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Summary:
Christmas Below Stairs #2
Sequel to Christmas Below Stairs
In Regency London, former servants Eli and Joseph are now established shopkeepers, running their business with the help of Tilly, previously a kitchen maid in the grand town house where they used to work.
Eli, the former valet, is looking forward to enjoying Christmas and splashing out on gifts for their small, unconventional family, unaware Joseph has other ideas.
Rather than being satisfied with the hard-won success of their current premises, Joseph’s ambitions come to the fore, together with his resentment about being treated unfairly as a person of colour and his upbringing as a lowly foundling.
Could Joseph be letting his frustration take control, leading him to make a rash decision that might plunge them into penury? And can Eli intervene without jeopardising their relationship?
I won't say I forgot anything about the first book, Christmas Below Stairs because I didn't, reading The Business of Christmas was like it was yesterday when I last left Eli, Joseph,, and Tilly. I love the romance of these stories but I think it's the relationship with Tilly that stands out for me. I won't say it's fatherly but its more than just brothers looking out and caring for their little sister. As much as found families tend to play a huge part in many of the books I read, I don't think I've come across the connection these three strong-willed characters have, certainly not in historicals.
I won't give anything away but I can certainly understand and/or appreciate Joseph's need to better himself because of some of the looks he gets, obviously for different reasons but I get it. However, I can understand the apprehension Eli feels as well. It's these elements that make them so perfect for each other but that doesn't mean it's easy.
The Business of Christmas is a lovely, heartwarming next chapter in the lives of the former servants who now determine their own path. I don't know if the author has any plans to revisit this found family again but if so, I'll be sure to read it.
Summary:
Wishing Tree Vermont #3
When a cinnamon-roll bookseller meets the coffee shop grouch next door, sparks (and snowflakes) fly in Wishing Tree, Vermont.
In the small town of Wishing Tree, Vermont, Wesley has broken free from the golden cage of his wealthy family’s expectations. Now, he’s hiding away in his beloved bookstore, a cozy haven filled with stories that warm the soul. But his greatest joy? Showing the grumpy coffee shop owner next door that life doesn’t have to be so serious—especially at Christmas.
Hunter never planned to trade lectures on history for steaming lattes and frothy cappuccinos. But when a sudden twist of fate lands him in Vermont, running a coffee shop he inherited, he buries himself in the daily grind, determined to avoid messy emotions—and the annoyingly cheerful bookstore owner who seems intent on dragging him out of his shell.
Wesley’s relentless charm and holiday spirit clash with Hunter’s stubborn pragmatism, sparking irritation, banter, and undeniable chemistry. Underneath the tension, stolen kisses and quiet moments reveal a connection that feels like the season’s magic.
But just as their love begins to bloom, a twist of fate threatens to pull them apart. With Christmas fast approaching, can Wesley and Hunter overcome the odds and find their happily ever after? Or will their story end before the final snowflake falls?
I always love it when a book has at least some connection to a bookstore, especially a small town bookstore which can be rare to find these days, so that right there ups the joy for me. The Magic of Midnight is an opposites attract story that will tug at your heart but you'll also laugh, there isn't enough humor for a rom com label but the tugs on your heart won't bog you down in sadness either, quite the opposite really, you'll be uplifted seeing how those tugs play out.
As for the characters, Wesley and Hunter. Wesley is definitely the friend we all wish we had, he is so full of joy despite the journey behind him ending up in Wishing Tree in the first place. I can't lie, when we first met Hunter, I didn't like him but I also knew that was going to be part of his charm, seeing him grow as his story unfolded. Some might find Wes' excitement(to put it mildly) a bit OTT at times but I found it was one of the things that endeared him to me, having that pure joy in the seasonal events is something I can relate to.
Speaking of seasonal events, having Thanksgiving included in this story was a real treat, there is just not enough stories in the LGBTQ genres that mention the turkey holiday, so when I find one, it definitely stands out.
As I'm a spoiler-free reviewer, I'll just say, Wes and Hunter may be opposites attract but they also compliment each other which IMO makes them perfectly paired. Maybe "snark and cuddle" is more appropriate than "opposites attract" but IMO they both fit. However you label it, they are just a joyous holiday treat.
The Magic of Midnight is a perfect addition to the author's Wishing Tree series and though it is a standalone as it is a new couple, I highly recommend reading the series in order because past characters do pop up. IMO reading it order makes the story flow a little smoother, but you won't be lost if you start here, but be warned, it will make you want to learn the journeys of entries 1 & 2.
A seasonal M/M Romance by Award-Winning Author Isobel Starling
Every good Dick needs a sidekick…
Actor, Tom Lewis’s world came crashing down when a honey trap and tabloid expose outed him and put pay to his flourishing career. The housewives favorite was most well-known for his role as ‘Detective Fox’ in the quaint British series 'Malmesbury Murders'. But after the media speculation about his sexuality, the show is on hiatus and Tom hasn’t worked in six months. Now things are getting serious, money is running out and Tom desperately needs a job. So when his agent offers him a seasonal acting job, he reluctantly agrees… and takes on the role of Santa for a top London Department store. This decision changes Tom’s luck.
