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One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. If any of the purchase links included here don't work be sure and check the authors' websites/social media for the most recent links as they can change over time for a variety of reasons.
The Captain's Ghostly Gamble by Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead
Summary:
Captivating Captains
RATING:
12 Days of UPS by Eli Easton
RATING:
RATING:
Gummy Bears & Grenades by Charlie Cochet
RATING:
Catherine Curzon
Eleanor Harkstead
Eleanor Harkstead likes to dash about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She knows rather a lot about poisons, and can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens, and has a huge collection of vintage hats. She is the winner of the Best Dressed Sixth Former award and came third in the under-11s race at the Colchester Fire Swim.
Originally from the south-east of England, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
Courtney Milan
Eli Easton
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Casey McQuiston
Charlie Cochet
Charlie Cochet is the international bestselling author of the THIRDS series. Born in Cuba and raised in the US, Charlie enjoys the best of both worlds, from her daily Cuban latte to her passion for classic rock.
Currently residing in Central Florida, Charlie is at the beck and call of a rascally Doxiepoo bent on world domination. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found devouring a book, releasing her creativity through art, or binge watching a new TV series. She runs on coffee, thrives on music, and loves to hear from readers.
Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
Here at Padme's Library I feature all genres but followers have probably noticed that 95% of the posts and 99% of my reviews fall under the LGBT genres, so for this year's Pride Month I am showcasing 20 of my favorite M/M Rom Com reads in no particular order. Most fall into full on romantic comedy, some more dramedy, but there are some where humor is the highlighted emotion and they all generally lead to a perfect blend of romance, drama, healing, and heart, creating unforgettably fun entertaining reads.
One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. If any of the purchase links included here don't work be sure and check the authors' websites/social media for the most recent links as they can change over time for a variety of reasons.
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Summary:
Captivating Captains
When a ghostly dandy and his roguish companion try their hand at matchmaking, things definitely go bump in the night.
For centuries, foppish Captain Cornelius Sheridan and brooding John Rookwood have haunted the mansion they duelled and died for. Now these phantom foes must join forces to save both their home and their feuding descendents.
But when Captain Sheridan sacrifices his afterlife for the sake of true love, will Rookwood risk everything to keep his companion by his side, or is it too late to say "I love you"?
Publisher's Note: This book is related to the Captivating Captains series.
Original Review October 2019:
When a duel ended with both men dead I doubt either expected to be stuck with each other for eternity but that is exactly where they find themselves some two hundred years later. Rockwood and Sheridan have been pushing each others buttons as well as letting their families know they(and others especially a frisky feline) linger. As a old classic film fan, The Captain's Ghostly Gamble reminds me kind of a mix of The Odd Couple meets Topper meets Beyond Tomorrow, but oh so more.
Ghostly Gamble is a delightfully humor filled novella that is perfect for this time of year. Matchmaking ghosts, bickering frenemies who have spent way more time together then they ever expected, descendants who aren't completely honest with each other, and then there is the moment where everything becomes clear(but what that moment is and what "becomes clear" is something you have to read for yourself😉😉) there is plenty packed into this Captivating Captains short that will make you smile, laugh, smile again, and laugh some more.
Halloween isn't the time you normally expect to find a romantic comedy but it does happen, they don't always work but The Captain's Ghostly Gamble does. A truly delightful read for any time of year but an extra special treat now. I was aware of this story last October but unfortunately time just wasn't on my side and it just kept slipping down my TBR list but I came across it the other day and jumped at the chance before time decided otherwise again. I'm glad I found it again because The Captain's Ghostly Gamble is a true gem.
RATING:
For centuries, foppish Captain Cornelius Sheridan and brooding John Rookwood have haunted the mansion they duelled and died for. Now these phantom foes must join forces to save both their home and their feuding descendents.
But when Captain Sheridan sacrifices his afterlife for the sake of true love, will Rookwood risk everything to keep his companion by his side, or is it too late to say "I love you"?
Publisher's Note: This book is related to the Captivating Captains series.
When a duel ended with both men dead I doubt either expected to be stuck with each other for eternity but that is exactly where they find themselves some two hundred years later. Rockwood and Sheridan have been pushing each others buttons as well as letting their families know they(and others especially a frisky feline) linger. As a old classic film fan, The Captain's Ghostly Gamble reminds me kind of a mix of The Odd Couple meets Topper meets Beyond Tomorrow, but oh so more.
Ghostly Gamble is a delightfully humor filled novella that is perfect for this time of year. Matchmaking ghosts, bickering frenemies who have spent way more time together then they ever expected, descendants who aren't completely honest with each other, and then there is the moment where everything becomes clear(but what that moment is and what "becomes clear" is something you have to read for yourself😉😉) there is plenty packed into this Captivating Captains short that will make you smile, laugh, smile again, and laugh some more.
Halloween isn't the time you normally expect to find a romantic comedy but it does happen, they don't always work but The Captain's Ghostly Gamble does. A truly delightful read for any time of year but an extra special treat now. I was aware of this story last October but unfortunately time just wasn't on my side and it just kept slipping down my TBR list but I came across it the other day and jumped at the chance before time decided otherwise again. I'm glad I found it again because The Captain's Ghostly Gamble is a true gem.
RATING:
The Pursuit of . . . by Courtney Milan
Summary:
The Worth Saga #2.5
What do a Black American soldier, invalided out at Yorktown, and a white British officer who deserted his post have in common? Quite a bit, actually.
•They attempted to kill each other the first time they met.
•They're liable to try again at some point in the five-hundred mile journey that they're inexplicably sharing.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are… Oh, no.
The Pursuit Of… is about a love affair between two men and the Declaration of Independence. It’s a novella of around 38,000 words.
Original Review April 2024:
Once again another new-to-me author. Well I aimed to make 2024 the year of the new-to-me authors and I'm off to flying start. I went looking for recs for either American Revolution or US Civil War eras because there just isn't enough for my liking, I even added in my rec request that I'd be willing to read a story from the enemy side of the Revolutionary War😉. Someone rec'd The Pursuit of. . . by Courtney Milan and though it is a novella prequel of her Worth Saga series that appears to be MF romances I decided I had to read this MM entry.
So glad I did!
Henry and John couldn't be more opposites for a variety of reasons, major one: John is a freedman Corporal in the Continental Army and Henry is a Captain(I believe that was his rank) in the British Army. Now I'm not going to list their differences other than the one that really made this novella sparkle: the cheese, the dreaded cheese that Henry seems to be lugging around that never seems to get better until suddenly one day it appears to, at least in the men's minds. Okay so that wasn't really a difference or the point that made the journey sparkle for me but it lead to just too many darn funny moments of convo that I couldn't ignore mentioning it. No the part that really sparkled for me was Henry's unending ability to talk, and talk and talk and then talk some more and the patience John had was . . . well it's more patience than I would've had in the circumstances😉. Today he would be diagnosed with ADHD but back then? Well he was just Henry and I loved every minute of it.
There's no way this pair could get their HEA, right? Under the circumstances and the social standards of the day it's impossible to even speculate but sometimes that is when HEAs are a must but will they get their's, well you have to read for yourself. If you're like me and not a MF reader anymore and know in your heart you most likely won't be checking out the author's Worth Saga(at least at this time in my reading journey but I'll definitely keep it on my TBR list) I definitely highly recommend giving this MM novella a chance because it's absolutely smashing and lovely.
RATING:
Summary:
You have a delivery: a gay romance Christmas short story!
With COVID-19 enforcing a holiday lock-down, Paul is expecting a lonely Christmas in his new home. But then he starts receiving packages from a Secret Santa every day leading up to the 25th. The gifts in each package are fun, and so is the hunky UPS driver who cheekily delivers them. With a little help from a friend, this might be the best Christmas ever.
Originally published in 'Gifts of the Season: Winter & Christmas' anthology in 2021.
Original Review January 2023:
What a delightfully adorable way of using the The Twelve Days of Christmas. I know some still aren't ready for stories set in the time of Covid but it's reality and we can't ignore it's existence in the fictional word any longer. It is the little things that we have leant toward ignoring or not completely grasping what it takes to be a delivery person during Covid. How for some the delivery personel were really the only contact with the outside world they had on any semi-regular basis. Loved how the author combined living in Covid, the classic 12 Days of Xmas, and holiday spirit to create a humorous yet heartwarming tale of romance and friendship. Spot on!
Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
Summary:* Instant NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY bestseller *
* GOODREADS CHOICE AWARD WINNER for BEST DEBUT and BEST ROMANCE of 2019 *
* BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR* for VOGUE, NPR, VANITY FAIR, and more! *
What happens when America's First Son falls in love with the Prince of Wales?
When his mother became President, Alex Claremont-Diaz was promptly cast as the American equivalent of a young royal. Handsome, charismatic, genius—his image is pure millennial-marketing gold for the White House. There's only one problem: Alex has a beef with the actual prince, Henry, across the pond. And when the tabloids get hold of a photo involving an Alex-Henry altercation, U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse.
Heads of family, state, and other handlers devise a plan for damage control: staging a truce between the two rivals. What at first begins as a fake, Instragramable friendship grows deeper, and more dangerous, than either Alex or Henry could have imagined. Soon Alex finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with a surprisingly unstuffy Henry that could derail the campaign and upend two nations and begs the question: Can love save the world after all? Where do we find the courage, and the power, to be the people we are meant to be? And how can we learn to let our true colors shine through? Casey McQuiston's Red, White & Royal Blue proves: true love isn't always diplomatic.
"I took this with me wherever I went and stole every second I had to read! Absorbing, hilarious, tender, sexy—this book had everything I crave. I’m jealous of all the readers out there who still get to experience Red, White & Royal Blue for the first time!" - Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
"Red, White & Royal Blue is outrageously fun. It is romantic, sexy, witty, and thrilling. I loved every second." - Taylor Jenkins Reid, New York Times bestselling author of Daisy Jones & The Six
Original Review August Book of the Month 2023:
I've had many friends whose opinions I highly respect say how much they loved Casey McQuiston's Red, White and Royal Blue and it definitely sounded good so I knew I would read it one day but that day had yet to cross my reading journey. A couple of years pass and I discover it's being made into a movie and that the film would be on Prime in August of this year so it seemed that the time may be getting nearer. Since I hadn't read it yet I decided to wait until after I saw the film so there wouldn't be any preconceived expectations of what should or shouldn't be in the film.
Glad I did. I loved both the book and the film, equally brilliant, equally entertaining and any changes that were made most likely for time constraint helped the film flow better but at the same time those scenes that got cut/changed helped to create a fuller visual reading experience in my mind's eye. So again both brilliant in their own way.
I'm not going to talk too much about the plot as I know I'm not the only one who is late to the reading party and I don't want to spoil the book or film. I will say I don't think there was a single character I didn't like. Well, sure there were a few I didn't like but you weren't suppose to like them for reasons I won't spoil. Red, White and Royal Blue is a wonderful rom-com dramedy that makes you smile, swoon, and sweat. Alex and Henry are the epitome of swoony-ism. Going from lust to love while navigating life in the public eye had me falling even more deeply for the pair, I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to be in their shoes. In this day and age you'd think society would be more tolerant and accepting but we all know there is still too many who hate to accept differences in people. Humanity may have come a long way but there is still a long road ahead. I think the author has hit that part of Alex and Henry on point.
I've heard some say there is too much politics or at least too one-sided, that it makes all Republicans into the big bad and Democrats can do no wrong. I don't see it that way. Yes, there is more negativity from the GOP-referenced parts of the story but let's face it, like it or not that is how the American political scope trends: GOP = anti LGBTQ and DFL = ally. There are exceptions on both sides of the aisle of course but not many and I think the author has incorporated those viewpoints perfectly as to how it pertains to the guys' journey. I also feel that some people tend to forget this is a work of fiction not Political Science 101.
As for the friends and family of our star couple, I loved every bit of their interactions with the men and each other. I think June, Nora, and Bea have more scene time and they definitely steal the spotlight when they appear. Madame President Ellen Claremont is in a tough spot balancing her role as leader of the country and mother and though there were a couple of times I wanted the mother side to shine more I understood why the leader had to step up. As an American woman who is only a couple of months away from her 50th birthday, I firmly believe I will see the day we finally break through that final glass ceiling and have Madame President, but until that day arrives, fictional characters such as Ellen Claremont give us hope.
I can't believe I waited so long to read Red, White and Royal Blue and now that I have, I look forward to listening to the audio in the near future and though time may not allow this to be added to my annual re-read/re-listen list, it will definitely be explored again and again for years to come. What I wouldn't give to see a follow-up novel to see where Alex and Henry are once his mother's term is up or the pair dating now that Alex has been marked as the official royal suitor😉.
