Yule—Jason’s parents—or with their friends, Rosen and Yosef. Still, they missed him so much when they were away. Unfortunately, they had to be separated from their son far too often in order to deal with Vale’s unpredictable heats.
Knowing Ro was the only child they could ever have had always made their son’s every smile and laugh beyond precious to them both. For his part, Jason couldn’t say no to anything Ro asked for, and Vale couldn’t claim to be much stricter. There was no doubt they’d spoiled him terribly, and for that reason, perhaps, Ro was very immature for his age. It was probably also where all Ro’s unearned confidence came from. But he was a good child. Warm, honest, and funny. He was an ally to outcasts at school and always stood up for what was right. He had a strong moral compass and abhorred lies. He wanted everyone to live by the same code of ethics he did.
Yes, Vale was certain Ro would be an alpha.
Given all they did allow Ro access to within their home and outside it, the study was the one place Vale tried to keep just for himself. And sometimes for Jason. Such as when they wanted to be alone as Érosgápe mates, naked and trembling and loving each other, then they’d sneak into the study and lock the door behind them just in case.
Vale shivered at the memories of all that he and Jason had done in this room over their years together. So much pleasure, so much joy, so much love.
Wolf-god, where was his mind? Was another heat coming on so soon? He’d only just had one a month ago.
Still, Vale sensed the quiver deep inside, the shivery-hot sensation that heralded the intense waves of need coming soon. He’d been entirely too horny for his own good the last two days, too. The so-called change of life, when heats began to twist and morph with aging hormones, was hitting him harder than other omegas he knew. It was frustrating and scary to have heat after heat come at him with so little time between. Thankfully he had Jason to reassure him. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid for the future.
Vale shook himself from his worries and smiled. “Let’s sit on the sofa.”
“Pater, what’s this?” Ro asked, waylaid by his curiosity as he headed toward the leather couch. His long finger trailed over the dusty lid to a heart-shaped box resting on a small table next to one of Vale’s bookshelves. Normally Vale kept the box up high, a precaution from Ro’s younger days, but he’d taken it down a week ago to reach a book placed behind it, and he’d never put it back up.
Vale came close and touched the box, too, remembering his old friend. “That’s Zephyr.”
Ro had been quite young when Vale’s silver cat had died. She’d been such a (bratty, opinionated) friend to Vale during some of the loneliest years of his life, and tears pricked even now when he remembered her.
Sweet memories of her sleeping next to a newborn Ro came to mind, both of them on the little purple blanket his friends Yosef and Rosen had gifted, spread out before the fire. Ah, Zephyr had been so peaceful and protective back then, staying close to the baby while Vale had obsessed over his son’s tiny form, terrified that his babe might stop breathing if left unobserved for even a single moment. The ecstasy of parenthood had consumed Vale’s mind back then rather the way heat worries did now.
“Zephyr. Your cat,” Ro said, touching the box again and tilting his head with a sweet smile.
“Do you remember her at all?”
“No, but I know you loved her.” Ro’s eyebrows twitched up. “Was she a very small cat?” He lifted it to examine the bottom.
Vale took the box from his hands. “She’s been cremated.” Vale reached the box high up on the bookshelf again. “This holds her ashes.”
“Oh, you burned her up.” Ro gave a wise nod, still gazing up at the box. “I see now.”
“Well, the crematory handled the burning,” Vale said with a smile, knowing how Ro’s imagination could take flight sometimes. “It’s not as though I did it myself in the fireplace.”
Ro looked toward the fireplace with some interest, as if he were imagining that possibility, and then he nodded again. “Good choice, Pater. That would have been too gruesome by far.” He put his hand over his heart as if it hurt to consider this flight of morbid fancy.
Vale took hold of Ro’s shoulder and guided his son over to the leather sofa. The sofa Vale had been fucked on so, so, so many times. So many wonderful times.
Vale winced.
Wolf-god in heaven, this level of baseline arousal only meant one thing.
With a grimace, Vale fought the prickling beneath his skin. Surely he had a few more days left? Certainly? He bit into his lip and willed his mind to focus and his body to behave. With any luck, this was just a hot flash, a sensation many omegas suffered as their bodies wound down from their fertile years. Many of his omega friends said it felt similar to an oncoming heat.
“Pater, I want you to tell me the truth,” Ro said, lifting his sharp chin as he plopped down onto the sofa and gazed up at Vale seriously. “Is winter-fox real? Yes or no?”
Vale sat beside his son and took a moment to answer. The hot prickles ebbed away, and his mind cleared. “Well, let’s think about this carefully. You know that winter-fox only visits children—”
“I’m not little. I’m eleven.”
“You are, and your father and I are very aware of just how big you’re getting.”
“Then you know I’m way too big for baby stuff like winter-fox, and you should just tell me the truth.”
Vale tilted his head. “Think about it carefully, though, Ro. Winter-fox only comes if a child believes.”
“But is he real?”
“Winter-fox is real, yes.”
Ro gritted his teeth. “Why are you lying?” he growled. “You know I hate lies.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are! I’m eleven years old! I know winter-fox is a lie! I know it’s you and Father leaving the presents!”
Vale sighed and kept his voice as calm as possible when he answered. “I’m not lying, Ro. Winter-fox is real. Well, the spirit of winter-fox is real. Winter-fox is meant to instill magic, hope, joy, and love into the darkest nights of the year. All of that remains true, even if winter-fox himself is just a story.”
“Hmmph,” Ro said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I knew it.”
