Summary:
Anna Martin's Christmas Shorts
With a fully booked season of high-scale Christmas parties at his pub, The Punch Bowl, Grant Thornton is furious when his corporate alcohol supplier goes out of business three weeks before Christmas. The pub is well-known for its excellent food and quality wine — a reputation that Grant isn’t willing to risk.
Nathan Turner is the manager at Southwark Cellars, just off the South Bank of the Thames, and is baffled by Grant’s intense demeanour and very particular demands. Of course, as a wine expert, Nathan is perfectly placed to help Grant and The Punch Bowl get through the festive season.
Grant has always had big dreams, and Nathan’s wine expertise might be the key to unlocking them. He just needs to decide which to prioritise: his business, or his rapidly growing crush.
Original Review December 2025:
This is probably not the review I intended to write because time just isn't on my side. I loved Anna Martin's entry this year in her annual Christmas Short Stories collection. I can't imagine how devastating it was for Grant to lose his upmarket alcohol supplier at his peak holiday season, luckily for him there is a local who just might be able to offer what he's missing and perhaps a little more. I think if you've read any of Martin's Xmas shorts you'll know this will end in HEA but watching Grant and Nathan get there is fun and entertaining.
Some might find it rushed but it is a holiday short after all so you should expect it going in that there journey is not going to be a slow burn. I know some don't believe in insta-love or near insta-love but I'm living proof it's real and lasting. My grandparents meant in early January 1946, were engaged on Valentine's Day, married the end of July and were still happily married when my grandfather passed away in 1994. So it is real and Anna Martin does a brilliantly fun job with Nathan and Grant finding theirs. We might not see the longgame in Fizz the Season but we see the beginnings and it'll put a smile on your face and brighten your day. What more could one ask for? Short, sweet, and a holiday gem worthy of the author's holiday series.
Summary:
A Daddy for Christmas 3 #7
When my brother jets off on a last-minute holiday, leaving me to run our business, my plan to avoid Christmas is left in tatters.
The bright side? Is there one? I don’t really do bright sides.
Making use of my brother’s flashy car and his driver, Rowan, is a plus. Sort of. Upbeat personalities aren’t my thing. Despite that, Rowan’s optimism is better than any chisel, chipping away at my stern exterior.
Getting stranded in a snowstorm wasn’t on my itinerary, but here we are, cold and all alone, with no sign of being rescued.
I couldn’t leave Rowan to freeze, could I? As we try to stay warm, I discover something about Rowan which makes me realise we have more in common than I expected.
I’m technically his boss…
…but that doesn’t matter tonight.
Not when working together to raise the temperature in the car has the potential to be so much fun.
But when the storm clears, will I still want to be Rowan’s Daddy?
A Daddy for Christmas 3: Rowan is a low-angst, 40,000-word, feel-good insta-love contemporary romance, with a grumpy boss falling for his ray-of-sunshine employee.
A Daddy for Christmas 3 is a multi-author series. Holiday tales of boys in need of Daddy’s love and in some cases, a firm hand. Naughty or nice, it’s all in Santa’s hands now. So why not dive in and read each standalone and enjoy the holidays alongside our boys.
Summary:
Rowan does his best to blend in, but thanks to the ugly sweater from his grandmother, he’ll have a hard time sneaking away from the holiday party unnoticed.
What’s worse…he’s starting to think it’s not only ridiculous, but enchanted.
It’s hardly a recipe for meeting the man of his dreams. But sometimes you find a kindred spirit when you least expect it.
Like a Charm is a quick, sweet holiday read featuring two painfully shy guys, a plethora of ugly sweaters, an obnoxious neighbor, a sassy grandma, and a hint of magic.
Original Review January 2023:
Who doesn't love a good connection that starts with an ugly Christmas sweater? Like a Charm is more than just another ugly Xmas sweater cute meet, it has hints of magic, touches of fate, and all around holiday fun.
