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I've been doing a Christmas in July series for a few years now and always hope to feature holiday stories that I have recently re-read but once again, time had other plans. For my Christmas in July 2025 series, I'm featuring another 20 of my favorite Christmas set LGBT reads. I say "Christmas set" because some may not really be holiday-centric but set, at least in part, during the holiday season and for me that is all it takes to be a Christmas read(and yes, I'm in the "Die Hard is a Christmas Movie" camp😉). If by chance, I've had opportunity in the past to re-read or re-listen, I've included the original and the most recent re-read review. As always, the purchase links are current as of posting but if they no longer work for a dozen different reasons, be sure to check out the author's website/social media sites for the latest links. There are genres of all kinds here, whether you are a holiday lover or perhaps you just want to read something set in cooler weather on a long hot summer night, either way there is something for everyone here.
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Summary:
Anna Martin's Christmas Shorts #3
Josh Turner is the proud owner of a small garden centre, OK Bloomer, that he inherited from his grandparents. It sits on the edge of a picturesque woodland area in Yorkshire, and despite his efforts to expand the business, Josh is struggling to compete with the evil conglomerate garden centre a few miles down the road.
Lucas Gordon moved to a tiny village in Yorkshire to escape a TikTok meme that has haunted him since the summer. The cottage he bought needs massive renovations which are sure to keep him out of trouble until at least the spring. But when Josh recognises him from the meme, Lucas feels like his world is crashing down all over again.
Josh needs help keeping the garden centre afloat during the winter, and Lucas needs a distraction—and a little festive romance wouldn’t hurt, either.
Original Review December 2024:
How I haven't read this in 3 years is beyond me because I loved the first two and this has been on my kindle since it's release, oh well, whatever the reason I finally got time to read it and loved it!
Josh and Lucas are perfectly delicious. Their cute meet is full of chemistry that suddenly turns awkward when Josh recognizes Lucas from an earlier social media video that went viral with all kinds of embarrassment for Lucas. Once the second meet occurrs and Josh removes his foot from his mouth, all is good, still a wee bit awkward but good.
As always, Anna Martin's Christmas Shorts are compact but full of everything festive and rom-commy that delights the reader to very core. If you weren't feeling the holiday magic yet, you will after diving into Minter Wonderland.
Summary:
Winterbourne #2
Winterbourne #2
Lysander Winterbourne has been living happily at Edgeley Park for the last eighteen months. By day he is Adam Freeman's estate manager, by night, his lover...but Adam never speaks of his feelings and Lysander has no idea whether their relationship is any more than a convenient arrangement for Adam.
When the two men are invited to Winterbourne Abbey for a family Christmas, matters quickly come to a head. Snowed in at the Abbey with a house full of guests, Lysander has to face up to shocking revelations, long-held secrets and a choice he never expected to have to make...
When the two men are invited to Winterbourne Abbey for a family Christmas, matters quickly come to a head. Snowed in at the Abbey with a house full of guests, Lysander has to face up to shocking revelations, long-held secrets and a choice he never expected to have to make...
For eighteen months, Lysander and Adam have been living together happily in both work by day and love by night but neither has been honest to the other how much love is in their hearts. When invited to spend the Christmas holiday at Winterbourne Abbey, will the bubble they've been living in grow or burst? When Lysander is given a chance he would have jumped at eighteen months ago, will he take it or has his time with Adam changed things?
I have to start by saying this has probably only happened so few times that I can count it on one hand so I don't say it lightly, the second entry in this series is even better than the first. Now, perhaps that's simply because it is a Christmas tale which always tends to heighten the entertainment and heart value for me and in being a holiday tale I expect it to be shorter so its shortness doesn't really enter into it as book one did. Because as I said in my review for Introducing Mr. Winterbourne the only box it didn't quite tick for me was not being long enough. Whatever the reason, Mr. Winterbourne's Christmas had that extra something that struck a cord with me.
As for Lysander and Adam, well what's not to love? If you enjoyed watching them meet and connect in book one than you'll love watching that connection grow even stronger here. As for family and friends they interact with both at Edgeley Park and Winterbourne Abbey? There's just too many to really single out(though I do hope we might get to see Johnny's story in the future because he deserves to have his story told 😉hint, hint😉) but they all have so much spirit, and not just Christmas spirit, but true inner spirit that really shines in their scenes(no matter how big or small their contribution to the overall story is).
Whether you are just looking for a heartwarming holiday tale to read or something more, I highly recommend checking out this novella series, historical fan or not you won't be disappointed.
RATING:
Summary:
The Christmas Angel #3
Vaudeville stage magician Christopher Fiend lives for the spotlight. His chance at big time stardom awaits him in Chicago, the next stop on the circuit after the little town of Twelfth Junction.
Edward Smith wants nothing to do with his family's theater. Until Christopher catches his eye on opening night, then treats him to a very special performance during intermission.
When a dead body turns up in the middle of Christopher’s act, suspicion immediately falls on him. If Christopher and Edward can’t work together to clear his name, Christopher won’t make it to Chicago in time. Edward knows he shouldn’t get attached to a man who will be gone in two days, but his heart—and a very special angel—have other ideas.
The Christmas Angel series of holiday romances follow the travels of an angel ornament through the decades as she inspires (and sometimes nudges) lonely men to find their Happily Ever After. The Magician’s Angel is the third in series, which can be read in any order.
Original Review December 2018:
Christopher Fiend's next stop after Twelfth Junction could be the one that makes or breaks his career, too bad a body turns up that might not let him leave Twelfth Junction in time to make Chicago. Edward Smith grew up around the theater his dad owned and now his brother is trying to make it survive. A green carnation and a cleverly slipped card leads to a backstage bit of fun but shortly thereafter a body turns up in the act of the wearer of the carnation. Will Christopher and Edward have more than the backstage fumble or has the body on stage put an end to it? Will the Christmas Angel bring two more together or has murder put an end to her record of matchmaking?Another winner in the multi-author The Christmas Angel series. A spot of murder to brighten up one's holiday is always a blessing in my book. There comes a point where you can only take so much sweetness without the sour. Don't get me wrong, Magician's Christmas has loads of holiday sweet within the pages but Jordan L Hawk has sprinkled in just the right amount of mystery and mayhem to give this entry an extra splash of awesomeness.
Once again, I wonder how the Christmas Angel went from one era to the next but that in itself adds a recurring flavor of holiday magic that doesn't need to be answered to be enjoyed. Jordan L Hawk has a history of using real magic to further a story along but this time around its slight-of-hand pure theater magic that is involved but as we see even the vaudeville kind can be a life saver too.
Magician's Christmas is a lovely blend of historical accuracy, murder, heat, and heart to make this romantic mystery novella one of the best I've read this holiday season. I don't imagine we will see Christopher Fiend and Edward Smith again but if the author ever felt the pull to write more of them, I know I for one would be first in line to gobble it up.
