Summary:
Archie's posh parents want him to meet a nice girl--how can he tell them he's fallen for a bad boy instead?
Closeted, innocent and lonely, Archie Arandale longs for someone special in his life. A Christmas party organised by his wealth management company is the last place he expects to meet the man of his dreams.
With his leather jacket, tattoos, and piercings, Cal Turner turns heads the moment he walks through the door. He definitely isn't looking for a boyfriend, but Archie's hesitant charm captures his attention, and sneaking off during the party to have a little fun can only make a dull evening more interesting.
After their reckless and thrilling encounter, Archie is keen for more experience and Cal is happy to oblige. The need for secrecy means this can only be a casual fling, yet as they spend time together in the run up to Christmas, their feelings become more intense than either of them had bargained for. How can Archie find the courage to tell his family about Cal, when Cal's the exact opposite of the 'nice girl' they've been hoping for?
Contains: A closeted virgin, a tattooed biker, class differences, a dramatic coming out, a very inappropriate Christmas gift, and a happy ending (of course).
I've only read a few of Jay Northcote's books but every single one that has come to my attention is on my TBR list(I'm sure they'd all be if I went and perused his backlist😉) so when A Boyfriend for Christmas was set to be released I knew it was going on my Xmas TBR list. I wasn't sure it would "make the cut" for this year just because my list pretty much doubles every day so there's just no way I can get through all of them but I'm so glad I decided to read it for this holiday season.
Brilliant. Fun. Sexy. Romantic.
Now is it worthy of what I call the Hallmark-y stamp? No. It is so much better! Romantic comedy with heart but not nearly sugary sweet enough to earn the Hallmark-y stamp. Now that's not a bad thing, oh no! Don't get me wrong I like the sugary sweet holiday stuff but I LOVE the heartwarming rom-com with that something extra special too and A Boyfriend for Christmas has that something extra special in spades!!!!👏👏👏
I personally don't think Cal and Archie are opposite enough to be labeled opposites attract, simply because the person Archie is hiding underneath isn't really that different but he's kind of afraid to let him out, and I don't just mean out of the closet, there's more than just his sexuality he's afraid to unleash on his family. "Unleash"? I make it sound menacing with that word and its not, there's no mayhem in Archie's heart I just think unleash is a good word because he's hidden it for so long.
I don't think I'm going to say too much more because I don't do spoilers and this is definitely a holiday story you need to experience for yourself to get the full effect of Cal and Archie. I will say that there were a few times I wanted to smack them upside the head as only a loving sibling does(I'm an only child but I've seen many a friend whack their brother or sister in the back of the head when the adults weren't watching😉). There were just as many times I wanted to Mama Bear hug them and tell them "You got this".
Definitely a holiday classic in the making.
RATING:
Summary:
He’s Mr. Right Now, but for how long?
When Russ suffers a Thanksgiving disaster, his gorgeous neighbor Esteban is there to save the day. And after an innocent mix-up leads to the former Hollywood hottie playing the role of Russ’s date, Russ thinks scoring Esteban as his fake boyfriend is a huge win. The newly discharged marine is healing inside and out and could use some holiday cheer.
For his part, Esteban is intrigued by his big, bad neighbor. He likes how his matchmaking cat brings out an unexpected caring side of Russ. Desire flares as the reasons to continue their ruse pile up for both men.
And pretending feels so good. From chocolaty kisses to late night cuddles, their burgeoning friendship is getting cozier and cozier. But as the end date for their little deception looms, all the real feelings they’ve tried to ignore come tumbling in. Each must decide whether they have what it takes to ring in the New Year as a couple.
Mr. Right Now is a stand-alone holiday novella with sweet, low-angst feels, spicy love scenes, and foodie inspired, quirky Oregon romance with a military flavor. Happy ending guaranteed with no cliffhangers!
Summary:
When Robbie comes home for Christmas, he is confronted by Troy, the ex-step-cousin whose dad left Robbie's aunt one summer eight years ago. Can Robbie stifle lingering feelings for Troy, who was his first love and who gave him his first kiss?
