Showing posts with label saturday 2026. Show all posts
Showing posts with label saturday 2026. Show all posts
Sunday, July 26, 2026
Saturday, July 25, 2026
🎅🎆🎄Saturday's Series Spotlight - Xmas in July🎄🎆🎅: A Reindeer Mate for Christmas Part 1
Reindeer Mate for Life
I thought the snow was preventing me from getting home. Instead, it brought me straight to it.
I never count on the weather report to be accurate, but when they predicted something between a dusting and a half inch, I thought I could make it the rest of my way home. I thought wrong. My car is barely making it on the flat terrain, and I’m about to head into mountain country when I see an old sign for Santa’s Lodge. It’s time to say uncle and hunker down for the rest of the storm.
Only, when I pull up to the inn, it looks like someplace time has forgotten. If not for the man carrying an armload of firewood, I’d have thought the place vacant. I grab my bag, expecting to pay a huge amount for a last-minute booking only to walk in and discover the entire building is under renovations with one exception: the owner’s residence.
He offers to let me ride out the storm there, but I politely decline. As I’m about to leave, the emergency sirens on our phones go off. All roads have been closed until further notice. Looks like I’m taking him up on it after all.
Snowed in at Santa’s Lodge is an M/M mpreg shifter holiday romance featuring a reindeer shifter who inherited one mess of an inn, the human who stumbles by long before they are guest ready, a whole lot of snow, the week they will never forget, true love, fated mates, cookies galore, tinsel-filled festivities, the sweetest puppy, enough Christmas lights to lead Santa’s sleigh on a foggy winter night, Christmas magic, an adorable baby, and a guaranteed happy ever after. If you love your omegas filled with the holiday spirit and your alphas willing to do whatever it takes to be their ultimate Santa, download your copy today.
Snowed in at Santa’s Lodge is part of the multi-author, gay romance, mpreg shifter A Reindeer Mate for Christmas series. Each book can be read as a standalone, but why stop at one when you can read them all?
Summary:
Reindeer Mate for Christmas
When Christmas magic meets destiny, love grows evergreen.
Human Reed Keller is one bad season away from losing his family's Christmas tree farm when a stranger arrives with a lifeline.
Roscoe Curran’s reindeer shifter pack needs to lease land, providing money that will save Reed's farm. When a reindeer Christmas carol triggers Roscoe into a partial shift, he reveals he’s not human. But this reindeer shifter is keeping more secrets about their fated mate bond, Christmas magic, and why his pack needs to be settled before December 24th.
Some Christmas miracles come with antlers, others arrive with a man who talks to his prized trees, while a few take a ride across the night sky on Santa’s sleigh.
Jingle Bell Mate is a steamy MM mpreg Christmas romance. If you love stories featuring an alpha reindeer shifter who grows antlers at awkward moments, a human omega whose best friends are trees, a secret the land has been keeping for over a generation, a pack that becomes found family, a sighting of Santa, and an adorable baby, download this book now.
Jingle Bell Mate is part of the multi-author, gay romance, mpreg shifter A Reindeer Mate For Christmas series. Each book can be read as a standalone, but why stop at one when you can read them all!
Summary:
Reindeer Mate for Christmas
Alpha reindeer shifter, Theo, almost ruined Christmas. Literally.
Now Theo has twelve days to help a random person find the spirit of Christmas or Santa will expel him from a coveted internship in the North Pole. He finds the perfect target in Shaun, a young business-owner more concerned with turning a profit than being festive. But somewhere in the middle of trying to get Shaun to fall in love with Christmas, Theo realizes he might just be falling in love with Shaun…
Omega snow leopard Shaun loves all things Christmas. In fact, he loves it so much that his father has decided that if Shaun can’t prove he can turn off his festive side, he’ll cut Shaun out of his inheritance. For the next twelve days Shaun has to run his future resort without a single holiday distraction. His unexpected roommate, Theo, is as Christmas-crazy as he is attractive, and under any other circumstances Shaun would be head-over-heels. Luckily, it doesn’t take Shaun long to figure out that Theo must have been hired by his father to sabotage him. He’ll prove to both of them what a grinch he can be, even as Theo starts to melt his heart.
Unbeknownst to them, Theo has given Shaun more for Christmas than either bargained for: a gift that comes with nine months of cravings, mood swings, and nausea...
How to Lose an Omega in Twelve Days is a cheesy Christmas movie in book form, with two shifters who are confidently wrong that they can outsmart each other. Their mix-up is your holiday ticket to a cozy read with enough spice to warm you up.
How to Lose an Omega in Twelve Days is part of the multi-author, gay romance, mpreg shifter Reindeer Mates For Christmas series. Each book can be read as a standalone, but why stop at one when you can read them all!
Snowed In at Santa's Lodge by Lorelei M Hart
Chapter One
Ragnar
My grandfather was one of my favorite people in the entire world. When I was a little calf and my father, his son, disappeared from our life, Granddad stepped in and took over as the man of the family. He felt responsible for us, I was sure, but he never once complained or treated me as if I was a burden. Something my own father had been very good at.
Mom tried to do it all herself, but Granddad somehow made her feel as if we were doing him a favor—a white lie I believed myself until I was much older. He supported us financially, helped Mom with chores around the land, and taught me reindeer lore. I thought life was perfect until I turned sixteen and Mom met a new mate. Granddad, with all the grace he’d exhibited my whole life, stepped away to let her live hers. My stepdad was fine, treated my mother well, but I was too old for him to be anything more than her person. I’d had a dad, not great, and a granddad who was great. Not looking for number three to bond with. Not at sixteen.
My grandfather bought a lodge deep in the mountains. Several hours away from us, far enough that I only saw him on summer and winter breaks and, as I grew up and left home, taking on a job and my own responsibilities, even less frequently. Something I regretted when I got the notice from his attorney that he’d passed on and left me everything he had.
Everything was the lodge and a little money. He’d planned to fix the place up and make it a real destination. Granddad’s long white beard and round belly made him look just like Santa Claus, and when we were out and about, years before, I always got a real kick out of kids running up to tell him what they wanted for Christmas. It didn’t help that he played into it and wore a red hooded sweatshirt a lot of the time.
