Sunday, June 21, 2026
🌈🌻🌼Father's Day 2026🌼🌻🌈
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In honor of Father's Day here in the US, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential father figures. Some aren't necessarily a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, a memory, etc. The father figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader. For Father's Day 2026, I chose 5 stories where the fatherly figure helped to shape the characters, made them stronger and in doing so made the story even more brilliant and left me smiling. If you have any recommendations for great father figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here. The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.
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Jurassic Measures by Davidson King
Summary:Jason McPherson loves his job and his life. There’s no drama, he has the love of his parents, and an assistant that gives him all the friendship he needs. Yeah, life is good…calm.
That is until Landry Astor storms into his tailor and design shop making demands and unknowingly steals Jason’s heart.
Landry isn’t all he seems to be and soon enough, Jason’s once quiet life turns upside down. It’s going to take some Jurassic measures to make sense out of everything…but that’s okay, because together, they’ll have forever to figure it out.
Jurassic Measures was part of the Cretaceous Crushes Charity Anthology which is now unpublished. This was my contribution to that anthology. Nothing has been added or changed from it’s original version.
Original Review October 2025:
This was originally released as part of the Cretaceous Crushes Charity Anthology(which is no longer available) but I never got an opportunity to read it at the time so when the author released it as a short story, it was completely new to me. You don't often see, or at least I haven't come across it before, dinosaur shifters in any genre. I imagine in a way that left a pretty shallow pool for the author to dive into and she certainly dived head first filling it with all kinds of unusual awesomeness.
Could Jurassic Measures have been better as a full length novel? Perhaps, but it plays very well as a short novella. World building can be difficult in a short story but Davidson King really paints the picture here letting us know how dino shifters survived all this time. We get to see how the whole fated mates works when Landry introduces Jason to his parents, in doing this she is able to blend brevity with details.
I'm going to stop here so as not to spoil anything. I will say this isn't the dark, action-packed suspense stories we tend to associate the author with, is it outside her comfort zone? No, because she has given us lighter stories around the holidays before but just not what she typically creates. You'll laugh, you'll smile, you will definitely want to know more but you don't need to know more to pull you in and want to see the HEA for Jason and Landry. On a personal note, October has been a difficult month for me as it was my first birthday without my mother and she loved Halloween and all the gore and scare that goes with the holiday. I love the dark stuff, especially this time of year but King's Jurassic Measures was exactly the right amount of lightness I needed. For that alone I want to send a huge thank you to the author, for that moment of light.
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
Summary:
Season of Joy #1
In 1920s Cheltenham, Walter Webb has settled into a peacetime existence with relative ease. He's kept busy running the family grocer's shop with his father on Lower High Street, a working-class region of the famous Regency spa town. In his moments of leisure, he meets regularly with his ex-army pals that he served with in the Great War.
But being a respectable grocer means that Walter must keep his occasional liaisons with other men brief and anonymous. When he meets Stanley, the attractive and likeable brother of a customer, who is staying with his sister after a debilitating bout of pneumonia, Walter is tempted to throw caution to the winds on the chance of something more with this particular man.
Can these two men take a risk to find a lasting romance?
Original Review January Book of the Month 2025:
Such a lovely little story of finding happiness. It's hard for me to write a review for Season of Joy, not because I didn't like the story, quite the opposite. I was reading this new Ellie Thomas novella during the time my mother came home for hospice and passed away so I was reading it in small chunks here and there. On one hand that can make a story harder to connect to but on the other it gave me pockets of peace and escape, small pockets to be sure but definitely helped balance my emotions so I could deal with the arrangements and help my dad as well. I know this seems like an odd thing to mention in a book review but I wanted to express to the author how grateful I am for those pockets of peace and balance. Truth is I think bringing up the personal chaos and hurt I am dealing with and still be able to enjoy Walter and Stanley's journey speaks volumes to the amazing talent of the author and the power of the heart within the story. Definitely a warmhearted and winning gem in my mind.
Love Story by RJ Scott
Summary:Harmony Lake
Love wasn’t on Sam Caldwell’s agenda until a city boy with haunted eyes and no coat crashed into his world.
As a fourth-generation maple farmer in Caldwell Crossing, New Hampshire, Sam is rooted in tradition, family, and a quiet life filled with woodsmoke, laughter, and loyal friends. But everything changes when he finds Ben Marshall half-frozen on the side of the road. Ben is sharp, guarded, and running from his past—yet there’s a pull between them that Sam can’t ignore.
Ben never expected to end up in a snowy New Hampshire town, especially not after losing everything in Boston. Forced to leave his career and reputation behind, he retreats to the one safe place left—his great-aunt Harriet’s home in Caldwell Crossing. But safety doesn’t mean peace, and the last thing he needs is to catch feelings for the grumpy, gentle farmer who rescued him.
As winter thaws and maple flows, so does something deeper between Sam and Ben—trust, laughter, and the terrifying possibility of love. But when Ben’s past threatens to drag him back under, can two men who’ve built walls around their hearts find the courage to create something together?
Love Story features a city boy starting over, a maple farmer rooted in tradition, found family, best friends, early mornings that turn into something more, and the kind of love that feels like coming home.
Original Review June 2025:
What a lovely opener to the 4-story multi-author series, Harmony Lake. From Ben's need to escape legal threats to Sam's unexpected chemistry in the middle of his busiest time during syrup season, Love Story has a little of everything. Okay, not everything, there's no sci-fi(although there are a few references to his friends' love of Star Wars which only strengthens my love of the group😉), horror, or apocalyptic threats BUT otherwise a little of everything.
Ben's need to leave Boston spoke to my love of mystery. I won't go into too much of that element, it doesn't play a huge part in a who-done-it sense but we are left wondering what role he'll face in the fraud case he uncovered and watching that play out is perfectly layered into this tale of love and friendship. If you're at all familiar with RJ Scott's work, you know she's all about the HEA, but she also likes to put her characters through a stress-heavy gauntlet. Ben is no different, I couldn't help but want to reach inside my kindle and give him the biggest MamaBear hug possible and tell him to have faith, but we just have to let the characters find it out for themselves.
Sam, well, his heart is still feeling the pain of betrayal from his last boyfriend and has no plans to go after love anytime soon. We all know where that's headed😉. He may be on the threshold of his busiest season in the syrup business but that doesn't mean his heart won't reach out when Ben enters his life. This may be Ben and Sam's romance but I really love the friendship Sam has with Haider, Conor, and Ryan. Their scenes may not be large in quantity but they are high in quality and you can just feel their connections to each other throughout the story.
Putting Ben and Sam together is chemistry on fire, their actual first meeting will be a cute meet story for them to share with their loved ones for years to come. Now it may not have been so cute in the moment, Ben's car going off the road and getting stuck in the snow completely unprepared for the elements and Sam happening on him as he drove home from a night with his buddies, and taking him to the ER, but in the aftermath the cuteness grows. I really loved Ben's discovery of letters Sam's ancestors wrote, that spoke to my love of genealogy and family history, truth is I wouldn't have minded had there been a little more of it but it's a perfect way for the pair to connect beyond Ben's borderline clumsy-magnet ways.
Whether there is enough humor in Ben and Sam's scenes to label it rom-com or dramedy, or flat out as the title says, Love Story, with the humor being more in the friend scenes, whichever way you view it, it's 150% enjoyable. Time may not be on my side at the moment to read Haider, Conor, and Ryan's quest to find love, I do look forward to discovering them as they have already earned a spot on my TBR list.
Summary:
Volume 1
Hello all, Jory Harcourt here. Back in 2017, I started writing a newsletter. Why? Many reasons. As a keepsake, to vent, to talk about my wonderful kids as well as to remember special moments and memories. Some entries might sound like silly ramblings or slice-of-life events with my favorite people—family, friends and blasts-from-the-past. But they were important to me or to those around me.