“Well, you’re getting smarter every day.” Vale touched Ro’s dark hair, smoothing his fingers through it and marveling at what a mixture his son was of himself and Jason physically. He had Vale’s fair skin and dark hair, but Jason’s blue eyes and, if the number of times they’d had to buy new pants in the last year was any indication, Jason’s height, too. He also had something of Jason’s pater, Miner, about his jawline, which was nice. But Vale was also deeply grateful to see evidence of his own long-dead parents in the shape of Ro’s fingers and nose.
Vale cleared his throat and turned to look out the window again at Jason at work bedecking the garden. “You didn’t say anything to your father about this before coming to me?”
Usually, Ro liked to help Jason decorate for the holiday, and it was strange for him to be inside instead of out there stringing up bows and shiny ornaments with Jason now.
“No,” Ro’s lips lifted in a soft, disdainful sneer. “We should stop him. I don’t see any point in decorating if winter-fox is a lie.”
“Mmm. Why does Father think you aren’t helping him?”
Ro heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. I just came looking for you when he started pulling out the boxes.” He leaned around Vale to peer out the window. “Maybe he thinks I went to the bathroom?”
Vale laughed softly. “Maybe. But why didn’t you ask your father about winter-fox?”
Ro rolled his eyes. “He wants me to stay a baby.”
“So you think he would have lied to you about winter-fox just being a story?” Vale smiled at that. Jason was nothing if not sincere and earnest at all times. Lying was not his baby alpha’s forte any more than it was their son’s. He probably wouldn’t have hesitated in his honesty, unlike Vale.
“Yes. He’d lie,” Ro asserted. “And then try to trick me into believing again. Like when he left those fake fox pawprints in the snow last year.” Ro re-crossed his arms over his chest in the opposite direction as if trying to emphasize his irritation with his father. He leaned back against the sofa, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe I fell for that. I was such a baby then.”
“Well, they were very convincing pawprints.” Jason had had so much fun making them, certain it would extend the years of Ro’s belief in magic. Oh well.
Ro snorted.
“You’re our only son, and—” Vale started, and Ro groaned.
“I know, but I can’t stay little forever, Pater! And I don’t believe in winter-fox. So we can’t celebrate. That’s that.” He said it with such finality that Vale’s heart panged.
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“Yes, it does.”
Vale ignored the surge of prickling heat that rose in him again. “No, it doesn’t. We could have one last Feast of Winter’s Heart as a family.”
It wasn’t just Jason who would be disappointed if they canceled Feast of Winter’s Heart. Miner and Yule, Jason’s parents, would be upset, too. They loved the feast and had only been able to enjoy it with Jason for a few years of his youth before his belief in winter-fox was spoiled by his friend Xan. If Ro insisted on not believing now, the entire family would be sad.
“What? And lie to Father?” Ro shook his head. “I don’t tell lies.”
“We don’t have to lie to him. We just won’t tell him you know. Withholding information isn’t quite the same as lying.”
Ro’s eyebrow popped up sharply. “No.”
“Ro, think of it like this. The spirit behind the story of winter-fox is one of giving, isn’t it? What better gift for your father, grandfather, and grandpater than one last Feast of Winter’s Heart for them and one last visit from winter-fox for you? Afterward, I could tell them all that this year will be the last so that they won’t be so disappointed next year.”
Ro chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you want to celebrate one more time? Won’t you miss it?” Vale hated to be manipulative, but the thought of Jason’s expression if Ro were to march out there right now saying, “Stop decorating, Father, I know the truth about winter-fox,” was just too painful to consider. Vale couldn’t endure Jason’s unhappiness if he had any way to prevent it.
“I guess I will miss it,” Ro agreed. “I like getting presents. But it’s wrong, isn’t it? To keep on celebrating even after I know? It’s not how it’s meant to be. Bad things will happen.”
“Darling, that’s superstition meant to keep children professing to believe longer than they really do.”
“Is it?” Ro pondered. “It says in the Holy Book of Wolf that the Feast of Winter’s Heart should only last as many years as a child believes. I read it in bed last night myself.”
“Darling…”
“Celebrating when I know it’s not true…” Ro’s dark eyebrows furrowed. “Isn’t it like trying to trick wolf-god?”
“Not really.” Vale wasn’t sure he should be encouraging Ro to go against his highly developed sense of right and wrong, but what real harm could a final celebration do? “Ro, love…” Vale paused before pulling out the final stop. “We’ve already bought your presents, you realize?”
Ro’s eyes brightened with interest.
“All the things you listed? Your father got them for you. But if ‘winter-fox’ isn’t going to bring them, I suppose we should donate them to a family with a child who still believes.”
Ro gasped and sat upright. “That’s mean!”
“Yes,” Vale agreed.
It really was. Perhaps he was an awful pater. He’d always wondered if he was a selfish parent. And as Ro aged, it seemed more and more likely that was the case. Though Jason would deny it and say he was the best pater in the world. Ridiculous and sweet, and absolutely blinded by love.
“Why would you be so mean?”
“Because it’s also mean to steal the Feast of Winter’s Heart away from your father and grandparents while still expecting to get the presents, isn’t it?”
“You could save them for my birthday!”
Vale shrugged. “I could. But do you really want to wait that long?”
Ro frowned, thinking hard. “I won’t have to lie? Really?”
“Just go along with things. Easy as that. You know how your father is, he’ll be so excited himself he won’t notice anything is different. So long as you don’t outright confess what you know, he’ll be willing to think you still believe.”
Ro squirmed. “But doesn’t it go against what winter-fox is all about if I get presents when I know he isn’t real?”
“He is real.”
“Right, he’s ‘real’ because the ‘spirit’ is real. I don’t know.” Ro’s mind was clearly churning. “Is it in the spirit of the spirit to get presents when I’m not supposed to?”