So much goodness from yet another new-to-me author. I know not everyone enjoys rom-com, feel good, HEA yumminess and that's okay because it would be a pretty boring world if we all liked the same books just don't yuck in somebody else's yum.
Original Audiobook Review September 2023:
I have been listening to audiobooks for way too many years to count, I go all the way back to when they were on audio cassettes and were never unabridged. In all these years I can honestly say I have NEVER listened to a book within a month of the original reading so that right there goes a long way as a testament to how much love I have for this story and the characters. It's been about a week since I finished listening and I am already seriously contemplating listening again . . . that is great storytelling in my opinion.
I really can only think of one thing to talk about that I didn't touch on in my original review: Zahra Bankston! How in the world did I fail to mention this brilliantly created character? I gave voice to how much I enjoyed June, Nora, and Bea but not Zahra?!?!?! We all know Nora is Alex's best friend but seriously Zahra is the second best friend he probably didn't even realize he needed or she would even contemplate the possibility of being. She keeps him, well I can't say she keeps him in check because there is no keeping Alex in check but she definitely calls him on his BS and holds nothing back doing it. Just love her! I want a Zahra in my life.
As for the narrator, Ramon de Ocampo does the story justice. Familiar and fresh all at the same time. Because I watched the film prior to reading the story I was able to picture the film actors while reading and though it can be hard to do with an audio narration becoming the characters, De Ocampo's voice "fits the features" of the actors making it quite easy to continue picturing Taylor Zakhar Perez and Nicholas Galitzine as Alex and Henry. I'm not ashamed to admit I've watched the film multiple times in the past month but while listening to Ramon de Ocampo bring Casey McQuiston's words to life I swear I could see the written version playing out in front of me like my own little personal Saturday-in-the-park production and that speaks volumes to how incredibly blended voice and word is making Red, White and Royal Blue not only one of my absolute favorite reads of 2023 but also top audios.
RATING:
Summary:
THIRDS #9.5
THIRDS agent Dexter J. Daley can’t wait to marry his fiancé, Team Leader Sloane Brodie, but first he’s looking forward to celebrating his bachelor party—which he intends to be a shenanigans-free evening of getting his groove on with family and friends.
Of course events don’t work out as planned, but for Dex that’s nothing new. One thing is for sure, dodging drug dealers and hired thugs amid booze, dancing—and even a bear costume—will guarantee it’s a night Dex will never forget. Now he just needs to survive all the fun.
These events occur between Darkest Hour Before Dawn and Tried & True in the series timeline.
Original Review October 2017:
It would seem that Dex is about to have a bachelor party and Sloane is to spend the evening with his longtime friend and superior but the fact that he is also his soon-to-be father-in-law has him a bit on edge. Will everything go as planned for Dex's night out or will it go as most things Dex is involved with, chaotic and haywire?
I'm not going to say too much here but I will say that this entry is as all the THIRDS entries are: brilliant and fun. I don't want to give away any of what Dex and his pals face but I will say that I laughed from the first page to the last. Don't get me wrong, the whole series is fun even with all the drama the boys face and most of that is down to Dex's love of all things 80s but there is something special about Gummy Bears & Grenades that is beyond even Dex's 80s fetish. Lets face it, the title alone sets the tone for this tale.
Once again I think "Brilliant" is the only and the best word I can find to describe how much I love these Delta boys, their friends, and family. A huge thank you to Charlie Cochet for creating the THIRDS universe and I can't wait to see what comes next.
I'm not going to say too much here but I will say that this entry is as all the THIRDS entries are: brilliant and fun. I don't want to give away any of what Dex and his pals face but I will say that I laughed from the first page to the last. Don't get me wrong, the whole series is fun even with all the drama the boys face and most of that is down to Dex's love of all things 80s but there is something special about Gummy Bears & Grenades that is beyond even Dex's 80s fetish. Lets face it, the title alone sets the tone for this tale.
Once again I think "Brilliant" is the only and the best word I can find to describe how much I love these Delta boys, their friends, and family. A huge thank you to Charlie Cochet for creating the THIRDS universe and I can't wait to see what comes next.
Audiobook Review October 2023:
I can't believe it's been 6 years . . . 6 YEARS! since I read Gummy Bears & Grenades. Despite the years, everything came back to me instantly, especially the original excitement and glee that only Dexter J Daley incites. I won't give any spoilers for those who are new to the series and truthfully there isn't anything I can add that wasn't in my original review as to how much I love this entry and this series as a whole. All I will say(as I've said in previous THIRDS audio reviews) is that Mark Westfield is brilliant and his narration continues to breathe life into Charlie Cochet's words perfectly. A gem not to be missed.
RATING:
The Captain's Ghostly Gamble by Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead
John Rookwood peered through the grimy leaded windows and saw lights approaching along the driveway. It was the same every year—uninvited guests always arrived on their anniversary.
“Captain, they’re nearly here! Stop preening, man!”
“Guests!” Captain Cornelius Sheridan didn’t look away from the ornate mirror where he was admiring his own reflection. He beamed at himself before pouting, then placed one hand on his hip. As John watched, Sheridan turned a little to the left, a little to the right, admiring his own form, clad as he was in a suit of shimmering gold silk.
He frowned and adjusted one of his lace-shrouded cuffs very slightly, then considered his reflection again, turning his shapely calf a little before he leaned down to brush an imaginary smut from his white stocking. “Does one need more powder, Rookwood? One doesn’t want to look gauche for one’s chums!”
“You have natural pallor enough, Captain. Besides, they’re not our chums.”
A large conveyance had drawn up to the front door. John turned up the collar of his greatcoat, watching as two passengers, a man and a woman, climbed out.
“The damned impertinence of it, turning up uninvited every year. Wandering about my house, disturbing our peace. They’re lucky I haven’t taken a pistol to them.”
“Natural? Lord preserve me from natural! More powder and a touch more rouge on the lips, I think.” Sheridan put his elegant hand to his silken cravat and slightly adjusted the diamond pin there. An even larger diamond was housed in the ring he wore, and it glittered as brightly as his eyes. “My home, Mr. Rookwood, lest we forget.”
At the sound of their guests letting themselves in at the front door, John sighed. “Rookwood Manor has been in my family for generations, as well you know, you damned dandy interloper!”
“Indeed, sir, Sheridan Manor was once home to your people, but one believes there was the small matter of a duel and now it is mine.” Sheridan glanced at John and beamed, his handsome face now fashionably pale. He bowed low, a cloud of rose perfume billowing from the decadent cuffs. “Let us go and say hello to our newest friends, Mr. Rookwood!”
John bowed in return, doffing his tricorne hat. “That duel was unfair—therefore, in default, Rookwood Manor is still mine, I think you’ll find.”
As John’s heavy boots thumped over the floorboards, a woman’s voice echoed up from the entrance hall.
“Did you hear that? I swear I heard footsteps!”
“Ooh, the young lady sounds so terribly nervous!” Sheridan hugged himself in amused excitement then clapped his hands together. His grin was positively wicked as he added, “What fun!”
“Should be easy to get shot of them, then!” John looked over the bannister as the couple began to set up their equipment. He’d seen quite a lot of this caper over the years, gadgets galore ranged through his house with nary a by-your-leave. How terribly rude. “Well, then, Captain, as my footsteps have served to scare her witless, would you like to go next? I’d wager you shan’t terrify them in the least, but I’m happy to watch you try!”
The two men peeped down into the baronial hall below, where the enormous studded oak door stood open on the autumn night. Leaves swirled in around the feet of the second visitor, a young man with a large bag slung over his shoulder. He threw it down and looked up at his splendid surroundings, his face set into a scowl.
“Oh, now what a handsome gent!” Sheridan touched his hand to his breast and quirked one eyebrow. “If my heart had not already stopped, it would certainly have just skipped a beat. Who have we here?”
He began to descend the staircase, polished shoes shining in the light of the chandelier, the diamond buckles on his toes twinkling. With a glance back at John, Sheridan hopped down the last two risers and landed neatly in front of the couple, who continued to unpack their infernal equipment. Then he blew a sharp blast of rose perfume into the young lady’s face.
She stumbled back a step and nearly lost her footing on the uneven floorboards. “What—what was that? Dan, can you smell it? Roses. They say that the highwayman who haunts this place smells of roses. I’m not imagining it, am I? And it’s suddenly so cold in here!”
“You do know that it’s all bollocks, don’t you?” Dan tutted and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve even talked me into this. The sooner it’s on the market, the sooner some big hotel chain buys it and the sooner I get to buy that Ferrari I’ve always wanted, so let’s get the night finished and lock the bloody door on this dusty old hole.”
“Can you please not say bollocks when I’ve got the EVP recorder on, Dan?” The young woman crouched down to rummage about in a trunk. “I can’t believe you want to sell this place—my family lived here too, you know. And anyway, a haunted house is much cooler than a Ferrari.”
“Oh, he’s one of yours!” Sheridan called upstairs to John. “A Rookwood, which makes him suddenly far less attractive! A Rookwood who intends to sell my bally house!”
“Balderdash—it’s Rookwood Manor, after all, and will you just look at that handsome face!” John followed Sheridan downstairs. Could the young lady hear him, or even see him? She had glanced in his direction and was gawping at the stairs.
“Dan! I can hear footsteps again!”
But Dan had turned his back, so John prodded him on the shoulder to get a better look. Was this impertinent young man worthy of the name Rookwood?
“Stop pissing about, Jenny,” Dan huffed. “Funny isn’t it, really? Here we are, a Rookwood and a Sheridan, spending one last night in the place where our great-whatever-uncles however far removed supposedly rattle their chains and flap their sheets? And by tomorrow the For Sale board will be up!”
The Pursuit of . . . by Courtney Milan
Yorktown, 1781
In the heat of battle, Corporal John Hunter could never differentiate between silence and absolute noise. Years had passed since his first engagement, but every time, the sheer discord of sound blended together. The cry of bugles sounding orders, the clash of bayonets, the rat-tat-tat of firearms somewhere in the distance, the hollow concussion of the cannons—each one of those things heralded someone’s doom. To take heed to any of it was to fall into fear. To fear was to make mistakes; to err was to die. No matter the odds, the sounds of battle were so overwhelming that they were no different than silence.
Yorktown was just like any other engagement.
Oh, the strategists might have begged to differ. There were more clouds, more night. Less frost than some of the battles he’d taken part in. Someone had talked prettily at them about how the freedom of this nascent nation was at stake and some other things John had listened to with his hands curling into fists. The colonies didn’t care about John’s freedom, so he returned the favor by not caring about theirs.
In the end, all battles were smoke and shit and death, and John’s only goal was to see the other side of this war without being forcibly acquainted with the Grim Reaper. Fight. Survive. Go home to his family. The most basic of needs.
The night was dark around him and his fellow infantrymen. The spiked branches of the abatis had left scratches on his arm; the charge up the scarp had John’s heart pounding.
They’d crept through the ditch and were approaching the final defenses of Redoubt Ten—a wall of sharp stakes, somewhat battered. A group of fools ahead of him was negotiating how best to storm the parapet. John held back. Apparently, the idiot in command of this maneuver wanted to lead the charge. Sutton, one of the other black men assigned to storm the redoubt, was hoisting him up.
Nothing to do but join them and hope for the best. Nothing to do but survive, fight, and return to his family before anything ill happened to them. Fight, survive—
John stilled, the chant in his head dying down.
There was a reason he let the background noise of battle fade to nothingness in his mind. It left room for wariness and suspicion. There. Behind them, back toward the abatis—there was a shadow.
It moved, man-shaped.
The person behind them was large and almost invisible, and he lay in wait. John’s comrades hadn’t noticed him. In their haste to get in, they’d all left themselves vulnerable.
All of them but him.
Damn it all to hell.
Silence and noise mingled in John’s head. Perhaps the gunfire from the feint on Fusiliers Redoubt a ways off was loud; perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps the man he saw screamed in defiance as John turned toward him; perhaps he was silent.
Fight. Survive… Damn it.
There was no hope for it. John couldn’t wait to see what would happen. He lowered his weapon, said a prayer for his sister, should his soul become irreparably detached from his body, and sprinted back toward the shadowed branches of the abatis.
The man’s head tilted. John braced himself, waiting for the man to fire a weapon or raise a blade, but instead the fellow just waited in silence. One second. Two.
John crashed into him at full speed, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest. God, the other man was huge. The impact traveled bruisingly through his body. Still, John wasn’t exactly tiny himself. They fell together, hitting the ground. It took one moment to get his bayonet into position, another to drive it forward, blade seeking the other man’s belly.
