Summary:
Single Dads All the Way
Real life is rarely a fairytale.
Beau de León only ever wanted the simple things in life. A steady job as a middle school history teacher, a faithful wife, and to one day become a dad. Recently, however, he lost out on all three.
Putting back the pieces of his life after his divorce, having discovered his wife was cheating on him and that their baby was not his, Beau’s luck continues to go from bad to worse when he can’t find a job in his field. Although his luck might be taking a turn for the better when he meets Arik, a single billionaire who did just become a father and needs a nanny.
Ariel “Arik” Anders only ever wanted the best in life. Success in his exceptionally lucrative business ventures, no serious relationships to tie him down, and to play as hard as he works. Recently, however, his priorities took a turn.
Rearranging his life after his ex informed him that she was pregnant and planning to have the baby but not raise it herself, Arik asked for full custody, which could be the biggest mistake he has ever made. Although he might be able to survive fatherhood after meeting Beau, the too cute for his own good out of work teacher he hires to be his nanny.
Spending time in each other’s company doesn’t mean they’ll fall into bed together. That would be a terrible idea! Worse would be if some magical holiday timing and circumstance causes them to catch feelings.
A Merry Penthouse Christmas is a standalone short story as part of the multi-author collaboration Single Dads All the Way. You can expect some mutual pining between boss and employee in this mostly sweet holiday romance with occasional hurt/comfort and a guaranteed HEA.
Summary:
Hartbridge #
When given the opportunity to make his dream of owning his own bookstore come true, Winter Atkins couldn’t say yes quick enough. Moving to Hartbridge, Montana, with his favorite aunt is the adventure he needs to start over. And leaving behind a string of unhappy boyfriends because of his asexuality, Winter is all too happy to shelve the idea of dating forever.
Deacon Clark has never fit in. Autistic and neurodivergent, he excels in his studies and at his father’s veterinary clinic, but his social skills are lacking. He’s attracted to men, but his bluntness and aversion to physical touch have made dating impossible.
When Winter brings an injured cat into Deacon’s clinic, it sparks an unlikely friendship; something both men need more than they realize. Hartbridge’s Christmas Cupid has his work cut out for him this year. But with the help of two newly orphaned kittens, from friendship, the strongest bond forms.
Silent Knight by Davidson King
Summary:Can someone have both all the luck and none at all? For Ezra Acker the answer is yes. Life just is for him…until one Christmas when everything shifts and he finds out he has a silent knight who has been protecting him.
A world Ezra didn’t know existed is trying to kill both him and his knight. Can they survive the holidays and have a happily ever after or will Heaven and Hell see to it they don’t?
Silent Knight is a standalone dark paranormal novelette that was a part of the O Deadly Night Vol 2 Charity Anthology. No part of this story has been changed.
I originally read this King short in the O Deadly Night Vol 2 Charity Anthology last Xmas and loved it then and I think I might love it even more now. Ezra and Senon are so amazing together, despite some of the darkness of the story you can't help but cheer them on. I have no idea if Davidson King ever intends to expand and branch this universe or perhaps connect it to another of her series, if she does I'll be like the family cat poised to pounce on discarded wrapping paper on Christmas morning. If Silent Knight is all we get of Ezra and Senon's world than I will savor it for Xmases and Xmases in July for years to come.
Original O Deadly Night Vol 2 Charity Anthology Review November 2023:
(from the overall part of the anthology review): "these are dark stories would probably be an understatement. If you're looking for Hallmark-y, Disneyesque, cute meet, cliche HEA, then this is probably not for you. If you like creepy horror with your holiday fare then I can't recommend this anthology enough"
I said above that if you're looking for HEA this isn't the book for you but I think Davidson King's entry, Silent Knight(though more of a dark suspense than flat out horror) is probably as close to that HEA label as any horror collection can provide. Truth is, King's storytelling star shines bright in this perfect blend of dark, dreamy, and delicious. Destiny and holiday has rarely been darker.
Summary:
I came to Legacy, Montana, to sell a fantasy—twelve Insta-ready #Holidates of Christmas. One career-making brand deal. Zero drama.
Then my videographer bailed, and in walked Maddox Sullivan.
Grumpy. Gorgeous. Growly. A mountain man with zero chill and even less tolerance for influencers like me. He agrees to film my content—off-camera only—but when my first date cancels, guess who ends up in front of the lens?
Cue the fireworks.
Our chemistry is instant. My followers are obsessed. #TeamMaddrian starts trending. Suddenly, all my dates are mysteriously dropping out, and Maddox is reluctantly starring in every single holidate—sleigh rides, snowball fights, cocoa by the fire, kisses under the mistletoe.
And I… I’m starting to forget this was ever supposed to be pretend.
Because every time Maddox looks at me, I feel something real. Something lasting. Something terrifying.
I came here for curated content. Now I’m dreaming of a life I never thought I wanted—with a man I never saw coming.
But am I falling for the picture-perfect holiday fantasy? Or could this be the start of my real-life happily ever after?
Reindeer Mate for Life
I thought the snow was preventing me from getting home. Instead, it brought me straight to it.
I never count on the weather report to be accurate, but when they predicted something between a dusting and a half inch, I thought I could make it the rest of my way home. I thought wrong. My car is barely making it on the flat terrain, and I’m about to head into mountain country when I see an old sign for Santa’s Lodge. It’s time to say uncle and hunker down for the rest of the storm.
Only, when I pull up to the inn, it looks like someplace time has forgotten. If not for the man carrying an armload of firewood, I’d have thought the place vacant. I grab my bag, expecting to pay a huge amount for a last-minute booking only to walk in and discover the entire building is under renovations with one exception: the owner’s residence.
He offers to let me ride out the storm there, but I politely decline. As I’m about to leave, the emergency sirens on our phones go off. All roads have been closed until further notice. Looks like I’m taking him up on it after all.
