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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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Love in 24 Frames by CS Poe
Summary:Declan Groves is a CPA in New York City. His adult life is dictated by routine and monotony. The need to express himself, in ways his career and crippling shyness have never allowed, leads Declan to becoming an amateur stop-motion filmmaker. The problem with this—Declan is now in love with the Wandering Artist Studios receptionist, Shota Watanabe. Shota has always had a smile and engaging comment ready for Declan, but even if it’s more than casual politeness, Declan hasn’t been able to get out more than a tongue-tied sentence at a time. And a man like Shota surely has no intention of waiting forever.
So when an unexpected change to Declan’s daily schedule during Christmastime throws the two together outside of the studio, it might be the catalyst needed to explore what’s been unspoken between them. But if they’re to have a future, Declan needs to find a way to tell Shota how he feels before the magic of the holidays is behind them.
Being incredibly shy my whole life I completely understand Declan's fears of beginning a conversation with Shota. Once I'm comfortable with someone you can't get me to shut up but taking those first few steps and words to getting to know someone is horrific for me, so I fell in love with Declan instantly. So nice to see a character like that without huge bags of angst weighing him down, just pure honest fear-inducing shyness. Shota desperately wanting to find that one question or statement that will get Declan talking is sweet, cute, heartwarming and put a smile on my face. Together they are a perfect fit if Declan takes that first step.
Love in 24 Frames is a wonderfully sweet, romantic, heart-filled short that will get you in the holiday mood and tick all your #ChristmasReads boxes. CS Poe's holiday tale may be short on quantity but its jam-packed in the quality department.
Summary:
The Christmas Angel #2
After the hard winter of 1888 ended Alby Boyle’s work as a Nebraska ranch hand, he returned to New York City in search of his long-lost family. His mother and brothers are nowhere to be found, however, and after Alby’s years of absence, Five Corners no longer feels like home. His prospects seem as dim as the nighttime alleys.
When Alby pauses to admire an angel ornament in a department store window’s Christmas display, he meets Xeno Varnham-Summerfield. Wealthy, handsome, and enthusiastic, Xeno brings Alby some temporary cheer. But for Alby to achieve his dreams of love and a real home, well, that may take a bit of holiday magic.
Original Review December 2018:
As the winter of 1888 changed his livelihood Alby Boyle decided to go home to New York City to try and find his family but when he arrives they aren't there and Five Corners no longer feels like home. Be it fate, coincidence, or the angel herself Alby finds himself meeting Xeno Varnham-Summerfield and his world will never quite be the same again.Summerfield's Angel is a lovely addition to The Christmas Angel series. Some might tag this one as an opposites attract sub-genre and to some degree that is exactly what it is but the truth is, Alby and Xeno's journey is about letting go without forgetting, accepting without giving in, and of course just a touch of fate thrown in for good measure(you know the kind where you should turn right but something compels you to turn left and nothing is ever the same again😉😉). That's about as close to a spoiler as you are going to get from me but I'll just say that if you are looking for a story to warm the heart, make you smile, maybe shed a tear or two then Kim Fielding's Summerfield's Angel is for you. I'll add that if you are not typically a historical fan, don't let the 1888 setting put you off because you will truly be missing a great read.
I'll admit there is a part of me that would have loved to see just how the Christmas Angel went from 1750s England to 1880s New York but then again it is Christmas and that means there is always an air of mystery, miracles, and hope. So as much as I'd love to know the angel's journey from one point in time to the next, its actually kind of nice just believing that she is exactly where she's needed most and meant to be and that there are probably hundreds of untold stories of the happiness she managed to point in the right direction in those 130+ years. After all, Christmas is all about opening your heart and believing in something bigger, be it religiously, spiritually, or Santa and I look forward to seeing where she turns up next.
RATING:
Summary:
Anna Martin's Christmas Short Stories #6
Jim Fletcher is spending the winter recovering — and hiding — on the west coast of Ireland after falling down the steps of his private jet and breaking his ankle. The past decade of life in a rock band has taken its toll, and the quiet life and chance to breathe has helped heal more than just his ankle. In the meantime, a side project for the local post service is keeping him out of trouble.
Connell Sullivan has never thought much about being anything other than a postman, but the arrival in town of a famous rockstar upends his world. Jim is larger than life, and Connell likes his familiar routine. Are they destined to just be penpals, or is there maybe the chance of something more?
Original Review December 2024:
What a perfectly fun addition to Anna Martin's Christmas Short series. I'll be honest, there was a short chunk of time(a few pages or less) that I almost thought the author was going in a more magical route in this year's holiday fare. Don't get me wrong, that would have been lovely and fun too but there is a collective "AWWWW" with the direction the author wrote, well I don't know if anyone else had an "AWWW" moment but I sure did and that isn't just "review speak" I literally(and loudly) spewed "AWWW" into the universe so I like to think everyone did too.
To be short and sweet: Santa Maybe has everything you want in a holiday romance: chemistry, humor, friendship, heart, and of course to above mentioned "AWWWWW". I'm already looking forward to the author's 2025 holiday gem. You definitely won't go wrong with Santa Maybe and the whole Martin's Christmas Shorts series.
