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I've wanted to do a Christmas in July series for a few years now but time just didn't seem to agree. I wanted to feature stories that I have recently re-read but once again, time had other plans so for my Christmas in July 2024 series, I'm featuring another 20 of my favorite Christmas set LGBT reads. I say "Christmas set" because some are not really holiday-centric but set, at least in part, during the holiday season and for me that is all it takes to be a Christmas read(and yes, I'm in the "Die Hard is a Christmas Movie" campđ). Some I've had opportunity in the past to re-read or re-listen and I've included the most recent review. As always, the purchase links are current as of posting but if they no longer work for a dozen different reasons, be sure to check out the author's website/social media sites for the latest links. There are genres of all kinds here, whether you are a holiday lover or perhaps you just want to read something set in cooler weather on a long hot summer night, either way there is something for everyone here.
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Summary:
Original Review May 2014:
Humor, love, the holidays! It's the whole package. Emerson is so filled with anxiety that you just want to hug him till the holiday is over.
All he wants for Christmas is for something to go right ...
A trip to visit his boyfriend Nateâs parents during the holidays leaves Emerson a nervous wreck. Bad weather and an unfortunate mix-up leads to an awkward first introduction, and as things deteriorate from there, Emerson begins to doubt if their relationship will survive the stressful weekend.
Can Emerson get everything back on track and impress the Collins family in time to have a Merry Christmas?
Humor, love, the holidays! It's the whole package. Emerson is so filled with anxiety that you just want to hug him till the holiday is over.
Re-read Review May 2020:
My original read from 6 years ago was short and sweet. Sometimes short and sweet says it all. When I was deciding on a short novella to read for Mother's Day I came across Brigham Vaughn's Baby, It's Cold Inside and realized it was doubly perfect as the weather TV people were predicting unusually cold temps for a large portion of the US and here in Wisconsin they were saying colder temps than on Christmas morning, so what better read than a Xmas tale?
As I said, it's been 6 years since I read Inside, but it all came flooding back. The passion, the chemistry, the anxiety, the drama, humor, and of course all the heart. I still found myself warring between shaking Emerson and Mama Bear hugging him reassuring him to just be himself. Then there is possibly the sweetest, cutest family-meet scene when Emerson wakes up to Nate's little sisters, Katie and Ava who were expecting to find a girl not a boy. Kids can be difficult to write in a favorable way, I have found that there is a fine line between cute & sassy and spoiled & bratty, well Brigham Vaughn definitely pulled off cute & sassy with Katie and Ava.
Just a delight to read. Baby, It's Cold Inside was a great read the first time around and it's an even brighter re-reading gem. Great blend of Christmasy sweet and lasting heart.
RATING:
As I said, it's been 6 years since I read Inside, but it all came flooding back. The passion, the chemistry, the anxiety, the drama, humor, and of course all the heart. I still found myself warring between shaking Emerson and Mama Bear hugging him reassuring him to just be himself. Then there is possibly the sweetest, cutest family-meet scene when Emerson wakes up to Nate's little sisters, Katie and Ava who were expecting to find a girl not a boy. Kids can be difficult to write in a favorable way, I have found that there is a fine line between cute & sassy and spoiled & bratty, well Brigham Vaughn definitely pulled off cute & sassy with Katie and Ava.
Just a delight to read. Baby, It's Cold Inside was a great read the first time around and it's an even brighter re-reading gem. Great blend of Christmasy sweet and lasting heart.
RATING:
Summary:
Original Review December 2014:
James is trying to scrape by and keep his foot in the door of an occupation he loves when he's asked to verify the authenticity of a supposed lost Dickens Christmas story. Enter Sedgwick, the owner of said story and there are immediate fireworks, both bad and good, but fireworks nontheless. Despite the kind of man the potential buyer that James is working for, James is a decent guy with a bunch of bad luck or bad timing in the past. Watching Sedgewick and James banter their way through "negotiations" is a perfect Christmas treat.
A scandal cost antiquarian book hunter James Winter everything that mattered to him.
Three years ago, a scandal cost antiquarian book hunter James Winter everything that mattered to him: his job, his lover, and his self-respect. But now the rich and unscrupulous Mr. Stephanopoulos has a proposition. A previously unpublished Christmas book by Charles Dickens has turned up in the hands of an English chemistry professor by the name of Sedgwick Crisparkle. Mr. S. wants that book at any price -- and he needs James to get it for him.
There's just one catch. James can't tell the nutty professor who the buyer is.
Actually, two catches because the nutty Professor Crisparkle turns out to be totally gorgeous -- and on the prowl. Faster than you can say "Old Saint Nick," James is mixing business with pleasure -- and in real danger of forgetting that this is just a holiday romance.
James is trying to scrape by and keep his foot in the door of an occupation he loves when he's asked to verify the authenticity of a supposed lost Dickens Christmas story. Enter Sedgwick, the owner of said story and there are immediate fireworks, both bad and good, but fireworks nontheless. Despite the kind of man the potential buyer that James is working for, James is a decent guy with a bunch of bad luck or bad timing in the past. Watching Sedgewick and James banter their way through "negotiations" is a perfect Christmas treat.
Audiobook Review December 2019:
I can't believe it's been 5 years since I originally read this holiday story and yet I remembered practically everything. I found James and Sedgwick just as intriguing and fun to read(or listen to in this caseđ). Sure I wanted to knock their heads together at times but where's the fun if everything is copacetic from the get-go? Now that I discovered the audiobook of The Dickens with Love I doubt it'll be 5 years before I re-visit this tale again. As for the narration? Well, it's Sean Crisden and he has an amazing talent to bring the characters to life and the story to your front door. Not only does he make the telling fun to listen to but it always seems to be unfolding right before your eyes instead of the "airwaves". Definitely a holiday gem.
RATING:
Summary:
Clint Barker wants to take his relationship with boyfriend Joshua Cash to the next level, and that means meeting Joshâs family at Christmas. Clint is sure he can deal with anything, even though Josh has expressed reservations that his big, loud hillbilly family might be too overwhelming for an introvert like Clint to handle.
Josh loves his family, but the only other time he brought a boyfriend home to meet them, the guy didnât last through dinner. Clint means everything to him, and though he knows his family means well, Josh is worried their nosiness and sheer overwhelming presence will drive Clint away.
Between having to fix an illegal still, getting treed by a wild hog, and barely avoiding a bar fight between rednecks and bikers, the holiday doesnât get off to an auspicious start. Then at the traditional Christmas Eve Hootenanny, Josh and Clint argue, and Clint later turns up missing. Will this spell the end of their relationship, or will a newborn in a stable work a little Christmas miracle for them both?
Original Review December 2015:
Despite what Josh fears about the boisterousness of his family and meeting Clint for the first time, I think most of us want the support he has. Clint may be a little reserved but he seems to fit right in despite a few hiccups. A great addition to my holiday library and one I highly recommend you to give a chance, you won't be disappointed.
RATING:
Josh loves his family, but the only other time he brought a boyfriend home to meet them, the guy didnât last through dinner. Clint means everything to him, and though he knows his family means well, Josh is worried their nosiness and sheer overwhelming presence will drive Clint away.
Between having to fix an illegal still, getting treed by a wild hog, and barely avoiding a bar fight between rednecks and bikers, the holiday doesnât get off to an auspicious start. Then at the traditional Christmas Eve Hootenanny, Josh and Clint argue, and Clint later turns up missing. Will this spell the end of their relationship, or will a newborn in a stable work a little Christmas miracle for them both?
Despite what Josh fears about the boisterousness of his family and meeting Clint for the first time, I think most of us want the support he has. Clint may be a little reserved but he seems to fit right in despite a few hiccups. A great addition to my holiday library and one I highly recommend you to give a chance, you won't be disappointed.
RATING:
Summary:
Will Oliver get the gift heâs hoping for this Christmas?
Oliver Walkerâs Christmas is shaping up to be a quiet one. That is until hunky neighbour Ed Middleton moves in next door.
Attraction is instant, but Ed is only there temporarily and neither wants to start something with an expiration date.
As the festive season approaches, holiday cheer wraps around them, and giving in to temptation is inevitable. But Ed is still set on moving in the new yearâa fresh start, miles away from those heâs closest to.
If Oliver doesnât want to lose his heart, heâll have to show Ed that home is wherever he wants it to be, and love is possible no matter what.
Some authors have a special knack for holiday romances and Annabelle Jacobs is one of them. There's just something about her stories that never fail to entertain, warm the heart, and leave you completely fulfilled. Sometimes we have to search far and wide to find what we're looking for(and sometimes what we aren't looking for) and then again there are times when it's right in front of us, or next to usđ.
No Place Like Home is about friends, family, neighbors, romance, heat, humor, drama, but mostly it is filled to the brim with heart. You will smile, laugh, I can't say you will cry but you will definitely have moments of "Awww". I feel like I've written the phrase "feel good story" so many times this holiday reading season and for some people they can only take so many "Hallmark-y" tales but I can't get enough of them, especially when they are as brilliant and heartwarming as No Place Like Home. Annabelle Jacobs has once again earned her place on my #holidaymustreads shelf.