“It’s whatever it is, darling.”
“But won’t wolf-god be angry?”
“You don’t believe in winter-fox, but you believe in wolf-god?”
Ro’s eyes went wide. “Don’t you?”
Vale cleared his throat and spoke carefully. “I think there are many beautiful stories that impart important messages about life, and the story of wolf-god is—”
“Absolutely real!” Ro cut him off fervently. “Grandpater says so!”
“Oh, well, if Miner says so, then I suppose it is so,” Vale said and tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
His envy of Ro’s relationship with his grandpater wasn’t very generous. Especially with Miner so sick these days. Of course, Miner had turned to religion for comfort. Nearly everyone in his situation would.
“Grandpater doesn’t lie,” Ro said firmly. “Never, ever, ever.”
“All right,” Vale agreed, though he wasn’t sure if it was wise to let Ro hold any human being, much less one as fallible as Miner Hoff, in such high esteem.
But despite Vale’s unfair irritation with his pater-in-law for various things, he adored the man, too, and it brought Miner so much joy to have Ro in his life. Vale would never want to come between them. Especially not now, when perhaps there wasn’t enough time left anymore to be petty. Especially when it came to love.
A hot sizzle of heat pulsed through his veins, and Vale gasped softly.
“What’s wrong, Pater?” Ro asked, his blue eyes growing concerned.
Vale fanned himself with his hand and then rose from the sofa. “I’m just overheated. I’ll open a window. Go help your father decorate, and remember, go along with things, Ro. You don’t have to lie. Just enjoy your last year as a child in the eyes of wolf-god’s little brother, and let your father enjoy it, too.”
“All right,” Ro said doubtfully. He caught Vale just as he was about to open the window, his head resting against Vale’s shoulder. “Pater, I love you. Don’t be sick like grandpater.”
“Oh, love,” Vale said, hugging Ro tight. “I’m not sick. I promise.” He bent to drop a kiss on Ro’s soft hair.
“You’re just too hot,” Ro said, squeezing tighter.
Get Frosted by Amy Aislin
Mik Gilmore’s outdoor Christmas decorations were majestic.
Okay, maybe majestic was the wrong word, but they were certainly fun. He’d be the talk of the neighborhood, especially considering his neighbors hadn’t done much to decorate their own houses yet.
His looked like a winter wonderland.
Well, a wonderland, anyway, seeing as there wasn’t any snow on the ground. Mid-November in Christmas Falls, Illinois, could bring all sorts of weather, and any snow that had fallen recently had already melted.
Standing on the sidewalk, Mik snapped a photo to send to his older brother, Josh, whose own house was decorated in what Mik called pretty, but boring. Mik captioned the photo Mik’s Toy Shop, a reference to the inflatable on his walkway, and hit Send. The inflatable was made up of two ten-foot-tall towers, the peaked roof of which was striped red and white. The columns were green with mock windows near the roof. And at the base of the columns were five-foot-tall nutcrackers in red-and-gold outfits. The two columns were held together by a banner proclaiming Santa’s Toy Shop, complete with a rocking horse atop the banner.
With the lights Mik had strung along his roof, around every window, across the porch railing, and over the bushes, it would look hella festive when the sun went down.
“Looking good, Mik,” called his neighbor as she descended her porch steps, her greyhound on a leash.
“Thanks, Hanna.”
Mik’s phone pinged. Josh had sent a gif of the house from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.
Rolling his eyes, Mik shoved his phone back in his pocket. His house wasn’t that bad. Just that it was his first Christmas in his new place in his hometown after retiring from a decade in the NHL at the end of last season. He had to do Christmas right.
Another ping. Another text from Josh.
Josh
Seriously, though, it looks great! Very festive. Very you.
Yeah, that was Josh. Always there with a kind word or encouraging pep talk, even if he teased Mik at the same time. Then there was Mik—the younger brother, the mini Josh in every way except personality, always hovering in his big brother’s shadow.
Mik had been content to live in that shadow until he’d made it to the NHL a year after Josh, and sportscasters and bloggers began referring to him as Josh Gilmore’s little brother.
Gilmore’s Baby Bro, Following in His Footsteps.
Gilmore Junior Signs Multi-Year Deal with His Big Brother’s Team’s Rivals.
A Gordie Howe Hat Trick Tonight for Josh Gilmore’s Little Bro.
Like, he had a name, fuck you very much. Why didn’t anybody ever use it? Mik wasn’t the same person as his brother and had never tried to be, no matter how much he’d always looked up to him. At almost exactly twelve months apart, they’d come as a package deal for most of their lives, a fact that hadn’t bothered him until he was old enough to want to be seen as his own person. Mik had retired from hockey six months ago, and upon the announcement of his retirement, one headline had read Baby Gilmore Set to Retire at End of Season, Plans to Follow Josh to Illinois.
Mik hadn’t followed anyone anywhere. Christmas Falls, Illinois, was his hometown. His parents were here. His gran was here. The people he’d grown up with were here. The family pub he and Josh had been expected to one day take over was here. Where else did people expect him to go?
Couldn’t the headline have read Mik Gilmore Set to Retire at End of Season and Join His Brother in Running their Family Pub?
“You certainly know how to make a splash,” said a dry voice at his elbow, shaking him out of his irritation.
And setting into motion a new kind of annoyance that fizzled in his blood. “No one asked you,” he said to Josh’s best friend.
Rudy Snow raised one dark eyebrow, because of course he could do that. When Mik tried, he ended up with both eyebrows at his hairline.