Summary:
One house. One kiss. One Christmas that changes everything
Logan Maxwell’s life runs on routine—hit hard, play harder, and never look back. But this Christmas, stranded in a Dallas mansion with three rookie teammates and no family to call home, his carefully guarded world is about to crack wide open.
Because Archie Simard just walked back into it.
The one man Logan swore he'd forget. The secret he buried nearly a year ago. Archie is temptation, love, and danger wrapped in a sharp smile and a memory Logan can't escape—and now he's under the same damn roof.
Their past was a month of stolen nights and whispered promises. Their present? A game of proximity and restraint that’s burning hotter by the minute. Archie wants the truth. Logan wants to stay in control. And neither can stop what’s coming.
One kiss reignites everything. One gift opens old wounds. And one Christmas could cost Logan the career he’s sacrificed everything to protect.
Desire doesn’t care about timing. Love doesn’t play by the rules. And in Dallas this Christmas, nothing stays buried forever.
Who doesn't love a good lusting-after-someone-you-shouldn't story? Okay, there probably are some people who don't like that particular trope but I'm not one of them, I love them! In Dallas Christmas, it is kind of combinedt with mixing-business-and-pleasure trope so for me its a two for one in my fave department and then to add an extra layer of icing on top, Dallas is written by one of my favorite-go-to-happy-place-authors: Miss RJ Scott! Talk about a win-win.
Watching Logan and Archie maneuver the shoulds and should-nots of their Christmas stuck in Dallas is not only a romance lover's dream its just pure fun. Throw in a little Logan's coach and Archie's brother(who is one in the same, hence the mixing of business and pleasure trope) and you have a delightful stocking stuffer treat that has "Christmas morning from Santa" written all over it.
I should add that I originally read this as part of the Hockey Holiday Anthology less than a month ago and I still gave this holiday short a re-read. In my book that speaks more to my love of it than most of what I said above.
RATING:
Summary:
Unwrapping Hank #1
Sloane loves a good mystery. He grew up as the son of two psychiatrists, so he finds most people tediously easy to figure out. He finds his way to Pennsylvania State University, longing for a rural experience, and ends up being lured into joining a frat by Micah Springfield, the hippest guy on campus.
Nothing in Sloane’s classes is as intriguing as Hank Springfield, Micah’s brother and fellow frat house member. Hank looks like a tough guy—big muscles, tatts, and a beard—but his eyes are soft and sweet. He acts dumb, but he’s a philosophy major. He’s presumably straight, but then why does Sloane feel such crazy chemistry whenever Hank is around? And why does Hank hate Sloane so much?
When Sloane ends up stuck on campus over Christmas, Micah invites him to spend the holidays at their family farm in Amish country. It’s a chance to experience a true Americana Christmas--and further investigate the mystery that is Hank Springfield. Can Sloane unlock the secrets of this family and unwrap the heart hidden inside the beefcake?
Original Review December 2014:
I've never read this author before but I can tell you I will be reading her again. How can you not love Sloane? And what about the title character? Hank is definitely a conundrum wrapped in a very bulky package. Sloane has his work cut out for him trying to figure that guy out. Micah, Hank's big brother, doesn't exactly help matters either. This is a very pleasant holiday story, hell it's a great holiday story and really despite it being a Christmas tale it's really quite perfect for anytime of year.
RATING:
Kim Fielding
Anna Martin
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.
RJ Scott
Eli Easton
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
Dallas Christmas by RJ Scott
Unwrapping Hank by Eli Easton
Nothing in Sloane’s classes is as intriguing as Hank Springfield, Micah’s brother and fellow frat house member. Hank looks like a tough guy—big muscles, tatts, and a beard—but his eyes are soft and sweet. He acts dumb, but he’s a philosophy major. He’s presumably straight, but then why does Sloane feel such crazy chemistry whenever Hank is around? And why does Hank hate Sloane so much?
When Sloane ends up stuck on campus over Christmas, Micah invites him to spend the holidays at their family farm in Amish country. It’s a chance to experience a true Americana Christmas--and further investigate the mystery that is Hank Springfield. Can Sloane unlock the secrets of this family and unwrap the heart hidden inside the beefcake?
I've never read this author before but I can tell you I will be reading her again. How can you not love Sloane? And what about the title character? Hank is definitely a conundrum wrapped in a very bulky package. Sloane has his work cut out for him trying to figure that guy out. Micah, Hank's big brother, doesn't exactly help matters either. This is a very pleasant holiday story, hell it's a great holiday story and really despite it being a Christmas tale it's really quite perfect for anytime of year.
Love in 24 Frames by CS Poe
There he was.
The evening front-desk receptionist of Wandering Artist Studios and man I was madly in love with.
Shota W.
He was the most perfect human east of the Hudson River, with deep brown eyes, matching hair, and thick, expressive brows. He had a brilliant smile too, and the most kissable lips, beautifully shaped by a peaked cupid’s bow. The angel had no idea he moonlighted as my muse.