RATING:
Gideon by RJ Scott & Meredith Russell
Summary:Boyfriend for Hire #4
A snowy cabin with one bed? Thatâs only the first step toward Gideon falling in love.
Gideon is too old to be fought over at Christmas by divorced parents who should know better. The prospect of a Christmas on his own is better than having to face either of them. When Rowan hires him for a wintery break in Maine, it seems like a safe choice until his PAâs meddling family shows him something entirely new: Love.
Rowan hiring his boss for a trip back to his momsâ place for Christmas sounded like a good idea at the time. Killing two birds with one stone, he can cheer up Gideon and possibly steal a kiss under the mistletoe. After all, heâs been hiding his attraction to the man for years, and maybe with some Christmas magic, he can help Gideon see what is right under his nose.
Gideon is such a delight. You got employer/employee/friends connection between the two main characters, a bit of a May/December gap, and of course you have Christmas. You don't really expect the boss of a boyfriends/companion for hire business to actually be the one getting hired, especially by his own PA but that's where Gideon finds himself. I don't think I'm giving anything away when I say that Rowan has two reasons for hiring his boss, 1. he wants a bit of a "friend buffer" with this boisterous family at Christmas and 2. he doesn't want Gideon to spend the holiday alone. Super sweet but not in a sugary-rot-your-teeth kinda way.
Gideon has drama(mild and not very angsty), humor, friendship, heat, family, holiday fun, and of course heart, always plenty of heart from these authors. I've loved the first two entries in this Boyfriends for Hire series and though it starts at the wedding for the couple we first met in book 1, Darcy, you don't really have to read them before opening Gideon. As a series reader I always prefer to read them in order even a series of standalones, but it's certainly not necessary.
Plain and simple, Gideon is a tale of holiday friendship that can become more if the two men can finally open up and be honest with each other. Okay, so you know this is going to have a HEA ending, that's never really in doubt. Gideon and Rowan's journey is one I like to label a "meat and potatoes" story, the "dessert" in the ending is great but it's the deliciousness of the courses you enjoy before dessert that makes the meal memorable. Gideon is definitely a memorable holiday romance.
RATING:
Baby, It's Cold Inside by Brigham Vaughn
Both boys stomped their feet and dusted the snow off as they got themselves situated. Nate dug in his pocket for his keys but Emerson stopped him, wanting one last kiss before he braved meeting the future in-laws. Because no matter how short of a time he had been with Nate, he knew that was what he wanted. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Nate, buy some little house in a neighborhood like this and have a life together with a couple of kids and maybe a dog. Just because he was young and gay didnât mean he didnât want the kind of life his parents had together.
They werenât going to rush things by running off and getting married too soon; they were trying to be practical about it. But Emerson knew what his goal was, and in order to achieve that he had to impress the people he would someday be related to by marriage, and he was scared shitless heâd screw it up. He let go of the handle of his suitcase and set the large shopping bag full of presents down on the cement. âKiss for luck?â
Nate looked up at him, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. âSure, Em.â
He lowered his own bags down and took Emersonâs face in his hands, his glovesâstill lightly dusted with snow from touching the trunk lidâwere cold on Emersonâs cheeks, but his lips were warm and soft. âTheyâre gonna love you, I know it,â Nate said when he drew back.
âI hope so,â Emerson said with a sigh. He couldnât imagine what it would be like if they didnât. He kissed Nate again, this time with a little tongue and he felt more than heard Nate chuckle. They were pressed flat against each otherâNateâs hands still cradling his face, and Emersonâs hands on Nateâs hipsâwhen the door opened. The sudden rush of warmth and light into the cold, snowy night made them jerk apart and Emersonâs cheeks flooded with heat. Shit, not the way I wanted to meet the parents, he thought, feeling a rush of disappointment. It wasnât supposed to go like this at all.
------
âNice to meet you Mr. and Mrs. Collins. Iâm Emerson Brady. Nateâs boyfriend?â
The last part wasnât supposed to come out like a question, but he grew more and more apprehensive at the blank look on their faces. What the hell is going on? He wondered as the nerves heâd been holding at bay for most of the day finally let loose.
Nateâs parents just stared at him, blinking, but utterly still otherwise, neither reaching for his hand. Emerson looked around for a moment, feeling like someone was pulling a prank on him.
âThis is the right house, isnât it?â He looked over at Nate, surprised to see that he was just as frozen, a horrified, uncomfortable expression on his face. âNate?â he asked, his voice cracking a little. âSweetheart, whatâs going on?â
Nate finally seemed to rouse himself. âMom, dad, this is Em. Iâve told you a lot about him, remember?â
Mrs. Collins nodded and gave Emerson a tight smile before looking over at her son. âCome in please.â Her voice sounded stiff and strained, and Emerson apprehensively followed them into the house. No one spoke as the boys dumped their bags on the tiled entryway, shrugged out of their coats, and unlaced their boots. Emerson felt like he was choking on the tension as he silently followed everyone into the living room, the warmth of the home almost painful on his chilled skin. It was a bright and cheerful space with carols playing in the background and a fat Christmas tree that took up one corner of the room. The tree was covered in a dazzling array of white lights and a hodgepodge of ornaments that had clearly been collected over the years alongside some red globes and a bright yellow star on top.
In fact, as Emerson took a seat on the sofa next to Nate, he decided that was the ambiance of the entire house. Warm and welcoming, with a mismatched yet somehow appealing collection of furniture and decor. It was an orderly, well-loved home for a family.
And yet, that family was not the loving, happy one Emerson had expected from the stories Nate had told him about. Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat stiffly on the couch across from them. Mr. Collins glowered at them, and although Nate bore a passing resemblance to his dark haired, dark eyed father, it was hard to believe anyone who looked so unhappy could ever be related to Nate. Nate was always cheerful, always ready to look on the bright side of things and see the best in people.
Mrs. Collins looked equally uncomfortable. Her features were more like Nateâs, although of a lighter coloring. With her unflattering jeans and shapeless red sweater, she looked like just about any other suburban mom, but her expression was pinched and she perched on the edge of the sofa like she was about to bolt.
Emerson couldnât take the silence a moment longer and he turned to look at Nate. âWhat is going on here?â he asked in an urgent whisper. âWhy are they staring at me like Iâm a zoo animal?â
Although he tried to be quiet, it came out a little louder than he intended and he heard Mr. Collins clear his throat. Mrs. Collins was the one who spoke though.
âWell, um, Emerson was it?â He nodded. âWhen Nate told us he was bringing his partner home for Christmas we thought it was an uh, female someone.â
They werenât going to rush things by running off and getting married too soon; they were trying to be practical about it. But Emerson knew what his goal was, and in order to achieve that he had to impress the people he would someday be related to by marriage, and he was scared shitless heâd screw it up. He let go of the handle of his suitcase and set the large shopping bag full of presents down on the cement. âKiss for luck?â
Nate looked up at him, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. âSure, Em.â
He lowered his own bags down and took Emersonâs face in his hands, his glovesâstill lightly dusted with snow from touching the trunk lidâwere cold on Emersonâs cheeks, but his lips were warm and soft. âTheyâre gonna love you, I know it,â Nate said when he drew back.
âI hope so,â Emerson said with a sigh. He couldnât imagine what it would be like if they didnât. He kissed Nate again, this time with a little tongue and he felt more than heard Nate chuckle. They were pressed flat against each otherâNateâs hands still cradling his face, and Emersonâs hands on Nateâs hipsâwhen the door opened. The sudden rush of warmth and light into the cold, snowy night made them jerk apart and Emersonâs cheeks flooded with heat. Shit, not the way I wanted to meet the parents, he thought, feeling a rush of disappointment. It wasnât supposed to go like this at all.
------
âNice to meet you Mr. and Mrs. Collins. Iâm Emerson Brady. Nateâs boyfriend?â
The last part wasnât supposed to come out like a question, but he grew more and more apprehensive at the blank look on their faces. What the hell is going on? He wondered as the nerves heâd been holding at bay for most of the day finally let loose.
Nateâs parents just stared at him, blinking, but utterly still otherwise, neither reaching for his hand. Emerson looked around for a moment, feeling like someone was pulling a prank on him.
âThis is the right house, isnât it?â He looked over at Nate, surprised to see that he was just as frozen, a horrified, uncomfortable expression on his face. âNate?â he asked, his voice cracking a little. âSweetheart, whatâs going on?â
Nate finally seemed to rouse himself. âMom, dad, this is Em. Iâve told you a lot about him, remember?â
Mrs. Collins nodded and gave Emerson a tight smile before looking over at her son. âCome in please.â Her voice sounded stiff and strained, and Emerson apprehensively followed them into the house. No one spoke as the boys dumped their bags on the tiled entryway, shrugged out of their coats, and unlaced their boots. Emerson felt like he was choking on the tension as he silently followed everyone into the living room, the warmth of the home almost painful on his chilled skin. It was a bright and cheerful space with carols playing in the background and a fat Christmas tree that took up one corner of the room. The tree was covered in a dazzling array of white lights and a hodgepodge of ornaments that had clearly been collected over the years alongside some red globes and a bright yellow star on top.