And now he was gone, and with it his dreams of making Santa’s Lodge a place where families would want to spend their holidays. Not all shifters were into Christmas, but a surprising number were. Cozy family times appealed to most people, I thought. Or they should.
I had only been here a couple of months and when I first walked up the drive, I was shocked at the condition of the place. It hadn’t been so many years since I saw Granddad, but the last few visits, he’d come to me, and not only had he not done anything to improve his lodge, it needed immediate repairs if it was going to withstand another winter.
He’d always said we’d run the lodge together. Called me his reindeer elf. We would make drawings of how it was going to look when it was finished. Where Santa’s throne would be, and the hot-chocolate bar. The cookie-decorating station. A model train would run all the way around the main rooms on a track mounted near the ceiling.
Presents. Everyone who came to stay would get one on Christmas morning.
Had Granddad given up on the project because of his age and physical condition? Or because I had grown away from it?
A glance upward revealed the dark gray of snow clouds blanketing the sky. We’d already had enough of the white stuff to stick, but a few flakes drifted down to promise more. The ladder I stood on, chipping away at caulking, swayed in a sudden gust of wind. I’d hoped to get more done today, certainly a lot more before winter totally closed in and made it that much harder, but if I fell fifteen feet to the ground, I’d break something that a simple shift wouldn’t fix.
I glanced at my watch, brushing a few snowflakes from the face. Then looked up at the sky again. I probably could last another half hour up here, as long as the wind didn’t gust too much. So, I tightened my grip on the scraper and redoubled my efforts. It would be ideal to replace the windows, but that would have to wait for another year. For now, I was trying to get everything at least winter-ready and as waterproof as possible. So painting the outside, replacing the caulking, and, well, I had a long list. I’d never get through it all, but my best would have to do.
Pausing, I zipped the hoodie up to my chin and patted the worn fabric. Granddad’s old clothes were good for doing jobs like this, I told myself, not willing to dwell on the comfort I received from the last traces of pipe tobacco scent. The old man could have stepped in to act in a production of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas with all his quirks.
I missed him hard. When he came to visit, I’d tried to show him the town and take him all the best places, but he always shied away from fancy. “Let’s go to the diner around the corner again,” he’d say. “You work too hard for your money to spend it all on me.”
He never even told me about his heart. Or that the healer said it was failing. And that there was nothing to be done about it.
But since I couldn’t go back and be a less neglectful grandson, I promised myself to make his dream, our dream together, a reality. Thus giving up my big-city job and coming here to invest my savings and elbow grease into making Santa’s Lodge the coziest, most welcoming place to spend the holidays—or any day of the year!
Trying to make my savings stretch involved doing everything possible myself. Some of my former coworkers with whom I stayed in touch on social media tried to convince me that I should take out a loan and hire professionals, cut the time down and be ready to open sooner. Start making money, but Granddad had been adamant that wasn’t the way to go. He never borrowed a dime in his life, which was why the lodge had no loans on it. It needed a whole lot of work, but there was nobody coming to foreclose anytime soon. Or ever.
A few flakes landed on the windowsill, but it wasn’t bad yet, so I kept working, wanting to finish this one window if possible. And I did, but not because of the time limit I’d given myself. Once I’d gotten out the old caulk, I taped plastic over the window. New caulk would have been ideal, but it would have to wait until the storm ended.
Climbing down, I held onto the ladder as the wind buffeted it. A microburst that ripped the plastic from the window. Perfect. I’d have to cover it from the inside and hope it didn’t do too much more damage.
The winter would be spent working on indoor repairs, but I had rather wished for a little more for the outside. The patched roof would either hold up or it wouldn’t, but the angle should keep the snow from building up too much.
My job in the city was behind a desk, the only tools my laptop and phone. Granddad and I had made a lot of plans but never did any actual construction-type work. I wasn’t actually sure if he had the skills or planned to learn them down the line. Me? YouTube had videos of handy folks who could do anything and got their kicks and probably living out of showing those of us who did not know how. So far, it had gotten me through a lot of the general painting and the roof patch as well as one broken pipe that threatened to flood the second floor.
I’d had a run in mind for the afternoon. The snow was getting thicker, the winds wilder, and my reindeer loved the idea. I might be tired and ready to sit by a fire, but he was prancing inside me, anxious to get going.
Then something happened that neither of us could have seen coming. A rattletrap car chugging toward us. The beater belonged in the junkyard, but the omega who climbed out of it belonged on the cover of a magazine.
Jingle Bell Mate by Colbie Dunbar
ONE
REED
I'd been talking to Douglas for about twenty minutes when I chuckled and slapped my brow. I was probably losing my mind but hey, if this was me cracking up, it wasn’t a bad place to be.
“The thing is,” I adjusted the string of Christmas lights that had tangled around Doug's lower branches overnight. How the heck did that happen? Perhaps Santa’s elves were playing tricks late at night when I was asleep.
“Anyway, I know you want to make some family happy for Christmas. But Mrs. Ledger already picked out that Blue Spruce over in Section C, and Doug, don’t be disappointed. You’ll find someone to love you.”
Doug rustled his needles which I interpreted as an agreement. The morning breeze helped, but I was convinced he had opinions about these things. Maybe it was his branches leaning toward me or how his needles were more radiant after our morning chats. Aunt Mollie used to insist the trees responded to kindness, and after spending three years with them, I agreed.
I admired my handiwork with the lights. Every year, I decorated as many of the trees as I could so the farm, Right as Rain(deer), would appear more festive. Aunt Mollie had started the tradition and though she’d been gone for three years, I was continuing it. The Christmas tree lot was more alive with lights scattered throughout the rows of evergreens, and I wanted first-time visitors surrounded by a winter wonderland.
Right as Rain(deer) was kinda an odd name for a Christmas tree farm—Aunt Mollie had people tell her over the years she should change it— but my aunt maintained the soil on this land was special. She loved to tell the story of seeing reindeer wandering through the lot on her first Christmas Eve here. I was pretty sure that was a tall tale but I had loved hearing it every December and had adored her quirky personality.