Shota W.….
The front door clanged shut behind me, and Shota raised his head. “Good evening, Mr. Groves,” he said over the low hum of Scrooged playing on the flat-screen television mounted to the far wall.
“H-hello.”
I’d been renting a shared studio at the company’s Lower East Side location for the last six months. And for six months, I’d been wondering what the W stood for on Shota’s name tag. But I’d never been able to work up the nerve to ask. Now the window of opportunity had long since passed, so it was going to have to resign itself to being one of life’s great mysteries. I did not possess the social graces required to bring up the topic six months later without making it supremely awkward.
I was also considerably older than most of the clients who utilized the art space. When one thinks of a “New York City artist,” they don’t envision a forty-eight-year-old man in a three-piece suit, strolling through the door at seven o’clock after a long day of being an accountant. Yes, Shota W. was maybe in his forties too, but I still didn’t want to be the graying old guy he had to report to management for being a total creep.
As my niece would say.
“How are you?” Shota asked, his voice a pleasant tenor.
Of course, my social graces were about on par with that of a screaming opossum, so I think I came off strange no matter what I did to prevent it. There was a reason I pursued book balancing for a living. Numerical equations were much easier to handle than the human condition.
I nodded in response. “Yes. You?” I winced.
Yes. You?
But Shota smiled. “I’m okay.” He stood and raised a tangled strand of twinkling Christmas lights. “I’ve been trying to deck the halls, but this is how the decorations were put away last year.” He was still grinning as he lowered the mess onto the desktop. “Some people’s children.”
Against better judgment, Shota appeared to be waiting for my next response. A sweat broke out under my arms, and I hastily unbuttoned my wool coat with my free hand. I needed to say something. Something smart. Something witty. I’d even be okay with lukewarm funny. I needed something, because, oh God, he was staring at me and I was staring back and neither of us were talking and this was so painful.
“I—”
The phone on the desk rang. Shota broke eye contact and looked down. He frowned a smidgen and picked up the receiver. “Wandering Artist Studios, this is Shota.” He took a seat. “Yes, we do have a dance studio. It’s rented by the hour.”
So much for that.
I walked to the elevator, jabbed the button with my thumb, and entered as the doors slid open. I chose the fourth floor and looked toward the front desk one more time.
Shota was still talking on the phone. He glanced up, met my eyes, and the doors closed.
Hell.
I just couldn’t talk to him.
Summerfield's Angel by Kim Fielding
Chapter 1
December 1888
New York City was bigger than Alby Boyle remembered, and noisier. Carts, wagons, carriages, and omnibuses rattled down the packed streets, and a hundred pedestrians’ conversations flowed around him at once. The smells were overwhelming too: human and horse excrement, wet wool, piles of garbage and spoiled food. He couldn’t imagine what the reek would be like in summer— which he supposed should make him glad it was late December. Except New York was also colder than he remembered. Not the clean, numbing freeze of Nebraska winters, and nowhere near the killing temperatures that had changed his life the previous year. New York cold wrapped damply around him, triggering shivers that felt as if they’d never stop.
Alby hunched his shoulders inside his duster and tipped the brim of his Stetson downward, hoping to deflect some of the sleet that spat from the stone-colored sky. Buildings towered over him in every direction, dwarfing him, keeping him from getting his bearings. He wasn’t at all sure he was headed in the right direction, but he reckoned he ought to cross the street here. If he was wrong, he’d reach either the Hudson or East River soon enough, and then he’d know which way to go. Maybe.
Instead of crossing, he turned toward the nearest building, where a row of large and brightly lit street-level windows battled the gloom outdoors. Some of the windows showcased dresses so elegant he couldn’t imagine them worn by real human beings, and the men’s suits were adorned with velvet trim and silver buttons. Other windows contained children’s clothing, leading him to wonder what it would be like to grow up attired in such finery. Wouldn’t the children be afraid to even move? And the final window, where Alby lingered the longest, had a table draped in lace and set with gleaming crystal and china, as if the owners of the fancy clothing might sit down at any moment for dinner. The thought made his mouth water.
But what truly held his attention was the Christmas tree beside the table. It was covered in tiny electric lights, glittering ribbons, and colored glass baubles. At the very top perched an angel with shining red hair, wearing a golden gown and with her wings spread, smiling down at him as if bestowing a benediction. Someone had crafted her with great care. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.
But glory such as this wasn’t meant for the likes of him, and after emitting a longing sigh, Alby turned away.
Head down, he stepped off the curb, took a stride forward— and was yanked violently backward by one arm. He lost his footing and landed on his ass, but almost before he could register the shock of the fall, a pair of horses trotted by just an arm’s reach away, pulling a trolley down the tracks.
“Are you drunk, sir? Or simply insane?”
Alby blinked up at his savior, a young man whose complexion was shifting from snow-pale to an alarming red. “I, uh….” Alby shook his head.
“You can’t simply walk in front of a trolley! You were very nearly killed, sir!”