I should add that Jordan's entry in this series is third but can be read as a standalone. I myself have read this series out of order, not something I often do but in this series it is doable. However, I do personally recommend reading Eli Easton's Christmas Angel first as you learn the how and why the ornament came to be and as I have said in my other reviews so far of this series, not knowing her origin would probably leave me a bit distracted from completely enjoying each subsequent entry no matter what order I read them. But that is just my personal preference.
RATING:
Summary:
Original Review December 2015:
Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without a Lanyon read. Sometimes timing is everything and will Shane and his Not-Norton get it right the second time around? A great little romantic comedy for your holiday library.
Christmas on Catalina Island--it's just what the doctor ordered.
Injured in the line of duty, FBI Special Agent Shane Donovan is longing for a few days of peace and quiet. Some nice meals, a couple of good books, and maybe a bottle of the best. No family, no friends, no Fa la la la la...just a little time on his own to think things through.
But an offshore storm, a geriatric treasure hunter, and the guy who dumped him without a word two years earlier are about to unwrap all Shane's carefully laid holiday plans.
Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without a Lanyon read. Sometimes timing is everything and will Shane and his Not-Norton get it right the second time around? A great little romantic comedy for your holiday library.
Audiobook Review December 2019:
I called A Case of Christmas a romantic comedy the first time around 4 years ago and after listening to Derrick McClain's narration, I would reinforce that statement. Shane and his Not-Norton is clever and fun in a I-want-to-whack-their-heads-together kind of way. Rom-com with little Lanyon tweaks here and there to make this holiday gem enjoyable anytime of the year.
RATING:
I called A Case of Christmas a romantic comedy the first time around 4 years ago and after listening to Derrick McClain's narration, I would reinforce that statement. Shane and his Not-Norton is clever and fun in a I-want-to-whack-their-heads-together kind of way. Rom-com with little Lanyon tweaks here and there to make this holiday gem enjoyable anytime of the year.
RATING:
The Northstar by Elle Keaton
Summary:Shielded Hearts #7.5
The holiday season can’t be over soon enough for John Hall.
His ex-boyfriend emptied the bank accounts and ran off with his personal trainer months earlier leaving John unable to pay his creditors. Now he’s forced to close the independent movie theater he runs, a bad end to a bad year.
Gay, single and closer to fifty than forty, John doesn’t see a lot of hope in his future. In the dark of night he wonders if staying afloat is worth the effort.
Chance Allsop made a promise to his dying mother he hopes he doesn’t regret. Ten months after her death he’s finally in Skagit Washington, visiting the old movie theater where his parents met and fell in love decades ago.
I'm ashamed to admit that I lost track of this series after River Home(book 5) so when it was brought to my attention that there were more entries in Accidental Roots, I gobbled them up. When a series I love has a Christmas story well it's as welcomed as finding one more package under the tree on Christmas morning😉. The NorthStar is a delightfully fun Christmas tale of finding love when you least expect it.
Chance is fulfilling his mother's dying wish to visit the place where she met and fell in love with his father, what he didn't expect was John, the owner on the verge of closing the theater for good. John didn't exactly expect a whirlwind like Chance either. You can't help but love these two and root for them, sure its pretty much a case of insta-love which I understand isn't for everyone but when its written right then it works and these two are definitely written right. Chance's determination to prove to John how important the theater is to everyone may seem like a holiday cliche and I suppose in a way it is but just because something is cliche doesn't mean it won't work or that its not true.
As I live in a small-ish town with a theater that's been around since 1927 and has just recently added a second small screen, I know how important it can be to a community. Some might go 20 minutes to the next city with the multiplex with 8 screens, there are just as many who want to stay and go to the 92+ year theater that probably hasn't seen much in the way of renovations for decades. The NorthStar is not only a lovely holiday read but an emotionally charged story that helps to remind us that "local", "tradition", and "same old, same old" are more than just words and phrases, for some they give hope and strength for tomorrow.
The NorthStar may be a lighter read than the previous entries in the series but it is definitely worthy of the Accidental Roots stamp. There may be no mystery or angsty drama in this holiday story but Chance and John certainly belong in Skagit, Washington. The NorthStar can be read as a standalone but I personally hate reading a series out of order so I recommend doing so but you won't be lost by any means if you haven't read the previous entries.
Minter Wonderland by Anna Martin
Josh ached.
His shoulders ached and his thighs ached and his knees really ached. And his big toe—he’d stubbed it twice today already. Twice. That was how you broke a toe, he was sure of it. Two bad stubs and boom, broken toe.
He wasn’t complaining, he really wasn’t, because the Christmas tree business was in full bloom for only a few precious weeks every year, and he had to make that sweet pine tree money while he could. So a few aching muscles? That was fine. He wouldn’t even complain. Not out loud, anyway.
He finished hauling the last tree up to the front of the display area and set it in one of the stands so its branches could settle. This one was a real beauty, and Josh wanted to make sure he was showing her off in all her perfect glory.
For the past three years, Josh had owned fifteen acres of land on the edge of Yorkshire woodland that had been used as a garden centre since before he was born. About a third of the land was dedicated to sustainable forestry, a third was taken up by greenhouses, and the final third used for growing fruit and vegetables. He didn’t keep anything too regimented; some of his apple orchard spilled into the pine tree area, but that was fine. He grew mistletoe on the apple trees, and having them close together was no chore this time of year.
A bright, two-tone whistle caught his attention, and Josh twisted around to glare at Angie.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re daydreaming about.”
Josh bunched his hands on his hips. “He’s six foot two, blond, and has thighs like a rugby player.”
Angie made a face at him, then snorted with laughter.
“I wasn’t joking,” Josh insisted.
“I know. That’s why it’s funny.”
He slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a noogie. Josh had known Angie since they were eleven, both scrawny kids starting secondary school, and their friendship had survived growing up and university and moving away… then moving home again. When Josh had taken over the business he’d immediately known who he wanted for his general manager.
“We’re selling out of trees, Josh,” she said, tucking her explosion of blonde curls back under her hat.
“I know,” Josh said as they walked up toward the main office. “I can’t do much about it. Trees don’t grow overnight.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “I know. What about next year?”
“Next year is next year. We’ll deal with tomorrow first.”
“When did you turn into such a philosopher?”
He laughed. “Maybe I’ve always been one.”
“Alright, Plato. I’ll finish locking up.”
Mrs. Winterbourne's Christmas by Joanne Chambers
Chapter 1 - Adam
Edgeley Park, Buckinghamshire
December, 1823
Adam woke to the unmistakable sound of a cup of tea being stirred, the domestic tinkle of a silver teaspoon against china. Yawning, he stretched and opened his eyes. Lysander was standing at the window, naked, his slim, strong body beautiful in the weak winter sunlight. In his hands he held a cup and saucer. Fine eggshell porcelain decorated with delicate pink roses, absurdly dainty in his capable masculine hands.
Lysander hadn’t yet noticed that Adam had woken up. He was gazing out at the grounds of Edgeley Park, his expression peaceful, a small smile playing about his lips.