When Tom overhears two unidentified store workers discussing a "job to get a little Christmas bonus”. He realizes the 'job' is of an illegal sort. Now, Tom could call the police, but then again, wouldn’t it be great for his flagging career if Detective Fox saved the day? So, Fox is on the case, and as every good Dick needs a sidekick, Tom decides a sexy young Elf named Eli Mason will fit the role - in more ways than one!
FYI. This is an M/M Romantic comedy
This book was previously titled "Detective Fox and the Christmas Caper" The title and cover have been updated.
The content has not changed.
My time is short so this won't be the review I hoped to write, fingers crossed I'll have time to come back and write more but know this is a delight. It has been on my Kindle for ages, and by "ages" I mean years, nearly a decade and I have no idea why it took so long to read it but I'm glad I finally did.
Amateur detection is one of my favorite kinds of mysteries and Isobel Starling did not disappoint. The blend of humor, mystery, and romance is what made Detective Fox such a joy to read. Tom and Eli are amazingly fun together, both on and off the case. Being a holiday story is like adding an extra layer to an already yummy cake. And the fact that this is a British mystery is the delicious icing on that amazing cake.
I may not take the opportunity to read this annually but I know I'll be listening to it when the holiday season comes around again, maybe even when Xmas in July arrives. A holiday gem but in truth it's such a great mystery treat that it would be great all year long. I've only read one other Isobel Starling story and that was nearly 9 years ago so I'm going to stretch my label a bit and include her in my new-to-me author list and look forward to discovering more.
The Business of Christmas by Ellie Thomas
Business was brisk the next morning.
If this keeps up until Christmas, we’ll be plump in the pocket, Eli thought. He tried not to wince at how much of that profit would be squandered in Joseph’s expensive schemes.
He anticipated that Joseph would return later than usual from the house clearance, after perusing the Swallow Street property.
He’s not one to dawdle, my Joseph.
Eli clung onto the hope that by taking a positive step towards fulfilling his ambition, Joseph, usually so level-headed, would start to see the wider view.
Maybe he’ll realise we’re better off staying here.
Eli’s misplaced optimism faded when Joseph appeared from the back of the shop in his shirt sleeves, his face wreathed in smiles.
“Did you get some decent moveables?” he asked mildly. “We need a few baubles to replace what I’ve sold so far.”
“That’s good news. Yes, I picked up some saleable trinkets. At least they will be once Tilly’s cleaned them up and you’ve placed them to your satisfaction.”
Joseph’s grin was so infectious that Eli’s lips curved, despite his rising trepidation.
“I dropped by that place off Swallow Street as we agreed,” Joseph continued blithely. “The landlord happened to be there and was very amenable to my enquiries. He’s even hinted at making a deal on the rent.”
“You didn’t agree to any terms?” Eli asked sharply.
“’Course not. I said I had to consult with my business partner and then we’d visit the premises together to make a final decision. He was most agreeable.”
I bet he was, Eli thought grimly. The whole affair felt off to him. Surely if the shop was in a prime position, it would have been snapped up already?
Unlike Joseph, Eli didn’t interpret the landlord’s eagerness favourably.
“Once you see the place I know you’ll grasp the potential. We could even go before the week is out.”
This was moving far too fast for comfort. Before I know it we’ll be dished up and stuck with somewhere we can’t afford.
“Go and see what?”
Tilly appeared in the doorway, holding a duster.
She might sleep like a baby, unaware of the regular night time activity on the floor below her attic chamber. During the day, there was no such thing as a private conversation. Tilly’s step was light and her ears were sharp.
Eli might have felt relief at the interruption to gather his thoughts if he hadn’t sensed looming disaster.
“We’re thinking of getting another shop,” Joseph said incautiously. “We’ll soon be moving to the West End where the guineas are more plentiful.”
“Move?” Tilly was stricken.
She looked from one man to the other, seeking assurance that they were joking.
Belatedly, realisation crossed Joseph’s face that he had spoken too soon.
“Nothing’s decided, Tilly,” Eli said soothingly. “It’s only a consideration.”
“But if you leave, where would I go?”
Tilly clutched the duster to her thin chest like a prized possession.
“As if we’d venture anywhere without you, Tilly,” Joseph said with unnatural heartiness. “Wherever we go, you’d come with us.”
Tilly would not be comforted. She was close to tears.
“But what about my friends? I can’t abandon Hester, she’ll be distraught. Why do we have to leave at all? This is our home.”
She burst into tears and fled. Joseph took a step to follow her.
“Leave her be,” Eli said gently. “Let her cry herself out. We’ll talk to her when she’s calmed down and is in a fit state to pay attention.”
Joseph appeared thunderstruck by Tilly’s outburst.
“I thought she’d be excited by the news.”
Oh, Joseph, Eli pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
The rumble of a cart sounded from the back lane. Eli grasped the opportunity for distraction.