Rowan is so set on looking out for the one who is effected by the love charm he believes his grandmother has placed on the sweater he doesn't realize that sometimes fate has a way with or without the charm or maybe the charm works it's magic anyway😉. So fun, just so much fun in this Xmas short that I don't want to say more other than you can't help but find yourself grinning like a fool when you swipe that last page. Yum yum down to the very last thread.
Summary:
Reindeer Mate for Christmas
Can a young omega reindeer shifter and Santa’s number one elf find love amid the chaotic demands of the North Pole Christmas season?
Alpha Keir is a serious elf in charge of Santa’s Sleigh, a ground control team. Navigating the spacetime continuum is no small feat, and he must see to it that everything is in order to conduct a single night of massive gift delivery. There can be no mistakes.
Omega reindeer shifter Fallon was born on a snowy night in December and left in an ice drift to die. He is rescued and raised by elves. Because of his difficult beginning, he can’t fly. He’s worked hard with the elves who serve Santa, making toys, but his first love is math and science, and he studies hard in his off hours. He hopes to join Santa’s team at ground control. It would be the perfect job.
Keir is the big boss Fallon must try to impress to get the job he wants. But everything goes wrong when Fallon finds his attraction to Keir fogging his mind and sending him into the throes of heat. Worse, a big storm is brewing and it’s affecting the continuum.
Can two very different men save Christmas and find love all at the same time?
MM romance, omegaverse, shifter, paranormal, unexpected heat, mpreg, saving Christmas romance, HEA.
My Christmas Reindeer is part of the multi-author, gay romance, mpreg shifter AReindeer Mate For Christmas series. Each book can be read as a standalonebut why stop at one when you can read them all!
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
Summary:
In 1920s Cheltenham, Walter Webb has settled into a peacetime existence with relative ease. He's kept busy running the family grocer's shop with his father on Lower High Street, a working-class region of the famous Regency spa town. In his moments of leisure, he meets regularly with his ex-army pals that he served with in the Great War.
But being a respectable grocer means that Walter must keep his occasional liaisons with other men brief and anonymous. When he meets Stanley, the attractive and likeable brother of a customer, who is staying with his sister after a debilitating bout of pneumonia, Walter is tempted to throw caution to the winds on the chance of something more with this particular man.
Can these two men take a risk to find a lasting romance?
Original Review January Book of the Month 2025:
Such a lovely little story of finding happiness. It's hard for me to write a review for Season of Joy, not because I didn't like the story, quite the opposite. I was reading this new Ellie Thomas novella during the time my mother came home for hospice and passed away so I was reading it in small chunks here and there. On one hand that can make a story harder to connect to but on the other it gave me pockets of peace and escape, small pockets to be sure but definitely helped balance my emotions so I could deal with the arrangements and help my dad as well. I know this seems like an odd thing to mention in a book review but I wanted to express to the author how grateful I am for those pockets of peace and balance. Truth is I think bringing up the personal chaos and hurt I am dealing with and still be able to enjoy Walter and Stanley's journey speaks volumes to the amazing talent of the author and the power of the heart within the story. Definitely a warmhearted and winning gem in my mind.
Fizz the Season by Anna Martin
It was a little after two in the afternoon when the bell above the shop door tinkled to announce a new customer. Nathan glanced over at the door, then did a full double-take. The man currently storming up to his counter looked furious.
With me? Nathan thought to himself. He brushed his hands down the front of the canvas apron he wore over a white shirt and jeans.
“Hi,” the angry man bit out.
“Hello,” Nathan replied, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Welcome to Southwark Cellars. How can I help?”
The angry man was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, and no jacket, despite the fact that it was December in London and it was absolutely freezing outside. His choice of clothes did show off his heavily tattooed arms, though, and the all-black look made his very blue eyes pop.
“Do you supply wholesale?”
Nathan considered that for a second. “Yes. Mostly. It depends on what you want.”
“My supplier just went out of business, it’s three weeks until Christmas, I am fully booked five nights a week with Christmas parties, and I have no fucking wine.”
“Ah,” Nathan said. If he were in the angry man’s position, he’d be angry too. “Four Seasons?”
If anything, mentioning Four Seasons seemed to make him even angrier.
“How do you know about Four Seasons?”