In fact, as Emerson took a seat on the sofa next to Nate, he decided that was the ambiance of the entire house. Warm and welcoming, with a mismatched yet somehow appealing collection of furniture and decor. It was an orderly, well-loved home for a family.
And yet, that family was not the loving, happy one Emerson had expected from the stories Nate had told him about. Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat stiffly on the couch across from them. Mr. Collins glowered at them, and although Nate bore a passing resemblance to his dark haired, dark eyed father, it was hard to believe anyone who looked so unhappy could ever be related to Nate. Nate was always cheerful, always ready to look on the bright side of things and see the best in people.
Mrs. Collins looked equally uncomfortable. Her features were more like Nateâs, although of a lighter coloring. With her unflattering jeans and shapeless red sweater, she looked like just about any other suburban mom, but her expression was pinched and she perched on the edge of the sofa like she was about to bolt.
Emerson couldnât take the silence a moment longer and he turned to look at Nate. âWhat is going on here?â he asked in an urgent whisper. âWhy are they staring at me like Iâm a zoo animal?â
Although he tried to be quiet, it came out a little louder than he intended and he heard Mr. Collins clear his throat. Mrs. Collins was the one who spoke though.
âWell, um, Emerson was it?â He nodded. âWhen Nate told us he was bringing his partner home for Christmas we thought it was an uh, female someone.â
The Dickens with Love by Josh Lanyon
The Hotel Del Monte sat on twelve lushly wooded acres in the middle of some of the most expensive real estate in Southern California. The hotelâs secluded location and small size, the rambling, pink stucco Spanish style ninety-two-room complex and its tranquil and luxuriant gardens full of trees, ornamental ponds and fragrant flowers made it one of the most romantic settings in Los Angeles. No long, anonymous corridors lined with room numbers. Most guest rooms and suites had private entrances and opened directly onto the hotelâs gardens. If I was a guy in the market for a honeymoon, Hotel Del Monte would be my first choice.
I asked at the front desk for Room 103 and then headed out through the ancient sycamores and tree ferns. I crossed a small arched red and gold bridge from where I could see the graceful bell tower on the other side of the small lake where the swans were taking shelter. The rain pattered on the leaves of the lemon and orange trees lining the cobbled path, glittered on the petals of the rose bushes. It smelled good, like walking in the woods. The city seemed very far away.
I found Room 103 without too much trouble, ducking into the stone alcove and knocking on the door. Rain dripped musically from the eaves and ran down the back of my neck.
I shivered. I needed a raincoat, but with only about fifteen to twenty days of rain a year, there were better things to spend oneâs pennies on. Like books. There was a 1924 edition of Gertrude Chandler Warnerâs The Box-Car Children I had my eye on for this yearâs Christmas present to myself.
The hotel room door swung abruptly open. An unsmiling, dark-haired man stood framed against an elegant background of pale cabbage roses and ivy. He was about forty. Tall, rawboned, lean. He wore faded jeans, a cream-colored sweater over a white tee shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like a bookish angel.
âJames Winter?â he inquired, looking me over like heâd caught me cheating on my chemistry quiz.
âProfessor Crisparkle?â
My surprise must have been obvious. âIs there a problem?â he returned sternly.
âNo. Not at all.â
The problem was he was gorgeous. It was a no-nonsense brand of gorgeousness, though. Far from detracting from his dark, grave good looks, the glasses accentuated them.
I smiled my very best smileâdespite the rain trickling down the back of my neckâand offered my hand. After a hesitation, he shook it.
His grip was firm, his palm and fingers smooth but not clammy or soft. An academic, but not one of the ones who never left his ivory tower.
No wedding ring.
âItâs a pleasure to meet you.â I meant it. I was sort of nonplussed at how much I meant it.
âCome in,â Crisparkle replied, moving aside.
I stepped inside the room which was cozily warm and smelled indefinably expensive, a combination of fine linens, fresh coffee and cut flowers. A fire burned cheerily in the fireplace. The remains of the professorâs lunch were on a tray on the low table before the sage velvet sofa. Soothing classical piano played off the laptop next to his lunch tray.
Corey and I had stayed at the Hotel Del Monte on our one year anniversary. The rooms were all furnished in romantic country-French dĂ©corâeach unique but with the famous signature touches of Alicante marble, vintage silk or chenille upholstery, and original artwork. It was the best weekend of my lifeâor maybe it seemed that way in contrast to the following week, which was when my entire world had shattered.
âYou must have brought the rainy weather with you.â I smiled again, not bothering to analyze why I was displaying such uncharacteristic cordiality. âHave you seen much of the city since youâve been here?â
âThe book is on the desk.â Crisparkle nodded at the writing desk near the white French doors leading out to a private patio.
Not one for chitchat, was he? Maybe it was an English thing. In any case, I lost all interest in rude Professor Crisparkle. The only thing in that room for me now was the faded red leather book lying on the polished desktop. As I approached the writing table my heart was banging so hard I thought I might be having my first ever panic attack.
A book. Not a manuscript. Iâd been thinking that Crisparkle and Mr. S. were playing fast and loose with their terminology, but no. It was a bound book. All the more unlikely, then, that this could be the real thing. Hard enough to believe a manuscript had been lost, let alone an entire print run. Impossible, in fact. And yet, as I reached for the thin volume, finely bound in red Morocco leather, I noted that my hand was shaking. Well, scratch a cynic and youâll find a disappointed idealist.
I drew back as I realized that I was in danger of dripping on the desk.
âCould I borrow a towel?â I asked.
Crisparkle gave me a funny look, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
I took a moment to remind myself of all the possibilities of any such appraisal. The novel might be the real thing, but it was more likely to be a forgery. It might be a modern forgery or it might be a contemporary forgery. Knowing which would depend partially on discovering the bookâs provenanceâthe documented or authenticated history of its ownershipâof which I so far knew nothing.
The professor reappeared with a peach-colored plush towel and I scrubbed my face and hair, tossed the towel to the fireplace hearth and sat down at the desk. I still didnât touch the book, simply gazing at the gold lettering on the front cover. Miss Anjaley Coutts surrounded in gold-stamped holly and ivy.
That wouldnât be the title. So the book was a gift and Miss Coutts was the recipient. Why was that name familiar? Who was Miss Anjaley Coutts? Not Mrs. Dickens or a sister-in-law. Not a daughter. Not an alias of Dickensâ mistress, the actress Ellen Ternan, because he didnât meet her until 1857. Who then?
âIt doesnât bite,â Professor Crisparkle said sardonically, and I realized that Iâd been sitting there for more than a minute, unmoving, staring at the cover.
I threw him a quick, distracted look, and then delicately edged the book around to examine its spine. Gold lettering read The Christmas Cake / Dickens / MDCCCXLVII.
The Christmas cake?
I carefully opened the book and turned the flyleaf. On the frontispiece was a hand-colored etching of a truly sumptuous cakeâtopped by a sly, smiling mouse with crumbs on her whiskers. I looked at the title page: another smaller illustration of an elderly man and woman who appeared, to my wondering eye, to be getting sloshed on the Christmas punch. And the words The Christmas Cake in a familiar, faded hand that most people only viewed through glass.
I turned the page and stared, feeling decidedly light-headed, at the first sentence. Our story begins with a fallen star. But the star is not the story.
I was vaguely aware that Professor Crisparkle spoke to me, but I didnât hear what he said, and I didnât care. I was absorbingâdevouringâthe words with my eyes.
Roofed with the ragged ermine of a newly-fallen snow glittering by starlight, the Doctorâs old-fashioned house loomed grey-white through the snow-fringed branches of the trees, a quaint iron lantern, which was picturesque by day and luminous and cheerful by night, hanging within the square, white-pillared portico to one side. That the many-paned window on the right framed the snow-white head of Mrs. Dimpledolly, the Doctorâs wife, the old Doctor himself was comfortably awareâfor his kindly eyes missed nothing, so it was that he spied the fallingâŠ
I read for some time before I finally raised my head. I no longer saw the hotel room. I donât think I even saw the book or the handwritten pages anymore. I was seeing benevolent old Doctor Dimpledolly and his amiable missus as they opened their home to a coachload of strangers stranded on Christmas Eve.
âSatisfied?â Professor Crisparkle asked dryly.
I snapped back to awareness, blinking up at him, dimly taking in the details of elegant nose, long eyelashes, soft dark hairâI couldnât tell what color his eyes were behind the horn-rims. That mercurial shade of light brown that looked green in certain light and gold in other. He seemed so awfully stern, so awfully strict, reminding me of an uptight schoolmaster. But that was right, wasnât it? He taught chemistry like Mr. Redlaw, the professor of chemistry in The Haunted Man.
As I stared at him, it occurred to me that Professor Crisparkle didnât like me much.
Didnât like me at all.
Why? Not that I was universally belovedâhardlyâbut what had I done to earn such instant dislike from an out-of-towner?
