Edelweiss Grove #3
Pascal Hare may well be the sexiest Fae in Edelweiss Grove. He's certainly the most scandalous. However, he may have met the perfect Fae for him in the delicious form of Michel Griotte a master chocolatier from Paris. Everyone in the Grove knows Pascal likes to party and have fun. He especially likes sexy fun - and has his own internet channel for his little clips.
Despite being the best Holder of the Basket in memory, Pascal's antics don't appeal to everyone. Like his father for example, who is determined to put an end to his behavior. Pascal doesn't care what his father wants - he's far too distracted by Michel who has come from Paris to help him shake up his Special Day. Amused by Pascal's behavior, Michel soon finds himself attracted to the naughty Fae and caught up in all kinds of sexy mischief. Will Pascal's father finally accept his son or is there something more sinister afoot in The Grove?
Return to Edelweiss Grove and meet the mischievous Holder of The Basket in a new Edelweiss Grove novella.
Prolog
“Do you think he’s taking them all home?”
It’s the lilt of admiration in Otto’s voice that catches Lars’ attention. He glances at the group in the corner and does a quick headcount. Fifteen. Wow! That’s a lot even for Pascal.
“I doubt it.” He swats Otto’s butt as he goes by. “Not that it’s any of our business.”
Otto leans against the counter, chin in his hand. “I wouldn’t put it past him, little tramp.”
“You do know you’re meant to be helping me, not judging our customers, right?” Lars pushes a tray of dirty glasses toward his husband, who eyes them with distaste. With a slight smile, Lars leans close enough to whisper in his ear. “If you do a good job, maybe we can call Anders to come over and play later. Or Sven.”
“Oh Gods you two! You’re killing my appetite.” Rorik glares at Otto. Twins, they barely look like brothers. Rorik is tall and muscular with a scruffy gray beard and shoulder-length gray hair. Less porn star and more teddy bear, Otto has a soft belly hanging over his belt buckle, a full salt and pepper beard, and chestnut curls scattered with silver.
Otto offers Rorik a too-innocent-to-be-real smile, turns, spins Lars and kisses him. Lars squirms and wriggles against him, trying to get away. Finally, he gets his hands against Otto’s chest and pushes him away. Sweeps the back of his hand over his mouth but doesn’t look in the slightest perturbed.
“Go in the kitchen and help Agnes.”
Otto turns toward Rorik, slowly adjusts himself, and turns on his heel. Picking up the bottle of whiskey again, Lars reaches for a mug before calling over his shoulder. “And do not call Anders while Agnes is in there.”
“I hate you both,” Rorik mutters. He rests his head on the bar, clasping his hands behind his head. “Make me an Irish Coffee for the love of the Gods.”
“I don’t know why you hate me. I didn’t do anything.”
“What did Otto do now?” A young Elf wearing a denim button down, brushes sleet from his messy curls and slides onto the barstool next to Rorik. Turns his face up to be kissed. Rorik obliges, stroking his finger over the younger Elf’s cheek. Watching them never fails to make Lars feel happy. If the Human world knew what a sap their Santa is…
“Otto is being Otto, and Lars is encouraging him instead of controlling him.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that Lars loves your brother because he’s like that.”
Disgust flitters across Rorik’s face. “Oh Gods, why? Whose side are you on, Small One?”
Boden shrugs. “Whichever side gets me a hot chocolate fastest. Is spring ever coming this year? I am sick of snow.” Rorik opens his mouth and Boden points at him and shakes his head. “Whatever you are about to say, don’t. Okay?”
Amused, Lars pushes the Irish Coffee he’s been making in Rorik’s direction and gets out a jug of milk to start making hot chocolate. From the corner of the inn comes a burst of noise; laughter and voices from Pascal and his group. Rorik looks over his shoulder and sighs.
“Is it too much to ask to have one day without that dratted Hare and his posse?”
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to be nice tonight.” Boden kisses his cheek. “You can do it. I have confidence in you.”
“It’s a good thing I love you, you know,” Rorik grumbles into his drink.
Lars tops off the hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick and a dollop of thick whipped cream then hands it to Boden. He listens to the pair’s banter as he wipes down the counter and stacks glasses. Rorik is nudging his mug back in Lars’ direction when the inn door opens, letting in a blast of cold air.
“Leif! Andy!” Boden raises his hand in greeting.
Leif returns the greeting as he hangs up his trademark white trench coat. On the front of his sweater is pinned a large, blue butterfly. Touching it as if to reassure himself it’s there, the Fae glances at his companion, and waits for him to hang up his parka. They make a striking, if unusual, couple as they approach the bar, hand in hand. Leif is, as always, in white. White cashmere sweater, white jeans, white boots. Instead of the usual neat braid Lars is used to seeing, Leif’s startling white hair is twisted into a bun on top of his head. A few strands have worked free to fall either side of his face, softening the sharp angle of his jaw. A light blush is fading from his cheeks, but Lars knows it will be back as soon as someone speaks to him.
In contrast, Andy has short dark hair, is wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt with the logo from some fast food brand that gives Lars heartburn just looking at it, and black jeans. He looks relaxed and happy. The casual simplicity of his appearance makes Leif seem even more ethereal than usual. At the bar, he pulls Leif’s arm around his waist and grins at Boden.
“We have been house hunting,” he says.
“You’ve convinced Leif to leave that icebox of an apartment?” Rorik looks impressed. “How did you manage that?”
“He said we could -”
Andy cuts off Leif’s words with his hand over his mouth. “They don’t need to know that, baby.”
“There. See? That’s how you do it.” Rorik points back and forth from Lars to Andy. “Get lessons from the kid on how to control your husband.”
Lars flips him the finger, and turns to the person who had followed the pair in. Dressed in black jeans and a matching black blazer, under which a white shirt stretches across a broad, well-muscled chest, he oozes sophistication. With his shaved head and trimmed beard, everything about him screams confidence and control. When he returns Lars’ smile, small lines appear at the corners of his dark eyes.
“Bonsoir.” His accent would have given him away even if he had chosen an English greeting. “I’m Michel, and I was told that this is the best place to get a drink and un petit morceau – excuse me, a bite to eat.” He glances around the group and adds. “I am Fae from Paris.”
“Fae from Paree,” explains why Lars has never seen him before. “Whoever told you that must be a person of good taste,” he says.
“That’s what I keep telling everyone, but nobody believes me.”
As if controlled by a single switch, they all turn to Pascal. How had they not seen him approach? Pascal flips the hair that hangs over his right eye, back from his face and addresses the stranger.
“It’s nice to meet in person Monsieur Griotte.” He makes no effort to disguise his admiration for the stranger. “Everyone, meet Michel. Do be on your best behavior, I’m hoping to make him my new Chief Chocolatier.”
People driven stories. Slightly 'broken' boys. Safe space MM romance fiction.
Angelique is owned by three cats, three adult children, two temperamental computers, and a very patient boyfriend (not a partridge in a pear tree). She's also pierced, tattooed, pansexual, and proud. She has degrees in French, Media Studies, and English Literature and is currently completing a Master of Art (Media Studies) When she's not writing or researching (or swearing at her computer) she likes cold champagne, hot coffee, neat whiskey, loud Springsteen, and the Winchester brothers kicking butt.
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