Showing posts with label alcoholic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alcoholic. Show all posts

Monday, May 11, 2026

Monday Morning's Menu: Savor Me by Beth Bolden




Summary:
Kitchen Gods #3
When Chef Xander Bridges leaves the warmth and safety of his car on a cold, stormy night and approaches a stranger, the last thing he expects to find is a future. He’s wanted to leave his job for awhile, but with no good opportunities on the horizon, he’s been stuck in a long, painful rut. But when he befriends the stranger viciously tearing up his own vineyard, Xander discovers something inexplicable. Maybe he’s not the bitter, sarcastic man that everyone, including himself, has endured for years.

Maybe, with someone like Damon in his life, he could be something more. Something better.

Damon Hess doesn’t just want more, he demands it. With his alcoholic past, there are no gray areas for him. Only black and white. In love or not. Sober or drunk. But the chance meeting with Xander opens Damon’s eyes, and gives him a vision full of something he hasn’t experienced in years: hope.

Hope that he can expect companionship and affection, hope that he doesn’t have to grapple with his family’s questionable Napa legacy any longer, and most importantly, hope that there’s a future worth believing in. But the longer he and Xander spend cultivating that future, the more Damon realizes that the key is so much simpler than he ever imagined--it’s Xander.

Savor Me is an 80,000 word contemporary m/m romance starring an irascible man with a soft, gooey marshmallow center and another who knows he likes men, but has never been with one before. It is third in the Kitchen Gods series, but can be read as a standalone.






Hands down, it was one of the best meals Damon had ever eaten. Even though he’d watched Xander prep it with his own two hands, it was a marvel that he’d done it with only those hands. It was a far better meal than any he’d ever had at Terroir, and that was prepared by an entire staff and countless pieces of expensive equipment.

Xander had come to his house with a bag of groceries and a knife, borrowed a pan and a pizza cutter, and had made an astoundingly delicious meal. It was talent and drive, all wrapped up in one package.

A cute package.

Damon had been telling himself not to notice—or if he was going to notice, then he should just ignore the attraction. But sitting across from Xander, staring at him in the candlelight, it was much harder than he’d imagined. Especially when he looked relaxed and much more at peace than he had that night a year ago.

At first he’d been too worked up himself to notice the anxiousness that Xander wore like a cloak. Or a very difficult-to-scale wall complete with archers equipped with fiery arrows and soldiers pouring boiling oil.

But tonight his guard had fallen a little, and despite everything, Damon wanted desperately to believe it was more than just quitting a job he’d really hated.

Damon wanted to believe the smile on Xander’s face had something to do with him.

“Thank you,” Damon said. “If that was an audition, you nailed it.”

“I know.” He was a little smug, and it was more than a little adorable. The way his nose scrunched up, the eye crinkles, the expressive look in his dark brown eyes.

Damon had imagined he might be in danger, hanging around Xander all the time, especially considering the impression he’d made on him in such a short time, but this was Trouble with a capital t.

“You’d better watch yourself. Not sure your head’s gonna fit back through the back door,” Damon teased.

“You wanted a chef,” Xander said, spreading his arms. “You got one.”

“They’re sort of thick on the ground in Napa,” Damon softly insisted, “but it turns out I’m particular.”

“Imagine that, a Hess particular.” The sarcasm in Xander’s voice cut through the dreamy romantic quality of the candlelight and let in a little of the real world. Specifically his family.

He couldn’t exactly tell Xander he didn’t ever want to talk about his family. After all, this land was their legacy, and his trust fund was making the restaurant a reality. Truth was, he really didn’t want to talk about them, and it felt like Xander brought them up as some sort of defense mechanism. Damon still didn’t understand why, and this was definitely not the first time it had happened.

“What’s your deal with the Hesses?” Damon asked. Might as well be honest, at least before Xander walked back in the house and signed the contract that would tie them together for the near future. Of course, that also meant the question had barely made it out of his mouth.

Something ugly churned deep in his stomach, exactly the opposite reaction he should have had after that incredible meal.