It didn’t make contact. Instead, the fellow hit John on the head with the butt of his musket. John’s head rang; he shook it, pushed the echoing pain aside, and rolled out of the way of the next bayonet strike.
There was no time to think, no time to come up with any plan except to survive the next instant, then the next. No room for fine blade work, either; John swung his musket like a staff.
The other man blocked the strike, and the force of gun barrel meeting gun barrel traveled up John’s arm. The battle had all but disappeared into a pinprick, into this moment between two men.
“God,” the other fellow said. “You’re strong.”
John refused to hear his words.
John had neither energy nor emotion to waste on conversation. Fight. Survive the war. Go back to Lizzie and Noah and his mother. He’d promised them he would—stupid promise, that—but he’d break the entire British Army before he broke that promise. Men who let their attention slip perished, and he had no intention of perishing. He gritted his teeth and tried to smash the other man’s head.
The other man ducked out of the way. “Nice weather for a siege, isn’t it?”
John’s almost perfect concentration slipped. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Nice weather for a siege? Did that mean the weather was good—it wasn’t—or that bad weather was preferable during a siege? And what did preferable even mean between the two of them? Siegers and the besieged had different preferences.
Ah, damn it.
This was why John couldn’t let himself listen to battle. Anything—everything—could be a distraction. He shook his head instead and threw his entire weight behind his next strike.
It wasn’t enough; the other man was taller and heavier, and their bayonets crossed once more. He was close enough to see features—stubble on cheeks, sharp nose, the glint of some distant bombardment reflected in the man’s eyes. They held their places for a moment, shoulders braced together, their heaving breaths temporarily synchronized.
“It’s your turn,” the man said with an unholy degree of cheer. “I remarked on the weather. Etiquette demands that you say something in return.”
For a moment, John stared at the fellow in utter confusion. “I’m bloody trying to kill you. This is a battle, not a ball.”
He pivoted on one foot, putting his entire back into whirling his weapon. This time he managed to whack the other man’s stomach. A blow—not a hard one, he hadn’t the space to gather momentum—but enough that the fellow grunted and staggered back a pace.
“Yes,” the man said, recovering his balance all too quickly, “true, completely true, we are trying to commit murder upon each other. That doesn’t mean that we need to be impolite about it.”
Fucking British. Would he call a halt to take tea, too?
“If you prefer,” the man continued, sidestepping another blow, “you could try, ‘Die, imperialist scum.’ The moniker is somewhat lacking in friendly appeal, but it has the benefit of being true. I own it; we are imperialist scum.”
What the hell?
“But aren’t we both?” The conversation, like the battle, seemed interminable. “You colonials are displacing natives as well. I will give you this point. You’d be quite right not to use that particular insult. It would be rather hypocritical.”
Not for John, it wouldn’t. His presence in this land could not be put down to any volition on the part of his black mother, who was the only ancestor the colonials counted. But now was not a time for the fine nuances of that particular discussion. It was not, in fact, the time for any discussion at all.
He swung his musket again, heard the crack of the weapon against the barrel of the other man’s musket.
“It just goes to show. Politics is obviously not a good choice of conversation among strangers, I suppose. My father always did say that, and damn his soul, he is occasionally right. What of books? Have you read anything recently?”
There were still a few soldiers making their way through the abatis, streaming past them. One went by now, glancing in their direction.
“Can’t we try to kill each other in silence?” John snuck out a foot, attempting to trip the other man. His enemy danced away.
“Ah, is that it?” The man brightened. “I see. You can’t fight and talk at the same time? My friend, Lieutenant Radley, was exactly the same way. I drove him mad, he used to say.”
Used to? Ha. As if anyone could ever become accustomed to this jibber-jabber.
“He died in battle,” the other man continued, “so possibly he was right. You probably shouldn’t listen to my advice on this score. I don’t have the best record.”
Their weapons crossed again.
“Except”—unbelievably, he was still talking—“I obviously should not have told you that. I’ve given away an important advantage. Damn it. My father was right again. ‘Think before you speak,’ he always used to say. I hate when my father is right.”
John didn’t want to think of this man as someone with family, with friends. War was hell enough when you were just killing nameless, faceless individuals.
There was nothing to do but get it over with as quickly as possible, before he started thinking of his enemy as a person.
He threw himself forward, caught the other man’s shoulder with his, and managed to send him off balance. A moment, just a moment; enough for John to clip his hand smartly with the butt of his musket. The weapon the man had been holding went flying. John hooked one foot around the man’s ankle; his opponent landed flat on his back. John pushed the tip of his blade into the man’s throat.
The man’s hands immediately shot above his head. “I surrender the redoubt!”
John froze in place. “Have you the authority to do that?”
“No,” the other man answered, “but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think? Excellent tactics on your part. I almost didn’t see you coming. Somebody ought to surrender it eventually. Why not me?”
“Sorry,” John said, and it was quite possibly the first time he’d ever apologized to an enemy on the battlefield. “I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Ah, well,” the other man said. “You know your duty. Be quick about it, if you must. Better me than you, don’t you think?”
Literally no other person had ever said that to John on the battlefield. John frowned down at the man in front of him, and…
And, oh Christ. He suddenly realized that he’d heard of this man. His friend Marcelo had mentioned something about encountering him before. British officer. Tall. Meaty. Blond. He’d chalked the tale up to campfire boasting. When he’d heard there was a madman who couldn’t stop talking, John had imagined something along the lines of a berserker, frothing at the mouth. He hadn’t expected a mere prattle-basket.
“I think it’s better me than you,” John said, frowning down at the man. “You can’t possibly agree.”
A flare from the battle reflected in the other man’s eyes, temporarily illuminating him. John didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t want to see the haunted expression in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember him as a person. He should never have let the clamor of battle give way to the sound of conversation, because he suspected that the tone of this man’s voice—all gravel and regret—would stay with him all the rest of his days.
“Don’t make me go back,” the man said, so at odds with his cheery conversation on politics. “I can’t go back to England. Dying is not my preferred form of non-return, but for the past months it’s the only one I’ve been able to think of.”
John tightened his grip on the musket. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t think. In battle, he could only allow himself to be a husk, an automaton. Fight. Survive. Killing was a necessary part of war. He’d learned not to look too hard at his enemies, not to ask too many questions. He’d learned not to let himself dwell too much on the men who perished at the other end of his musket.
It was always a mistake to listen during battle. Here he was, hesitating, when it was either John or the man who’d asked him about books and the weather. He could make it painless—as painless as death by bayonet ever was.
The man gave him a sad smile. “It’s nice weather for dying, isn’t it?”
He was lying. He had to be lying. This was the sort of thing for a lying officer to do—to converse politely, as if manners meant a damned thing on the battlefield. John pushed his bayonet down a quarter inch.
“Go on,” the man said.
His permission made it even harder. John didn’t want to do it, but it was John or the prattle-basket, John or the prattle-basket, and John had come too far to perish now.
A bugle sounded.
John looked up into chaos. He could hear cheers, could see the lieutenant colonel in charge of this attack—Hamilton, was it not?—clapping one of the soldiers on the back. Ah, the idiot in command had survived storming the parapet after all. While John had been fighting, his fellow soldiers had stormed the redoubt and taken it.
It was done. They’d won.
He eased up on the bayonet. “It’s your lucky day. You’re a prisoner now, instead of a dead man.”
“No.” The man’s hand clasped around the musket barrel, holding the bayonet in place. “No. You have to do it.”
“What?” John stared at him.
“You have to do it,” the man instructed. “Do you understand? If you Americans take the redoubt, Yorktown falls. If Yorktown falls, the war is over. If you don’t kill me now, they’ll make me go back to Britain, and I can’t go back.”
“Can’t?” John swallowed and looked down.
“Can’t.” The man shut his eyes.
They’d called him a madman, and John had imagined a demon on the battlefield, not a man who talked of politics.
Perhaps it was mad to prefer death to a return to a place that could never be called home, but if that was madness, it was a madness John knew. He’d once been enslaved. He knew what it was like to yearn for freedom, to prefer death to a return to a state that robbed him of choice, of freedom, of humanity. The fellow was obviously given to dramatics. John doubted anything so horrid waited for him back in England. Still… He understood.
He didn’t want to have anything in common with a blond British officer…but he did.
He should take the man prisoner. Should call for reinforcements. Who knew what this man would do if John gave him the opportunity?
“I can’t go back,” the man said again.
John should never have listened. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He swore and threw down his weapon.
The man struggled, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Then don’t.” John took off his coat. “Here.” He held the garment out.
It wasn’t much—a bit tattered, and God knew what it smelled like; John couldn’t detect the stench any longer.
The man stared at it.
“It’s not red.” John shook the coat. “It’s a mess out there as it is. Get muddy enough and nobody will know who you are. If you don’t want to go back to Britain, turn into an American. You talk enough; I’m sure you can come up with a believable lie. Get out of here. Don’t go back.”
The man stared at him. “Why would you let me go? I’m the enemy.”
“Enemy?” John rolled his eyes. “Take a good look at me. I have little love for…what did you call them? The colonial brand of imperialist scum. I have no enemies, just people I fight on a battlefield.”
The officer sat up. Looked at John. John knew what he was seeing—not the broad shoulders, not the determination John knew flashed in his own eyes, nor the set of his square jaw. No, this blond prattler who talked of manners and politics would see only the brown of his skin.
John was an idiot to offer anything. But he knew too well what it was like to have no hope of help and to find it anyway.
Here, he thought to the woman at the well who had shaken her head, denying his existence to the man who sought John. John had crouched hidden behind the bushes until the threat had passed. She’d looked at him then. She hadn’t spoken; she’d only nodded and left, as if she hadn’t changed his life with that simple denial. Here. I’m paying you back for that after all.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” John said. “I don’t want to be your friend. I’ll kill you on the battlefield if I have to. But if you’re desperate enough to die, you’re desperate enough to abscond. If you don’t want to go back, get rid of your damned officer’s coat and take mine.”
The man stared up at him. He looked at the coat, at the musket that John had tossed aside.
Slowly, he took John’s coat. “I won’t forget this,” he said. “I’ll pay you back someday.”
John had heard that particular promise before. He’d heard it when he saved his father from being crushed by a falling mast. He’d heard it when he’d rescued another man in the Rhode Island First on the battlefield. Half the time, white men didn’t even bother with empty words to assuage their consciences—at least not to the likes of him. The other half? They never remembered their promises. They didn’t have to.
John shook his head. “Don’t bother.”
“John?” Elijah’s call came from further in. “John, is that you down there? Are you wounded?”
He turned, leaving the British officer alone with his coat. He was already faintly regretting his choice—the late-autumn night was cold enough that he’d want that coat before morning struck.
He would never see the man again.
In the dark of the night, the man had no idea what John even looked like. Even if it were day, he’d never be able to distinguish John from any other black man. White men rarely could.
“I’m Henry,” the officer called after him. “Henry Latham, at your service.”
Henry Latham no doubt thought he was an honorable fellow. He’d tell himself that one day he’d return the favor, just as he assiduously avoided contact with anyone who looked like John. There was little use puncturing his illusions.
John knew that the roll of his eyes was hidden by the night, so he took care to imbue an extra dose of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
“John?” Elijah was coming closer. “John, are you well?”
“I’m alive,” John called in return. “Alive and unharmed.” His body was already protesting the unharmed designation, his shoulder twingeing, his head still hurting.
Ha. He had already forgotten the name. He’d never hear from the man again.
12 Days of UPS by Eli Easton
December 10
"Another package for you today. Someone must love you." Surprised, I met Hunky UPS Guy's eyes. With his black mask in place, his eyes were about all I could see--well, aside from his dark chestnut brown hair which was cut short and was thick enough to make me, with my own wispy hair, envious.
This being December, I was unable to admire the tan forearms, impressive biceps, and muscular calves on Hunky UPS Guy. They'd been nice eye candy during the summer, making the brown UPS truck an even more welcome sight in the neighborhood than usual.
Naturally, in the summer, I'd hardly received any packages at all. Now that the delivery guy was covered up like a maiden aunt from California visiting relatives in Alaska, I was swimming in them.
In packages. Not maiden aunts.
"Uh... yeah. Someone's playing a joke on me, I think," I said, taking the package.
"Playing a joke?" His dark eyebrows raised curiously.
I was certain Hunky UPS Guy didn't really care about what was in my packages. Or my package, unfortunately. But I'd apparently started a conversation, as out of practice at it as I was.
"Yes. The packages I've been getting every day--someone's sending me anonymous gifts."
"Huh. No idea who they're from?"
"I haven't the foggiest." I chuckled awkwardly. "Whoever they are, they're persistent. I'll give them that."
