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I've wanted to do a Christmas in July series for a few years now but time just didn't seem to agree. I wanted to feature stories that I have recently re-read but once again, time had other plans so for my Christmas in July 2024 series, I'm featuring another 20 of my favorite Christmas set LGBT reads. I say "Christmas set" because some are not really holiday-centric but set, at least in part, during the holiday season and for me that is all it takes to be a Christmas read(and yes, I'm in the "Die Hard is a Christmas Movie" camp😉). Some I've had opportunity in the past to re-read or re-listen and I've included the most recent review. As always, the purchase links are current as of posting but if they no longer work for a dozen different reasons, be sure to check out the author's website/social media sites for the latest links. There are genres of all kinds here, whether you are a holiday lover or perhaps you just want to read something set in cooler weather on a long hot summer night, either way there is something for everyone here.
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Summary:
Texas #9
Texas #9
Can Connor show River a real family Christmas?
When Connor finds River on the roof of the campus admin building, he doesn’t know what to do. His friend is drunk and shouting into a snowstorm, a bottle of vodka in his hand. The easy part is getting River down; the hard part is insisting River comes home with Connor for Christmas.
River doesn’t have a family or any place outside of college that he calls home. Not that it matters to him; he’s happy being alone for Christmas in his budget motel, watching reruns of Elf. Only, Connor keeps telling wildly improbable stories of the perfect family celebrations at his parents’ ranch in Texas, and it’s wearing River down. He didn’t ask to be kidnapped. He didn’t want to fall in love with the entire Campbell-Hayes family. But he does.
From one Christmas to the next. This is Connor’s year to rescue River, and himself, for them both to mess things up, make things right, fall in lust, and finally, for Connor to show the man he loves what being part of a family can mean.
When Connor finds River on the roof of the campus admin building, he doesn’t know what to do. His friend is drunk and shouting into a snowstorm, a bottle of vodka in his hand. The easy part is getting River down; the hard part is insisting River comes home with Connor for Christmas.
River doesn’t have a family or any place outside of college that he calls home. Not that it matters to him; he’s happy being alone for Christmas in his budget motel, watching reruns of Elf. Only, Connor keeps telling wildly improbable stories of the perfect family celebrations at his parents’ ranch in Texas, and it’s wearing River down. He didn’t ask to be kidnapped. He didn’t want to fall in love with the entire Campbell-Hayes family. But he does.
From one Christmas to the next. This is Connor’s year to rescue River, and himself, for them both to mess things up, make things right, fall in lust, and finally, for Connor to show the man he loves what being part of a family can mean.
Finding River drunk on the roof was the last thing Connor expected to see as he was preparing to head home to the Double D for the Christmas holiday but once he sees him in that state he can't just leave him. River doesn't want to spend the holiday with Connor's happy family but once he arrives in Texas will he open himself up to the welcoming environment of the Campbell-Hayes family and let the man in or will he return to Denver as soon as he can? Will Connor be able to show River that love is possible and that he's not just a charity case?
It's a new Texas story!!!! YAY!!!! EEEP!!!! HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!!! and a thousand other catchphrases that express pure joy! Okay, I got that out now on to the story. 😉😉
When I heard we were going to be visiting the Double D again, my first thought: Jack and Riley! Yes, they are here as are many in the Double D universe and that alone makes this a winner. But Home for Christmas is so much more. The old familiars are there, the land, the horses, but this is Connor's journey. What is it about the Texas series that makes them so amazing? Is it the land, the Double D, the characters, the horses? It is all that put together and so much more than words can say. As a farmer's daughter I can attest to how the land has a way of giving a person(in this case River) a chance to relax, to just stop and breathe. As with so many in this series, River needs more than relaxing but being able to breathe, to take stock, to see what makes Connor Connor, also gives River a chance to see who is looking back at him in the mirror. Basically, the Double D may not be what River wants but at that point in his life, its what he needs and whether you believe in fate or not sometimes life knows exactly where we should be to keep our journey going.
Connor was always the quiet twin but he has definitely found his voice, and speaking as someone who has one of those talkative types in the house it can be frustrating, but there is just something about Connor that even though there are times you know River wants to stuff a huge Christmas bow in his mouth you also know that he finds it endearing. And just like Connor does, there are times you want to wrap River up in bubblewrap just to protect him from the world but also from himself. That's not to say River is a danger to himself physically but emotionally perhaps and you can't help but want to give him a never-ending bear hug. RJ Scott has always had a way of making her characters, who should by all appearances be angsty and over-the-top, real and ones that you could meet pumping gas or buying stamps, Connor and River are no different.
Home for Christmas may be Connor and River's journey of holidays, friendship, discovery, and love it is also the perfect addition to the Texas series. Seeing the Double D again is never a bad thing and getting a glimpse of the Campbell-Hayes family as they grow and age is a true holiday treat. For those asking "can I read Home without having read the others?" my answer is "Probably." My personal opinion however, is to read the series in order but as this is Connor and River's story it can be read without prior knowledge of the others but I personally feel the "little moments" just flow better knowing the family(and ranch)'s history.
Audiobook Review November 2019:
Home for Christmas was a delightful treat last Christmas and it was the perfect way to kick off my holiday entertaining season this year. Not a lot I can add to the original review, as I said last year it is always a treat to visit the Double D and a look at the next generation is not only a treat but just pure joy. River's moments with Max were minor in the scheme of things but personally I found them to be endearing but also very telling to River's nature, his ability to let his mind "settle down" in a way he really hadn't upto that point shows that perhaps he's not as "broken" as he thinks he is. As I originally said last year, sometimes the land just has a way of letting a person breathe which then let's a person open themselves up to the people and possibilities around them. As for Sean Crisden's narration? There's really no surprise here that he brings life to the story in a way that makes you feel like you are watching the story play out right in front of you. Brilliant addition to my holiday library.
Home for Christmas was a delightful treat last Christmas and it was the perfect way to kick off my holiday entertaining season this year. Not a lot I can add to the original review, as I said last year it is always a treat to visit the Double D and a look at the next generation is not only a treat but just pure joy. River's moments with Max were minor in the scheme of things but personally I found them to be endearing but also very telling to River's nature, his ability to let his mind "settle down" in a way he really hadn't upto that point shows that perhaps he's not as "broken" as he thinks he is. As I originally said last year, sometimes the land just has a way of letting a person breathe which then let's a person open themselves up to the people and possibilities around them. As for Sean Crisden's narration? There's really no surprise here that he brings life to the story in a way that makes you feel like you are watching the story play out right in front of you. Brilliant addition to my holiday library.