“That will be the delivery from the house sale. Why don’t you get set to unload the goods and shift them in the store room. Then we can have them ready to sell all the sooner.”
Joseph stood stock still, his expression puzzled as though he barely understood Eli’s instructions. Only the entrance of two ladies made him hasten away, not wanted to be caught improperly attired by potential customers.
“As I was telling you, Addie,” one of the ladies said chattily. “They have some lovely pieces here, perfect for Christmas gifts.”
Eli smiled benignly, allowing the ladies to browse and persuade each other to make a purchase without his interference.
Let’s deal with one problem at a time, he thought, unnerved by the sudden disharmony in their small household.
The Magic of Midnight by RJ Scott
Chapter 1
Wesley
“…and the entire regiment was never heard from again,” I said, drawing the words out and pausing, letting the silence grow heavy before I leaned closer to the lantern, which flickered in the middle of the store, casting long shadows stretching across rows of shelves and stacks of books.
My midnight-on-Halloween audience—all adults—sat scattered on beanbags and mismatched chairs normally used by kids, their faces tipped toward me, wide-eyed, waiting for the last line of the story. I could feel their anticipation, the delicious edge of fear I’d stoked with every twist and pause. Dressed as the ghost said to haunt the old Whitaker house on the edge of town, I moved closer into the soft light of an old lamp I’d found in the storeroom when I first bought the place—the story lantern that gave this place its name—and whispered the final words, savoring the silence.
“Blood and bones, an eerie presence—that’s all that remains. And that, my friends, is why no one dares spend a night in the Whitaker place. Not if they hope to leave alive.”
Gasps and a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” rippled through the twenty or so people, the sound breaking the tension before laughter followed as I sat back in my chair. The ghost story I’d first spun three years ago, when I’d moved here and opened The Story Lantern bookstore, had taken on a life of its own, whispered and retold until it was turning into a Wishing Tree urban legend. What started as a bit of fun for me was now the kind of tale kids dared each other to repeat in the dark, and seeing that happen made my chest swell with something equal parts pride and wonder.
“I’m never going up that road again,” Brooke Haynes whispered to her husband, leaning into him with a dramatic shiver. “Not unless my big, brave husband comes with me and protects me from every creak and shadow.”
Callum snorted. “‘Brave’? You married the wrong guy if that’s what you’re after. I’m running away faster than you.”
“You’d leave me to the ghosts?” she teased, smacking his arm lightly.
“Absolutely,” he shot back, earning laughter from those around them.
I loved Brooke—she volunteered here for story hours and special events, and of course, she visited all the time with her kids. Charlie and Alice were avid readers who devoured everything I gave them, and although Willow was only three, she had already memorized her favorite picture books and insisted on turning the pages herself. Brooke had started taking on some of the invoicing side of the business, not that I’d asked, but apparently, it gave her a break from real life, and she loved it. At least with her handling the invoicing, it meant she caught mistakes, and I didn’t miss paying people or receiving money. She hadn’t said anything about what she saw, but I noticed her frowning as she checked items off the bank statement yesterday.
I hated that she saw how close I was to losing everything, but luckily, she never brought it up, so I could pretend it wasn’t real. And hell, someday, I might even be able to pay her back for what she did.
If I managed to keep the store.
People stretched, giggled, and stumbled to their feet, a little drunk on the pumpkin punch Brooke had shared liberally, then began drifting toward the door, chattering and laughing as they broke off into small groups, clutching each other as they stepped out into the crisp bite of the November night, searching for ghosts. It was past one in the morning, and Halloween in Wishing Tree had ended not with candy, but with whispered tales and a lantern glowing in my bookstore.
I wasn’t exactly sober myself—not really drunk either. I’d had one pumpkin cocktail and three caffeine-free coffees, but I was buzzing. One cup of spiced yumminess wasn’t enough to do anything but warm me, yet the high of telling stories, of watching my bookstore come alive, filled me until I almost forgot the stack of bills on my desk in the back office. Almost.
“You’re awesome, Wes!” Brooke exclaimed, flinging her arms around me in a tipsy hug that nearly knocked me off balance. She clung tight until Callum, laughing, pried her away and steadied her with an indulgent, long-suffering shake of his head. They’d made a point of telling me the kids were staying with his brother Bailey, and they had the whole night to themselves, and boy, were they enjoying it.
Giggling, shouting, ghostly wails, and laughter trailed up the street, and then a gruff voice cut through the night. “It’s one a.m.! What the hell’s going on down there?”
The crowd scattered like guilty kids. I tilted my head back, lantern light spilling through the window, and there he was, leaning out from his second-floor apartment next door. Hunter McCoy, owner of The Real McCoy coffee shop, was my big, scary neighbor who looked about ready to call the cops. His scowl was ferocious, and I couldn’t stop myself from grinning up at him. My grin widened because damn if Hunter didn’t look unfairly hot when he was irritated. Broad shoulders filling the window opening, that dark, mussed hair begging for fingers to be raked through it, a scowl that made his full lips more distracting. I’d never admit it out loud, but watching him glower down at me made my stomach twist in a way no ghost story ever could.