I said slowly. âIt looks⊠very promising.â My voice nearly gave out. Promising? Who was I kidding? I knew, knew in my bones, this was the real thing. I said more solidly, âIâd have to examine it more closely, of course. To be absolutely sure.â
He gazed at me with an expression of utter contempt.
No, I wasnât misreading him. I repeated uncertainly, âIâd like to spend a little more timeââ
âIâm sure you would.â
Color heated my face at that dry, ironic toneâand I wasnât quite sure why. I said evenly, âIt certainly looks authentic, but you never know.â
âYou donât, do you?â
Again: barely concealed scorn. Too obvious by now to politely ignore.
âIs there a problem?â I asked.
I asked at the front desk for Room 103 and then headed out through the ancient sycamores and tree ferns. I crossed a small arched red and gold bridge from where I could see the graceful bell tower on the other side of the small lake where the swans were taking shelter. The rain pattered on the leaves of the lemon and orange trees lining the cobbled path, glittered on the petals of the rose bushes. It smelled good, like walking in the woods. The city seemed very far away.
I found Room 103 without too much trouble, ducking into the stone alcove and knocking on the door. Rain dripped musically from the eaves and ran down the back of my neck.
I shivered. I needed a raincoat, but with only about fifteen to twenty days of rain a year, there were better things to spend oneâs pennies on. Like books. There was a 1924 edition of Gertrude Chandler Warnerâs The Box-Car Children I had my eye on for this yearâs Christmas present to myself.
The hotel room door swung abruptly open. An unsmiling, dark-haired man stood framed against an elegant background of pale cabbage roses and ivy. He was about forty. Tall, rawboned, lean. He wore faded jeans, a cream-colored sweater over a white tee shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like a bookish angel.
âJames Winter?â he inquired, looking me over like heâd caught me cheating on my chemistry quiz.
âProfessor Crisparkle?â
My surprise must have been obvious. âIs there a problem?â he returned sternly.
âNo. Not at all.â
The problem was he was gorgeous. It was a no-nonsense brand of gorgeousness, though. Far from detracting from his dark, grave good looks, the glasses accentuated them.
I smiled my very best smileâdespite the rain trickling down the back of my neckâand offered my hand. After a hesitation, he shook it.
His grip was firm, his palm and fingers smooth but not clammy or soft. An academic, but not one of the ones who never left his ivory tower.
No wedding ring.
âItâs a pleasure to meet you.â I meant it. I was sort of nonplussed at how much I meant it.
âCome in,â Crisparkle replied, moving aside.
I stepped inside the room which was cozily warm and smelled indefinably expensive, a combination of fine linens, fresh coffee and cut flowers. A fire burned cheerily in the fireplace. The remains of the professorâs lunch were on a tray on the low table before the sage velvet sofa. Soothing classical piano played off the laptop next to his lunch tray.
Corey and I had stayed at the Hotel Del Monte on our one year anniversary. The rooms were all furnished in romantic country-French dĂ©corâeach unique but with the famous signature touches of Alicante marble, vintage silk or chenille upholstery, and original artwork. It was the best weekend of my lifeâor maybe it seemed that way in contrast to the following week, which was when my entire world had shattered.
âYou must have brought the rainy weather with you.â I smiled again, not bothering to analyze why I was displaying such uncharacteristic cordiality. âHave you seen much of the city since youâve been here?â
âThe book is on the desk.â Crisparkle nodded at the writing desk near the white French doors leading out to a private patio.
Not one for chitchat, was he? Maybe it was an English thing. In any case, I lost all interest in rude Professor Crisparkle. The only thing in that room for me now was the faded red leather book lying on the polished desktop. As I approached the writing table my heart was banging so hard I thought I might be having my first ever panic attack.
A book. Not a manuscript. Iâd been thinking that Crisparkle and Mr. S. were playing fast and loose with their terminology, but no. It was a bound book. All the more unlikely, then, that this could be the real thing. Hard enough to believe a manuscript had been lost, let alone an entire print run. Impossible, in fact. And yet, as I reached for the thin volume, finely bound in red Morocco leather, I noted that my hand was shaking. Well, scratch a cynic and youâll find a disappointed idealist.
I drew back as I realized that I was in danger of dripping on the desk.
âCould I borrow a towel?â I asked.
Crisparkle gave me a funny look, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
I took a moment to remind myself of all the possibilities of any such appraisal. The novel might be the real thing, but it was more likely to be a forgery. It might be a modern forgery or it might be a contemporary forgery. Knowing which would depend partially on discovering the bookâs provenanceâthe documented or authenticated history of its ownershipâof which I so far knew nothing.
The professor reappeared with a peach-colored plush towel and I scrubbed my face and hair, tossed the towel to the fireplace hearth and sat down at the desk. I still didnât touch the book, simply gazing at the gold lettering on the front cover. Miss Anjaley Coutts surrounded in gold-stamped holly and ivy.
That wouldnât be the title. So the book was a gift and Miss Coutts was the recipient. Why was that name familiar? Who was Miss Anjaley Coutts? Not Mrs. Dickens or a sister-in-law. Not a daughter. Not an alias of Dickensâ mistress, the actress Ellen Ternan, because he didnât meet her until 1857. Who then?
âIt doesnât bite,â Professor Crisparkle said sardonically, and I realized that Iâd been sitting there for more than a minute, unmoving, staring at the cover.
I threw him a quick, distracted look, and then delicately edged the book around to examine its spine. Gold lettering read The Christmas Cake / Dickens / MDCCCXLVII.
The Christmas cake?
I carefully opened the book and turned the flyleaf. On the frontispiece was a hand-colored etching of a truly sumptuous cakeâtopped by a sly, smiling mouse with crumbs on her whiskers. I looked at the title page: another smaller illustration of an elderly man and woman who appeared, to my wondering eye, to be getting sloshed on the Christmas punch. And the words The Christmas Cake in a familiar, faded hand that most people only viewed through glass.
I turned the page and stared, feeling decidedly light-headed, at the first sentence. Our story begins with a fallen star. But the star is not the story.
I was vaguely aware that Professor Crisparkle spoke to me, but I didnât hear what he said, and I didnât care. I was absorbingâdevouringâthe words with my eyes.
Roofed with the ragged ermine of a newly-fallen snow glittering by starlight, the Doctorâs old-fashioned house loomed grey-white through the snow-fringed branches of the trees, a quaint iron lantern, which was picturesque by day and luminous and cheerful by night, hanging within the square, white-pillared portico to one side. That the many-paned window on the right framed the snow-white head of Mrs. Dimpledolly, the Doctorâs wife, the old Doctor himself was comfortably awareâfor his kindly eyes missed nothing, so it was that he spied the fallingâŠ
I read for some time before I finally raised my head. I no longer saw the hotel room. I donât think I even saw the book or the handwritten pages anymore. I was seeing benevolent old Doctor Dimpledolly and his amiable missus as they opened their home to a coachload of strangers stranded on Christmas Eve.
âSatisfied?â Professor Crisparkle asked dryly.
I snapped back to awareness, blinking up at him, dimly taking in the details of elegant nose, long eyelashes, soft dark hairâI couldnât tell what color his eyes were behind the horn-rims. That mercurial shade of light brown that looked green in certain light and gold in other. He seemed so awfully stern, so awfully strict, reminding me of an uptight schoolmaster. But that was right, wasnât it? He taught chemistry like Mr. Redlaw, the professor of chemistry in The Haunted Man.
As I stared at him, it occurred to me that Professor Crisparkle didnât like me much.
Didnât like me at all.
Why? Not that I was universally belovedâhardlyâbut what had I done to earn such instant dislike from an out-of-towner?
I said slowly. âIt looks⊠very promising.â My voice nearly gave out. Promising? Who was I kidding? I knew, knew in my bones, this was the real thing. I said more solidly, âIâd have to examine it more closely, of course. To be absolutely sure.â
He gazed at me with an expression of utter contempt.
No, I wasnât misreading him. I repeated uncertainly, âIâd like to spend a little more timeââ
âIâm sure you would.â
Color heated my face at that dry, ironic toneâand I wasnât quite sure why. I said evenly, âIt certainly looks authentic, but you never know.â
âYou donât, do you?â
Again: barely concealed scorn. Too obvious by now to politely ignore.
âIs there a problem?â I asked.
Holiday Hootenanny by Ari McKay
Motioning for Clint to stay put, Josh moved slowly around the bulk of the still, careful to be as quiet as possible. When he rounded the end, he looked toward the source of the noise, barely refraining from yelling in frustration and fear at the sight of a huge boar snuffling and ripping at a half-empty sack of corn his father left just inside the shelter.
The boar was engrossed in its free meal, but Josh knew that would end if it decided he or Clint were a threat to it or if it thought they might try to fight it for the food. Moving slowly, he backed toward Clint, putting his lips close to Clintâs ear.
âWild boar. We need to get out of here.â
Clint nodded vehemently, the alarm in his eyes escalating into panic, and he gestured for Josh to lead the way.