What if he changes his mind?

“Nothing,” Xander said, but his chin was jutting out again, and his fingers were drumming anxiously against the wood tabletop. It sure didn’t look like nothing.

There was a definite voice in his head, begging him to leave it, to make sure he didn’t drive Xander away with his insistent questioning. After all, Xander wasn’t signing with Hess Vineyards, he was signing with Damon, who stayed as far away from his family as possible.

But Damon’s last name was still Hess, and it wasn’t going to change.

“Really?” Damon asked.

Xander sighed. “I said it was nothing, and it is. It’s stupid.”

“I don’t want it to interfere,” Damon offered. “Not with what we’re about to build.”

“It won’t. I promise. I know you’re not your family. And to be honest, that’s what it is. I’ve had a few run-ins with Hess employees. But you’re not like them.”

The thing Damon had discovered before coming back to Napa, and definitely after returning to the Valley, was that he could run as far and as hard as he could, but his family was still his family. Time and distance couldn’t alter his blood, no matter how much he wished otherwise.



Saturday's Series Spotlight
Kitchen Gods
Part 1  /  Part 2

Charleston Condors
Part 1  /  Part 2

Miami Piranhas
Part 1  /  Part 2

Food Truck Warriors
Part 1  /  Part 2

Los Angeles Riptide

The Rainbow Clause

Star Shadow



Beth Bolden
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.

Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.





Savor Me #3

Kitchen Gods Series

Charleston Condors

Rainbow Clause

Los Angeles Riptide Series

Food Truck Warriors

Star Shadow


Sunday, April 5, 2026

🐰Sunday's Short Stack🐰: The Easter Redemption by VL Locey




Summary:
Laurel Holidays Spring Romance
On a small maple farm in Pennsylvania a man seeking forgiveness is going to find much more than he hoped for.

They say the only place to go from the bottom is up. Frank Fitzgerald Jr. has learned how fast a man can fall from grace. A mere two years ago he was insanely wealthy and the next in line to inherit a multi-million dollar company. Now he’s standing on a dirt road in some hayseed backwoods town with one bag of possessions and a shiny new sobriety coin in his pocket. Not only did he tumble from a lofty perch, he crashed and burned in epic fashion, landing right on his pride and breaking it into tiny bits that he fears he may never be able to glue back together, no matter what his sponsor says.

Knowing he had to start over clean—both spiritually and physically—he goes to his younger brother Decker for help. Their first conversation isn’t pretty. Frank knows he has a lifetime of slights to make amends for. Amazingly, his brother and his husband open up their barn to Frank for free lodging while he sorts out his life. Part of that life is a new job which he finds at the Stallard Maple Farm just across the pond from the farm rescue his brother now calls home. While Frank works among the maples he finds himself drawn to the eldest Stallard sibling, Maalik. A friendship forms when he discovers that Maalik has his own demons to contend with. Frank is soon feeling things for Maalik he has never felt for anyone before, especially a man, but he’s willing to test those wild new feelings even if they scare the sap out of him.

The Easter Redemption is a slow burn, bi-awakening, small town romance with two men working to better themselves, goofy farm critters, stately trees, a tiny welcoming community, family lost and found, and a sweet as syrup happy ending.

Original Review April 2025:
Another lovely tale from VL Locey and her Laurel Holidays series, I haven't read them all but each one I have experienced, entertained from beginning to end and Easter Redemption was no different.  The author wrote this story nearly 2 years ago and I'm not sure how it went unnoticed that long, especially factoring in the Easter element which I don't think is explored nearly enough in fiction.

Having been raised on a farm, I loved seeing how the farm and animals play a part in Frank's starting over and dealing with his recovery.  I say "animals" but it really is down to little Hugo the pig Frank unofficially adopts as his own, or perhaps I should say Hugo is the one who adopted FrankπŸ˜‰.  However you look at it, the connection Frank develops with the little guy is special and the scene where a name is chosen made me laugh at loud.  I had a pet pig when I was about 5 while she grew before taking her to the stockyard and I named her Holly for my favorite doll, Holly Hobby. The relationship Frank has with Hugo brought all those happy memories back.