RATING:
Summary:
Ben has Christmas, cats, and mistletoe on his side…. Jason doesn’t stand a chance
For Ben Slater, moving back to Bristol means being closer to his family, living with his best mate, and volunteering at the local animal shelter. But there’s also Jason, his best mate’s eldest brother. Ben’s had a crush on Jason for as long as he can remember, but the eleven-year age gap has always seemed insurmountable.
Jason Armitage works as a vet at his uncle’s practice. He owns a cute cottage on the outskirts of the city, and a loving dog. The one thing missing is someone to share it all with. His brother’s best friend seems a bad choice, but Jason can’t help taking a second look. Ben’s changed a lot since Jason last saw him; both in appearance and attitude. Gone is the shy young boy, replaced with a confident, twenty-four-year-old man.
In the run up to Christmas, the festive period gives Ben the ideal opportunity to show Jason what he has to offer. But concerns for his brother’s feelings hold Jason back. If they have any chance of making this work, Ben must convince Jason that he’s old enough to know what he wants, and Jason needs to believe that a relationship with his brother’s best friend won’t ruin their friendship.
You are going to have to forgive me for this review being both late and short. How I missed doing a review when I read this story nearly a year ago I have no idea other than it just slipped through the cracks. As for the brevity of my review, well I haven't forgot the story but as I have read over 200 books and dozens of fanfiction stories in the 11-1/2 months since reading Not Just for Christmas, unfortunately some details blur. However, I do remember the enjoyment, the thrills, and the adrenaline rush I got reading Ben and Jason's journey. Whether you read this gem for its romantic elements of holiday, May/December, crushes-become-reality, or just romance in general it won't matter because at the end of the day and the end of book you will have enjoyed a tremendously interesting blend of happiness, love, friendship, with just the right amount of drama to tie it all together.
RATING:
Summary:
All serious knitters know about the boyfriend sweater curse: knit a sweater for a boyfriend, and he’ll break up with you soon after. Gabriel Sutton isn’t the superstitious type, but after the curse strikes three times, he isn’t taking anymore chances. His new boyfriend, Noel Rivera, will have to be content with store bought gifts.
Yet as their relationship develops, Gabriel begins to believe Noel might be the perfect man for him. Noel doesn’t make fun of Gabriel’s holiday traditions and wants to create new traditions of their own. As Christmas draws closer, however, Gabriel sees signs of Noel pulling away, and he worries this relationship will be as big a mistake as the others. Are Noel’s late nights and secretive phone calls a sign he’s cheating? Or will the magic of Christmas bring Gabriel the love he’s been searching for all along?
With the holiday nearly upon us, its safe to say that I have read more than a few tales of the season over the past thirty days or so. Some might find themselves becoming even more critical when it comes to reviewing or what they are expecting well I am no more critical now than I was at Thanksgiving when I really started with this years holiday reading. I like to think I keep an open mind all the way through and I was intrigued to read The Boyfriend Sweater Curse by Ari McKay. I mean lets be honest, knitting is not a commonplace hobby for the younger males today so Gabriel's love of all things yarn really piqued my interest before even beginning. And who doesn't love the element of a good curse? Despite the dreaded sweater curse that Gabriel has potentially fallen victim to, this holiday tale is a delight. Did the ending surprise me? No but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the journey that Gabriel and Noel took getting there. Simply put: The Boyfriend Sweater Curse is a true gem that will warm your heart and make you smile.
RATING:
We Whisk You a Merry Christmas by Anna Martin
Summary:Anna Martin's Christmas Short Stories #2
After years working in fancy French patisseries, Alex Blake thought he was ready for a change of pace with his new independent bakery, but the demands of a small village at Christmas mean earlier mornings than he’s ever worked before.
It’s still a shock when he walks into the kitchen one morning and finds a man asleep on his counter.
Brandon Walker only meant to sneak into the bakery his father used to own to have a look around. He definitely didn’t mean to take a nap and get caught by the new owner. But when Alex asks for help Brandon finds it hard to refuse… it’s the season of goodwill to attractive men, or something like that.
Anna Martin's Christmas story, Let is Sew from last year was one of my favorites so when I saw she had another one coming this holiday season I was all on board. I was not disappointed. Brandon and Alex have this awkward yet super cute first meet and though they have some bumps initially, it's pretty obvious the attraction is there. One of the things I really appreciated wasn't actually involving the connection between the two men, it was how Brandon was okay with his mom selling the family bakery. Some authors might have went for the typical son-hating-the-sale-to-create-drama route but Anna Martin does not and for this reader that was a definite plus. Speaking of Brandon's mom, I love her and though she may not fit the "matchmaker" bill exactly she "dabbles" in it and I gotta love that especially at the holidays.
We Whisk You a Merry Christmas is a delightful holiday tale that warms the heart and puts a smile on your face. Could this story have been better had it been longer? Perhaps. Would the story have benefitted from an epilogue letting us know what Brandon and Alex are up to next Christmas? Sure, I'm all for knowing more with characters I love. Sometimes, especially and most often with holiday stories, an author(intentional or not) tells us just enough so the reader can "fill in the blanks" with their imagination and for me that gives me an added connection to the characters. So frankly and simply put, We Whisk You a Merry Christmas is just the right size and makes for a lovely holiday gem.
RATING:
Summary:
In a perfect moment of cold November sunshine, pudgy accountant Kit Allen realizes Jesse, his new office assistant, is everything he's ever dreamed about in a man. Feeling supremely unworthy and desperate to get a life—even an imaginary one—Kit embarks on a self-improvement campaign featuring DVD fitness guru, Danny Fit. In the meantime, Jesse has begun a subtle campaign of his own, one designed to bring Kit out of his DVD dream world and into Jesse's arms. Jesse isn't perfect—he's no Danny Fit—but he hopes that the kind, funny man who has been looking at him so soulfully since his first day at work has what it takes to be everything Jesse has always wanted.
How can you not fall in love with Kit? He is like so many of us in his "averageness" or at least in his mind, and yes I know averageness is not a real word but if you can't create a word when describing Amy Lane's writing then I don't know when you can create new words. And like so many of us, Kit's fascination with Danny Fit keeps him from seeing what is right in front of him, even though Jesse's attempts at friendship and inclusion is what jump started Kit's desire to improve himself. A great tale any time of the year but throw in the holiday setting and it's an amazing read that you don't want to miss.
RATING:
Home for Christmas by RJ Scott
Chapter 1
Connor skidded to a stop.
The cold December wind whipped around his face, ice and snow knifing into his skin, and at first, he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.
Maybe he should have stopped, called 911, shouted for help, but it could’ve been too late, so he’d acted on instinct alone. He’d taken the four flights of stairs at a run, reaching the roof and throwing the door open. His lungs burned from the freezing air and his voice had gone. What now?