Snowed in at Santa’s Lodge is an M/M mpreg shifter holiday romance featuring a reindeer shifter who inherited one mess of an inn, the human who stumbles by long before they are guest ready, a whole lot of snow, the week they will never forget, true love, fated mates, cookies galore, tinsel-filled festivities, the sweetest puppy, enough Christmas lights to lead Santa’s sleigh on a foggy winter night, Christmas magic, an adorable baby, and a guaranteed happy ever after. If you love your omegas filled with the holiday spirit and your alphas willing to do whatever it takes to be their ultimate Santa, download your copy today.
Snowed in at Santa’s Lodge is part of the multi-author, gay romance, mpreg shifter A Reindeer Mate for Christmas series. Each book can be read as a standalone, but why stop at one when you can read them all?
A Merry Penthouse Christmas by Amanda Meuwissen
Prologue
BEAU
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly
Fa la la la la, la la la—”
Urg.
It's been three days since Halloween, but what else did I expect?
A typical day for me is usually fairly routine.
Was fairly routine. I suppose most of it still is.
Except for one thing.
“Next stop: Hudson Square,” the announcer’s voice blares over the subway speakers, temporarily overtaking the—in my opinion—far too early Christmas carol. “Next stop: Hudson Square.”
Two more stops to home. Well, two more stops to the apartment I can barely afford but have to rent by the month, because I don’t know where my next paycheck might be coming from. It’s been this way for a while. There is supposed to be a teacher shortage, yet I can’t seem to find a job in my field.
I’ve been subbing, and temping at call centers to make ends meet, which I hate, but I had to go and make my focus middle childhood education and history, and there are zero 6th grade history teacher positions in this city. Even only months from completing my masters, I can’t get a bite, not for a steady job anyway. Another interview ending with, “We’ll let you know if anything opens up,” and I am going to become one of those screaming lunatics on the subway who everyone avoids.
Or one of the sobbing ones.
Maybe if I had a tie that wasn’t over ten years old from my first college interviews—and crap, is that a hole in my slacks?—I might make better impressions. Or I’m just unlucky. It certainly feels like the universe is out to get me lately.
I tug my equally threadbare jacket more tightly around me. I can’t zip it because the teeth snag and I can never get it undone again afterward. The weather lately is threatening to not even hit low fifties. Despite being only just past Halloween, Christmas decorations are already everywhere, and if the subway is playing “Deck the Halls,” you can bet that poking my head into one shop or another will mean my first forced listening of “All I Want for Christmas” long before Thanksgiving.
I usually love this time of year. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years—these are the good holidays, the exciting ones filled with food, fun, and family.
Or at least they used to be.
My phone buzzes, and I worry it’s another late fee notification for one of my many overdue bills, but it’s my brother calling. At least my original family is still there for me.
“Hey, Bell,” I answer.
“Hey! Have you, um… heard the news?” Bellamy asks.
My blood runs colder than the chill outside. With that tone and given what month it is, I know what he must mean. “She had the baby?”
“Today. It’s a girl.”
“Oh.” It’s not as if I care what gender the baby turned out to be, but to hear it feels so final.
“If you need to talk or just scream at someone—”
“I’m on the subway, Bell, and I hate being one of those people on their phones the whole trip. Can I, uh… call you back?”
“Job interview today?”
“Done and dud. Same old story.” I speak through the urge to grind my teeth. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Okay, Beau. I love you.”
“Love you too, Bell.”
I actually could use a scream, but not here. I probably won’t give in when I call Bellamy later either. I might be out of screams.
Not tears though. Crap. I wipe my eyes before it gets too obvious that I am close to crying. I still catch a suspicious glance from the teenager otherwise glued to her phone across from me. With my phone still in hand, I scroll back through my texts to the last ones from… her.
The most recent were about me moving out. Whether I’d found an apartment. If I’d be okay. If I was sure. I eventually get to the text that started this months ago.
Emily: I need to tell you something.
The “we need to talk” of it all had caused me to call her immediately. Imagine my shock and devastation when she admitted I was not the father of our baby, after four months of being excited together. At least the real father isn’t anyone I know but a coworker of hers. I’ve been carrying our divorce papers around for a week.
My brother has been trying to get me back out there, but how do I return to dating after marrying my college sweetheart? How do people even ask women out these days?
“You could try dudes again,” Bellamy suggested.
Right. Not that I didn’t enjoy my few college boyfriends, but I haven’t been with a guy since then, before senior year when Emily and I got together. That’s five—no, six years ago now. If I don’t know how to ask out a woman anymore, I definitely don’t know how to ask out a guy.
How could I even consider hooking up with anyone when the birth of my not-child was looming? Now it’s here. She’s here.
And I’m still not the father.
I must be a glutton for punishment because instead of getting off the subway at my stop, I get off at the one nearest to First Methodist Hospital.
Because the one thing that’s different about my routine these days is how, until recently, I would have been going home to a doting and faithful wife. And now, I’m alone.
ARIK
A typical day for me is usually fairly routine.
Was fairly routine. I suppose most of it still is.
Except for one thing.
“Thank you, everyone. That’s all for today,” I dismiss the board meeting, and my peers and I in our equally expensive and expertly tailored suits and pencil skirts disperse. I am in a suit, but a pencil skirt wouldn’t be unheard of from me. I have the legs for it.
My company’s high-rise offices have already been decked out in tinsel for the coming season. I would complain but a little early glitz and glamour helps morale. Or so I’m told. Being the boss, I work even when I’m spiraling.
Without having to summon my assistant, he meets me at the elevator, tablet in hand and ready to recite the next items on my schedule with barely a nod in greeting. I love that about Skylar. He is efficient, blunt, and appropriately vicious, just as a good assistant should be.
He would wear a pencil skirt to work if he found one adequate to his tastes, but today he is in a deep burgundy suit and pink floral button-down. Although he looks like a pale, blond twink—and he is—he could break a floundering intern in two with his words alone whether in person or over inter-office email.
“Your driver is waiting downstairs. You have a ten-thirty meeting across town regarding the Johnson merger. That tie is hideous. And you have four missed calls. Two aren’t worth your time. One can wait until after the Johnson meeting. Fourth was Clara.”