The winter air carried the sharp scent of pine and the earthier smell of decomposing leaves from the oak trees that bordered the property. I moved closer to check Doug's watering system, making sure he was getting enough moisture to keep his needles fresh and vibrant.
“You're going to make someone's Christmas magical.”
The phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably another bill I couldn't pay. Perhaps it was my friend, Gemma, telling me how I should sell the place and get a real job. Her latest voicemail had included a suggestion that I could work at her husband's accounting firm. Ugh!
Being cooped up in a tiny cubicle instead of being outdoors with the trees would be nightmarish. I refused to throw away the time and effort it’s taken to keep this tree farm running.
I ignored the phone and moved onto the paths between the Fraser Firs. Each section of the farm had its own personality. The Noble Firs were tall and dignified. The Frasers clustered together as if they were gossiping while the Douglas Firs sprawled out, holding their heads high because they were haughty and proud of themselves.
Right as Rain(deer) had been in my family for more than thirty years. Aunt Mollie had bought the land on a whim after inheriting money from a relative. She planted her first seedlings with no idea what she was doing and turned the place into a beloved Christmas tree farm. She talked to the trees as if they were her children, commiserating with them on bad days and celebrating their growth spurts.
Three years after inheriting this unprofitable farm, I understood. The trees did listen and they responded to kindness. But being nice to my trees didn't pay the mortgage.
The numbers were getting worse every month. The seasonal income from Christmas tree sales barely covered the property taxes, let alone the equipment and maintenance along with the endless repairs to the old farmhouse. I'd been supplementing my income with jobs in town, ones I could do outside because I’d stifle in a cubicle, similar to a tree left without water. But the money wasn't enough and the bank had been sending threatening letters.
Aunt Mollie had brought in extra income from renting out the cabins over the hill. But I’d stopped that practice because the buildings needed extensive repairs.
I made my way over to the Noble Fir section, where Noelle was showing off her perfect symmetry.
“Morning, Noelle. You're looking majestic today.”
Her branches swayed gently in response. She was going to be somebody's centerpiece this year if I could keep the farm running long enough to find the right family.
The rattle of loose stones on the driveway interrupted my morning routine. A car door slammed followed by footsteps. My stomach dropped. Please don't be the bank. Please don't be someone from the county.
I wove between the Fraser Firs and tried not to trip over the extension cord powering the office's ancient heater. The little wooden building that served as an office looked kinda bleak in the morning light with its peeling paint and dirty windows. But Aunt Mollie's hand-painted sign above the door, “Welcome to Right as Rain(deer)” gave me the courage to meet my guest.
The tall man with dark hair standing beside a black sedan had a jawline that needed to be stroked and peppered with kisses, and I stared at him for longer than I should have. I was intimidated by the confidence that radiated from him, which was helped by his caramel-colored coat that I wanted to run my hands over. I hunched my shoulders, protecting myself from whatever he was going to say.
He was studying the farm and he did a 360, taking in the decorated trees, the old office building with holly growing near the door, and my home enclosed with a fence and an old gate that hung on one hinge.
I tensed, thinking he disapproved but I’d like to see him try to run this place and make a huge profit, especially when most of my trees were balled and burlapped (B&B) so families could enjoy them inside for Christmas and plant them in the garden afterward. They were more expensive than cut trees but they were environmentally friendly. But I did have smaller ones in pots for apartments that were cheaper.
When the guy turned his gaze on me, it was as though I’d been zapped with a stun gun. Yikes. If his glance did that, I wondered what his… Whoa. Nope I wasn’t going there.
“Can I help you?” I jogged the last few steps, trying not to appear as frazzled as I felt while pine needles clung to my flannel shirt. “If you're looking for a tree, you're welcome to browse.”
“Reed Keller?” That voice suggested he knew who I was and I braced myself for whatever bad news he was here to deliver.
“That's me.” I wiped my hands on my jeans, aware of the contrast between us. He was wearing a smart coat and I’d been wrestling with Christmas trees. At least I smelled good from pine sap.
“Are you from the county? Because I filed all the paperwork, and if there's an issue with the lighting display—”
“I’m not.”
Okay, so he had to be from the bank though no banker from town ever looked like this guy. They wore suits, and ties that were askew because they were fed up having to travel outside town or they’d taken two wrong turns before getting here.
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder. I glared at it, wondering how its contents would change my life, and willing him not to open it.
“My name is Roscoe Curran. I represent a group that's interested in this property.”
Gods not another one. He may as well have tossed ice water over me. I shivered and stamped my feet before tucking my gloved hands under my armpits.
“You're here about buying the farm.”
Hearing why he’d come wasn’t a shock because I’d been getting calls, letters, and visits for months from developers and investors who'd heard that the farm was struggling. They were all the same with their name brand sunglasses and confidence they’d secure the deal and turn the land into a housing development or anything other than a Christmas tree farm.
“Not exactly.”
Roscoe glanced at his feet as he shuffled them. Was he embarrassed at my distress because me blinking away tears was broadcasting how upset I was?
“I’d like to discuss a potential arrangement regarding this property, if you have time. My ummm clients are looking for suitable land, and this farm has qualities that might work for everyone."
I studied the rows of trees. Doug’s Christmas lights were still tangled but Noelle was showing off her branches. My gaze trailed over the dozens of other evergreens I'd nurtured. Looking in the other direction brought me to the office where Aunt Mollie's coffee mug still sat on the windowsill. I swiveled to take in the wooden sign she'd made for my eighth birthday that said “Reed's Corner” and marked the spot where she'd let me plant my first seedling.
“Mr. Curran.” I straightened my spine because I was not going to let anyone bully me, not that he had as yet. “I’ll be honest, if your clients want to buy this place and turn it into condos or a shopping center, I'm not interested. This farm means everything to me.” It was my life.
There was something about his eyes, how they surveyed me as if he was looking right through me and I shoved my hands in my coat pockets. He probably thought I’d ask where I could sign as I was desperate for money. I was in debt but I was hanging on by my fingertips.
“I understand your attachment. But what I'm proposing isn't about taking the farm away from you. My clients need land but they're not developers. They're a community group and they would help to preserve what you've built here.”