Nathan lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “I work in the wine business. When a major supplier goes into administration, we tend to hear about these things.”
They’d been gossiping about nothing else in the shop for the past two days, wondering if the news would affect them at all. Nathan hadn’t quite been expecting the impact to land on his doorstep quite so quickly.
“Yeah, well, I had an order of over three hundred bottles that was due to be delivered yesterday, and I only found out this morning that not only are they not being delivered today, they’re not being delivered at all.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it fashionably messy.
Nathan offered him a sympathetic smile. “I’m really sorry. I’m Nathan. Nathan Turner.”
“Grant Morris. Nice to meet you.”
Rowan by Colette Davison
1
DAMON
It takes me far too long to realise that the repetitive drone of my ringtone is not part of my dream. The scene of me, lounging on a sunbed, drenched in tropical sunshine, sipping a very fruity, very alcoholic cocktail, slowly transforms into a hazy view of my bedroom. My phone is still ringing —or ringing again; I can’t be sure. The sound cuts off. It’s dark outside, which means very little, as today’s the shortest day of the year. It could be three in the morning or eight. Who knows? I certainly don’t care. My bed is warm and cosy.
With a grunt, I roll over and squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t find my way back into my dream. Like all ephemeral things, it’s gone, never to be experienced again. My phone rings. I grab a spare pillow and press it over my head to drown out the noise. It stops after a dozen rings and then starts again moments later. Who the fuck is trying to get hold of me at whatever time it is? I don’t need to be anywhere today.
I push the pillow aside and reach for my phone. It stops ringing. I have six missed calls from my older brother, Nigel. Before I can press to call him, he rings again. I answer, roll onto my back, put the phone on speaker, and rest it on my chest.
“What?” I demand.
“Someone’s grumpy this morning.”
I grunt a response.
“I need you to hold down the fort.”
“What fort?”
“At Elevated.”
I wipe the sleep dust from my eyes. “I’m on holiday.”
“Not anymore, you’re not. I need you to make sure everything runs smoothly. Oh, and you’ll need to go to the charity ball.”
“You’re the boss.”
“For the next few days, you are.”
I can’t be properly awake. Is this a nightmare? “Why? You’re the boss.”
“I’m going on holiday.”
“No, I’m on holiday.”
“No, you’re bumming around in your apartment, doing nothing, and going nowhere.”
Exactly. I’m on holiday.
“I’m saving you from your grumpy self by sending you into the office, to be me for a few days, while I go and enjoy a tropical Christmas.”
I sit up and check the clock. It’s seven. I realise there’s a lot of noise in the background of the call. “Where are you?”
“At the airport. I got a great last-minute deal. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
I clench my teeth. “I do mind.”
“Aww, don’t be like that. Anyway, I’ve got to go. My flight is boarding. I know I can count on you.” He hangs up.
Well, fuck. He always does this to me. I can’t exactly say ‘no’ when he’s about to step on a plane. Well, I can, but someone’s got to be in charge. I hate this time of year, when customers suddenly realise they haven’t got a gift and place a last-minute order that they’re relying on us to get to them before Christmas, despite the chaos of the postal system at this time of year. Not to mention Nigel has the design team hard at work on packaging and advertising for the new line he wants to release in the New Year. Initially, it was February, but he decided a week ago that a New Year’s Day announcement would be better. My brother is the king of last-minute decisions and goalpost changes.
None of this was supposed to be my problem. I booked time off around Christmas to avoid the stress and festive songs on loop. Now, not only will I have to suffer the far too cheerful jingly jangly songs, but I’ll also be the one whose fault it is if anything goes wrong. Fan-fucking-tastic.
My phone beeps, telling me I have a text message.
Nigel: Don’t forget your costume!
Damon: What costume?
Nigel: For the charity ball. Have fun.
I’d reply, but there’s no point. The cabin crew will be telling everyone to turn their phones off any moment now.
I check the work calendar. The charity ball is tomorrow night in the arse end of nowhere. The costume theme is A Christmas Carol. At least I know who I’m going to dress up as. Scrooge. But where the hell am I going to get a costume at such short notice? If only I had a PA who could do that shit for me, but Nigel decided we didn’t need a PA. A driver, yes. A PA? Waste of money. Fuck Nigel.
