🎅🎆🎄Monday's Musical Melody - Xmas in July🎄🎆🎅: Once Upon a Christmas Song by Mary Calmes

Summary:

Once Upon a Holiday Story 

Chris Gardner has a good life in New Orleans. He owns a club in the French Quarter, has a wonderful crew of people who call it home, loyal, caring friends, and even gets his kid fix by helping to take care of his chef’s daughter. What he doesn’t have is that special someone to share his days and nights with. He thought he did, once upon a time, but that man left to find fame and fortune, became a rockstar, and never returned. And that’s fine. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Now if only he could find a band to play music in his club at night, that would be a Christmas miracle.

Dawson West had to leave to see if his dreams could become reality, but what he didn’t count on was that once he had the world at his feet, he’d miss the man who’d held him tight. Between the endless climb toward greatness and the pitfalls of addiction, Dawson lost himself for a while, but that doesn’t mean he stopped loving Chris. Not wanting his love to see him broken, he makes certain he’s clean and sober when he finally comes home. Going radio silent while becoming the man Chris deserves seemed like a good idea at the time, but now…

Now, Chris has a problem. Dawson is back, out of the blue, and if Chris lets him return to rocking his club, is that an invitation for his heart as well? How can Chris ever trust again, even if it is the season?

Once Upon A Christmas Song is a part of the multi-author series Once Upon A Holiday Story. Each book can be read as a standalone and in any order. What links these books together is The Hook’s Book Nook Traveling Library, a library on wheels owned by two old ladies in love.

Original Review January 2025:

Perhaps more than others I've read in the Once Upon a Holiday multi-author series, Mary Calmes' Christmas Song is less Xmassy and more happens at Xmas but in my mind that is all it takes to make a story perfect for the holidays.

Second chance romance can be hard to tell in novella form as some points can feel rushed but I think Calmes did an excellent job of balancing second chances and glimpses of Chris and Dawson's first go-around.  In showing us those glimpses of the past we get to see what was "broken" which helps to understand the "healing" and that loving was never the issue which can help the reader understand the pace of reuniting that can occur in a novella.

I completely fell in love with both men as well as the supporting cast, you just want everyone to get their holiday Hallmarky HEA.  I say "Hallmarky" but of the ones I've seen I think I would rate Chris and Dawnson's journey above nearly all of those Xmas movies.   There is a lovely blend of humor, drama, friendship, reconnecting, stubbornness, and it is chock full of heart.  Being a novella means it may be shorter on quantity than what second chance tales often have but it is full to overflowing with quality.

RATING:

ONE

It was raining, and while I loved the sound of it and the way it made everything smell, and mostly how everything looked immediately after, all glistening and bright, it did have the effect of keeping many tourists inside until it stopped. That was no good for me. I needed people walking up and down the 500 block of Frenchmen Street where my place was, and popping in for a drink. We served prize-winning cocktails at La Belle Vie, thanks to my mixologists, Xola Bass and Darcy Lee, who had individually and together won several awards both locally and nationally.

The issue was, as good as the drinks were, along with our food—a Caribbean-Creole mix thanks to my award-winning chef, Georgine Joseph—without the live music we were famous for, bridal parties walking the Quarter wouldn’t pop in and stay until closing. People looking to dance, not simply stand and listen to jazz, wouldn’t stop and show off their moves for their dates and buy drink after drink. Early in the evening, there was a space between the stage and the tables where people mingled. That was when we had the soloists, the artists, those selling CDs and looking for their big break. Later in the evening, between ten and closing—which was at two in the morning Friday and Saturday night, midnight on weekdays—was when the house band went on, and the place filled up with a raucous crowd, and people sitting at tables could have someone in their lap at any moment. We were always packed, and the bulk of our money was made on beer and shots while people sang along to the music.

But on Monday a week ago, after closing at midnight, Jimmy Jake and the Polecats quit.

“Stupid name,” I muttered under my breath.

“Boss?” asked Conner Lee, Darcy’s little brother and one of my barbacks, as he walked by me with a tray of dirty glassware. “Did you say something?”