Yes, my husband is Sam Kage, who I’m sure you’ve read about. He’s a very private person and doesn’t share much about his homelife. He’s protective of his husband, me, and our two kids. I’m the same, but I also know how important it is to remember passing moments in time so I can recall them when I’m old and gray. And catching up with old friends should always be this fun.
How did I not know Mary Calmes published these great snippets from her He Said, He Said newsletters? Jory, Sam, and their entire tribe have been such a favorite of mine for more years than I care to count and have been an annual re-read/listen every summer. However, I never kept the newsletters so was unable to relive those parts of their journey. Now I can. YAY!!!!!
Really, not a lot to say beyond anything I've ever said in any of my many reviews of the series. I will add that getting to relive these is just a joy. They may not make my annual lineup but getting to experience them over and over has my Jory and Sam fangirl heart all a flutter.
The suspense and danger may not be there but everything else Calmes' universe is known for is: humor, heart, fun, Jory being a danger magnet may be more of a clumsy magnet, but still a master at getting Sam's heart working overtime in an array of ways.
Just an all around fun reading experience for fans of Matter of Time, Jory & Sam, and all those they call family and friends, making for a true delight.
Fair Play by Josh Lanyon
Summary:All's Fair #2
Fifty years ago, Roland Mills belonged to a violent activist group. Now, someone is willing to kill to prevent him from publishing his memoirs.
When ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills is called out to examine the charred ruins of his childhood home, he quickly identifies the fire for what it is—arson. A knee injury may have forced Elliot out of the Bureau, but it’s not going to stop him from bringing the man who wants his father dead to justice.
Agent Tucker Lance is still working to find the serial killer who’s obsessed with Elliot and can’t bear the thought of his lover putting himself in additional danger. Straightlaced Tucker has never agreed with radical Roland on much—"opposing political viewpoints" is an understatement—but they’re united on this: Elliot needs to leave the case alone. Now.
Tucker would do nearly anything for the man he loves, but he won’t be used to gain Elliot access to the FBI’s resources. When the past comes back to play and everything both men had known to be true is questioned, their fragile relationship is left hanging in the balance.
See how Tucker and Elliot’s relationship began in Fair Game.
Original Review November 2014:
What can I say about Fair Play? Amazing! Awesome! Exciting! Just to list a few words to describe Josh Lanyon's newest release. I didn't think I could love Elliot or Tucker or Ms. Lanyon for that matter, any more than I did after reading Fair Game, but you know what? I do! If Elliott thought the end of the summer school session was going to make life easier than it was during the Sculptor case than he's got a lot of rethinking to do. With Roland's book coming out soon, it seems trouble is coming out of the woodwork.
I love the mystery in this one nearly as much as I loved the Sculptor case in Fair Game. The connection between Elliott and Tucker just jumps right off the page despite some holes in their communication, not to mention the heat between the couple. Throw in a horde of intriguing former anti-war radicals and you have a story that just won't let go of you from beginning to end. I'm already feeling E&T withdrawal.
Overall Trilogy Re-Read Review 2018:
This is a new one to my re-read list. I absolutely LOVED this trilogy as it was published but I never went back to re-visit until now. I loved it nearly as much as I did originally, I say "nearly" only because I didn't quite reach the same adrenaline rush as I did with my initial reads. There's something about Elliot and Tucker that just makes me smile. Perhaps it's their past, perhaps it's how they reconnect, perhaps it's just who they are. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps😉 Seriously though I think its a little bit of everything that makes them so strong and likable. The mysteries these two face are all kinds of WOW that will have you biting your nails trying to figure out the whos, whats, and whys. Even though this is a re-read for me and not everything was new I still found myself at the can't-stop-till-I-hit-the-last-page stage. This trilogy may not make my annual re-reads list but it is not the last time I'll be re-visiting Elliot & Tucker either.
Once again there really isn't anything new I can add to my previous reviews as to how amazing this trilogy is. Sometimes when the reader recalls the whos, whats, and whys it makes it hard to re-visit the mystery but not in the case(pun totally intended😉) of Josh Lanyon's All's Fair trilogy. Tucker and Elliott are just as entertaining both on the personal front as well as occupational. I found the secondary characters to still be just as necessary, none of them are page-fillers, from the one-to-two-scene characters to the in-almost-as-much-as-the-main, they all serve a purpose.
There is two different narrators for the trilogy, Sawyer Allerde reads Fair Game and JF Harding reads Fair Play and Fair Chance. Both voices are perfect for the story and the characters, making for a very enjoyable listen and though I may not re-listen super often, I do look forward to doing so again and I know that I'll be just as intrigued and sucked in on the 100th listen as I was with this first time.
RATING:
There is two different narrators for the trilogy, Sawyer Allerde reads Fair Game and JF Harding reads Fair Play and Fair Chance. Both voices are perfect for the story and the characters, making for a very enjoyable listen and though I may not re-listen super often, I do look forward to doing so again and I know that I'll be just as intrigued and sucked in on the 100th listen as I was with this first time.
RATING:
Jurassic Measures by Davidson King
PROLOGUE
Deep breaths.
I love my job, I love my job, I love my job.
Okay, I do love it, but honestly, my father is like a rabid dictator. He doesn’t let me be my own creator or have my own ideas.
Ever since I was a little boy, all I ever wanted was to be like my father. He wasn’t just an amazing tailor, he designed suits, gowns, and anything the human body could wear. When I was fifteen, I had the nerve to ask him why his shop was called McPherson Tailors and not Tailor and Designs? He smacked me on the back of the head and explained he wasn’t some namby-pamby designer. Which also told me he had no idea what namby-pamby meant or that designers were artists.
When I graduated high school I still very much wanted to work beside my father. I truly believed I could convince him to expand on the title and maybe even travel.
At twenty-one, I took the risk and asked, “Maybe we should travel and promote the shop and your…our work?”
Another slap upside the head and a stern, “People come to me not the other way around.” At least he didn’t say namby-pamby.
Now, I’m thirty-three, my father’s arthritis has slowly been getting the better of him and he’s coming up on his seventieth birthday. Many nights as we closed, he’d announce he’d be retiring and leaving all this to me one day. A part of me longed for the day I could turn McPherson’s into something more, but on the other hand, I would miss working with the old man.
As we locked up one clear and still brisk March evening, my father gripped my arm and turned me to face him.
“Jason.”
His eyes were full of worry and suddenly I was no longer chilly, but instead sweating. “What’s wrong?”
He snorted and shook his head. “Nothing is wrong. I wanted to tell you all day, but I kept stalling.” His sigh was heavy, weary. “I’m officially retiring. My hands…” The way he held them up, visibly stiff and slightly swollen at the joints, it was easy to see he was in pain. “You’ve had a vision for this shop and I’ve held you back.” I had my own set of keys to the store but he handed me his. Symbolism maybe?
“Your time has come.”
“Dad, I…”
“You’re so talented, Jason. You’ll bring McPherson Tailors into the future, and I…” He wiggled his fingers. “I’ll rest.”
My heart ached realizing this was the last time I’d be closing the shop with my dad, and at the same time excitement bubbled in the pit of my belly.
“I love you, Dad.”
His smile was wide and bright and when he laughed, it was as contagious as ever. Yeah, he was a dictator of his craft, but one hell of a father.
“I love you too, Son. Now let’s go home. Your mom told me I wouldn’t get any pot roast if I didn’t finally tell you tonight.”
“When were you supposed to tell me?” I quirked a brow.
He shrugged. “Maybe two months ago.”
“Jesus,” I mumbled under my breath. “Let’s get you home then. I’ll have some pot roast with you before I go to my place.”
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
Shortly before closing time, Mrs. Harris entered the shop, accompanied by her numerous progeny. It was for good reason that Walter’s father referred to the junior members of the Harris family as “the holy terrors.”