“It’s the magic of midnight storytelling, Hunter!” I shouted.
“It’s a noise at midnight violation!”
“Oops,” I called guiltily.
“What the hell are you wearing, Darkwood?” he snapped.
I glanced down at my costume. Dressed as a dead man—pale face paint, ragged Civil War uniform spattered with fake blood, a length of rusty chain dragging at my boots—I had piled on every ghostly stereotype I could think of.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.”
“I’m a fallen Civil War soldier, doomed by a series of tragic events that saw my entire regiment slaughtered on the old Whitaker homestead just outside Wishing Tree!”
Hunter stared down at me, unimpressed. Then, with a sigh that carried months of his exasperation with me, he muttered something about how the 14th Vermont Infantry had never marched that close to town, his tone not rude but historically disdainful enough to make the remaining onlookers snicker. I turned to shrug at them; the only ones standing were Brooke and Callum, and they grinned back at me.
“Historically accurate Hunter is grumpy,” I summarized, and they were laughing as they left. I felt a bit mean then; I didn’t mean to make fun, but the pumpkin punch made my head spin.
“Keep the noise down!” he said and then slammed the window shut.
Not even Grumpy-McGrumperson Hunter McCoy could stop me from smiling as I slipped back inside, locked up, and turned off the electric lantern—no candles in a bookstore—then wrapped my arms around myself with a sigh of happiness. The store was mine; the stories I made up were mine, and the freedom from my family, from my old life, was mine. I might be a little lonely when the place was quiet in a way that sometimes reminded me I was alone. I never missed my parents, nor my bullying idiot brothers Benedict or Lewis, but my kid brother, Rupert? Yeah. I missed him.
One day, maybe I’d track him down. Maybe he didn’t hate me quite so much now.
“Stop getting maudlin,” I was cross at myself. “Focus on the good stuff.”
Like the fact I had the sexy-as-hell Hunter living next door.
Everything was great.
Everything was not great.
By the time I finally dragged myself awake, I’d had maybe five hours of sleep, tops. My skull throbbed with a headache that felt as though someone had wedged an axe behind my eyes, and my mouth tasted as if something had crawled in there and died overnight. Maybe I’d had more than one pumpkin drink after all, or maybe I was running on fumes from the high of the night before. I rolled over, groping blindly for the alarm clock, groaning when the numbers glared back at me—six a.m. Not to mention, my screen showed a missed call from my oldest brother, along with three messages from our family lawyer, and two from my father; I swiped to ignore them.
Money. It had to be about money.
Not right now, assholes.
I staggered into the bathroom, squinting at the harsh light. Peering into the mirror, I winced at the pale, exhausted face staring back at me—and at the smear of red along my neck. For a second, my stomach lurched at the thought I’d injured myself before I remembered the fake blood from last night. Grimacing, I scrubbed at it with a washcloth until it came away.
The shower was bliss, even if I lingered longer than I should have, taking extra time to rinse the sticky mess from my shoulder-length hair. I really needed to get it cut—one day, when life wasn’t so chaotic. I leaned closer to the mirror, double-checking for any leftover blood. Nothing. Just me, looking as rough as I felt, with water dripping down my nose. I gave my hair a rough towel dry, called it good enough, and pulled on clean clothes before heading down from my tiny apartment and into the bookstore a little after seven, unlocked the door, ready for an expected delivery, and dropped behind the counter with a mug of black coffee and a spider-shaped Halloween cookie.
The door swung open, and I plastered a smile on my face as if that could disguise how wrecked I felt.
Hunter filled the doorway, tall and broad, with sandy blond hair catching the light from the street outside. Handsome in a rugged way, his blue eyes flashed as they landed on me, piercing through the fog of my tiredness. He wore jeans that fit perfectly and a plain white T-shirt—of course, it was plain, with no logos or silly joke slogans. Clean lines, simple, effortless. And as always, the sight of him made my stomach swoop as if I were tumbling off a cliff, ridiculous and undeniable.
God, he was gorgeous.
And pissed, apparently.
“For the love of god, update the address with whoever the hell is sending you whatever this is!” Hunter snapped as he strode in with a box of books, hefting it like it weighed nothing. I would’ve been straining muscles and gasping for breath with that load, but he carried it as if it were empty. He was already scowling, and when his foot caught on the dangling arm of a plastic skeleton propped by the door, the whole thing toppled into him. Box still in hand, he wrestled with fake bones and nylon string as though it was a real monster, his expression sliding to the peak of the Hunter Index of Grumpy. I pegged him at a solid eight out of ten.
“Seriously?” he muttered, entangled, dropping the box with a thud to the floor.
I hurried over to help, which meant I was far too close to Hunter—broad, scowling, smelling of soap and fresh coffee—and even closer to the accidental brush of his rough hand across mine. Heat curled low in my stomach, my chest tightening with a ridiculous twist that made me want something I could never hope to have.