“Aren’t you cold, Mr. Winterbourne?” Adam asked sleepily.
Lysander turned, his small smile growing into a bigger one, happiness in his blue eyes to find Adam awake.
Was there anything better than that? Being looked at like that, by the person you were in love with?
“Oh, Mr. Freeman, you know me.” Lysander set the cup and saucer down on a side table before strolling back to the bed, moving with that easy grace Adam had admired from the first. “I don’t feel the cold. Comes of growing up in a draughty old abbey.”
Adam reached for him as he drew near, pulling him down to land heavily on top of Adam, making Lysander laugh when Adam gave an unexpected “Ooof!”
“You might not feel the cold,” Adam said, when he had his breath back, “but your skin’s like ice. Let me warm you, beautiful boy.”
Lysander chuckled happily. “Boy,” he scoffed.
“Always my boy,” Adam assured him, settling his mouth on those sweet lips before rolling them over till Lysander lay on his back beneath him. Breaking the kiss, Lysander gazed up at Adam, eyes dancing with mirth and affection.
“I should be going,” he murmured, though he made no attempt to move. “I’ve work to do.”
“It can wait a little longer, surely.” Adam pressed a kiss to Lysander’s throat, then laid a trail of them up to the sensitive spot where his jaw met his ear, relishing his lover’s moan of pleasure. “First I need to taste you spending in my mouth. Would you like that? A little reward for taking my cock so well last night?”
Lysander moaned again. “God, your cock—I can still feel you.” He gave a shaky laugh. “Yes, suck me. I love your mouth on me.”
Adam squirmed his way down the bed, dropping kisses on Lysander’s body as he went: left shoulder, right nipple, the arch of his ribcage and down to his navel.
So many delights.
With a happy sigh, Adam settled between Lysander’s open thighs, spreading his elbows to make a little more room for himself, chuckling softly at Lysander’s sigh of acquiescence.
For a moment, he let himself have the luxury of simply looking at Lysander, staring with unabashed fascination at the light brown nest from which Lysander’s cock sprang, hard and red-tipped, bobbing with need, and the neat purse of his balls, already high and tight.
“Adam, please—”
He glanced up. Lysander had his arm thrown over his face and his chest rose and fell as he panted.
Such a lovely, uninhibited boy.
Adam’s heart clenched, a feeling that was joyful and sad at once. He wished he could preserve this moment forever. The truth was, he wasn’t sure how long this would last—how long Lysander planned to stay at Edgeley Park—and somehow, he could never bring himself to ask, as though by doing so he’d remind Lysander there was a world outside this house, waiting for him.
Setting those thoughts aside determinedly, Adam turned his attention to the matter at hand. He began with Lysander’s balls, licking a luscious, wet stripe over the tight, wrinkled flesh and drawing a shaky laugh from his lover.
Lysander liked this sort of thing very wet, so Adam held nothing back, licking with abandon till his chin was wet and his mouth made lewd slurping sounds. Lysander squirmed against him, moaning and bucking without an ounce of shyness.
God, Adam loved that. Lysander writhing beneath him, undone with pleasure. There was no shame in the bed they shared. No shyness. Only wild, uninhibited joy.
Adam shifted his attention to Lysander’s cock, first thoroughly wetting the base, then painting the shaft with generous swipes of his tongue, loving Lysander’s heady scent.
“Ah, Christ, you’re good at that—” Lysander cried, hips straining upwards for more. Adam looked up, meeting his gaze and grinning wickedly, before lowering his head to finally take Lysander’s shaft fully into his mouth, right to the back of his throat.
Lysander groaned deeply, and Adam felt like his master and his slave at once, vanquishing him with the passion of his service.
He sucked his boy, sucked and laved and licked, all abandon, no finesse, cheeks hollowing, face wet. He sucked till the muscles in his jaw ached and still never wanted it to end. His own cock was hard as stone, yet he didn’t even think about touching it. This was all for Lysander.
Lysander’s fingers tangled in his hair, urging Adam on while he babbled pleas and praise, punctuated with hoarse, inarticulate cries of pleasure. And then, all too soon, Lysander was coming, in joyful, salty spurts. Adam managed to swallow most of it, but a bit spattered across his face, making him chuckle—such a messy business this, tending to his boy.
He crawled back up the bed, leaning over Lysander’s relaxed body to grin down at him. Pointing at his face, he said, wryly, “You got me.”
Lysander laughed too, reaching up to wipe away the pearly fluid decorating Adam’s cheek with his thumb, only for Adam to catch his hand and draw it to his mouth, smiling into Lysander’s eyes as he sucked it clean.
Lysander’s smile was wide and uninhibited. All sunny handsomeness. “That was lovely. Now it’s your turn. Shall I—”
Before he could go any further, there was a short, sharp knock at the bedchamber door followed by a rattle that had Adam looking over his shoulder and howling, “No!”
Not that it did any good. The door still creaked open and a familiar auburn head peeped round the doorframe.
“Only me,” said its owner cheerfully.
Adam scrambled onto his back, pulling the bedcovers over his and Lysander’s bodies. “For God’s sake, Jonny!”
Lysander—the traitor—started laughing and pulled the bedcovers right over his head, squirming further down the mattress to hide from their intruder.
Another voice, from behind Jonny in the corridor, called out anxiously, “I’m very sorry, sir! I tried to stop him!”
Poor Fletcher. Adam’s butler was very protective of his master. Adam had given the man a job when no one else would, when the man was straight out of prison after being found guilty of the same crime Adam committed every day—preferring to share his bed with a man.
“It’s all right, Fletcher!” he called back. “I realise Mr. Mainwaring is impossible.”
Jonny chuckled and Adam gave him a look before sighing. “Come in then. Shut the door behind you at least.”
Jonny strolled in, resplendent in a dressing gown of heavy gold silk covered with lavishly embroidered peacocks, and let the door click softly behind him.
“Good morning,” he cooed, draping himself in a chair by the window. “You look wonderfully well this morning. All flushed and handsome. Have you two just been carrying on? I thought I heard some curious noises.”
Adam’s face heated with mortification. “You shouldn’t be let out on your own,” he muttered. “It’s a wonder no one’s murdered you yet.” Beneath the quilt, Lysander shook with laughter.
“You know my dear, I think you’re actually quite right about that,” Jonny said. “I could do with a full-time protector, but I’ve yet to find a fellow with the stamina to stay the course.”
“For a man who rarely gets up before luncheon, you’re surprisingly exhausting,” Adam agreed dryly. “Speaking of which, why are you up at this ungodly hour?”
Jonny grinned wolfishly. “I want your sweetheart for the day.”
Lysander popped his head above the bedcovers at that, eyes wide. “What?”
Jonny laughed. “Only to paint you, dear heart. You did promise me, and the light this morning is quite wonderful, all bright and wintry. I fancy you as Narcissus. We could walk down to that ridiculous folly next to the pond for my initial sketches. Don’t worry, you needn’t disrobe—it’s far too cold and I’m not a monster.” He smiled at Lysander winningly and batted his eyelashes.