If Dad had known they were coming, he would have delayed nipping out for five minutes.
Walter hid a grimace while keeping a close watch on the arrangements of piled tins, all too tempting an obstacle for small, unruly children.
The three older ones, used to being well-behaved at school, stood quietly enough by their mother as she approached the counter. To Walter’s relief, the two youngest, a boy and a girl, the rambunctious pair of twins, were not running riot but remained contained, each holding the hand of an unfamiliar man.
“I only popped in for a couple of tins of corned beef,” Mrs. Harris said chattily. “I thought I had some put by in the larder. Isn’t it strange how quickly food gets used up when you’ve another mouth to feed?” She smiled and continued, “My brother Stanley is staying with us while he recuperates.”
Walter gave a nod of acknowledgement as he selected the tins of canned meat. He was already aware of the newcomer to the tight-knit streets that comprised old Cheltenham.
Local shops were a mine of ready information. It was surprising what intimate details people revealed to shopkeepers or loudly speculated about to each other in the shop.
Mrs. Harris’ brother’s arrival from the village of Lydbrook in the Forest of Dean, her home before marriage, had inevitably caused a steady stream of gossip.
“He’s not quite right, so I’ve heard,” one lady said, tapping the side of her behatted head sententiously. Another more sympathetic soul had added, “The poor chap has had repeated bouts of pneumonia as a result of the Great War, so I believe.” A final tactless commenter declared, “You’d have thought he’d have got over that by now.”
That remark had caused Walter to grit his teeth and hold back a pithy retort.
Most civilians back in Blighty had no notion of the horrors of trench warfare, often affecting a man for the rest of his days. Walter was mostly grateful that civilians were spared those harrowing experiences, but such ignorance raised his hackles.
“There you are,” he gravely handed the tins to two of Mrs. Harris’ most responsible children.
“Can I help you with anything else?” he enquired politely, as though he wasn’t eager to see the back of the family before the twins wriggled free to wreak havoc.
“A jar of Hartley’s jam would come in handy. It’s Stanley’s favourite.”
She jerked her head towards her brother. Walter naturally glanced in the same direction. Contrary to his first assumptions, rather than clutching the twins to keep them under control, the infants seemed to be helping to hold the man upright.
He’s hardly a heavyweight, more of a bantam in boxing terms.
He wasn’t tall, perhaps a few inches shorter than Walter’s five feet eleven inches and far less robust in build. Walter could hear the slight rasp of his breath from across the shop, confirming that he must suffer with his lungs. His face was downturned, hidden by his cap.
“Strawberry or raspberry?”
Walter addressed Mrs. Harris, but her brother answered.
“Damson, if you have it.”
He looked up as he spoke. Walter blinked.
Blimey, he’s a looker.
He was fine featured, but still managed to be handsome rather than pretty. His large dark eyes were emphasised by his sallow, over-thin face and his lush mouth was accentuated by a pencil moustache. Like a home-grown Rudolph Valentino.
Love Story by RJ Scott
Chapter One
Sam
Samuel ‘Sam’ Caldwell
I WAS LATE, which was unheard of for me. Ryan was typically the late one, losing track of time when he was buried in one of his projects, not me. But something had gone sideways at the farm—a busted sap line, of all things, just when I thought I’d finished the week’s maintenance—and by the time I’d wrangled it back into working order, I was thirty minutes behind schedule.
The snow fell thick and fast as I trudged down the narrow path leading to the trailhead. The Caldwell covered bridge loomed ahead, its red timbers dusted with white, picture-perfect in the way it always was after a storm.
And there they were, waiting for me under the old sugar maple at the trail’s entrance. The three men—my best friends—were bundled up against the cold, hats pulled low, scarves wrapped high, like a mismatched set of snowmen. Conor was the tallest, and his firefighter’s build was unmistakable, even under layers of winter gear. Haider was easy to spot, too, bright red gloves flashing as he gestured at something Ryan had said. And Ryan—well, our resident craftsman was easy to pick out because he was standing a little off to the side, examining a branch of the tree they were under as if imagining the things he could make with it.
“You’re late,” Conor called out when he saw me, his grin wide enough to be heard in his voice.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I shot back, stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets as I approached. “I didn’t think Ryan would be on time.”
Ryan glanced up; his face half-hidden behind his scarf. “I set an alarm. Haider said he’d kill me if I were late for his birthday again.”
“Damn right,” Haider said, crossing his arms and squinting at me. “And you—Mr. Reliable—what’s your excuse?”
“Farm stuff,” I muttered, kicking at the snow. “A line broke, and I had to fix it.”
Conor’s eyebrows shot up. “In this weather? You really love those trees, don’t you?”
“Someone has to,” I said, rolling my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling.
“Come on,” Haider said, gesturing toward the trail. “It’s my birthday, and I’m not spending it standing here in the snow waiting for you to explain your maple emergencies.”
We fell into step together, the four of us walking along the familiar path. It was tradition to meet here on our birthdays and take this walk. From the trailhead, we’d follow the bend in the path curving through the woods, past the covered bridge, and loop back to town. I didn’t know who had suggested it first, but it stuck. Some traditions were worth keeping.
Haider’s cheeks were red—not just from the cold but from his excitement when he told us one of his dating stories. He was marching ahead, his red-gloved hands flailing as he talked, and Ryan and Conor were already howling with laughter. I had no idea what I’d missed, but I didn’t want to be left out. I really hated being late.
“Wait, wait, start over,” I called, catching up to them. “What happened?”
Haider spun around, walking backward to ensure I saw his full level of exasperation. “Okay, so I matched with this guy on the app—Benji. Cute. Seemed normal, you know? We decided to meet up at that coffee shop by the bookstore. You know the one.”
“Sure,” I said, grinning. This was already promising.
“So, I get there first, right? Order my latte, sit down, whatever. He shows up, and—” Haider paused, throwing his hands up dramatically. “The first thing out of his mouth is, ‘Wow, you look taller in your photos.’”
Conor let out a loud laugh. “Classic. Always a great start to a date.”
“Right?” Haider groaned. “And I’m just sitting there, thinking, What the hell do I even say to that? So, I’m like, ‘Uh, okay, thanks?’ And he shrugs like it’s no big deal. Strike one.”
“Wait, wait,” Ryan interrupted, grinning. “Was he shorter than you?”
“Of course, he was shorter than me,” Haider said, gesturing to himself. “And I’m not even that tall! Anyway, we’re making awkward small talk, and I’m trying to steer the conversation toward literally anything normal. Then the waitress brings his drink, and he looks her dead in the eye and says, ‘Thanks, but I don’t tip.’”
A collective groan went up from all of us.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No way.”
“Oh, yes,” Haider said, eyes wide with mock horror. “I wanted to crawl under the table. The waitress just gave him this look like, ‘Really?’ And then I ended up tipping extra because I was so embarrassed.”
“Strike two,” Conor said, smirking.
“Strike two and three,” Haider shot back. “But no, it gets worse. He starts talking about how he’s ‘working on a screenplay’—because of course he is—and goes on this whole rant about how no one understands his vision and how he has this ‘intense connection’ to cats.”
Ryan frowned. “Like, he likes cats. That’s not bad.”
“No, no,” Haider said, waving a finger at him. “Not like he ‘likes cats.’ Like he thinks he was a cat in a past life. He literally said, and I quote, ‘I think my soul resonates with feline energy.’”
I almost choked on my laughter. “What does that even mean?”
“I have no idea!” Haider threw up his hands. “I sat there, nodding like an idiot because I didn’t want to be rude. But then—then!—he says, ‘Do you ever feel like people just don’t understand your meows?’”
Conor lost it, doubling over with laughter. Ryan wasn’t far behind, his laugh so loud it startled a flock of birds out of a nearby tree. I couldn’t help myself, either. I laughed so hard my sides hurt.