That catches my attention as Skylar hands me my phone. I don’t keep it on me during important meetings. I prefer to be present and focused. Skylar only takes my calls for me if it is business related, and Clara isn’t business.
I check my texts first, scrolling down to her name to see that she also messaged me.
Clara: Hey Daddy. Guess what? It’s a boy.
A boy. It’s a boy. I would have been happy with anything, but to see it in writing feels so real. I knew it would happen any day now. I’d wanted to be there when the baby was born, but that damn meeting went longer than expected.
“Move my ten-thirty to this afternoon,” I inform Skylar.
“But Arik—”
“Code pastel,” I cut him off, and he immediately straightens. He nods, following as I exit the elevator and make my way even more swiftly than before to my waiting car.
I falter a little along the way, however, since the lobby is playing… urg.
"Dashing through the snow
In a one-horse open sleigh,
O'er the hills we go..."
I guess I should be glad I made it through the weekend.
I begin loosening my tie as we exit the building, and by the time I’m inside the vehicle, it is undone for me to hand it out the window to Skylar. “I expect everything to be ready when I get home. The tie was a gift.”
“Do you need—”
“No. This I have to do on my own.”
Skylar stays behind as we drive off, and I direct the driver to First Methodist Hospital. It is a tense ride, at least for me, and I try to distract myself by catching up on my other missed messages. My texts are mostly business-related but a few are for pleasure. I can get practically anything and everything I want by way of the contacts on my phone, sex included.
Such as the reminder from a certain dancer named Rowan that we had plans for tonight. They are a particularly exquisite dalliance I indulge in from time to time, but I send them my apologies and the promise of a raincheck. I also have texts from dalliances Sandra and Kevin, but they can wait.
I scroll back up to Clara’s message and text her that I am on my way. We already agreed I am getting full custody. There is hardly any paperwork left. She isn’t fit to raise a child, and we both know it. Maybe I won’t be much better, but as soon as she told me she was pregnant and willing to have the child, whether to give it up for adoption or to turn it over to me, I’d felt a rare possessiveness and hadn’t hesitated to say I would raise the child myself.
I must have been out of my mind because “baby proofed” is the last thing my life is, let alone my penthouse.
Doesn’t matter now though. Because the one thing that is different about my routine these days is how, until recently, I would have been going home to a blessedly empty apartment. And now, I’m about to have company for the next eighteen years.
Merry and Bright by NR Walker
CHAPTER ONE
WINTER ATKINS
“Mr. Winter Atkins,” the realtor said. “Please sign here.”
He slid the paperwork in my direction, pointing to the sticky note with an arrow. I gave my aunt Rowena a quick glance, unable to hide my happiness and excitement. She grinned right at me, encouraging me to seal the deal.
I scribbled my signature, and Ro gave my arm a squeeze. “Well, we’re doing it!” she said. “No going back now.”
No, there wasn’t.
There was never any going back.
Once I’d quit my job, packed up my small apartment back in Boise, and said goodbye to my friends, there was no going back.
I mean, I could, if I had to.
But I didn’t want to. I wanted this new adventure to work out.
I needed it to.
Ro had invested some of her inheritance money in this new venture. She’d invested in me. More than my mother, Ro’s sister, had. To say my relationship with my mother was strained was an understatement. Had been since as early as I could remember, since I was obviously gay and she couldn’t deal with it.
She never disowned me or kicked me out. But her parenting came from a sense of obligation, not out of love. I learned all too well that her love came with conditions.
Whereas my aunt Ro welcomed me with open arms. She used to take teen-me aside and tell me it was okay to be me, it was okay to be gay, to be figuring shit out. I was basically the child she never had.
She’d been my saving grace.
Then and now.
Ro and my mother’s uncle had died and, not having any children of his own, left them a sizable amount of money and stocks. My mother had never mentioned the money to me—not that I’d expected her to—but Aunt Ro wanted a change of scene, and something to dump some dollars into for tax purposes. She’d been to Hartbridge before and had fallen in love with the tiny town. And given I’d been a bookstore manager for years, we found an ideal location, and I’d just signed the lease.
This was really happening.
She’d also found an old farmhouse a few minutes out of town, which we’d moved into just two days before. And I wanted to clean the store and paint the walls before the contractor guys installed the shelving and service counter next week. So, when I say it was happening, I meant it was all happening.
We took the keys and went to the store that was now ours. I parked out back, my hands trembling as I unlocked the door, and we stepped into the empty store. The glass front faced a paved road closed to traffic that met up with the river, just off Main Street. Directly across from us was a coffee shop run by the youth center as a training hub.
“It’s going to be amazing,” Ro said. “And the installers will be here on Monday, right?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“Then let’s get to work!”
I laughed. She’d always been such a doer. I knew it would be pointless to tell her not to worry, that I could do it on my own. I didn’t expect her to help me, but hanging out with her was always fun. We’d always gotten along so well, and I enjoyed our time together. We often just hung out because we enjoyed each other’s company. Even when I was a kid, she’d hated being called aunt or aunty and had insisted I call her by her name.
She was five feet and three-quarter inches. That three-quarter inch was important, apparently. She had dark gray curls to her shoulders, Kermit-green chunky glasses and a brilliant smile, usually painted a bright red. She had a bright aura, she was smart as a whip, kind and gracious, and her energy was contagious.
I adored her.
The fact she was putting her trust in me made me even more determined not to let her down.
I wasn’t worried. In fact, I knew we could do this. I knew my industry. I knew the book market. It was a great location in a great little town. Everyone I’d encountered so far had been friendly and welcoming, and it was inclusive.
There were pride flags in the youth center window, and the man at the hardware store who’d helped me choose the paint yesterday was clearly gay. I don’t like to judge or assume, but when I’d asked for a neutral, warm white, he’d smirked at me, grabbed my arm, and said, “Ooh, I know just the thing.” He’d handed me a swatch of different whites.
“These have a warm undertone. Ren thinks I’ve learned about paint colors from him, but honestly, I learned everything I know about undertones and complexion from Drag Race.”
I’d laughed at that. “Love that.”