A gust of wind swept through the farm, stronger than the gentle breeze that had been rustling the branches earlier. All the trees swayed and their needles ‘sang’ in harmony. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but it had to be disapproval, though it was charming, making me want to dance. But no way would my trees welcome this man and his group here.
Roscoe’s face reminded of the expression deer in the headlights. His head snapped to the side and he studied the trees as they waved their branches. There was a faint smile on his face. But the wind died and the trees quietened.
“Would you like coffee?” Shoot no, why had I said that? This man and his jaw needed to leave and find someone else’s land. Not that I wanted anyone else to be taken in by that jaw.
“It's freezing out here, and we could both use some caffeine. Fair warning, though I make terrible coffee.” I was rabbiting on like I was making a new friend.
Roscoe searched my face before he replied. “Coffee would be great.”
He sounded uncertain but if he’d spent hours or days trawling the countryside for land to snatch away from people buried by debt, he probably didn’t get offered coffee.
As I led him toward the office, I caught him glancing at the trees. Did he just nod? No one else did that but me. That was weird. But I talked to them like they were my friends, so I couldn’t judge him. Instead, I was open to hearing more about his community group even though my answer at the end of his spiel would be no, no thanks and another no thank you.
The trees rustled softly as we walked past and I shrugged and mouthed, “What?”
How to Lose an Omega in Twelve Days by Kallie Frost
Chapter One
“Jake Winter”
Our laughter turned into horrified gasps as the giant candy cane began to fall the wrong way.
“Oh, no. No, no, no…” Theo moaned.
I held my breath as the massive hunk of sugar crashed down onto the runway. It shattered into a billion shards of red and white. As the peppermint scented dust cleared I heard a sound. I knew what it was immediately. In fact, it was one of my least favorite sounds: cracking ice.
Sure enough, a large crack suddenly cut through the ice of the runway. And kept going. It took an eternity, or maybe just a few seconds, for the perfectly smooth runway to turn into a jagged pile of ice. The thing looked like a giant ice maker had just dumped out tons of ice into a pile.
“Well, well, well,” boomed a voice from behind us.
Maybe if I didn’t turn around…
“Theobroma Jingle,” the voice continued. “And…”
“Jake Winter?” I offered pitifully, turning around.
Santa narrowed his eyes at me and I knew that he knew. He was Santa, after all. He always knew.
“Santa,” Theo cried. “I’m so sorry! It was an accident! We were just… just…”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Santa said gently. “But, unless we can fix this runway before Christmas Eve… I don’t know if I’ll be able to get the sleigh off the ground.”
“I’ll fix it, sir,” I said quickly, rolling up my sleeves. I loved a good prank, but I wasn’t above cleaning up my messes either. But, as I surveyed the damage, trying to figure out where to start, I knew the shattered runway wasn’t going to be easy to fix.
Santa shook his head. “I’m afraid this is too much ice, even for you.”
“Are we going to be expelled?” Theo asked.
“Not today,” said Santa slowly. “But, I cannot simply let this go without addressing it either. Play time is over this semester,” he added firmly to me. “I suggest that you stay out of the way until Christmas.”
“Yes, sir. Yes. I should uh… go decorate some windows or… something.” I spun in a tight circle and vanished in a puff of snowflakes before he could change his mind.
I didn’t go far, however. I materialized in a tree nearby and leaned down to see what happened to Theo. He was a good kid, I didn’t want to get him in trouble.
“Where did he go?” Theo cried. “How did he do that?!”
Santa laughed. It wasn’t quite his usual jolly belly laugh, but I figured if he was laughing, then he must not have been too upset about the ruined runway. And, hopefully, was optimistic about Christmas. “Ah Theo, you’ve just met the North Pole’s most infamous prankster. And a good thing too. If Jack hadn’t been with you, you would be expelled now. But, seeing as he was involved, I can’t be too upset with you.”
“Jack? You mean Jake?”
“I mean Jack,” Santa corrected. “Frost.”
Theo let out an audible gasp and looked around as if he expected to see me. “Jack Frost? The Jack Frost?” he said.
I couldn’t stop a smile at his excitement. When things calmed down, I’d have to go reintroduce myself.
Theo was one of a handful of students enjoying a coveted, highly competitive winter internship in Santa’s Village. I sometimes liked to disguise myself as one of them and cause mischief. It usually didn’t end up with anything this bad happening though.
“That’s right,” Santa replied. “The Jack Frost. Now… what do we do with you?”
Theo cleared his throat nervously, but said nothing.
“Let’s do this the old-fashioned way, Theobroma. Enjoy the rest of your evening and get ready. Tomorrow you’re going down south.”
“Down… south?” Theo echoed in dismay. I winced. When St. Nick said “down south” he meant way down.
“Yes. I want you to find someone who has lost the spirit of Christmas and rekindle it for them. You have twelve days.”
“But Christmas is in twelve days!”
“It is. I’ll pick you up on my Christmas Eve route. You’ll have to find someone in need of cheer quickly. Help them find joy in the holiday season and you will remain here to finish out your internship. Fail, and when you return, you will pack your bags and return home.”
Theo stammered a moment, but nobody argues with Santa. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.
“Don’t you have windows to frost?” Santa suddenly said loudly.
Why I ever thought I could get anything past him, I’d never know. I winked away. Far away, this time.
I found myself in another tree and looked around a ski resort. A very green ski resort.
“I think this place needs some fresh snow,” I said out loud.
With that, I got comfortable on my branch and settled back as the temperature dropped and the snow started falling. As I watched my handiwork, I brainstormed a way to make it up to Theo. Sure, Santa had gone easy on him, but missing out on the days leading up to Christmas in the North Pole would stink. I sat there, lost in thought until the sun started to set, casting a dreamy glow over the snow.
“I don’t like snow either.”
The annoyed voice drifted up to me and I narrowed my eyes at the sentiment. Excuse you! Who doesn’t care about snow?!
I leaned down to see a sour-faced young man pulling a suitcase out of a car nearby.
“Suit yourself. Merry Christmas!” called the driver.
“Bah! Humbug!” retorted the cranky guy.
He slammed the trunk and stomped off toward the main entrance. I shook my head and made the snow fall harder out of spite.