I think we all that one crush that we probably still dream about once-in-a-while so reading Robbie and Troy's reconnecting was a lovely gem of a holiday tale. Its been days since I read this and I'm still smiling when I think about it.
RATING:
Summary:
Uri Kessler is a bit of a klutz. Recently divorced from a guy he married too quickly and yearning to have a holiday that feels special, he decides to make Hanukkah candles. The results are literally a blazing disaster. But Uri’s mishap helps him get to know Oscar Cortez, his sexy new neighbor, and the two men instantly hit it off. While Uri finds himself drawn to Oscar, he’s also afraid to make a mess of their budding relationship. It’ll take a small miracle to make things work between them.
A story from the Dreamspinner Press 2019 Advent Calendar "Homemade for the Holidays."
Summary:
A scandal cost antiquarian book hunter James Winter everything that mattered to him. Now the rich and unscrupulous Mr. Stephanopoulos has a proposition. A previously unpublished Christmas book by Charles Dickens has turned up in the hands of an English chemistry professor by the name of Sedgwick Crisparkle. Mr. S. wants James to get that book for him--at any price.
Three years ago, a scandal cost antiquarian book hunter James Winter everything that mattered to him: his job, his lover, and his self-respect. But now the rich and unscrupulous Mr. Stephanopoulos has a proposition. A previously unpublished Christmas book by Charles Dickens has turned up in the hands of an English chemistry professor by the name of Sedgwick Crisparkle. Mr. S. wants that book at any price -- and he needs James to get it for him. There's just one catch. James can't tell the nutty professor who the buyer is.
Actually, two catches because the nutty Professor Crisparkle turns out to be totally gorgeous -- and on the prowl. Faster than you can say "Old Saint Nick," James is mixing business with pleasure -- and in real danger of forgetting that this is just a holiday romance.
I can't believe it's been 5 years since I originally read this holiday story and yet I remembered practically everything. I found James and Sedgwick just as intriguing and fun to read(or listen to in this case😉). Sure I wanted to knock their heads together at times but where's the fun if everything is copacetic from the get-go? Now that I discovered the audiobook of The Dickens with Love I doubt it'll be 5 years before I re-visit this tale again. As for the narration? Well, it's Sean Crisden and he has an amazing talent to bring the characters to life and the story to your front door. Not only does he make the telling fun to listen to but it always seems to be unfolding right before your eyes instead of the "airwaves". Definitely a holiday gem.
Original Review December 2014:
James is trying to scrape by and keep his foot in the door of an occupation he loves when he's asked to verify the authenticity of a supposed lost Dickens Christmas story. Enter Sedgwick, the owner of said story and there are immediate fireworks, both bad and good, but fireworks nontheless. Despite the kind of man the potential buyer that James is working for, James is a decent guy with a bunch of bad luck or bad timing in the past. Watching Sedgewick and James banter their way through "negotiations" is a perfect Christmas treat.
RATING:
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Random Tales of Christmas 2019
Get Lit by Kim Fielding
GLITTER.
It covered Uri Kessler’s hoodie front, jeans, and shoes and spread around his feet in an incriminating pool of sparkles. Appalled, he wanted to run away, but he knew he’d leave an indelible trail. So he stayed put until the scowling craft-store employee in the red vest appeared.
“Glitter bomb in aisle eight,” she said into her two-way radio. The response was too staticky to understand, but Uri thought it sounded annoyed.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “I was reaching for a bag of scented pinecones, and the jar—I must have hit it with my sleeve.”
The clerk gave him a long-suffering look that said she’d heard this before. “Cleanup will be here in a sec.” She hurried away, leaving Uri stranded.
He wasn’t even supposed to be in this red-and-green aisle to begin with. He didn’t celebrate Christmas and had no desire to make a wreath or Santa ornaments or reindeer-shaped candy baskets. But he’d taken a wrong turn as he wandered. The shelf sign below the pinecones said they came in cinnamon and balsam scents, and since he didn’t know what balsam smelled like, he thought he’d give a quick sniff. And then disaster struck.
