Summary:
Hartbridge Christmas #5
Doctor Robinson O’Reilly is burned out. Exhausted, jaded, and disillusioned with the bureaucracy of his profession, he’s ready to throw away his entire career. Convinced to take a part-time position in a small town instead, he packs his medical bag for Hartbridge, Montana.
Who knows, maybe the change of pace and mountain air will do him good.
Firefighter Captain Soren De Silva moved to Hartbridge two years ago. He loves the town, the people, his job. What he doesn’t like is the lack of queer men. Well, the lack of available queer men. There are a few queer couples in town whom Soren can only look at with envy.
He wants what they have.
There’s a new doctor in town; not Soren’s usual type, but there’s something about him that Soren can’t ignore. A friendship sparks between them and Soren can’t help but wonder if that Hartbridge Christmas magic the others joke about is real.
Because a spark leads to flames, and this is not a fire Soren wants to extinguish.
The gift that lights up the night sky
Working a Christmas Eve shift in a local café, Seven overhears a young boy’s wish that melts his heart.
The only thing Ben wants for Christmas is a spacesuit, so he can visit his mother who now lives amongst the stars in heaven. With Christmas Day only hours away, Seven’s determined that Ben’s wish comes true as he sets about making the spacesuit himself.
When Cooper, Ben’s uncle, finds the gift-wrapped box outside his house, he’s determined to track down the person who left it, and repay the wonderful, selfless act of generosity which has made Ben so happy on Christmas Day.
A Spaceman Came Travelling is a story that captures the true spirit of Christmas — giving selflessly, sharing joy, and wishing upon a star — and a heartwarming reminder that during the holiday season, a simple act of kindness can light up even the darkest of nights.
This story originally appeared in a charity anthology that is longer available. The story has been revised and expanded.
Original Review January 2024:
Such a delightfully fun and heartfelt story that is perfect for the holidays. I want to bundle little Ben up with his desire for a spacesuit so he can reach the stars to see his mom again, I swear my heart wept at that sentiment. Seven, a complete stranger wanting to help earned himself a giant Mama Bear Hug too.
I don't think I'll say too much more because I'm afraid once I start I won't be able to stop and this is a spoiler-free zone. What I will say is if I was the Grinch(which I'm not as Christmas is my favorite time of year😉), my heart would have grown 3 sizes after reading A Spaceman Came Traveling. A truly uplifting experience that will definitely fill you with the holiday spirit.
BTW: the little twist/reveal near the end? LOVED IT!!!!
RATING:
Cold Light of Day by Charlie Cochet
Summary:TIN #1.5
Reaper. Fang. Caine…
An alias for each life lived.
Government operative turned assassin, Wolf, had lived in the shadows until a secret cabal forced him into the light. The last thing Wolf needed was a confrontation with what—and who—he’d left behind. Now there’s no going back.
Agent. Torturer. Killer…
An identity fueled by pain.
Growing a conscience had not been part of the plan, but what did Wolf expect after letting certain annoying do-gooders into his life? If having to endure a season of Christmas cheer wasn’t bad enough, Wolf accepts an invitation to spend the blasted holiday with the biggest do-gooder of all, Sean Belmonte, his dead partner’s brother.
Sean has no idea what prompted him to ask the mysterious Englishman over for Christmas, but as soon as the handsome wolf Therian walks through his door, Sean is captivated. He’s never met anyone like Caine. The more time they spend together, the more obvious their attraction becomes. Can Sean get Caine to let down his guard? One thing’s for sure. It’ll be a Christmas neither of them will soon forget.
Original Review August 2024:
How did I not know this was a Xmas read? I read the blurb and still that little holiday setting tidbit completely went over my head. Not that it makes any real difference it's just I would have read it in time to post during Xmas in July😉.
I'm not going to say "I forgot how intriguing and fun Wolf could be" because even though my initial read was awhile back I've listened to the audio since but truth be told even if I hadn't listened to the audiobook I would still remember Wolf. He's not a character easily forgotten.
Sean Belmonte, well let's be brutally honest, he couldn't be any more opposite to Wolf if he tried, polar opposites doesn't even nick the tip of the iceberg. Some might say Wolf doesn't deserve to find happiness after what he did to Dexter waybackwhen but Dex seems to accept it so I can too.
Speaking of Dex. That phone call, brief maybe not even 2 or 3 pages long is a perfect example of where Dex and Wolf are in their connection, and dare I say showing fringes of friendship? Had Sean and Wolf not had the chemistry they do, that phone call would have still made reading Cold Light of Day a necessity. But of course, Sean and Wolf do have that smoldering, awkwardly flirting chemistry so the phone call and growing friendship of Dex and Wolf is just icing on the cake . . . or as Dex would like: a bowl of cheesy snacks followed by a dessert bowl of gummy bears.
Don't take the holiday timeframe to think this is all sugary sweet. Sure there is holiday fun but there is also everything that Charlie Cochet's THIRDS/TIN Therian Human world is known for: danger, action, and just the good old fashioned all around mayhem. Does Sean fit in this world? Maybe not at first glance but I think with Wolf at his side, he'll be navigating it like a pro before too long😉.
Summary:
Camp Bay Christmas #2
Located on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille in beautiful Northern Idaho, Camp Bay Chalet is a discreet and cozy B&B, popular with both locals and minor celebrities for its fabulous holiday weekends. Eric, an ex-con who lives and works at the Chalet, does his best to keep his head down and his nose clean, hoping the inn’s upscale clientele never learn about his past.
For years, pediatrician Max and his husband Wilson spent every Christmas at Camp Bay Chalet. After Wilson’s death, Max returned to Camp Bay. He and Eric had one perfect night together, but afterward, Max panicked and fled before morning. Now, he hopes to make up for lost time, but will he change his mind when he learns Eric’s darkest secret?
Camp Bay stories can be read in any order. The Camp Bay stories include:
Year 1:
Stolen Christmas, by Marie Sexton
North's Pole, by Leta Blake
Year 2:
Crazy Together, by Marie Sexton
Subbing for Christmas, by GR Lyons
Once Upon a Holiday Story
Chris Gardner has a good life in New Orleans. He owns a club in the French Quarter, has a wonderful crew of people who call it home, loyal, caring friends, and even gets his kid fix by helping to take care of his chef’s daughter. What he doesn’t have is that special someone to share his days and nights with. He thought he did, once upon a time, but that man left to find fame and fortune, became a rockstar, and never returned. And that’s fine. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Now if only he could find a band to play music in his club at night, that would be a Christmas miracle.