Alby’s hat had fallen off and landed in an ice-rimmed puddle. He fished it out, gave it a good shake, and got to his feet. But the other man, apparently still not confident that Alby had all his wits, grasped Alby’s arm and tugged him back onto the sidewalk. As they stared at each other, the crowds parted and rushed by, like a stream flowing past a stone.
Now that he’d had a moment to catch his breath, Alby got a better look at the other man— who still held his arm, as if Alby might make a mad dash for the trolley. The fellow appeared a few years younger than Alby’s thirty, with a handsome beardless face, pale blue eyes, and thin eyebrows the color of a palomino horse. He was taller than Alby but much slighter in build, and he wore a heavy black coat and a tall top hat.
“I’m sorry,” said Alby. And he was, because he realized now that his brush with death had truly frightened the young man. He added a half-truth by way explanation. “I ain’t from here.”
“That explains the exotic attire.” Now that the danger had passed, the man’s expression relaxed. A spark of what might have been amusement animated his face, making it beautiful.
Not that it should have mattered to Alby.
“Thank you for saving me.”
“I’m pleased I was able to round out my day with a good deed.”
The fellow seemed to realize he still held Alby’s arm and dropped it quickly. A touch of pink briefly tinged his cheeks, but he didn’t walk away. Neither did Alby, perhaps because this was the first friendly face he’d encountered since getting off the afternoon train.
“Do you reckon you could help me with something else?” asked Alby.
“Perhaps.”
“Can you point me in the direction of Baxter Street?”
All traces of humor left the other man’s face. “You should not go there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s dangerous. The most terrible squalor imaginable and the worst sorts of ruffians.”
“I can hold my own if I got to.” Alby had been in more than one fight, and he’d spent years managing animals much heavier than he was.
“You look—” The man swallowed audibly. “Quite strong. But these are low men who will sneak upon you unaware, who will outnumber you and set upon you with weapons. They have no morals or honor at all.”
“I can hold my own,” Alby repeated. “Now if you’d just set me on my way?”
After a pause, the man gave a small nod. “Very well.” He pointed. “You can continue down Broadway until you get to Broome, and then turn left.”
“Thank you.”
“But do be careful, sir, and not just of the trolleys.”
Alby touched his hat brim in a gesture of gratitude and took a step in the direction he’d been told.
But once more the handsome man grasped his arm. “I’m sorry. But if you don’t mind my asking, what business takes you to such a rough part of the city?”
A heavy sigh escaped Alby’s lungs. “I was born there.”
The buildings grew no more familiar as Alby neared Baxter Street, nor did the faces of the people he passed. But something struck a chord of recognition within him. Maybe it was the layers of rags everyone wore in an effort to keep warm, or the bleakness in their eyes. Maybe it was the hollow-cheeked children who skulked about him, staring at his strange clothing and, he was certain, sizing him up. To these children, all adults were either potential predators or potential prey, and they were trying to decide which side Alby fell on. He kept a firmness in his jaw and a narrow glare in his eyes, and the children scampered or sidled away.
And finally there was Baxter Street, the pavement cracked and crumbling. The buildings loomed here too, but these were piecemeal collections of deteriorating bricks and rotting wood hung with rickety, sagging balconies. Windows were small, many of them broken, many more covered with blankets or newspapers in attempts to keep out the chill. Laundry hung on lines, although it would never dry in this weather. Store displays showed tottering piles of cheap cookware, dusty bottles and boxes, faded bolts of cloth. No glittering fairy lights or golden angels to be found here. Stalls and pushcarts crowded the sidewalks, offering fruits and vegetables, loaves of bread, cheap jewelry, household goods, small trinkets, and used clothes. The luckiest peddlers huddled under shop awnings with their goods. Men and women haggled loudly as they shopped, some of them pausing to stare at Alby.
Finally, he came to something he did recognize: a wooden building with clapboards in disarray and a roof in danger of imminent collapse. In Alby’s memory this building had no sign— and there was still none today— although he knew what he’d find should he venture inside. Filthy walls and floors, splintery tables and chairs, a long bar with the wood marred by thousands of nicks and scars. And there’d be exhausted men in patched clothing, each of them drinking away a hard day of work. Or a hard day without work. Alby’s father used to frequent this place, and when his mother grew afraid there’d be nothing left of his pay, she sent Alby or one of his brothers to fetch him home. Sometimes their father came. Sometimes he cursed and cuffed their head instead.
Alby wouldn’t find his father there today, because the old man had dropped dead years ago, when Alby was only seven or eight. Where he was buried, Alby neither knew nor cared. He didn’t go inside the saloon, instead turning into the narrow alley that ran between it and the brick building next door. How many times had he walked down here, hearing the noises of laughter and yelling and crying from tenement apartments, the calls of ragpickers on the street, the barking of dogs? Sometimes he’d even slept there, when the heat was too oppressive indoors or his father’s temper too explosive. And today, children who might have been avoiding their own homes— if they had any— stared at him from stairs and doorways. Men would be watching him from the shadows as well. He kept his hands balled into fists. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but he was no fool.
Alby reached the back corner of the saloon building and came to an abrupt halt.