The Dickens with Love by Josh Lanyon
The Hotel Del Monte sat on twelve lushly wooded acres in the middle of some of the most expensive real estate in Southern California. The hotel’s secluded location and small size, the rambling, pink stucco Spanish style ninety-two-room complex and its tranquil and luxuriant gardens full of trees, ornamental ponds and fragrant flowers made it one of the most romantic settings in Los Angeles. No long, anonymous corridors lined with room numbers. Most guest rooms and suites had private entrances and opened directly onto the hotel’s gardens. If I was a guy in the market for a honeymoon, Hotel Del Monte would be my first choice.
I asked at the front desk for Room 103 and then headed out through the ancient sycamores and tree ferns. I crossed a small arched red and gold bridge from where I could see the graceful bell tower on the other side of the small lake where the swans were taking shelter. The rain pattered on the leaves of the lemon and orange trees lining the cobbled path, glittered on the petals of the rose bushes. It smelled good, like walking in the woods. The city seemed very far away.
I found Room 103 without too much trouble, ducking into the stone alcove and knocking on the door. Rain dripped musically from the eaves and ran down the back of my neck.
I shivered. I needed a raincoat, but with only about fifteen to twenty days of rain a year, there were better things to spend one’s pennies on. Like books. There was a 1924 edition of Gertrude Chandler Warner’s The Box-Car Children I had my eye on for this year’s Christmas present to myself.
The hotel room door swung abruptly open. An unsmiling, dark-haired man stood framed against an elegant background of pale cabbage roses and ivy. He was about forty. Tall, rawboned, lean. He wore faded jeans, a cream-colored sweater over a white tee shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like a bookish angel.
“James Winter?” he inquired, looking me over like he’d caught me cheating on my chemistry quiz.
“Professor Crisparkle?”
My surprise must have been obvious. “Is there a problem?” he returned sternly.
“No. Not at all.”
The problem was he was gorgeous. It was a no-nonsense brand of gorgeousness, though. Far from detracting from his dark, grave good looks, the glasses accentuated them.
I smiled my very best smile—despite the rain trickling down the back of my neck—and offered my hand. After a hesitation, he shook it.
His grip was firm, his palm and fingers smooth but not clammy or soft. An academic, but not one of the ones who never left his ivory tower.
No wedding ring.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I meant it. I was sort of nonplussed at how much I meant it.
“Come in,” Crisparkle replied, moving aside.
I stepped inside the room which was cozily warm and smelled indefinably expensive, a combination of fine linens, fresh coffee and cut flowers. A fire burned cheerily in the fireplace. The remains of the professor’s lunch were on a tray on the low table before the sage velvet sofa. Soothing classical piano played off the laptop next to his lunch tray.
Corey and I had stayed at the Hotel Del Monte on our one year anniversary. The rooms were all furnished in romantic country-French décor—each unique but with the famous signature touches of Alicante marble, vintage silk or chenille upholstery, and original artwork. It was the best weekend of my life—or maybe it seemed that way in contrast to the following week, which was when my entire world had shattered.
“You must have brought the rainy weather with you.” I smiled again, not bothering to analyze why I was displaying such uncharacteristic cordiality. “Have you seen much of the city since you’ve been here?”
“The book is on the desk.” Crisparkle nodded at the writing desk near the white French doors leading out to a private patio.
Not one for chitchat, was he? Maybe it was an English thing. In any case, I lost all interest in rude Professor Crisparkle. The only thing in that room for me now was the faded red leather book lying on the polished desktop. As I approached the writing table my heart was banging so hard I thought I might be having my first ever panic attack.
A book. Not a manuscript. I’d been thinking that Crisparkle and Mr. S. were playing fast and loose with their terminology, but no. It was a bound book. All the more unlikely, then, that this could be the real thing. Hard enough to believe a manuscript had been lost, let alone an entire print run. Impossible, in fact. And yet, as I reached for the thin volume, finely bound in red Morocco leather, I noted that my hand was shaking. Well, scratch a cynic and you’ll find a disappointed idealist.