Dawson West had to leave to see if his dreams could become reality, but what he didn’t count on was that once he had the world at his feet, he’d miss the man who’d held him tight. Between the endless climb toward greatness and the pitfalls of addiction, Dawson lost himself for a while, but that doesn’t mean he stopped loving Chris. Not wanting his love to see him broken, he makes certain he’s clean and sober when he finally comes home. Going radio silent while becoming the man Chris deserves seemed like a good idea at the time, but now…
Now, Chris has a problem. Dawson is back, out of the blue, and if Chris lets him return to rocking his club, is that an invitation for his heart as well? How can Chris ever trust again, even if it is the season?
Once Upon A Christmas Song is a part of the multi-author series Once Upon A Holiday Story. Each book can be read as a standalone and in any order. What links these books together is The Hook’s Book Nook Traveling Library, a library on wheels owned by two old ladies in love.
Deck the Fire Halls by NR Walker
CHAPTER ONE
ROBINSON O’REILLY
I wokewith a start and stared at the strange ceiling, wondering what had woken me when I heard it again.
A motorcycle.
A big, loud motorcycle kickstarted to life right outside my bedroom wall, by the sounds of it.
New town, new house, new start.
Which also meant new sounds to get used to.
A Harley Davidson before seven on a Saturday morning was not a great way to start my day, nor was it something I wanted to get used to.
My real estate agent said the house was old but well-loved, that the street was quiet and the neighbors were great.
She was right about the house, but she never mentioned anything about said neighbor owning a Harley freaking Davidson.
I’d arrived in Hartbridge, Montana, late last night, grateful for central heating and that I didn’t have to get a fire started, and also grateful that I’d had barely enough energy to make my bed before I fell onto it and was finally getting some decent sleep. My first decent sleep in far too long . . .
Until a thundering motorcycle almost rattled me out of my bed at far-too-early o’clock, before it roared off down the street.
Not a great start to my very first day in town.
I threw back the covers and grumbled as I got out of bed, sighing as I shuffled down the hall into my living room. I frowned at the boxes stacked around me, a reminder of the day ahead of me, and headed to the kitchen.
Where I immediately regretted not setting up my coffee machine last night.
After ripping into the boxes on the table marked kitchen, I found my machine and the coffee beans, and a short time later, was gratefully sipping on a double shot of espresso out of a drinking glass.
Once I’d had some caffeine, I could admit that the house was quaint. A two-bedroom, single story bungalow, a small porch at the front, and an enclosed porch at the back. The walls were a tad too yellow for me, and I entertained the idea of having the whole house given a fresh coat of paint. Maybe in the summer . . . maybe by then I’d know if I had any intention of staying.
I’d looked at renting, but with the holidays approaching, options were limited, so I asked to see homes for sale instead. I hadn’t had any intention of buying again, not until I found the place which I wanted to make my permanent home. But given the price of real estate in Hartbridge, compared to Seattle where I’d just sold my very nice condo, it was just easier to freaking buy something instead of renting.
So maybe I’d have the walls painted, or maybe I wouldn’t.
I wandered out into the living room with my coffee and almost caught myself smiling at the sunlight streaming in through the white lace curtains.
Almost.
I think I’d forgotten how to smile.
Not a fake smile for the sake of pleasantry. I mean an honest smile from happiness.
I think I’d forgotten what happiness was.
I felt beaten down by life, by my job, by the career I’d fought for my whole life. Like the people I’d called friends, my medical colleagues, were excelling and thriving, while I was going under.
I’d almost walked away.
I’d been so close to throwing everything away. Just getting in my car and driving to Canada or Alaska or flying anywhere—the next plane to literally anywhere—just for a chance to breathe, when Alaya Ross took one look at me and pulled me into her office because she was concerned for my well-being.
To cut a really long story short, I ended up taking on a general practice position three days a week at the Hartbridge Medical Center.
If I couldn’t handle that?
Then I’d know I was well and truly done.
I was only thirty-six years old. I was young in this job. Maybe I’d gone too hard too fast. I’d worked insanely long hours; double shifts were standard. I’d been promoted before my peers, my dedication was commendable, blah blah blah.
My dedication had almost killed me.
Which is why I found myself in a very small town in the middle of the mountains in a small but cute house surrounded by boxes that needed to be unpacked.
That was my weekend plans, anyway.
Before going to the clinic for my first shift on Monday morning. I was trying to be optimistic. Maybe this was the fresh start I needed. Maybe it was the change of pace my mental health deserved.
Maybe it would decide my fate once and for all.
I told myself to give it a year, even two. Give it a fair trial run. Even if I was half-convinced I was already leaving.
Doomed before I begin, I thought as I drained my coffee, then put myself to work.
By late afternoon, I was almost done. I had a pile of flattened boxes I had no clue what to do with, my kitchen and clothes were sorted and put away, books unpacked on the bookcases in the spare room, and I had the TV set up.
I tried not to let it bother me that my entire life took just a few hours to unpack.
There wasn’t much of me. My entire life had been my job. I had a few photos of my parents and my sister. A candid photo of me at college, young and carefree, laughing with abandon, so oblivious to the path I was taking.
I wasn’t sure why I kept it. It felt a little self-serving, vain perhaps. But it was a good photo. I didn’t have many, and it was a good reminder to myself that I did use to smile.
God, that younger version of me had loved life. Full of adventure and a heart big and brave enough to take on the world.
Enough.
Stop it, Rob.
Get out and clear your mind.
Before I could let my thoughts spiral and have a full-blown what-have-I-done panic attack, I grabbed my coat and my keys, locked up my house, and walked outside.
Fresh air—albeit a little too fresh—warm sunshine, and a quick trip to the local store for some essentials was a great idea. The Home Mart itself was not much bigger than a 7-Eleven, but I managed to find some almond milk and some of that grain bread I hadn’t had in years. There was a small but decent supply of locally grown fruit and vegetables, which I had to admit . . . if it was in my closest farmer’s market back in Seattle, it’d have been five times the price.
The woman behind the counter gave me a bright smile. “Good afternoon,” she declared. “Find everything you were after today?”
At first I thought she was a little too over the top, but the way she paused for my answer to greet an older lady as she walked in with—“Oh, Mabel, I was going to call you. We got the yarn in you were looking for. It’s in aisle two, right alongside the others.”—I quickly realized she was maybe just that cheerful.
She turned her smile back to me and I’d almost forgotten she’d asked me a question. “Oh, yes, I did, thank you.”
“Just passing through?” she asked as she rang me up. “Or . . .”