It was gone.
He looked around frantically, as if he might be mistaken about the location. But no. The familiar saloon was here, and he could see the church spire rising two blocks away on Mott Street. And there, under a stairway, was the dark alcove where he and his brothers had spent more than one hungry night.
But the tumbledown structure he’d once called home was gone.
It had been a sprawling wooden building, three stories high, with a roofline that swooped and bowed at dizzying angles. Outhouses and sheds had crowded the building’s base, and a tangle of clotheslines had hung between his building and the ones nearby. Even in the worst weather, many of the windows had hung crookedly open, the tenants desperate for fresh air to replace some of the fetid darkness inside.
Alby had lived on the top floor of this structure, in two tiny rooms shared with his parents, his two brothers, his grandparents while they were still alive, and whatever boarders his mother took in for a few extra dollars a month. There had been two baby sisters, but neither had survived longer than a few weeks. The family’s two rooms each had a small dormer window, and sometimes young Alby stood on a bed and gazed outside, wondering what it would be like to fly free of the place.
Eventually he had been freed, although that freedom had come at a price. Now the entire building was gone, replaced by a taller brick one that looked as if it had been there forever. He’d been gone only seventeen years. Could a brick tenement age that quickly? Perhaps. By the time Alby was seventeen, he’d felt ancient.
Now, however, he felt young and lost. Alone.
A pair of boys stalked over and planted themselves in front of him, their dirty faces scrunched up with curiosity. “What the hell are you doin’ here, mister?” demanded the older one, who looked to be ten or so.
Alby wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Looking for someone.”
“Ain’t nobody here gonna be found unless he wants to.”
“Yeah. I reckon that’s true.” Alby gave himself a small shake. “Maybe you can help. I’m looking for the Boyles. They used to live here.” He gestured at the brick building.
The boy scoffed. “Nobody ’round here called Boyle.”
That was probably not true. Even if Alby’s own people were long gone, Irish immigrants had been landing in this neighborhood for generations. “I’m looking for Charley or Bran Boyle. They’d be in their late twenties.” That was an odd realization. The brothers he’d last seen as young boys would now be fully grown, probably with wives and children. He sighed. “Or their mother, Moira Boyle.”
“Gimme a nickel and I’ll tell you,” said the boy, his chin jutting.
“I don’t have a nickel to spare.”
“Then I ain’t telling!” The boy ran off, his worn-out shoes kicking up splashes from the puddles.
But his companion remained, looking up at Alby solemnly. “He doesn’t know anyway. He’da just took your money.”
“Do you know?” Alby asked gently.
“No.” He ran off too.
Alby was suddenly so weary that his legs threatened to give, and he felt as if he’d never get up again. Deep in his heart, he’d known this was a fool’s errand. He should have headed west with the Wheelers instead of boarding an eastbound train. But would he have felt any more at home in Oregon than he had in Nebraska, than he did standing now in an alley off Baxter Street?
Here he was, and there was no use crying over spilled milk. That’s what Mrs. Wheeler used to say, and she was right. Done was done. Alby couldn’t afford to get to Oregon now, so he’d best find a way to manage where he was. He’d get a meal in his belly, some warmth in his bones, some decent rest for his body and mind, and in the morning he’d find a way to track down his family.
With a final long look at the usurping building, Alby turned and trudged back down the alley to the street.
Santa Maybe by Anna Martin
On the van’s windscreen, the rain turned heavier, steadier, thicker… and slowly morphed into sleet. Fantastic.
Not that the weather really made much difference to Connell. His rounds were his rounds, no matter what was going on outside. He liked it that way.
Connell parked in his usual space, at the top of Ennis Lane, underneath a tree that was huge and full in the summer and nothing more than sticks and spindles this time of year. It was easier to cover the three little cottages down the lane in one go, rather than trying to move the van each time, even when it was sleeting outside. This, too, was how he liked it.
He shouldered his bag, heavier than usual, but then, it was almost Christmas and the little old ladies that lived around here did love to send cards.
Connell stopped at Mrs. Lynch’s cottage first, shoving a dozen or more brightly coloured envelopes through the letterbox, before trudging over to Mrs. Kennedy’s and doing the same. Mrs. Kennedy had a parcel, too, but it was big enough to fit through the letterbox so he didn’t have to stop and ring the doorbell. That was a blessing too, since Mrs. Kennedy’s yappy little dog loved nothing more than going nuts every time he caught sight of Connell.
The last cottage was another five minute walk away, though this was rural Ireland and it wasn’t so unusual to have a distance between houses. The ground here was boggy, squishy underfoot, and Connell watched his step, not wanting to roll an ankle. Not at this time of year.
Traveller’s Rest Cottage was covered in wisteria, a climbing rose over the door, and a front step that had been well scrubbed in its lifetime. It was worn smooth, and Connell watched his step again as he knocked on the door.
Ever since the summer, there had been a steady stream of letters and parcels arriving at the cottage, though Connell had only caught a glimpse at its resident a few times. The guy seemed to be something of a recluse. Despite his regular postal deliveries, Connell had never seen any visitors coming or going.