I drew back as I realized that I was in danger of dripping on the desk.
“Could I borrow a towel?” I asked.
Crisparkle gave me a funny look, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
I took a moment to remind myself of all the possibilities of any such appraisal. The novel might be the real thing, but it was more likely to be a forgery. It might be a modern forgery or it might be a contemporary forgery. Knowing which would depend partially on discovering the book’s provenance—the documented or authenticated history of its ownership—of which I so far knew nothing.
The professor reappeared with a peach-colored plush towel and I scrubbed my face and hair, tossed the towel to the fireplace hearth and sat down at the desk. I still didn’t touch the book, simply gazing at the gold lettering on the front cover. Miss Anjaley Coutts surrounded in gold-stamped holly and ivy.
That wouldn’t be the title. So the book was a gift and Miss Coutts was the recipient. Why was that name familiar? Who was Miss Anjaley Coutts? Not Mrs. Dickens or a sister-in-law. Not a daughter. Not an alias of Dickens’ mistress, the actress Ellen Ternan, because he didn’t meet her until 1857. Who then?
“It doesn’t bite,” Professor Crisparkle said sardonically, and I realized that I’d been sitting there for more than a minute, unmoving, staring at the cover.
I threw him a quick, distracted look, and then delicately edged the book around to examine its spine. Gold lettering read The Christmas Cake / Dickens / MDCCCXLVII.
The Christmas cake?
I carefully opened the book and turned the flyleaf. On the frontispiece was a hand-colored etching of a truly sumptuous cake—topped by a sly, smiling mouse with crumbs on her whiskers. I looked at the title page: another smaller illustration of an elderly man and woman who appeared, to my wondering eye, to be getting sloshed on the Christmas punch. And the words The Christmas Cake in a familiar, faded hand that most people only viewed through glass.
I turned the page and stared, feeling decidedly light-headed, at the first sentence. Our story begins with a fallen star. But the star is not the story.
I was vaguely aware that Professor Crisparkle spoke to me, but I didn’t hear what he said, and I didn’t care. I was absorbing—devouring—the words with my eyes.
Roofed with the ragged ermine of a newly-fallen snow glittering by starlight, the Doctor’s old-fashioned house loomed grey-white through the snow-fringed branches of the trees, a quaint iron lantern, which was picturesque by day and luminous and cheerful by night, hanging within the square, white-pillared portico to one side. That the many-paned window on the right framed the snow-white head of Mrs. Dimpledolly, the Doctor’s wife, the old Doctor himself was comfortably aware—for his kindly eyes missed nothing, so it was that he spied the falling…
I read for some time before I finally raised my head. I no longer saw the hotel room. I don’t think I even saw the book or the handwritten pages anymore. I was seeing benevolent old Doctor Dimpledolly and his amiable missus as they opened their home to a coachload of strangers stranded on Christmas Eve.
“Satisfied?” Professor Crisparkle asked dryly.
I snapped back to awareness, blinking up at him, dimly taking in the details of elegant nose, long eyelashes, soft dark hair–I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were behind the horn-rims. That mercurial shade of light brown that looked green in certain light and gold in other. He seemed so awfully stern, so awfully strict, reminding me of an uptight schoolmaster. But that was right, wasn’t it? He taught chemistry like Mr. Redlaw, the professor of chemistry in The Haunted Man.
As I stared at him, it occurred to me that Professor Crisparkle didn’t like me much.
Didn’t like me at all.
Why? Not that I was universally beloved—hardly—but what had I done to earn such instant dislike from an out-of-towner?
I said slowly. “It looks… very promising.” My voice nearly gave out. Promising? Who was I kidding? I knew, knew in my bones, this was the real thing. I said more solidly, “I’d have to examine it more closely, of course. To be absolutely sure.”
He gazed at me with an expression of utter contempt.
No, I wasn’t misreading him. I repeated uncertainly, “I’d like to spend a little more time—”
“I’m sure you would.”