He was a bit fem, had a dark beard, an accent I couldn’t quite place, and a wedding ring on his finger. I had no idea who the Ren was that he’d mentioned, but I figured from the way the tall guy behind the counter had smiled at him that it was probably him.
Everyone seemed so friendly here. It was such a pretty town, nestled in the mountains by the river. I couldn’t wait to see it in full winter mode. Ro told me there was a Christmas festival in the town every year, and while that sounded fun, given it was mid-November already, it told me I didn’t have much time to get this store up and running to capture most of the Christmas trade.
So, Ro and I got busy painting walls. Plus the pre-cleaning and cutting in and everything else, and by the end of the second day, the awful, dirty sepia yellow was gone, and ‘First Snow’ warm white was in. It looked fresh, clean, and inviting.
It felt so good.
Good to be productive, good to get the ball rolling. Good to start this new chapter of our lives.
“Okay, I’ll head off first,” Ro said. Then she stretched out her shoulders and arms. “Ugh. I need a hot bath. But I’ll stop by the pizzeria first and pick up dinner. We’re not cooking tonight.”
The old farmhouse had one of those old-fashioned deep baths that was made for soaking tired and aching bodies.
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “I won’t be long here. Just gonna put a second coat on the windowsill.”
“Okay, darling,” she said, waving me off as she headed out to her car.
I finished the windowsill and, standing in my new empty store, I took a minute to look around. I was so freaking happy. This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to me. A fresh start like the fresh coat of paint.
I intended to bury myself in work for the foreseeable future. No exes to run into to remind me how I was so lacking, how my being asexual was a fault or something they could fix.
No siree.
I had zero intention of making those same mistakes twice.
Or a third or fourth time, as the case may be.
This was my chance to start over. Build the business of my dreams, and get to live a fulfilling life, happily single forever, surrounded by books.
Cozy town, cozy bookstore, cozy me.
That was the plan.
And I couldn’t wait.
Locking up the store, I pulled on my coat and went out to my car. Found my favorite playlist, which I’d aptly named Best Songs for Being Gay. I cranked up the volume. Queen began to belt out “I want to break free” and I was giving it my best karaoke special, reversed out of my parking spot with enough vigor to make Freddie Mercury proud, and felt a thump and heard a godawful screech.
Even above my own godawful screeching.
I hit the brakes and shut the engine off. There was only silence, and I was almost too scared to get out . . . but then I saw a cat half drag itself to the side of the building.
Oh no!
I jumped out and ran over to it. It was not good. Lying very still and its back legs were . . .
Dear god.
I took off my coat and bundled the cat up, carrying it to my car. I drove off again, this time without the vigor and the screeching, but with extra panic and sobbing. There was a vet clinic we passed on our way from home, so I thankfully knew where it was.
There were still a few cars in the lot, and the lights were on inside.
Thank heavens.
I grabbed the bundle of coat and cat and raced it inside. There was a lady behind the reception counter, and she stood up when she saw me. “I hit a cat,” I said, crying, and I’m surprised she understood me.
“Come this way,” she said, quickly ushering me through a door.
A man in a white lab coat appeared and took the bundle from me, and I was all but pushed back out of the room.
So, not knowing what else I should do, I sat in one of the waiting room chairs and waited. And cried, and wiped my snotty nose, and despite how badly my hands were shaking, I sent Ro a text.
Will be late. I hit a cat with my car. I’m at the vet
Her reply came through immediately.
Oh no! Need me to come down?
No, it’s fine. Just waiting to hear
Okay. Let me know if anything changes
She was such a godsend. I cried a little at her kindness, wiping away a tear.
I couldn’t believe I’d hit a cat. Was it under my car when I’d gotten into it? Did I not see it in the backup camera?
And I’d been having such a good day . . .
Still a decidedly better day than the poor cat was having.
And of course, that made me start crying again.
Then a man came out of the door, holding my coat, folded neatly, his expression sad.
And I knew. I knew it was bad news.
Didn’t stop me from asking though. “Is the cat . . . did it . . . ?”
He shook his head. “She couldn’t be saved.”
I slumped back in my seat and cried, my face in my hands. “I killed her. Oh my goodness, I killed a cat. I’m a terrible person. Does she have an owner?” I looked up at him. “Oh no. Does she have an owner? Was she microchipped? Who do I have to go break the bad news to? I just moved here and someone’s going to hate me already.”
He fidgeted with my coat he was still holding. “There was no microchip. From the condition of her coat and weight, she was likely a stray.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. I mean, it didn’t make it any better, though I was relieved I didn’t have to go tell some poor child I’d killed their beloved pet. Or a little old lady’s only companion. I wasn’t sure which would be worse. “Well, it’s not good. That poor cat. I think it was under my car when I got in. I don’t know. I didn’t see it. It was an accident, I swear. I’ll pay the bill, whatever the cost. That’s fine.”
He made a face, though it was hard to tell through my tears and snot-sobbing, then he sat beside me and handed me a tissue. He waited until I had some composure.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “I’ve never killed anything before.”
He didn’t say anything, and when I looked at him, I could see he was uncomfortable. He was a little wide-eyed, unsure of how to react or where to look. He handed over my coat and stood up.
“We are closed for the day now,” he said.
Oh.
Well then.
Right.
A little rude perhaps, but at least I got the message.
“Okay, sure,” I said, dabbing my tears as I stood. “Thanks, I guess.” I walked to the door, giving him one last look.
He shifted his weight, fidgeting his hands. He looked uncomfortable but sad. He was only young, I realized now that I took better notice of him. Twenty-something, short ashy-brown hair, blue eyes.
He squinted, uneasy, glanced at me before focusing on the wall instead. “‘Death is not the opposite of life but an innate part of it,’” he said softly.
Then turned on his heel and walked out.
I stood there, blinking at where he’d been, until I remembered that he’d asked me to leave.
I went home, was met by Ro with a big hug, wine, and pizza. After I’d told her everything that had happened and had another good cry, I couldn’t help but think about what that guy had said.
I’d heard it before; I was sure of it. I just had to place it . . .