Why was River on the roof in nothing but jeans and a T-shirt, clearly drunk? Why was he standing on the ledge, his feet spread, his arms wide, and a bottle of vodka in his hand?
When the girl from his floor told him she’d seen River go up to the roof, he thought she’d meant something else. He often went up there to read or watch life go by. But not in a snow storm.
He didn’t expect to see River standing on the ledge in the snow.
Don’t scare him. He’ll stumble and fall. He might jump.
A gust of air slapped Connor. River swayed to the left but righted himself with the casual grace of a gymnast. River wouldn’t fall by accident. Hell, Connor had seen him balance on one hand on a diving board, perfectly still, before falling gracefully and accurately with spins and pikes into the water below. He’d never seen River falter.
“River?” Connor asked, only an inch from grabbing River’s shirt and holding him tight. He saw River tense, but he didn’t wobble in surprise or slip and fall to the ground.
“I canbalance. Look at me.” River sounded so damn proud of himself.
Connor took a small step forward, finally being able to hold River’s shirt, hoping to hell that would be enough to stop River from falling.
“Come down, buddy.”
River lifted the bottle over his head, sloshing alcohol over his hair, his tongue flicking out to catch any that ran over his face.
“Fuck,” he shouted.
Connor tugged at him, not knowing what else to do. “Come back,” he said, loud enough that River actually looked at him.
“Leave me alone,” he said.
“I’m not leaving you on the roof,” Connor snapped and got a better hold of River, hooking a finger into his belt. River wasn’t a big guy, a diver’s body, no more than five ten and a buck sixty soaking wet, but if he fell, would Connor be able to hold him long enough to save him?
River pulled against Connor’s grip, and for a second the world stopped turning as Connor had to use his entire body weight to keep him upright. Something about the action must have scared River. He cursed and rocked backward, but he still wouldn’t come down.
“Come down,” Connor pleaded. “You’re scaring me.”
“You think you gotta save me? Huh?” River threw his arms wide again, more alcohol sloshing over the top of the bottle. “I don’t need saving.”
“I want you to come down.” Connor tried for calm. What was he doing? He should have called the cops immediately when he spotted River. Or firefighters, negotiators? Or whoever the hell should’ve been here. He’d seen things like this on the television, the mediator knowing all the right things to say and do, standing by River and connecting him to his family or childhood or his faith. All Connor knew was that he needed to pull River down, use the only thing he had going for him; the fact that he was bigger and stronger.
“I like it up here!” River explained with another wide gesture. He wobbled a little but righted himself immediately.
“Come down, Riv.”
“Saint Connor tries to save everyone,” River shouted, ending with a hysterical laugh. He was clearly losing control of himself, and even if Connor did have the words to talk him down, he thought maybe he’d just yank River back onto the concrete roof of the building and worry about injuries later.
But River wasn’t finished. “Even if they don’t need saving!”
“River!”
“Who the hell cares if I can balance, huh?”
“I care,” Connor shouted back. This was so out of character.
“Yeah, right, telling me what Christmas and family is like for you, making me see it in my head, and then leaving me here alone.”
“River, please.” Connor tugged him, but River wouldn’t move back.
“Leaving me here, alone, because that’s all anyone ever does. They fuck off, leave me, and what happens when college is over, huh? What happens when I lose that?” He lifted one clenched fist to the sky. “Fuck you!”
Connor had never heard River curse like this, and he was done with holding on to him. So evaluating where they would end up if they fell backward and not caring how much it hurt, he yanked, hard. River tumbled with him, arms flailing and the vodka bottle slipping from his grasp and falling into the tub of snow-covered plants on the roof patio. The two of them fell onto the roof, Connor using his body to cushion River’s descent, getting his arms full of an icy cold man, the breath forced from his lungs when they hit the ground.
Connor enveloped him in his arms and locked his hands in place, fighting a frozen, wet, drunk River. He wouldn’t get free. Connor had his pappa’s height, a rancher’s build, and he was a solid anchor in the wind and snow. There was no point in River fighting, and somehow he must have realized he couldn’t get free and went still in Connor’s arms.
All Connor could think was that he’d wanted River back in his arms for a long time now, but he’d expected soft lighting and mood music, not driving winds and snow.
“What the hell are you doing?” Connor demanded.
“Let me the fuck go.”
“Jesus, are you trying to kill yourself?”
River attempted to wriggle free. Connor’s grip didn’t falter in his hold. With his arms securely around River, he shuffled them back so they were protected by the low wall. He wanted to get them back inside, but he wasn’t ready to let River go yet, and the door was at least ten feet away. What if River wriggled free and ran for the ledge? The idea of River on the ground, twisted in death, blood… Connor didn’t want to think about it. He opened his coat, one-handed, and then pulled River closer, trying to get as much of the material to go over him, attempting to keep them both warm. River’s skin was like ice. How long had he been standing up there?
“What were you doing?” he demanded, but River didn’t reply, only burrowed deeper into Connor’s hold. This was stupid. He needed to get them off the roof, or he needed help. His phone was in the car. The campus was emptying for Christmas. It was ten a.m., snowing. What the hell was he going to do now?
“I have no one,” River muttered, then laughed and buried his face deeper.
“What do you mean? Talk to me, River.”
“No.”
“We need to get inside.”
How the hell do I get River inside?
He imagined struggling with River’s weight, trying to get him down four flights of stairs and across to his room. Maybe if he could just get him to the car, with its heated seats and the warm air blower and the coffee in a flask that Connor had made for the start of his journey back to Dallas. Then he could call someone, the cops or a doctor? That seemed like a plan, a focus. He scrambled to his feet, bringing River with him, and stumbled inside. As soon as the door shut, warmth hit them, prickling at his exposed skin, and he moved toward the radiator, still gripping River’s belt. He let go of him long enough to remove his jacket and place it around the shivering man’s shoulders.
River buried himself in the coat, and Connor went into disaster assessment mode. He’d seen hypothermia back home at the D, and it wasn’t pretty. He remembered his pappa saying there were signs to look for, and when Jack spoke, Connor always listened. He pulled up the facts he could remember. Did River have hypothermia? His teeth weren’t chattering, and he wasn’t talking at all, so it wasn’t obvious if he was slurring. Then, even if he did talk and his speech was slurry, how could Connor tell how much vodka he’d drunk? Connor tried to remember the symptoms. The college hospital wasn’t far away. He could drive there, and they would help.
Why the hell did I leave my phone in the damned car?
“It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You can go,” River said dully. He wriggled closer to the radiator.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you are,” River murmured. “You kissed me, you got me off, and now you’re leaving today.” Then he hid his face in his hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Wait. Was this about what happened at the thanksgiving party?
Is this my fault?