I'd mentally run through the likely senders of my mysterious packages, to no avail. I thought my mom and dad might be feeling sorry for me, being home alone this year for the holidays. But when I'd called to ask, Mom swore it wasn't them. My sister Ally was in grad school and had neither the money nor the temperament for such games. My friends in Seattle? Most of them were still miffed that I'd moved across Puget Sound and left the old neighborhood, and they were busy with their own little dramas. My ex-boyfriend James? It was possible. Perhaps he wanted to get back together. But James had never had a romantic bone in his body. It was hard to imagine him sending anonymous gifts, or that he was eager to win me back given how cold he'd been when he dumped me.
"Maybe you have a secret admirer," Hunky UPS guy suggested. His tone was serious even though the suggestion was ridiculous.
"Well, I wish I had suitors beating down my door but, alas, no."
"I dunno. You're new in the neighborhood, Maybe you've caught someone's eye." Hunky UPS Guy's own chocolate brown eyes twinkled. "You have a good day now."
I was too perplexed to respond as he walked back to his truck. I was not, however, too perplexed to watch him go. His firm ass could still be admired in his brown uniform pants, even in the winter. My, he wore them tight. When he was seated in his truck, he glanced back at me. I stupidly waved, trying to cover up the fact that I'd been checking him out.
Nice going, Paul. You letch.
I took today's package inside, stripped off my mask, and hung it on a hook by the door, conveniently placed for deliveries. I decided to ignore my work for another five minutes to satisfy my curiosity. I cut the box open. Inside was a blu ray of Bird with the Crystal Plumage.
Interesting. I loved old giallo movies. Who would know that about me? It had to be family and friends. I didn't think I'd ever mentioned it in an interview.
Next, I looked over the packaging carefully. As with the previous gifts, the package was from Amazon with UPS delivery selected and the sender listed as "Anonymous." There was no message.
This was the fourth one I'd received, and it seemed just as random as all the rest. But was there a pattern? I fetched the other three gifts--or what was left of them--and placed them on the table.
The first one had been a box of fancy pears.
The second a case of Hershey Dove bars.
The third was a set of three blue and white potholders in a French design with chickens on them.
And today's-- the Bird with the Crystal Plumage blu ray.
Today's blu ray was the first that indicated any personal knowledge of my tastes. Everyone liked pears and chocolates. And the potholders would make a suitable hostess gift for a total stranger.
I felt like I was missing something.
I took a photo and put it on my Facebook page. Someone is anonymously sending me gifts. Kind of driving me bonkers. Anyone have any clue as to who's doing this? Or a way I can find out?
The hive mind did not disappoint. Within minutes, several people pointed out what I'd failed to see.
A partridge in a pear tree.
Two turtle doves.
Three French hens.
Four calling birds.
The gifts were referencing the Twelve Days of Christmas.
I grinned when I saw the connection, delighted. Very clever! The gifts weren't expensive in and of themselves, but someone was going to a fair amount of trouble to think these up and get them delivered. Going to all that trouble--for me. But who?
Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
CHAPTER 1
On the White House roof, tucked into a corner of the Promenade, there's a bit of loose paneling right on the edge of the Solarium. If you tap it just right, you can peel it back enough to find a message etched underneath, with the tip of a key or maybe a stolen West Wing letter opener.
In the secret history of First Families — an insular gossip mill sworn to absolute discretion about most things on pain of death — there's no definite answer for who wrote it. The one thing people seem certain of is that only a presidential son or daughter would have been daring enough to deface the White House. Some swear it was Jack Ford, with his Hendrix records and split-level room attached to the roof for late-night smoke breaks. Others say it was a young Luci Johnson, thick ribbon in her hair. But it doesn't matter. The writing stays, a private mantra for those resourceful enough to find it.
Alex discovered it within his first week of living there. He's never told anyone how.
It says:
RULE #1: DON'T GET CAUGHT
The East and West Bedrooms on theb second floor are generally reserved for the First Family. They were first designated as one giant state bedroom for visits from the Marquis de Lafayette in the Monroe administration, but eventually they were split. Alex has the East, across from the Treaty Room, and June uses the West, next to the elevator.
Growing up in Texas, their rooms were arranged in the same configuration, on either side of the hallway. Back then, you could tell June's ambition of the month by what covered the walls. At twelve, it was watercolor paintings. At fifteen, lunar calendars and charts of crystals. At sixteen, clippings from The Atlantic, a UT Austin pennant, Gloria Steinem, Zora Neale Hurston, and excerpts from the papers of Dolores Huerta.
His own room was forever the same, just steadily more stuffed with lacrosse trophies and piles of AP coursework. It's all gathering dust in the house they still keep back home. On a chain around his neck, always hidden from view, he's worn the key to that house since the day he left for DC.
Now, straight across the hall, June's room is all bright white and soft pink and minty green, photographed by Vogue and famously inspired by old '60s interior design periodicals she found in one of the White House sitting rooms. His own room was once Caroline Kennedy's nursery and, later, warranting some sage burning from June, Nancy Reagan's office. He's left up the nature field illustrations in a neat symmetrical grid above the sofa, but painted over Sasha Obama's pink walls with a deep blue.
Typically, the children of the president, at least for the past few decades, haven't lived in the Residence beyond eighteen, but Alex started at Georgetown the January his mom was sworn in, and logistically, it made sense not to split their security or costs to whatever one-bedroom apartment he'd be living in. June came that fall, fresh out of UT. She's never said it, but Alex knows she moved in to keep an eye on him. She knows better than anyone else how much he gets off on being this close to the action, and she's bodily yanked him out of the West Wing on more than one occasion.
Behind his bedroom door, he can sit and put Hall & Oates on the record player in the corner, and nobody hears him humming along like his dad to "Rich Girl." He can wear the reading glasses he always insists he doesn't need. He can make as many meticulous study guides with color-coded sticky notes as he wants. He's not going to be the youngest elected congressman in modern history without earning it, but nobody needs to know how hard he's kicking underwater. His sex-symbol stock would plummet.
"Hey," says a voice at the door, and he looks up from his laptop to see June edging into his room, two iPhones and a stack of magazines tucked under one arm, and a plate in her hand. She closes the door behind her with her foot.
"What'd you steal today?" Alex asks, pushing the pile of papers on his bed out of her way.
"Assorted donuts," June says as she climbs up. She's wearing a pencil skirt with pointy pink flats, and he can already see next week's fashion columns: a picture of her outfit today, a lead-in for some sponcon about flats for the professional gal on the go.
He wonders what she's been up to all day. She mentioned a column for WaPo, or was it a photoshoot for her blog? Or both? He can never keep up.
She's dumped her stack of magazines out on the bedspread and is already busying herself with them.
"Doing your part to keep the great American gossip industry alive?"
"That's what my journalism degree's for," June says.
"Anything good this week?" Alex asks, reaching for a donut.
"Let's see," June says. "In Touch says I'm ... dating a French model?"
"Are you?"
"I wish." She flips a few pages. "Ooh, and they're saying you got your asshole bleached."
"That one is true," Alex says through a mouthful of chocolate with sprinkles.
"Thought so," June says without looking up. After riffling through most of the magazine, she shuffles it to the bottom of the stack and moves on to People. She flips through absently — People only ever writes what their publicists tell it to write. Boring. "Not much on us this week ... oh, I'm a crossword puzzle clue."
Following their tabloid coverage is something of an idle hobby of hers, one that in turns amuses and annoys their mother, and Alex is narcissistic enough to let June read him the highlights. They're usually either complete fabrications or lines fed from their press team, but sometimes it's just funny. Given the choice, he'd rather read one of the hundreds of glowing pieces of fan fiction about him on the internet, the up-to-eleven version of himself with devastating charm and unbelievable physical stamina, but June flat-out refuses to read those aloud to him, no matter how much he tries to bribe her.
"Do Us Weekly," Alex says.
"Hmm ..." June digs it out of the stack. "Oh, look, we made the cover this week."
She flashes the glossy cover at him, which has a photo of the two of them inlaid in one corner, June's hair pinned on top of her head and Alex looking slightly over-served but still handsome, all jawline and dark curls. Below it in bold yellow letters, the headline reads: FIRST SIBLINGS' WILD NYC NIGHT.
"Oh yeah, that was a wild night," Alex says, reclining back against the tall leather headboard and pushing his glasses up his nose. "Two whole keynote speakers. Nothing sexier than shrimp cocktails and an hour and a half of speeches on carbon emissions."
"It says here you had some kind of tryst with a 'mystery brunette,'" June reads. "'Though the First Daughter was whisked off by limousine to a star-studded party shortly after the gala, twenty-one-year-old heartthrob Alex was snapped sneaking into the W Hotel to meet a mystery brunette in the presidential suite and leaving around four a.m. Sources inside the hotel reported hearing amorous noises from the room all night, and rumors are swirling the brunette was none other than ... Nora Holleran, the twenty-two-year-old granddaughter of Vice President Mike Holleran and third member of the White House Trio. Could it be the two are rekindling their romance?'"
"Yes!" Alex crows, and June groans. "That's less than a month! You owe me fifty dollars, baby."
"Hold on. Was it Nora?"
Alex thinks back to the week before, showing up at Nora's room with a bottle of champagne. Their thing on the campaign trail a million years ago was brief, mostly to get the inevitable over with. They were seventeen and eighteen and doomed from the start, both convinced they were the smartest person in any room. Alex has since conceded Nora is 100 percent smarter than him and definitely too smart to have ever dated him.
It's not his fault the press won't let it go, though; that they love the idea of them together as if they're modern-day Kennedys. So, if he and Nora occasionally get drunk in hotel rooms together watching The West Wing and making loud moaning noises at the wall for the benefit of nosy tabloids, he can't be blamed, really. They're simply turning an undesirable situation into their own personal entertainment.
Scamming his sister is also a perk.
"Maybe," he says, dragging out the vowels.
June swats him with the magazine like he's an especially obnoxious cockroach. "That's cheating, you dick!"
"Bet's a bet," Alex tells her. "We said if there was a new rumor in a month, you'd owe me fifty bucks. I take Venmo."
"I'm not paying," June huffs. "I'm gonna kill her when we see her tomorrow. What are you wearing, by the way?"
"For what?"
"The wedding."
"Whose wedding?"
"Uh, the royal wedding," June says. "Of England. It's literally on every cover I just showed you."
She holds Us Weekly up again, and this time Alex notices the main story in giant letters: PRINCE PHILIP SAYS I DO! Along with a photograph of an extremely nondescript British heir and his equally nondescript blond fiancée smiling blandly.
He drops his donut in a show of devastation. "That's this weekend?"
"Alex, we leave in the morning," June tells him. "We've got two appearances before we even go to the ceremony. I can't believe Zahra hasn't climbed up your ass about this already."
"Shit," he groans. "I know I had that written down. I got sidetracked."
"What, by conspiring with my best friend against me in the tabloids for fifty dollars?"
"No, with my research paper, smart-ass," Alex says, gesturing dramatically at his piles of notes. "I've been working on it for Roman Political Thought all week. And I thought we agreed Nora is our best friend."
"That can't possibly be a real class you're taking," June says. "Is it possible you willfully forgot about the biggest international event of the year because you don't want to see your archnemesis?"
"June, I'm the son of the President of the United States. Prince Henry is a figurehead of the British Empire. You can't just call him my 'archnemesis,'" Alex says. He returns to his donut, chewing thoughtfully, and adds, "'Archnemesis' implies he's actually a rival to me on any level and not, you know, a stuck-up product of inbreeding who probably jerks off to photos of himself."
"Woof."
"I'm just saying."
"Well, you don't have to like him, you just have to put on a happy face and not cause an international incident at his brother's wedding."
"Bug, when do I ever not put on a happy face?" Alex says. He pulls a painfully fake grin, and June looks satisfyingly repulsed.
"Ugh. Anyway, you know what you're wearing, right?"
"Yeah, I picked it out and had Zahra approve it last month. I'm not an animal."
"I'm still not sure about my dress," June says. She leans over and steals his laptop away from him, ignoring his noise of protest. "Do you think the maroon or the one with the lace?"
"Lace, obviously. It's England. And why are you trying to make me fail this class?" he says, reaching for his laptop only to have his hand swatted away. "Go curate your Instagram or something. You're the worst."
"Shut up, I'm trying to pick something to watch. Ew, you have Garden State on your watch list? Wow, how's film school in 2005 going?"
"I hate you."
"Hmm, I know."
Outside his window, the wind stirs up over the lawn, rustling the linden trees down in the garden. The record on the turntable in the corner has spun out into fuzzy silence. He rolls off the bed and flips it, resetting the needle, and the second side picks up on "London Luck, & Love."