Color heated my face at that dry, ironic tone—and I wasn’t quite sure why. I said evenly, “It certainly looks authentic, but you never know.”
“You don’t, do you?”
Again: barely concealed scorn. Too obvious by now to politely ignore.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
GLITTER.
It covered Uri Kessler’s hoodie front, jeans, and shoes and spread around his feet in an incriminating pool of sparkles. Appalled, he wanted to run away, but he knew he’d leave an indelible trail. So he stayed put until the scowling craft-store employee in the red vest appeared.
“Glitter bomb in aisle eight,” she said into her two-way radio. The response was too staticky to understand, but Uri thought it sounded annoyed.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “I was reaching for a bag of scented pinecones, and the jar—I must have hit it with my sleeve.”
The clerk gave him a long-suffering look that said she’d heard this before. “Cleanup will be here in a sec.” She hurried away, leaving Uri stranded.
He wasn’t even supposed to be in this red-and-green aisle to begin with. He didn’t celebrate Christmas and had no desire to make a wreath or Santa ornaments or reindeer-shaped candy baskets. But he’d taken a wrong turn as he wandered. The shelf sign below the pinecones said they came in cinnamon and balsam scents, and since he didn’t know what balsam smelled like, he thought he’d give a quick sniff. And then disaster struck.
The Dickens with Love by Josh Lanyon
The Hotel Del Monte sat on twelve lushly wooded acres in the middle of some of the most expensive real estate in Southern California. The hotel’s secluded location and small size, the rambling, pink stucco Spanish style ninety-two-room complex and its tranquil and luxuriant gardens full of trees, ornamental ponds and fragrant flowers made it one of the most romantic settings in Los Angeles. No long, anonymous corridors lined with room numbers. Most guest rooms and suites had private entrances and opened directly onto the hotel’s gardens. If I was a guy in the market for a honeymoon, Hotel Del Monte would be my first choice.
I asked at the front desk for Room 103 and then headed out through the ancient sycamores and tree ferns. I crossed a small arched red and gold bridge from where I could see the graceful bell tower on the other side of the small lake where the swans were taking shelter. The rain pattered on the leaves of the lemon and orange trees lining the cobbled path, glittered on the petals of the rose bushes. It smelled good, like walking in the woods. The city seemed very far away.
I found Room 103 without too much trouble, ducking into the stone alcove and knocking on the door. Rain dripped musically from the eaves and ran down the back of my neck.
I shivered. I needed a raincoat, but with only about fifteen to twenty days of rain a year, there were better things to spend one’s pennies on. Like books. There was a 1924 edition of Gertrude Chandler Warner’s The Box-Car Children I had my eye on for this year’s Christmas present to myself.
The hotel room door swung abruptly open. An unsmiling, dark-haired man stood framed against an elegant background of pale cabbage roses and ivy. He was about forty. Tall, rawboned, lean. He wore faded jeans, a cream-colored sweater over a white tee shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like a bookish angel.
“James Winter?” he inquired, looking me over like he’d caught me cheating on my chemistry quiz.
“Professor Crisparkle?”
My surprise must have been obvious. “Is there a problem?” he returned sternly.
“No. Not at all.”
The problem was he was gorgeous. It was a no-nonsense brand of gorgeousness, though. Far from detracting from his dark, grave good looks, the glasses accentuated them.
I smiled my very best smile—despite the rain trickling down the back of my neck—and offered my hand. After a hesitation, he shook it.
His grip was firm, his palm and fingers smooth but not clammy or soft. An academic, but not one of the ones who never left his ivory tower.
No wedding ring.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I meant it. I was sort of nonplussed at how much I meant it.
“Come in,” Crisparkle replied, moving aside.
I stepped inside the room which was cozily warm and smelled indefinably expensive, a combination of fine linens, fresh coffee and cut flowers. A fire burned cheerily in the fireplace. The remains of the professor’s lunch were on a tray on the low table before the sage velvet sofa. Soothing classical piano played off the laptop next to his lunch tray.