“No, not passing through.” I wasn’t sure if anyone just passing through town would buy bread, milk, and a supply of fresh produce, but maybe I was out of practice with the art of small talk. “Just moved here, actually, from Seattle. Got a place on Elmwood Lane.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, how wonderful! What’s your name, love?”
Love?
I stopped short on the salutation of doctor. “Rob.”
“Well, Rob, I’m Rosie. Nice to meet you. I hope you’re happy here. It’s a great little town. Carl’s Diner on Main Street has some of the best coffee and cake you could ever want. And a whole range of meals, better than anything you could find in the city. Pizzeria, if you’d prefer. There’s a menswear store, Tania at the hairdressers, oh, and a hardware store if you need anything at all for your house. Go in and see Ren, he’ll fix you right up.”
Carl, Tania, Ren.
Right, then.
“Excellent, thank you,” I said, paying my bill. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I thanked her and managed a smile as I left. It was only a short walk back to my house, but I spent every step wondering if I’d stepped into the Twilight Zone, or if small towns were really like this. Where everyone was on a first name basis.
I was going to have to get used to it.
As I walked up the two steps to my porch, I heard a rumble coming down the road, and by the time I juggled my groceries and got my key in the door, the very loud Harley slowed right down and pulled in next door. Male rider from the size of him—huge bulging biceps, broad shoulders—though he wore a helmet, so I couldn’t see his face. But my god, the sound was so damn loud.
I pushed inside and closed the door. The noise cut off a few moments later, the resulting silence overly loud in its absence.
Or maybe it just seemed so loud because the rest of the town was so quiet?
With an annoyed sigh, I put away my groceries and pretended I hadn’t just bought a house right next door to a motorcycle gang member . . .
Which was probably a gross exaggeration and an awful stereotype, but as a doctor who’d spent way too many hours in the ER tending to riders of motorcycles and the occasional gang member, it was easy to presume such things.
I was disillusioned with the world. I was allowed to be mad about it.
I tried not to dwell on it though. Made myself my first home-cooked meal in far too long and put myself to bed with a book I’d been meaning to read for years.
I didn’t give my Harley-riding neighbor another thought. He had been quiet all night, thankfully no loud music or parties for a Saturday night, and I’d managed another decent night’s sleep . . .
To be woken again by the loudest, sleep-shattering rumble of that damn motorcycle.
I shoved my pillow over my head to drown out the noise, unsure if I wanted to weep in frustration or yell in anger. The rational part of my brain knew that going outside in my pajamas to yell at the guy probably wasn’t the best way to establish new neighborly relations, especially if he was in some motorcycle club.
But then the ruckus faded as he drove off, leaving blissful silence in its wake. I sighed and tried to doze off again, wondering if the bone-deep exhaustion would ever leave me.
Maybe it was part of me now.
Along with the jaded pessimism and general crankiness at life.
I never used to be like this, and I needed to shake off the mood, the funk. I needed to start looking at the positives. This was a new start, a new life. I’d left the darkness behind me and needed to start appreciating the good things.
Like coffee and sunshine through my living room window.
So with that in mind, and considering I was now very much awake, I threw back the covers, put on my robe and slippers, and headed for the kitchen.
I switched on the coffee machine to warm up, taking a few moments to breathe in the peace and quiet and the first rays of sunlight coming in through the living room window, casting shards of white on the yellow walls and sending dust motes into a spin.
Peace and quiet.
I could get used to this.
I inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, trying to breathe in the serenity.
I made my coffee, almost smiling as I took my first sip . . .
Until an all too familiar sound came thundering down the street, closer, slowing in front of my house before turning into his driveway.
My neighbor from hell.
Anger bubbled up inside me, irrational and stupid, and with my coffee in hand, I stomped out my front door, across the frosty front lawn, and met my inconsiderate motorcycle gang member neighbor in his driveway.
“Hey,” I yelled. I couldn’t even hear myself over the roar of his stupid motorcycle. “Hey!”
He cut the engine and my voice carried over the silence.
He sat on his huge motorcycle, wearing blue coveralls and a leather jacket. He lifted his hands and took off his helmet. I was expecting a hard face, scars, or neck or face tattoos.
But what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Short brown hair, sun-kissed skin, smiling hazel eyes and a grin that stole my breath. “Morning,” he said, voice like velvet. Then he looked me up and down, and I swear he chuckled. “Nice pajamas.”
I looked down at myself, horrified to see my robe open and my navy pajamas with pink flamingos and rainbows on full display. They were old. I’d bought them for a Pride Pajama Party at med school, and everything else I own had been packed. I’d kept them out with the intent of throwing them out once I got settled in . . .
“You okay?” he asked, concerned now. “You just moved in, right? Need help with anything?”
His kindness threw me for a second, not to mention his ridiculous good looks. “I, uh, I’m, um . . .” I looked down at the cup I’d forgotten I was holding. “Coffee,” I said.
Like an idiot.
Then I noticed the Hartbridge Fire Department logo on the breast of his coveralls, under his leather jacket.
Oh my.
Of course he was a firefighter.
“Hi, coffee,” he said, smiling obscenely. “My name’s Soren. It’s nice to meet you.”
A Spaceman Came Traveling by Barbara Elsborg
Stop looking at the clock.
Easy to say. Not easy to do. Seven was tired and he wanted to go home but he couldn’t.
“Seven! You’ve not cleaned that table properly!” Denise snapped.
Seven had cleaned the table properly. He’d sprayed the festive plastic covering, wiped cake off Santa’s beard and orange juice off his reindeer, then dried it so that it looked as good as new, but he picked up his equipment to do it again because it just wasn’t worth arguing with Denise or her sister Fiona.
Working at the café attached to the large garden centre wasn’t the job of Seven’s dreams, but that job was no longer attainable. He had to rethink his future and one thing he was certain about, was that working here didn’t make him happy. The thought of happiness made his chest ache.
“Do that one as well,” Fiona called.
Seven heard the two of them sniggering, but he did as he was told. Denise wanted him to protest so she could complain about him. He knew that because she’d done it twice with no good reason. Politely pointing out that she was mistaken had never worked. He already did far more work than her or Fiona. Seven had done nothing to make her not like him. She just didn’t. Nor did Fiona. It hurt not being liked, especially when he’d done nothing to deserve it.
He didn’t think it was because he was…not quite right, but it might have been. He wasn’t sure what other people really thought of him. Maybe it was because he was gay, though he didn’t think it was that either. If they wanted him to like them, they weren’t going the right way about it. There was no way they could know about the other thing and even if they did, complaining about him wouldn’t have been their response. Screaming might have been. That made him smile. Though if he was being honest, if he’d told them, they’d probably have rolled their eyes and laughed.