Hunter’s growl of exasperation deepened as I tried to help, which of course made things worse. One wrong tug and we were chest-to-chest, his arm against mine as the skeleton dangled awkwardly between us. My mouth worked faster than my brain. “Wait—don’t move. The femur’s twisted in with your sweater.”
He looked down with a sigh, then gave me a flat, unimpressed stare. “That’s a tibia.”
I smirked. “Tibia, femur, whatever. Same thing.”
His eyebrow twitched, the closest Hunter ever came to rolling his eyes. “Tibias are… never mind.”
He unpicked the tangle, and with one final tug, he stepped back. The skeleton slid apart in clattering pieces to the floor.
“You broke Cyril,” was all I could say.
“Cyril?” He didn’t sound impressed.
“Cyril the Cursed. He was a train robber, died in mysterious circumstances way back, and now his skeleton hangs in the bookstore as a warning.”
Hunter shook his head. “It’s plastic.”
“That’s what you’re meant to think,” I shot back, grinning.
He sighed—same as he always did when we talked, and I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t—then jabbed a finger toward the box on the floor. “Fix the address.”
I didn’t want him to leave, not yet. “Do you, uh, want a coffee? To say sorry? I’ve got cookies.” The words spilled out before I could stop them, and inside my head I was already groaning—what the hell had I said?
The implied ‘you’re an idiot’ was in his raised brow. “I own a coffee shop, right?”
“Okay, so I can’t make coffee as good as you, I’ll give you that.”
“Yep.”
“Buuuuut your cookies are normal ones, and mine are Halloween cookies,” I explained, as if that made a difference.
It didn’t.
“I have to get back, we’re busy,” he said, then left in a swirl of cold air as the door swung shut behind him.
For a moment, I stared at the space he’d left, wishing I had half the steady foot traffic his café pulled in every morning. People lined up for his coffee before the sun was up, and although he scowled through their orders, they came back for more. Meanwhile, my register sat quiet more often than not, and I was left relying on the occasional story night or holiday event to keep the lights on. It was hard not to compare—Hunter’s grumpy charm seemed to sell lattes by the dozen, while my best efforts at magic and cookies barely paid the heating bill.
I replayed the disaster in my head—me blurting about Halloween cookies and offering him coffee, him looking at me as if I was the most idiotic person he’d ever met. With a sigh, I nudged the delivery box with my knee. No way was I going to heft that thing, but it didn’t budge; instead, my knee nearly gave out, and pain shot up my leg. Swearing under my breath, I fetched the box cutter and sliced it open—it looked like I was transporting the books inside a few at a time. Yay for my on-the-slim-side, un-muscled, but kinda cute self.
“Yes!” Inside was the final book in my favorite paranormal YA series by an author I adored, and on top of it was an envelope. My heart stuttered as I tore it open—Adrian freaking Trevelyan had written me a note. Maybe it was his PA, maybe it was form-letter fluff, but it was addressed to me, Wesley Darkwood, care of The Story Lantern Bookstore.
Adrian’s note was short and scrawled in dark ink, but my eyes caught every word: he was thrilled to agree to come to Wishing Tree for a suggested book signing on December 21st, asked if I knew of any local inns or B&Bs where he could stay, and wondered if it would be all right to mention the event on his social media. He also said that I could message him directly if I needed to.
My heart thudded as I read it twice, then a third time, the paper trembling in my hands. There was a messaging address at the bottom, a direct email, and…
“He agreed. He’s coming. Oh my god, oh my god.” My very first book signing—and it featured my all-time favorite author? At Christmas? In Wishing Tree. Home of the Parade of Lights, the Christmas market, and the wishing tree itself.
I picked up a copy of the book, a sticky note on the front: ARC Copy for Wesley Darkwood and Brooke Haynes only.
“Oh my god! Brooke is gonna lose her shit!” I yelled. When I’d written to Adrian, I’d talked at length about how Brooke and I had read the series a hundred times, and he mentioned her! The book wouldn’t be released for another week, and the thrill of being among the first to hold it sent a fizz of excitement through me. There was nothing better—well, nothing except the moment when others would finally get to read it too, and I could gush and argue and revel in it with them.
Brooke was seriously going to die when she realized what we had, but I was definitely going to read it first. I sent her a message to say I had news, and by ten she was outside the door, Willow bundled on her hip, their cheeks pink from the cold.
“What news?” she said immediately. “Is everything okay? Is it the bank?”
I blinked at her. “Why would it be the bank?”
“I…” she shook her head. “Never mind.”
“This is something so good! I’m still in shock. That letter we sent to Adrian Trevelyan’s agent. Oh my god! Adrian himself… he wrote to me… he said yes!”
Her eyes widened, and then she whooped and danced over to me. Willow laughed as her mom placed her on the corner reading rug, her hands already reaching for the nearest picture book.
She put her hands on her hips. “Right, let’s start organizing this.”