Corey and I had stayed at the Hotel Del Monte on our one year anniversary. The rooms were all furnished in romantic country-French décor—each unique but with the famous signature touches of Alicante marble, vintage silk or chenille upholstery, and original artwork. It was the best weekend of my life—or maybe it seemed that way in contrast to the following week, which was when my entire world had shattered.
“You must have brought the rainy weather with you.” I smiled again, not bothering to analyze why I was displaying such uncharacteristic cordiality. “Have you seen much of the city since you’ve been here?”
“The book is on the desk.” Crisparkle nodded at the writing desk near the white French doors leading out to a private patio.
Not one for chitchat, was he? Maybe it was an English thing. In any case, I lost all interest in rude Professor Crisparkle. The only thing in that room for me now was the faded red leather book lying on the polished desktop. As I approached the writing table my heart was banging so hard I thought I might be having my first ever panic attack.
A book. Not a manuscript. I’d been thinking that Crisparkle and Mr. S. were playing fast and loose with their terminology, but no. It was a bound book. All the more unlikely, then, that this could be the real thing. Hard enough to believe a manuscript had been lost, let alone an entire print run. Impossible, in fact. And yet, as I reached for the thin volume, finely bound in red Morocco leather, I noted that my hand was shaking. Well, scratch a cynic and you’ll find a disappointed idealist.
I drew back as I realized that I was in danger of dripping on the desk.
“Could I borrow a towel?” I asked.
Crisparkle gave me a funny look, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
I took a moment to remind myself of all the possibilities of any such appraisal. The novel might be the real thing, but it was more likely to be a forgery. It might be a modern forgery or it might be a contemporary forgery. Knowing which would depend partially on discovering the book’s provenance—the documented or authenticated history of its ownership—of which I so far knew nothing.
The professor reappeared with a peach-colored plush towel and I scrubbed my face and hair, tossed the towel to the fireplace hearth and sat down at the desk. I still didn’t touch the book, simply gazing at the gold lettering on the front cover. Miss Anjaley Coutts surrounded in gold-stamped holly and ivy.
That wouldn’t be the title. So the book was a gift and Miss Coutts was the recipient. Why was that name familiar? Who was Miss Anjaley Coutts? Not Mrs. Dickens or a sister-in-law. Not a daughter. Not an alias of Dickens’ mistress, the actress Ellen Ternan, because he didn’t meet her until 1857. Who then?
“It doesn’t bite,” Professor Crisparkle said sardonically, and I realized that I’d been sitting there for more than a minute, unmoving, staring at the cover.
I threw him a quick, distracted look, and then delicately edged the book around to examine its spine. Gold lettering read The Christmas Cake / Dickens / MDCCCXLVII.
The Christmas cake?
I carefully opened the book and turned the flyleaf. On the frontispiece was a hand-colored etching of a truly sumptuous cake—topped by a sly, smiling mouse with crumbs on her whiskers. I looked at the title page: another smaller illustration of an elderly man and woman who appeared, to my wondering eye, to be getting sloshed on the Christmas punch. And the words The Christmas Cake in a familiar, faded hand that most people only viewed through glass.
I turned the page and stared, feeling decidedly light-headed, at the first sentence. Our story begins with a fallen star. But the star is not the story.
I was vaguely aware that Professor Crisparkle spoke to me, but I didn’t hear what he said, and I didn’t care. I was absorbing—devouring—the words with my eyes.
Roofed with the ragged ermine of a newly-fallen snow glittering by starlight, the Doctor’s old-fashioned house loomed grey-white through the snow-fringed branches of the trees, a quaint iron lantern, which was picturesque by day and luminous and cheerful by night, hanging within the square, white-pillared portico to one side. That the many-paned window on the right framed the snow-white head of Mrs. Dimpledolly, the Doctor’s wife, the old Doctor himself was comfortably aware—for his kindly eyes missed nothing, so it was that he spied the falling…
I read for some time before I finally raised my head. I no longer saw the hotel room. I don’t think I even saw the book or the handwritten pages anymore. I was seeing benevolent old Doctor Dimpledolly and his amiable missus as they opened their home to a coachload of strangers stranded on Christmas Eve.