“So, what did you do?” I managed, wiping my eyes.
“What could I do?” Haider said, shaking his head. “I excused myself to the bathroom, told the waitress good luck, and walked out. Blocked him on the app before I even reached my car.”
“You abandoned him?” Conor said, grinning. “Cold.”
“Oh, please.” Haider snorted. “The guy deserved it. And I’m pretty sure the waitress gave me a thumbs-up on my way out.”
“See, this is why I don’t date,” I said, still laughing. “It’s too dangerous out there.”
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Maple Boy,” Haider shot back. “At least I’m trying. What about you?”
I shrugged, dodging the question. “I’m not the one resonating with feline energy.”
The teasing continued as we walked, the cold forgotten for a while as Haider’s disastrous date story turned into the best entertainment we’d had in weeks. I should have expected nothing less from him. It wouldn’t be a Haider birthday without a story like this one.
“Thirty,” Haider groaned, dragging the word out as if it were a life sentence. He kicked at a clump of snow on the path, sending it flying. “How am I thirty and still single? It’s pathetic. I mean, come on. I’m a nice guy, right?”
He looked at us, waiting for validation. Conor did this weird laugh-snort thing, while Ryan stayed quiet, biting his lip as if he were trying to decide how serious he needed to be.
“You’re a great guy,” I said, rolling my eyes at his theatrics. “But maybe tone down the pity party. It’s only been your birthday for fifteen hours, so the day is young.”
“Fifteen hours is plenty of time for introspection,” Haider shot back, hands on his hips. “I just think it’s ridiculous. I own my own business. I’m charming. I’m romantic. And I make the best damn chocolate in this town. Why am I still single?”
Ryan, who’d been lagging behind to brush snow off his boots, caught up. “I’d date you just for the chocolate,” he said, deadpan, his breath visible in the cold air.
We all stopped walking for a second, staring at him, and then burst out laughing. Haider crossed his arms, feigning offense. “Just for the chocolate? Wow. Real flattering, Ryan.”
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Ryan replied, shrugging with a grin. “Your truffles are, like, next-level. And you’re not bad-looking, I guess.”
“‘Not bad-looking’, he guesses,” Haider muttered, rolling his eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“You’re welcome,” Ryan said, smirking. “But for real, stop beating yourself up. You’ll find someone. Probably someone who’ll also date you just for the chocolate.”
Haider huffed but didn’t say anything, and Conor clapped him on the back, almost sending him stumbling into the snow. “Ryan’s got a point, though,” Conor said. “You’ll figure it out. And if you don’t, we’ll keep eating your chocolate and pretending we’re supportive.”
I chuckled, falling into step with them again as the trail stretched ahead. For all his complaining, Haider wasn’t wrong. He was a nice guy—one of the best, actually. And yeah, his chocolate was amazing, but we all stuck around because he made life better, even when he was being dramatic. Someone would figure that out eventually. They’d be lucky to.
“Anyway,” Haider said with a grin, and I just knew what was coming. “I’m not the one who made a pact with my best friend to marry him at thirty.” He whirled in the snow and pointed at me, and then Conor. I groaned. I’d been drunk. Scratch that—both Conor and I had been drunk. We exchanged eye-rolls.
“Your birthday’s up next, Joker,” Conor said.
Joker. Yeah, because my birthday is on April 1, and isn’t that the most fantastic nickname ever for an April Fool’s baby?
Not.
I glanced at him, my stomach tightening. “Yeah. It’s coming, and May the fourth’s not far behind, Jedi.”
The pact we’d made years ago, half-joking and half-serious, suddenly felt as if it had claws, digging in the closer we got to thirty. And I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—the idea of going through with it or that part of me that didn’t hate the thought of not worrying about finding a date when I had more important things to think about.
Like the farm.
Haider clapped his hands. “Sam-you-ell and Con-noor sitting in a tree—”
I pushed Haider into the snow, Conor sat on him, and Ryan lost his shit, laughing so loud he was bent at the waist.
My friends.
I loved them all.
We finally let a grumpy, icy Haider up, and snow fell around us, muffling everything but the sound of Haider’s cursing. Which didn’t last long because he was perennial sunshine, and he laughed as he regaled us with another one of his dating horrors.
Another year, another birthday, and the same thought gnawed at the back of my mind—how did thirty sneak up on me so damn fast?
“I might have a new guy to look at anyway,” he said, his voice dripping with exaggerated nonchalance.
Conor groaned. “Here we go.”
Ryan, always the slower one to pick up on Haider’s antics, tilted his head. “A new guy? Where?”
“In town,” Haider said smugly, savoring the moment like one of his chocolates. “Harriet Thompson’s great-nephew is moving to Caldwell Crossing.”
Harriet was the town librarian and ran the local crafting group, which meant she heard and saw everything and discussed it with her friends while knitting. She also frightened me at school whenever I was late returning a book.
“Harriet has a nephew?” I repeated, frowning.
“Great-nephew,” Haider corrected. “Apparently…” He paused, letting the word linger in the air as if he were announcing the winner of some dramatic reality show. “He’s super-sweet and cute, coming here to unwind after some big-city burnout. Boston, I believe.” He halted abruptly, planting his hands on his hips like a diva mid-performance. Snow swirled around us, but Haider was in his element. “And I call dibs on the new guy in town.”
Ryan groaned, throwing his head back. “You can’t call dibs on a person, Haider. That’s not how it works.”
Haider spun on his heel to face us, waving dismissively. “Of course I can. It’s efficient. Saves everyone time and energy.”
I smirked. “He might not even be into you, Haider,” I pointed out. “You ever think of that?”
“And he might not be into guys at all,” Conor added, shrugging.
Haider gasped as if we’d just insulted his very existence. “You don’t think so?” he said, gesturing to himself with a dramatic flourish. He tossed his head back, flipping an imaginary mane of hair. “I mean, come on. Who wouldn’t be into this?”
I snorted, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you,” Haider said, flashing me a grin. “But seriously, Harriet Thompson’s great-nephew—Ben, I think?—sounds like a catch. He’s a big-city escapee, and she says he’s cute, but I bet he’s all broody and sad, but in a sweet way. I’m into it.”
“You’ve met him then.”
“No, but Ben is a sexy name, right?”
“So, based on a name, you’re already planning your future together,” Ryan said dryly, brushing snow from his coat.
“Someone has to plan,” Haider retorted. “Otherwise, how will it happen?”
We all laughed, the sound echoing through the snowy forest. Haider’s theatrics were nothing new, but they made our meetups feel special. Still, as we continued walking, I couldn’t help but wonder about this guy Ben. Burnout, Harriet’s family—he didn’t seem like someone who’d fit into Haider’s usual circle.
Not that I cared. I didn’t. Really.
We split up at the trail’s end. “Don’t forget my presents at the party,” Haider called after us.
“I didn’t get you anything,” Conor teased. “Deal with it.”
Haider rolled his eyes but grinned as he turned toward the parking lot. I watched the others go, their laughter fading into the distance as the snow muffled the world around me. I tucked my hands into my pockets and headed back to my truck, the thought of home pulling at me. I had so much to do today, which wouldn’t be achieved by hanging around here.
First, I needed to stop at Lakeside Inn, with its weathered stone facade and green shutters—venue for Haider’s party later. The inn sat nestled beside the lake, where the frozen water stretched smooth as glass mirroring the dark clouds in the overcast sky. I stayed long enough to drop off maple products for their guest baskets. Then, it was back to the farm.
The drive was quiet, and there was a stillness around me that could allow me to let my mind wander if I wasn’t careful. Snow still fell, light and steady, blanketing the trees and fields on either side of the road. The fencing running along the edge of our property was in my sight when I noticed it—a car pulled off to the side of the road and half-hidden by the snow.