“I’ll be damned,” I said, rushing to my bookcase. I pulled out one of my favorite books ever and flipped through the pages.
“Death is not the opposite of life, but an innate part of it,” I read out loud. “What the hell.”
“What is it?” Ro asked me from the door.
“That guy. The vet,” I replied. Well, I’d assumed he was the vet. He had a white coat over scrubs, but he could have been a cleaner for all I knew. Not that it mattered. He’d had the awful task of giving me bad news. I held up my well-read, well-loved copy of Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. “He quoted this.”
She stared at me, a slow spreading smile at her lips. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh what?”
“I thought you’d sworn off men forever.”
“I did. I am,” I replied indignantly. “I mean, yes. One hundred percent. I have sworn off dating, sworn off being disappointed by men who don’t understand me, sworn off men who . . .”
“Who quote one of your two hundred most favorite books ever.”
My eyes met hers and I let out a pathetic whine. “Yes. Even then.”
“That wasn’t very convincing, Win. Try it again, this time with meaning.”
I stroked the cover of my book as if I’d hurt its feelings instead of my own. “Yes. Even then.”
Silent Knight by Davidson King
EZRA ACKER: AGE TEN
The first time it happened, I was ten. I was living with the Kimbers, my fifth foster family. I got off the school bus and started walking the five blocks to their house. It wasn’t in a great part of town and, Natalie, my foster-for-now mom, always said to keep my head down and walk fast. So, I did and never had a problem… until today.
I’d made it three blocks when I crashed into something solid. I fell backwards, my school bag flattened on the ground under me.
“You should watch where you’re walking.” I didn’t recognize the voice but when I looked up, I did recognize the face. Morris Fieldman. He was sixteen and loved bullying younger kids. He’d never bothered me before but likely because I stayed off his radar. Until now.
“Sssorry, Morris. I was trying to get home; dinner will be ready soon and I have to be on time.”
Morris’s laughter was cruel and that was when I noticed two other people with him. Them I didn’t know but it likely didn’t matter.
“It’s not really your home though is it, Ezra? You don’t have one, or a real family for that matter. Mommy and daddy didn’t want you and left you on the doorstep of a church like an afterschool special. Only, there’s no happily ever after for you, is there?”
I swallowed down my sobs as Morris taunted me and his friends laughed. When I made to get up, Morris pushed me down with his foot.
“Stay down there, that’s where dogs belong.”
A sound in the alley behind Morris made us all jump and when the three of them turned to see what it was, I didn’t pass up the opportunity. I grabbed my bag and ran faster than I ever had before.
Hashtag Holidate by Lucy Lennox
1
#LUXURYMEETSLEGACY
ADRIAN
I stared out the rental car window at the weathered timber sign.
Legacy, Montana. Population 8,743.
In other words, too small for a good wine bar. They probably had domestic beer on draft and antlers on the walls of their one roadhouse.
My phone buzzed with another notification. I didn’t bother looking, not only because I was driving, but also because I already knew what it would say. Three thousand followers lost this week. The comment under a recent post had summed it up: Getting boring, Adrian. Same old luxury hotels. Yawn.
Which was exactly why I was here, of course, freezing my ass off in twenty-eight-degree weather instead of lounging poolside in LA. My latest sponsor, Nordique luxury après-ski wear, wanted “true holiday magic”—the kind of wholesome Christmas content I’d never done. But if I pulled this off, it could mean a full-time brand ambassador deal. The kind of eye-popping money that would keep me from crawling back to Connecticut to work for my father’s insurance company.
I’d spent five years building a brand, and Adrian Hayes—the luxury lifestyle personality and digital nomad—wasn’t known for small towns. I thrived in cosmopolitan cities and exclusive resorts, places where the lighting was perfect and the backdrops were designed to be photographed. Not… I looked around at the rustic town of Legacy and sighed. Hunter McShotgun’s Wilderness Outpost.
But maybe rustic could work. Maybe the small-town vibe would give me exactly the kind of authenticity and relatability I’d been missing in recent posts. At least I really freaking hoped it did because the project with Nordique had the potential for much more.
When I’d first pulled up the company’s social media tags on my laptop, I’d winced. “Looks like their target demographic is forty- to fifty-year-olds,” I’d protested to my manager, moving to my phone to scroll through my own posts—rooftop cocktails in Miami, a celebrity chef’s restaurant opening in New York, a carefully curated beach day in Malibu. I squinted at the monitor to see if there were any visible signs of aging. “What the hell do they want with me? Do I look fifteen years older than I am?”
“Of course not, babe. But Nordique wants a spokesmodel who’s aspirational, not actually old as shit,” Vic had countered with the brutal honesty that made him both an excellent manager and a terrifying human being. “Every gay man with a jawline and a ring light would suck Old Man Winter’s you-know-what for this client. Stop whining and say yes. You’ll make it elegant and unique. You always do.”
Elegant and unique. That phrase had echoed in my head for days after I’d agreed to take the job.
In the influencer world, you had to give people the same but different. They wanted a consistent personality but not the same old repeated content. I’d built my following by being aspirational but approachable, luxurious but attainable. For the women, I was the gay best friend they wished they had, with a life they wished they could afford. For the gays, I was the man they dreamed of and sent their lurid fantasies (and pics) to. For the straight men, I was the account they loved to hate and the person who set their wife’s bar hella fucking high.
I was also known for being a little bit different. A little bit unpredictable. Take the time I did a skincare tutorial using glacier runoff in Iceland. Or the time I turned my broken umbrella into a prop on a Scottish Highlands tour and got reposted by Vogue.
Which was why I was low-key panicking now. Unpredictable wasn’t easy to plan on short notice.
After scrambling for a concept that would combine “dressing to impress” with celebrating the holidays, I’d finally landed on “The Twelve Dates of Christmas.” Twelve videos of me experiencing holiday traditions while modeling Nordique’s winter collection.