“Someone needs to get into the… spirit…” I said, trailing off as a brilliant idea struck me.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Lorelei M HartLorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming. Friends for years, the duo decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;).
My characters are sexy, hot, adorable—and often filthy—alphas and omegas. Feudal lords with dark secrets, lonely omegas running away from their past, and alphas who refuse to commit.
Lurking in the background are kings, mafia dons, undercover agents and highwaymen with a naughty gleam in their eye.
As for me? I dictate my steamy stories with a glass of champagne in one hand. Because why not?
Kallie is the pseudonym of a USA Today Bestselling Author who normally writes young adult fantasy and dabbles in paranormal romance. She loves animals of all kinds, so she loves reading and writing books with shifter themes. Her favorite time to write is late at night when her husband and kids are asleep and everything is quiet. During the day she can be found chasing her boys, baking, and talking to herself.
Lorelei M Hart
Snowed In at Santa's Lodge by Lorelei M Hart
A Reindeer Mates for Christmas Series
Sunday, July 19, 2026
Saturday, July 18, 2026
🎅🎆🎄Saturday's Series Spotlight - Xmas in July🎄🎆🎅: Hartbridge Christmas by NR Walker Part 3
Summary:
Doctor Robinson O’Reilly is burned out. Exhausted, jaded, and disillusioned with the bureaucracy of his profession, he’s ready to throw away his entire career. Convinced to take a part-time position in a small town instead, he packs his medical bag for Hartbridge, Montana.
Who knows, maybe the change of pace and mountain air will do him good.
Firefighter Captain Soren De Silva moved to Hartbridge two years ago. He loves the town, the people, his job. What he doesn’t like is the lack of queer men. Well, the lack of available queer men. There are a few queer couples in town whom Soren can only look at with envy.
He wants what they have.
There’s a new doctor in town; not Soren’s usual type, but there’s something about him that Soren can’t ignore. A friendship sparks between them and Soren can’t help but wonder if that Hartbridge Christmas magic the others joke about is real.
Because a spark leads to flames, and this is not a fire Soren wants to extinguish.
Summary:
When given the opportunity to make his dream of owning his own bookstore come true, Winter Atkins couldn’t say yes quick enough. Moving to Hartbridge, Montana, with his favorite aunt is the adventure he needs to start over. And leaving behind a string of unhappy boyfriends because of his asexuality, Winter is all too happy to shelve the idea of dating forever.
Deacon Clark has never fit in. Autistic and neurodivergent, he excels in his studies and at his father’s veterinary clinic, but his social skills are lacking. He’s attracted to men, but his bluntness and aversion to physical touch have made dating impossible.
When Winter brings an injured cat into Deacon’s clinic, it sparks an unlikely friendship; something both men need more than they realize. Hartbridge’s Christmas Cupid has his work cut out for him this year. But with the help of two newly orphaned kittens, from friendship, the strongest bond forms.
Deck the Fire Halls #5
CHAPTER ONE
ROBINSON O’REILLY
I wokewith a start and stared at the strange ceiling, wondering what had woken me when I heard it again.
A motorcycle.
A big, loud motorcycle kickstarted to life right outside my bedroom wall, by the sounds of it.
New town, new house, new start.
Which also meant new sounds to get used to.
A Harley Davidson before seven on a Saturday morning was not a great way to start my day, nor was it something I wanted to get used to.
My real estate agent said the house was old but well-loved, that the street was quiet and the neighbors were great.
She was right about the house, but she never mentioned anything about said neighbor owning a Harley freaking Davidson.
I’d arrived in Hartbridge, Montana, late last night, grateful for central heating and that I didn’t have to get a fire started, and also grateful that I’d had barely enough energy to make my bed before I fell onto it and was finally getting some decent sleep. My first decent sleep in far too long . . .
Until a thundering motorcycle almost rattled me out of my bed at far-too-early o’clock, before it roared off down the street.
Not a great start to my very first day in town.
I threw back the covers and grumbled as I got out of bed, sighing as I shuffled down the hall into my living room. I frowned at the boxes stacked around me, a reminder of the day ahead of me, and headed to the kitchen.
Where I immediately regretted not setting up my coffee machine last night.
After ripping into the boxes on the table marked kitchen, I found my machine and the coffee beans, and a short time later, was gratefully sipping on a double shot of espresso out of a drinking glass.
Once I’d had some caffeine, I could admit that the house was quaint. A two-bedroom, single story bungalow, a small porch at the front, and an enclosed porch at the back. The walls were a tad too yellow for me, and I entertained the idea of having the whole house given a fresh coat of paint. Maybe in the summer . . . maybe by then I’d know if I had any intention of staying.
I’d looked at renting, but with the holidays approaching, options were limited, so I asked to see homes for sale instead. I hadn’t had any intention of buying again, not until I found the place which I wanted to make my permanent home. But given the price of real estate in Hartbridge, compared to Seattle where I’d just sold my very nice condo, it was just easier to freaking buy something instead of renting.
So maybe I’d have the walls painted, or maybe I wouldn’t.
I wandered out into the living room with my coffee and almost caught myself smiling at the sunlight streaming in through the white lace curtains.
Almost.
I think I’d forgotten how to smile.
Not a fake smile for the sake of pleasantry. I mean an honest smile from happiness.
I think I’d forgotten what happiness was.
I felt beaten down by life, by my job, by the career I’d fought for my whole life. Like the people I’d called friends, my medical colleagues, were excelling and thriving, while I was going under.
I’d almost walked away.
I’d been so close to throwing everything away. Just getting in my car and driving to Canada or Alaska or flying anywhere—the next plane to literally anywhere—just for a chance to breathe, when Alaya Ross took one look at me and pulled me into her office because she was concerned for my well-being.
To cut a really long story short, I ended up taking on a general practice position three days a week at the Hartbridge Medical Center.
If I couldn’t handle that?
Then I’d know I was well and truly done.
I was only thirty-six years old. I was young in this job. Maybe I’d gone too hard too fast. I’d worked insanely long hours; double shifts were standard. I’d been promoted before my peers, my dedication was commendable, blah blah blah.
My dedication had almost killed me.
Which is why I found myself in a very small town in the middle of the mountains in a small but cute house surrounded by boxes that needed to be unpacked.