Connor didn’t usually drink that much, but he’d had one beer too many at the party, to the point where he had all the courage he needed to wait for River to come out of the bathroom.
“Can I kiss you?” he’d asked, and River had stared at him, stone-cold sober and narrow-eyed.
But then, holy shit, River had pushed him back into the nearest bedroom, shut the door, and the kiss had turned into something more, hands tangled in hair, the two of them kissing and rutting against each other until they were coming in their jeans. Really unromantic. Nothing more than getting off, and River had left before Connor could even get his breath back. Not the best of outcomes. Then River had ignored him. Not returning texts, no more study sessions in the library, and he’d even missed the last lecture of the semester.
All of that told Connor on thing: River wasn’t interested in anything more with him. But that didn’t mean they weren’t still friends. They sat in silence for a few minutes, River’s face still buried in his hands, and he was clearly crying.
What the hell should I do now?
Connor skidded to a stop.
The cold December wind whipped around his face, ice and snow knifing into his skin, and at first, he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.
Maybe he should have stopped, called 911, shouted for help, but it could’ve been too late, so he’d acted on instinct alone. He’d taken the four flights of stairs at a run, reaching the roof and throwing the door open. His lungs burned from the freezing air and his voice had gone. What now?
Why was River on the roof in nothing but jeans and a T-shirt, clearly drunk? Why was he standing on the ledge, his feet spread, his arms wide, and a bottle of vodka in his hand?
When the girl from his floor told him she’d seen River go up to the roof, he thought she’d meant something else. He often went up there to read or watch life go by. But not in a snow storm.
He didn’t expect to see River standing on the ledge in the snow.
Don’t scare him. He’ll stumble and fall. He might jump.
A gust of air slapped Connor. River swayed to the left but righted himself with the casual grace of a gymnast. River wouldn’t fall by accident. Hell, Connor had seen him balance on one hand on a diving board, perfectly still, before falling gracefully and accurately with spins and pikes into the water below. He’d never seen River falter.
“River?” Connor asked, only an inch from grabbing River’s shirt and holding him tight. He saw River tense, but he didn’t wobble in surprise or slip and fall to the ground.
“I canbalance. Look at me.” River sounded so damn proud of himself.
Connor took a small step forward, finally being able to hold River’s shirt, hoping to hell that would be enough to stop River from falling.
“Come down, buddy.”
River lifted the bottle over his head, sloshing alcohol over his hair, his tongue flicking out to catch any that ran over his face.
“Fuck,” he shouted.
Connor tugged at him, not knowing what else to do. “Come back,” he said, loud enough that River actually looked at him.
“Leave me alone,” he said.
“I’m not leaving you on the roof,” Connor snapped and got a better hold of River, hooking a finger into his belt. River wasn’t a big guy, a diver’s body, no more than five ten and a buck sixty soaking wet, but if he fell, would Connor be able to hold him long enough to save him?
River pulled against Connor’s grip, and for a second the world stopped turning as Connor had to use his entire body weight to keep him upright. Something about the action must have scared River. He cursed and rocked backward, but he still wouldn’t come down.
“Come down,” Connor pleaded. “You’re scaring me.”
“You think you gotta save me? Huh?” River threw his arms wide again, more alcohol sloshing over the top of the bottle. “I don’t need saving.”
“I want you to come down.” Connor tried for calm. What was he doing? He should have called the cops immediately when he spotted River. Or firefighters, negotiators? Or whoever the hell should’ve been here. He’d seen things like this on the television, the mediator knowing all the right things to say and do, standing by River and connecting him to his family or childhood or his faith. All Connor knew was that he needed to pull River down, use the only thing he had going for him; the fact that he was bigger and stronger.
“I like it up here!” River explained with another wide gesture. He wobbled a little but righted himself immediately.
“Come down, Riv.”
“Saint Connor tries to save everyone,” River shouted, ending with a hysterical laugh. He was clearly losing control of himself, and even if Connor did have the words to talk him down, he thought maybe he’d just yank River back onto the concrete roof of the building and worry about injuries later.
But River wasn’t finished. “Even if they don’t need saving!”
“River!”
“Who the hell cares if I can balance, huh?”
“I care,” Connor shouted back. This was so out of character.
“Yeah, right, telling me what Christmas and family is like for you, making me see it in my head, and then leaving me here alone.”
“River, please.” Connor tugged him, but River wouldn’t move back.
Connor had never heard River curse like this, and he was done with holding on to him. So evaluating where they would end up if they fell backward and not caring how much it hurt, he yanked, hard. River tumbled with him, arms flailing and the vodka bottle slipping from his grasp and falling into the tub of snow-covered plants on the roof patio. The two of them fell onto the roof, Connor using his body to cushion River’s descent, getting his arms full of an icy cold man, the breath forced from his lungs when they hit the ground.
Connor enveloped him in his arms and locked his hands in place, fighting a frozen, wet, drunk River. He wouldn’t get free. Connor had his pappa’s height, a rancher’s build, and he was a solid anchor in the wind and snow. There was no point in River fighting, and somehow he must have realized he couldn’t get free and went still in Connor’s arms.
All Connor could think was that he’d wanted River back in his arms for a long time now, but he’d expected soft lighting and mood music, not driving winds and snow.
“What the hell are you doing?” Connor demanded.
“Let me the fuck go.”
“Jesus, are you trying to kill yourself?”
River attempted to wriggle free. Connor’s grip didn’t falter in his hold. With his arms securely around River, he shuffled them back so they were protected by the low wall. He wanted to get them back inside, but he wasn’t ready to let River go yet, and the door was at least ten feet away. What if River wriggled free and ran for the ledge? The idea of River on the ground, twisted in death, blood… Connor didn’t want to think about it. He opened his coat, one-handed, and then pulled River closer, trying to get as much of the material to go over him, attempting to keep them both warm. River’s skin was like ice. How long had he been standing up there?
“What were you doing?” he demanded, but River didn’t reply, only burrowed deeper into Connor’s hold. This was stupid. He needed to get them off the roof, or he needed help. His phone was in the car. The campus was emptying for Christmas. It was ten a.m., snowing. What the hell was he going to do now?
“I have no one,” River muttered, then laughed and buried his face deeper.
“What do you mean? Talk to me, River.”
“No.”
“We need to get inside.”
How the hell do I get River inside?
He imagined struggling with River’s weight, trying to get him down four flights of stairs and across to his room. Maybe if he could just get him to the car, with its heated seats and the warm air blower and the coffee in a flask that Connor had made for the start of his journey back to Dallas. Then he could call someone, the cops or a doctor? That seemed like a plan, a focus. He scrambled to his feet, bringing River with him, and stumbled inside. As soon as the door shut, warmth hit them, prickling at his exposed skin, and he moved toward the radiator, still gripping River’s belt. He let go of him long enough to remove his jacket and place it around the shivering man’s shoulders.
