Sunday, July 12, 2026
🎅🎆🎄Sunday's Short Stack-Xmas in July🎄🎆🎅: Nice and Snow by Clare London
With a Kick #6
Nuri’s expecting a quiet Christmas, driving his cab, doing some studying, enjoying good food and drink – and devoting some serious loving to boyfriend Eduardo. Occasionally he misses his homeland of Turkey, but he’s content to share the London celebrations with Eddy.
But what with Eddy’s distress over his new role at the local comedy club, interference in their love life from Nuri’s irrepressible brothers, a disturbing number of costumed Santas on the street, the dangerous slush on the roads, and then the portly, bearded man dressed in red, in need of an urgent cab ride…
It doesn’t look like things will be that quiet after all!
Original Review January 2024:
I'll admit as I haven't read any of the With a Kick stories, I had a bit of a hard time getting into this story. I say "a bit" because it only took half a dozen pages or so but it wasn't instant from word one. I wasn't lost but it took a few pages to connect to the characters already established relationship, I look forward to going back and seeing their beginning in A Twist and Two Balls, hopefully in 2024.
Even with that few-page-to-connect start, I loved the chemistry between Nuri and Eddy, it's realistic and fun. When one has to don the Santa suit for work they find a passenger in Nuri's taxi that might give them a little different take on the red suit and the man inside.
Yep, another deliciously fun holiday novella from Clare London.
RATING:
Nuri’s boyfriend was causing him indigestion.
Well, it may have been partly due to the oversized portions of supper at his brothers’ Turkish restaurant, but there were emotional reasons too. Eduardo was a constant delight—Nuri wouldn’t want anyone to think he had any complaint, for goodness sake, he’d never been happier—but Eduardo was a man who needed Nuri’s attention and care.
Right now, Eddy—his real name—was staring at Nuri over the dining table with dark suspicion in his eyes. “There was a group of them in the club last night,” he said. Eddy was a compere at the local Soho comedy club, a job that Nuri thought he did extremely well. He loved to watch Eddy up on stage, with no sign of the nerves he’d suffered as a dramatic actor, but now playing to the crowd with his impressions and clever mimicry as he bridged the gap between the comedians’ sets.
“I think you may be overreacting.” Nuri smiled to himself, knowing what “them” Eddy was talking about. Not that he wouldn’t have stepped to Eddy’s defence if there were any real threat to him.
“But it was spooky, you know? There’ve been so many around recently. Remember the crowd we saw in the pub last night? And I’ve spotted some on the bus, and at lots of stations on the Tube. They don’t seem to care where or when they’re seen. Do you know, I bumped into one at the supermarket, too, when I went for more milk.”
“What was he buying?”
Eddy glanced swiftly at Nuri. “Are you teasing me?”
Nuri smiled openly. He was sure—wasn’t he?—that Eddy didn’t really mind, because he knew Nuri’s teasing was never cruel, only fond. Nuri just couldn’t resist sometimes. And humour was so often part of the bedroom foreplay between them, leading up to some pretty sweaty and impressive—
“Squid!” announced Nuri’s brother Adem, delivering a large plate onto their table with a flourish and a thud. “It go extra with the kofte I bring, you call… ballocks?”
“Balls. Meatballs,” Eddy said, his voice strained. “You also brought dolma, extra halloumi, and then skewers of souvlaki. There’s too much food here, Adem.”
“Never,” Nuri muttered, reaching eagerly for the new plate. He absently brushed a crumb of bread from his beard. Their early supper at the restaurant had become a familiar routine, especially on the days Eddy finished work after a matinee show. Of course, the trade-off was that they both had to suffer Nuri’s brothers’ attention, especially about their love life. Nuri’s family had welcomed Eddy very warmly and didn’t seem to have a problem with the two men all but living together. But just now and then…
Adem remained staring at Eddy, his brown eyes bright with mischief. “I like hear your words, Eduardo. Very amusing, the way you say my words.”
“For heaven’s sake.” Eddy rolled his eyes. “Your English seems to be getting worse, not better, ever since I offered to help you with your London pronunciation. I could almost believe you play up the hapless Turkish accent act when Nuri and I are here.”
Nuri caught Adem’s eye and frowned at him. Adem winked back, and ran his tongue along his lower lip in a bizarre leer. Then he swung on his heel, his waist apron fluttering against his smart black trousers, and darted over to another table that needed service. He may have been swishing his hips just a little too much to be natural.
“He’s teasing me too, right?” Eddy said glumly.
“Of course,” Nuri said. He covered Eddy’s hand with his own, their hands pale and darker-skinned together on the red tablecloth. “He likes to pretend he understands the gay way. But he likes winding you around as well.”
“Winding me up,” Eddy corrected automatically, then caught sight of Nuri’s grin. “Oh God, you’re doing it too! Why am I suddenly the sole source of entertainment around here?”
Nuri tightened his hand, a little alarmed by Eddy’s tone. “What’s really wrong?”
“Wrong?”
Nuri knew Eddy’s denial tactics of old. He didn’t press him, but poured a small measure of raki into Eddy’s glass, then topped it up with water from the nearby jug. Eddy watched with his usual fascination as the liquid clouded to milky white. He’d grown very accustomed to the taste over the last few months with Nuri. “Drink this,” Nuri said softly. “You need it.”
Eddy sighed, but took a sip. Nuri knew the exact moment the sharp aniseed flavour tickled Eddy’s taste buds, because his nose wrinkled with delight. Nuri resisted the urge to reach over and smooth out the wrinkles. To hell with it. He just liked to touch Eddy, wherever and whenever.
“I’m not angry at Adem,” Eddy said. “Or you. You’re my rock, you know that?”