The man was younger, too, than most residents of cottages around here, and that had given Connell something to think about. Most younger people sent emails, not letters, but most of what Connell dropped off at Traveller’s Rest had a hand-written envelope. It was strange.
It took a minute or so of standing outside in the cold before anyone answered the door, and Connell was on the verge of leaving a Sorry We Missed You! note when it swung open.
A very attractive man wearing pyjama bottoms and nothing else stood in the doorway, scratching his belly. For one split second, Connell’s heart stopped.
“Post,” he croaked.
“What?”
“I have your post.”
The man had dark, shaggy hair that hung past his shoulders and tattoos covering most of his pale, pale skin and, when Connell dared to look lower, one of those space boot casts on one foot.
“Thanks,” he said, reaching out a hand, and Connell almost tripped over his feet to pass over the first bundle of letters.
“Wait, there’s more,” Connell said, digging back into his bag for the next one.
“Fuck me,” he mumbled.
“You’ve got a lot.”
“What?”
“Of post.”
“Ah. Yeah.” The man accepted the second bundle of letters and then stared at Connell with incredibly intense, deep brown eyes.
Connell cleared his throat. “Well. Bye.”
He really did trip over his feet as he made his way back up the path, but managed to stay upright by clinging to a hedge. At the top of the path he turned left, back towards the van, and was more than a little surprised to see the very handsome man still standing in the doorway, watching him leave.
Dallas Christmas by RJ Scott
Keep your head up next time, Logan. You could get hurt. I worry. A, xx
I read the text, deleted it, and tossed my cell onto the bed next to my unpacked black-and-scarlet gym bag.
It didn’t matter that Archie was right. I’d been lucky to get away with being smashed into the plexiglass by the behemoth that had been the Florida D-man. The incident had hurt. I ached as if I’d been thrown off a building, but it could have been worse if he’d caught me the wrong way when I had my head down. That kind of shit had ended careers, and my life was going to last as long as I could make it.
People depended on me. My family depended on me.
But I was done with the advice Archie kept texting me or, indeed, any contact with the enigmatic investment manager who didn’t seem to have gotten the message.
I decided to change my number immediately, as I did every other time he texted me.
But that would mean giving the new number to Mom, Dad, two brothers, three sisters, assorted nieces and nephews, my agent.
And there went my determination. I knew I could block numbers, or so the kids on the team said, but there was always a small part of me that actually wanted the texts. The stupid, messed-up, idiot part of me that had resigned itself to contact with Archie only on a game night.
I don’t know what he was trying to pull by contacting me. We’d promised to leave each other alone, agreed it was too dangerous for my career and my place on the Dragons. We were done. Finished. The time limit on Archie and me had expired, and he needed to get over himself.
The cell chimed again, and with a curse, I picked it up. I could no more ignore a text alert than I could ignore eating pasta before a game, the move to connect to the world through my phone so ingrained in me.
Good game though. Nice win. A, xx
This time I didn't throw the cell away from me in a huff. Instead, I slumped to the side of my bed and stared at it. Stupid x-kisses and their ability to cut my legs from under me and make my chest ache with loss.
I wish he would leave me alone.
What we’d done had lasted a month, and it had finished nearly a year ago, but the man still kept texting me. I recalled his blue eyes, his blond hair. I couldn’t forget, since he looked so much like his brother, the captain of the Dragons, Alexandre Simard, or Simba as we called him. Which was another added wrinkle in what had been a hot month of sex. Knowing the guy I was sleeping with was related to my freaking captain.
I’d gained respect from the rest of the team as one kind of person, when in fact, the real me hid behind a façade. Add on having sex with the captain’s little brother, and anyone would have understood why I needed to stay well away from Archie.
And exactly why he shouldn’t have been texting me at all.
We’d met the previous year at Dmitriy Semenov's massive New Year's party and had been inseparable for a month, or as much as we could be, given I was playing. But the closer we got to Valentine’s Day, the more he kept telling me he loved me. I wouldn’t say it back. It wasn’t as if I was hiding a tremendous untold truth; just as anyone playing professional sports, I had to focus, and I had no space for an illicit relationship. No room in my life at all. He didn’t understand that, but we’d parted before whatever shame and embarrassment Valentine’s Day would’ve brought for me came about.
I miss him.
I don’t miss him.
It had taken months to find my equilibrium, to reach some peace about what I’d done.
I should have told him how I felt.
Unwrapping Hank by Eli Easton
CHAPTER 1
Sloane
“SLOANE, why don’t you get us some more sangria? In the kitchen. On the kitchen table. That’s the good stuff.” Micah Springfield winked at me.
“You know, Hank is—” Brian started.
Micah put an arm around Brian’s neck in a casual stranglehold, clapped a hand over his mouth, and patted it lightly, as if he was joking around. “Sloane?” Micah held out his glass to me.
“Uh… sure.” I took his glass, wondering if this was a pledge thing. If I, as a new member of Delta Sigma Phi, and a lowly freshman, was going to be a community gopher for the foreseeable future.