* * *
If he's honest, private aviation doesn't really get old, not even three years into his mother's term.
He doesn't get to travel this way a lot, but when he does, it's hard not to let it go to his head. He was born in the hill country of Texas to the daughter of a single mother and the son of Mexican immigrants, all of them dirt poor — luxury travel is still a luxury.
Fifteen years ago, when his mother first ran for the House, the Austin newspaper gave her a nickname: the Lometa Longshot. She'd escaped her tiny hometown in the shadow of Fort Hood, pulled night shifts at diners to put herself through law school, and was arguing discrimination cases before the Supreme Court by thirty. She was the last thing anybody expected to rise up out of Texas in the midst of the Iraq War: a strawberry-blond, whip-smart Democrat with high heels, an unapologetic drawl, and a little biracial family.
So, it's still surreal that Alex is cruising somewhere over the Atlantic, snacking on pistachios in a high-backed leather chair with his feet up. Nora is bent over the New York Times crossword opposite him, brown curls falling across her forehead. Beside her, the hulking Secret Service agent Cassius — Cash for short — holds his own copy in one giant hand, racing to finish it first. The cursor on Alex's Roman Political Thought paper blinks expectantly at him from his laptop, but something in him can't quite focus on school while they're flying transatlantic.
Amy, his mother's favorite Secret Service agent, a former Navy SEAL who is rumored around DC to have killed several men, sits across the aisle. She's got a bulletproof titanium case of crafting supplies open on the couch next to her and is serenely embroidering flowers onto a napkin. Alex has seen her stab someone in the kneecap with a very similar embroidery needle.
Which leaves June, next to him, leaning on one elbow with her nose buried in the issue of People she's inexplicably brought with them. She always chooses the most bizarre reading material for flights. Last time, it was a battered old Cantonese phrase book. Before that, Death Comes for the Archbishop.
"What are you reading in there now?" Alex asks her.
She flips the magazine around so he can see the double-page spread titled: ROYAL WEDDING MADNESS! Alex groans. This is definitely worse than Willa Cather.
"What?" she says. "I want to be prepared for my first-ever royal wedding."
"You went to prom, didn't you?" Alex says. "Just picture that, only in hell, and you have to be really nice about it."
"Can you believe they spent $75,000 just on the cake?"
"That's depressing."
"And apparently Prince Henry is going sans date to the wedding and everyone is freaking out about it. It says he was," she affects a comical English accent, "'rumored to be dating a Belgian heiress last month, but now followers of the prince's dating life aren't sure what to think.'"
Alex snorts. It's insane to him that there are legions of people who follow the intensely dull dating lives of the royal siblings. He understands why people care where he puts his own tongue — at least he has personality.
"Maybe the female population of Europe finally realized he's as compelling as a wet ball of yarn," Alex suggests.
Nora puts down her crossword puzzle, having finished it first. Cassius glances over and swears. "You gonna ask him to dance, then?"
Alex rolls his eyes, suddenly imagining twirling around a ballroom while Henry drones sweet nothings about croquet and fox hunting in his ear. The thought makes him want to gag.
"In his dreams."
"Aw," Nora says, "you're blushing."
"Listen," Alex tells her, "royal weddings are trash, the princes who have royal weddings are trash, the imperialism that allows princes to exist at all is trash. It's trash turtles all the way down."
"Is this your TED Talk?" June asks. "You do realize America is a genocidal empire too, right?"
"Yes, June, but at least we have the decency not to keep a monarchy around," Alex says, throwing a pistachio at her.
There are a few things about Alex and June that new White House hires are briefed on before they start. June's peanut allergy. Alex's frequent middle-of-the-night requests for coffee. June's college boyfriend, who broke up with her when he moved to California but is still the only person whose letters come to her directly. Alex's long-standing grudge against the youngest prince.
It's not a grudge, really. It's not even a rivalry. It's a prickling, unsettling annoyance. It makes his palms sweat.
The tabloids — the world — decided to cast Alex as the American equivalent of Prince Henry from day one, since the White House Trio is the closest thing America has to royalty. It has never seemed fair. Alex's image is all charisma and genius and smirking wit, thoughtful interviews and the cover of GQ at eighteen; Henry's is placid smiles and gentle chivalry and generic charity appearances, a perfectly blank Prince Charming canvas. Henry's role, Alex thinks, is much easier to play.
Maybe it is technically a rivalry. Whatever.
"All right, MIT," he says, "what are the numbers on this one?"
Nora grins. “Hmm.” She pretends to think hard about it. “Risk assessment: FSOTUS failing to check himself before he wrecks himself will result in greater than five hundred civiliancasualties. Ninety-eight percent probability of Prince Henry looking like a total dreamboat. Seventy-eight percent probability of Alex getting himself banned from the United Kingdom forever.”
“Those are better odds than I expected,” June observes.
Alex laughs, and the plane soars on.
London is an absolute spectacle, crowds cramming the streets outside Buckingham Palace and all through the city, draped in Union Jacks and waving tiny flags over their heads. There are commemorative royal wedding souvenirs everywhere; Prince Philip and his bride’s face plastered on everything from chocolate bars to underwear. Alex almost can’t believe this many people care so passionately about something so comprehensively dull. He’s sure there won’t be this kind of turnout in front of the White House when he or June get married one day, nor would he even want it.
The ceremony itself seems to last forever, but it’s at least sort of nice, in a way. It’s not that Alex isn’t into love or can’t appreciate marriage. It’s just that Martha is a perfectly respectable daughter of nobility, and Philip is a prince. It’s as sexy as a business transaction. There’s no passion, no drama. Alex’s kind of love story is much more Shakespearean.
It feels like years before he’s settled at a table between June and Nora inside a Buckingham Palace ballroom for the reception banquet, and he’s irritated enough to be a little reckless. Nora passes him a flute of champagne, and he takes it gladly.
“Do either of y’all know what a viscount is?” June is saying, halfway through a cucumber sandwich. “I’ve met, like, five of them, and I keep smiling politely as if I know what it meanswhen they say it. Alex, you took comparative international governmental relational things. Whatever. What are they?”
“I think it’s that thing when a vampire creates an army of crazed sex waifs and starts his own ruling body,” he says.
“That sounds right,” Nora says. She’s folding her napkin into a complicated shape on the table, her shiny black manicure glinting in the chandelier light.
“I wish I were a viscount,” June says. “I could have my sex waifs deal with my emails.”
“Are sex waifs good with professional correspondence?” Alex asks.
Nora’s napkin has begun to resemble a bird. “I think it could be an interesting approach. Their emails would be all tragic and wanton.” She tries on a breathless, husky voice. “‘Oh, please, I beg you, take me—take me to lunch to discuss fabric samples, you beast!’”
“Could be weirdly effective,” Alex notes.
“Something is wrong with both of you,” June says gently.
Alex is opening his mouth to retort when a royal attendant materializes at their table like a dense and dour-looking ghost in a bad hairpiece.
“Miss Claremont-Diaz,” says the man, who looks like his name is probably Reginald or Bartholomew or something. He bows, and miraculously his hairpiece doesn’t fall off into June’s plate. Alex shares an incredulous glance with her behind his back. “His Royal Highness Prince Henry wonders if you would do him the honor of accompanying him for a dance.”
June’s mouth freezes halfway open, caught on a soft vowel sound, and Nora breaks out into a shit-eating grin.
“Oh, she’dloveto,” Nora volunteers. “She’s been hoping he’d ask all evening.”
“I—” June starts and stops, her mouth smiling even as her eyes slice at Nora. “Of course. That would be lovely.”
“Excellent,” Reginald-Bartholomew says, and he turns and gestures over his shoulder.
And there Henry is, in the flesh, as classically handsome as ever in his tailored three-piece suit, all tousled sandy hair and high cheekbones and a soft, friendly mouth. He holds himself with innately impeccable posture, as if he emerged fully formed and upright out of some beautiful Buckingham Palace posy garden one day.
His eyes lock on Alex’s, and something like annoyance or adrenaline spikes in Alex’s chest. He hasn’t had a conversation with Henry in probably a year. His face is still infuriatingly symmetrical.
Henry deigns to give him a perfunctory nod, as if he’s any other random guest, not the person he beat to aVogueeditorial debut in their teens. Alex blinks, seethes, and watches Henry angle his stupid chiseled jaw toward June.
“Hello, June,” Henry says, and he extends a gentlemanly hand to June, who is now blushing. Nora pretends to swoon. “Do you know how to waltz?”
“I’m… sure I could pick it up,” she says, and she takes his hand cautiously, like she thinks he might be pranking her, which Alex thinks is way too generous to Henry’s sense of humor. Henry leads her off to the crowd of twirling nobles.
“So is that what’s happening now?” Alex says, glaring down at Nora’s napkin bird. “Has he decided to finally shut me up by wooing my sister?”
“Aw, little buddy,” Nora says. She reaches over and pats his hand. “It’s cute how you think everything is about you.”
“It should be, honestly.”
“That’s the spirit.”
He glances up into the crowd, where June is being rotated around the floor by Henry. She’s got a neutral, polite smile on her face, and he keeps looking over her shoulder, which is even more annoying. June is amazing. The least Henry could do is pay attention to her.
“Do you think he actually likes her, though?”
Nora shrugs. “Who knows? Royals are weird. Might be a courtesy, or—oh, there it is.”
A royal photographer has swooped in and is snapping a shot of them dancing, one Alex knows will be leaked toHellonext week. So, that’s it, then? Using the First Daughter to start some idiotic dating rumor for attention? God forbid Philip gets to dominate the news cycle for one week.
“He’s kind of good at this,” Nora remarks.
Alex flags down a waiter and decides to spend the rest of the reception getting systematically drunk.
Alex has never told—will never tell—anyone, but he saw Henry for the first time when he was twelve years old. He only ever reflects upon it when he’s drunk.
He’s sure he saw his face in the news before then, but that was the first time he really saw him. June had just turned fifteen and used part of her birthday money to buy an issue of a blindingly colorful teen magazine. Her love of trashy tabloids started early. In the center of the magazine were miniature posters you could rip out and stick up in your locker. If you were careful and pried up the staples with your fingernails, you could get them out without tearing them. One of them, right in the middle, was a picture of a boy.
He had thick, tawny hair and big blue eyes, a warm smile, and a cricket bat over one shoulder. It must have been a candid, because there was a happy, sun-bright confidence to him that couldn’t be posed. On the bottom corner of the page in pink and blue letters: prince henry.
Alex still doesn’t really know what kept drawing him back, only that he would sneak into June’s room and find the page and touch his fingertips to the boy’s hair, as if he could somehow feel its texture if he imagined it hard enough. The more his parents climbed the political ranks, the more he started to reckon with the fact that soon the world would know who he was. Then, sometimes, he’d think of the picture, and try to harness Prince Henry’s easy confidence.
(He also thought about prying up the staples with his fingers and taking the picture out and keeping it in his room, but he never did. His fingernails were too stubby; they weren’t made for it like June’s, like a girl’s.)
But then came first time he met Henry—the first cool, detached words Henry said to him—and Alex guessed he had it all wrong, that the pretty, flung-open boy from the picture wasn’t real. The real Henry is beautiful, distant, boring, and closed. This person the tabloids keep comparing him to, that he compares himself to, thinks he’s better than Alex and everyone like him. Alex can’t believe he ever wanted to be anything like him.
Alex keeps drinking, keeps alternating between thinking about it and forcing himself not to think about it, disappears into the crowd and dances with pretty European heiresses about it.
He’s pirouetting away from one when he catches sight of a lone figure, hovering near the cake and the champagne fountain. It’s Prince Henry yet again, glass in hand, watching Prince Philip and his bride spinning on the ballroom floor. He looks politely half-interested in that obnoxious way of his, like he has somewhere else to be. And Alex can’t resist the urge to call his bluff.
He picks his way through the crowd, grabbing a glass of wine off a passing tray and downing half of it.
“When you have one of these,” Alex says, sidling up to him, “you should do two champagne fountains instead of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain.”
“Alex,” Henry says in that maddeningly posh accent. Up close, the waistcoat under his suit jacket is a lush gold and has about a million buttons on it. It’s horrible. “I wondered if I’d have the pleasure.”
“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Alex says, smiling.
“Truly a momentous occasion,” Henry agrees. His own smile is bright white and immaculate, made to be printed on money.
The most annoying thing of all is Alex knows Henry hates him too—he must, they’re naturally mutual antagonists—but he refuses to outright act like it. Alex is intimately aware politics involves a lot of making nice with people you loathe, but he wishes that once, just once, Henry would act like an actual human and not some polished little wind-up toy sold in a palace gift shop.