“Brooke, you don’t have to—”
“I’m here, deal with it,” she cut me off with the voice of a woman who managed three kids and a lawyer husband. I’d sent my half-hopeful, half-desperate plea six months ago. And he’d said yes. Hell. What now?
“We need a venue,” I said, panic rising. I hadn’t thought this through at all. “We can’t have it here in my store, it’s too small.”
Brooke leaned across the counter, eyes gleaming, and plucked a new notebook from the display, then grabbed a pen from behind the cash register. “Lucky for you, I already provisionally booked the town hall for the twenty-first.”
“What?” I stared at her. “You did?”
“As soon as you sent the letter to his agent,” she said, smug as anything.
I couldn’t help the grin. “Of course you did.”
She opened the notebook and clicked her pen as if she was about to dictate my entire future. “Okay then—tickets, promo, social media. Let’s go.”
And just like that, we were off—Brooke scribbling lists at lightning speed while I tried not to panic that Adrian Trevelyan, of all people, was actually coming to Wishing Tree for a signing.
Brooke tapped her pen against the notepad, already halfway through her list. “I’ll handle ticket sales—we’ll need to cap them, the hall only seats what, three hundred and fifty if you count the folding chairs in the back.”
I said faintly, my mind spinning. “That’s…a lot of people.”
“Which means a lot of books,” she said crisply, jotting down another line. “You’ll need to order at least four hundred copies to even start to cover preorders and on-the-day sales.”
My pulse jumped. My credit card was still reeling from last month’s supplier order, practically maxed, and the thought of piling four hundred more books on top of that made my stomach knot. If the pre-orders came through fast enough, maybe I could juggle it. Maybe. “Four hundred—Brooke, that’s—”
“Doable,” she cut in.
“My account—”
“I’ll talk to the publisher about sale or return, and invoicing after sales. And I’ll coordinate with the town hall for extra parking, signage, that sort of thing. Social media blitz starts Monday. Easy.”
I blinked at her, panic and gratitude colliding in my chest. “I can’t—Brooke, I can’t pay you for all your work on this.”
Hell, I could barely keep up with stock—so much for investing every cent I had in something I loved when it wasn’t a huge money maker.
She tilted her head, calm but firm, and then her voice softened. “Wesley. You let me sit in your store with a coffee and say I can read anything I want from your shelves. You never mind if Willow naps in the corner or if Alice raids your personal coloring books. You give me space when I need it.”
As if to prove her point, Willow padded back over, her small hands reaching up to me, as she demanded to be lifted. “Carry two!” she said—none of us knew what it meant. I scooped her into my arms, and she wrapped herself around me, face burrowing into my shoulder.
“I don’t need paying,” Brooke added gently. “You’re a friend, and I get more from this place than you realize.”
The weight of Willow’s head on my shoulder, the steady hum of Brooke’s certainty—it undid me a little. I’d never had a real friend before—at least not one who was pretending to be my friend while secretly wanting an in with my family. “Still…thank you,” I murmured.
Brooke smiled, sliding the notepad across to me. “Save it for Adrian Trevelyan. He’ll bring the crowd. You just make sure the shelves are stocked and the cocoa’s hot.”
I tightened my hold on Willow, who gave a sleepy sigh and whispered, “Deal.”
Brooke tapped her pen on the page, then glanced up at me, eyes sharp. “You know…if this goes well, Wes, it won’t just be about Adrian. Authors talk. Publicists notice. The Story Lantern could get on the map as the small-town stop for tours.”
My stomach flipped. “That sounds…terrifying.”
“It sounds like survival,” she countered, though her smile was kind. “And maybe growth, too. More signings. More readers. A future.”
I didn’t answer right away. Willow’s breathing against my shoulder made me ache with how much I wanted what her mother was suggesting—a future here, with books and light and laughter filling this little shop. A place people came back to, again and again.
“Let’s just get through Adrian first,” I muttered, my voice rough.
Brooke chuckled. “Fine. But don’t be surprised when this is just the beginning.”
Detective Fox by Isobel Starling
CHAPTER 1
AGENT
“I got you a great gig, Tom. It’s yours for the taking. You don’t even have to audition.”
Tom Lewis lay in his preferred prone position on his agent’s worn black leather couch, where, over the last six months, he regularly flopped down and despaired about the unfairness of being an unemployed actor of such high caliber. He lifted the red velvet cushion that he’d pressed over his face to block out the sound of yet another complaint from his agent—usually along the lines of: “You know if you really wanna get back out there, you’re gonna have to step out of your comfort zone…”
But no, Tom was pretty sure he’d just heard his agent say he’d got him—a—job? Tom sat up, swung his legs off the couch, and stared at his agent with an expression of disbelief on his face. He hadn’t worked since an exposé in the British tabloids about his ‘Shocking Sordid Gay Sexploits’ months before.