“Satisfied?” Professor Crisparkle asked dryly.
I snapped back to awareness, blinking up at him, dimly taking in the details of elegant nose, long eyelashes, soft dark hair–I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were behind the horn-rims. That mercurial shade of light brown that looked green in certain light and gold in other. He seemed so awfully stern, so awfully strict, reminding me of an uptight schoolmaster. But that was right, wasn’t it? He taught chemistry like Mr. Redlaw, the professor of chemistry in The Haunted Man.
As I stared at him, it occurred to me that Professor Crisparkle didn’t like me much.
Didn’t like me at all.
Why? Not that I was universally beloved—hardly—but what had I done to earn such instant dislike from an out-of-towner?
I said slowly. “It looks… very promising.” My voice nearly gave out. Promising? Who was I kidding? I knew, knew in my bones, this was the real thing. I said more solidly, “I’d have to examine it more closely, of course. To be absolutely sure.”
He gazed at me with an expression of utter contempt.
No, I wasn’t misreading him. I repeated uncertainly, “I’d like to spend a little more time—”
“I’m sure you would.”
Color heated my face at that dry, ironic tone—and I wasn’t quite sure why. I said evenly, “It certainly looks authentic, but you never know.”
“You don’t, do you?”
Again: barely concealed scorn. Too obvious by now to politely ignore.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
Jay lives just outside Bristol in the West of England. He comes from a family of writers, but always used to believe that the gene for fiction writing had passed him by. He spent years only ever writing emails, articles, or website content.
One day, Jay decided to try and write a short story—just to see if he could—and found it rather addictive. He hasn’t stopped writing since.
Jay writes contemporary romance about men who fall in love with other men. He has five books published by Dreamspinner Press, and also self-publishes under the imprint Jaybird Press. Many of his books are now available as audiobooks.
Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open--no flashlights required! When she's not adding to her keeper shelf, she's a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Crystal Lacy lives with her loving family in Hawaii, where it is always either drizzling or sunny and never snows—which is a shame, because she prefers being cold to being damp and hot unless it’s for Very Good Reasons. She writes queer romance, mainly M/M, but also some F/F. She has aspirations to one day write a YA novel about cats.
Crystal is a long-time fangirl and writes slash fanfiction for the Harry Potter and NBC Hannibal fandoms. She has a deep love for fandom culture, and can be frequently spotted on Twitter and Tumblr reblogging pretty fan art.
Join Crystal's readers group on FB for sneak peeks, bonus content, and ARC opportunities or subscribe her newsletter for monthly book giveaways, recs, news, and more! You can also follow Crystal on Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook.
Kim Fielding is the bestselling author of numerous m/m romance novels, novellas, and short stories. Like Kim herself, her work is eclectic, spanning genres such as contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, and historical. Her stories are set in alternate worlds, in 15th century Bosnia, in modern-day Oregon. Her heroes are hipster architect werewolves, housekeepers, maimed giants, and conflicted graduate students. They’re usually flawed, they often encounter terrible obstacles, but they always find love.
Kim’s novel Brute was the 2013 Rainbow Award Winner for Best Gay Fantasy and tied for fourth place for Best Gay Novel.
After having migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States, Kim calls the boring part of California home. She lives there with her husband, her two daughters, and her day job as a university professor, but escapes as often as possible via car, train, plane, or boat. This may explain why her characters often seem to be in transit as well. She dreams of traveling and writing full-time.
Bestselling 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.
Jay Northcote
EMAIL: jaynorthcote@gmail.com
Annabeth Albert
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: Annabeth@annabethalbert.com
Crystal Lacy
Kim Fielding
A Boyfriend for Christmas by Jay Northcote
Mr. Right Now by Annabeth Albert
Remembering You by Crystal Lacy
Get Lit by Kim Fielding
The Dickens with Love by Josh Lanyon