River buried himself in the coat, and Connor went into disaster assessment mode. He’d seen hypothermia back home at the D, and it wasn’t pretty. He remembered his pappa saying there were signs to look for, and when Jack spoke, Connor always listened. He pulled up the facts he could remember. Did River have hypothermia? His teeth weren’t chattering, and he wasn’t talking at all, so it wasn’t obvious if he was slurring. Then, even if he did talk and his speech was slurry, how could Connor tell how much vodka he’d drunk? Connor tried to remember the symptoms. The college hospital wasn’t far away. He could drive there, and they would help.
Why the hell did I leave my phone in the damned car?
“It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You can go,” River said dully. He wriggled closer to the radiator.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you are,” River murmured. “You kissed me, you got me off, and now you’re leaving today.” Then he hid his face in his hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Wait. Was this about what happened at the thanksgiving party?
Is this my fault?
Connor didn’t usually drink that much, but he’d had one beer too many at the party, to the point where he had all the courage he needed to wait for River to come out of the bathroom.
“Can I kiss you?” he’d asked, and River had stared at him, stone-cold sober and narrow-eyed.
But then, holy shit, River had pushed him back into the nearest bedroom, shut the door, and the kiss had turned into something more, hands tangled in hair, the two of them kissing and rutting against each other until they were coming in their jeans. Really unromantic. Nothing more than getting off, and River had left before Connor could even get his breath back. Not the best of outcomes. Then River had ignored him. Not returning texts, no more study sessions in the library, and he’d even missed the last lecture of the semester.
All of that told Connor on thing: River wasn’t interested in anything more with him. But that didn’t mean they weren’t still friends. They sat in silence for a few minutes, River’s face still buried in his hands, and he was clearly crying.
What the hell should I do now?
Not Just for Christmas by Annabelle Jacobs
Ben tried not to look, but inevitably his gaze was drawn to Jason still sat on the sofa. He stood as Pete stepped back, and Ben got a proper look at him. Ben wasn’t the only one who’d changed a little over the past couple of years. The last time he’d seen Jason, his hair had been short, like an army cut, and he’d had a beard. He’d looked hot then, but now…. Ben had to forcibly shut his mouth so he didn’t gape.
Jason’s thick dark hair, still shaved at the sides, was now a good couple of inches longer on top. And he was clean shaven. Ben kind of missed the beard, but without it Jason looked much younger, and his strong jawline was a thing of beauty. He looked thinner, too. Ben frowned because Jason ate like a horse and had always been bulkier than his brothers. That thought somehow made its way out of Ben’s mouth.
“Have you lost weight?”
Jason laughed softly, one hand immediately going to his stomach. He patted his belly and sighed. “God don’t you start. Mum’s already been on at me about not eating properly.” He pulled Ben in for a quick hug. “It’s good to see you, even if you do put the rest of us to shame.”
Oh God, that voice. As smooth and deep as Ben remembered.
Jason’s thick dark hair, still shaved at the sides, was now a good couple of inches longer on top. And he was clean shaven. Ben kind of missed the beard, but without it Jason looked much younger, and his strong jawline was a thing of beauty. He looked thinner, too. Ben frowned because Jason ate like a horse and had always been bulkier than his brothers. That thought somehow made its way out of Ben’s mouth.
“Have you lost weight?”
Jason laughed softly, one hand immediately going to his stomach. He patted his belly and sighed. “God don’t you start. Mum’s already been on at me about not eating properly.” He pulled Ben in for a quick hug. “It’s good to see you, even if you do put the rest of us to shame.”
Oh God, that voice. As smooth and deep as Ben remembered.
The Boyfriend Sweater Curse by Ari McKay
Six years ago –
Gabriel Sutton leaned forward in his chair, watching eagerly while Jack opened his present. They were celebrating together on Christmas Eve since Jack had plans with his family on Christmas day. Gabriel had set the mood by dimming the lights in the living room of his apartment so the white lights on his tree illuminated the room with a cozy glow. His tree was decorated with an array of ornaments that reflected his various fandom interests, and he loved it.
Jack tore off the shimmery red wrapping paper, opened the oblong white box, and peeled back the tissue paper to reveal the sweater Gabriel had knitted for him. They were both Star Wars fans, and Gabriel had spent almost six months knitting a sweater in fair isle colorwork using Star Wars images. The pattern consisted of five horizontal rows repeated on both the back and front; he’d used black yarn for the background so the images would pop, and he’d added a ribbed crew neck and cuffs.
The first row alternated with the Rebel Alliance symbol in white and the Empire symbol in red. The second row X-Wing and TIE fighters in charcoal gray. The third row was a line of AT-ATs in white. The fourth row was a line of R2D2s in white and blue, and the last row was a row of Death Stars in white and gray. In between each row was a thin border made of lightsabers with either a blue, green, or red blade. It was by far the most intricate colorwork project Gabriel had ever knitted, but he thought the hours he’d spent on it were worth it. Jack was worth it.
Jack held up the sweater, his eyes growing wide. “Wow, that’s really something!”
“Do you like it?” Gabriel scanned Jack’s face for signs of enthusiasm, but while Jack was smiling, he didn’t seem overwhelmed.
“Of course I do, babe.” Jack kissed him lightly, then put the sweater aside in favor of retrieving Gabriel’s present from under the tree.
Gabriel didn’t see Jack wearing the sweater over the next couple of weeks, but they didn’t spend every day together, so he assumed maybe he missed seeing Jack when he wore it. Then in late January, Gabriel stopped by Jack’s apartment to pick him up for a date. A new restaurant serving Ethiopian food had opened in downtown Asheville, and they both wanted to try it. Jack opened the hall closet to get his coat, and Gabriel saw the Star Wars sweater still in its box and half-obscured with tissue paper on the floor next to Jack’s hiking boots.
A heavy sandbag lodged in the pit of Gabriel’s stomach as he retrieved the sweater and held it out to Jack, who looked sheepish. “You haven’t worn it?”
“It’s a little busy. I prefer simpler designs,” Jack said, offering an apologetic smile. “Do you want it back?”
Gabriel ran his hand over the soft wool stitches, disappointed that he had misjudged what Jack would like. He didn’t like taking back gifts, but if Jack didn’t want it, fuck it. He’d wear it himself. In fact, he wore the sweater to his knitting group’s next meeting at the local independent yarn shop. They gathered each month in the cluster of comfortable secondhand chairs by the large picture window at the front of the shop, and they spent two or three hours knitting and chatting over sweet iced tea when it was warm and coffee when it was cold.
“Isn’t that the sweater you were knitting for Jack?” Miss Hilda May asked.