When I’d hinted at the upcoming series and asked for location recommendations, my followers had suggested too many places to count. But one had stood out as the perfect choice. Nordique’s tagline was “Where luxury meets legacy,” which meant Legacy, Montana, with its single ski slope and its small but growing reputation as a hidden gem for LGBTQ+ travelers was a clear winner.
Hopefully, a town this small, maybe with the help of its tourist population, would be able to provide a dozen potential “romances” with small-town guys for my followers to get invested in, too.
All I needed was a videographer since my usual cameraman’s emergency appendectomy had left me hanging.
But first, I needed a small vat of coffee to combat the effects of my early morning flight.
When I parked and stepped out of the car, the cold air immediately bit at my face, and my breath formed little clouds in front of me. I zipped my jacket higher and said a silent apology to my beautiful Prada winter boots—which had never seen actual snow until today—as I crunched down the icy street.
I had to admit, the place was cute, if you liked this sort of aesthetic. The main street looked like a Christmas card—timber storefronts draped in lights, snow underfoot, the scent of pine and woodsmoke in the air, so different from LA’s perpetual mix of exhaust fumes and distant ocean.
I slowed as I passed the hardware store, its windows filled with an elaborate vintage Christmas display featuring mechanical elves and miniature trains circling through snow-covered villages. An actual, old-school hardware store, not some hipster interpretation with $500 hammers and artisanal nails. How refreshingly… authentic. I was starting to feel more positive about this place already.
An art gallery window display caught my eye—large-format photographs of what appeared to be last year’s Starlight Ski Spectacular—the most famous of Legacy’s holiday traditions, according to my research. Unlike the typical tourist shots I’d seen, though, these images captured something raw and emotional—skiers silhouetted against thousands of twinkling lights, faces illuminated with genuine joy, the sensation of movement so vivid I could almost feel the powder spray.
I stepped closer, intrigued. These weren’t the posed, oversaturated pictures that dominated Instagram. They were so real I could practically feel the cold air and hear the laughter. One photo in particular held my attention—two women embracing at the bottom of the slope, rainbow light necklaces glowing against the snow, their faces a perfect balance of exhaustion, affection, and elation.
The placard read simply “Winter Light Series by Maddox Sullivan.”
I pulled out my phone and found the man’s Instagram. He was a Legacy local. Modest follower count, but his feed was compelling—natural landscapes, candid portraits, moments captured rather than created. It was the complete opposite of my carefully curated feed.
Then I hit his self-portrait, and my thumb froze on the screen.
Maddox Sullivan wasn’t the aging hippie or tweedy academic I’d expected. He was probably close to my thirty-two years, with broad shoulders, tousled dark hair, and rugged features that radiated quiet confidence and made my stomach do a little swoop. No filters, no angles—just messy, magnetic reality.
The contrast between his realness and my curated content hit me like a slap. But it also sparked an idea.
What if I could combine luxury with real? What if “The Twelve Dates of Christmas” featured someone who embodied everything my brand wasn’t—someone authentic, unpolished, and rooted in this place?
I needed Maddox Sullivan behind my camera.
And maybe, if I was lucky, I could get him in front of it, too.
I pushed open the gallery door, the bell jingling merrily as I entered. The space was smaller than expected but beautiful, with exposed brick walls and polished hardwood floors that creaked pleasantly underfoot. Local art filled the walls—not just Maddox Sullivan’s photography but paintings, sculptures, and mixed-media pieces that collectively told the story of the town and its surroundings.
The woman behind the counter looked up with a smile. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with a messy auburn bun on top of her head and big-framed glasses perched on her freckled nose. She wore a red turtleneck sweater under a well-worn pair of denim overalls, complete with telltale paint splotches on them. In a nearby portable crib-thingy slept a baby with cherubic cheeks and perfect red lips.
“Welcome to the Hart Gallery. I’m Avery. Anything I can help you find today?”
I flashed my most charming smile, the one that consistently garnered the most engagement on my selfies. “Actually, yes. I’m looking for information about Maddox Sullivan. The photographer?”
“Oh, Maddox!” Her eyes lit up with recognition. “Those winter shots are something special, aren’t they? He’s not in today, but his studio’s just upstairs. He does commercial work and videography, too, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
I glanced up at the ceiling as if I could see through it to the studio above. “Commercial work,” I murmured, feeling my shoulders relax in relief.
Avery nodded. “He’s very talented. Been capturing Legacy since he was a teenager with his first camera. That’s his hardware store you probably passed on your way in.”
“Oh, right,” I said, remembering the charming Christmas display. I was momentarily surprised she clocked me as a new arrival, but I supposed in a place like this, anything new stuck out. “He’s a photographer, and he runs the hardware store?”
“The Sullivan family’s run the store for four generations. Though I think Maddox himself has more interest in cameras than hammers.” She shrugged.
I smiled politely. “Do you know the best way to get in contact with him? Should I just stop by the store?”
“Not sure if he’s working today.” She reached beneath the counter and produced a simple but elegant business card on heavy stock. Sullivan & Lens, it read, with a website and a small logo that combined a camera aperture with a mountain silhouette. “He’s probably slammed right now because of the holiday, but you can shoot him a text or email.”
“Appreciate it,” I said with a final smile, tucking the card into my wallet.
I left the gallery feeling more optimistic than I had all day. Finding a skilled videographer in Legacy had seemed like an impossible task, but now I had a lead—and from what I’d seen of his work, Maddox Sullivan might be exactly what I needed to make “The Twelve Dates of Christmas” the viral success that would help me land Nordique as a permanent sponsor.
I grabbed a coffee at a small local shop and pulled out my phone as I walked back to my car, opening my email app to compose a message to him. I needed to strike the right tone—professional but enticing, acknowledging the short notice but emphasizing the opportunity. I hoped he’d recognize what a fantastic situation this could be for him. My platform could bring his work to a much wider audience.
I hesitated before hitting Send, rereading what I’d written.
Hi, my name is Adrian Hayes (@realadrianhayes), and I’m a digital content creator filming a holiday content series for Nordique in and around Legacy over the next three weeks. I’m looking for a videographer since my usual guy had a medical emergency and when I saw your work at the Hart Gallery, particularly the Winter Light Series, I thought your eye for winter scenes was amazing and would really elevate the project.