“I know that. But you are disturbed, I think.”
“Okay. Yes. A bit.” Eddy examined the table cloth as closely as if it held a secret treasure map and only he could decipher the code.
“Tell me,” Nuri urged. “You’re not really frightened?”
Eddy flushed. “God, that’d be childish, wouldn’t it? But it does seem bizarre. I’m beginning to feel stalked by them.”
Nuri shook his head. “You must be sensible about this. They’re common enough here in London. Especially at this time of year. We all see them.”
With a startling thump, Adem dropped into the seat beside Eddy. “What is this stalking?” For the first time that night, he dropped his sardonic look and seemed genuinely concerned for Eddy.
“Stalkers?” Sadi, Nuri’s other brother and co-owner of the restaurant, paused behind Adem’s chair, his hands full of crockery cleared from another table. “Eddy, are you having trouble at the club?”
“This month of December is very full of danger,” Adem said sombrely. “The shoplifters and pocket pickers are everywhere. I will lend you my sister’s mace spray. If you blind some person, Nuri will defence you in court when he is qualified as lawyer.”
“Defend. And no, it’s all right, I’m not talking about thieves.”
“Sex slavers?” Adem looked even more appalled. “They like young boys as well as the girls. Though…” He gave Eddy the once-over with what looked alarmingly like professional appraisal. “I think you are not so young any more, and they will not want one who wriggles as you do when a man like Nuri clasps you close—”
“Enough,” Nuri said, rather sharply, though he doubted Adem would pay any heed. He never had before. “Eddy’s talking about the pretend Father Christmases. They seem to be very plentiful this year.”
Adem and Sadi stared at him as if he’d just beamed down off the Millenium Falcon.
Nuri sighed. “The people dressed as Father Christmas, you know? Big bellies, red jacket and trousers, thick white beard.”
“Sounds like our new chef,” Sadi muttered. He leaned over the table toward Eddy and put on a sympathetic expression. “I understand how you feel,” he said. “Some people are scared of clowns.”
“And beetles,” Adem added.
Sadi didn’t look away from Eddy, but managed to reach over and clip his brother around the ear with deadly accuracy. “Those are weevils,” he hissed. “From old flour. And it’s perfectly reasonable to hate them in a restaurant.”
“It’s not fear. I’m fine.” Eddy laughed at the banter. But the laugh was shaky.
Nuri was concerned. He had walked with Eddy from the club to the restaurant and had seen an example of this effect. When a young Santa crossed their path by the Chinese grocer’s, Eddy had shivered and shrunk back against Nuri’s side. As far as Nuri could see, it was just a skinny young man dressed up for fun, the tee shirts he’d used to pad himself peeking out from under his tunic, a soppy smile on his face, and a rather strong smell of beer on his breath. Nuri noticed the guy’s shopping bags clinking as he passed, but had nodded an easy good evening to him. Eddy hadn’t. Nuri suspected there was still more to this situation, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—rush Eduardo.
A customer waved from the other side of the room, and Adem and Sadi moved away from the table.
“Tell me what is really worrying you,” Nuri said quietly to Eddy. He didn’t want his brothers zeroing back in on their problems, however amusing they found it. “I see it in your expression.”
“See what?”
“That it’s not just about the Father Christmases,” Nuri said patiently.
“Well, it is and it isn’t. Sometimes I think you’re psychic.” Eddy had on his 101-Dalmation-puppy look. “Patrick asked me to help host a Christmas Eve party at With A Kick. For the children, in the afternoon. It was such a great success last year, and they love the ice creams. All non-alcoholic for the kids, of course,” he hurried to add.
“Of course.”
“Apparently the guy who played Santa wants a break from it this year.”
Nuri nodded encouragingly. “You are an actor, Eduardo. I don’t see the problem.”
“Dressing up as Father Christmas? As Santa?”
Nuri’s eyes widened just a fraction. “As I say, I don’t see…”
Eddy groaned. “I don’t believe in Santa, Nuri. The whole thing is a bit creepy, men dressing in ill-fitting costumes with stupid cotton-wool beards. What sort of idiot am I going to look?”
Never to me, Nuri thought, and smiled encouragingly. “You’ll have a good time. You have a gift with entertaining children. And you love Christmas.” He and Eddy had never shared one before, but Eddy had been gazing at sparkly decorations in shop windows since October.
“I do. Yes, I do. It’s just the Santas I find weird. I don’t like them, and especially the fake ones.”
“How can there be fake ones without a real one to compare?”
“Smart arse,” Eddy muttered.
Nuri looked longingly at the plate of aromatic, steaming squid, but instead he concentrated on Eddy’s distress. “In Turkey, he is real.”
“He’s… sorry?”
“Baba Noel. Where all the Father Christmas stories began. He was a genuine Turkish man.” Eddy started to laugh, but Nuri frowned at him. “No, it’s true. The history is believed to begin with a bishop from Demre, in modern-day Turkey, who wanted to help poor people, but in secret. He helped girls without dowry, and also became the patron saint of children and sailors. Though I’m not sure of the connection between those groups. It’s said he climbed on roofs and dropped coins down the chimneys.”
Nuri loved the way Eddy’s face expressed everything he was thinking, even while Eddy himself thought he was being so discreet. At the moment, Eddy was obviously wondering how to challenge Nuri on such a ridiculously bizarre lie. And yet, Nuri knew it was the truth. Lucky he didn’t take offence that Eddy disbelieved the history of Nuri’s heritage. Poor Eddy was a victim of his British upbringing. Nuri loved him all the more for it.
Clare LondonClare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter-three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her on all her social media.
EMAIL: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk
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