Seven’s heart jumped when two familiar figures walked into the café from the adjoining garden centre. This was the fifth time he’d seen them, but usually, they came in on Saturdays. Today was Friday. The boy was wrapped up well against the cold weather and Seven watched as his dad helped him out of his scarf, hat, gloves and coat. The man took off his own coat, hung it over the back of the chair and stuffed his hat in his pocket.
It wasn’t Seven’s imagination, was it, that the man had just shot him a little smile? Seven quickly looked the other way. The guy was gorgeous and every time he came in, Seven’s heart did something acrobatic which largely involved bouncing on his stomach until he felt slightly sick. The man had shiny dark hair, thick black eyelashes, bright blue eyes and the kindest smile. Seven had never had the chance to serve them because Fiona or Denise always managed to jump in first, but they were busy chattering behind the counter, probably plotting extra work for him, and hadn’t noticed the pair arrive. Seven grabbed two menus on the way to their table, only to be elbowed aside by a stampeding Fiona.
Ouch. He put the menus back. They always had the same thing anyway. Hot chocolates and a meringue snowman for the boy. As Seven returned the cleaning equipment to the cupboard, Denise tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey, you haven’t finished! Clean the legs of all the tables and chairs.”
Seven smiled purely because he sensed it annoyed her. A bit of a feeble thing to do, but better than revealing he was pissed off.
Fiona was flirting like mad with the man, but without any effect. The guy was polite, but even Seven could see he wanted her to go away. Once she’d taken the order there was no reason for her to hang around, whereas Seven had a good excuse to linger and began working on the chairs near the man’s table.
“You had a letter today,” the guy said to his son.
“Is it from Mummy?” “
No, sweetheart. It’s from Santa. Look, that’s your name on the envelope.”
“The stamp’s pretty.”
“It is. A snowy mountain. The Christmas stamps are lovely this year. I’ll find the others and show you.”
The boy ripped open the envelope, then handed over what was inside. “Read it for me, please.”
“Dear Ben. Thank you for your letter. I will do my best to bring the presents you asked for. I’m sorry I can’t bring your Mummy back. I would if I could, but Heaven is a long way away. Love Santa. And there are four kisses. See?”
A splinter pierced Seven’s heart. He rubbed half-heartedly at a paint mark on the table leg. A wife dead. A mother dead!
“If Mummy’s a long way away up in the stars, I could go and see her if I had a spacesuit.”
“Well…”
“Santa! Can you hear me?” Ben shouted.
“Shush,” his daddy whispered.
“No, I can’t shush. Santa has to hear me. Please bring me a spacesuit. I don’t care about the other things on my list. Just a spaceman’s outfit. Please, Santa!”
Seven’s throat closed up. He heard the guy quietly groan.
“Ben, it’s too late now. It’s Christmas Eve. Santa will have loaded everything on his sleigh. There won’t be room for anything else. That’s why you have to send your letter in early, and you didn’t ask for a spacesuit.”
That was good logic, but Seven had a feeling…
“It’s not too late,” the boy said. “Santa can do it. He can do anything. Then I can go and see Mummy. Pops and Nana said she was in the stars.”
Seven glanced up and happened to catch the guy’s eye. His wince said everything. There would be no spacesuit waiting under the tree tomorrow, and no time left now to drive anywhere to try and find one.
“Santa will do it,” Ben said. “I’d like a spacesuit with my name on it and… what’s the name of the place that sends rockets up?”
“NASA. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration.”
“And I need oxygen tanks and a helmet. And—”
“How about we go and see if we can find an ornament to put on the tree once we’ve finished our hot chocolate? If we happen to spot a spacesuit, I’ll buy it.”
Ben shook his head. “No need. Santa will bring one.”
Seven remembered the blind faith he’d had when he was a boy. Not for Santa, but it had been instilled into him that lying was wrong, so he’d believed everything he was told. Not always a good thing when he had brothers who liked to tease him. He stood up and made sure he walked past their table on his way back to the counter so he could peep at the address on the envelope because he had a plan. Ben c/o Cooper…Something or Other. So now he knew both their first names at least and had the address memorised.
Cold Light of Day by Charlie Cochet
“It’s the holidays!”
“And this is why you gag them,” Wolf muttered. He secured the suppressor to his Beretta, pausing halfway to rub his temple. That paracetamol had done fuck all for his headache.
“Where’s your festive spirit?”
Then there was this arsehole. Did the man ever stop whinging? “Do I look like Father Christmas to you?”
Dark eyes stared blankly at him. “Who?”
Bloody Yanks. Wolf placed his gun on the steel table to his left, then rubbed his temples again, hoping to ease the pulsing ache. “Santa Claus.”
“Then why didn’t you say that?”
Unbelievable. Wolf spun with a growl. “Because it’s the same fucking thing, you arse!”
“Jeez, okay. You don’t need to bite my head off.”
Tod was rather mouthy for someone Gaffer-taped to a steel chair, his wrists and ankles additionally restrained with Therian-strength zip ties. The Human wasn’t going anywhere. Not that it was needed. Even if he let the Human go, catching him would be simple, but Wolf wasn’t in the mood to deal with nonsense.
“You’re in no position to try my patience, Tod.” This wasn’t how Wolf had planned to spend his evening, arguing semantics with filth.
“Just saying. Maybe if you embraced the spirit of the season, you might feel more inclined to extend some goodwill toward your fellow man.”
This was a first. Usually, his targets pleaded or tried to bargain with him. They didn’t lecture him on how to be a better person. Either way, Tod was the last person who should bring up goodwill.
“Is that so? You mean the way you extended your greedy little hand toward your fellow man? You know what I’m talking about.”
Tod shrugged, his lips pulling into a smirk. “’Tis the season to give.”
“Allow me to impart some wisdom to you.” Wolf grabbed his gun off the table and the spare chair he’d placed in front of Tod. Unbuttoning his Ralph Lauren suit jacket, Wolf took a seat. “This so-called festive season you keep going on about is nothing more than a load of corporate bollocks created to encourage the gullible masses to spend more money than they have in an attempt to garner fleeting affection from so-called loved ones.