“It’s certainly . . .” Rudy cast his gaze around, taking everything in. “Unique.”
“It’s majestic.”
“It looks like the Island of Misfit Toys. All you’re missing is a Charlie-in-the-Box.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Mik clenched his teeth. “You’re not allowed to judge. You don’t even have a wreath on your front door.”
Rudy made a sound in the back of his throat, a rumbly laugh that made the back of Mik’s neck itch. “Do you often happen to find yourself outside my house, Miki?”
Mik’s stupid feelings went all gooey at the nickname. Or maybe that was just hunger. “It’s on my way to work.”
“Sure. If you take the long way.”
God. Why did he have to be so annoying?
And hot.
And annoyingly hot. All dark-haired and dark-eyed and scruffy-jawed, with a natural tan to his skin that perpetually made him look like he’d just come from the beach. He stood a couple of inches taller than Mik’s five feet eleven. At a year older than Mik’s thirty-one, Rudy was as fit now as he’d been when he’d played in the NHL, even two and a half years post-retirement.
Josh and Rudy had met way back in youth hockey, at a hockey clinic Mik hadn’t met the age requirement for, so Mik hadn’t met Rudy until his rookie NHL season.
Mik had considered himself lucky to be drafted to Josh’s team’s rival. With Mik playing for Washington and Josh playing for Pittsburgh, it had given Mik the chance to step out of his brother’s shadow and assert himself as his own person. And playing up the rivalry between their teams had been all sorts of fun at family get-togethers.
The problem Mik hadn’t anticipated had been twofold.
First, because Josh’s rookie year had been the gold fucking star of rookie years, Mik had been instantly compared to him when he’d been drafted a year later, forevermore casting him in the role of Josh Gilmore’s little brother.
Second, there was Pittsburgh defenseman Rudy Snow. And Pittsburgh defenseman Rudy Snow wasn’t shy about checking his teammate’s little brother into the boards during Mik’s first Washington versus Pittsburgh game.
“It’s no secret in the league that your brother and his teammate Rudy Snow are good friends,” a reporter had said to Mik during the post-game interview after that game. “What do you have to say to your brother’s best friend after that check in the second period?”
Um, nothing?
He’d barely known Rudy. Plus, checking was what hockey players did.
While both those things were true, that hadn’t been what the reporter wanted to hear. So Mik had smirked and said, “That he better watch out. He won’t get the jump on me again. In fact, next time, I’m going to swipe the puck out from under him and score. Just wait and see.”
Mik had later learned that Rudy had responded to that with a pithy, “He can try.”
And that was it. Instant rivalry.
Rudy posted a photo of himself working out on social media? Mik told him his dumbbells looked a little light. Mik went on a rant about Swiffer dusters doing nothing more than moving the dust around? Rudy filmed a commercial for Swiffer.
To be fair, Mik hadn’t had to listen to his agent when Tom encouraged him to play up that rivalry on social media. It would keep him in the spotlight and ensure he was talked about. Which, considering the Josh-Gilmore’s-little-brother thing, hadn’t necessarily been a good thing.
That rivalry between them had turned into a game of one-upmanship, even after Rudy had been traded from Pittsburgh. And here they were, a decade after that first game, still trying to outdo the other.
The fact that they now managed rival pubs was purely coincidental.
Now, as Rudy slowly made his way between the lawn ornaments—a trio of presents, an elf, a reindeer family, a couple of Minions on a sled, a Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, and a sign proclaiming Welcome to Whoville—Mik pulled his gaze from his long legs and looked behind him. Rudy’s car was at the curb.
“What are you doing here anyway?” he asked. “You on your way somewhere?”
“Just getting back, actually.”
Mik pulled the sleeve of his coat back and checked his watch. Just after nine a.m. “Walk of shame?” He didn’t know why the thought stiffened his back.
“Not that there’d be anything wrong with that,” Rudy said with a pointed look.
Mik raised both hands. “I didn’t say there was.”
“But I went for a morning hike at one of the nearby state parks.”
Now that he looked closer, Rudy’s boots were caked in mud. That didn’t explain what he was doing here, though. Mik rocked from his toes to his heels. “Do you often happen to find yourself outside my house, Rudy?”
Rudy’s smile lit up his eyes. “It’s on my way home from the highway.”
“Sure. If you take the long way.”
Smile widening as he rounded a gnome, Rudy opened his mouth, no doubt to chirp back, but jumped back with a yelp.
Because there, cleverly half-hidden behind the hickory tree to up the creep-factor, was a seven-foot-tall plastic Bigfoot wearing a Santa hat.
“What the actual fuck is that?” Rudy demanded.
Mik grinned. “Isn’t he great?”
“Are you trying to scare the children? It’s Christmas, not Halloween.”
Mik’s scowl was instant. “What? No. He’s cute.”
“There’s nothing cute about it, Miki. The thing’s seven feet tall. Cute isn’t even a consideration.”
“But he’s wearing a Santa hat. And look.” Mik walked over and gestured at Bigfoot’s shoulder. “It’s holding a string of lights.”
Rudy took a step back.
“You can come closer. It’s not as creepy from close-up.”
“Fuck no. I don’t want to be around when that thing comes to life.”
Mik couldn’t help it. He laughed until his stomach hurt. “Guess that means you don’t want to come in for a cup of coffee then.”
“Not with Bigfoot around to give me nightmares.”
“Aw.” Mik batted his lashes. “Keep saying nice things like that and I’ll think you’re flirting with me.”
“At least then we’d be on the same page,” Rudy muttered, carefully maneuvering around the other lawn ornaments to the sidewalk.
Mik snorted at the obvious joke.