But so far, Micah and the Delts had been amazingly benevolent. When I and four other freshmen rushed, there were no illegal pranks, panty-on-head wearing, belly-crawling through urine, or naked spanking. Which was good, because I would have laughed, ho ho ho, at least at everything except possibly the naked spanking. Then I’d have made a beeline for the exit.
I never thought I’d be the type to rush a frat. In fact, if my parents knew about it, they’d be lecturing me over the phone on peer pressure, the dangers of codependency in closed social structures, and the effects of one’s social group on GPA in a university setting. They were both psychologists, and I, I was their lifelong patient. Nothing in my life went undeconstructed. But when Micah, a TA in one of my classes, latched onto me and gave me the hard sell, I didn’t resist.
Micah Springfield was president of the Delts. He was that guy who was hipper than you could ever hope to be, even if you took master lessons from Bob Dylan and Will Smith. He was genuinely smart but a thousand leagues from being a nerd, good-looking but lazy with it, you know? He had wild curly brown hair down to his shoulders, with these little braids in it, dread-style, and a remarkably unskeevy soul patch. He wore slouchy low-riding jeans, crazy-patterned shirts, and leather sandals most of the time, even in November. He was a senior in environmental science, of course, because that’s what terminally hip people major in. And he had these insightful brown eyes, eyes that looked right into yours and said I’m touching your soul, brother.
Micah was warm. In other words, the opposite of my parents.
Besides, the Delts lived in a cool old mansion, which was so much better than sharing a dumpy dorm room with my perpetually anxious, tums-chewing, pre-med roommate. I was over all the hair-pulling. He pulled his own hair, not mine, but still. I was definitely ready to move into a room in the Delts house that first weekend in November.
And if I’d had some stirrings of attraction to Micah at first, it honestly had nothing to do with my decision. I figured out in the first ten minutes that he was straight, and that was the end of that. Tiny nubbin of interest nipped in the bud, and we were both the better for it.
“Kitchen,” I repeated, looking pointedly at the punch bowl not two feet away.
“Trust me,” Micah insisted, winking at me again.
I sighed and went off to find the frat house kitchen.
* * * * * * *
I pushed through a swinging door and saw a refrigerator. I’d found the kitchen. My sense of accomplishment lasted for about two seconds. Then I noticed the guy standing at the sink doing dishes.
The Delts I’d met so far were upscale-looking guys. Even with Micah’s slouchy hippiness, there was a sense of quality about him that shone. And the other frat members, like Brian, tended to polo shirts and button-downs and managed to tread that narrow line between respectable students and nerds. They were more prone to hacky-sack and ultimate Frisbee on the front lawn than video games or football and steroids. It was a zone I felt comfortable in, if not one where I precisely belonged.
But this creature at the sink was something else.
He was a big guy, had to be over six feet and he was broad. He wore old, holey jeans that showcased a perfect, firmly rounded ass. On top, he wore a white tank top and nothing else, which left acres of huge muscles and tattoos exposed. He had a thick buzz cut and a full beard. One bare foot was propped up on the opposing calf as he washed glasses in hot, soapy water.
I clenched the stems of the glasses in my hands so hard it was a miracle they didn’t break. Black began to descend on my vision, and it took me a moment to identify the problem—I wasn’t breathing. Silly me. I gasped in a mouthful of oxygen, and the sound caused Sink Guy to turn his head to look at me.
“Hey.” Sink Guy’s grunt was low and rough like a dog or a bear. He turned around and went back to washing dishes.
I loved a good mystery. In fact, I found it boring how unmysterious life was most of the time. Study the material, get correct answers on tests, get a good grade, eventually get lots of good grades to get a good job. Point A to B to C. And people? Growing up the son of two psychologists, and furthermore being a huge fan of murder mysteries, I had a tendency to analyze people and put them in boxes fairly quickly. For example, the pinch of my mother’s mouth could indicate long-suffering, irritated, or secretly pleased, depending on its exact tension. There’s a look a guy gets in his eye when he’s attracted to you and a different look when he finds out you’re gay and he’s disgusted by that. Most people were open books.
But standing in that kitchen, my head was flooded with a dozen questions.
Who was this guy?
What was he doing in the Delts’s kitchen washing dishes? He didn’t look like a Delt, but he didn’t look like anyone a sane person would hire for catering or cleanup either.
He seemed young, about my age, yet I knew he wasn’t a freshman rushee, because I’d met all of them and we were currently being schmoozed out front in our ‘welcome to the frat’ party.
Why was he barefoot?
If he was a Delt, why was he hiding in the kitchen doing dishes instead of socializing with everyone else?
And why, oh, why did I have an overwhelming urge to run my hands over the plump muscles on those arms, shoulders, and back, when I’d never before in my life been attracted to muscle guys or tattoos? The guys I’d dated had been smart and fairly sophisticated. A guy like this should not move me. But he did, like Mt Vesuvius.
Oh God, was I going to hell? Would I end up living in Texas?