Some authors might have taken a dark turn putting Frank and Maalik together as they are both recovering and starting over(though in different places in their respective journeys) but the author didn't go there.  Don't get me wrong, had she taken this story on that route, it would have been equally entertaining but it was nice to see a starting over story without a high level of over the top negative baggage.  That statement makes it sound as if the men had it easy, that there journey of healing was all unicorns and rainbows, it certainly wasn't but the author didn't throw in every cliche speed bump and in doing so the reader is more able to connect, relate, and empathize with all those involved.

The Easter Redemption is an entertaining and enjoyable blend of drama, humor, friendship, family, healing, and romance.  Simply put, this spring holiday story is just such a delight.  I look forward to going back and catching up on the author's Laurel Holidays Xmas stories.

RATING:




Chapter One 
“Thank you, sir,” I shouted to be heard over the booming exhaust system on the rusty red Studebaker pickup. 

The old man in the John Deere ball cap yelled something at me then sped off, speeding in this instance being a roaring twenty miles per hour. A black ball of choking exhaust exploded out of the rotted muffler. There I stood in the middle of a dirt road, my old Yale duffel bag on my shoulder, hacking up a lung. Thankfully there was a soft breeze moving past and it lifted the fumes away. I stared at the lone mailbox sitting on the right hand side of the road and had to smile a little. The black box sat atop half an old telephone pole, which was about as rural as one could get, you’d think. But no, someone—and I suspected I knew who that someone was—had painted little farm animals on the sides of the battered postal box. 

I stood in the spring sun, chilled in my thin jacket, staring at the black mailbox as if it held some ancient secrets. I even went so far as to open it and stare inside. The damn thing was cavernous. The flag a little weak. There were bills inside waiting to be picked up by the mailman. Mailperson. Postal carrier. Ugh. Being PC was tiring. Life was so much easier when I was cranked up on coke and plastered on Jim Beam. I could just be a raging asshole and everyone was willing to accept it because I was ripped. And since I had been high on something since I was in boarding school, I’d had lots of practice being a raging asshole. Which meant lots of amends to make. Starting with the most important one. 

“You’re stalling,” I said, closed the box, and turned to face the long dirt drive that would lead me to Happy Laurel Farm. Hefting my duffel higher on my shoulder, I took a few steps, pausing at the foot of the drive to cock my head and listen. There was no traffic noise. The only sounds were the soft rustle of a cool wind moving through trees about to bud and the distant blats and moos of farm animals. 

Farm animals. I still could not wrap my head around the fact my younger brother, Decker, lived on a farm. If ever there was a man who was not cut out for farm life it was my baby brother. He was the picture of urban gay chic. Or had been. I’d not seen or spoken to him for close to two years. Fifteen or so months to be precise. A lot had gone down in that time. My brother had left the family business, punched my father in the face—Christ, I wish I had been there to see that—and had moved out here to Hick Town, Pennsylvania, to settle down with a vegan liberal. Of all the things. Father had been outraged. Mother had been mildly upset and so had gone out to get a new lover on the side. Which was how she handled things. Sex and booze to numb the misery of a life unfulfilled. 

Sound familiar, Frank? 

Oh yeah, it really did. The only difference was that Mother had enough sense to keep her addictions well-hidden whereas I kind of made a splash with mine. Maybe splash was the wrong word. More like I did an Icarus and flew so high and close to the sun that my wings melted and I crashed back to earth with such a resounding thud that the tremors were felt from Pittsburgh all the way to a certain resort in Florida where my father had been playing golf and whoring. Oh, sorry, not whoring. Spending time with clients. 