Tom Lewis was considered a pin-up for homemakers the length and breadth of the British Isles, and he also had an enthusiastic American fan base too. The forty-five-year-old actor was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with swarthy looks, wavy raven hair to his jaw-line, and eyes so dark brown they appeared black. In the days before the exposé, a topless shot of Tom could send his fans, who gave themselves the moniker Tomkats, into a hormonal Twitter frenzy. But, no matter how straight Tom presented, privately he was 110% gay and believed that the only people who needed to know that fact were the men he wanted to sleep with. It was no one else’s business, and, so rightly, Tom was appalled at being outed, and alarmed by the vitriol of women online who were devastated that their fantasy man loved cock.
Tom’s preference was for younger men. So what if he was on Grindr. Just because he was a well-known actor, it didn’t mean he wasn’t entitled to a private life. Therefore, Tom had enjoyed his private life, hooking up whenever he could fit cock into his busy schedule.
Tom now knew he’d been deluding himself. After all, with such a well-known face, it was only a matter of time before one of his sexual partners recognized him. And so it came to pass. Tom had been chatting online with a hot young thing named Devin, and later enjoyed an evening of very kinky sex with the twenty-year-old he’d met via the dating site. But it turned out that Devin was a trainee reporter for the Scum or The Mail—Tom couldn’t remember which tabloid. It didn’t matter anyway.
Tom narrowed his eyes and considered his agent with consternation. “Jesus Derek, you could have said earlier and stopped me from whinging on and on for the past thirty minutes.” He said, “Come on, what’s the gig? Spill,” Tom urged, suddenly hopeful… maybe even excited.
Tom’s theatrical agent was Derek Bates, whom Tom had privately nicknamed The Master, for obvious reasons. He sat behind a desk piled so high with paperwork that Tom was surprised it didn’t collapse under the weight. Derek was connected, and he was old school—meaning he wasn’t one for tablet computers, PDF files, and new-fangled script software. No siree; Derek wanted paper copies of all scripts his clientele were considered for, in triplicate. Luckily, Derek’s secretary, Arnold was a computer wiz and would get him out of any technical issues that were beyond him—like turning on the desktop computer!
Derek was in his late fifties, ruddy-faced and sporting a blond wig that a certain horrible US president would probably arm-wrestle him for. He had the body of a man who’d enjoyed far too many rich lunches on expenses, and spent too much time on his arse behind a desk.
Derek met Tom’s keen gaze. “I got you a sweet deal under the circumstances. Five weeks at three thousand per week. There’ll be two weeks rehearsal at two grand a week too”, Derek explained, “They were delighted at the chance to have the man who played the famous Detective Fox on their team.”
Tom’s eyes widened at the thought of that kind of money. It was a decent salary, and with the offers drying up after the social media furor from the tabloid stories, it would be very welcome. His credit cards were maxed-out, and he’d been considering selling his Chelsea riverside apartment to make ends meet.
Tom stared at his agent and noticed the shifty look in his eyes. Suddenly, he felt uneasy. Who would want him so badly without an audition? What the hell was this gig?
“Look, I’ve told you a million times, I am NOT doing panto,” Tom scowled.
“Would I do that to you? Would I?” Derek simpered, sounding wounded. There was a lull for a moment while both men eyed one another suspiciously before Derek said “I’ll have you know that I believe Panto is a wonderful British tradition. But, it’s not a pantomime, okay?”
“Jesus, just tell me… is it a sitcom or a movie? Please don’t say it’s a reality show; you know I’d rather crawl over broken glass than appear on one of those.”
Tom was always very picky about his roles, and so far this stubbornness had paid off. But now he was exasperated, teetering on the edge of agreeing to anything just to have something to take his mind off what a clusterfuck his life had become. Three grand a week for five weeks solid work was not to be sniffed at.
“As I said,” Derek continued, “The client would be delighted to have the Famous Detective on board. They thought it would be a great theme to follow—” Derek took a deep rattling breath and then launched over the cliff…“—in investigating who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.”
An icy shiver ran down Tom’s spine. He was a Royal Shakespeare Company-trained actor, for God’s sake.
“You have got to be fucking joking!” Tom roared in his best Detective Fox voice. Derek held his hands up in surrender to try and placate his client.
Tom’s anger melted away “Has it really got THAT bad?” Derek gave a tight-lipped shrug.
“Oh, Gawd.” Tom rested his head in his hands, and a wave of depression engulfed him.
He was officially a failure.
“Hold your horses; hear me out, Tom. Have I ever let you down? Well, have I?”
Tom didn’t even attempt a reply.
“It’s a good gig,” Derek insisted. ”The starring role of Santa for the Hambling’s Department Store Christmas extravaganzahh.” The agent delivered theatrically. There was a long silence, as if Derek was waiting for his ta-da moment. It never came. Tom just looked at him blankly with those scarily dark eyes.
“Hambling’s—err, Tom, you must know Hambling’s?” Derek said nervously to fill the awkward silence.
“Of course, I bloody know Hambling’s,” Tom spat. “It’s London’s most expensive, exclusive department store.”