“Your toy shop inflatable is lopsided, by the way.”
“What? No, it’s not.” Mik walked past the sidewalk to the very end of the driveway, turned, and . . . “Damn it.”
“I’d stay and help you fix it, but I’ve got my own decorations to put up,” Rudy said, popping his car door open.
“Like what? A wreath and a welcome mat that says Merry Christmas?” According to Josh, that was what Rudy had done last year. Mik hadn’t been able to come home for the holidays, so he hadn’t seen it.
“Ye of little faith.” Shaking his head, Rudy got into his car, started the engine, and lowered the window. “If you happen to find yourself in front of my house when you take the long way home from work later, you can see for yourself.”
And with that, he drove away, taking his teasing grin and the last word with him.
* * *
Rudy drove awayfrom Mik with a last lingering glance in his rearview and couldn’t help but chuckle. Wait until Mik got a load of Rudy’s Christmas decorations. He’d either be wickedly impressed and bow at Rudy’s feet or he’d gnash his teeth and think up ways to murder Rudy in his sleep.
Rudy would be okay with either result. The first meant that perhaps Mik would see him as something other than his hockey rival. The second meant that at least Mik was thinking about him.
It was fun as hell to mess with Mik. He turned into a little angry hornet when he was annoyed, buzzing around to make himself look tough, all adorably red-cheeked with annoyance, his lips flat, and his light brown eyes shooting sparks that caused a tug deep down in Rudy’s stomach. One day, Rudy wanted to see Mik’s eyes shoot sparks for an entirely different reason, one that had nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with the sparks Rudy felt along his skin whenever he was in Mik’s presence.
Rudy pulled into the driveway of the house he rented on a month-by-month basis. He was due at the pub in half an hour, so he showered and changed quickly, and before starting the short walk downtown, he snapped a photo of the brown shipping box that had been delivered yesterday and sent it to Mik as a little teaser.
Rudy
Bet you can’t guess what kind of decorations I’ve got in here.
Grinning to himself, he started walking, nodding hello at the neighbors who called good morning. He had a few hours free between the lunch and dinner crowds today, so he’d pop back home and put up his decorations. That way Mik would see them when he took the long way home tonight.
Rudolph’s, the pub he managed, was located on Christmas Boulevard in Santa’s Village—or, in normal people speak, on Main Street in downtown Christmas Falls. And no, he didn’t own the pub. The name was purely coincidental, much to the confusion of tourists. As if Rudy would ever name an establishment after himself.
He’d never meant to become manager of a small-town pub. He’d followed his best friend Josh—Mik’s older brother—to Christmas Falls two and a half years ago when they’d both retired from the NHL. It had been meant as a quick trip to wind down after a hectic season, yet here he still was. And when it had become clear that he’d be staying longer than the two weeks he’d envisioned, he’d gotten himself a job as a bartender at Rudolph’s, just for something to do.
He’d been promoted to manager eight months ago after the previous manager had quit, something else he hadn’t planned for. But then, there wasn’t much other than hockey that he’d planned for in his life. Being raised with nomadic parents who went wherever the wind—or a new job—took them meant that plans often got tossed out the window. And Rudy was fine with that. It was what he was used to.
It hadn’t been easy, leaving new friends behind, but taking to the open road for his parents’ next job opportunity had been some of the best times of his life. Experiencing new ways of life—from fast-paced city life to slower country living, as well as different climates and foods—had always been fun. He hadn’t loved having to join a new hockey team whenever his parents landed them someplace new, although constantly joining a new team had helped him deal with the four times he’d been traded in the NHL.
Honestly, some days he was tempted to pack up his belongings and hit the road, maybe meet up with his parents and join them on their next adventure. He’d been in Christmas Falls two and a half years already, his longest stint in any one place. There was a whole world out there to discover and there was an itch in Rudy’s veins for something new.
Maybe in the spring, once the weather began to warm, he’d pack up his things, get in his car, and see where the road took him.
Maybe.
Because there was Mik to consider. Josh too, of course. Rudy had never had a friend like Josh, who was patient and kind and who knew him inside and out.
But Mik . . .
Sometime in their decade of hockey rivalry—or perhaps in the past six months since Mik had moved back to town after retiring himself—Rudy had plunged headfirst into feelings he didn’t know what to do with.
He hadn’t planned that, either.
But if Mik would never see him as anything other than his rival, was there any point in Rudy sticking around when his feet were itching for something different?
A question to contemplate another day.
Saturday morning breakfast at Rudolph’s was doing a brisk business when he walked into the family-friendly pub. The regulars waved and greeted him by name, which was more of a mindfuck than random strangers stopping him on the street for a selfie or an autograph. Although Rudy’s parents had always made sure they moved somewhere with a hockey team he could join, they’d never stayed anywhere long enough for the townspeople to know his name.
Rudy nodded hello to his junior manager as she took the orders of a family of four near the back wall and stepped behind the bar, where he stashed his coat underneath the counter and washed his hands.
“Hey, Frank,” Rudy said, grabbing a pitcher of water to refill Frank’s glass.
“Rudy! Just the man I wanted to see.” Frank pushed graying hair off his forehead and waggled his fork in Rudy’s direction. Scrambled eggs fell off it and back onto his plate. “I was researching the health benefits of lamb yesterday, and know what I discovered?”
“I couldn’t possibly guess.”
“It’s a fantastic source of iron.” Frank slathered ketchup over what was left of his home fries. “And a mere three ounces of lamb meat will provide half of most people’s daily B12 requirements. And before you tell me that adults in the United States consume less than one pound of lamb a year—” Frank added with a raised eyebrow when Rudy opened his mouth to interrupt. “—just keep in mind how popular the lamb special you had on the menu last winter was.”