That was my weekend plans, anyway.
Before going to the clinic for my first shift on Monday morning. I was trying to be optimistic. Maybe this was the fresh start I needed. Maybe it was the change of pace my mental health deserved.
Maybe it would decide my fate once and for all.
I told myself to give it a year, even two. Give it a fair trial run. Even if I was half-convinced I was already leaving.
Doomed before I begin, I thought as I drained my coffee, then put myself to work.
By late afternoon, I was almost done. I had a pile of flattened boxes I had no clue what to do with, my kitchen and clothes were sorted and put away, books unpacked on the bookcases in the spare room, and I had the TV set up.
I tried not to let it bother me that my entire life took just a few hours to unpack.
There wasn’t much of me. My entire life had been my job. I had a few photos of my parents and my sister. A candid photo of me at college, young and carefree, laughing with abandon, so oblivious to the path I was taking.
I wasn’t sure why I kept it. It felt a little self-serving, vain perhaps. But it was a good photo. I didn’t have many, and it was a good reminder to myself that I did use to smile.
God, that younger version of me had loved life. Full of adventure and a heart big and brave enough to take on the world.
Enough.
Stop it, Rob.
Get out and clear your mind.
Before I could let my thoughts spiral and have a full-blown what-have-I-done panic attack, I grabbed my coat and my keys, locked up my house, and walked outside.
Fresh air—albeit a little too fresh—warm sunshine, and a quick trip to the local store for some essentials was a great idea. The Home Mart itself was not much bigger than a 7-Eleven, but I managed to find some almond milk and some of that grain bread I hadn’t had in years. There was a small but decent supply of locally grown fruit and vegetables, which I had to admit . . . if it was in my closest farmer’s market back in Seattle, it’d have been five times the price.
The woman behind the counter gave me a bright smile. “Good afternoon,” she declared. “Find everything you were after today?”
At first I thought she was a little too over the top, but the way she paused for my answer to greet an older lady as she walked in with—“Oh, Mabel, I was going to call you. We got the yarn in you were looking for. It’s in aisle two, right alongside the others.”—I quickly realized she was maybe just that cheerful.
She turned her smile back to me and I’d almost forgotten she’d asked me a question. “Oh, yes, I did, thank you.”
“Just passing through?” she asked as she rang me up. “Or . . .”
“No, not passing through.” I wasn’t sure if anyone just passing through town would buy bread, milk, and a supply of fresh produce, but maybe I was out of practice with the art of small talk. “Just moved here, actually, from Seattle. Got a place on Elmwood Lane.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, how wonderful! What’s your name, love?”
Love?
I stopped short on the salutation of doctor. “Rob.”
“Well, Rob, I’m Rosie. Nice to meet you. I hope you’re happy here. It’s a great little town. Carl’s Diner on Main Street has some of the best coffee and cake you could ever want. And a whole range of meals, better than anything you could find in the city. Pizzeria, if you’d prefer. There’s a menswear store, Tania at the hairdressers, oh, and a hardware store if you need anything at all for your house. Go in and see Ren, he’ll fix you right up.”
Carl, Tania, Ren.
Right, then.
“Excellent, thank you,” I said, paying my bill. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I thanked her and managed a smile as I left. It was only a short walk back to my house, but I spent every step wondering if I’d stepped into the Twilight Zone, or if small towns were really like this. Where everyone was on a first name basis.
I was going to have to get used to it.
As I walked up the two steps to my porch, I heard a rumble coming down the road, and by the time I juggled my groceries and got my key in the door, the very loud Harley slowed right down and pulled in next door. Male rider from the size of him—huge bulging biceps, broad shoulders—though he wore a helmet, so I couldn’t see his face. But my god, the sound was so damn loud.
I pushed inside and closed the door. The noise cut off a few moments later, the resulting silence overly loud in its absence.
Or maybe it just seemed so loud because the rest of the town was so quiet?
With an annoyed sigh, I put away my groceries and pretended I hadn’t just bought a house right next door to a motorcycle gang member . . .
Which was probably a gross exaggeration and an awful stereotype, but as a doctor who’d spent way too many hours in the ER tending to riders of motorcycles and the occasional gang member, it was easy to presume such things.
I was disillusioned with the world. I was allowed to be mad about it.
I tried not to dwell on it though. Made myself my first home-cooked meal in far too long and put myself to bed with a book I’d been meaning to read for years.
I didn’t give my Harley-riding neighbor another thought. He had been quiet all night, thankfully no loud music or parties for a Saturday night, and I’d managed another decent night’s sleep . . .
To be woken again by the loudest, sleep-shattering rumble of that damn motorcycle.
I shoved my pillow over my head to drown out the noise, unsure if I wanted to weep in frustration or yell in anger. The rational part of my brain knew that going outside in my pajamas to yell at the guy probably wasn’t the best way to establish new neighborly relations, especially if he was in some motorcycle club.
But then the ruckus faded as he drove off, leaving blissful silence in its wake. I sighed and tried to doze off again, wondering if the bone-deep exhaustion would ever leave me.
Maybe it was part of me now.
Along with the jaded pessimism and general crankiness at life.
I never used to be like this, and I needed to shake off the mood, the funk. I needed to start looking at the positives. This was a new start, a new life. I’d left the darkness behind me and needed to start appreciating the good things.
Like coffee and sunshine through my living room window.
So with that in mind, and considering I was now very much awake, I threw back the covers, put on my robe and slippers, and headed for the kitchen.
I switched on the coffee machine to warm up, taking a few moments to breathe in the peace and quiet and the first rays of sunlight coming in through the living room window, casting shards of white on the yellow walls and sending dust motes into a spin.
Peace and quiet.
I could get used to this.
I inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, trying to breathe in the serenity.
I made my coffee, almost smiling as I took my first sip . . .
Until an all too familiar sound came thundering down the street, closer, slowing in front of my house before turning into his driveway.
My neighbor from hell.
Anger bubbled up inside me, irrational and stupid, and with my coffee in hand, I stomped out my front door, across the frosty front lawn, and met my inconsiderate motorcycle gang member neighbor in his driveway.