“These same gits put themselves through hell to visit relatives they don’t want to see but do so out of guilt and misguided obligation. Added to the stress and mounting debt are the copious amounts of food and alcohol consumed over several weeks leading to a laughable New Year’s resolution of losing weight in time for beach season. And don’t get me started on the music. The same bloody songs playing over and over. It’s enough to drive a man mad.” If he heard “Do They Know It’s Christmas” one more time…
“Wow. That’s… wow. The Grinch could take lessons from you.”
Wolf fired a shot into Tod’s right kneecap.
The man’s howls filled the empty storage unit, going on for much longer than necessary. Wolf brushed some lint off his trousers while he waited for Tod to stop being so dramatic.
“You shot me,” Tod spat. “You motherfucking-son-of-a-bitch British bastard!”
“Now, Tod, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m simply doing my job. Nothing personal.” Wolf pursed his lips. “It is a little personal.” He did rather enjoy making scum like Tod suffer. They were always so damned cocky, believing themselves invincible. Making them squirm and beg for mercy was quite the treat.
Tod’s bottom lip wobbled. “I didn’t mean to insult your mother.”
“Quite all right. She’s an insufferable bitch, so no offense taken. I’m referring to what you’re spending your ill-gotten gains on that I find offensive.” Astonishing how the Tods of the world believed they would never get caught. That justice—whether karmic or through some law enforcement agency—wouldn’t find them. In the end, they all paid. And Wolf? Sometimes the wheels of justice moved a little too slow for his taste.
“I… what?” Tod stared at Wolf, his beady near-black eyes rather unsettling. “Listen, whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it! Triple it!”
Wolf hummed. “The thing is, zero tripled is still zero, Tod.”
“Wait, you’re not being paid for this?”
Poor Tod. He seemed very confused. As if he’d never come across someone he couldn’t bribe. “You see, the pretty man who called in this favor now owes me a favor, and that’s worth far more than whatever dollar amount you throw at me. It didn’t work with your friends and won’t work now. Honestly, I would have taken the job without him owing me, but that’s our little secret.”
Now Tod looked scared.
Good.
“Friends?” Tod asked, voice shaky.
Wolf crossed one leg over the other, the barrel of his suppressor aimed at Tod’s chest. “Oh yes. All were tragically found dead. Dangerous business you’ve gotten yourself into.”
A few months ago, TIN arrested a small group of wealthy Humans during an undercover operation. To no one’s surprise, several of the Humans made deals with TIN to save their own arses. Little did the bastards know the TIN operative who’d exposed them for the monsters they were, had a thing about justice.
Sweat dripped down Tod’s face, his skin growing pale from blood loss. His brows drew together. “They’re Therians. Why do you care?”
After removing one of his black gloves, Wolf peeled off the small flesh-colored adhesive to reveal his wolf Therian classification tattoo. Tod’s eyes were all but ready to pop out of his skull. Finally, the real fun could begin.
“You’re a Therian!”
“Well done,” Wolf said brightly, placing the adhesive in his suit pocket before tugging his glove back on.
“But… your eyes…”
“Special lenses. They’re not exactly available at your local chemist. Try to keep up, Tod.”
“I don’t regret it,” Tod snarled. “You Therians are animals. Humans are the superior species, and if we don’t put you in your place—”
Wolf fired at Tod’s left kneecap, unfazed by the man’s howls, curses, and screams.
“You piece of shit! You’re nothing without a master. Running around wagging your tail for the highest bidder. You’re a rabid dog that should be put—”
A bullet to the head shut Tod up for good.
“I don’t like to be called a rabid dog.” With a sigh, Wolf sat back in his chair. Not how he’d expected his evening to go. It hadn’t always been like this.
Once upon a time, before the world revealed its depravity, he’d loved Christmas. His family always managed to make a ghastly spectacle of it—just another way to flaunt their wealth—but the days he spent with his little brother had made it all worthwhile. Said brother was only a year younger than him, but he’d always been so much younger in Wolf’s eyes. It was his inherent gentleness.
Wolf couldn’t help his fond smile. He did love the little shite quite fiercely. “So soft-hearted,” he muttered. Hudson had been that way since he was a lad. Always striving to help and do what was right. From a young age, he’d been a fierce defender for good. The smile slipped from Wolf’s face. Those days were long gone—no sense dwelling on the past.
He stood and buttoned his suit jacket, removed the suppressor from his gun, and tucked it inside its holster, followed by his gun. He pulled the burner phone from his pocket and hit the speed-dial button. Wadsworth answered on the first ring.
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s done.”
“Shall I send the Housekeeper in?”
“Yes.” Wolf dropped his gloves into the small incinerator by the door of the false wall. He checked the surveillance camera he’d installed when he’d set up the unit, one of the hundreds he rented across the States, all paid for through aliases and dummy corporations, sound-proofed and impeccably clean. He didn’t use them for long, switching them after a certain period. Thankfully America had thousands upon thousands of storage facilities.
“Very well. Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“No. Thank you, Wadsworth.”
“Always a pleasure, sir. And thank you for the Christmas bonus, sir.”
“You’re welcome.”
Wolf took exceptional care of those in his employ. They had been with him since the beginning, a carefully curated list of professionals who would walk through fire for him. Loyalty was a commodity not easily obtained, but that was what happened when you made yourself indispensable to someone. If you made a deal with the devil, you shouldn’t be surprised when betrayal landed you in hell.
A car with dark tinted windows waited for him outside the facility, engine running. Wolf thanked the driver, who’d stepped out to open the back door for him. Once the door was closed behind him, the car was off, and in less than an hour, he stood in the spacious lift heading up to his luxury flat. It made him smile every time. His former agency had no idea he was right under their noses. Manhattan provided the perfect anonymity he required yet allowed him to remain close to the only person in his life who mattered. Well, perhaps not the only person, but he wasn’t about to follow that particularly troubling train of thought.
The building might have top-notch security, but when one was wanted by several intelligence agencies worldwide, it was in one’s best interest to err on the side of caution, hence the tweaks he’d made to his flat’s security system.
Lights on and flat secure, he loosened his tie on the way to his bedroom. Inside the expansive walk-in closet, he unfastened his Rolex, then placed it in the velvet-lined drawer along with the others. Connecting his phone to the Bluetooth speaker, he brought up his favorite music app and pressed Play. David Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes” filled the room as he undressed. He put his shoes away in their spot before hanging up his suit to send out for cleaning.
Once everything was in its place, he stepped into his posh shower and enjoyed the hot spray hitting his shoulders and relaxing his muscles. He washed his hair and finished up, then shut off the water. Hair toweled dry, he returned to his bedroom in the nude and began his evening ritual of laying out a pair of boxer briefs, pajama bottoms, and a V-neck T-shirt as he air-dried. Nothing worse than getting dressed while still wet.