“Whatever,” I mumbled then began the walk up the driveway. Fencing ran along the drive, and several muddy goats came waddling to the woven wire fence to gape at me with their funny goat eyes. They were all colors and incredibly fat. None of them seemed to like me, which was pretty judgmental on their part but, to be fair, I had enjoyed chevon a few times. My lower back and thighs ached. I’d walked for I didn’t know how long to reach the end of this road. Then my cell service died off. I mean, what the hell was wrong with this county? How could there be places in America that didn’t have cell phone service? What the hell was the government spending money on if not for infrastructure? 

Since when do you care about internet service for the rural folk? 

“Point to you,” I mumbled to my inner Frank. Sometimes I really hated my inner Frank. He made me drink. No lie. Of course that was just one of many reasons I soaked in a bottle or sniffed up anything able to be sniffed. Monty, my sponsor, had told me I shouldn’t hate that inner voice as it was my conscience trying to tell me to wake the fuck up. Which, yeah, it was probably that. I’d spent over thirty-five years trying to bury that little shitty whisper inside my head because facing the truth it spoke was simply too damned painful. 

A big black goat trotted up to the fence and made rude noises at me. The spring winds carried a funky musky smell. A stink that had not been there before the big black goat had arrived to flop his lips at me. 

I paused, took a step closer, and stood on this side of the fence, a half-melted bank of snow keeping me from getting any closer. 

“You don’t scare me. I grew up in the Fitzgerald mansion.” I folded my arms over my chest and waited for the goat to reply. He blatted and gave me another round of rubber lips. Then it hit me I was having a conversation with a goat. A. Goat. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I sighed to no-one in particular before stalking back up the drive, my sight touching on the abundance of trees everywhere. Not just pines either. All kinds of trees and big blue skies. What I knew about trees could fit into a thimble. Mr. Willings had taught us trees made oxygen so that was good. And yeah, that was about all I knew about trees. 

My feet ached. They were cold and wet. The walk from the bus depot outside Miller’s Lake had been rough on a body that only knew how to laze around and get glazed like a damn donut. My stomach rumbled at the thought of a doughnut. I’d not eaten since last night when the bus from Charlotte had pulled into Philly and we’d had to change companies. Seemed the big bus lines didn’t travel this far into the boonies so I’d had to hop a smaller bus after a quick stop at a gas station. I’d dropped the last ten bucks to my name to buy a bottle of water and a questionable tuna sandwich that had a blurred best before date on the back. I’d not shit myself on the ride from the City of Brotherly Love to the tiny drop-off by a lake in town, so all was good on that front. 

The back of my neck was sweaty despite the chill in the air. March was iffy still on the east coast. Spring was trying to force its way to the fore but winter wasn’t sure if it was done being a cold-hearted bitch yet. There were signs of both seasons everywhere. Snow plowed up along the drive for instance while a patch of purple crocus pushed through the lingering frost to brighten the otherwise wet and sloppy ground. 

Coming up on the barn, I felt a flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with a lack of food. Decker was somewhere around here with his new husband, Acosta Melios, the owner of the rescue. I’d not been kind to my brother the last time we had spoken. After stopping dead in the center of the drive I stared at the old barn. Red chickens were out in the yard, digging in the mud. A big ginger rooster crowed, the sound carrying down the valley and bouncing off the thawing mountains. It really was quite nice here. I situated my duffel bag nervously, wondering if I’d be greeted by a loving family member or a shotgun. It could go either way. Rural folks were known to have guns for hunting and shooting bears. I threw a fast look around at all the woodland surrounding me. Shit. I’d not thought about bears as I’d been wandering along country roads with no means of self-defense besides half a stale tuna sandwich. I should hang onto that. I could use it as a means to distract the bear or clobber it over the head, although the bread was too soggy to make a good bludgeon. 

“You lost, friend?” a man called from the door of the barn, shaking me from my bear concerns. 

I blinked and took a slow step forward. This man had longish hair, a lean face, and was eying me with careful concern. I’d seen him on the rescue website standing with my brother, arm-in-arm, with a goat in a racing harness or some sort of contraption. They’d both appeared to be crazy in love and I’d felt a tiny thrum of pleasure knowing my brother was happy. God knows I’d not done much to bring him any joy. 