So much for lying in this morning. I drag myself out of bed and through the shower, then make the mistake of putting the radio on to listen to the news over breakfast. I’m assaulted by ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham, which would have thrown me straight into Whamhalla if I played that game. I don’t, Nigel does, as do half the staff who work at Elevated. As a result, it’s banned from the Christmas mix that Nigel insists on playing throughout December. He jokingly refers to Elevated as a ‘safe zone’. The first thing I’m going to do when I get to the office this morning is change the damn music.
Eventually, the news does come on. First national, and then local. Train delays and rain. What a fabulous combination. Why did my brother decide to locate Elevated in central London? It would be far cheaper to have premises in the commuter belt.
My waterproof jacket keeps my top half dry on the walk to the tube station, but my trousers get splashed by passing cars whose drivers refuse to avoid the puddles near the gutters. By the time I’m on the platform, my lower legs are cold and damp, and my mood has nosedived even further. I want to go back to bed. I should have flown off to sunnier climes rather than planning a relaxing staycation. Nigel wouldn’t have been able to dump all his responsibilities on me if I were in another country. But I’m not.
The plus side of living near the start of a route is that the train isn’t too crowded to get a seat. By the time we’re nearing zone 1, it’s a very different story. We’re packed in like sardines, and I’ve given up my seat to a heavily pregnant woman. Luckily, I’m tall, so I don’t have my nose stuck in someone’s armpit.
Two tube changes later, and I’m heading towards the surface and the short walk to the redbrick building Elevated is in. It used to be a Victorian workhouse, so it has tall ceilings and huge windows. All the manufacturing is outsourced, so we only have the design, customer services, and fulfilment teams to house—oh, and stock. Nigel rented the entire first floor, a vast open-plan space he separated into zones. One end is partitioned off to house the toilets, stock room, and Nigel’s office, which will be my office while he’s away.
Impatient drivers honking their horns pack the roads. The pavements are full of people who look as thrilled as I am to be heading to work this close to Christmas. Twins pull an exhausted-looking woman along towards the tube station, while they chatter about what they hope to find in Hamley’s. Why they’re racing to a toy store that isn’t even open yet is beyond me. I pass by a man sleeping in a navy-blue sleeping bag in a doorway. He’ll get chased off by the store owner soon. I pause long enough to press a ten-pound note into his hand.
Then I’m entering the lobby and reception area, which is shared by all the businesses in the building. Abbey, the receptionist we all contribute to hiring, gives me a puzzled look.
“I thought you weren’t in until after Christmas.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be, but Nigel had other ideas.”
She arches a plucked eyebrow. “Oh, well, it’s good to see you.”
I doubt that, especially as I must have a face like a thundercloud right now.
I use the stairs, rather than the lift, and go to the first floor. Elevated’s logo—an aubergine pointing upwards—hangs above the entrance to our section of the building, leaving no doubt as to the nature of the business—sex toys.
I unlock the door and stride straight to Nigel’s office. My office. For now. I have to get my head around how many orders we need to fulfil versus how many fulfilment staff we have, given how close to Christmas it is. Once I’m sure we’re going to cope and not break any promises, I’ll need to find a costume for the charity ball. With any luck, I’ll be the only man in the whole of London who wants to dress up as Scrooge tomorrow night.
Like a Charm by Jordan Castillo Price
ROWAN
“Rowan, is that you?” Gran’s voice rang through the house, strong and clear. Most grandmas you see on TV are white-haired, kindly old ladies who play bridge and bake pies. But not her.
My Gran was an enchanter. A modern-day witch.
She bustled out from her workshop in a well-worn leather apron covered with pockets and pouches where she kept the tools of her trade close at hand. Her steel gray short-cropped hair was streaked with purple, and it stood on end where she’d run an impatient hand through it while mixing her spells. “Make a little noise next time, will you?” she chided. “If it weren’t for that creaky door….”