Josh took Clintâs hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before starting to move slowly and quietly toward the other end of the overhang. The camouflage netting had been secured to the rough stone of the wall with nails pounded into the rock, but Josh lifted it away carefully, motioning for Clint to duck outside.
Clint slipped outside, then reached back to hold the netting up for Josh in return, darting anxious glances in the direction of the boar. Josh ducked his head as he stepped outside, but as he turned to tug the netting back in place, he pulled a bit too hard, and a huge section at the top of the overhang pulled away, sending the fabric and its weight of branches crashing back against the end of the still.
There was a loud squeal of alarm from the boar, and Josh knew that things had just gone from bad to worse. âRun for that tree!â he yelled at Clint, taking off for the closest of the pines. Even though he hadnât climbed a tree in years, he hadnât forgotten how, and he grasped the lower branches, hauling himself up before turning and reaching a hand down to Clint. âCome on!â
Clint didnât bother grabbing Joshâs hand, latching onto the lower limbs and scrambling up. He made the mistake of looking back, and seeing the boar closing in made him slip, but he clamored up the tree and perched on the sturdiest limb he could find, clutching the trunk like a lifeline.
âWhat now?â He shot Josh a panicked look. âWill it get bored and go away on its own?â
The boar, which was mottled brown and black and had to weigh at least two hundred pounds, squealed furiously and charged at the tree. It impacted on the trunk, ripping at it with his tusks and gouging the bark.
âI sure hope so,â Josh replied, cautiously climbing up to a branch at the same level Clint occupied. âBeing stuck up here is going to be a hell of a lot colder than what we were planning.â
âWe left the gun down there.â Clint grimaced and tried to zip up his coat with one hand. When that didnât work, he gingerly let go of the trunk and did the fastest zip-up Josh had ever seen before grabbing the trunk again. He stared down at the boar with growing concern. âUm. Can that thing knock this tree over?â
âNo, donât worry about that.â Josh smiled reassuringly, reaching out to pat one of Clintâs hands where he clutched the tree in a death grip. âWeâre safe enough up here. I wish Iâd thought to grab the gun, but Pa left it by the entrance, so Iâd have had to go past our grumpy friend to get it.â
He sighed. So far this had been the worst trip home he could ever remember. He just hoped Clint wasnât going to get frustrated and disgusted enough to leave.
Clint relinquished the tree with one arm and grabbed Joshâs hand, squeezing it tightly. âI guess this isnât the best time to reveal Iâm afraid of heights.â
The boar was engrossed in its free meal, but Josh knew that would end if it decided he or Clint were a threat to it or if it thought they might try to fight it for the food. Moving slowly, he backed toward Clint, putting his lips close to Clintâs ear.
âWild boar. We need to get out of here.â
Clint nodded vehemently, the alarm in his eyes escalating into panic, and he gestured for Josh to lead the way.
Josh took Clintâs hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before starting to move slowly and quietly toward the other end of the overhang. The camouflage netting had been secured to the rough stone of the wall with nails pounded into the rock, but Josh lifted it away carefully, motioning for Clint to duck outside.
Clint slipped outside, then reached back to hold the netting up for Josh in return, darting anxious glances in the direction of the boar. Josh ducked his head as he stepped outside, but as he turned to tug the netting back in place, he pulled a bit too hard, and a huge section at the top of the overhang pulled away, sending the fabric and its weight of branches crashing back against the end of the still.
There was a loud squeal of alarm from the boar, and Josh knew that things had just gone from bad to worse. âRun for that tree!â he yelled at Clint, taking off for the closest of the pines. Even though he hadnât climbed a tree in years, he hadnât forgotten how, and he grasped the lower branches, hauling himself up before turning and reaching a hand down to Clint. âCome on!â
Clint didnât bother grabbing Joshâs hand, latching onto the lower limbs and scrambling up. He made the mistake of looking back, and seeing the boar closing in made him slip, but he clamored up the tree and perched on the sturdiest limb he could find, clutching the trunk like a lifeline.
âWhat now?â He shot Josh a panicked look. âWill it get bored and go away on its own?â
The boar, which was mottled brown and black and had to weigh at least two hundred pounds, squealed furiously and charged at the tree. It impacted on the trunk, ripping at it with his tusks and gouging the bark.
âI sure hope so,â Josh replied, cautiously climbing up to a branch at the same level Clint occupied. âBeing stuck up here is going to be a hell of a lot colder than what we were planning.â
âWe left the gun down there.â Clint grimaced and tried to zip up his coat with one hand. When that didnât work, he gingerly let go of the trunk and did the fastest zip-up Josh had ever seen before grabbing the trunk again. He stared down at the boar with growing concern. âUm. Can that thing knock this tree over?â
âNo, donât worry about that.â Josh smiled reassuringly, reaching out to pat one of Clintâs hands where he clutched the tree in a death grip. âWeâre safe enough up here. I wish Iâd thought to grab the gun, but Pa left it by the entrance, so Iâd have had to go past our grumpy friend to get it.â
He sighed. So far this had been the worst trip home he could ever remember. He just hoped Clint wasnât going to get frustrated and disgusted enough to leave.
Clint relinquished the tree with one arm and grabbed Joshâs hand, squeezing it tightly. âI guess this isnât the best time to reveal Iâm afraid of heights.â
No Place Like Home by Annabelle Jacobs
Chapter One
âI think thatâs the last of them.â Ed hauled the bag into the boot of his sisterâs car and stepped back as she slammed it shut. He straightened, rubbing at the ache in the base of his spine, wondering how stiff he was going to be in the morning.
âSucks to be old, eh?â Sarah grinned at him and patted his arm. âLuckily youâve got us two to look after you.â
âOh, fuck off.â Thirty-eight was not old.
Sarah glanced over his shoulder at the bungalow, grin widening. âOops. Looks like we missed one.â
He turned to see his other sister struggling through the front door, a black bin bag clutched in her arms. âNeed a hand?â
Ruth glared at them over the top of the bag. âNo. Itâs fine, really. You two just stand there and watch while I pull a muscle or three.â
Hurrying towards her, Ed winced as she tripped over the bottom step and almost went flying. He caught her by the wrists and steadied her before relieving her of the bag. âJesus, what the hellâs in this one?â His back protested and he grimaced. âIt weighs a bloody ton.â
Eyebrow raised, Ruth regarded him with an air of smugness. âYes, Iâm aware.â She brushed dust off the front of her jeans. âAnd itâs all the odds and sods that were left. A couple of pairs of old shoes, a few books . . .â She waved her hand about. âOther stuff.â
Other really fucking heavy stuff.
Ed marched it quickly to the car and wrestled it into the boot with the others. âAre you sure that oneâs for the tip?â Most of his Auntâs clothes and furniture had been donated like sheâd asked. Today was about clearing out everything else.
Ruth leant against the car next to him. âYeah. Theyâre too damaged to donate.â She turned to face him. âThe guys are starting work on the kitchen and bathroom next week. But Aiden said you can move in whenever.â
Glancing back at the tired-looking bungalow, Ed sighed. Even though it was only six months since his aunt had died, he found it difficult to remember it looking like a home. Elise had been so full of life, even in her later years, and her home had reflected that. Now it just looked sad and unlived in.
But that was about to change.
âI might leave it a couple of weeks.â The water wouldnât be off for long, but the kitchen would be out of action for a while, and the thought of living off takeaways and out of a camping fridge wasnât all that appealing. âProbably move in around the fifteenth.â
Ruth nodded. âDonât blame you.â
âWhen are we putting it up for sale?â Ed asked, glancing back at it again. Elise had left the bungalow to all three of them, just as sheâd always promised. Told them to do whatever they wanted with it after she was gone.
âYou in that much of a hurry to leave us?â Sarah regarded him, eyes narrowed, over the top of the car.
âNo, but Iâll be going at some point. Just trying to get an idea of timescales. Thatâs all.â Truth be told, the idea of leaving his family and moving up north didnât hold as much appeal as it had when heâd made the decision. But heâd had a bottle of red wine to bolster his confidence that night. The wheels were set in motion thoughâhis own house was already in the process of being sold. He just needed to wrap everything up and find a new place further up the country.
No big deal.
It was normal to have second thoughts, right? Especially with the festive season approaching. Starting out somewhere new was bound to be daunting. This was something he needed to do, though, because looking back in ten years and regretting not taking the plunge, not satisfying his urge to prove he could do it, wasnât all that appealing either. Itâd be fine once he had concrete plans in place for the new year.
âShall we get going?â Ed prompted, gesturing to the full car. âIâve some stuff to sort out at home.â
âYeah, okay.â The front door of the neighbouring bungalow swung open, and both Sarah and Ruth glanced towards it, smiling. âLetâs just go say hello to Betty first. You can tell her youâre moving in next door.â
Ed sighed, wanting to get on his way, but Betty was already waving at them, so he dutifully followed his sisters up the path. She was in her late seventies or early eighties, maybe, and although she was a bit slow on her feet these days, her mind seemed as sharp as ever.
She spoke as they got close. âI guess Iâll be getting some new neighbours soon, then?â Her wistful glance at his auntâs bungalow reminded him that they werenât the only ones to have lost someone. He didnât know Betty Blackwell all that well, but he was pretty sure his aunt had.