Let me know if you’re interested and we can talk numbers, but I do think this could be a great opportunity for you to grow your platform. (I have 1.2 million followers.)
Talk soon,
Adrian Hayes
I hit Send before I could overthink it further, then started my car and programmed my nav app for the rental cabin I’d be calling home for the next few weeks. As I pulled away from the gallery, I realized I was already mentally rearranging my content calendar, imagining shots of Legacy’s Christmas lights, the “famous” ski spectacle, and the charming small-town holiday celebrations—all with the ruggedly handsome Maddox Sullivan behind the camera.
If he agreed, of course.
Why wouldn’t he, though? The money was excellent, the exposure real, the opportunity substantial.
But by the following morning, there was no response from Maddox Sullivan.
So I took the bull by the horns, as they probably said in places like this, and made my way into town in search of the man.
The hardware store smelled like sawdust and cinnamon, a combination that made no sense but somehow worked. I spotted him immediately—broad shoulders in a faded gray thermal, dark jeans worn just right, and a messy shock of hair that looked like it had never seen a styling product in its life.
Hot. Annoyingly so.
I adjusted my cashmere scarf and strolled toward the counter, flashing my best charming-but-not-trying-too-hard smile. “Maddox Sullivan?”
He turned, giving me a slow, assessing look. His eyes—storm-cloud gray, because of course they were—landed on my perfectly curated winter ensemble before flicking back up.
“Who’s asking?” His smooth and slightly dismissive voice caught me off guard, sending an unexpected ripple of warmth through my chest. I covered it with my most practiced professional smile.
I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or intrigued. “Adrian Hayes. I’m the one who emailed you about a videography job.”
Maddox blinked, then pulled his phone from his back pocket. He thumbed through his messages for all of three seconds before snorting. “Oh. Right.” He locked the screen and slid the phone back, as if the conversation was already over.
I frowned. “I assume you realize it’s a paid opportunity?”
“Yep.” He reached for a screwdriver from a nearby shelf, inspecting it with far too much interest for someone who wasn’t actively fixing something.
“And?”
He set the screwdriver down with a quiet clink and finally—finally—looked at me again. “Not interested.”
I blinked. “I— Are you serious?”
“Yep.” His mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I don’t do influencer gigs.”
A couple passing by with a shopping cart slowed to eavesdrop, exchanging glances when they heard his response. My cheeks warmed—I wasn’t used to rejection, especially not with an audience.
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. He wasn’t joking.
An older woman at the cashier stand nearby must have heard us because she said, “He also doesn’t do vacations, sick days, or anything remotely fun since—” She angled a fond but stern glance at him. “Since forever, basically. But he’s the best photographer in three counties when he’s not being a complete grouch.”
Maddox’s jaw tightened. “Thank you, Bonnie. Isn’t it time for your break?”
“My shift started twenty minutes ago.”
But a nearby customer asked for her help finding something, leaving an awkward silence between the grouch and me.
“Like she said—” I gestured vaguely toward the gallery down the street. “—you’re a photographer. And a videographer. And people pay you to take pictures. That’s what I’m trying to do here.”
He crossed his arms, those strong forearms flexing against his sleeves in a way I refused to acknowledge. “You run a content farm. I don’t work on farms.”
I huffed out a breath, willing patience into my voice. “You don’t understand. This wouldn’t just be ‘content.’ It’s a high-production-value brand deal with authentic—”
“I’m thinking you don’t understand,” he interrupted. “I don’t do scripted moments. I don’t do posed perfection. And I sure as hell don’t do Christmas campaigns for luxury après-ski brands.”
Part of me—the part of me that suffered from debilitating FOMO—admired his ability to say “no” so decisively.
But unfortunately for Maddox Sullivan, the rest of me was competitive as fuck. This guy was the best Legacy had to offer… and I wasn’t the type to take no for an answer.
#ProjectHotAndGrumpy #IrresistibleForceVsImmovableFlannelShirt #MaddoxOrBust #ChallengeAccepted
Snowed In at Santa's Lodge by Lorelei M Hart
Chapter One
Ragnar
My grandfather was one of my favorite people in the entire world. When I was a little calf and my father, his son, disappeared from our life, Granddad stepped in and took over as the man of the family. He felt responsible for us, I was sure, but he never once complained or treated me as if I was a burden. Something my own father had been very good at.
Mom tried to do it all herself, but Granddad somehow made her feel as if we were doing him a favor—a white lie I believed myself until I was much older. He supported us financially, helped Mom with chores around the land, and taught me reindeer lore. I thought life was perfect until I turned sixteen and Mom met a new mate. Granddad, with all the grace he’d exhibited my whole life, stepped away to let her live hers. My stepdad was fine, treated my mother well, but I was too old for him to be anything more than her person. I’d had a dad, not great, and a granddad who was great. Not looking for number three to bond with. Not at sixteen.
My grandfather bought a lodge deep in the mountains. Several hours away from us, far enough that I only saw him on summer and winter breaks and, as I grew up and left home, taking on a job and my own responsibilities, even less frequently. Something I regretted when I got the notice from his attorney that he’d passed on and left me everything he had.
Everything was the lodge and a little money. He’d planned to fix the place up and make it a real destination. Granddad’s long white beard and round belly made him look just like Santa Claus, and when we were out and about, years before, I always got a real kick out of kids running up to tell him what they wanted for Christmas. It didn’t help that he played into it and wore a red hooded sweatshirt a lot of the time.
And now he was gone, and with it his dreams of making Santa’s Lodge a place where families would want to spend their holidays. Not all shifters were into Christmas, but a surprising number were. Cozy family times appealed to most people, I thought. Or they should.
I had only been here a couple of months and when I first walked up the drive, I was shocked at the condition of the place. It hadn’t been so many years since I saw Granddad, but the last few visits, he’d come to me, and not only had he not done anything to improve his lodge, it needed immediate repairs if it was going to withstand another winter.