“I texted that I was coming.”
She cut her eyes to the phone across the room in its charger, ignored. “I know you’re proud of your talent, but you take things too far.”
Whereas Gran needed herbs and tinctures to work her magic, all I had to do was think—and my specialty was fading into the background. It’s not as useless as it might sound. I’d make a great diamond thief, for instance. Or a stellar peeping Tom. But since I was too nice to go for either of those things, I’d cultivated a sideline as an assistant exam proctor. When I wasn’t helping her inventory trinkets or ship out orders, anyhow.
Gran wasn’t wrong, though. Sometimes I did feel a little too invisible. Especially with another Yule on the horizon with no boyfriend to snuggle in front of the fire.
“Come on, then,” Gran said, “into the workshop with you. My stock won’t rotate itself.” Twice a year, I helped Gran reshuffle her groaning shelves of ingredients, perched up high on a precarious stepladder that was supposedly warded from tipping over…though I suspected she just said that, given the piece of cardboard shoved under the short leg.
It was a grueling afternoon of shifting and wobbling that ended with a cramp in my shoulder and cobwebs in my hair. But she was my Gran—and the only other one in my family with talent. So, though she was loud and outspoken where I was quiet and shy, we had a special bond, Gran and me.
Though that special bond gave her license to ask some pretty uncomfortable questions.
“Well, then. Given that hangdog look on your face and the fact that you haven’t said anything about bringing a plus-one to the Yuletide feast, I’ll take it to mean you’re still single. Some people are true introverts, and they thrive on that kind of thing. But I know how you are—too much time by yourself, getting all up in your own head—it just makes you miserable. You may be quiet, Rowan, and you may be shy. But too much alone time is doing you no favors at all!”
I sighed. “Everyone says to fake it till you make it. Maybe I could pretend to be more outgoing, but in the long run, it won’t do me much good. Believe me, I’ve tried. The minute I start acting like myself, anyone who’s attracted to the ‘fun’ me loses interest.”
“Pah! You don’t need to be fun. You’re good and kind and patient. Not to mention you have phenomenal eyelashes. You got those from me.” Gran fluttered her patently fake lashes. “By the way, you’re welcome. Now, why don’t you open your present early? Just a little something I whipped up. It might help ease you into the spirit of the season.”
I scanned her workbench, eyes stopping on the heavy box of rose quartz she bought in bulk. The stone was ubiquitous in love charms—one of her specialties. Gran hadn’t gone and crafted me a love charm, had she? She saw nothing wrong with providing that initial spark of attraction to her customers, but the idea of using magic for something like that has never sat well with me. How could I ever trust a relationship that started with magical coercion? It would feel like it was built on a lie.
“That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I can wait till Solstice—”
“Nonsense. If I gave it to you in front of the rest of the family, they’d all be jealous.” She shoved a box into my hands, then jabbed a finger at the card tucked under the ribbon. “Besides…this invitation won’t be any good to you once the party’s over.”
“Wait, what party?”
My Christmas Reindeer by Wendy Rathbone
1
FALLON
“Fallon, break’s over. We need you in the doll room.”
I looked up from my laptop, eyes blurred from my concentrated focus. “Already?”
“It’s been over half an hour.”
Mom was strict about work. We had deadlines. Things always got chaotic and rushed in the fall. Christmas was on its way. Toys needed to be finished, inventoried and packed. Santa often dropped by for unscheduled inspections. Everyone was on edge.
Elves thrived on the work. The pay was high. Elven culture was built on the great Santa Claus’s massive yearly toy order. No one knew how he paid for it all, but he gave away the toys for free. Every year he ordered more and more toys from the workshop, and every year he paid all the workers’ salaries on time along with end of the year bonuses.
Mom was the boss at home and at work. For me, it could be overwhelming at a job I didn’t love.
First of all, I wasn’t an elf. I was an adopted reindeer shifter. As an infant, I was found abandoned in a snowdrift and rescued by Mom. She loved to tell the story of how I almost froze to death until she picked me up and took me home to join my elven brothers and sisters by their warm fire. I’d cried a lot at first, she said, but soon settled in. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t an elf. I was a living being who needed love and care. Mom often made sure to remind me I was loved as much as any of her other children. Still, I always felt different, apart from the crowd.