Ruth beamed at her and pointed at Ed. âEdâll be staying there while we spruce the place up a bit.â
Betty grinned back, eyes shining. âOh, how wonderful.â She reached over and patted Edâs hand. âBut youâve got your work cut out. Elise was a dear friend, but she had such terrible taste in decor.â She laughed and shook her head, a sad smile appearing. âIâll miss her, but Iâm glad she didnât linger. She was ready to go.â
âYeah, she was.â Ed matched her smile. His aunt had made no secret of that, and always with a satisfied smile as though her life had been just as she wanted it to be. No regrets.
And what more could you ask for?
Ed hoped he felt like that when his time came. Which was one of the reasons he was in the process of moving his entire life north, back to where he went to uni.
Ruth touched Betty on the shoulder. âHowâs your knee holding up?â
Ed vaguely remembered Elise mentioning something about a knee operation a year or so ago.
âYes, not bad, thank you.â Betty patted her leg. âFingers crossed it stays that way.â
A couple of loud meows interrupted them, and Betty laughed as a ginger cat sauntered out, followed by a black-and-white one. They sat and looked up at her expectantly, not the slightest bit interested in her visitors. âI guess itâs dinner time.â She patted Edâs hand again. âMake sure you come in for a cup of tea when you move in properly.â She turned and shooed the cats inside, leaving the three of them on the doorstep.
âRight,â Sarah said. âLetâs get this lot to the tip before it shuts.â She was off back down the path at a quick march, Ruth hot on her heels.
Ed hurried to catch up to them. âMust get lonely living on your own. Itâs nice she has those cats for company, though. I might get one when Iâm settled.â
Ruth frowned. Neither of his sisters wanted him to go.
âJust the one?â Sarah glanced back at him as she reached the car.
âI donât know . . . maybe two. I guess if Betty can handle two at her age, I should be okay.â
Ruth laughed from behind him and Sarah grinned. âYouâve been inside Bettyâs bungalow, right?â
âUm . . . yeah?â He must have at some point.
âRecently?â
âProbably not. Why?â They reached the car and he looked from Ruth to Sarah and back again. âWhy are you both smiling like that.â
âNo reason.â Sarah opened the car door and got in.
âRuth?â he tried as she reached for the passenger door.
âIâm glad you like cats.â She laughed and got in the car.
Ed followed suit. He glanced back at the bungalow as they drove away, trying to make out anything untoward through the windows. Was Betty a mad old cat lady? Whatever. He did like cats, so it was fine.
How many could one old lady look after, anyway?
THE NEXT two weeks flew by.
As his house sale went through, Ed transferred a lot of his stuff into storage. No point cluttering up his auntâs house with furniture if they were trying to sell it. By the time he moved in, the bathroom was finishedâand looking lovelyâbut the kitchen still had a few bits to complete.
But he had a fridge.
And an oven.
Only one builder remained to finish the work, but as it was one of his best mates, Ed was glad for the company. Heâd known Aiden for years, since primary school.
Ed finished the teas he was making and slid one of them across the counter.
âThanks.â Aiden leant back against the new oak-effect worktop and glanced out of the window. âOh dear. Looks like heâs lost his keys.â He nodded in the direction of next door. On Bettyâs side.
Ed frowned as the words registered. âHis keys?â He turned and looked for himself. Sure enough, there was a young guy, maybe mid-twenties, studying the back of Bettyâs house as though trying to find a way in.
Should I call the police?
Ed watched as the guy continued to stare up at the house. Maybe Betty had a grandson? But if that was the case, why didnât he just knock?
When he walked to the side farthest away from Edâs and smiled, Edâs hackles rose. If Bettyâs house was laid out like his, then the bathroom was on that side. With a window. Edâs was too small for him to fit through, but this guy might be skinny enough to squeeze in.
He set his mug down. âBack in a sec.â
Aiden gave him a curious look but shrugged and went back to work.
Pulling his phone out as he headed into the living room, Ed dialled the local police station. âHi. Iâd like to report someone acting suspiciously.â He told them what heâd seen and mentioned the car now parked on the street in plain view.
Bold as brass.
Shame he couldnât make out the registration from there.
To his shock, the officer who took his call didnât seem at all surprised when he described the person attempting to break into Bettyâs house. Was he a repeat offender? Jesus. Ed couldnât remember hearing about any burglaries in the area. But it wasnât like he lived near here or anything. Well, not until now, anyway.
They told him a Sergeant Walker was nearby and would swing past to check things out.
Ed found himself in the kitchen by the back door, debating whether to go out there or not. From what heâd seen, he was far bulkier than the guy currently casing Bettyâs house, but what if he was armed? He thought about Betty, all alone in her house. If that had been Elise . . .
He was out the door before he finished that thought.
Peeking over the fence proved fruitless. Either the guy had decided to clear off or he was already inside. Ed craned his neck to get a look at the bathroom window. It was opened, but that could mean anything. He listened hard for any sounds of disturbance, but there was nothing.
A car door slammed out the front and Ed hurried down the side alley to see who it was.
The police car parked outside brought him up short. Christ, that was fast.
He walked down the path towards the tall and rather good-looking police officer coming towards him. In any other situation, Ed would have taken a moment to admire the view, but his mind was focused on what might be happening next door.
âI think he might be inside,â Ed whispered, pointing behind him at the house. âThe bathroom window was open, and he looked skinny enough to get in.â Just as he finished speaking, Bettyâs front door swung open, revealing the very person Ed had been talking about. Except instead of looking like someone being caught doing something illegal, the guy appeared bemused. He looked from the police officer to Ed, then scrunched up his nose. âI forgot my keys.â
Sergeant Walker turned to Ed, lips twitching. âMr Middleton?â
Ed nodded.
âIs this the suspicious person you reported?â
âYeah. Thatâs him.â His cheeks heated with the creeping realisation that maybe heâd made a mistake.
Sergeant Walker sighed. âThank you for being so conscientious about your neighbourâs safetyââ Ed inwardly groaned as he suddenly noticed the resemblance between the two men and sensed heâd got it all wrong somehow. âBut I believe thereâs been a bit of a misunderstanding.â He gestured to the guy now leant against the door frame, cheeks as pink as Edâs felt. âOliver?â
The guyâOliverâblew out a breath. âIâm staying with Betty for a while. I wasnât trying to break in, just left my keys inside by accident. Sorry for any confusion.â
Ed narrowed his eyes and barked out, âWhy the hell didnât you just knock on the bloody door then?â Embarrassment made him snap, and he winced a little. But for fuckâs sake!
Oliver gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. âBecause I know Betty always takes a nap at this time and I didnât want to disturb her. I wouldâve done if the bathroom window hadnât been open, but it was, so . . .â He held his hands out and shrugged.
They both turned to look at Ed, and he desperately wished for a hole to form under his feet and save him from all the awkward. To make matters worse, Betty appeared behind Oliver, looking a little tired and confused, but her face brightened considerably when she saw not one, but two of her . . . relatives, Ed was guessing. When her gaze fell on Ed, he saw the exact moment she realised what was going on. Or got a good idea anyway. The mischievous glint to her eyes made him nervous. âOh, what a lovely surprise,â she said, clapping her hands together. âAnd Ollie, this is the lovely young man I was telling you about. Eliseâs nephew.â She threw Oliver a wink.
Oh God.
Oliver rolled his eyes. âOliver. Ollie makes me sound about twelve.â He grinned as she waved his words away.
âYouâll always be young in my eyes. Humour an old lady.â
Sergeant Walker cleared his throat and faced Ed. âI think weâve established this was an unfortunate misunderstanding. Is there anything else I can help you with?â
Ed felt three pairs of eyes on him and shifted uncomfortably. âNo, thatâs fine. Sorry for wasting your time.â
âNot at all.â
âRight . . . Iâd . . . um . . . Iâd better get back . . .â Ed walked as quickly as he dared back up the path to his front door and caught sight of a grinning Aiden standing at the living room window.
Loud laughter met him as soon as he got inside.
âOh, fuck off,â he shouted back. âHow was I supposed to know he lived there?â
Aiden appeared in the living room doorway. âIf youâd asked me instead of charging off half-cocked, I would have told you. He moved in about the same time we started work on your kitchen.â
Ed stared at him, incredulous. âWhy didnât you mention that to start with?â
âI thought you knew. When you rushed out the door, I figured you were either going to chat him up or take him a spare key. Maybe both.â When Ed huffed, he added, âHey, I never thought for one second you were going to call the police on him.â He smiled, shaking his head. âWhat did they say, anyway?â
âNot much.â He narrowed his eyes. âDo you happen to know Oliverâs last name?â
âUm. . .â Aiden scratched the back of his head. âWalker, maybe?â
âFuck.â Ed blew out a breath. âI think the police officer was his brother.â
When Aiden grinned again, Ed sighed and walked past him, heading towards the old dining room. âPiss off and finish my bloody kitchen.â
Laughter followed him down the hall.