Once dressed, he made his way into the living room. As much as he enjoyed cooking—taking comfort in the process—he was far too uninspired to cook anything tonight. When he was younger, he baked biscuits with his little brother. Hudson had a serious biscuit obsession. To this day, his brother hoarded biscuits the way felids coveted boxes.
Placing his order with one of his favorite local restaurants, he headed over to his settee, loving the feel of the soft plush rug against his bare feet. He dropped down onto the cushion and turned on the telly. After flipping through the channels for several seconds, he groaned. He should have known better. Nothing but Christmas drivel. Reluctantly he picked one of the many ridiculous movies.
Thankfully, his alarm went off, informing him it was time for his most sacrosanct of duties. Nothing was executed with more solemnity. He picked up his cell phone and tapped at the screen to enter his security credentials. A few taps later and he held the phone to his ear. As with every other instance, he wasn’t disappointed by the smooth yet cautious response.
“Hello?”
“What are you wearing?” Wolf asked, his voice husky with a hint of humor.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Few things in life brought him joy like the blond man on the other end of the phone did. A grumpy growl resonated in the background, making Wolf smile. And then there was Dex’s husband, Sloane—a lethal, broody jaguar Therian, who Wolf loved to torment.
“What do you want?” Dex hissed.
Dexter J. Daley was unlike any man Wolf had ever known in his life, and Wolf had met all kinds of Humans and Therians. He’d met Dex under unique circumstances, and to this day, Wolf was glad he hadn’t killed Dex.
“Is that any way to talk to the fellow who took care of your little problem?”
A silent pause. “It’s over?” Dex asked quietly.
“For now. I think we both know it’s not truly over.”
Dex let out a heavy sigh. “I know.”
Stolen Christmas by Marie Sexton
Chapter 1
There’s a moment as the sun rises over Lake Pend Oreille when the water becomes a mirror, reflecting the soft, silver glow of dawn back toward the heavens, and nothing seems to move. For the span of a few heartbeats, the clouds seem frozen. The birds fall silent. The details of the ancient mountains standing on all sides are lost to shadow, becoming nothing more than hulking, dark sentinels, forever keeping the lake in its place.
And in that moment, for some reason I can’t quite put into words, I always feel sorry for the lake.
On December 22, that strange flash of stillness happened around 7:35 in the morning. The weather app on my phone promised we’d reach forty degrees later in the day—unseasonably warm for winter in the Idaho panhandle—but this early in the morning, it was a crisp 24 degrees out. My breath formed steamy clouds in front of my face as I stood on the lake’s shore, insulated coffee cup in hand, squinting into the sun. I tried to focus on the calmness all around me, as if I could breathe it in and make it part of me. I didn’t want to think about why my stomach had been in knots since the moment I woke, nerves and excitement warring inside me like they had on the day of my parole hearing seven years earlier.
Of course, trying not to think about it meant I actually spent every single second thinking about it.
Max would arrive today.
I’d checked the reservation a hundred times over the preceding weeks, staring at his name on the computer screen, willing it to give me some kind of insight into his state of mind when he’d booked the room, but it didn’t. I was as clueless now as I’d always been. And no amount of standing there, staring at the lake, was going to change that.
“C’mon, Molly!” I called down the shore to the frolicking golden retriever. “Time to go, girl.”
Molly barked but came running, knowing the routine, and we headed back to Camp Bay Chalet, the sprawling, log cabin bed and breakfast that had been my residence and employer for the last seven years. From May through September, Camp Bay Chalet was open seven days a week, but through the winter, we were weekends and holidays only, which meant the entire inn full of Christmas guests would arrive this afternoon.
“There’s nothing special happening today,” I told Molly as we climbed the bank to the cobblestone patio at the back of the inn. “We’ll have a full house, but nobody you need to worry about, got it?”
She panted happily at me, cocking her head.
Molly didn’t believe me, and I couldn’t blame her. Even I knew I was full of shit. I could say Max’s arrival meant nothing to me, but I still found myself lingering in front of the mirror longer than usual, wanting to look as good as possible when I saw him. Wanting to somehow turn into somebody better. Somebody who didn’t have to obfuscate whenever their past came up.
Somebody who actually deserved Max’s attention.
It didn’t work, of course. I was still me, an ex-con wearing work pants and a brown work shirt, the little embroidered name tag telling everybody my name was Eric. Clean-shaven. Brown hair cropped short. Teeth brushed. Shirt ironed. But no matter how long I stood there, I still couldn’t manage to turn into a man good enough for Max.
“Fuck this,” I finally mumbled to myself. “Time to get to work.”
Still, I couldn’t help but stop by the front desk, just to reassure myself nothing had changed. Sal, our resident busybody, was on the phone, arguing over whether or not the Chalet would issue a refund for a last-minute cancelation, and I took advantage of that moment to sneak behind the desk and use his computer. My heart pounded as I pulled up the reservation.
What if it was Max who canceled? It had nothing to do with me, and yet my heart sank at the very thought. But no, there he was, still on the list.
Maxwell Jernigan.
Up until three years ago, it had always been Drs. Wilson and Maxwell Childing. Wilson was a cardiologist, tall and athletic, with an ego the size of a small house. Max was a pediatrician, affable and friendly, always brushing off his husband’s arrogance with a laugh. “Specialists,” he’d say, elbowing his husband playfully. “Can’t live with them, can’t have a heart attack without them.”
They spent every Christmas at the inn, just the two of them, trying their damnedest to be cheerful about it even though I suspected their lack of family bothered them both more than they liked to admit.
But then, Wilson died.
To my surprise, Max kept coming. For the last two years, the reservation had only said “Maxwell Childing.” And now, Childing had changed to Jernigan. I had no idea if Childing had been his married name or his given name. Did Jernigan mean he’d gone back to his birth name, or did it mean he’d re-married?
The thought was like a stone in my gut, but the reservation was for only one person.
Sal hung up the phone and turned to me with a dramatic sigh, one fist on his narrow hips. “You could have just asked me whether or not he’d canceled.”
“Who?”
“Check-in isn’t until this afternoon. He won’t be here for hours.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t, lover boy.”
“I wish I’d never told you about it.”
He laughed. “No, you don’t.”
He was right. While I got along well enough with the rest of the staff, there were only two people I might have counted as friends—Sal and Rhonda. But Rhonda was my boss, and although she was always warm and convivial toward me, I didn’t consider her a confidante. Not when it came to sexual matters, at any rate. And so, in one of my weaker moments, I’d told Sal all about what happened on Christmas Eve the year before. It’d been a relief to get it off my chest, at the time. Now, I floundered for a way to dismiss it.