He’s too perfect. Alex wants to poke it.
“Do you ever get tired,” Alex says, “of pretending you’re above all this?”
Henry turns and stares at him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, you’re out here, getting the photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate the attention, which you clearly don’t since you’re dancing with my sister, of all people,” Alex says. “You act like you’re too important to be anywhere, ever. Doesn’t that get exhausting?”
“I’m . . . a bit more complicated than that,” Henry attempts.
“Ha.”
“Oh,” Henry says, narrowing his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m just saying,” Alex says, resting an overly friendly elbow on Henry’s shoulder, which isn’t as easy as he’d like it to be since Henry has about four infuriating inches of height on him. “You could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.”
Henry laughs ruefully. “I believe perhaps you should consider switching to water, Alex.”
“Should I?” Alex says. He pushes aside the thought that maybe the wine is what gave him the nerve to stomp over to Henry in the first place and makes his eyes as coy and angelic as he knows how. “Am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”
“Do you know what?” Henry says. “I think you are.”
Alex’s mouth drops open, while the corner of Henry’s turns smug and almost a little mean.
“Only a thought,” Henry says, tone polite. “Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been exhaustively civil every time we’ve spoken? Yet here you are, seeking me out again.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “Simply an observation.”
“What? I’m not—” Alex stammers. “You’re the—”
“Have a lovely evening, Alex,” Henry says tersely, and turns to walk off.
It drives Alex nuts, that Henry thinks he gets to have the last word, and without thinking, he reaches out and pulls Henry’s shoulder back.
And then Henry turns, suddenly, and almost does push Alex off him this time, and for a brief spark of a moment, Alex is impressed at the glint in his eyes, the abrupt burst of an actual personality.
The next thing he knows, he’s tripping over his own foot and stumbling backwards into the table nearest him. He notices too late that the table is, to his horror, the one bearing the massive eight-tier wedding cake, and he grabs for Henry’s arm to catch himself, but all this does is throw both of them off-balance and send them crashing together into the cake stand.
He watches, as if in slow motion, as the cake leans, teeters, shudders, and finally tips. There’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop it. It comes crashing down onto the floor in an avalanche of white buttercream, some kind of sugary $75,000 nightmare.
The room goes heart-stoppingly silent as momentum carries him and Henry through the fall and down, down onto the wreckage of the cake on the ornate carpet, Henry’s sleeve still clutched in Alex’s fist. Henry’s glass of champagne has spilled all over both of them and shattered, and out of the corner of his eye, Alex can see a cut across the top of Henry’s cheekbone beginning to bleed.
For a second, all he can think as he stares up at the ceiling while covered in frosting and champagne is that at least Henry’s dance with June won’t be the biggest story to come out of the royal wedding.
His next thought is that his mother is going to murder him in cold blood.
Beside him, he hears Henry mutter slowly, “Oh my fucking Christ.”
He registers dimly that it’s the first time he’s ever heard the prince swear, before the flash from someone’s camera goes off.
Gummy Bears & Grenades by Charlie Cochet
Chapter One
SLOANE WAS overreacting. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. The situation wasn’t as dire as he was making it out to be. Plus, he had a whole support team in place, the majority of whom were highly trained agents. One was a TIN operative, for crying out loud. They all had his back. They knew what was at stake. How much trouble could one man get into?
“I think I should wear my work boots. They’re flame resistant.”
Oh dear God.
Sloane had to sit down. He sank into the armchair beside the closet while Dex tried to decide between his black designer boots and his THIRDS-issued military-grade combat boots.
“Babe?” Dex turned and chuckled. “Would you stop freaking out? It’s going to be fine.”
“Then why do you need the work boots?” How could Sloane not freak out when Dex was going to be out there without him? It wasn’t so much that he worried about Dex. Despite his mate being marked, Dex could handle himself. Sloane was confident in Dex’s skills. In fact, Sloane was proud of him. Proud of how far he’d come since his rookie days at the THIRDS. Dex had escaped Wolf, for heaven’s sake. No, he wasn’t worried about Dex. He was worried about everyone else. Their city was in danger of being thrust into chaos the likes of which it had never seen. Sloane wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready for his half-Therian mate to be out there without him.
Dex straddled Sloane’s lap, which made Sloane feel marginally better. A sweet kiss to his cheek, then the other, certainly helped. He closed his eyes as Dex brushed his lips against his temple, a feathery touch before Dex slipped his fingers into Sloane’s hair. The tension in Sloane’s shoulders eased, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, his mate’s scent like a soothing balm.
“It’s just a bachelor party,” Dex assured him.
“Your bachelor party,” Sloane murmured, enjoying Dex’s fingers in his hair. He’d have to cut it soon before Tony ended up doing it for him. He shuddered at the thought.
“You just thought about my dad cutting your hair again, didn’t you?”
Sloane opened his eyes to meet Dex’s sparkling blue gaze. He frowned. “He didn’t cut it. He butchered it. It was a traumatizing experience.” The snip of scissors still made him flinch.
“I know it was. It’s okay. No one’s going to lay a finger on your precious locks while I’m around.” Dex brushed his lips over Sloane’s. “Just think, in less than six months, you’re going to be Mr. Sloane Daley.”
Sloane couldn’t help his dopey grin or the way his heart soared at the thought. A part of him still couldn’t believe it was happening. He was getting married. Him. After Gabe’s death he’d resigned himself to a life without love, believing he was too broken to ever find someone who would want to keep him. Dex had challenged him in every way and proven to him how wrong Sloane was about himself, life, everything. Sloane couldn’t imagine his life without Dex. Smiling wide, Sloane slid his hands up Dex’s thighs to his waist, then wrapped his arms around his beautiful man. How had he gotten so lucky?
Glowing amber surged from Dex’s pupils, spreading through the brilliant blue. It stole Sloane’s breath every time. He put his hand to Dex’s cheek, mesmerized by the change. Everything about Dex enthralled him.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Dex’s sultry smile went right to Sloane’s groin. “Aw, you’re so smitten with me. I kinda like you too.”
“Yeah?” Sloane laughed softly. He took Dex’s hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss.
“Just a little,” Dex teased, wrapping his arms around Sloane’s neck.
Sloane hummed. “That so?” He slipped his hands down to Dex’s ass and gave his cheeks a squeeze before bringing Dex against him and his growing erection, making Dex moan. “Guess I’m going to have to try harder to change that.”
“Speaking of hard….” Dex ground his hips against Sloane’s, his breath hitching. “You trying to seduce me, Agent Brodie?”
“Trying?” Sloane stood with Dex in his arms, loving the quiet gasp Dex let out. He carried Dex over to the bed, then dropped him onto the mattress before swooping down to capture that pouting smile. God, he loved Dex’s mouth. Loved kissing his lips until they were pink and swollen. Sloane fumbled with Dex’s belt buckle as he growled against Dex’s mouth, “Maybe you need a little something to remember me tonight.”
Dex arched his back, his reply a gasp. “Yes.”
Sloane jerked Dex’s dress pants and underwear down before he got off the bed and grabbed the back of Dex’s knees. He tugged Dex over to the edge of the bed, yanked his pants off, and tossed them to one side of the bed. Needing to see as much of Dex’s naked body as possible, Sloane shoved Dex’s button-down shirt up his torso. He licked his lips at the muscles of Dex’s chest and the six-pack he now sported thanks to months of intense TIN training. Dex’s whole body was stronger, more defined, his biceps thicker, but that delicious tapered waist, the leanness Sloane loved, was still there.
“Sloane,” Dex moaned, his head back and his eyes closed as he palmed his hard cock. The sounds coming from Dex were decadent and sinful, moans and gasps he made because of Sloane only. Sloane grabbed the lube from the nightstand and quickly poured some onto his palm. He slicked himself before lining up. With a feral growl, he pushed inside Dex.
Dex’s mouth fell open in a silent cry, and Sloane sank deeper and deeper until he was settled against Dex’s ass. He wrapped an arm around Dex’s leg, his eyes never leaving Dex’s face as he pulled out and plunged back in. He leaned in, using his weight to pound into Dex, intent on making sure Dex felt him for hours.
“Feeling seduced yet?” Sloane asked, changing his angle and hitting Dex’s sweet spot.
“Oh God, yes!” Dex arched his back again, and Sloane moaned at the sight of Dex’s muscles tensing and the sound of his ragged breath as he came over his hand and abdomen. Running his fingers through the sticky mess, Sloane thrust his hips over and over, his release barreling through him. He growled out Dex’s name as his body tensed. He came inside Dex, and the heat and tightness around him, along with the force of his orgasm, had him doubling over between Dex’s legs. Needing to catch his breath, Sloane let his brow rest against Dex’s, smiling when Dex tipped his head back to brush his lips over Sloane’s.
“I love you,” Dex said softly, his fingers caressing Sloane’s jaw.
Sloane swallowed hard and turned his head, reluctant to give voice to his growing fear.
“Sloane? Talk to me, babe.”
“What if you get tired of it?”
Dex gently turned Sloane’s face so he could meet Sloane’s eyes. “Tired of what?”
“Of my feral half being so… possessive of you. Some guys hate it. I’m trying. I really am.”
“Sloane, I’m not ‘some guy.’ I’m your mate, and in a few months, I’ll be your husband. No one knows you and your feral half like I do. I know when you say I’m yours, or that I belong to you, you don’t really think I’m your property. You’re a good man, and I love how you love me. If I didn’t love you and all you are, just the way you are, I wouldn’t be here. We’re about to start a whole new adventure together, in more ways than one. I’m ready. I’m more than ready.” Dex’s beautiful smile, his eyes filled with so much adoration and certainty, chased the looming shadows from Sloane’s heart, like he always did. Even on his darkest days, Dex was a source of warm, radiant sunlight.
Dex’s smile grew wicked. “What do you say? Ready to unleash a whole new level of kickass on the world?”
“I’m a little terrified right now,” Sloane teased.
Dex waggled his eyebrows. “Come on, you know you want to.”
Sloane snickered. He nodded, sealing the deal with a kiss. “Wherever you go, I go,” Sloane promised.
“Sloane? Dex?” Seb called from downstairs, and Sloane sighed. Ash must have used his key to let himself and Seb in.
“I got no pants on,” Dex replied, and Sloane snorted out a laugh.
“We’ll wait down here.”
Sloane chuckled. He told Dex to stay put before grabbing the wet wipes from the nightstand, then handing them over so he could sort out Dex’s pants. With a smile, he handed Dex his bright orange boxer briefs, followed by his pants. Dex quickly dressed, tucking his shirt in and smoothing it.
Dex held out his arms. “How do I look?”
“Like you just got thoroughly fucked.”
Dex opened his mouth to reply, but no words were immediately forthcoming. “I’ll take it.” Chuckling, he walked over to the closet and picked up his dress boots. “I promise not to do anything that’ll make you regret asking me to marry you.”
“Nothing would ever make me regret asking you.”
Dex smiled sheepishly. “Can I get that in writing? Signed by a notary?” Sloane’s eyes went wide, and Dex patted his arm. “I’m kidding.”
Sloane followed him out of the bedroom and downstairs into the living room, where Seb and Ash were talking. They both stood and turned. Ash’s sniff was followed by a snort of disgust.
“Really, bro? One night. He’s out of your hair for one night and you couldn’t keep it in your pants?”
Dex winked at Ash on his way to the kitchen, where he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Seb coughed and averted his gaze, his cheeks slightly flushed. Dex’s scent was kind of heady, but it would fade some as the night went on. It had been happening a lot more since the change to his DNA. He didn’t quite smell like a Therian, but he didn’t completely smell Human either.
Sloane shrugged. “Why should I?” Like he needed an excuse to have sex with his beautiful, sexy partner.
“You wanna maybe piss on him and mark your territory some more?”
“I wasn’t—” Sloane shut his mouth when he realized what Ash had said. In the kitchen, Dex almost choked on his water. He coughed and wheezed. Shit. Sloane took an interest in his boots, ignoring the silence in the room. At least until Ash burst into laughter.
“Holy shit, you didn’t? You did! You squirted Daley?”
“Charming.” Sloane wrinkled his nose. “It was a long time ago. I was in my Therian form, and we ran into some guy Dex had slept with in college or something. My feral half got a little… carried away, and it just sort of happened.” It had not been one of his better moments. God, he’d been mortified after he’d shifted back to Human form, and that was after several hours of Dex coaxing him to shift back.
Seb and Ash exchanged glances before falling into peals of laughter.
Sloane crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever. Like you two aren’t as bad.”
Ash waved a hand as he got control of his laughter. “I have never had the urge to piss on Cael.”