Gideon by RJ Scott & Meredith Russell
One
Gideon
âI, Darcy Jonathan BridgesâŠâ
Gideon glanced at the select group of guests in the intimate venue in New Canaan. Darcy and Adrian exchanged their vows in the small room full of white flowers and with an arch decorated with greenery. The wedding was a simple indoor service with no more than twenty people, all of whom had been handpicked to attend by either bridegroom, consisting of their immediate family and their closest friends.
So why am I here?
Gideon was Darcyâs boss, but he still wasnât sure how heâd ended up being invited to the wedding. He was convinced that his PA, the annoying but sexy Rowan Phillips, had simply decided they were both attending and barreled ahead with the plans. Rowan had organized hotel rooms for them both only a short taxi ride from here, and insisted that staying over was all for Darcy and making the day special. More likely Rowan wanted to drink copious amounts of alcohol, but there again maybe he had the right idea. Gideon glanced toward where Adrian and Darcy were standing hand in hand. A drink or three to get through the day was probably in order so a hotel was for the best.
Ceremony, dinner, celebrations, alcohol, staying overnight, then in the morning it was off to somewhere for the newlyweds and back to the office on Stuyvesant Street in Manhattan for Gideon and Rowan. Gideon had work to do, contracts to assign for next yearâs events and last minute checks on Christmas events given it was only nine days away.
There would be the inevitable last minute panics for work parties or family events, and he recalled a request for a two week booking covering a huge familyâs New Year gathering at a location in Vermont. While lucrative, the Vermont booking had been left way too late because backstories for the people he hired were complicated matters for long-term connections, and he never put his employees in situations they couldnât handle.
Heâd have to turn it down, but that wasnât an issue. Bryant & Waites was solid, financially secure, and discreet, all the things he and Luke had planned the company would be.
And there it was. Heâd thought about Luke and he knew he should stop focusing on the past. Just because he was at a wedding, and twenty years ago Luke and he were supposed to go to Canada and get married and be together foreverâŠ
Think about Rowan instead.
No, donât think about Rowan. Not sexy, in my face, snarky, coffee making Rowan.
Christmas. Yeah, Iâll think about Christmas. The commercial stuff. I can do that.
Rowan shifted next to him, their hands brushing, and all kinds of forbidden thoughts rushed to his head. He and Rowan holding hands, he and Rowan kissing, he and RowanâŠ
Christmas decorations, music on repeat, parades, more gift cards to buy. He began to make a mental list of what he could handle in the run up to the usual meeting with family for the big day. He wanted the decks cleared so he wouldnât be dragged under by family stress. His oddly matched and long-time divorced parents bickering about whoâd get him and his sister for which part of Christmas. He was forty-three for fuckâs sake, his sister only a few years younger, and yet the two of them were still fought over as if they were small kids. Not to mention Gideonâs birthday fell on Christmas Eve, which made things even worse. Typically, he hid away on his birthday if he could manage it, but last year heâd spent it with his sister and her boyfriend, and that in itself had been a different kind of chaos.
âThey look so happy,â Rowan said as he leaned into Gideon briefly.
âUh-huh,â was about all Gideon could manage. Heâd been lost in thought and anyway, no one should be talking at weddings.
âI might get married here,â Rowan added, and Gideon shot him a surprised glance.
âYouâre getting married?â he asked louder than a whisper and got an irritated stare from another guest.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. âOf course.â
Shock flooded Gideon as they turned back to face the happy couple. He hadnât even known that Rowan was with someone, let alone at the point where they were thinking of getting married. What if Rowan left Bryant & Waites? What if he left Gideon to run the company on his own? That didnât bear thinking about.
What if Rowan leaves me?
Rowan moved again, this time a full body sigh as Darcy and Adrian exchanged a vow. He smelled wonderful, a fresh citrus scented cologne that reminded Gideon of the ocean.
âWhoâs the lucky guy?â Gideon murmured as everyone began to clap and whistle at something.
âHuh?â Rowan said as the clapping died away.
âThe man youâre marrying.â
Rowan tapped his nose then winked. âNow that would be telling.â
Great. Just when things were level and the company was steady, Rowan was running off with the first fly-by-night asshole who gave him a ring. Gideon could already picture some smooth city banker or a lawyer who had bought Rowanâs affections with gifts and empty promisesâjust to take him away from Bryant & Waites.
And me.
The thought of gifts reminded him that he still hadnât bought Rowan a Christmas gift, which was a slap to the face. There was this rich city guy, probably showering Rowan with gifts, winning his heart, and Gideon hadnât even considered the measly Christmas gift he usually bought his PA. It was the only one that he bought himself because the gifts to the other guys who worked for him were handled by Rowan himself. Not that Gideon would have to think about what to get him. Because Rowan would likely happen to leave an open magazine on his desk with some very specific comment on a Post-it.
At least Gideon knew that Rowan was getting something he wanted.
I bet Big-city guy doesnât know Rowan as well as I do.
The countdown to Rowan leaving him had clearly begun, but he couldnât stop the march of time. What was the point in dismissing the fiancĂ© heâd never met when he himself had never actually made a move on his PA? Well, not a real move.
Focus. He needed to focus on the here and now, glancing briefly at Rowan, right by his side as usual. His suit was a deep blue color, standing out next to Gideonâs gray. His tie a bright orange, Gideonâs a silver-blue.
Rowan had once told him that blue ties made his eyes pop, whatever that really meant, but Gideon certainly hadnât worn it so he popped his eyes at anyone today. Particularly not cheerful perky Rowan who smiled so wide his nose wrinkled and who was clearly getting married. Gideon had to ignore that Rowan looked good today, bright and smiling, and so different to how he was dressed in the office. His dark hair was newly cut, carefully layered, and his brown eyes were wide with an almost childlike wonder. He had a sprig of holly in his buttonhole, a nod to the season that was reflected in some of the decorations in the room, and he lookedâŠattractive?
That was possibly the safest description that an employer should use about their newly engaged assistant because sexy, gorgeous, and fuckable, were not the words he should be using. Along with cute, always sunny, but sometimes disrespectful and irritating. Rowan was stuck in Gideonâs head, and the time had always been coming when they would need to part ways before Gideonâs idiot-attraction went from bad to worse. Maybe in the new year Gideon could ask Rowan to find a replacement for when he left with his husbandâŠafter paying Rowan handsomely for his time of course.
Since the first Wednesday in October at ten thirty-two in the morning, his and Rowanâs working relationship in the same office had started to become very different.
Rowan had hugged him. In Rowanâs defense, it had been the day after Gideon had taken his cat Kimi to the veterinarian. The hug happened out of sheer relief when the news came in that a lump the vet had found was just an infection. Although he wasnât sure if it had been Rowan or himself who instigated it.
The feel of Rowan in his arms was a memory he would never lose.
Stupid libido and its ability to fuck with my head.
âMaybe Iâll get married on Christmas,â Rowan said softly as the vows or whatever drew to a close. He had his fist on his chest, right over his heart, and were those tears in his eyes? Rowan loved all things Christmas.
The only buffer between Gideon and warring divorced parents at Christmas was his sister, Grace, and what a flimsy buffer she was. They werenât close at the best of times, but she was dating this guy who had the weirdest nasally tone to his voice and wouldnât stop talking about how much of Gideonâs wealth he would love to invest. Maybe the problem was he reminded Gideon too much of their own father. No matter the situation with his family, everything came back to money in the end.
So while Gideon dreaded the season and its family obligations, Rowan counted down the days with an advent calendar filled with chocolates and chatted endlessly about this brother or that sister or what his moms had planned. This was the same PA who Gideon could guarantee would already have a Christmas playlist on his phone. Heâd dance to the music as he filed or made coffee or even as he walked out for lunch. As of yet Rowan hadnât put in his earbuds to play it when there were no clients in the office.
Not that Gideon checked.
Okay, so I checked.
There was an unspoken rule for respectful silence in the rarefied air of the offices of Bryant & Waites. At least, it had been an unspoken rule until what had become The Lady Gaga incident, and now it may as well be in huge letters in every contract. Returning unexpectedly to the office after a late meeting, Gideon had found Rowan with his earbuds in, singing along to the music he was listening to and dancing like an idiot in the kitchen. After heâd stood and watched for a good few minutes wondering what to say, Rowan had turned and spotted him. Heâd explained there was no one in the building but him, adding something about the floor being polished, and that he wasnât wearing shoes because he could slide better.
Gideon listened to it all and then, ashamed that heâd been caught watching, blew everything out of proportion and gave some lecture about solemnity and silence being the watchwords of Bryant & Waites. His face heated as he recalled that night because Rowan took the comments to heart and was as quiet as a mouse for at least two weeks until it became so quiet that Gideon was slowly driven mad. Heâd left a Post-it note on Rowanâs desk apologizing for overreacting, and theyâd never spoken of it again.
Although he still couldnât get the image of Rowan dancing, or the hug, out of his mind.
Rowan was life and happiness and being in everyoneâs business while totally efficient, and he fixed everything so Gideon had an easy life. He was the perfect PA and a thorn in Gideonâs side all at the same time.