Amends, Frankie. We’re here to make amends and find a better life. A clean life. 

There were times my inner Frank was okay. Like right now. One day at a time. Right. I could do this. 

“No, I’m at the right place. I’m looking for Decker?” That made him tense up just a bit. “Decker Fitzgerald? Well, I guess he’s not using that last name anymore not that I blame him.” 

“What do you want with him?” my brother-in-law asked, folding his arms across a green and blue checkered flannel shirt. 

I mulled that over before speaking. Something that rehab and AA had been quite helpful in teaching me. Actions and words matter so think before speaking or doing. I bit back the snarky answer that popped to life on my tongue. It was a tacky quip so it really didn’t need to see the light of day. I shoved my hands into my front pockets to find my hard-earned tokens. Rubbing them when I felt anxious helped me center. Centering. Also a new thing rehab and group meetings had taught me. You’d think a man with an Ivy League education would be super smart, but nope. 

“I’m his brother,” I called as I held my ground. 

A tractor sat by the barn; some big cart thing backed into the second floor. The smell of animals was growing richer the closer I got to the building. 

“I know who you are,” Acosta shouted back, his legs now braced for a scuffle maybe? Yeah, probably. I sighed but held my ground. 

“I’d like to talk to him if I could,” I yelled as a cat and duck walked past, the duck giving me a dark look. Who knew ducks could glare? 

“I’m not sure that you really should,” Acosta called, his tone firm. “From what I hear you’ve been nothing but a rotten bastard to my husband for most of his life.” 

“Yeah, I have been,” I replied, fingers moving over my tokens so quickly they were starting to warm from the friction. “And I want to make amends. I need to. It’s part of the journey.” 

Acosta eyeballed me just like that big black goat had. He began shaking his head when Decker walked out of the barn, cradling a tiny baby goat.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Decker said, the little brown goat in his arms trying to suckle on his chin. It was really pretty cute and I wasn’t an animal person. “Why are you here, Frank?” 

That was a long and heavy tale to tell. One that required a good stiff…ginger ale. 

“Because I’m working a twelve-step program and making amends to those I have wronged is the ninth step,” I replied candidly. No point in trying to gild the lily. The whole world had seen my descent from the heavens. Might as well let my brother in on my plummet. Decker, Acosta, and the baby goat were staring at me, weighing my words. I blew out a breath. “I know my addictions and actions had a bad effect on you. I have a list in my bag of things that I want to apologize for, if you’ll let me?” 

Decker shared a look with his husband. I waited, trembling inside, praying my brother would be the better man and let me talk with him. Just for an hour. Then I’d leave if that was what he wanted. 

“Follow me to the cabin. It’s time for Prissy’s bottle,” Decker said then walked off, following a muddy path leading away from the barn. 

I let out a huge breath. Acosta glowered at me as I shuffled along behind my brother. I kept my eyes on Decker’s stiff back as we made our way to their home while I rehearsed my speech in my head. The list of apologies in my duffel was as long as my arm.




Saturday Series Spotlight
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3




VL Locey
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)

She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.



EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com



The Easter Redemption

Laurel Holidays Series


Wednesday, February 19, 2025

πŸ’»Blogger ReviewπŸ’»: Always You by RJ Scott



Summary:

Guardian Hall #1
In the frostbitten heart of Chicago, a scarred and solitary soldier finds a second chance at love with the man who broke his heart.

Twenty years at war have left Sergeant Jasper "Jazz" Brookes battered, scarred, and haunted. His marriage is wrecked, his daughter barely speaks to him, and the world he fought for has moved on without him. Homeless by choice, Jazz manages until the brutal Chicago winter forces him to seek help from a shelter he doesn’t want to need.

The weathered building in Humboldt Park offers veterans a place to rebuild, but Jazz doesn’t expect to find Alex Richardson there—his first love, the boy who chose money over him, the one he left behind. Seeing Alex again cracks open old wounds and stirs feelings Jazz buried long ago.