I eased off the gas, my grip tightening on the wheel. It could’ve been abandoned, maybe left behind when the late winter storm rolled in over the weekend. But something about the angle—its nose tilted forward—didn’t sit right.
I pulled over, my tires crunching over the compacted snow as I flicked on my hazards and killed the engine. The icy wind cut through my coat when I stepped out, biting at my cheeks and numbing my fingers. The car before me had seen better days—a battered scarlet Prius with a front end half-buried in a slushy mix of mud and snow. A layer of frost and grime dulled its paint, and as I approached, the wind whipped around me, the snowflakes stinging like tiny needles.
Leaning closer, I squinted through the frosted driver’s side window, my breath fogging the glass.
There was someone inside.
A man slumped over the wheel, his short dark hair sticking up in uneven tufts. For a second, my stomach dropped. He wasn’t moving, and for a heartbeat, I thought—
I knocked on the window hard enough to startle myself. “Hey! You okay in there?”
The figure shifted, groaning as he turned his head toward me. Relief hit me fast and sharp. He was alive, thank God.
“Hey, can you hear me?” I knocked again, this time with less force, my voice cutting through the muffling quiet of the snow.
The man blinked, his jade-green eyes glassy, as he tried to focus on me. His face was pale, and his lips were tinged with a bluish hue that didn’t look right. He squinted as if it took effort to lift his head, his breath fogging the window, and then he opened his eyes wider as he tried to focus on me and failed.
“Hold on,” I said, more to myself than him, as I yanked at the car door. It was locked, of course, and I tapped on the window. “Hey, unlock the door if you can.”
His hand fumbled for the lock, shaking as he managed to hit the button. The door gave a click, and I pulled it open, the cold air rushing into the small space. He shivered, and that was when I realized how badly off he was. He had no coat, just a thin hoodie and jeans, and with the engine off, he was sitting in an icebox. His hands were bare, his fingers trembling on the steering wheel.
“Shit, should I try to move you? What if your neck…” I reached in to touch his shoulder, and he winced. “I need to call paramedics,” I told him, but more for myself. “What the hell are you doing out here dressed like that?” I asked, crouching down to get a better look at him. My tone was sharper than I intended, but I was rattled. He didn’t answer. He leaned back against the seat and rolled his neck—okay then, no neck injury. Or would he still move if he was paralyzed?
“Okay,” I said, forcing myself to stay calm. “Stay there, and I’ll get a blanket.”
I headed to my truck, scrambling up the small bank, but a noise behind me—a groan—had me turning back—the idiot had climbed out of the car and fallen to his knees in the snow.
“Jesus… what are you… We need to get you somewhere warm. Can you walk?”
He shook his head a little, his gorgeous eyes drifting shut.
“Hey, no. No sleeping. Come on.” I slid an arm under his body to support him. He was too light, worryingly so, and his legs refused to cooperate as he staggered against me. His breath hitched, and for a moment, I feared he might pass out again.
“Easy,” I said, practically carrying him to my truck. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Whoever this guy was, he hadn’t planned to end up here, not in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. And judging by his state—pale, shivering, a bump rising on his head—he wouldn’t last much longer in this weather if I didn’t do something.
“What’s your name?” I asked, my voice steady despite the growing knot of worry in my chest.
He groaned, his voice barely above a whisper. “Huh.”
“Your name?”
He closed his eyes, and I poked him. “Open your eyes!” I ordered, and he blinked at me. “What’s your name?”
“B-b-Ben,” he managed. At least he was coherent.
“Okay, Ben,” I said, glancing at him as I reached into the back seat and grabbed the emergency blanket I always kept there. He was so small, curled in on himself, his breath coming in shallow puffs of white. He blinked at me, green eyes bright with emotion and it struck me like a fist to the chest.
“You’re safe now,” I murmured, buckling him into the passenger seat and wrapping the blanket around him. My fingers brushed his as I tucked the edges in, and I felt how cold he was—too cold. His trembling only worsened, and something fierce and protective rose inside me.
I climbed into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the heating controls as I blasted warm air into the cab. Was that the right thing to do? It wasn’t as if I was stopping to consult the internet. The vents roared to life, and I adjusted them to point toward him. He shivered harder, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, his teeth chattering.
“Hang in there, Ben,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I reversed onto the road and focused on steering us back to solid ground.
As the truck found traction, I glanced at him again. His head lolled against the seat, the bump on his forehead looked worse out from beneath the shadows of the pine trees lining the road. I debated my options. I could take him to my parents’ place—Mom would know what to do. She’d fuss over him, get him warm, and ensure he was okay. But that bump on his head… What if it was more serious? What if he needed more help than Mom’s fussing and hot soup could provide?
I decided before I could second-guess myself. I tightened my grip on the wheel and turned onto the main road, heading straight for the hospital. The snow continued to fall thick and fast, but the thought of getting Ben somewhere safe kept me focused.
“Almost there,” I said, more to myself than to him as I pressed the gas pedal gently, the truck humming steadily beneath us. He didn’t respond, his head lolling again, but his breathing was steady, and that was enough to keep me going.
I glanced at him one more time, my chest tightening at how vulnerable he looked, swaddled in the blanket, small and fragile in my truck. Whatever had brought him here or left him like this didn’t matter now. All that mattered was getting him to safety.
He was mumbling something, but I couldn’t make it out at first. Then bits and pieces made sense—a name—Harriet.
And he said he was Ben?
I put two and two together—was this Harriet’s great nephew—big-city-burnout Ben?
Too much of a coincidence not to be.
If it was him, he’d picked one hell of a way to make an entrance.
He Said, He Said by Mary Calmes
JULY 2017
“Okay-okay,” I said, starting over, inhaling deeply before reading what I wrote. “Here’s what I’m gonna say: Hi, all, my name’s Jory Harcourt. I’m married, I have two kids, and I’m the part owner of a graphic design company and I’ve been asked to––”
“Why do you sound so perky?” Sam Kage, the love of my life, said from the couch where he was flipping through channels waiting for one of the qualifying games for the World Cup to come on. He’d explained it, something about in the four years leading up to the next one that teams from all over the world competed to see who got to be in it, but I’d stopped listening. What was nice was that my kids were upstairs, one in his room playing Call of Duty with friends across town, the other in her room with four of her best friends plotting God knew what. Everyone safe under one roof was a blessing I never took for granted.
“I want people to know I’m upbeat,” I answered him.
“Are you talking to them?”
“No, they’ll be reading this.”
“Then how will they know what you sound like?”
“It’s tone, Sam.”
“Tone in words on a page?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he said like I was nuts. “Just don’t sound fake.”
“What sounds fake?”
“All that stuff about who you are.” He yawned, stretching out, sliding farther down, looking very warm and inviting from where I was.
I jolted, ready to move, to go drape myself over him, but I stayed where I was because this had to get done. “Okay, so I’ll just say I’m a love god, then.”
“That would make more sense,” he said, carding his fingers through his hair. There were colors that caught the light: copper, gold––
“I don’t hear you typing.”
I cleared my throat. “Okay, so the first question is, if a man hit me once, what––”
“You have an email address for that question?” he asked, turning to look at me. “I can find her doing a reverse––”
“Sam, these are questions. They may or may not be real.”
“Tell her if a guy hits her once, he’ll hit her again and she needs to get the hell out of there right fuckin’ now.”
“Thank you,” I said drolly. “I would have never figured that out without you.”
“I’m just saying,” he groused at me, his focus back on the TV. “I can go put him in the hospital if she needs time to move her stuff.”
I sighed deeply before scrolling through the questions on the email I was sent. “Okay, here’s another. ‘At what age should children be allowed to date?’” I read aloud. “I’m going to say, when they both have a thorough understanding about safe sex and self-respect and––”
“Group dates in high school as long as the kids get picked up and dropped off by a parent, one-on-one dates only after your kid can drive so they can leave at any time they want to or feel uncomfortable,” Sam said like he’d been practicing the answer.