He needed to stop thinking about Rowan getting married and leaving him, or recalling the way he moved, and his off-key singing, and how sexy heâd looked whenâ
Cats. Think about my cat. Thatâs safe.
I hope Kimiâs not too pissed that Iâm away tonight.
Not that Gideonâs beautiful Ragdoll cat would be angry at his absence, she loved Hilda, his neighbor, and was probably being spoiled right now with fresh salmon and unending treats.
âEarth to Gideon,â Rowan whispered, and Gideon blinked down at him, seeing the twinkle in his brown eyes. âI can see the thought bubble from here,â Rowan added as the small group of people began to clap and Gideon joined in, although why he was clapping he didnât know, then belatedly realizing that somehow heâd missed a vital part of the ceremony. Darcy and Adrian were kissing and then hugging, both grinning at each other as if they were the happiest people on earth.
Did I even hear Darcy and Adrian say their I Doâs?
âDonât start with that bubble shit,â Gideon warned. Rowan had this thing where he would draw an oval shape in the air with extended fingers and then state what he thought Gideon was contemplating. Unfortunately, nine times out of ten he was right.
Rowan smiled. âYou were thinking about something completely unrelated to the ceremony, and then you pondered about important clients, and finally you ended up thinking about your cat.â
Gideon ignored Rowan and stared back at the happy couple, after all the laughter in his PAâs eyes was way too alluring, far too beautiful of a thing, and he wasnât going there.
âI was making a mental list of agencies who supply replacement personal assistants,â he said instead, trying for humor and realizing it worked when Rowan snorted with laughter, the noise lost in the clapping that continued on for a long time as Adrian and Darcy kissed and hugged their way around their friends and family.
âYouâd have to find a magic agency.â Rowan leaned in and got far too close, and Gideon knew he should have kept his mouth shut, but noâŠhe fell right into Rowanâs trap.
âWhat do you mean a magic agency?â
Darcy had nearly reached them, but there was enough time for Rowan to shrug and bite back a laugh.
âOnly PAs capable of magic can handle the ogre in the main office.â
âYouâre firedââ
âAnd rehired, obvs.â Instead of the word obviously, heâd started using âobvsâ recently. It was obvs to everything as if correcting Gideon when he messed up by using the annoying shorthand made things better.
âGuys, thank you for coming.â Darcy was there, shaking hands, bro-hugs, a much longer hug for Rowan, but then again, the two men had been friends for thirty years. Adrian caught up with Darcy, dragging him into a kiss.
âHey, husband,â he said.
âHey back, husband,â Darcy said, and they kissed, right in front of Rowan and Gideon. So close that Gideon could see the tender way Adrian cupped Darcyâs face and the emotion that had them leaning on each other, with the absolute certainty that neither would let the other fall.
I want that. I really want it.
He was trapped in his quiet corner, hemmed in by the kissing, laughing newlyweds and Rowan, who was grinning so hard it had to hurt.
When the two separated, they all hugged again, and this time it was thank yous for the gifts. Gideon hadnât known what to get them. Adrian wasnât wanting for money, and what did you buy two guys who had their own place? Heâd settled on a generous gift card to an upmarket bespoke furniture showroom, and they seemed pleased, explaining they were sure they would find something perfect there, and for a brief moment, Gideon felt as if heâd done something right in a social setting, and that he was a good guy.
But Adrian was gushing all over Rowan. âHow in the hell did you know about the rare Ella Fitzgerald pressing?â
Rowan winked. âI have my sources,â he said and brushed at his shoulders indicating that he was a freaking genius.
âYou mean Darcy told you,â Gideon said and laughed because heâd made a joke, but Rowan shook his head and looked serious.
âI never said a thing,â Darcy said.
âNo, he didnât. You remember that barbecue we had at yours? You said that she was one of your heroes, and you loved her music, and then we were talking about it after, and you mentioned you were looking for a particular versionââ
âOh God, I did, how the hell do you recall that?â Adrian hugged Rowan. Again. There was way too much hugging going on, and Gideon remained trapped in the corner.
âYou know Iâm a genius,â Rowan deadpanned, and Gideon bit back the need to make a barbed comment about how his PA had probably written it down in his journal, but that wasnât really a joke and would have made everything awkward.
âAnd the dogs,â Darcy said. âThank you.â He hugged Rowan, and Gideon was less worried about that hug. Them being friends and all.
âWhat dogs?â Gideon asked because firstly, he was trapped, and secondly, heâd promised himself to make a real effort at this wedding.
He never did get an answer because someone yelled from the other side of the room about toasts and food and a party, and it was as if the tide that had been washing toward Gideon suddenly reversed, and it was only him and Rowan left.
âWhat dogs?â he repeated.
âDarcy and dogs have been a thing for a while I guess. You probably donât know but he used to volunteer at a dog sanctuary, donated to a Dogs for Veterans charity. I think heâs still in touch with some ex-army buddies who had worked with the K9 unit. So, yeah, I donated in his name.â He made it sound as if it was nothing, but his gifts were thoughtful, personal, whereas Gideon didnât even know the two men well enough to come up with anything cleverer than a generic gift card.
âCome on.â Rowan tugged Gideon to the door through which everyone had left. âI donât want to miss out on champagne!â The smaller room decorated with simple flowers opened up into a bigger room with a few round tables, a large cake, and horrifically, a dance floor. Gideon nearly turned and ran. He could face down multinational corporations, defend his staff and friends to the death, discuss terms with the richest families in the US, and sometimes in foreign countries. He could maneuver his way through the trickiest of negotiations and shield his company, but the thought of a dance floor, which meant dancing?
Nope. Not happening.
Gideon deliberately chose a table near the doorâfor a swift exitâthen changed his mind when that was also too close to the dance area then went to the back but quickly realized heâd be hemmed in again, and then he simply just stopped walking.
âHere, boss.â Rowan encouraged him to sit, and in Rowanâs capable way, heâd found a seat equidistant between dancing, cake, and freedom. He didnât ask Gideon why he was standing there like an idiot. He just dealt with it, but they werenât at work. This was a social situation, and Gideon wasnât a freaking idiot.
âI can find my own damn table,â Gideon snapped.
Rowan blinked at him and pointed at the table in front of which they were standing and a small card that had Gideon Bryant handwritten on it. He was sandwiched between Adrianâs sister, Abby, and Rowan. Sitting in his chair, he settled in for whatever happened next. Well shit, he hadnât seen the card.
âSorry,â he murmured.
Rowan smiled at him, in reassurance maybe?
âSâokay boss. Here, have some champagne.â
Maybe I shouldnât drink? Maybe I should stick to water and then I could keep my head and not ask Rowan why the hell heâs marrying some guy Iâve never even met.
But the champagne sure tasted nice.
Brigham Vaughn
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasnât let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she canât wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.
Josh LanyonBestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Ari McKay
Ari McKay is the professional pseudonym for Arionrhod and McKay, who have been writing together for over a decade. Their collaborations encompass a wide variety of romance genres, including contemporary, fantasy, science fiction, gothic, and action/adventure. Their work includes the Blood Bathory series of paranormal novels, the Hercâs Mercs series, as well as two historical Westerns: Heart of Stone and Finding Forgiveness. When not writing, they can often be found scheming over costume designs or binge watching TV shows together.
Arionrhod is a systems engineer by day who is eagerly looking forward to (hopefully) becoming a full time writer in the not-too-distant future. Now that she is an empty-nester, she has turned her attentions to finding the perfect piece of land to build a fortress in preparation for the zombie apocalypse, and baking (and eating) far too many cakes.
McKay is an English teacher who has been writing for one reason or another most of her life. She also enjoys knitting, reading, cooking, and playing video games. She has been known to knit in public. Given she has the survival skills of a gnat, sheâs relying on Arionrhod to help her survive the zombie apocalypse.
Annabelle Jacobs lives in the South West of England with three rowdy children, and two cats. An avid reader of fantasy herself for many years, Annabelle now spends her days writing her own stories. They're usually either fantasy or paranormal fiction, because she loves building worlds filled with magical creatures, and creating stories full of action and adventure. Her characters may have a tough time of itâfighting enemies and adversityâbut they always find love in the end.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after â cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isnât with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a weekâs break from writing, she didnât like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldnât defeat.
Meredith Russell lives in the heart of England. An avid fan of many story genres, she enjoys nothing less than a happy ending. She believes in heroes and romance and strives to reflect this in her writing. Sharing her imagination and passion for stories and characters is a dream Meredith is excited to turn into reality.
Brigham Vaughn
SMASHWORDS / PINTEREST / B&N
EMAIL: brighamvaughn@gmail.com
Josh Laynon
Ari McKay
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / iTUNES
AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY / TUMBLR
PINTEREST / DREAMSPINNER / B&N
Annabelle Jacobs
RJ Scott
Baby, It's Cold Inside by Brigham Vaughn
The Dickens with Love by Josh Lanyon
Holiday Hootenanny by Ari McKay
Gideon by RJ Scott & Meredith Russell
iTUNES / SMASHWORDS / GENI US
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