His charms had no effect on Lysander though, who sat up and said, “I’m afraid I can’t this morning. I’ve a deal to do. There was a suspected case of sheep scab a fortnight ago over at Whitecross Farm and we’re double-checking all the herds.”
Jonny pouted. “Oh, but the light’s so perfect!” He glanced at Adam and added with a chuckle, “Can’t you order him to pose for me, my dear? There must be someone else you could send to check the sheep?”
Adam felt Lysander stiffening slightly beside him, the sudden awkwardness between them palpable. It was a tension that arose whenever this was mentioned explicitly—that Adam was both Lysander’s lover and his employer.
They never really discussed it, or how it had come about. Adam had invited Lysander to come to Edgeley Park after a single day’s acquaintance. He’d fallen for Lysander absurdly quickly and wanted more time with his new lover. And since he had no idea what to do with the dilapidated estate he’d just bought, Lysander’s advice in those early days had been invaluable.
Suggesting Lysander take the position of steward had been a natural progression, so neat it felt positively destined. Adam wanted Lysander to stay with him and he needed a steward. Lysander seemed equally keen to stay with Adam and he wanted to manage an estate. He’d already asked his father, the Earl of Winterbourne, to allow him to run the family estate in Derbyshire, but the earl had refused him.
The difficulty was that now, a year and a half later, Adam wasn’t sure exactly why Lysander stayed. Was he, like Adam, head over heels in love? Or did he stay only to continue looking after Edgeley Park? Adam knew Lysander enjoyed everything they did together—there was no question that he shared Adam’s bed because he wanted to be there—but would he still be here had Adam not offered him his position? The truth was, Adam didn’t know—and he was afraid to ask.
Jonny’s question was a joke, nothing meant by it, and Adam treated it as such.
“Don’t be a brat,” he told Jonny firmly. “As and when Lysander has time to pose for you, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”
Jonny pouted again, which made Lysander chuckle, and the tension dissipated.
But Adam was left with a queer ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away.
Chapter 2 - Lysander
Once Jonny had left, still pouting, Lysander got out of bed and donned his own, far less spectacular dressing gown.
“I’d better get going.” He looked at Adam, who was staring into the middle distance, lost in thought. “Shall I see you downstairs?”
“Sorry, what?” Adam blinked and glanced his way.
Lysander headed for the door. “I’m going to get dressed now. Shall I see you downstairs for breakfast?”
Adam shook his head. “I’ll eat later. I need to shave.” He rubbed at the dark stubble on his cheek. Lysander smiled fondly. “I like you unshaven. You look...disreputable.” Adam’s mouth quirked. “All right, I’ll leave off shaving tomorrow but today I need to call on Mr. Dawson, so there’s no helping it.”
“Spoilsport,” Lysander said, by way of a parting comment and slipped out, Adam’s soft laughter following him.
He dressed quickly in his working clothes—a well-made but hard-wearing suit of brown worsted and his favourite riding boots—and made his way down to breakfast.
Jonny sat at the table, a newspaper spread out in front of him, cup of tea in hand. He glanced up and smiled, eyes twinkling with pleasure. “My, don’t you look handsome?”
He really was impossible to dislike.
“You’re very kind.” Lysander crossed the floor to the row of silver serving dishes on the sideboard and began heaping a plate with food. “But I can’t claim to match your splendour. That dressing gown must’ve cost the earth.”
“It did,” Jonny admitted. “And I adore it. I only wish I could wear it outside. Can you imagine me strolling down Park Lane like this?”
“I should pay to see it,” Lysander said, setting his plate down. “The ladies would be green with envy.”
Jonny laughed appreciatively, then looked at Lysander’s plate and grimaced. “Ugh. how can you eat all that first thing in the morning? I need at least three cups of tea before I can face a bite.”
“I need a good breakfast,” Lysander said, tucking in. “I’ll be riding all day.”
Jonny sighed. “Thighs.”
“Sorry?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did. You said thighs.”
“Did I really?” Jonny said wonderingly. “How very odd of me.”
Lysander shook his head and turned back to his breakfast. Adam’s cook was excellent.
“You’re very good for him, you know,” Jonny said.
Lysander glanced up at that, surprised by Jonny’s serious tone. Jonny’s expression was soft and a little wistful. He was the same age as Adam—they’d been at school together—but he looked a great deal younger. Lysander would have put him at five-and-twenty, like Lysander himself, rather than two-and-thirty.
“He’s prone to be overly serious,” Jonny continued. “Even when we were boys, he was like that. He needs someone to remind him to laugh and have fun occasionally.”
Lysander smiled at the accuracy of that. Adam took his responsibilities seriously and worked harder than anyone Lysander knew, regularly travelling to Manchester, and occasionally London, on business. Even in his spare time he was consumed by learning about agriculture and farming so as to understand better the workings of the estate. Sometimes Lysander had to confiscate his books, dragging him out for a ride, or to eat dinner...or to join him in bed.
“We get on well,” he said.
Jonny raised an auburn brow. “So I heard this morning,” he said, laughing when Lysander blushed hotly. “You’re good for him that way too,” Jonny said. “I used to worry that he’d never have that.”
“Have what?”
“That”—Jonny waved his hand in the air, as though summoning the right word—“connection. Companionship, you know?”
“I...think so,” Lysander said carefully. But in truth, he wasn’t sure. It was certainly true that he and Adam got on well. They were both good-natured and gravitated to the same interests, both enjoying outdoor pursuits, good food and wine, lively conversation. But those were things you could enjoy with lots of people.
“He was never one for falling in love,” Jonny continued, “Not like me.”
“No?” Lysander said faintly, he was beginning to feel a little sick. He set down his cutlery.
“I don’t mean he didn’t have anyone,” Jonny said. “Quite the opposite. In fact, he used to have quite the little harem dotted around that he’d visit—he’s got a healthy appetite as I’m sure you know—but no one to share that deeper connection.”
A harem? Lysander’s stomach writhed with sudden, unexpected jealousy. He forced himself to meet Jonny’s gaze.
Jonny said, quietly, sincerely, “I think he finally has that—with you.”
A lump rose in Lysander’s throat, and he wasn’t entirely sure why, but it might be to do with the fact that he didn’t know what he was to Adam—Adam hadn’t told him. And yes, all right, it wasn’t as though he’d told Adam how he felt—that he was, not to put too fine a point upon it, utterly besotted with the man—but, well, weren’t their positions different?
Lysander’s whole life was here, at Edgeley Park. The same was not true for Adam. He spent a good portion of his time away. He met other people and did things that Lysander knew nothing about. He had friends like Jonny who came to stay from time to time. Friends he obviously knew well and who were almost always like them—men who preferred other men.
He had made no declarations or promises to Lysander.
None whatsoever. Yes, they had a connection.
Yes, the time they spent together was wonderful. But was it more than that for Adam? More than a close friendship with bed sport thrown in for good measure?