“He didn’t like it, so he gave it back,” Gabriel said, his lips twisting in a moue of annoyance, and the circle of ladies made sympathetic noises. They all knew how it felt when a handmade gift went unappreciated.
“Better be careful,” Miss Betty said. “You might have triggered the boyfriend sweater curse.”
“The what?” Gabriel put down the cabled hat he was knitting and turned to her.
“The boyfriend sweater curse,” Miss Oleta said, nodding sagely. “It’s real. I knitted my first boyfriend a sweater for his birthday. We broke up less than a month later. I didn’t knit my husband a thing until we were married, and we’ll celebrate fifty years together this summer.”
“Wait, what curse?” Gabriel frowned as he looked around the circle of older ladies.
“You haven’t heard of the boyfriend sweater curse?” Miss Betty’s penciled eyebrows climbed to the roots of her dyed blond hair. “Oh, shit, honey. I guess we should’ve told you when you started working on that sweater, but we thought you knew. Never knit a sweater for your boyfriend, or you’ll break up for sure.”
Gabriel shook his head and scoffed. “We’ve been together almost a year. I think we’re solid.”
Jack broke up with him by email the day before Valentine’s Day.
We Whisk You a Merry Christmas by Anna Martin
The walk from the train station to his mum’s house was normally about fifteen minutes, but tonight it took longer due to the amount of snow on the ground. A lot longer. But Brandon really didn’t want his mum driving out to pick him up, not in this weather.
Even if his shoes were wet and his toes were cold and the frosty wind kept getting stuck in his throat.
There was something very reassuring and very familiar about this trudge uphill through the village. Even though it was dark out—it got dark by four in the afternoon at the moment— Brandon was pretty sure he could make the journey with his eyes closed.
His mum still lived in the same house Brandon and his sisters had grown up in; a terraced house behind the High Street that almost backed on to the bakery. When they were kids, Brandon had thought of the alleyway that connected the shops to the houses a secret passage. Along with Saffron and Olive, he’d played many games of Super Secret Spies back here.
Brandon let himself in through the back door because that was just the way things were done. Knocking on the front door was for guests and the postman. And he already knew he’d find his mum in the kitchen, at the back of the house.
“Hi, Mum.”
He shut the door behind himself quickly to keep the cold out, then leaned down and hugged her close, not pulling away until she did.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me too.”
“Sit down,” she said, ushering him into a chair. He still took his shoes off first and left them by the door, and hung his coat up on the hook. His bag could wait until later. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but if you’ve got something you need me to get rid of…?”
That made her laugh. “You want a cup of tea and a bit of cake?”
“Mum,” he said seriously. “I really, really do.”
Letting himself be fussed over was easy. Brandon knew he didn’t come home as often as he should; partly because his mum came into London fairly regularly with her friends and she always took time to stop by and see him. But that meant coming home was always a treat, and despite being thirty four, Brandon didn’t mind the attention from his mum.
Within ten minutes of walking through the door Brandon had a cup of tea and a piece of yule log chocolate cake in front of him. His mum sat opposite him at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around her own mug.
“How’s things?” she demanded. “How’s work?”
“Good. Busy,” he said. “Always busy. How are things here?”
She stilled, and Brandon was suddenly nervous. “Bran, there’s something important I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay,” he said around a mouthful of cake.
“We sold the bakery.”
Brandon swallowed hard. “You sold it?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
His mum squirmed. “August. I’m sorry. I thought you were coming home in September, then you didn’t because of that big contract at work, and I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”
“That’s okay.” He knew the bakery had been up for sale for a while, but he hadn’t thought to ask if anything had happened. That was probably self-preservation rather than self-interest. If he didn’t ask, he didn’t have to know. “Who has it now? Are they going to turn it into flats?”
“No,” his mum said emphatically. “A man bought it—he’s your age, actually. His name is Alex. He just picked it up and kept going.”
“So it’s open? Like it used to be?”
She nodded. “Yeah. People around here are really pleased, too. Alex is a good person, and a good baker. He’s been able to keep the tradition going.”
“I mean…” Brandon knew he needed to reassure her. Selling the bakery had been a huge deal and had caused plenty of arguments. But his mum didn’t want to keep it open on her own and neither Brandon nor his sisters wanted to move back to Newton Green to take it over. “We’ve known for a long time this was going to happen. I’m not upset,” he said, reaching out to give his mum’s hand a squeeze.
Later, when the cake was gone and his plate washed up, Brandon wandered through the house. He couldn’t help but appreciate that his mum had decorated for Christmas, like she did every year, even though there was no one but her to appreciate it.
Then again, that was probably not strictly true. Brandon knew his mum had a busier social life than he did; she was the treasurer for the PTA at the local primary school, having never given up her spot even after all three of her kids had left. She worked with a local children’s charity too, and volunteered at the food bank, and had been a member of the local Women’s Institute for donkey’s years.
That was part of the reason why Brandon didn’t feel quite so bad that neither he nor his sisters lived in Newton Green any more.
Bits and bobs had been rearranged on the mantlepiece above the fire to make room for two wicker reindeer sculptures that Brandon had bought for her a few years back. In the middle of the two reindeer were a hodge-podge of different school and graduation photos, and in Olive’s case, a picture from her wedding.
He picked up the frame and smiled.
Brandon looked more like Olive and their mum than Saffron and their dad. Both Brandon and Olive had thick, dark hair that got frizzy when it was humid out, and brown eyes that had hints of hazel. Saffron, on the other hand, wore her wavy, strawberry-blonde hair almost to her waist.
Olive was practical, a born scientist, and it made perfect sense that she now worked for the Scottish government advising on climate change. Brandon hoped that one day she’d move back down here, but she’d made a life in Edinburgh with her husband. Brandon set the photo back on the mantlepiece and made a mental note to book flights to go see them soon. Maybe by the time he got round to it, the baby would be born.
That was another thing that got his stomach all knotted up—Ollie getting married was one thing, but having a baby so soon after the wedding was another. Brandon had thought that she would want to wait, to dig further into her prospering career. But Thomas loved kids, and it seemed like he was going to be the stay at home parent when Olive’s maternity leave was over. It was all very 2020 of them.
Both his sisters had big, exciting things happening in their lives; Ollie with the baby, and Saff out exploring the world, and Brandon couldn’t help but feel jealous. When he’d moved to London it had been such a big thing in their family—he was the first to go to university, the first in the family to get a degree, and it had felt, at twenty-two, like the world was at his feet. Having a flat in Lambeth meant he could walk to his job in Soho, if he wanted to, and London life suited him.
Now, twelve years later, the city was exhausting. The past year had been a lot, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else waiting for him. A new relationship, a chance to move abroad and live somewhere exciting, maybe. Just… something.