“Le Blanc did it two years ago—and The Hoff took the gig last year. You should be honored, seriously. They even want you to choose your supporting cast. Isn’t that great? You wouldn’t have to deal with any arseholes who’d run to the papers. Hambling’s has said they’ll make all of the applicants sign confidentiality agreements. They have top-notch security. If you take the job, they’ll give you carte blanche.”
“Supporting cast,” Tom blurted disdainfully “Don’t make me laugh. You mean Elves.” he huffed.
“Come on Tom, will you do it?” Derek pleaded.
“It’s either this, panto or I don’t know. Have you considered teaching?” He exhaled, exasperated. “You can’t go on like this. And, though it pains me to say, seeing you mope around the place, it’s not good for business, and it’s not good for your brand. Did you see the Daily Mail on Tuesday? Apparently, Tom Lewis ‘cut a lonesome figure, much like the character he’s famous for.”
“I was shopping for groceries for Christ’s sake,” Tom roared indignantly “Who the hell is full of the joys of spring when they’re shopping for toilet roll and detergent?” Tom threaded his hands through his thick, dark hair, slumped back on the couch, and then pulled the red velvet cushion back over his face.
There was no way in hell Tom would lower himself to dressing in a red, padded Santa suit. He’d worked hard to become a serious actor, and he’d worked harder on his washboard abs. He’d taken sword fighting lessons, learned to ride a horse, and spent years perfecting his range of accents. Detective Fox was a deeply troubled soul who'd ‘seen too much’, and Tom had dug deep to find the wounded, loner Dick who always solved the case—and had no idea just how devastatingly attractive women found him.
The last series of the show ended with a cliffhanger. The actor who’d played his sidekick, Banks, had been shooting his mouth off on set and causing trouble amongst the cast so, in the show, he was killed off, and Fox never discovered whodunit. The storyline was supposed to be continued as a sub-plot for the new season as Fox tirelessly searched for clues as to who killed his partner.
Tom was sure he’d be back on the show sometime in September, but now the producer was saying it would happen after the New Year, and they would have a less troublesome actor lined up to be the new sidekick. But then there were whispers in the press about recasting Detective Fox, too, and until the producers made a decision, Tom Lewis was in limbo, twiddling his thumbs.
Tom came to a decision. He could not take a role as Santa, not for anyone, no, no, no. Talking about Christmas made him realize that he had no plans for the holidays this year. He was a forty-five-year-old, single, unemployed actor, and in all honesty, he would probably be alone on Christmas Day, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin and a tub of ice cream. It was the most pathetic situation he could imagine. Tom’s closest friends had families or plans to jet off to warmer climes. Tom could barely afford a meal out these days. He would probably get sympathy invites, but the thought of spending the holidays with other people's screaming kids was not a welcome one. Tom could take or leave children—leave them, mostly. He wondered idly if all actors who’d played Santa Claus secretly hated kids eventually.
Tom pondered for a moment longer. Was he really suited to play Santa Claus? Of course, he could play Santa, he was an actor, a professional, for goodness sake, and a friendly old man in a fat suit was well within his range. It would be good to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning, and seven weeks work for nearly twenty grand—now that would see me comfortably into the New Year.
If Tom took the role, he would do it his way. He lay there on his very patient agent's couch and thought about actors he’d admired who‘d played Father Christmas. There was Fred Astaire, and Richard Attenborough, and, more recently Tom Hanks and John Goodman. Lots of successful actors played the big guy, and it hadn’t damaged their careers.
Tom pulled the cushion away from his face and took a deep breath. He grimaced morosely, and then said, “Damn it—tell them I’ll do it. But there’ll be no one-to-one. No hugs. No photography. I’m not having stranger’s kids sitting on my knee, and suing me in twenty years for ruining their childhoods.”
Derek gave a deep gravely laugh. “Atta Boy.” he cheered “I knew you’d say yes. It’s all been arranged. Auditions are on Friday.”
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.
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.
Isobel Starling loves writing M/M thrillers, mysteries, fantasy, and historical books. With over 50 titles, she's a #1 bestselling author in the USA, UK, France, and Germany. As well as English, German and French, her books are also available in Italian, and Spanish.
Isobel runs Decent Fellows Press, where she produces audiobooks by John Wiltshire, Anna Butler, LJ Hayward and Harper Fox. Of the 50 audiobooks Isobel has produced, 45 of those are with the multi-award-winning narrator Gary Furlong.
So far, Decent Fellows Press has won the Independent Audiobook Award for Romance 2018, and has one title nomination for the SOVAS (Society of Voice Arts and Sciences) Award 2021 - Thriller Category.
Isobel is totally against the use of #AI. She does not use AI generated cover art or any AI apps for book content. If you purchase books and audiobooks produced by Isobel you'll be getting a 100% authentic product, (Occasional pesky typos and all!)
For audiobooks Decent Fellows Press will always choose #realhumanvoice #noAI
Ellie Thomas
RJ Scott
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EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Isobel Starling
The Business of Christmas by Ellie Thomas
The Magic of Midnight by RJ Scott
Detective Fox by Isobel Starling
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