Or, was it more likely that Adam still had that harem? That when he went away, he saw other men. Shared equally wonderful times with them. Or perhaps less wonderful, less companionable times, that nevertheless ended up with them enjoying each other’s bodies.
Was it just that Lysander was the current favourite?
That thought made him feel sick and miserable.
“Did I say something wrong?” Jonny said into the silence. Lysander met his gaze—Jonny’s hazel eyes were soft with concern. “I only meant to—”
“No, of course not,” Lysander interrupted, offering a quick smile. He glanced at the longcase clock. “Oh heavens, is that the time? I really do have to be going.”
He forced himself not to rush away, eating the rest of the breakfast he no longer wanted and drinking his tea. Then he stood unhurriedly and bid Jonny a good morning.
But Jonny still looked faintly troubled as he took his leave, and Lysander knew he’d not really convinced him he hadn’t misspoken.
The Magician's Angel by Jordan L Hawk
Chapter 1
December 22, 1910. Twelfth Junction, Iowa
“With any luck, this is the last Christmas we’ll spend in a small town,” Christopher Fiend said as he lifted the angel from the trunk. “It’s the bright lights of the big cities for us from here on out, old girl.”
The wooden angel looked to have passed through quite a few hands before his, though her features were still clear, the gilt on her robe and wings yet bright. She seemed to regard him with an enigmatic smile as he removed the wrappings that had protected her since the previous December.
Most of the props he used in his magic act received regular use. Traveling the vaudeville circuit from coast to coast, year after year, meant keeping only what was absolutely necessary and discarding the rest.
But performers of every type tended to be a superstitious lot. Christopher didn’t normally consider himself one for either sentiment or superstition, but the day he’d added the angel to his act had been the day he’d received the coveted “next to closing” spot on the bill. Christopher Fiend, the Marvelous Magician, was finally a headliner… even if only in tiny towns like Twelfth Junction.
So she remained in his trunk, even if she only came out around Christmas.
“Next year, it will be Chicago. Perhaps even New York,” he added. “All I need is a bit more of that luck you gave me back in Port Angeles.”
They were scheduled to play the Iowan Chateau Theater in Twelfth Junction through Christmas Eve. Christmas Day, they’d take a train to Chicago. Then, Monday evening, December 26, he’d perform in front of a booking agent for the Orpheum circuit. Rumor had it the circuit intended to build a new flagship theater on Broadway in New York City. If he could sufficiently impress the agent, Christopher would soon be headlining in the largest theater in the largest city in the country.
He would finally have made it.
But first, he had to get through this series of performances. As Christopher exited the dressing room carrying the angel, a woman exclaimed “Get your hands off me!” followed by the sound of a slap.
Lily.
Grinding his teeth, Christopher quickened his step. Most of the performers were busy with rehearsal; the piano accompaniment to Betty and Barbara Goldstein, the “Singing Sisters,” echoed faintly from the stage.
Two figures stood in the dimly lit hallway: Christopher’s assistant, Lily Lilac, her back pressed against the wall, her teeth bared as though she meant to bite. And Dennis Jefferson.
Of course.
Jefferson gripped her wrist with one hand, his cheek reddening where she’d slapped him. He loomed over her small form, muscles evident beneath his suit despite the gray Christopher knew lurked under his hair dye. “Listen to me, you—”
“I shouldn’t finish that sentence, if I were you,” Christopher said.
Jefferson let go of Lily as though burned. Then, seeming to realize who had spoken, his mouth twisted into a sneer. “This doesn’t concern you, Fiend.”
“Come now,” Christopher said, keeping his voice mild even though his pulse had quickened with anger, “you wouldn’t want to disorder your hair before opening night, would you, Jefferson?”
“Opening night— if you can even call it that.” Contempt dripped from the words. “A no-name theater in a backwater with more cows than people in it.”
As much as he hated to agree with Jefferson on anything, Christopher couldn’t deny his assessment. Twelfth Junction was barely a spot on the map, just large enough to have a theater, department store, and hotel.
The door into the wings opened. “Jefferson?” his partner Gerald Morton called. “We’re on for rehearsal.”
Indeed, the piano had fallen silent, and the so-called singing sisters along with it. Jefferson straightened his jacket and marched out, bumping Morton rather rudely as he did so.
“What a prick,” Lily said, when the door shut.
The tension broke, and Christopher chuckled. “He certainly is a thoroughly unpleasant sort, isn’t he?”
Lily bit her lip. “Why does a nice fellow like Gerald put up with him?”
“Gerald, is it?” Christopher teased.
“None of your business,” Lily shot back. “I keep telling him he ought to find someone new to work with.”
Christopher shrugged. Lily was young, barely nineteen, though she thought of herself as worldly beyond her years. So had he, at that age. “Jefferson was an established name even before he took on Morton. Taking a risk, starting over again from scratch, isn’t as easy as it sounds when you’re on the wrong side of thirty.” He waved his hand, dismissing the topic. “We’ll part ways with them soon enough— I believe they’re going on to Milwaukee after Chicago. Until then, let me know if Jefferson gives you any more trouble.”
She looked unaccountably glum at the prospect. Christopher briefly wondered if he should have a word with Morton as well, then dismissed the thought. Lily knew her own business, and it wasn’t for him to interfere, no matter how much he might worry for her.
“Let’s test the trap door on the prop table before rehearsal,” he suggested. “It’s been a while since we’ve used the angel with it.”
As always, the prospect of work cheered her. “Whatever you say, boss,” she said, and followed him into the wings.
“The numbers don’t lie, Tobias,” Edward said. “The Iowan Chateau is practically bleeding money. The only sensible thing to do would be to shut it down.”
The two brothers sat near the front of the house, observing the rehearsal of the vaudeville performers Tobias had lured to Twelfth Junction. For the most part, they were almost as shabby a lot as the theater itself. The two men currently on stage performing a one-act play weren’t bad, per se, but the jokes peppering their lines had been stale back when Father managed the theater.
Father, who would have hated the very thought of vaudevillians treading the same boards their mother had walked on.
“No,” Tobias said immediately. “We can still make this work, Edward. People here are hungry for entertainment. If we can just get enough of them through the door by Christmas, we’ll be… not well off, but surely we’ll have enough to stretch until the end of the season. How can you think of throwing the Chateau away so carelessly?”
Edward bit back any number of retorts. Father had always said Tobias had the theater in his blood. He’d spoken the words proudly, but they’d filled Edward with dread.
At least Tobias had followed in their father’s footsteps, not their mother’s. As for Edward, he’d gone into accounting at the first opportunity.
Which meant he knew the numbers even better than Tobias. “You’ll need to draw crowds for the next several months to overcome the debt left to you by Father. I know you’re trying to modernize the theater, but… well, I’m afraid it’s a case of too little too late.”
“I won’t give up until there’s no other choice,” Tobias said stubbornly.
“Just like Father,” Edward muttered.