He got out of bed around three in the morning when he really couldn’t pretend to sleep any more. Everything about being in this house was so familiar, and so strange at the same time. This bed—the one he’d slept in for the last few years before he left for uni—was nowhere near as comfortable as his one back at his flat. Things were quieter here than the constant hum of traffic he was used to; any noise muffled more by the falling snow.
Very quietly, Brandon got up and got dressed in jeans and a hoodie, thick socks, and a knitted beanie hat that covered his ears. He knew how to sneak downstairs and avoid the stair that always creaked, and, leaving everything else behind, he snuck down the alleyway to the bakery.
He didn’t have a key, but there was one behind the loose brick next to the door, and the new owner either didn’t know about it or had kept the hiding place because the old key was still there.
Brandon let himself in and carefully shut the door.
And found himself standing in his dad’s kitchen.
Nothing much had changed, and that was confusing to a part of his brain that knew this place belonged to someone else now. Technically he was trespassing. Brandon wasn’t sure what he was expecting… just… not this. Maybe a new lick of paint, or the old cookbooks on the shelf to have been taken down, or even for the aprons hung on the flour-dusty hooks to be different.
But it was the same as he remembered, right down to the little details, and his heart suddenly ached for all the things that he’d never be able to do again.
His dad had died eighteen months ago, just weeks after his diagnosis with prostate cancer. Brandon sometimes thought it was a good thing that his dad had never really suffered or been in any pain, but losing his dad was one of the hardest things he’d ever experienced. Their family had owned the bakery—this bakery—going back generations.
Brandon had worked here ever since he was tall enough to reach the counters. After school he’d come back and help his mum clean down the shop area and then help his dad set up for the next day, earning his pocket money. His early life had been lived in these rooms, and the relief that someone hadn’t decided to rip it all out and start over sank deep into his bones.
He didn’t bother turning a light on; the moon was bright outside and he could move around in here with his eyes closed. There was a big island in the middle of the bakery that had a marble top—for making dough and pastry and cake decorating. The ovens lined one side of the room, all off now, and the racks for cooling and preparing were filled with the stock for tomorrow.
Brandon moseyed over and had a look. A lot of it was familiar and predictable: gingerbread biscuits, gingerbread cake, stollen, mince pies… no, two different types of mince pies, already filled with glistening, jammy fruit.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was breaking and entering into the bakery in the middle of the night. There was nothing stopping him coming by in the morning, and if the new owner was as nice as his mum seemed to think he was, Brandon might even get an actually legal tour back here.
But that wasn’t really what he wanted.
When he was really little, and “helping” his dad mostly meant just getting in the way, Brandon would sit where two counters met in the corner of the room, right next to the window. It meant a huge waste of counter space, but it kept him out of the way and meant he had a good view of the tree outside and the birds that lived in it.
For very childish, heartsore reasons, Brandon toed off his shoes and hoisted himself up onto the counter. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his knees, and tried very, very hard not to cry.
Alex often thought of this time of day as “ungodly o’clock” in the morning. And he was a morning person.
Sometimes, during the very peak of summer, he would walk to work when the sun was coming up, and that was a nice feeling. He liked the idea of starting his day when the world was stretching and yawning and coming to life with him. Those days were long gone though, and wouldn’t be back for a while yet.
There was something very satisfying about midwinter too. Just not when he started work at four in the morning and at this time of year, put in a solid twelve hour day.
He let himself into the bakery and stopped short.
Because there was a man sleeping on his counter.
There was a man, asleep, on his counter.
A few things flashed through Alex’s mind at the same time: stranger! Thief? Homeless person looking for shelter? Runaway? Stranger!
He froze, entirely unsure of what to do next. But he must have made some kind of noise, because the man looked up, and jumped out of his skin.
“Holy shit!”
“Woah.” Alex held his hands up and took a step back. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call anyone for you?”
“Shit,” the man said again, and pressed his hands to his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Alex carefully took a step back, towards the door, just in case the guy turned violent and he had to run. “It’s okay.”
“I’m so embarrassed.” He slid off the counter and looked around for his shoes. “I really am sorry.”
Now Alex could see him better, the stranger didn’t seem so intimidating. He was tall, with thick dark hair, and very deliberate stubble on his jaw. He didn’t look like a homeless person. He was wearing nice clothes and a heavy hoodie.
“I should go,” he said.
“You want anything first?” Alex gestured to the stacks of food. “Help yourself.”
He ran his hand over his face. “Shit. I suppose I should explain.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Brandon. David’s son.”
Suddenly everything clicked into place. “You’re Brandon,” Alex echoed. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I won’t do this again, I promise. I suppose I just wanted to come in here one last time, before….”
“It’s fine.”
Alex really wasn’t awake enough to fully process everything that was trying to find space in his head. It was still so damn early.
“You want a coffee?” he said quickly.
Brandon froze. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Hot bean juice. I need some.”
Christmas with Danny Fit by Amy Lane
KIT ALLEN moved out of his mother’s house one week after he started his new workout regimen, two months after he got his new personal assistant at work, and six weeks before Christmas. He was thirty years old, and these events had more in common than first meets the eye—all except the Christmas.
Jesse, his new assistant, was a beautiful man, with hair the color of dark honey and sloe brown eyes. He keyboarded like the wind, understood the internet like a prodigy, ran interference when Kit was getting work done, and prodded him to get up out of his seat and move around when he’d done too much work and had to force himself to remember to breathe. He was constantly trying to anticipate Kit’s needs, and since Kit didn’t seem to need much, he was constantly trying to bring Kit things—coffee, water, a funny YouTube.com video he’d never seen—that Kit hadn’t known he needed but apparently couldn’t live without.
Something about Jesse made Kit supremely aware of the fact that he was forty pounds heavy and had never gotten laid.
It wasn’t that Jesse tried to make Kit feel uncomfortable. In fact, just the opposite. Jesse went out of his way to be friendly, and since Kit had always been a shy, awkward sort of boy and then a reserved, awkward sort of man, overtures of friendship were foreign to him.
“Would you like me to get you coffee, Mr. Allen?”
“Uhm….” And suddenly another cup of coffee sounded both wonderful and frightening.
“How about some water? Water’s good for you, you know.”
“Uhm….” It was the first time in his life he’d ever felt that something good for him would actually seem good for him.
Jesse would offer to eat lunch with him when he worked at his desk, and Kit would freeze, absolutely stunned. Should he make conversation? Should he work on the tables and figures he’d stayed in his office to finish in the first place? Holy crap! How was he supposed to behave when Jesse sat and chatted to him about television and movies and….
Wait a minute.