“Hey,” I yelled. I couldn’t even hear myself over the roar of his stupid motorcycle. “Hey!”
He cut the engine and my voice carried over the silence.
He sat on his huge motorcycle, wearing blue coveralls and a leather jacket. He lifted his hands and took off his helmet. I was expecting a hard face, scars, or neck or face tattoos.
But what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Short brown hair, sun-kissed skin, smiling hazel eyes and a grin that stole my breath. “Morning,” he said, voice like velvet. Then he looked me up and down, and I swear he chuckled. “Nice pajamas.”
I looked down at myself, horrified to see my robe open and my navy pajamas with pink flamingos and rainbows on full display. They were old. I’d bought them for a Pride Pajama Party at med school, and everything else I own had been packed. I’d kept them out with the intent of throwing them out once I got settled in . . .
“You okay?” he asked, concerned now. “You just moved in, right? Need help with anything?”
His kindness threw me for a second, not to mention his ridiculous good looks. “I, uh, I’m, um . . .” I looked down at the cup I’d forgotten I was holding. “Coffee,” I said.
Like an idiot.
Then I noticed the Hartbridge Fire Department logo on the breast of his coveralls, under his leather jacket.
Oh my.
Of course he was a firefighter.
“Hi, coffee,” he said, smiling obscenely. “My name’s Soren. It’s nice to meet you.”
Merry and Bright #6
CHAPTER ONE
WINTER ATKINS
“Mr. Winter Atkins,” the realtor said. “Please sign here.”
He slid the paperwork in my direction, pointing to the sticky note with an arrow. I gave my aunt Rowena a quick glance, unable to hide my happiness and excitement. She grinned right at me, encouraging me to seal the deal.
I scribbled my signature, and Ro gave my arm a squeeze. “Well, we’re doing it!” she said. “No going back now.”
No, there wasn’t.
There was never any going back.
Once I’d quit my job, packed up my small apartment back in Boise, and said goodbye to my friends, there was no going back.
I mean, I could, if I had to.
But I didn’t want to. I wanted this new adventure to work out.
I needed it to.
Ro had invested some of her inheritance money in this new venture. She’d invested in me. More than my mother, Ro’s sister, had. To say my relationship with my mother was strained was an understatement. Had been since as early as I could remember, since I was obviously gay and she couldn’t deal with it.
She never disowned me or kicked me out. But her parenting came from a sense of obligation, not out of love. I learned all too well that her love came with conditions.
Whereas my aunt Ro welcomed me with open arms. She used to take teen-me aside and tell me it was okay to be me, it was okay to be gay, to be figuring shit out. I was basically the child she never had.
She’d been my saving grace.
Then and now.
Ro and my mother’s uncle had died and, not having any children of his own, left them a sizable amount of money and stocks. My mother had never mentioned the money to me—not that I’d expected her to—but Aunt Ro wanted a change of scene, and something to dump some dollars into for tax purposes. She’d been to Hartbridge before and had fallen in love with the tiny town. And given I’d been a bookstore manager for years, we found an ideal location, and I’d just signed the lease.
This was really happening.
She’d also found an old farmhouse a few minutes out of town, which we’d moved into just two days before. And I wanted to clean the store and paint the walls before the contractor guys installed the shelving and service counter next week. So, when I say it was happening, I meant it was all happening.
We took the keys and went to the store that was now ours. I parked out back, my hands trembling as I unlocked the door, and we stepped into the empty store. The glass front faced a paved road closed to traffic that met up with the river, just off Main Street. Directly across from us was a coffee shop run by the youth center as a training hub.
“It’s going to be amazing,” Ro said. “And the installers will be here on Monday, right?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“Then let’s get to work!”
I laughed. She’d always been such a doer. I knew it would be pointless to tell her not to worry, that I could do it on my own. I didn’t expect her to help me, but hanging out with her was always fun. We’d always gotten along so well, and I enjoyed our time together. We often just hung out because we enjoyed each other’s company. Even when I was a kid, she’d hated being called aunt or aunty and had insisted I call her by her name.
She was five feet and three-quarter inches. That three-quarter inch was important, apparently. She had dark gray curls to her shoulders, Kermit-green chunky glasses and a brilliant smile, usually painted a bright red. She had a bright aura, she was smart as a whip, kind and gracious, and her energy was contagious.
I adored her.
The fact she was putting her trust in me made me even more determined not to let her down.
I wasn’t worried. In fact, I knew we could do this. I knew my industry. I knew the book market. It was a great location in a great little town. Everyone I’d encountered so far had been friendly and welcoming, and it was inclusive.
There were pride flags in the youth center window, and the man at the hardware store who’d helped me choose the paint yesterday was clearly gay. I don’t like to judge or assume, but when I’d asked for a neutral, warm white, he’d smirked at me, grabbed my arm, and said, “Ooh, I know just the thing.” He’d handed me a swatch of different whites.
“These have a warm undertone. Ren thinks I’ve learned about paint colors from him, but honestly, I learned everything I know about undertones and complexion from Drag Race.”
I’d laughed at that. “Love that.”
He was a bit fem, had a dark beard, an accent I couldn’t quite place, and a wedding ring on his finger. I had no idea who the Ren was that he’d mentioned, but I figured from the way the tall guy behind the counter had smiled at him that it was probably him.
Everyone seemed so friendly here. It was such a pretty town, nestled in the mountains by the river. I couldn’t wait to see it in full winter mode. Ro told me there was a Christmas festival in the town every year, and while that sounded fun, given it was mid-November already, it told me I didn’t have much time to get this store up and running to capture most of the Christmas trade.
So, Ro and I got busy painting walls. Plus the pre-cleaning and cutting in and everything else, and by the end of the second day, the awful, dirty sepia yellow was gone, and ‘First Snow’ warm white was in. It looked fresh, clean, and inviting.
It felt so good.
Good to be productive, good to get the ball rolling. Good to start this new chapter of our lives.
“Okay, I’ll head off first,” Ro said. Then she stretched out her shoulders and arms. “Ugh. I need a hot bath. But I’ll stop by the pizzeria first and pick up dinner. We’re not cooking tonight.”
The old farmhouse had one of those old-fashioned deep baths that was made for soaking tired and aching bodies.