“Wrong. Father clung to the past. I’m looking to the future.” Before Edward could object, Tobias held up a hand. “Now hush. The magician is coming on for his stage rehearsal, and I want to see how some of the tricks are done.”
Edward had seen the posters plastered around town for the last few days. Christopher Fiend, the Marvelous Magician! they proclaimed, beneath the sinister figure of a man surrounded by tiny, cartoonish demons. It was utterly ludicrous, the product of a flighty, fanciful mind.
Needless to say, Edward disapproved of both flightiness and fancy.
Determined to try and talk sense into his brother, Edward settled back in his chair and turned his attention to the stage. His earlier thought about the shabbiness of the performers certainly failed to hold true of the man now striding about.
Edward had seen his share of handsome men, but something about this one stood out. It was the way he moved, Edward realized after another moment of study. Like a dancer, every gesture was not just graceful but expansive, as though he told a tale with his body as well as his words.
The lights brought forth shades of gold in the man’s honey brown hair, and gilded the planes of a handsome face. His tuxedo, with its white tie and tails, was a bit out of date but scrupulously cared for, and had a pale green carnation pinned to the lapel. Edward’s throat went dry at the sight.
The meaning behind the choice of flower would pass most of the audience by— or so Edward devoutly hoped— but he recognized it from his days at university, in the company of other men whose inclinations matched his own.
As though feeling Edward’s eyes on him, the man glanced out into the house. Their gazes met, and the man’s thin lips quirked into a smile.
Heat rising in his face as well as his groin, Edward jerked his gaze away. His eyes lighted on a small table occupying center stage. A wooden angel— an ornament of some kind?— sat on it, and for a mad moment Edward was certain she smiled at him too.
A diminutive woman, wearing a coat over what was sure to be a scandalously tight costume, strolled across the stage unrolling a wire so thin it was barely visible even with the house lights up. When she reached the wings, she frowned. “Christopher, I need a ladder to reach.”
Tobias hastened out of his seat. “Allow me— I’m taller, and I’ve helped set up the Rising Cards trick before.”
With a shock, Edward realized the man who’d so captured his attention must be none other than the magician, Christopher Fiend. The posters hadn’t done him justice.
Tobias tacked up the wire, paused to admire the wooden angel and table Fiend was busy with, and returned. He jostled Edward slightly when he squeezed past to take his seat. “Sorry. Now, were you going to nag me further about the theater’s finances?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Tobias wasn’t going to listen, anyway. “I should be going.”
Edward rose to his feet and picked up his hat from where he’d placed it on the seat beside him. “Do you truly have to leave so soon?” Tobias asked. “At least say you’ll return for opening night. It’ll do you good to get out.”
“I have matters to attend to,” Edward said, though his mind remained blank when he tried to come up with any. Christmas generally wasn’t a busy time for accountants; most of his clients were farmers who had long since finished with the harvest.
“Please,” Tobias said, more softly this time. “If you’re right, if it is too late, this could be one of the last performances given here. The final opening night. Come for old time’s sake, if nothing else.”
Though Edward had left the theater behind the instant he could, he knew its loss would devastate his little brother. “Very well.”
He started to turn toward the exit, when a clear, ringing voice called, “Sir? I believe you have something of mine.”
Startled, Edward looked at the stage and found Fiend watching him, a small smile on his lips. Fiend’s eyes were a warm gray, and when he extended his hand, his entire body bowed gracefully toward Edward.
Heat flushed through Edward. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” he managed to choke out through the sudden tightness in his throat.
That enchanting smile remained fixed on him. “Check your hat.”
Startled, Edward glanced down and saw a single playing card neatly tucked into the band.
How on earth had the devil done it? Edward had been painfully aware of Fiend’s location every moment since he’d come on stage, and knew he hadn’t drawn anywhere near the house seats.
Well, if Fiend expected him to react like an awed country bumpkin, he was doomed to disappointment. Keeping his expression stony, Edward started for the stage, card held at arm’s length. Before he took more than two steps, however, Fiend withdrew his hand and straightened. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really need it until tonight’s performance. Though if you’d be so kind as to return it at intermission, I’d be grateful.”
And with that, Fiend turned away and began to issue orders to his assistant. Thoroughly nonplussed, Edward made his way out of the theater, the card still clutched in his hand.
He didn’t think to look more closely at it until he reached the street. Uncurling his fingers, he beheld the King of Hearts.
That evening, and against his better judgement, Edward took his place in the box seat reserved for the family. Not that there was anyone left save for himself and Tobias. At one time, his father had watched every performance from this lofty view, while his mother performed below. Edward could dimly remember how proud he’d felt when he’d been judged old enough to sit here.
He shook his head in annoyance. There was no sense in reliving old memories. These days, with funds tight, Tobias worked as a stagehand as well as a manager, on the theory it was one less employee to pay. Given the fine layer of dust on the chairs, it had been some time since he’d had the luxury of simply enjoying a show.
A few of the other boxes had occupants, though not all of them by any means. The mayor and his wife sat across from Edward, and the owner of the grain mill occupied an adjacent box. The seats below, however, had more people in them than Edward had expected. Indeed, more and more crowded inside, until nearly every row was filled.
Perhaps the approaching holiday had brought some of the outlying families into town to shop, and they’d remained to see the show. Or perhaps Tobias had been right, and a varied, indeed modern, program was what his customers wanted.
If the next two nights, combined with the two matinees, could pack the house as full as tonight, Tobias might indeed put off closing the Chateau’s doors, at least for a few months.
While the patrons found their seats, an acrobat flipped and tumbled on the stage. His dark skin contrasted with his bright costume and props, and Edward found himself admiring the fellow’s skill as well as the lean muscles displayed by his rather form-fitting attire. According to the superlative-laden bill, he was “Peter Freeman, the greatest solo acrobat on either side of the Mississippi.”
The house lights went down as the last few attendees found their seats. A hush fell over the theater as Freeman was replaced by “The Singing Sisters, Betty and Barbara Goldstein, whose lively performance will lift the heart of even the most downcast.” The two women, outfitted in identical dresses, performed a roster of popular tunes, including “Down by the Old Mill Stream.”
They in turn gave way to “Dennis Jefferson and Gerald Morton, presenting the sketch ‘Morning Coffee.’ Continuous laughter!” As the comedians took the stage, Edward realized that intermission followed the sketch.
Nervousness let loose butterflies in his belly, while anticipation whispered in his blood. Did he truly intend to seek out Fiend during intermission to return the playing card?
Not that it was really about returning a card. Fiend’s invitation had been clear enough.
Edward took a deep breath and tried to focus on the act, but couldn’t prevent his mind from returning to Fiend. Surely Edward wasn’t really going to slip backstage, find the man’s dressing room, and suck his prick. It wasn’t the sort of thing Edward did. Yes, he’d had his share of furtive encounters at university, but they’d all been with sensible, sober men like himself. Not a theater person, for God’s sake.
