Summary:
One Christmas, two lonely hearts, five portions of sparkle!
Gray isn’t enjoying December. The weather’s grim, his job’s a struggle, and his useless boyfriend ran out on him months ago. He’s a walking Mr Christmas Grump. And then he delivers a parcel to Alec, a bright, sparkly, over-earnest vlogger who’s going through his own hard times.
Over the course of five days, accompanied by an irritating but relentlessly cheerful pop song, Gray and Alec share secrets, kisses, regrets, triumphs, some truly awful fashion—and maybe a love that will last far beyond the new year.
This short novella was previously published in the 2020 anthology “Gifts for the Season”. It is a standalone Christmas romance.
Original Review January 2023:
Another delightfully fun and short Christmas story. Hard to call it a slow build in a story so short but it was or maybe a timely progression over five days. However you label the pace, it's a winning gem that is creatively present day with a blend of traditional holiday cuteness. Could it have been better had it been longer so we could delve into the personalities of Gray and Alec more? Perhaps, but for a holiday short it puts a smile on your face and happiness in your heart, what more could one ask for?
ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS
The radio presenter gleefully announced ‘It’s the coldest day of the year—so far! Let’s brace ourselves for near-Arctic temperatures in the middle of suburban London. Maybe there’ll be snow this Christmas, and won’t that be fun?’
Bloody hysterical, I thought sarcastically as I backed my van into the narrow access road behind the local shops. The gearbox crunched and the engine clunked to a stop. The heater ticked on for a few beats, maybe still trying valiantly to warm up the freezing gusts it had been sending to my feet all day. The radio continued warbling the opening verse of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” sung by this year’s TV talent show winner, then sputtered to silence. Great. Now that wasn’t working either. My vehicle wasn’t so much an old model as a spin off from Noah’s Ark. Okay, it had done me and my local delivery business proud for many years, but this winter could be its death knell.
I struggled out of the van, wrapped already in a sweater and a thick coat. The edge of the door scraped against the damp wall, adding another dent to its history, and I nearly went arse over tit on the slippery paving. I suppose gently falling snowflakes should be romantic for Christmas, now only those twelve days away. But the snow so rarely settles in central London: it turns to slush, then treacherous ice underfoot.
I hauled the last remaining box from the back of the van and turned to face the metal fire escape, leading to the apartment above the charity shop. Final delivery of the day. Deep breath, Gray. You can make it. I’d been to the shop before, but they’d recently hired out the upstairs rooms to supplement their income, and these were parcels for the tenant, Mr A Partridge. Hrmph. I put my foot on the lowest step of the staircase, testing the frost that was already settling. I wondered if Mr Partridge’s business had insurance for when I went flying.
Then sighed to myself. When did I get to be such a miserable ‘old’ git, at the age of only twenty-five? Mr Grumpy Grinch, that was me. With less than two weeks to go until the celebration of tinsel, baubles, and a hairy, red-suited guy with his own line in deliveries, my only dream for Christmas was a work-free huddle on my sofa with hot chocolate, fleecy pyjamas, and a few comforting evenings of gay porn.
I used to love Christmas: all the cheesy charm, the glitter, the eternally-looped pop songs, even the rampant commercialism—which I managed to avoid most years, because I’m always so strapped for cash. Last year had been a blast: I’d made mulled wine, got tangled in holly-decorated sticky tape, bought a pair of Santa hats at the market stall, even eaten Brussel sprouts…
Ah well. Happier, though bittersweet, times.
I climbed the stairs as carefully as I could—thank God someone had salted them—until I could safely put down the parcel while I knocked on the door. It wasn’t a heavy box, but large and difficult to handle. As the door opened, I had to peer over the top of it to see the customer.
“Hello?” The guy in the doorway was short, very slim, with spiky bleached hair that draped across his forehead into a cute curl at his temple, and eyes so wide he looked like the proverbial deer in headlights. A cute mouth framed a startled O, and in his ear…
Wow. It was maybe just a trick of the light, but a diamond stud winked like the most precious gem in a jeweller’s window. Nestled in a soft-looking, very biteable-looking lobe. I like bling on a man, you know? I have a couple of plain gold rings in each ear, but this… this was magical. The twinkling fascinated me, like it was casting its spell on me—
And then I registered what he was wearing.
Or not. In complete disregard for the wind whistling from behind me into the building with its freezing death ray in hand, he was wearing a pair of luridly-patterned swim shorts that hung down to his knees. And only the shorts. There was a very delicious moment where I gazed at his smooth, bare chest, then down to well-shaped calves and bare feet. I thought briefly: he doesn’t look like a Mr Partridge at all, like I’d imagined an old man with beady eyes and a puffed belly. Then I thought: Oh, but he’s pretty. So, so pretty, it all but took my breath away. And finally: Wonder if he’s gay, with hair like that, and doesn’t he look fabulous in eyeliner!
“Delivery?” I muttered, still rapt.
“Oh, thank God!” he cried. He took his hand away from his waist where he was clutching at the fabric of the shorts, reached for the box—and the shorts fell to his ankles.
You remember I said all I was looking for at Christmas was hot chocolate and gay porn? Well, it looked like Santa had been half-listening. A beautiful young man was less than two feet away from me—and stark, bollock naked.
Clare LondonClare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter-three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her on all her social media.
EMAIL: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk
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