He’d always said we’d run the lodge together. Called me his reindeer elf. We would make drawings of how it was going to look when it was finished. Where Santa’s throne would be, and the hot-chocolate bar. The cookie-decorating station. A model train would run all the way around the main rooms on a track mounted near the ceiling.
Presents. Everyone who came to stay would get one on Christmas morning.
Had Granddad given up on the project because of his age and physical condition? Or because I had grown away from it?
A glance upward revealed the dark gray of snow clouds blanketing the sky. We’d already had enough of the white stuff to stick, but a few flakes drifted down to promise more. The ladder I stood on, chipping away at caulking, swayed in a sudden gust of wind. I’d hoped to get more done today, certainly a lot more before winter totally closed in and made it that much harder, but if I fell fifteen feet to the ground, I’d break something that a simple shift wouldn’t fix.
I glanced at my watch, brushing a few snowflakes from the face. Then looked up at the sky again. I probably could last another half hour up here, as long as the wind didn’t gust too much. So, I tightened my grip on the scraper and redoubled my efforts. It would be ideal to replace the windows, but that would have to wait for another year. For now, I was trying to get everything at least winter-ready and as waterproof as possible. So painting the outside, replacing the caulking, and, well, I had a long list. I’d never get through it all, but my best would have to do.
Pausing, I zipped the hoodie up to my chin and patted the worn fabric. Granddad’s old clothes were good for doing jobs like this, I told myself, not willing to dwell on the comfort I received from the last traces of pipe tobacco scent. The old man could have stepped in to act in a production of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas with all his quirks.
I missed him hard. When he came to visit, I’d tried to show him the town and take him all the best places, but he always shied away from fancy. “Let’s go to the diner around the corner again,” he’d say. “You work too hard for your money to spend it all on me.”
He never even told me about his heart. Or that the healer said it was failing. And that there was nothing to be done about it.
But since I couldn’t go back and be a less neglectful grandson, I promised myself to make his dream, our dream together, a reality. Thus giving up my big-city job and coming here to invest my savings and elbow grease into making Santa’s Lodge the coziest, most welcoming place to spend the holidays—or any day of the year!
Trying to make my savings stretch involved doing everything possible myself. Some of my former coworkers with whom I stayed in touch on social media tried to convince me that I should take out a loan and hire professionals, cut the time down and be ready to open sooner. Start making money, but Granddad had been adamant that wasn’t the way to go. He never borrowed a dime in his life, which was why the lodge had no loans on it. It needed a whole lot of work, but there was nobody coming to foreclose anytime soon. Or ever.
A few flakes landed on the windowsill, but it wasn’t bad yet, so I kept working, wanting to finish this one window if possible. And I did, but not because of the time limit I’d given myself. Once I’d gotten out the old caulk, I taped plastic over the window. New caulk would have been ideal, but it would have to wait until the storm ended.
Climbing down, I held onto the ladder as the wind buffeted it. A microburst that ripped the plastic from the window. Perfect. I’d have to cover it from the inside and hope it didn’t do too much more damage.
The winter would be spent working on indoor repairs, but I had rather wished for a little more for the outside. The patched roof would either hold up or it wouldn’t, but the angle should keep the snow from building up too much.
My job in the city was behind a desk, the only tools my laptop and phone. Granddad and I had made a lot of plans but never did any actual construction-type work. I wasn’t actually sure if he had the skills or planned to learn them down the line. Me? YouTube had videos of handy folks who could do anything and got their kicks and probably living out of showing those of us who did not know how. So far, it had gotten me through a lot of the general painting and the roof patch as well as one broken pipe that threatened to flood the second floor.
I’d had a run in mind for the afternoon. The snow was getting thicker, the winds wilder, and my reindeer loved the idea. I might be tired and ready to sit by a fire, but he was prancing inside me, anxious to get going.
Then something happened that neither of us could have seen coming. A rattletrap car chugging toward us. The beater belonged in the junkyard, but the omega who climbed out of it belonged on the cover of a magazine.
Amanda MeuwissenAmanda Meuwissen is a queer author with a primary focus in M/M or gay fiction and romance, dabbling in every subgenre. She is a board member for Big World Network, a non-profit publisher working toward education and growth opportunities for aspiring authors in underrepresented, economically disadvantaged, and rural communities.
As the author of LGBTQ+ Fantasy #1 Best Seller, Coming Up for Air, LGBTQ+ Horror #1 Best Seller and #1 New Release, A Delicious Descent, and #1 New Release in Fantasy Erotica and Gay Erotica, Last Courtesan of Olympus, Amanda’s extensive library of titles continues to grow.
Her organization of the massive 22-author series collaboration, Tales from the Tarot, has raised two thousand in donations for SAGE, a charity dedicated to advocacy and services for LGBTQ+ Elders, and her contributing title to the series, Cleric of Desire, continues to be an inspiration to readers as it delves into demi-gender identity.
She lives in Minnesota with her husband, John, and their two cats.
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...
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
After enjoying creative writing as a child, Lucy didn’t write her first novel until she was over 40 years old. Her debut novel, Borrowing Blue, was published in the autumn of 2016. Lucy has an English Literature degree from Vanderbilt University, but that doesn’t hold a candle to the years and years of staying up all night reading tantalizing novels on her own. She has three children, plays tennis, and hates folding laundry. While her husband is no shmoopy romance hero, he is very good at math, cooks a mean lasagne, has gorgeous eyes, looks hot in his business clothes, and makes her laugh every single day.
Lucy hopes you enjoy sexy heroes as much as she does. Happy reading!
Lucy hopes you enjoy sexy heroes as much as she does. Happy reading!
Lorelei M HartLorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming. Friends for years, the duo decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;).
Amanda Meuwissen
NR Walker
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / CHIRP
EMAIL: nrwalker2103@gmail.com
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Lucy Lennox
A Merry Penthouse Christmas by Amanda Meuwissen
Merry and Bright by NR Walker
Silent Knight by Davidson King
Hashtag Holidate by Lucy Lennox
Snowed In at Santa's Lodge by Lorelei M Hart