Still, Fiend was damnably handsome. Not to mention, he’d leave town in a day or two. Edward would never see him again after tonight, which would alleviate any future awkwardness.
The comedy sketch ended and the house lights came up for intermission. Edward pulled the card from his pocket and held it in hands that had suddenly grown slick with sweat. The King of Hearts smirked up at him.
To go, or to stay in the box?
It had been so long since anyone had touched him.
Edward stood up. Not letting himself think too hard about where he was going, he swung open the door, and found Fiend lounging against the wall outside.
A Case of Christmas by Josh Lanyon
Prologue
Cleared for duty.
Shane stared in disbelief at his cell phone.
The magic words. The good news. And the bad news.
But mostly the good news because there had been times over the past month that he’d worried he was on the beach for good. Not that this wasn’t a nice beach to land on, and not that he didn’t have faith in the system or trust in due process—how ironic would it be if a special agent for the FBI didn’t believe that justice would prevail? But the circumstances of the Fallon case were complicated. Or at least had appeared complicated to his superiors at the Bureau once the Fallon family had launched their lawsuit.
Yeah, he had been worried. In fact, the longer this administrative leave had stretched, the more he had feared he—or at least his career—would end up as collateral damage following an out-of-court settlement. Not a damn thing he could do about it either. He had gone on the record, told the truth, given a full and complete accounting of the facts…and been sickeningly aware with each passing day that none of that might make a difference. The Fallon family was absolutely convinced Shane had stolen a fifteenth century samurai sword from the weapons recovered in the sting operation he had been in charge of back in January.
Beyond the fact that his great-grandfather, a World War Two vet, possessed a collection of Japanese militaria of somewhat dubious provenance, there was no reason to suspect Shane. His record with the Art Crime Team was impeccable, his career was on the fast track—Asian antiquities weren’t even his forte. But suspect him the Fallons did. They believed the Yasumitsu sword had been part of the recovered haul; a suspicion based solely on the word of Denny Green, one of the two defendants in the case. Green already had two burglary convictions and wouldn’t know a katana from a Klimt, but the family wanted to believe the sword had been in Shane’s possession because that meant there was a chance it might eventually be returned to them.
The sword had not been there. Had never been there. But Shane had begun to wonder if that would ultimately matter.
Four weeks of waiting. Four weeks of hell—the last two weeks made bearable only by Norton.
And then, just like that, the case was dropped, and he was cleared for duty.
Shane shaded his eyes from the glare of the spring light bouncing off white sand and the whiter hulls of the pristine boats bobbing on the choppy blue water of Santa Catalina’s Avalon Bay. Overhead, gulls mewed plaintively as they circled, ever hopeful, ever hungry. A ship’s bell rang out across the sun-glittered water.
This welcome news meant, come Monday, he’d be back in San Francisco. Spring break was effectively over. Really, he ought to book his flight out for today. But if he held off until Friday he’d still have the weekend to get ready for his return to work, and that would leave him two and a half days to spend with Norton. Who should have been here by now.
Shane glanced at his phone. No messages, and yes, Norton was definitely running late.
Which wasn’t really like him. Scruffy and offhand Norton might be, but Shane had noticed he wasn’t nearly as disorganized as he let on. And he sure as hell wasn’t forgetful.
Maybe Shane had misunderstood. Maybe they were meeting for lunch and then going sailing?
Or maybe Norton was running late. Yeah, that was probably it. It was easy to run late here. Island time, they called it. It was surprisingly easy to fall into the habit of island time.
Shane turned from the beach and started back along Crescent Avenue, crowded with passengers from the cruise ship which had dropped anchor outside the bay. The floating cities arrived every Monday and Tuesday during the month of March.
Better to skip sailing altogether and talk. Time to come clean. Maybe past time, given those jokes Norton made about being an international art thief. Norton didn’t like sharing personal details any more than Shane did, and Shane respected that. He did wonder about Norton’s day job. Norton never seemed short of cash. Which meant he didn’t earn his bread and butter as a painter—even if he hadn’t been, well, a really lousy painter.
Shane probably should have laid it on the line that first night, but he knew from experience that FBI tended to have a chilling effect on potential romance. Not that he’d exactly had romanceon his mind when he’d first met Norton in the upstairs balcony area of El Galleon. That had been about sex, pure and simple. But thirteen days later—and they’d been pretty much inseparable for most of that time—he owed the guy the truth. And if Norton still wanted to…pursue the options, that was okay with Shane. More than okay, if he was strictly honest.
Kind of a surprise given that Norton, with his goofy sense of humor, shaggy blond hair, and baggy Hawaiian shirts, was really not Shane’s type. Norton wore a pirate-style earring, for God’s sake. He wore clogs. His “paintings” looked like they were done by a preschooler possessed by demons. He joked about things like having underworld contacts. But even more of a surprise because Shane, ambitious and focused as he was, had never been interested in pursuing any possibility but the most obvious and immediate. But there it was: Norton was different. In ways that Shane found both unsettling and exciting. In ways that Shane found downright bewildering.
It wasn’t just a matter of owing Norton the truth; Shane wanted to share this news with him. Wanted to hear what Norton had to say.
Shane wove his way through the throngs of sightseers pushing strollers, carrying shopping bags, eating ice cream cones. So many visitors in sunhats and shorts. Yellow and blue and red umbrellas dotted the beach where tourists lay baking their goose bumps. It was March, after all. Despite the bright sunshine, the wind off the ocean was chilly, and the shade cast by the palm trees and beachfront buildings was deep.
He mentally ran possible scripts as he turned right on Clarissa Avenue.
I have good news, and I have bad news. Which would you like to hear first?
So…remember that night you said you hated cops. Was that a firm hate or just a strong dislike?
Or there was always the classic opener: Are you or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?
Yeah, not really a conversation he was looking forward to. But he knew he wasn’t imagining that connection, that electricity. Kinetic energy. Something had sparked between them that very first night, and it had only gotten stronger with each passing day. So they would talk. Really talk. And hopefully work something out. He wanted it to work out.
Norton was renting a white two-bedroom cottage across the street from his own. Two navy-blue painted dolphins frolicked on the street side of the house. There was no yard to speak of, just a small potted orange tree on the brick walkway. A spyglass weathervane swung indecisively in the breeze. Shane walked up the two steps to the brightly painted red door. The blinds in the front window were lowered, shut tight, which was unusual.
Well, they’d had a lot to drink the night before, and Norton had mentioned a headache that morning.
Shane knocked on the door.
A woman swept the shoebox-sized porch of the bungalow on the left. Shane nodded politely to her.
He knocked again. Firm and brisk.
No answer.
The woman stopped sweeping and leaned over the porch railing. “He’s gone,” she called.
“What’s that?” Shane called back. He was pretty sure he hadn’t heard correctly.
The woman, about sixty, slight and wiry in a flowered, pink house coat, repeated, “He’s gone. He left on the nine o’clock ferry.”