Second, I had an aptitude for math and physics, not toymaking, and that was the path I hoped to follow.
Even though making toys wasn’t the career I wanted, I loved Mom and wanted to make her happy. But going into the family business was not the future I saw for myself.
I studied every spare chance I got. Mom knew I took online classes. She noticed everything. She would always say, “You’re my smart one, aren’t you?” But she would never discuss with me where it might lead. It was expected that I would stay at the workshop like most good elves. And as for my shifter needs? I was expected to take care of that stuff on my own, including the embarrassing fact that I couldn’t fly.
During my break today, it seemed as if no time had passed since I sat down to study yet another text on quantum theory. I glanced around the break room, reorienting myself while Mom waited on me. A fire burned in a huge hearth. I sat on an old soft couch, pillows at my back, my computer glowing. I still had half my snack left, a sugary donut covered in pink icing.
I looked up at her eager face.
“I need five more minutes.”
“We’re backed up on construction over there and it’s October. Not a lot of time left if we’re going to meet our deadlines.”
I was in the middle of scanning an amazing equation I wanted to better understand. My mind felt on the verge of something wonderful. Physics always made me feel that way. Dollmaking did not.
“Please?”
“Son, we need you. Santa needs you.”
Everything we did was for Santa. I loved that part of it. The Village was beautiful, the glacial views breathtaking. I loved living here. I loved being a part of the whole Santa-magic process. But I wanted to be more on the reindeer side of the corporation. It was a longing I couldn’t control.
I didn’t outright state it to my family because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings, but what I really wanted, as a non-flyer, was to work within the navigation department called Santa’s Sleigh.
I already had an interview set up with the head of Santa’s Sleigh, Keir. I’d never actually met him, but I’d heard he was a no-nonsense team leader who expected perfection from his flight team and ground control.
No one knew about this interview, and somehow I was going to have to make up an excuse to take time off on Friday to go. In order to land this one-on-one meeting with Keir, I’d already taken pre-tests online. I must’ve done well, because I had heard it was difficult to get an in-person interview with any upper echelon of Santa’s flight team.
Mom stood before me, hands on her hips. Her hair was pulled back revealing gracefully pointed ears. When I was little, I’d always hated my round ears, which weren’t pointed like everyone else’s. My parents told me it didn’t matter. I was one of the family.
Which was why this was so hard for me. I didn’t want to break away from the ones who’d raised and loved me. I didn’t want them to be disappointed, or to think I wasn’t grateful.
I closed my laptop, setting it aside. “Okay, Mom. I’ll be right there. You can count on me.”
As I got up to go back to work, my mind churned, trying to figure out how I would get to Friday’s interview without breaking my family’s hearts.
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
Shortly before closing time, Mrs. Harris entered the shop, accompanied by her numerous progeny. It was for good reason that Walter’s father referred to the junior members of the Harris family as “the holy terrors.”
If Dad had known they were coming, he would have delayed nipping out for five minutes.
Walter hid a grimace while keeping a close watch on the arrangements of piled tins, all too tempting an obstacle for small, unruly children.
The three older ones, used to being well-behaved at school, stood quietly enough by their mother as she approached the counter. To Walter’s relief, the two youngest, a boy and a girl, the rambunctious pair of twins, were not running riot but remained contained, each holding the hand of an unfamiliar man.
“I only popped in for a couple of tins of corned beef,” Mrs. Harris said chattily. “I thought I had some put by in the larder. Isn’t it strange how quickly food gets used up when you’ve another mouth to feed?” She smiled and continued, “My brother Stanley is staying with us while he recuperates.”
Walter gave a nod of acknowledgement as he selected the tins of canned meat. He was already aware of the newcomer to the tight-knit streets that comprised old Cheltenham.
Local shops were a mine of ready information. It was surprising what intimate details people revealed to shopkeepers or loudly speculated about to each other in the shop.