“He was drunk. He might not even remember.”
“Puh-lease, Eric. I’ve never had the pleasure, but I’m quite sure nobody would forget a night in your arms.”
Sal only said shit like this to make me blush. Unfortunately, it worked. I kept my eyes on the screen so I didn’t have to see the grin on his face, and noticed something I hadn’t seen the previous times I’d looked.
“Wait. You have him in the wrong room.”
“Of course I don’t.”
I pointed at the screen. “He always requests a room on the second floor, with a view of the lake.”
“Not this year. This year, he specifically said he wanted a room on the front side of the inn, so I put him on the third floor in room nine.”
“Did he say why?”
Sal rolled his eyes like a fifteen-year-old asked to put down their phone. “Honey, I don’t get paid to ask questions.”
New name. New room.
New husband, too?
I hoped like hell that wasn’t the case.
Once Upon a Christmas Song by Mary Calmes
ONE
It was raining, and while I loved the sound of it and the way it made everything smell, and mostly how everything looked immediately after, all glistening and bright, it did have the effect of keeping many tourists inside until it stopped. That was no good for me. I needed people walking up and down the 500 block of Frenchmen Street where my place was, and popping in for a drink. We served prize-winning cocktails at La Belle Vie, thanks to my mixologists, Xola Bass and Darcy Lee, who had individually and together won several awards both locally and nationally.
The issue was, as good as the drinks were, along with our food—a Caribbean-Creole mix thanks to my award-winning chef, Georgine Joseph—without the live music we were famous for, bridal parties walking the Quarter wouldn’t pop in and stay until closing. People looking to dance, not simply stand and listen to jazz, wouldn’t stop and show off their moves for their dates and buy drink after drink. Early in the evening, there was a space between the stage and the tables where people mingled. That was when we had the soloists, the artists, those selling CDs and looking for their big break. Later in the evening, between ten and closing—which was at two in the morning Friday and Saturday night, midnight on weekdays—was when the house band went on, and the place filled up with a raucous crowd, and people sitting at tables could have someone in their lap at any moment. We were always packed, and the bulk of our money was made on beer and shots while people sang along to the music.
But on Monday a week ago, after closing at midnight, Jimmy Jake and the Polecats quit.
“Stupid name,” I muttered under my breath.
“Boss?” asked Conner Lee, Darcy’s little brother and one of my barbacks, as he walked by me with a tray of dirty glassware. “Did you say something?”
“No,” Xola replied, lifting the pass-through so he could walk behind the bar. “Your boss is simply lamenting our abandonment by Jimmy Jake and the lame-ass pieces of shit he calls a band.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Well, considering no one else wanted them and Chris was the only one to give them a chance—and they were, no question, mediocre at best—I can understand the sentiment.”
“It was the best thing that could have happened,” said Simone Howard, my manager, as she took a seat beside me at the bar. “We need to talk to that booking agent.”
I shook my head. “We’ve always had a house band.”
“It’s not a sustainable solution anymore,” she told me for the five hundredth time.
“But if you have someone new every night, how can you ever develop a following?”
Simone turned to look at Merle Jennings, my head server, who was stacking our latest alcohol shipment on the shelves above the bar. “Say something.”
“The house band is dead,” he reiterated his point from two days ago. “Xola’s right, Simone’s right, Pete’s right, everyone’s right when we all told you we don’t need something constant, we need something constantly evolving.”
“Oooh, that was good,” Darcy chimed in as she peeled oranges for garnish.
Merle winked at her.
“Any performers we get, much like Jimmy and his couldn’t-keep-the-beat cats—God, they sucked,” Darcy said with an eye roll, “will eventually get another gig because they all aspire to greatness. Jimmy certainly couldn’t stay here forever, and being the house band at whatever club they went to in Nashville will get them seen by a lot more people. It’s all about exposure. You know that.” She eyed me hard. “We live in the age of social media, and if you have someone spectacular, or in Jimmy’s case, mediocre but constant in his cover of other people’s songs, someone will come sniffing around.”
It was the same with my two bartenders and the two others they’d trained. People were always in the bar wanting to poach them, but I had the edge with my employees. The space I’d created was safe. And not just because I did things by the book. They all knew I would take care of them. From a 401(K) to health insurance that included vision and dental, to being available day or night, I’d found that once someone signed on with me, they didn’t leave for anything at the same level or lower. They left to go to school, to open their own place, to spread their wings, to fly. Even then, sometimes they flew away to look, to see, and then came right back home.
Darcy was offered an amazing opportunity at a nightclub in Dubai and another in New York. She’d weighed the pros and cons, even taken trips to see where she would be working, and came back disillusioned—and in the case of the trip to Manhattan, with pneumonia.
“It didn’t feel right,”she’d explained, hugging me. “It wasn’t here.”
I enjoyed everyone being invested in our success, which was why I never hired anyone, except the bands, without everyone weighing in. The last time I’d been in the market for a new server, before Elsa Wayne, the guy sitting at the bar waiting for me to interview him had told Xola he could score her Molly if she wanted. Pete Rosen, one of my two assistant managers, had reported that her eyes had narrowed instantly and she’d pointed at the door. Anyone who thought selling drugs at our place was a good idea was in for a surprise. No one was about to put our Yelp, Tripadvisor, Zagat, or World of Mouth ratings in jeopardy. We liked being on the best of lists for our city. Of course, our music scene was a big part of that.
“Boss?”
I looked up to find Merle squinting at me.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I was just thinking about Jimmy and the guys.”
“They’ll get paid more at the new place,” Merle reminded me.
“I know. I don’t begrudge them leaving. It’s just the timing.”
“Yeah,” Darcy agreed. “If they could have waited just two weeks, that would have allowed you time to at least put feelers out. As it is now, right before Christmas, it’s gonna be hard to find someone to fill the spot.”
“So true,” I grumbled.
“What was the name of the band that was here last night?” Darcy asked, and when I looked at her, I was, as always, struck by her beauty. She was second-generation Chinese American, and instead of being anything like anyone else in her family—I’d seen pictures—she looked like a goth pixie. Both arms and her entire back were covered in gorgeous floral—poisonous flora—tattoos. Her ears, her nose, and her tongue were all pierced, and I had never seen her wear anything that wasn’t black. At the moment, she had a bustier over a peasant blouse, a black leather skirt, black tights, and knee-high motorcycle boots. When she wasn’t working, her boots were stilettos, but behind the bar, support for her feet was more important than fashion. And the boots laced up, so they were still cool-looking.