“You mean…” Shane tailed off because even he wasn’t sure what the question was. Norton hadn’t said anything last night about going to the mainland. Last night? Hell, he’d been in Shane’s bed just a few hours ago. They were going sailing, and then they’d have lunch, and then they’d come back to Shane’s cottage. Or Norton’s cottage. Where didn’t matter. It was the what happened next that mattered. And the what happened next was always pleasurable.
Shane said, foolishly, “But he’s coming back, right?”
The woman shrugged. “Couldn’t say. He had his luggage with him.”
From the bell tower overlooking Sugarloaf Point, silvery chimes began to toll the hour.
The Northstar by Elle Keaton
John stared at the envelope in his hand, turning it over a couple of times and reading the return address. He didn’t have to see the contents to know what the letter would say, but he ripped into it anyway, pulling out the single sheet of paper and letting the envelope fall to the floor.
Another piece of evidence, nail in the coffin, last straw . . . evidence of his own stupidity, evidence he deserved what was happening because he should have realized what kind of person Rico was from the very beginning. Instead he’d convinced himself, again, he’d finally met the right person.
In his defense, Rico’d made it easy to believe his lies at first. It wasn’t until Rico was gone that John learned the extent of his betrayal, of Rico’s inherent untruth. But he should have known. John’s father had always said, “If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.” His parents had been happily married for fifty-five years. John doubted either of them had ever been truly lonely. And at the end they’d passed within days of each other, one heart following the other into eternity.
And now it was down to this:
Mr. John Hall,
This letter is legal notice of foreclosure proceedings on the real property situated at 15 milton avenue, skagit, skagit county, washington. As the property owner of record, you have thirty (30) days from the date of receipt to bring all property and tax payments current. After thirty (30) days the property will be foreclosed and auctioned to the highest bidder.
Please call your local representative with any questions.
Sincerely
A scribbled signature John couldn’t decipher.
It probably said, “Merry Fucking Christmas.”
With Christmas Eve a couple of days away, the bank couldn’t have waited one more week to send this? Resisting the urge to crumple the letter into a ball and hurl it out the window, John instead folded it up with great care and returned it to the envelope it had arrived in before shoving it into his back pocket. What was he going to do now?
On his TV, which John kept turned on for white noise since Rico’d left, the local weather person was standing in front of a swirling white graphic, pointing to various places and direly predicting snowmageddon over the holiday weekend.
John snorted a laugh. No f-ing way. He jammed the power button on the remote with his thumb, quieting the reporter’s authoritative tone. The Pacific Northwest rarely had snow before January. The meteorologist was trying to appease folks wishing for a white Christmas and drum up ratings for herself.
Silence fell, and John had to get out of the house. He had to do something. Glancing around, he finally spotted his car keys exactly where he always put them, in the little bowl on the kitchen counter. He grabbed them and headed toward the garage door off the kitchen. In the dim light he accidentally kicked the cat dish across the linoleum flooring. A smashing sound followed when it smacked into the baseboard. Cat wouldn’t care; he’d crossed the rainbow bridge six weeks ago, after a long, pampered life.
The only place not a zoo on the last Saturday before Christmas was the bank. John slowed, deciding if he wanted to beg one last time. There was nothing like baring your financial soul to a fresh-faced loan officer who, while nodding sympathetically, didn’t seem to want to help. He turned in to the parking lot anyway.
“We’ve been over this. With your credit the way it is, there’s not a lot the bank can do, Mr. Hall.”
As if the fucking bank were sentient. John felt his jaw twitch and tried to keep his temper under control. It was difficult with all the stress. Anger was not something he experienced often, but lately he found himself losing control of his emotions.
“I told you that I didn’t know about those charges, and the credit cards aren’t mine. I’m a victim of identity theft.” He didn’t really feel like going into what a douche his ex had turned out to be.
“So you reported. The bank is investigating.” Colin Short, according to the name tag dangling precariously from his suit jacket, tapped his desk with a cheap ballpoint pen, the kind sold by the dozen. His suit, John thought, was off the rack and didn’t fit him quite right.
“And in the meantime ‘the bank’ is planning on taking my livelihood away? The NorthStar is how I make money to pay off debts that I didn’t even incur!”
Frustration mounted; no matter how he pled his case, Short came back with something that sounded a lot like, “The bank is taking its sweet time thinking about it, but the answer is going to be ‘no.’”
When the few remaining customers in the bank lobby started throwing surreptitious glances in their direction— some outright staring— John decided it was best to leave before he said or did something stupid. Normally there would have been a show at the NorthStar that night, but he was too depressed to pretend to have any kind of cheer to spread around, and no one in Skagit would notice if the little art house shut its doors. Permanently.
Anna MartinAnna Martin is from a picturesque seaside village in the southwest of England and now lives in the Bristol, a city that embraces her love for the arts. After spending most of her childhood making up stories, she studied English literature at university before attempting to turn her hand as a professional writer.
Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, Anna is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theater (especially at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where she can be found every summer), going to visit friends in other countries, and reading anything thatís put under her nose.
Anna claims her entire career is due to the love, support, prereading, and creative ass kicking provided by her best friend Jennifer. Jennifer refuses to accept responsibility for anything Anna has written.
Joanna Chambers has a day job and family but manages to find time to write by not cleaning the house or watching television. She is shockingly ill informed about popular culture.
You can find her on Twitter being distracted, on Instagram being confused, and – most happily – in her FB group, Joanna’s Chamber, talking about reading and random stuff with her reader pals.
Joanna’s newsletter subscribers get exclusive access to free bonus stories, competitions and giveaways as well as the latest news on upcoming releases (and other random musings).
Jordan L HawkJordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.
If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.
Josh LanyonBestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Do you love inclusive, swoony, and often suspenseful small-town romances featuring complex characters and a unique sense of place? I do too! My characters start out broken and, maybe, they’re still a tad banged up by the end, but they find the other half of their hearts and ALWAYS get their happily ever after.
In 2017 I pressed the Publish button for the first time and have never looked back—making this the longest period of time I've stuck with a job in my entire life.
Currently, there are over thirty Elle Keaton books available for you to read or listen to. I love cats and dogs. Star Wars and Star Trek. Pineapple on pizza, and have a cribbage habit my husband encourages.
Connecting with readers is very important to me. If you are so inclined, join The Highway to Elle newsletter, and keep up to date with everything Elle-related (or join my Ream page and get in on the novels early plus swag and extras). Random topics Include, but not limited to, ‘where are Elle's glasses?' and, ‘why are there cats?’. I can also be found on Facebook, Instagram, and occasionally TikTok.
Anna Martin
Joanna Chambers
FB GROUP / SMASHWORDS / B&N
EMAIL: authorjoannachambers@gmail.com
Jordan L Hawk
Josh Lanyon
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
Elle Keaton
Minter Wonderland by Anna Martin
Mrs. Winterbourne's Christmas by Joanne Chambers
The Magician's Angel by Jordan L Hawk
A Case of Christmas by Josh Lanyon
The Northstar by Elle Keaton
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