“Because Cael’s a Therian and so is Hudson.” Sloane narrowed his eyes at his friends. A thought occurred to him, and he smiled evilly. “Maybe you haven’t had the urge to mark your boyfriends that way, but just try and deny that your feral halves haven’t had the urge to jump them while you were both in your Therian forms.”
The laughter died instantly.
Sloane grinned smugly. “That’s what I thought.”
Dex gaped at Ash. “Ew, dude, seriously? You want to jump my brother’s bones while he’s in his cheetah Therian form?”
“I don’t. My feral half wants to, and only while I’m in my Therian form. Jesus, Daley, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Ash shook his head as if he were trying to get away from the very idea.
Dex shuddered, then gagged. “Oh God, why? Why did you have to tell me that?”
Ash held up a hand. “Hey, in our felid forms, it’s perfectly natural. You know our animal instincts are at their strongest when we’re in Therian form.”
“There’s nothing natural about your lion ass humping a fluffy Chirpy.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
“This conversation has turned incredibly disturbing,” Seb said, shaking his head. “Why do things always get weird with you guys?”
Ash pointed to Dex. “That’s why.”
Seb’s expression was pained. “Can we not talk about humping in our feral forms? I would really appreciate that.”
The front door opened, and Hudson greeted them cheerfully. His smile quickly faded. “Why does everyone look so… distressed?”
“Because Ash wants to do my brother when he’s in his feral form,” Dex offered.
Hudson’s eyes went huge, and he gaped at Ash. He blinked and was suddenly in doctor mode, his expression turning sympathetic. “That’s not uncommon. Many Therians suffer from such conflicting emotions with regard to their feral halves and their partners. Perhaps if you discuss the matter with Cael, and even arrange for some roleplaying, you might—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ash grabbed Hudson’s shoulders. “Now you listen here, Doc. I am not going to fuck my boyfriend while he’s in his Therian form. I was talking about my Therian half and his Therian half.”
Understanding crossed Hudson’s features, and he let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, well that is perfectly normal. Every Therian goes through that, especially when a relationship is new.”
Dex studied Hudson. “Really? Did Seb ever try to mount you?”
Seb groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Why are we still talking about this?”
Cael walked in and looked around. “What’s going on? What are you guys—”
They all shouted simultaneously, “Nothing!”
Cael started. “Geez, okay. Sorry I asked.” He turned his attention to Dex. “Everyone’s on their way. ETA five minutes.”
Dex nodded, and in all honesty, Sloane was a little relieved they were leaving. Who was he kidding? He was a lot relieved.
“I’ll see you guys outside. I just want a quick word with Seb and Ash.”
Dex nodded and ushered Cael and Hudson out, then closed the door behind them. Sloane turned to the only two who could possibly keep this evening progressing without incident. As soon as Cael had sent out the invites to Dex’s bachelor party, Sloane had contacted Seb and Ash and asked them to prepare.
“All right. What contingency plans have you two put in place should any Threat Level Fuchsia scenarios arise?”
Seb and Ash glanced at each other before turning their gazes back to Sloane. Their expressions didn’t bode well. Seb spoke up first.
“When you said prepare for tonight, I thought you meant make sure your boyfriend doesn’t get so drunk he strips down to his underwear and starts dancing on the bar, or try to keep him out of jail. I didn’t realize you meant put together an emergency tactical strategy.”
Sloane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay.” He looked up at Ash. “What about you?”
“Relax, bro. We got this.”
Sloane narrowed his eyes and leaned into Ash, sniffing him. “Have you already started drinking?”
Seb snickered, his laugh turning into a cough when Ash arched an eyebrow at him.
“No, smartass. I can handle your dorky fiancé.”
Seb didn’t even attempt not laughing this time. “You are so delusional, Keeler. We’re toast.”
“Speak for yourself. Cael might not be able to hold his booze, but your Brit is worse.”
Seb frowned at Ash. “Which is why you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re going to be able to keep an eye on Dex the whole night. The second some guy tries to put the moves on Cael, you’re going to lose your shit.”
“First, Cael can take care of himself. Second, excuse me while I laugh my ass off at you telling me I’m going to lose my shit over some dude hitting on my boyfriend. Since you got back from your honeymoon, you’ve been even more of a sap over Hudson than ever. It hurts my teeth just looking at you.”
Sloane sighed. “You two done arguing over who’s more ridiculous?”
“You’re right,” Ash said, smiling sweetly. “Because the answer to that would be you.”
How long had they known Dex? Had they not been present for the last three and a half years? The number of incident reports he’d filled out in the last year alone was staggering. Everything ranging from squirrel invasion to not-so-spontaneously combusting baked goods. How his boyfriend managed to get a scone to bring down a building was beyond him. Sloane didn’t care how stale the thing was, it shouldn’t have demolished an entire building. Thankfully the place had been condemned, and they’d received a minor scolding rather than getting their asses handed to them by Sparks.
“You think I’m overreacting?”
“Just a tad,” Seb admitted.
Oh, Sloane was so going to enjoy throwing their words back at them. “Okay. Go on. Have fun. I’ll notify my bank to have some bail money ready. If something blows up or comes crashing down, it’s on you two.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “And I thought Dex was the drama queen.”
“Get out,” Sloane grumbled, shoving them toward the door.
As soon as they were outside, Dex came over and kissed Sloane’s cheek. “Oh, I almost forgot. Dad’s expecting you for dinner.”
“Wait. What?” When did that happen?
“Dinner. Tony’s house. Have fun. If he asks you to play air hockey, just say no. He’s a wee bit competitive. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Sloane murmured absently. Dex headed back to Hudson and Cael as if he hadn’t just told Sloane he’d be hanging out with Tony the rest of the evening. On his own.
Sloane had known Tony for years, and yes, the man had been like a father to him, but this was completely different. Tony wasn’t just his sergeant and a father figure; he was Dex’s dad, his fiancé’s dad. Sloane quickly shook himself out of it. He was being a drama queen. Like he couldn’t handle Anthony Maddock. Whatever some believed, Tony wasn’t so scary. He was a regular guy who worked his ass off and loved his boys. Sure, he could be intimidating, but that was on the job, or if Sloane did something to warrant being on the other end of his wrath, like when Dex was kidnapped and tortured. This was good. They could talk. No problem. But first….
Sloane shot Tony off a quick text. Before he headed over to dinner, he had somewhere to be. And he wouldn’t miss it for the world.
SLOANE WAS overreacting. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. The situation wasn’t as dire as he was making it out to be. Plus, he had a whole support team in place, the majority of whom were highly trained agents. One was a TIN operative, for crying out loud. They all had his back. They knew what was at stake. How much trouble could one man get into?
“I think I should wear my work boots. They’re flame resistant.”
Oh dear God.
Sloane had to sit down. He sank into the armchair beside the closet while Dex tried to decide between his black designer boots and his THIRDS-issued military-grade combat boots.
“Babe?” Dex turned and chuckled. “Would you stop freaking out? It’s going to be fine.”
“Then why do you need the work boots?” How could Sloane not freak out when Dex was going to be out there without him? It wasn’t so much that he worried about Dex. Despite his mate being marked, Dex could handle himself. Sloane was confident in Dex’s skills. In fact, Sloane was proud of him. Proud of how far he’d come since his rookie days at the THIRDS. Dex had escaped Wolf, for heaven’s sake. No, he wasn’t worried about Dex. He was worried about everyone else. Their city was in danger of being thrust into chaos the likes of which it had never seen. Sloane wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready for his half-Therian mate to be out there without him.
Dex straddled Sloane’s lap, which made Sloane feel marginally better. A sweet kiss to his cheek, then the other, certainly helped. He closed his eyes as Dex brushed his lips against his temple, a feathery touch before Dex slipped his fingers into Sloane’s hair. The tension in Sloane’s shoulders eased, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, his mate’s scent like a soothing balm.
“It’s just a bachelor party,” Dex assured him.
“Your bachelor party,” Sloane murmured, enjoying Dex’s fingers in his hair. He’d have to cut it soon before Tony ended up doing it for him. He shuddered at the thought.
“You just thought about my dad cutting your hair again, didn’t you?”
Sloane opened his eyes to meet Dex’s sparkling blue gaze. He frowned. “He didn’t cut it. He butchered it. It was a traumatizing experience.” The snip of scissors still made him flinch.
“I know it was. It’s okay. No one’s going to lay a finger on your precious locks while I’m around.” Dex brushed his lips over Sloane’s. “Just think, in less than six months, you’re going to be Mr. Sloane Daley.”
Sloane couldn’t help his dopey grin or the way his heart soared at the thought. A part of him still couldn’t believe it was happening. He was getting married. Him. After Gabe’s death he’d resigned himself to a life without love, believing he was too broken to ever find someone who would want to keep him. Dex had challenged him in every way and proven to him how wrong Sloane was about himself, life, everything. Sloane couldn’t imagine his life without Dex. Smiling wide, Sloane slid his hands up Dex’s thighs to his waist, then wrapped his arms around his beautiful man. How had he gotten so lucky?
Glowing amber surged from Dex’s pupils, spreading through the brilliant blue. It stole Sloane’s breath every time. He put his hand to Dex’s cheek, mesmerized by the change. Everything about Dex enthralled him.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Dex’s sultry smile went right to Sloane’s groin. “Aw, you’re so smitten with me. I kinda like you too.”
“Yeah?” Sloane laughed softly. He took Dex’s hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss.
“Just a little,” Dex teased, wrapping his arms around Sloane’s neck.
Sloane hummed. “That so?” He slipped his hands down to Dex’s ass and gave his cheeks a squeeze before bringing Dex against him and his growing erection, making Dex moan. “Guess I’m going to have to try harder to change that.”
“Speaking of hard….” Dex ground his hips against Sloane’s, his breath hitching. “You trying to seduce me, Agent Brodie?”
“Trying?” Sloane stood with Dex in his arms, loving the quiet gasp Dex let out. He carried Dex over to the bed, then dropped him onto the mattress before swooping down to capture that pouting smile. God, he loved Dex’s mouth. Loved kissing his lips until they were pink and swollen. Sloane fumbled with Dex’s belt buckle as he growled against Dex’s mouth, “Maybe you need a little something to remember me tonight.”
Dex arched his back, his reply a gasp. “Yes.”
Sloane jerked Dex’s dress pants and underwear down before he got off the bed and grabbed the back of Dex’s knees. He tugged Dex over to the edge of the bed, yanked his pants off, and tossed them to one side of the bed. Needing to see as much of Dex’s naked body as possible, Sloane shoved Dex’s button-down shirt up his torso. He licked his lips at the muscles of Dex’s chest and the six-pack he now sported thanks to months of intense TIN training. Dex’s whole body was stronger, more defined, his biceps thicker, but that delicious tapered waist, the leanness Sloane loved, was still there.
“Sloane,” Dex moaned, his head back and his eyes closed as he palmed his hard cock. The sounds coming from Dex were decadent and sinful, moans and gasps he made because of Sloane only. Sloane grabbed the lube from the nightstand and quickly poured some onto his palm. He slicked himself before lining up. With a feral growl, he pushed inside Dex.
Dex’s mouth fell open in a silent cry, and Sloane sank deeper and deeper until he was settled against Dex’s ass. He wrapped an arm around Dex’s leg, his eyes never leaving Dex’s face as he pulled out and plunged back in. He leaned in, using his weight to pound into Dex, intent on making sure Dex felt him for hours.
“Feeling seduced yet?” Sloane asked, changing his angle and hitting Dex’s sweet spot.
“Oh God, yes!” Dex arched his back again, and Sloane moaned at the sight of Dex’s muscles tensing and the sound of his ragged breath as he came over his hand and abdomen. Running his fingers through the sticky mess, Sloane thrust his hips over and over, his release barreling through him. He growled out Dex’s name as his body tensed. He came inside Dex, and the heat and tightness around him, along with the force of his orgasm, had him doubling over between Dex’s legs. Needing to catch his breath, Sloane let his brow rest against Dex’s, smiling when Dex tipped his head back to brush his lips over Sloane’s.
“I love you,” Dex said softly, his fingers caressing Sloane’s jaw.
Sloane swallowed hard and turned his head, reluctant to give voice to his growing fear.
“Sloane? Talk to me, babe.”
“What if you get tired of it?”
Dex gently turned Sloane’s face so he could meet Sloane’s eyes. “Tired of what?”
“Of my feral half being so… possessive of you. Some guys hate it. I’m trying. I really am.”