For Alex, the sight of Jazz reminds him of everything he’s tried to forget. But neither man has moved on. As they grapple with their past and confront the scars they’ve carried for years, they’re forced to decide if the connection between them is strong enough to survive the pain.

This time, it’s all or nothing.





A new book AND a new series from RJ Scott?  Yes, please.  Always You, the first entry in the author's new series, Guardian Hall is amazing.  I won't say it has a dark element but it definitely has heartwrenching and heartbreaking elements on multiple points.  I won't list the points so as not spoil anything but just know this story, these characters will definitely squeeze you through the emotional wringer.

Alex Richardson made a bad choice long ago thinking he'd have a chance to explain it or perhaps manage it the way he planned, needless to say things did not go as the young man planned.  Jazz Brookes was left aching after Alex's choice but tried to make the best life possible, unfortunately things also did not go as he planned.  Both men had hit their own rock bottom, we learn and see more of Jazz's collapsed state but we learn some of Alex's as well through conversation and internal monologue.  Now some might like to have seen more of Alex's but personally I like a little off-page storytelling because there comes a point where it's just too much. Subtlety and readers imagination can be extremely powerful.

When dealing with PTSD in fiction I find there is too often two ways an author goes: short & brief to minimize the angst or highly detailed heavy on medical wordage so you feel like you're studying a medical school book.  I'm all for reality in fiction when it comes to health but sometimes less can truly be more but not at all can disconnect a reader from the characters, so balance is key.  RJ Scott has found that balance in Always You.  As I said above, both characters are dealing with hurt and healing but Jazz is the primary focus on the healing front IMO and we see the hurt, the comfort, and the fallout/side effects but they don't overpower the story and the romance.  

To put it bluntly and paraphrase Goldilocks: RJ Scott got it "just right" with Always You. You'll smile, you'll cry, you'll laugh, basically you'll be "ooohing" and "awwwing" all over the place.

RATING:




Chapter One 
JAZZ 
Standing across the street, I held the coffee cup close, its warmth providing a brief reprieve from the biting Chicago wind. The old building in Humboldt Park loomed ahead— a weary, weathered structure. Its brickwork was faded and chipped, with windows gleaming on the first floor, but above that, grimy and dark, the windowsills and surrounds needed repairs everywhere. Around the house, the neighborhood stretched out in a patchwork of neglect and survival. Graffiti-covered walls displayed various tags, while trash blew and collected on the snowy sidewalks. 

Someone bumped into me, jolting me from my reverie. “Sorry,” I muttered, but the girl glanced back, her nose wrinkling in disdain, before she hurried away, disappearing into the flurry of thickening snow that swirled around streetlamps and piled up in dirty mounds. She might’ve been reacting to the way I looked— homeless, piles of rags, unwanted, and scary. Or maybe the way I smelled— given I hadn’t washed in days— not since leaving the hospital where the cops had dropped me off. My appearance must have been unsettling— hands cracked from the cold, hair unkempt, clothes a mismatched ensemble from some thrift shop clinging to my skinny body, a backpack with all I owned slung over my shoulder. She and other people— the ordinary people of this world— were why I didn’t stay inside the cafΓ©. I knew no one would want to sit next to me, so I used loose change, ignored the comments, and hurried outside to take my position as a ghost, haunting the fringes of a world that had moved on without me. 

Cars inched along the road, their tires crunching over the fresh layer of snow, and I watched them and their drivers, so worried they’d slip and knock their vehicles as if a few scratches mattered. What were they all doing out here, anyway? Didn’t they all have homes to go to, with people who cared about them? 

I sipped the dark coffee, its bitterness awful compared to the sugar-laden or salty drinks I’d grown used to in the desert. That arid, endless expanse of sand and heat felt a world away. Here, the air was heavy with the smell of cold— that crisp, almost metallic scent that comes with snow. It mingled with distant whiffs of exhaust fumes and an urban winter's faint, underlying decay. 