“Oh God.”
“What? Girls especially need to be able to drive. The being able to bail is important, as is some form of self-defense.”
“Sam.”
“If they want to date, they should be able to at least incapacitate three people in quick succession and be able to run.”
“So sixteen, then?”
“If they have a valid driver’s license by that time, but more importantly, dating should be based on their individual training.”
“And for boys?”
“Same.”
I groaned loudly. “Oh, here’s one. ‘What is the best way to keep the romance alive in a relationship?’”
“Write, have sex.”
“No!” I snapped at him. “Communication is the key, and spontaneous––”
“Men are simple creatures,” he said, rolling to his side, shoving a pillow under his head and patting the space beside him. “Sex will fix whatever’s wrong.”
I sighed deeply. “You know, I really need to put this into a streamlined Dear Abby format for next time, because right now I’m putting in everything,” I told him, biting my bottom lip, torn between answering more questions and instead going over to snuggle with the mass of muscle that was Sam Kage.
“What do you mean everything?”
“I’ll print the question and then the answer and it’ll be…”
“It’ll be great,” he agreed, his voice a sultry rumble. “Now c’mere.”
I had every intention of answering more, but Sam Kage was on the couch wanting to snuggle. I closed the laptop and got there as fast as I could.
Fair Play by Josh Lanyon
Phone calls at three a.m. Never a good thing.
"Got it." Tucker's voice was groggy. He groped for his cell phone.
"Land line," Elliot mumbled, pulling the pillow over his head. One of the perks of academia. The three a.m. phone calls were no longer for him.
Tucker swore, dropped his cell and knocked the phone receiver off the hook. The mattress jumped as he lunged for it, and Elliot moaned.
"Sorry." Tucker grabbed the receiver and rasped, "Lance."
Silence.
Tucker said in a completely different voice, "Say that again?"
Elliot opened his eyes, listening.
What felt like a long silence followed before Tucker said, "We're on our way." He clattered the phone back on the hook and snapped on the bedside lamp. "Elliot. Wake up."
"I'm awake." Elliot was already shoving back the covers. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"We gotta roll."
Elliot's heart pounded in a crazy mix of adrenaline and dread. He tried to read Tucker's face in the blinding blaze of light.
"Your dad is okay." Tucker emphasized the word. "But the house is gone."
"What?"
Tucker put a hand on Elliot's arm and gripped it. "There was a fire. Your dad got out unhurt. He's fine. But it sounds like the house is going to be a write off."
Shock held Elliot motionless. Tucker had spared him the real fear before it had time to form, but even so. Gone? The house he had grown up in? In some ways, a lot of ways, that house still meant home.
He shook off Tucker's arm, jumping out of bed, barely feeling the jar to his reconstructed knee at the incautious movement. "There's no ferry this time of night."
"I'll sail us across."
Elliot nodded. He didn't trust his voice yet.
Tucker headed for the bathroom and Elliot automatically moved around the room, finding clothes, dressing in jeans and a sweater, forcing himself to concentrate on what he might need later that day once they were across the sound and into Seattle, once this immediate disaster had been met and dealt with.
That was the downside to living on an island. You always had to plan ahead.
Was he going into work today? What would Roland need from him -- beyond the obvious.
Outside the window, it was pitchy black. The silhouette of tall trees coalesced with the still darker night. No sign of dawn yet. The air was damp and chill. It was always a little damp on the island. Elliot shivered.
The bathroom door opened, and Elliot said to Tucker, "Did you actually talk to my dad?"
"No. His neighbor called. What's her name? Mrs. MacGillicudy?"
"MacGillivray. So my dad --"
"He's fine. She said he was still talking to the fire department." Tucker grimaced. "You know your dad. He probably figured he'd wait till a decent hour to break the news to you."
Yeah. True. In fact, knowing Roland, they might not have heard anything about this disaster until Elliot went over there for dinner tomorrow -- or rather, tonight. Though Elliot had been living with Tucker for nearly six months, he still tried to have dinner with his dad every Thursday evening.
Anyway, that explained why the call had come in on the land line and not Elliot's cell phone.
Elliot, already dressed, watched Tucker tug a crisp white shirt over his massive shoulders, and swiftly do up the buttons. He tried to control his impatience. It wasn't like Tucker wasn't moving fast. Anyway, whatever had happened had already happened. Ten minutes, even half an hour wasn't going to make a difference either way.
He was still having trouble absorbing it though. For all his dad's hippy dippy ways, he wasn't a careless person. No smoking in bed, no smoking at all. The house was an old bungalow in the historic Ballard neighborhood, but it was well-kept and carefully maintained. And at three in the morning what were the chances of fire in a lint trap or a cooking mishap?
He took his turn in the bathroom, swiping on antiperspirant, splashing water on his face, shaving, brushing his teeth. He still wasn't sure if he'd be going in to work or not. It was all going to depend on what he found at his dad's.
He walked out of the bathroom. "You ready?"
"Yep." Tucker finished buckling his shoulder holster and pocketed his cell. His day job was FBI agent. He worked out of the Seattle Division. That was where they had met. Elliot had been an FBI agent too before getting shot in the line of duty had permanently sidelined him. Now he taught history at Puget Sound University. He was okay with that. Mostly.
Sunrise was still an hour away when they left the cabin. The Nissan 350Z's headlights picked out clumps of glistening berries, secret messages carved in tree trunks, and the occasional gleam of eyes. Elliot drove swiftly down through the dense and silent woods to the Dorado Bay marina where Tucker moored his sloop in one of the yacht club slips. Tucker still rented an apartment in town -- that was the reality of the hours his job required -- but most nights he traveled by ferry to the island. Luckily he generally left his car on the mainland side.
No one was around as they parked and got out. Even in summer, the peak boating season, not many boats were anchored in the small marina. The sound of their slammed car doors echoed loudly across the empty parking lot.
The pulleys and halyards of the flag pole planted in front of the closed restaurant chimed against the metal like a ghostly ship's bell as they walked past. The breath of the sound rose damp and fishy. Colorless triangles of boating flags flapped desultorily overhead as they walked, soles biting on wet stones, down to the dock and Tucker's sloop, the Bull Fish.
It didn't take long to cast off. They had it down to a routine by now. Elliot, slower on his feet than Tucker, climbed aboard first and started the motor. He watched, the engine gently idling, as Tucker untied the ropes. The water slurped and sucked against the side of the boat, sloshed noisily around the dock. Golden bulbs of kelp bobbed languidly just beneath the green surface.
Tucker waited until the stern began to swing away from the dock before finally casting off the bow line and springing onboard. He changed places with Elliot at the helm, and Elliot went down to the little galley to make coffee. Instant coffee, and no cream, but a slug of Irish whisky helped.
He brought a cup of the black, bitter brew to Tucker.
"Thanks," Tucker said. He swallowed a hot mouthful. His eyes were a glint of blue in the pre-dawn gloom. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Elliot summoned a smile. Some people might find their silence odd under the circumstances. But they had both been trained not to speculate, not to waste time and nervous energy on questions no one had the answer to. Tucker had told Elliot everything he knew and that would have to do for now. Just having Tucker here helped.
He turned to study the approaching lights of Ketron island. Spray hit his face, cold, salty, invigorating. He drew in a deep, steadying breath.
They were making good time, doing about fifteen knots. The wind was behind them and it was only about a twenty minute sail anyway.
In the east, dawn had finally arrived like fire curling the edge of black paper, burning the night away.
An unexpectedly hard shove of water hit the prow of the Bull Fish.
"Holy mackerel," Tucker muttered.