“Sloane, I’m not ‘some guy.’ I’m your mate, and in a few months, I’ll be your husband. No one knows you and your feral half like I do. I know when you say I’m yours, or that I belong to you, you don’t really think I’m your property. You’re a good man, and I love how you love me. If I didn’t love you and all you are, just the way you are, I wouldn’t be here. We’re about to start a whole new adventure together, in more ways than one. I’m ready. I’m more than ready.” Dex’s beautiful smile, his eyes filled with so much adoration and certainty, chased the looming shadows from Sloane’s heart, like he always did. Even on his darkest days, Dex was a source of warm, radiant sunlight.
Dex’s smile grew wicked. “What do you say? Ready to unleash a whole new level of kickass on the world?”
“I’m a little terrified right now,” Sloane teased.
Dex waggled his eyebrows. “Come on, you know you want to.”
Sloane snickered. He nodded, sealing the deal with a kiss. “Wherever you go, I go,” Sloane promised.
“Sloane? Dex?” Seb called from downstairs, and Sloane sighed. Ash must have used his key to let himself and Seb in.
“I got no pants on,” Dex replied, and Sloane snorted out a laugh.
“We’ll wait down here.”
Sloane chuckled. He told Dex to stay put before grabbing the wet wipes from the nightstand, then handing them over so he could sort out Dex’s pants. With a smile, he handed Dex his bright orange boxer briefs, followed by his pants. Dex quickly dressed, tucking his shirt in and smoothing it.
Dex held out his arms. “How do I look?”
“Like you just got thoroughly fucked.”
Dex opened his mouth to reply, but no words were immediately forthcoming. “I’ll take it.” Chuckling, he walked over to the closet and picked up his dress boots. “I promise not to do anything that’ll make you regret asking me to marry you.”
“Nothing would ever make me regret asking you.”
Dex smiled sheepishly. “Can I get that in writing? Signed by a notary?” Sloane’s eyes went wide, and Dex patted his arm. “I’m kidding.”
Sloane followed him out of the bedroom and downstairs into the living room, where Seb and Ash were talking. They both stood and turned. Ash’s sniff was followed by a snort of disgust.
“Really, bro? One night. He’s out of your hair for one night and you couldn’t keep it in your pants?”
Dex winked at Ash on his way to the kitchen, where he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Seb coughed and averted his gaze, his cheeks slightly flushed. Dex’s scent was kind of heady, but it would fade some as the night went on. It had been happening a lot more since the change to his DNA. He didn’t quite smell like a Therian, but he didn’t completely smell Human either.
Sloane shrugged. “Why should I?” Like he needed an excuse to have sex with his beautiful, sexy partner.
“You wanna maybe piss on him and mark your territory some more?”
“I wasn’t—” Sloane shut his mouth when he realized what Ash had said. In the kitchen, Dex almost choked on his water. He coughed and wheezed. Shit. Sloane took an interest in his boots, ignoring the silence in the room. At least until Ash burst into laughter.
“Holy shit, you didn’t? You did! You squirted Daley?”
“Charming.” Sloane wrinkled his nose. “It was a long time ago. I was in my Therian form, and we ran into some guy Dex had slept with in college or something. My feral half got a little… carried away, and it just sort of happened.” It had not been one of his better moments. God, he’d been mortified after he’d shifted back to Human form, and that was after several hours of Dex coaxing him to shift back.
Seb and Ash exchanged glances before falling into peals of laughter.
Sloane crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever. Like you two aren’t as bad.”
Ash waved a hand as he got control of his laughter. “I have never had the urge to piss on Cael.”
“Because Cael’s a Therian and so is Hudson.” Sloane narrowed his eyes at his friends. A thought occurred to him, and he smiled evilly. “Maybe you haven’t had the urge to mark your boyfriends that way, but just try and deny that your feral halves haven’t had the urge to jump them while you were both in your Therian forms.”
The laughter died instantly.
Sloane grinned smugly. “That’s what I thought.”
Dex gaped at Ash. “Ew, dude, seriously? You want to jump my brother’s bones while he’s in his cheetah Therian form?”
“I don’t. My feral half wants to, and only while I’m in my Therian form. Jesus, Daley, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Ash shook his head as if he were trying to get away from the very idea.
Dex shuddered, then gagged. “Oh God, why? Why did you have to tell me that?”
Ash held up a hand. “Hey, in our felid forms, it’s perfectly natural. You know our animal instincts are at their strongest when we’re in Therian form.”
“There’s nothing natural about your lion ass humping a fluffy Chirpy.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
“This conversation has turned incredibly disturbing,” Seb said, shaking his head. “Why do things always get weird with you guys?”
Ash pointed to Dex. “That’s why.”
Seb’s expression was pained. “Can we not talk about humping in our feral forms? I would really appreciate that.”
The front door opened, and Hudson greeted them cheerfully. His smile quickly faded. “Why does everyone look so… distressed?”
“Because Ash wants to do my brother when he’s in his feral form,” Dex offered.
Hudson’s eyes went huge, and he gaped at Ash. He blinked and was suddenly in doctor mode, his expression turning sympathetic. “That’s not uncommon. Many Therians suffer from such conflicting emotions with regard to their feral halves and their partners. Perhaps if you discuss the matter with Cael, and even arrange for some roleplaying, you might—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ash grabbed Hudson’s shoulders. “Now you listen here, Doc. I am not going to fuck my boyfriend while he’s in his Therian form. I was talking about my Therian half and his Therian half.”
Understanding crossed Hudson’s features, and he let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, well that is perfectly normal. Every Therian goes through that, especially when a relationship is new.”
Dex studied Hudson. “Really? Did Seb ever try to mount you?”
Seb groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Why are we still talking about this?”
Cael walked in and looked around. “What’s going on? What are you guys—”
They all shouted simultaneously, “Nothing!”
Cael started. “Geez, okay. Sorry I asked.” He turned his attention to Dex. “Everyone’s on their way. ETA five minutes.”
Dex nodded, and in all honesty, Sloane was a little relieved they were leaving. Who was he kidding? He was a lot relieved.
“I’ll see you guys outside. I just want a quick word with Seb and Ash.”
Dex nodded and ushered Cael and Hudson out, then closed the door behind them. Sloane turned to the only two who could possibly keep this evening progressing without incident. As soon as Cael had sent out the invites to Dex’s bachelor party, Sloane had contacted Seb and Ash and asked them to prepare.
“All right. What contingency plans have you two put in place should any Threat Level Fuchsia scenarios arise?”
Seb and Ash glanced at each other before turning their gazes back to Sloane. Their expressions didn’t bode well. Seb spoke up first.
“When you said prepare for tonight, I thought you meant make sure your boyfriend doesn’t get so drunk he strips down to his underwear and starts dancing on the bar, or try to keep him out of jail. I didn’t realize you meant put together an emergency tactical strategy.”
Sloane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay.” He looked up at Ash. “What about you?”
“Relax, bro. We got this.”
Sloane narrowed his eyes and leaned into Ash, sniffing him. “Have you already started drinking?”
Seb snickered, his laugh turning into a cough when Ash arched an eyebrow at him.
“No, smartass. I can handle your dorky fiancé.”
Seb didn’t even attempt not laughing this time. “You are so delusional, Keeler. We’re toast.”
“Speak for yourself. Cael might not be able to hold his booze, but your Brit is worse.”
Seb frowned at Ash. “Which is why you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re going to be able to keep an eye on Dex the whole night. The second some guy tries to put the moves on Cael, you’re going to lose your shit.”
“First, Cael can take care of himself. Second, excuse me while I laugh my ass off at you telling me I’m going to lose my shit over some dude hitting on my boyfriend. Since you got back from your honeymoon, you’ve been even more of a sap over Hudson than ever. It hurts my teeth just looking at you.”
Sloane sighed. “You two done arguing over who’s more ridiculous?”
“You’re right,” Ash said, smiling sweetly. “Because the answer to that would be you.”
How long had they known Dex? Had they not been present for the last three and a half years? The number of incident reports he’d filled out in the last year alone was staggering. Everything ranging from squirrel invasion to not-so-spontaneously combusting baked goods. How his boyfriend managed to get a scone to bring down a building was beyond him. Sloane didn’t care how stale the thing was, it shouldn’t have demolished an entire building. Thankfully the place had been condemned, and they’d received a minor scolding rather than getting their asses handed to them by Sparks.
“You think I’m overreacting?”
“Just a tad,” Seb admitted.
Oh, Sloane was so going to enjoy throwing their words back at them. “Okay. Go on. Have fun. I’ll notify my bank to have some bail money ready. If something blows up or comes crashing down, it’s on you two.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “And I thought Dex was the drama queen.”
“Get out,” Sloane grumbled, shoving them toward the door.
As soon as they were outside, Dex came over and kissed Sloane’s cheek. “Oh, I almost forgot. Dad’s expecting you for dinner.”
“Wait. What?” When did that happen?
“Dinner. Tony’s house. Have fun. If he asks you to play air hockey, just say no. He’s a wee bit competitive. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Sloane murmured absently. Dex headed back to Hudson and Cael as if he hadn’t just told Sloane he’d be hanging out with Tony the rest of the evening. On his own.
Sloane had known Tony for years, and yes, the man had been like a father to him, but this was completely different. Tony wasn’t just his sergeant and a father figure; he was Dex’s dad, his fiancé’s dad. Sloane quickly shook himself out of it. He was being a drama queen. Like he couldn’t handle Anthony Maddock. Whatever some believed, Tony wasn’t so scary. He was a regular guy who worked his ass off and loved his boys. Sure, he could be intimidating, but that was on the job, or if Sloane did something to warrant being on the other end of his wrath, like when Dex was kidnapped and tortured. This was good. They could talk. No problem. But first….
Sloane shot Tony off a quick text. Before he headed over to dinner, he had somewhere to be. And he wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Catherine Curzon is a historian of the eighteenth century. She writes for Orion and Bookouture as Ellie Curzon, with Eleanor Harkstead.
Catherine has appeared on Radio 4's PM programme and has been heard on radio stations across Europe and the UK, as well as a number of highly-rated podcasts. Her work has been featured online by BBC News, BBC History Extra and The Daily Express, and in publications including All About History, Who Do You Think You Are?, and Jane Austen’s Regency World. Further afield, Catherine’s expertise has been featured by Smithsonian Magazine, Vanity Fair, The Washington Post, Town & Country, Elle Australia, Der Bund, La Vanguardia and Metrópoles, among others.
She has spoken at venues including Kenwood House, Wellington College, the Royal Pavilion, the National Maritime Museum and Dr Johnson’s House. Her first play, Being Mr Wickham, premiered to sell-out audiences in 2019. Co-written with Adrian Lukis, the play was streamed live and undertook a national tour in 2021, receiving rave reviews from the likes of Broadway World, The Sunday Times, The Telegraph, and The Daily Mail.
Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, can be found by following the distant strains of Dean Martin. She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill with a rakish gent and a very woolly dog.
Eleanor Harkstead likes to dash about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She knows rather a lot about poisons, and can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens, and has a huge collection of vintage hats. She is the winner of the Best Dressed Sixth Former award and came third in the under-11s race at the Colchester Fire Swim.
Originally from the south-east of England, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
Courtney Milan writes books about carriages, corsets, and smartwatches. Her books have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and Booklist. She is a New York Times and a USA Today Bestseller.
Courtney pens a weekly newsletter about tea, books, and basically anything and everything else. Sign up for it here.
Before she started writing romance, Courtney got a graduate degree in theoretical physical chemistry from UC Berkeley. After that, just to shake things up, she went to law school at the University of Michigan and graduated summa cum laude. Then she did a handful of clerkships. She was a law professor for a while. She now writes full-time.
Eli EastonHaving been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Casey McQuiston is the New York Times bestselling author of Red, White & Royal Blue, as well as a pie enthusiast. She writes books about smart people with bad manners falling in love. Born and raised in southern Louisiana, she now lives in New York City with her poodle mix and personal assistant, Pepper.
Charlie Cochet is the international bestselling author of the THIRDS series. Born in Cuba and raised in the US, Charlie enjoys the best of both worlds, from her daily Cuban latte to her passion for classic rock.
Currently residing in Central Florida, Charlie is at the beck and call of a rascally Doxiepoo bent on world domination. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found devouring a book, releasing her creativity through art, or binge watching a new TV series. She runs on coffee, thrives on music, and loves to hear from readers.
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Catherine Curzon
Eleanor Harkstead
EMAIL: contact@eleanorharkstead.co.uk
Courtney Milan
Eli Easton
Casey McQuiston
Charlie Cochet
EMAIL: charlie@charliecochet.com
The Captain's Ghostly Gamble by Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead
The Pursuit of . . . by Courtney Milan
12 Days of UPS by Eli Easton
Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston
Gummy Bears & Grenades by Charlie Cochet