“Yeah,” Kit said in bemusement, “I thought David Tennant was the best Doctor Who. How could you not? But I think Matt Smith has a lot of potential—he’s got this wise thing about him that makes him seem a little older, you know?”
Jesse’s face lit up, and he looked a little surprised as well. “Absolutely—and I think Amelia Pond is adorable. Donna Tate seemed like a lot of fun too—probably less likely to try to get into my pants, which would be more comfortable. So tell me, do you like Torchwood too?”
As it turned out, both of them shared a deep and abiding love of science fiction television, starting with Doctor Who and moving on to Torchwood, Being Human, Firefly, Dollhouse, Stargate (SG-1, Atlantis, and Universe!), Battlestar Galactica, Babylon 5, Warehouse 13, Eureka, and even that most holy of holies, Star Trek, all five incarnations, including the only spin-off not to make it seven seasons, Enterprise.
After that first week, lunch became less and less about doing work at his desk and more and more about talking about sci-fi with Jesse.
It was at the end of the second month that Kit saw Jesse with some of the other men from his building, playing basketball in the yard across the street from their accounting firm in the slanting November sun. He’d waved, and Jesse had waved back, but after a couple of months of working together—and eating lunch and yearning, at least on Kit’s part—Kit was not quite sure if he was comfortable enough to go up and say anything.
Jesse, his new assistant, was a beautiful man, with hair the color of dark honey and sloe brown eyes. He keyboarded like the wind, understood the internet like a prodigy, ran interference when Kit was getting work done, and prodded him to get up out of his seat and move around when he’d done too much work and had to force himself to remember to breathe. He was constantly trying to anticipate Kit’s needs, and since Kit didn’t seem to need much, he was constantly trying to bring Kit things—coffee, water, a funny YouTube.com video he’d never seen—that Kit hadn’t known he needed but apparently couldn’t live without.
Something about Jesse made Kit supremely aware of the fact that he was forty pounds heavy and had never gotten laid.
It wasn’t that Jesse tried to make Kit feel uncomfortable. In fact, just the opposite. Jesse went out of his way to be friendly, and since Kit had always been a shy, awkward sort of boy and then a reserved, awkward sort of man, overtures of friendship were foreign to him.
“Would you like me to get you coffee, Mr. Allen?”
“Uhm….” And suddenly another cup of coffee sounded both wonderful and frightening.
“How about some water? Water’s good for you, you know.”
“Uhm….” It was the first time in his life he’d ever felt that something good for him would actually seem good for him.
Jesse would offer to eat lunch with him when he worked at his desk, and Kit would freeze, absolutely stunned. Should he make conversation? Should he work on the tables and figures he’d stayed in his office to finish in the first place? Holy crap! How was he supposed to behave when Jesse sat and chatted to him about television and movies and….
Wait a minute.
“Yeah,” Kit said in bemusement, “I thought David Tennant was the best Doctor Who. How could you not? But I think Matt Smith has a lot of potential—he’s got this wise thing about him that makes him seem a little older, you know?”
Jesse’s face lit up, and he looked a little surprised as well. “Absolutely—and I think Amelia Pond is adorable. Donna Tate seemed like a lot of fun too—probably less likely to try to get into my pants, which would be more comfortable. So tell me, do you like Torchwood too?”
As it turned out, both of them shared a deep and abiding love of science fiction television, starting with Doctor Who and moving on to Torchwood, Being Human, Firefly, Dollhouse, Stargate (SG-1, Atlantis, and Universe!), Battlestar Galactica, Babylon 5, Warehouse 13, Eureka, and even that most holy of holies, Star Trek, all five incarnations, including the only spin-off not to make it seven seasons, Enterprise.
After that first week, lunch became less and less about doing work at his desk and more and more about talking about sci-fi with Jesse.
It was at the end of the second month that Kit saw Jesse with some of the other men from his building, playing basketball in the yard across the street from their accounting firm in the slanting November sun. He’d waved, and Jesse had waved back, but after a couple of months of working together—and eating lunch and yearning, at least on Kit’s part—Kit was not quite sure if he was comfortable enough to go up and say anything.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
Annabelle Jacobs lives in the South West of England with three rowdy children, and two cats. An avid reader of fantasy herself for many years, Annabelle now spends her days writing her own stories. They're usually either fantasy or paranormal fiction, because she loves building worlds filled with magical creatures, and creating stories full of action and adventure. Her characters may have a tough time of it—fighting enemies and adversity—but they always find love in the end.
Ari McKay
Ari McKay is the professional pseudonym for Arionrhod and McKay, who have been writing together for over a decade. Their collaborations encompass a wide variety of romance genres, including contemporary, fantasy, science fiction, gothic, and action/adventure. Their work includes the Blood Bathory series of paranormal novels, the Herc’s Mercs series, as well as two historical Westerns: Heart of Stone and Finding Forgiveness. When not writing, they can often be found scheming over costume designs or binge watching TV shows together.
Arionrhod is a systems engineer by day who is eagerly looking forward to (hopefully) becoming a full time writer in the not-too-distant future. Now that she is an empty-nester, she has turned her attentions to finding the perfect piece of land to build a fortress in preparation for the zombie apocalypse, and baking (and eating) far too many cakes.
McKay is an English teacher who has been writing for one reason or another most of her life. She also enjoys knitting, reading, cooking, and playing video games. She has been known to knit in public. Given she has the survival skills of a gnat, she’s relying on Arionrhod to help her survive the zombie apocalypse.
Anna MartinAnna Martin is from a picturesque seaside village in the southwest of England and now lives in the Bristol, a city that embraces her love for the arts. After spending most of her childhood making up stories, she studied English literature at university before attempting to turn her hand as a professional writer.
Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, Anna is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theater (especially at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where she can be found every summer), going to visit friends in other countries, and reading anything thatís put under her nose.
Anna claims her entire career is due to the love, support, prereading, and creative ass kicking provided by her best friend Jennifer. Jennifer refuses to accept responsibility for anything Anna has written.
Amy Lane has two kids who are mostly grown, two kids who aren't, three cats, and two Chi-who-whats at large. She lives in a crumbling crapmansion with half of the children and a bemused spouse. She also has too damned much yarn, a penchant for action adventure movies, and a need to know that somewhere in all the pain is a story of Wuv, Twu Wuv, which she continues to believe in to this day! She writes fantasy, urban fantasy, and gay romance--and if you accidentally make eye contact, she'll bore you to tears with why those three genres go together. She'll also tell you that sacrifices, large and small, are worth the urge to write.
RJ Scott
Annabelle Jacobs
Ari McKay
The Boyfriend Sweater Curse by Ari McKay
We Whisk You a Merry Christmas by Anna Martin
Christmas with Danny Fit by Amy Lane
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