Mrs. Harris’ brother’s arrival from the village of Lydbrook in the Forest of Dean, her home before marriage, had inevitably caused a steady stream of gossip.
“He’s not quite right, so I’ve heard,” one lady said, tapping the side of her behatted head sententiously. Another more sympathetic soul had added, “The poor chap has had repeated bouts of pneumonia as a result of the Great War, so I believe.” A final tactless commenter declared, “You’d have thought he’d have got over that by now.”
That remark had caused Walter to grit his teeth and hold back a pithy retort.
Most civilians back in Blighty had no notion of the horrors of trench warfare, often affecting a man for the rest of his days. Walter was mostly grateful that civilians were spared those harrowing experiences, but such ignorance raised his hackles.
“There you are,” he gravely handed the tins to two of Mrs. Harris’ most responsible children.
“Can I help you with anything else?” he enquired politely, as though he wasn’t eager to see the back of the family before the twins wriggled free to wreak havoc.
“A jar of Hartley’s jam would come in handy. It’s Stanley’s favourite.”
She jerked her head towards her brother. Walter naturally glanced in the same direction. Contrary to his first assumptions, rather than clutching the twins to keep them under control, the infants seemed to be helping to hold the man upright.
He’s hardly a heavyweight, more of a bantam in boxing terms.
He wasn’t tall, perhaps a few inches shorter than Walter’s five feet eleven inches and far less robust in build. Walter could hear the slight rasp of his breath from across the shop, confirming that he must suffer with his lungs. His face was downturned, hidden by his cap.
“Strawberry or raspberry?”
Walter addressed Mrs. Harris, but her brother answered.
“Damson, if you have it.”
He looked up as he spoke. Walter blinked.
Blimey, he’s a looker.
He was fine featured, but still managed to be handsome rather than pretty. His large dark eyes were emphasised by his sallow, over-thin face and his lush mouth was accentuated by a pencil moustache. Like a home-grown Rudolph Valentino.
Anna 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.
Colette's personal love story began at university, where she met her future husband. An evening of flirting, in the shadow of Lancaster castle, eventually led to a fairytale wedding. Several years later, she’s enjoying her own ‘happy ever after’ in the north of England with her husband, two beautiful children and her writing.
Ever since she could hold a pen, Colette has been writing stories. Always an avid reader and lover of the arts, Colette graduated in Theatre Studies from Lancaster University in 1999, and in English Literature from the Open University in 2010. After studying for a P.G.C.E. in secondary education, and subsequently teaching english and drama for six years, Colette chose to become a stay at home mum and to focus on her writing.
Colette's first M/M romance, Why I Left You, was published in November 2017. Since then she has continued to write books that are sweet, sexy, and heartwarming.
Jordan Castillo PriceAuthor and artist Jordan Castillo Price writes paranormal sci-fi thrillers colored by her time in the Midwest, from inner city Chicago, to various cities across southern Wisconsin. She’s recently settled in a 1910 Cape Cod near Lake Michigan with tons of character and a plethora of bizarre spiders. Her influences include Ouija boards, Return of the Living Dead, “light as a feather, stiff as a board,” girls with tattoos and boys in eyeliner.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who’s plagued by ghostly visitations. And her quirky, sweet, magical series The ABCs of Spellcraft is sure to make you smile.
Hi, I'm Wendy and I'm a voracious reader as well as an author.
Currently, I write all male/male romances and am lately focused on omegaverse. For many years mm has been my first love.
The stories of my characters rattle around in my brain until I have to write them down or lose sleep!
All my books are available in Kindle Unlimited. Happy reading!
Ellie ThomasEllie Thomas lives by the sea. She comes from a teaching background and goes for long seaside walks where she daydreams about history. She is a voracious reader especially about anything historical. She mainly writes historical romance.
Ellie also writes historical erotic romance under the pen name L. E. Thomas.
Anna Martin
Colette Davison
EMAIL: colette@colettedavison.com
Jordan Castillo Price
Fizz the Season by Anna Martin
Rowan by Colette Davison
My Christmas Reindeer by Wendy Rathbone
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
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