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “I won’t be long here. Just gonna put a second coat on the windowsill.”
“Okay, darling,” she said, waving me off as she headed out to her car.
I finished the windowsill and, standing in my new empty store, I took a minute to look around. I was so freaking happy. This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to me. A fresh start like the fresh coat of paint.
I intended to bury myself in work for the foreseeable future. No exes to run into to remind me how I was so lacking, how my being asexual was a fault or something they could fix.
No siree.
I had zero intention of making those same mistakes twice.
Or a third or fourth time, as the case may be.
This was my chance to start over. Build the business of my dreams, and get to live a fulfilling life, happily single forever, surrounded by books.
Cozy town, cozy bookstore, cozy me.
That was the plan.
And I couldn’t wait.
Locking up the store, I pulled on my coat and went out to my car. Found my favorite playlist, which I’d aptly named Best Songs for Being Gay. I cranked up the volume. Queen began to belt out “I want to break free” and I was giving it my best karaoke special, reversed out of my parking spot with enough vigor to make Freddie Mercury proud, and felt a thump and heard a godawful screech.
Even above my own godawful screeching.
I hit the brakes and shut the engine off. There was only silence, and I was almost too scared to get out . . . but then I saw a cat half drag itself to the side of the building.
Oh no!
I jumped out and ran over to it. It was not good. Lying very still and its back legs were . . .
Dear god.
I took off my coat and bundled the cat up, carrying it to my car. I drove off again, this time without the vigor and the screeching, but with extra panic and sobbing. There was a vet clinic we passed on our way from home, so I thankfully knew where it was.
There were still a few cars in the lot, and the lights were on inside.
Thank heavens.
I grabbed the bundle of coat and cat and raced it inside. There was a lady behind the reception counter, and she stood up when she saw me. “I hit a cat,” I said, crying, and I’m surprised she understood me.
“Come this way,” she said, quickly ushering me through a door.
A man in a white lab coat appeared and took the bundle from me, and I was all but pushed back out of the room.
So, not knowing what else I should do, I sat in one of the waiting room chairs and waited. And cried, and wiped my snotty nose, and despite how badly my hands were shaking, I sent Ro a text.
Will be late. I hit a cat with my car. I’m at the vet
Her reply came through immediately.
Oh no! Need me to come down?
No, it’s fine. Just waiting to hear
Okay. Let me know if anything changes
She was such a godsend. I cried a little at her kindness, wiping away a tear.
I couldn’t believe I’d hit a cat. Was it under my car when I’d gotten into it? Did I not see it in the backup camera?
And I’d been having such a good day . . .
Still a decidedly better day than the poor cat was having.
And of course, that made me start crying again.
Then a man came out of the door, holding my coat, folded neatly, his expression sad.
And I knew. I knew it was bad news.
Didn’t stop me from asking though. “Is the cat . . . did it . . . ?”
He shook his head. “She couldn’t be saved.”
I slumped back in my seat and cried, my face in my hands. “I killed her. Oh my goodness, I killed a cat. I’m a terrible person. Does she have an owner?” I looked up at him. “Oh no. Does she have an owner? Was she microchipped? Who do I have to go break the bad news to? I just moved here and someone’s going to hate me already.”
He fidgeted with my coat he was still holding. “There was no microchip. From the condition of her coat and weight, she was likely a stray.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. I mean, it didn’t make it any better, though I was relieved I didn’t have to go tell some poor child I’d killed their beloved pet. Or a little old lady’s only companion. I wasn’t sure which would be worse. “Well, it’s not good. That poor cat. I think it was under my car when I got in. I don’t know. I didn’t see it. It was an accident, I swear. I’ll pay the bill, whatever the cost. That’s fine.”
He made a face, though it was hard to tell through my tears and snot-sobbing, then he sat beside me and handed me a tissue. He waited until I had some composure.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “I’ve never killed anything before.”
He didn’t say anything, and when I looked at him, I could see he was uncomfortable. He was a little wide-eyed, unsure of how to react or where to look. He handed over my coat and stood up.
“We are closed for the day now,” he said.
Oh.
Well then.
Right.
A little rude perhaps, but at least I got the message.
“Okay, sure,” I said, dabbing my tears as I stood. “Thanks, I guess.” I walked to the door, giving him one last look.
He shifted his weight, fidgeting his hands. He looked uncomfortable but sad. He was only young, I realized now that I took better notice of him. Twenty-something, short ashy-brown hair, blue eyes.
He squinted, uneasy, glanced at me before focusing on the wall instead. “‘Death is not the opposite of life but an innate part of it,’” he said softly.
Then turned on his heel and walked out.
I stood there, blinking at where he’d been, until I remembered that he’d asked me to leave.
I went home, was met by Ro with a big hug, wine, and pizza. After I’d told her everything that had happened and had another good cry, I couldn’t help but think about what that guy had said.
I’d heard it before; I was sure of it. I just had to place it . . .
“I’ll be damned,” I said, rushing to my bookcase. I pulled out one of my favorite books ever and flipped through the pages.
“Death is not the opposite of life, but an innate part of it,” I read out loud. “What the hell.”
“What is it?” Ro asked me from the door.
“That guy. The vet,” I replied. Well, I’d assumed he was the vet. He had a white coat over scrubs, but he could have been a cleaner for all I knew. Not that it mattered. He’d had the awful task of giving me bad news. I held up my well-read, well-loved copy of Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. “He quoted this.”
She stared at me, a slow spreading smile at her lips. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh what?”
“I thought you’d sworn off men forever.”
“I did. I am,” I replied indignantly. “I mean, yes. One hundred percent. I have sworn off dating, sworn off being disappointed by men who don’t understand me, sworn off men who . . .”
“Who quote one of your two hundred most favorite books ever.”
My eyes met hers and I let out a pathetic whine. “Yes. Even then.”
“That wasn’t very convincing, Win. Try it again, this time with meaning.”
I stroked the cover of my book as if I’d hurt its feelings instead of my own. “Yes. Even then.”
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.
She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.
She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.
She’s been writing ever since...
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EMAIL: nrwalker2103@gmail.com
Deck the Fire Halls #5
Merry and Bright #6
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