The desert was silent and had vast open spaces until it was torn apart by explosions and drenched in screams, but here, the city was a constant hum of life, even in its most rundown corners. The sound of distant traffic, the muffled conversations of passersby, the occasional siren in the distance— it was all so alien and tight and close— too much. 

I took another sip— my hand shaking, the coffee scalding my tongue— and stared at the building that was supposed to be my refuge. Fear gripped me— not just of the four walls waiting to enclose me, but of what lay beyond them. 

I wanted to return to the heat, friends, and having a reason and purpose every day. So, I should head south to Texas, the tip of Florida, the islands, or the ocean. It may not be the desert, but the heat in my bones would be enough to thaw me out, right? 

But then, I wouldn’t be near Harper, and whatever my ex-wife, Ava, thought of me now, I deserved to be near my daughter. If only to check in on her from a distance. 

She was in Chicago, living her normal teenage life. 

I was in Chicago, trying to stay alive any way I knew how.

And maybe one day, I’d talk to her. 

One day, when my head wasn’t so messed up and I didn’t smell like five-day-old garbage. 

I drew in a lungful of icy air and stepped off the curb, intent on closing the distance between me and the building as the world seemed to slow down. A silver Toyota lost its battle with the slick, snow-covered street, fishtailing wildly. It skidded past me, missing me by mere inches. My heart didn’t race. No adrenaline-fueled shock coursed through me. Instead, there was an eerie calm, a detachment, and I heard music blaring although the car windows were closed. The driver, face twisted in frustration, shot me an angry gesture before steering the car back on track and disappearing around the next corner. 

I stood on the road, the cold seeping through my worn shoes, watching the taillights fade into the distance. The lack of fear, the absence of reaction, was unsettling. Once, a moment like that would have sparked a surge of adrenaline, a rush of instincts perfected in far more dangerous situations. But now, there was nothing— just a hollow emptiness, a numbness that had become a constant companion since returning stateside. 

“Hey, you’re in the middle of the road, man. You okay?” someone asked, snapping me out of the fugue state I had going on. 

I waved a hand as if I were telling him it was okay, then, with one glance left and right, I crossed to the sidewalk and ended up outside the door of Guardian Hall, Private Residence. There was a discreet plate with a button to push, and I stared at it. 

Guardian Hall? 

I needed to press the buzzer. 

I reached for it. 

But I didn’t press it. 

I couldn’t.

I stared some more, my feet unmoving, my backpack digging into my shoulders, the snow swirling harder around me. 

Then, the door opened. 

I couldn’t see into the shadows, and until the person stepped into the light, I wasn’t sure it would be him, but I recognized those dark eyes, that ruffled dark hair, and how he dressed was a throwback to twenty years ago. He looked older, wiser, maybe, but, like me he was only a few weeks from his thirty-eighth birthday, so he would never again be the boy I remembered. He was silent and watchful in the way he stared at me. 

“Do you want to come in?” he said with a kind, understanding smile. 

He didn’t sneer, wrinkle his nose, or judge me; instead, he invited me inside. 

“Alex,” I murmured. 

He grinned. “That’s me, for my sins.” Then, he held out a hand. “Alex Richardson, manager of Guardian Hall.” 

“I know,” I said, and his smile faltered a little, and he seemed puzzled for a moment, probably imagining that I was familiar somehow. 

“It’s okay to come in. We don’t ask for names or⁠—” 

“Jazz,” I blurted and coughed, remnants of the freaking viral shit that had landed me in the hospital. 

He looked confused; then, his hand dropped, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. Was he still going to welcome me in after sending me away twenty years ago? Was this the moment he slammed the door in my face again after telling me I was nothing to him? After a moment’s pause, he reached for me, gripped my wet-through coat, and dragged me into the house, closing the door behind me, then setting me back so he could check me out. 

He was lost for words. 

And I didn’t have a single damn thing to say.


RJ Scott
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.


EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk



Always You #1
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