The guy looked over his shoulder at me again. His eyes were dark blue, with what looked like flecks of gold, and he had long, long black lashes. They were soft eyes.
How did a guy who looked like an ex-con have eyes that were that sweet?
“Need something?” he asked me with a slight frown.
Right. Because standing frozen by the kitchen door holding two glasses in a death grip was not weird at all.
I cleared my throat. “Refill.” I spotted the pitcher of sangria on the table and managed to fill up the two glasses. The guy had gone back to ignoring me, gently clinking glasses in the water and being ridiculously noir with the steam from the sink wafting around him like a figure in an old Humphrey Bogart film.
Some snooping was definitely in order. I left Micah’s glass on the table and wandered over to the sink with my sangria.
“Are you a Delt?” I asked, all casual.
He took his hands out of the suds and braced them on the edge of the sink. They were thick hands, flush with veins.
He looked me over critically, and I tried not to betray the fact that I found him incredibly attractive. Playing it cool, I took a sip of my drink.
“Yeah,” he said at last. “I’m Hank. Who are you?”
Oh, God. Oh, no. “Sloane. Greg Sloane.”
“Oh.” His face closed off in a heartbeat. He went back to washing dishes. “Yeah, Micah mentioned you.”
As it happened, I’d heard of Hank too. Hank—the one guy at the fraternity who’d voted against my membership, a fact I shouldn’t know but did because Brian had let it spill. He’d also told me to “never mind Hank. Just stay far away from the guy, and he won’t bother you.” The impression I’d been left with was that bothering me—maybe with his fists—was entirely possible should I accidentally annoy this paragon.
Hank, the one Delt I’d never met but had a vague notion was homophobic and thus hated me on principle.
That’s when I noticed the cross tattooed on his impressive left bicep. Without another word, I picked up Micah’s drink and went back out into the living room. My heart was beating fast, and something like disappointment burned in my stomach.
“Hey,” Micah said. He took his glass and threw his other arm around me. “Come on, I want you to meet Sam Wiser. He’s a junior and in the vet sciences program too.”
“Sure, uh… There was a guy in the kitchen… Hank.”
Micah stopped and looked at me, smiling shyly. “Yeah? What’d you think?”
What’d I think?
“He seemed really… domesticated. You know, for a white supremacist.”
I was being perhaps a wee bit judgmental, but Micah laughed, a big booming laugh that made everyone turn to see what was so funny.
“I guess you know the guy,” I commented, even more perplexed by Micah’s reaction.
“Oh, I know him.” Micah pulled me in by the neck to whisper in my ear. “Hank is my baby brother.”
That night, in my dorm room, I couldn’t sleep. I had boxes shoved up next to my bed, all ready for the move to the Delts’s house, and my hair-pulling roommate was snoring away in the bed nearby.
Maybe I should have been having misgivings, but I wasn’t. I was excited. I couldn’t stop thinking about the move. I couldn’t stop thinking about Hank Springfield.
I finally decided to banish the mental tail-chasing by making a list. I took my iPad from the top of a box and turned it on, thankful it was self-illuminating. I opened the notepad app.
The mystery of H.S.:
1. He’s Micah’s brother — how could they have grown up in the same household and be so different?
2. Eyes too soft for his biker-style tatts
3. Doing dishes at a frat rush party — socially awkward? Lost a bet? Biker dude clean freak?
4. Doesn’t fit the Delta Sigma Phi mold
The list bothered me. Not because I had no answers, but because I had questions at all.
Why did I care about Hank Springfield anyway? He was very possibly a homophobe. It was clear he had something against me personally, which made no sense since I hadn’t met him unless it was just about what I was. If I was smart, I’d put him out of my mind. As my mother would say, ‘not let him own a single moment of my thoughts.’
I would, I promised myself. Soon. He’d just engaged my curiosity was all. Hank was a puzzle piece I had yet to fit. Once I had, I’d lose all interest in him. I was pretty sure.
CS Poe
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.
She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.
C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.
Kim Fielding is the bestselling, award-winning author of over 60 novels and novellas. Like Kim herself, her work is eclectic, spanning genres such as contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, horror, and historical. Her stories are set in alternate worlds, in 15th century Bosnia, in modern-day Oregon. Her heroes are hipster architect werewolves, housekeepers, maimed giants, and conflicted graduate students. They’re usually flawed, they often encounter terrible obstacles, but they always find love.
Having migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States, Kim calls California home. She lives there with her family, her cat, and her day job as a university professor, but escapes as often as possible via car, train, plane, or boat. This may explain why her characters often seem to be in transit as well. She dreams of traveling and writing full-time.
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.
RJ ScottWriting love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
CS Poe
AUDIOBOOKS / CHIRP / TANTOR / TIKTOK
KOBO / PAYHIP / SMASHWORDS / B&N
EMAIL: contact@cspoe.com
Kim Fielding
Anna Martin
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Love in 24 Frames by CS Poe
Summerfield's Angel by Kim Fielding
Santa Maybe by Anna Martin
Dallas Christmas by RJ Scott
Unwrapping Hank by Eli Easton