Elliot emerged from his own dark thoughts in time to see a gray whale breach surface several yards away and smash down again, sending up a wall of water and foam that rocked the sloop again. He steadied himself on the metal port railing. This was not the deepest part of the sound, averaging only about four hundred and fifty feet, and mid-June was late in the season for grays. They migrated from Alaska to Baja in the early spring.
"That is one big fish," Elliot said.
They looked at each other in the gloom. Elliot saw the gleam of Tucker's smile. His own mouth curved in answer.
The garage was gone. The house had not burned to the ground, but it might as well have. Elliot stared at the charred ruins in the wan light, but it was almost too much to take in. The air was acrid with the stink of smoke and the exhaust of the fleet of still rumbling fire engines. Most of the garden too was gone. The enormous old wisteria was a black, twisted stump. Ash lay like snow on what was left of the rose bushes. The lawn was a muddy, boot-trampled swamp.
He was dimly aware of Tucker's hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight, and he appreciated that wordless offer of support.
Turning from the rubble, he scanned the throng of people -- firefighters poking around the soggy, smoldering ruins of the house and looky-loos doing what they did best, namely getting in the way of everyone else -- until he spotted his father standing with a crowd of neighbors, some of them in bathrobes, some of them dressed for work, all talking animatedly.
Roland wore jeans and the red and gray Beacon bathrobe he'd had since Elliot was a kid. His graying hair was looped back in its usual ponytail, though more haphazardly than usual. He was holding what looked like a small safe.
"Dad!"
Roland turned, startled, and came to meet them. "Elliot? What are you doing here?"
They embraced awkwardly, Roland still clutching his portable safe. He was not a tall man, but he was built to last. Sturdy-framed and muscular. Except this morning he seemed to have shrunk, and his clothes and hair smelled of smoke. Elliot's arms locked around him. When he drew back he said, "What do you mean, what am I doing here? Mrs. MacGillivray phoned and said --" His voice cut out. His father looked drawn and, for the first time, old. It was all Elliot could do not to haul him into a hug him again. "What the hell happened?"
Roland shook his head. "Maybe something in the wiring. It's an old house." He drew a deep breath. "Was." He noticed Tucker standing silently by, and managed a weary smile. "Tucker."
Tucker said gruffly, "I'm very glad you're okay, Mr. Mills."
Roland nodded and then shook his head as though words failed him.
"How did you get out?" Elliot asked. He had to force himself to look at the house again. If his father hadn't woken up in time... there wouldn't have been any surviving that. Hell, smoke inhalation killed more people than burns.
"It started in the garage, but luckily the smoke alarms inside the house went off. I had just enough time to pull my pants on, grab my wallet, and find the safe. I went outside and turned on the hose, but..."
But a garden hose against what must have quickly turned into an inferno?
"Christ."
Once again Tucker rested his hand on Elliot's shoulder. Support and solidarity. Not that he didn't expect support from Tucker, just that Tucker had turned out to be more emotionally generous than Elliot had expected.
"What do you need from us?" Tucker asked. "Say the word."
"I should be all right. I've got good insurance," Roland said grimly. "Now's when those bloodsuckers can start earning their premiums."
"The shock must be wearing off," Elliot told Tucker, and the serious line of Tucker's mouth tugged into a half smile.
Elliot watched as firefighters began to expel the water and air from the heavy yellow hoses, preparatory to flattening them out so they could be retracted and folded. The battle was over. Now it was just a matter of mopping up the ruins. No ambulance. No coroner's van. He was deeply thankful, and yet he heard himself saying, expostulating, "You shouldn't have spent time going after that safe. You could have been trapped in there. Every minute counts in a fire."
"Your mother prepared this safe for just such an occasion. No way in hell was I leaving without it."
Elliot's reply was forestalled by the approach of the fire captain, still wearing his yellow helmet and protective gear. "Professor Mills?"
Elliot and Roland's "Yes?" popped out in unison.
The captain was a middle-aged, ruddy-faced man with silvered scars on the right side of his face. His pale eyes moved from Elliot to Roland.
"I'm the homeowner," Roland said.
"Captain Burris."
Roland offered his hand. "I appreciate everything you tried to do here tonight, Captain Burris."
"I wish it had been more. But even if we'd gotten here sooner, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot we could have done."
"Which means what?" Tucker asked before Elliot could.
Burris said to Roland, "Which means that this is off the record, but I think you ought to know that we're calling in arson investigators on this one."
"Arson?" Elliot repeated.
Roland said nothing.
"You think this was arson?"
Burris looked at Elliot. He said simply, "I know it was arson."
"Got it." Tucker's voice was groggy. He groped for his cell phone.
"Land line," Elliot mumbled, pulling the pillow over his head. One of the perks of academia. The three a.m. phone calls were no longer for him.
Tucker swore, dropped his cell and knocked the phone receiver off the hook. The mattress jumped as he lunged for it, and Elliot moaned.
"Sorry." Tucker grabbed the receiver and rasped, "Lance."
Silence.
Tucker said in a completely different voice, "Say that again?"
Elliot opened his eyes, listening.
What felt like a long silence followed before Tucker said, "We're on our way." He clattered the phone back on the hook and snapped on the bedside lamp. "Elliot. Wake up."
"I'm awake." Elliot was already shoving back the covers. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"We gotta roll."
Elliot's heart pounded in a crazy mix of adrenaline and dread. He tried to read Tucker's face in the blinding blaze of light.
"Your dad is okay." Tucker emphasized the word. "But the house is gone."
"What?"
Tucker put a hand on Elliot's arm and gripped it. "There was a fire. Your dad got out unhurt. He's fine. But it sounds like the house is going to be a write off."
Shock held Elliot motionless. Tucker had spared him the real fear before it had time to form, but even so. Gone? The house he had grown up in? In some ways, a lot of ways, that house still meant home.
He shook off Tucker's arm, jumping out of bed, barely feeling the jar to his reconstructed knee at the incautious movement. "There's no ferry this time of night."
"I'll sail us across."
Elliot nodded. He didn't trust his voice yet.
Tucker headed for the bathroom and Elliot automatically moved around the room, finding clothes, dressing in jeans and a sweater, forcing himself to concentrate on what he might need later that day once they were across the sound and into Seattle, once this immediate disaster had been met and dealt with.
That was the downside to living on an island. You always had to plan ahead.
Was he going into work today? What would Roland need from him -- beyond the obvious.
Outside the window, it was pitchy black. The silhouette of tall trees coalesced with the still darker night. No sign of dawn yet. The air was damp and chill. It was always a little damp on the island. Elliot shivered.
The bathroom door opened, and Elliot said to Tucker, "Did you actually talk to my dad?"
"No. His neighbor called. What's her name? Mrs. MacGillicudy?"
"MacGillivray. So my dad --"
"He's fine. She said he was still talking to the fire department." Tucker grimaced. "You know your dad. He probably figured he'd wait till a decent hour to break the news to you."
Yeah. True. In fact, knowing Roland, they might not have heard anything about this disaster until Elliot went over there for dinner tomorrow -- or rather, tonight. Though Elliot had been living with Tucker for nearly six months, he still tried to have dinner with his dad every Thursday evening.
Anyway, that explained why the call had come in on the land line and not Elliot's cell phone.
Elliot, already dressed, watched Tucker tug a crisp white shirt over his massive shoulders, and swiftly do up the buttons. He tried to control his impatience. It wasn't like Tucker wasn't moving fast. Anyway, whatever had happened had already happened. Ten minutes, even half an hour wasn't going to make a difference either way.
He was still having trouble absorbing it though. For all his dad's hippy dippy ways, he wasn't a careless person. No smoking in bed, no smoking at all. The house was an old bungalow in the historic Ballard neighborhood, but it was well-kept and carefully maintained. And at three in the morning what were the chances of fire in a lint trap or a cooking mishap?