It had been popular. They’d sold out of it before 9:00 p.m., but there were costs to consider. The costs per portion per customer had been astronomical, even with the markup on the dish. Rudy might as well fork over a kidney, considering how expensive a cut of lamb was.
Rudy contemplated the man who frequented Rudolph’s every Saturday for both breakfast and dinner and who always sat on that same barstool. Last week, Frank had suggested adding barramundi to the menu. The week before that it had been eggs Benedict on steak with micro-greens.
Shaking his head, Rudy checked his inventory of Prosecco. As it inched closer to brunch-hour, customers would start ordering mimosas. “Why were you researching the health benefits of lamb?”
“Wasn’t on purpose,” Frank said. “I started out researching if you can still pull DNA from bones that have been in the earth for twenty years, and somehow I ended up there.”
Rudy raised an eyebrow. “Something we need to know about your extracurricular activities, Frank?”
Frank’s booming laugh was loud over the sound of jaunty holiday music playing over the pub’s speakers. “Nah. I’m as innocent as a babe. I was doing research for a new book.”
“A murder mystery?”
“A rom-com.”
Rudy stared at him.
“Kidding. Of course it’s a murder mystery.” Frank slapped the top of the bar, and Rudy couldn’t help but laugh along with him. “Anyway. Think about what I said while you get me a box so I can take my fries home.”
“You got it.”
In the kitchen, Rudy grabbed a small cardboard box and a dish waiting to be served and went right back out to the dining room. He passed Frank the box, then walked to the other end of the bar. “Here you go, Travis,” he said, placing the French toast on the counter.
Travis dragged his gaze off Billie, one of Rudy’s servers, with obvious reluctance.
“She’s never going to notice I exist.”
“Have you tried talking to her?” Rudy asked. “I find that’s a good first step in getting someone to notice you.”
Travis sighed, the put-upon sigh of the shy mid-twenty-something. “I talk to her all the time.”
“You order food. That’s not the same thing. Try a conversation. ‘Hi. I’m Travis. Do you like cheese?’”
Travis gawped at him. “Did you just quote She’s the Man at me?”
“I have many hidden depths.”
That sent Travis into uncontrollable laughter that had Billie glancing over with a smile, so maybe not all was lost there.
A family on their way out called their goodbyes and Rudy wished them a good day before seating a group of friends near the fireplace. Jem Knight—Christmas Falls’ homegrown NFL superstar—tried to coax Rudy to join them, but he was on the clock for several more hours.
If Rudy actually sat down and made a list of all the places he’d lived in his life, the number would surely come out somewhere in the twenties. And of those, Christmas Falls was the friendliest. It had a unique charm and people who waved to him from across the street, even if they’d never exchanged names or basic pleasantries.
Would he miss that when he left?
His phone vibrated in his pocket, displaying an unknown number when he pulled it out. One of his distributors?
Catching his junior manager’s eye, he gestured that he was heading to the office to take the call and answered with a brisk, “Rudy Snow.”
“Snowie! It’s Toshie.”
“Hey, man.” Rudy huffed a surprised laugh as he closed the office door behind him and sat at his desk. “How’s it going?”
Toshie—known to hockey fans everywhere as retired left-winger Satoshi Matsumoto—was an old teammate who now worked in the media center at the NCAA headquarters in Indianapolis. Rudy had co-hosted a podcast with Toshie about midway into his NHL career. The podcast had been an idea cooked up by the organization, a new way to keep their fans engaged via half-hour episodes released every two weeks during the season, where Rudy and Toshie talked hockey, had special guests in the form of other teammates, coaches, and staff, and took fan questions. They’d only hosted it for one season—the hosts changed every year—but it had been fun as hell.
“Not bad, man. Not bad,” Toshie said. In the background came the sound of phones ringing and conversations, what Rudy imagined every newsroom sounded like. “Listen, I wish I had time to shoot the shit, but I’ve got a meeting in five, so I’ll get right to the point.”
“Shoot,” Rudy said. Wasn’t like he had time to spare either.
“My team and I are going to be launching a new hockey podcast in the fall, in time for the new D1 season. It’ll be a generalized podcast discussing prospects, games, and stats, but in a way that pulls the curtain back and gives fans a behind-the-scenes look into college hockey. Guest stars would range from coaches and athletes to equipment and travel managers, maybe even former players and sports psychologists.”
Toshie paused for a moment while Rudy’s heart kick-started in anticipation.
“It’d be a weekly podcast, about an hour each, and what we’re looking for are three hosts who have good chemistry and who know the game inside and out. I threw your name into the hat, and when my superiors heard the podcast we did together, they agreed that you’re exactly what we’re looking for. As it stands right now, you’re our first-round draft pick for this.”
Rudy was so surprised he couldn’t even find a laugh for the joke.
“The job’s based in Indianapolis, and there will be some travel involved since we’ll want the hosts at some of the games. I know you’re still in Christmas Town with Josh Gilmore, but—”
“Christmas Falls,” Rudy muttered absently.
“Whatever. Just know that the job requires relocation. If you’re interested, my bosses want to interview you as soon as we can make it happen, but between you and me . . .” Toshie’s voice lowered. “Don’t tell anyone, but the job’s basically yours if you want it. But here’s the kicker,” he went on, louder, without giving Rudy a chance to respond. “If you are interested, what that means is we’re going to hire the other two hosts once you’re fully on board, to ensure you all get along. If you’re not interested, I need to get hiring, because even though the podcast launches in September, there’s a ton of prep work that I want the hosts involved in. So I’d need your answer by February fifteenth.”