When her brother came out as gay and their parents couldn’t deal with that and stopped supporting him financially, Darcy moved the nineteen-year-old out to New Orleans, got him enrolled at LSU, and took over his support. Her one stipulation was he needed a job. She’d worked full-time and gone to school—her parents had the identical issue with her being bisexual—so he could do the same. I enjoyed having Conner at my bar because he was easygoing and smiled often, and it gave Darcy something else to do than worry about my love life.
“Boss?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking how pretty you are.”
Darcy gave me an indulgent smile. “You were zoning out is what you were doing,” she teased me. “But c’mon, what was the name of the band?”
I had to think. “Um, Cult of Meat?” I offered.
“No,” Xola said, reaching for the limes to start chopping them up for drinks. “I think it was Cult of Means.”
“Where are you guys getting cult?” Pete Rasmussen said, like we were all dumb, as he filled the ice bin, his arms like tree trunks, making the process quick and easy. “It was Cut of Meat.”
“It was Sweet Meat,” Elsa said, putting her tray on the counter. “I think they were going for the whole the-sweetest-meat-is-closest-to-the-bone saying, but that’s just weird.”
“Ewww.” Xola, who was vegan, gagged.
Getting out my phone, I looked at the name on my Excel spreadsheet. “It was Cut to the Meet,” I announced. “Like meeting someone.”
They were all looking at me like they’d smelled something bad.
“The fact that none of you knew their name tells me they sucked. Not memorable at all.”
“Oh, they were memorable,” Darcy assured me with a roll of her eyes.
“Just not in a good way,” Xola chimed in.
“Well…” Thad, my third bartender, grimaced. He was working the day shift for the rest of the week to learn more tips from Darcy and Xola. “I mean, it was wrong from the beginning, am I right?”
Lots of nodding from everyone.
Pete grunted. “A metal band on Frenchmen Street, boss? What were you thinking?”
All eyes on me.
“Something new?” I announced cheerfully.
Xola snorted, which was incongruous coming from a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a fairy tale. With her long black box braids with magenta highlights, and flawless deep-umber complexion with gold undertones, she was stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful. When there were men at the bar who hadn’t seen her—they would be talking, not paying attention, and then she’d ask what they wanted in her husky voice—it was fun to watch them get caught in her amber stare. I enjoyed seeing men of all ages go mute. Small perks of the job.
Not that owning a venue like La Belle Vie wasn’t fun. I loved it. My dream had been to have a place in the Quarter, and I realized it at thirty-one. Now, at thirty-six, I thought there would be more to my life than work. I had always pictured someone with me. I had, in fact, pictured someone very specific before he blew town, seeking fame and fortune. And unlike our last band, he had quickly found both. But thinking about Dawson West was a mistake, and after all the time it took me to purge him from my system, I was not going back for anything. And more importantly, thinking about my lost love did nothing to fix my current problem. We really needed a band.
Later that night,as Shenandoah was onstage, I kept my head down and made sure not to make eye contact with anyone, catching up on my paperwork and cleaning projects.
“Really?”
I groaned and lifted my head, meeting the beautiful gray eyes of my manager, my second-in-charge, the woman I’d been smart enough to hire the moment she walked into my place five years ago, after I’d owned the club for two whole weeks. She’d glanced around, then caught my gaze.
“You need help,”she’d stated. “You’re trying to do too much.”
She was not wrong. Trying to be all things when I was a back-of-house guy, not the type to be front and center, had been a mistake. In Simone Howard, I found someone who was amazing with the public, which I was not. We had the perfect division of labor. She told me to think of work like a ship. I took care of the crew, made sure we had all the supplies we needed for the voyage, and she navigated and talked to the people in all the ports. I liked the metaphor. At the moment, though, I did not enjoy how I was being looked at.
“What?” I asked defensively.
She tipped her head slightly toward the playing band.
Groaning, I put my head down.
“Dazzle me,” she goaded.
“I thought, yanno, from the name, that they were probably a country band.”
“Mmmmm-hmmm.”
“I mean, how could a country band be bad?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, one eye closed because the yodeling was just a bit off-key and had, I suspected, run straight up her spinal column to her brain, “you will invite the very nice booking agent who dropped off her card last week, to lunch.”
“I’m cooking my lobster gumbo,” Georgine informed me, taking a seat on the barstool beside me. “That way we’ll impress her.”
“We have to do something,” Xola agreed, sliding in next to Simone, gesturing at the emptiness that was our club at the moment. “Because people cannot dance and drink and sin while being reminded of God.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Now listen,” Simone began. “I love church, and as you know, I sing in the choir every Sunday morning, but this? This ain’t it.”
No argument there.
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.
She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.
She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.
She’s been writing ever since...
Barbara Elsborg lives in Kent in the south of England. She always wanted to be a spy, but having confessed to everyone without them even resorting to torture, she decided it was not for her. Volcanology scorched her feet. A morbid fear of sharks put paid to marine biology. So instead, she spent several years successfully selling cyanide.
After dragging up two rotten, ungrateful children and frustrating her sexy, devoted, wonderful husband (who can now stop twisting her arm) she finally has time to conduct an affair with an electrifying plugged-in male, her laptop.
Her earlier books feature quirky heroines and bad boys, now she concentrates on the bad boys, and hopes her books are as much fun to read as they are to write.
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.
Join Charlie's newsletter and stay up to date with Charlie's latest releases, receive exclusive content, giveaways, and more!
Marie SextonMarie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.
Mary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work. She can even tell you what her characters smell like. She loves buying books and going to conventions to meet her fans.
NR Walker
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / CHIRP
EMAIL: nrwalker2103@gmail.com
Barbara Elsborg
EMAIL: bjelsborg@gmail.com
Charlie Cochet
EMAIL: charlie@charliecochet.com
Marie Sexton
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
iTUNES / AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
TUMBLR / CHIRP / SMASHWORDS
PRIDE PUB / AUDIOBOOKS / B&N
EMAIL: msexton.author@gmail.com
Mary Calmes
BLOG / NEWSLETTER / FB FRIEND
AUDIOBOOKS / TANTOR / CHIRP
EMAIL: mmcalmes@hotmail.com
Deck the Fire Halls by NR Walker
A Spaceman Came Traveling by Barbara Elsborg
Cold Light of Day by Charlie Cochet
Stolen Christmas by Marie Sexton
Once Upon a Christmas Song by Mary Calmes