He took his turn in the bathroom, swiping on antiperspirant, splashing water on his face, shaving, brushing his teeth. He still wasn't sure if he'd be going in to work or not. It was all going to depend on what he found at his dad's.
He walked out of the bathroom. "You ready?"
"Yep." Tucker finished buckling his shoulder holster and pocketed his cell. His day job was FBI agent. He worked out of the Seattle Division. That was where they had met. Elliot had been an FBI agent too before getting shot in the line of duty had permanently sidelined him. Now he taught history at Puget Sound University. He was okay with that. Mostly.
Sunrise was still an hour away when they left the cabin. The Nissan 350Z's headlights picked out clumps of glistening berries, secret messages carved in tree trunks, and the occasional gleam of eyes. Elliot drove swiftly down through the dense and silent woods to the Dorado Bay marina where Tucker moored his sloop in one of the yacht club slips. Tucker still rented an apartment in town -- that was the reality of the hours his job required -- but most nights he traveled by ferry to the island. Luckily he generally left his car on the mainland side.
No one was around as they parked and got out. Even in summer, the peak boating season, not many boats were anchored in the small marina. The sound of their slammed car doors echoed loudly across the empty parking lot.
The pulleys and halyards of the flag pole planted in front of the closed restaurant chimed against the metal like a ghostly ship's bell as they walked past. The breath of the sound rose damp and fishy. Colorless triangles of boating flags flapped desultorily overhead as they walked, soles biting on wet stones, down to the dock and Tucker's sloop, the Bull Fish.
It didn't take long to cast off. They had it down to a routine by now. Elliot, slower on his feet than Tucker, climbed aboard first and started the motor. He watched, the engine gently idling, as Tucker untied the ropes. The water slurped and sucked against the side of the boat, sloshed noisily around the dock. Golden bulbs of kelp bobbed languidly just beneath the green surface.
Tucker waited until the stern began to swing away from the dock before finally casting off the bow line and springing onboard. He changed places with Elliot at the helm, and Elliot went down to the little galley to make coffee. Instant coffee, and no cream, but a slug of Irish whisky helped.
He brought a cup of the black, bitter brew to Tucker.
"Thanks," Tucker said. He swallowed a hot mouthful. His eyes were a glint of blue in the pre-dawn gloom. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Elliot summoned a smile. Some people might find their silence odd under the circumstances. But they had both been trained not to speculate, not to waste time and nervous energy on questions no one had the answer to. Tucker had told Elliot everything he knew and that would have to do for now. Just having Tucker here helped.
He turned to study the approaching lights of Ketron island. Spray hit his face, cold, salty, invigorating. He drew in a deep, steadying breath.
They were making good time, doing about fifteen knots. The wind was behind them and it was only about a twenty minute sail anyway.
In the east, dawn had finally arrived like fire curling the edge of black paper, burning the night away.
An unexpectedly hard shove of water hit the prow of the Bull Fish.
"Holy mackerel," Tucker muttered.
Elliot emerged from his own dark thoughts in time to see a gray whale breach surface several yards away and smash down again, sending up a wall of water and foam that rocked the sloop again. He steadied himself on the metal port railing. This was not the deepest part of the sound, averaging only about four hundred and fifty feet, and mid-June was late in the season for grays. They migrated from Alaska to Baja in the early spring.
"That is one big fish," Elliot said.
They looked at each other in the gloom. Elliot saw the gleam of Tucker's smile. His own mouth curved in answer.
* * * * *
The garage was gone. The house had not burned to the ground, but it might as well have. Elliot stared at the charred ruins in the wan light, but it was almost too much to take in. The air was acrid with the stink of smoke and the exhaust of the fleet of still rumbling fire engines. Most of the garden too was gone. The enormous old wisteria was a black, twisted stump. Ash lay like snow on what was left of the rose bushes. The lawn was a muddy, boot-trampled swamp.
He was dimly aware of Tucker's hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight, and he appreciated that wordless offer of support.
Turning from the rubble, he scanned the throng of people -- firefighters poking around the soggy, smoldering ruins of the house and looky-loos doing what they did best, namely getting in the way of everyone else -- until he spotted his father standing with a crowd of neighbors, some of them in bathrobes, some of them dressed for work, all talking animatedly.
Roland wore jeans and the red and gray Beacon bathrobe he'd had since Elliot was a kid. His graying hair was looped back in its usual ponytail, though more haphazardly than usual. He was holding what looked like a small safe.
"Dad!"
Roland turned, startled, and came to meet them. "Elliot? What are you doing here?"
They embraced awkwardly, Roland still clutching his portable safe. He was not a tall man, but he was built to last. Sturdy-framed and muscular. Except this morning he seemed to have shrunk, and his clothes and hair smelled of smoke. Elliot's arms locked around him. When he drew back he said, "What do you mean, what am I doing here? Mrs. MacGillivray phoned and said --" His voice cut out. His father looked drawn and, for the first time, old. It was all Elliot could do not to haul him into a hug him again. "What the hell happened?"
Roland shook his head. "Maybe something in the wiring. It's an old house." He drew a deep breath. "Was." He noticed Tucker standing silently by, and managed a weary smile. "Tucker."
Tucker said gruffly, "I'm very glad you're okay, Mr. Mills."
Roland nodded and then shook his head as though words failed him.
"How did you get out?" Elliot asked. He had to force himself to look at the house again. If his father hadn't woken up in time... there wouldn't have been any surviving that. Hell, smoke inhalation killed more people than burns.
"It started in the garage, but luckily the smoke alarms inside the house went off. I had just enough time to pull my pants on, grab my wallet, and find the safe. I went outside and turned on the hose, but..."
But a garden hose against what must have quickly turned into an inferno?
"Christ."
Once again Tucker rested his hand on Elliot's shoulder. Support and solidarity. Not that he didn't expect support from Tucker, just that Tucker had turned out to be more emotionally generous than Elliot had expected.
"What do you need from us?" Tucker asked. "Say the word."
"I should be all right. I've got good insurance," Roland said grimly. "Now's when those bloodsuckers can start earning their premiums."
"The shock must be wearing off," Elliot told Tucker, and the serious line of Tucker's mouth tugged into a half smile.
Elliot watched as firefighters began to expel the water and air from the heavy yellow hoses, preparatory to flattening them out so they could be retracted and folded. The battle was over. Now it was just a matter of mopping up the ruins. No ambulance. No coroner's van. He was deeply thankful, and yet he heard himself saying, expostulating, "You shouldn't have spent time going after that safe. You could have been trapped in there. Every minute counts in a fire."
"Your mother prepared this safe for just such an occasion. No way in hell was I leaving without it."
Elliot's reply was forestalled by the approach of the fire captain, still wearing his yellow helmet and protective gear. "Professor Mills?"
Elliot and Roland's "Yes?" popped out in unison.
The captain was a middle-aged, ruddy-faced man with silvered scars on the right side of his face. His pale eyes moved from Elliot to Roland.
"I'm the homeowner," Roland said.
"Captain Burris."
Roland offered his hand. "I appreciate everything you tried to do here tonight, Captain Burris."
"I wish it had been more. But even if we'd gotten here sooner, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot we could have done."
"Which means what?" Tucker asked before Elliot could.
Burris said to Roland, "Which means that this is off the record, but I think you ought to know that we're calling in arson investigators on this one."
"Arson?" Elliot repeated.
Roland said nothing.
"You think this was arson?"
Burris looked at Elliot. He said simply, "I know it was arson."
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
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.
Writing 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.
Mary CalmesMary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work. She can even tell you what her characters smell like. She loves buying books and going to conventions to meet her fans.
Josh LanyonBestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Ellie Thomas
Love Story by RJ Scott
He Said, He Said Volume 1 by Mary Calmes
Fair Play by Josh Lanyon
CARINA / BOOKS2READ / BOOKBUB
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