Hadn’t Rudy just been thinking that he was ready for something new? And now this job opportunity fell into his lap?
It couldn’t have been more of a sign than if Toshie had shown up on his doorstep with his new contract in hand and all the podcast equipment he’d ever need.
And more than the coincidence of this falling into his lap? The job sounded fun. Really fun. Excitement pounded at the base of his skull and pulsed through his veins. He could talk about hockey until he was blue in the face. This wouldn’t be a job so much as three people shooting the shit into a microphone.
But Indianapolis . . . It wasn’t far from Christmas Falls. About five hours or so. Either way, if he moved, it’d be the end of whatever he’d wanted to have with Mik.
And was he ready for that when, if he was being honest with himself, he’d never really tried?
February fifteenth was three months away. A job interview wasn’t a guarantee, no matter what Toshie said. Rudy could meet with Toshie’s bosses, and if they offered him the position, he’d still have three months to decide.
Three months to launch a charm offensive.
Three months to make Mik his.
And if Mik didn’t feel the same . . .
Rudy swallowed hard at the thought. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s set up that interview.”
* * *
An hourafter Rudy drove away, Mik walked into his family’s pub on Christmas Boulevard, hefting a box of Christmas decorations he hadn’t used at his own house. He and Josh had already decorated Frosty’s so it would look merry and bright for the start of festival season, which had launched a few days ago.
Festival season was the season in Christmas Falls. It ran for an entire month, beginning in mid-November, and brought in tourists from far and wide with its Parade of Lights, holiday cooking classes, cocktail hours, pie bake-offs, wine tastings, ice sculpture demos, holiday house tours, numerous holiday-themed socials, and the Arts & Crafts Holiday Fair.
Just to name a few of the activities.
But with a name like Christmas Falls, what else was their small town supposed to be known for if not Christmas?
Frosty’s didn’t open for lunch until 11:30, so the pub was empty, although the lights were on. Josh was probably in the back office, so Mik rounded the counter and placed his box on the bar.
Now that Mom and Dad had retired, it was up to Mik and Josh to manage the pub that had always been like a second home. His and Josh’s growth charts were written on the wall in pencil next to the fireplace, though they’d stopped adding to them in their late teens. Some of the chairs still had tennis balls on their legs from when he and Josh had attached them in grade school following a school-wide project to add them to classroom chair legs to reduce noise. Dad had bought out every tennis ball from the general store and supervised as Mik and Josh carefully cut holes into them.
And right on that barstool was where Mik had realized with one hundred percent certainty that he was into dudes and only dudes. Mom and Dad had held an afternoon talent show when he was twelve, and Mik had watched from the barstool, nursing a 7-Up, and had fallen hard for a guitar player with broody eyes.
Ah, young love.
Of course, that guitar player hadn’t known he existed, but that was beside the point.
“Hey,” Josh said, pulling up his sleeves as he approached from the office. Frosty’s was as casual as any pub, and Josh wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, same as Mik, though Mik’s was wrinkled from being at the bottom of his T-shirt pile.
Strangers often thought Mik and Josh were twins, and on the one hand, Mik could see it. They were the same height, had the same light brown hair, the same light brown eyes, and the same shape to their noses and mouths.
Other than that, Mik didn’t see the resemblance. Josh’s jaw was sharper, his legs longer. Mik’s hair curled around his ears, and his chest wasn’t as wide.
Plus, Josh had bags under his eyes the size of Bigfoot’s nose. Co-managing a pub, raising a two-year-old bundle of chaos while his ready-to-pop wife was on bed rest due to preeclampsia, and coaching a youth hockey team would do that to a person.
“What’d you bring?” Josh asked, nodding at the box.
“Decorations I wasn’t able to use at home.” Mik pulled out a welcome mat that read Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal. “We can put this out front.”
“Um . . .”
“And I got this.” He removed a box that held a light-up dachshund wearing a Santa hat. “It needs to be assembled.”
“Um . . .”
“Ooh, and the pièce de résistance.”
“Is that . . . Santa?”
“Santa hanging from the rooftop. See?” Mik unfolded the plush suit to reveal that it was mostly flat. “His arms are up and there’s adhesive to stick his gloves to the roof. I figure we can put it on the rooftop, next to the window.”
Twisting his lips, Josh looked from the suit to the tasteful decorations hanging in the dining room—from tinsel and garland to the Christmas tree in the window and the lights along the liquor shelves—and back to the suit.
Mik held it by the shoulders. “You know you want to,” he singsonged.
“Why didn’t you hang it up at your place?”
“It didn’t go with the rest of my decorations.”
Josh’s expression turned flat. “You have Bigfoot in your front yard but Santa is a no-go?”
“Don’t question it. It made sense in my head.”
“Well, unfortunately, Santa doesn’t really go with the décor here either. I’ll take the welcome mat home, though. Meredith will love it.”
Meredith, Josh’s wife, who was also known as Mik’s childhood BFF, had way more class than Mik and Josh combined, but she also had the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old.
A knock on the door preceded its opening. Mik turned, ready with his customer service sorry-we’re-not-open-yetsmile, but it was Mom who stepped through the door, Dad right behind her. They both sported suitcases as large as a house, and Mom’s sunglasses hid half her face. With the shaggy feather boa-like scarf draped around her neck, she looked like an aging movie star on the lam.
“Morning, boys,” Mom said, shoving her sunglasses to the top of her head. Unbuttoning her wool coat, she looked around. “Love the Christmas decorations you’ve put up. Where’d you find this gnome? I don’t remember that from last year.”
“It was custom made by Murphy Clark,” Josh said, naming Christmas Falls’ resident wooden-gnome carver.
As Mom picked it up, Dad yawned hugely and slumped onto a barstool. He wore a winter coat in forest green, a big bulky thing more commonly seen on skiers than retired pub owners, and a knit hat covered his balding head. Mik poured him a cup of coffee from the pot Josh had going.
“I knew you were my favorite,” Dad murmured, toasting him with his mug. “Your mom had me up until three in the morning. Packing. ‘Which sundress should I bring, Joel? This one, this one, or this one?’”
“Let me guess,” Mik said with a grin. “She brought them all.”
Dad grunted. “Half my suitcase is filled with her clothes. How much stuff does she need to lie on the beach for a month? Lots, as it turns out.”
“Look at it this way—if she brings everything with her, that means less clothes shopping while you’re on vacation.”
Dad nearly choked on his coffee. “If that’s what you believe, you don’t know anything about women.”
“I never claimed to,” Mik said. “And probably never will.”
Mom stole Dad’s coffee, took a large gulp, then said, “Which one of you is driving us to the airport?”
“That’d be me. I’m parked on Dasher,” Josh said, naming the adjacent side street. He flipped his car keys at Dad. “Why don’t you guys put your suitcases in the trunk while I grab my coat?”
He disappeared into the backroom, and Mik eyed his parents as they rebuttoned coats and pulled on gloves. “Aren’t you even a little bit sad to be missing festival season?”
They looked at each other. Back at him.
“Nope,” Dad said.
“Not even a little,” Mom added.
“Nothing but sun, sand, and Key West’s beautiful beaches for four whole weeks. We won’t miss you one bit.”
Mik snorted a laugh. “Liars.” He hugged them both, then held the front door open for them to wheel their suitcases through. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Love you.” Mom kissed his cheek on her way out. “See you in a few weeks.”
Josh nodded at him as he trailed after them. “I’ll be back in time to open for lunch.”
“Cool,” Mik said. “Drive safe.”
Josh tended to work the lunch shifts on weekends while Mik worked evenings, giving Josh the opportunity to spend his evenings at home with his wife and kid. Mik didn’t have anyone to go home to, so he was happy to work until the wee hours of the morning.
Mik closed and locked the door, shutting out the Saturday morning chill, and turned to face his pub. As much as this place felt like home and as much as he loved running it with Josh, sometimes he wondered where he would’ve ended up after retiring from hockey if Mom and Dad hadn’t expected him and Josh to run Frosty’s one day. Would he be a police officer? Teaching English abroad? Taking a break from everyday life to travel? Developing an app?
He’d never had much of an opportunity to see the world outside of travel for games—and in no way, shape, or form did those resemble vacations. Nine times out of ten, there hadn’t been any time in the schedule for sightseeing. Outside of the hotel and the arena, it had been like the rest of the world hadn’t existed.
And it wasn’t that he wanted to travel, necessarily. He just wanted that more, that nameless something that made him feel fulfilled. Managing the pub was fun and challenging, and that he got to do it with his big brother was doubly cool. But it didn’t leave him feeling like he’d found his purpose.
Josh had hockey coaching, and Mik had . . . a giant, ugly question mark.
Blowing out a breath, he pushed those thoughts aside and got to work. He pulled his phone out to sync it with the speakers and put on his favorite holiday playlist, and—
Oh. A missed text.
From Rudy.
Mik’s heart gave a jolt at seeing Rudy’s name on his phone screen. From annoyance, obviously. What did Rudy want now?
Rudy
Bet you can’t guess what kind of decorations I’ve got in here.
He’d also attached a photo of a large box, clearly something that had been delivered, given the shipping label.
Rudy’s Christmas decorations . . . came in a large box? A very large box. The last time Mik had received a delivery in a box that big, it had been his new office chair.
If Mik was to believe Rudy’s box was full of decorations, that meant he was putting up way more than a wreath and a doormat.
Flattening his lips, Mik tucked the Santa suit back in his own box and set it aside to bring home later. Santa would make a nice addition to his outdoor décor, after all.
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.
Nico FlynnNico Flynn is all about stories that are heartwarming and steamy in equal measure, always with a healthy dose of humor. Bring on the snappy banter, mutual pining, and well-earned happy endings!
Nico lives a wild life out in the country with too many dogs, a family, video games, and a whole lot of books. If new releases suddenly stop, you can assume Nico was swallowed up by an out-of-control tomato plant or eaten by a bear.
After years of writing across age groups and genres in the traditional publishing arena, Nico is thrilled (and terrified) to finally be taking this first step on the indie side. It's a wide and wonderful world out here!
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.
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.
Amy's lived with her head in the clouds since she first picked up a book as a child, and being fluent in two languages means she's read a lot of books! She first picked up a pen on a rainy day in fourth grade when her class had to stay inside for recess. Tales of treasure hunts with her classmates eventually morphed into love stories between men, and she's been writing ever since. She writes evenings and weekends—or whenever she isn't at her full-time day job saving the planet at Canada's largest environmental non-profit.
An unapologetic introvert, Amy reads too much and socializes too little, with no regrets. She loves connecting with readers. Join her Facebook Group, Amy Aislin’s Readers, to stay up-to-date on upcoming releases and for access to early teasers, find her on Instagram and Twitter, or sign up for her newsletter.
Nico Flynn
EMAIL: nicoflynnauthor@gmail.com
Con Riley
Leta Blake
Say It Out Loud by Nico Flynn
We Only Kiss at Christmas by Con Riley
Winter's Truth by Leta Blake
Get Frosted by Amy Aislin