“No,” Xola replied, lifting the pass-through so he could walk behind the bar. “Your boss is simply lamenting our abandonment by Jimmy Jake and the lame-ass pieces of shit he calls a band.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Well, considering no one else wanted them and Chris was the only one to give them a chance—and they were, no question, mediocre at best—I can understand the sentiment.”

“It was the best thing that could have happened,” said Simone Howard, my manager, as she took a seat beside me at the bar. “We need to talk to that booking agent.”

I shook my head. “We’ve always had a house band.”

“It’s not a sustainable solution anymore,” she told me for the five hundredth time.

“But if you have someone new every night, how can you ever develop a following?”

Simone turned to look at Merle Jennings, my head server, who was stacking our latest alcohol shipment on the shelves above the bar. “Say something.”

“The house band is dead,” he reiterated his point from two days ago. “Xola’s right, Simone’s right, Pete’s right, everyone’s right when we all told you we don’t need something constant, we need something constantly evolving.”

“Oooh, that was good,” Darcy chimed in as she peeled oranges for garnish.

Merle winked at her.

“Any performers we get, much like Jimmy and his couldn’t-keep-the-beat cats—God, they sucked,” Darcy said with an eye roll, “will eventually get another gig because they all aspire to greatness. Jimmy certainly couldn’t stay here forever, and being the house band at whatever club they went to in Nashville will get them seen by a lot more people. It’s all about exposure. You know that.” She eyed me hard. “We live in the age of social media, and if you have someone spectacular, or in Jimmy’s case, mediocre but constant in his cover of other people’s songs, someone will come sniffing around.”

It was the same with my two bartenders and the two others they’d trained. People were always in the bar wanting to poach them, but I had the edge with my employees. The space I’d created was safe. And not just because I did things by the book. They all knew I would take care of them. From a 401(K) to health insurance that included vision and dental, to being available day or night, I’d found that once someone signed on with me, they didn’t leave for anything at the same level or lower. They left to go to school, to open their own place, to spread their wings, to fly. Even then, sometimes they flew away to look, to see, and then came right back home.

Darcy was offered an amazing opportunity at a nightclub in Dubai and another in New York. She’d weighed the pros and cons, even taken trips to see where she would be working, and came back disillusioned—and in the case of the trip to Manhattan, with pneumonia.

“It didn’t feel right,”she’d explained, hugging me. “It wasn’t here.”

I enjoyed everyone being invested in our success, which was why I never hired anyone, except the bands, without everyone weighing in. The last time I’d been in the market for a new server, before Elsa Wayne, the guy sitting at the bar waiting for me to interview him had told Xola he could score her Molly if she wanted. Pete Rosen, one of my two assistant managers, had reported that her eyes had narrowed instantly and she’d pointed at the door. Anyone who thought selling drugs at our place was a good idea was in for a surprise. No one was about to put our Yelp, Tripadvisor, Zagat, or World of Mouth ratings in jeopardy. We liked being on the best of lists for our city. Of course, our music scene was a big part of that.

“Boss?”

I looked up to find Merle squinting at me.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I was just thinking about Jimmy and the guys.”

“They’ll get paid more at the new place,” Merle reminded me.

“I know. I don’t begrudge them leaving. It’s just the timing.”

“Yeah,” Darcy agreed. “If they could have waited just two weeks, that would have allowed you time to at least put feelers out. As it is now, right before Christmas, it’s gonna be hard to find someone to fill the spot.”

“So true,” I grumbled.

“What was the name of the band that was here last night?” Darcy asked, and when I looked at her, I was, as always, struck by her beauty. She was second-generation Chinese American, and instead of being anything like anyone else in her family—I’d seen pictures—she looked like a goth pixie. Both arms and her entire back were covered in gorgeous floral—poisonous flora—tattoos. Her ears, her nose, and her tongue were all pierced, and I had never seen her wear anything that wasn’t black. At the moment, she had a bustier over a peasant blouse, a black leather skirt, black tights, and knee-high motorcycle boots. When she wasn’t working, her boots were stilettos, but behind the bar, support for her feet was more important than fashion. And the boots laced up, so they were still cool-looking.

When her brother came out as gay and their parents couldn’t deal with that and stopped supporting him financially, Darcy moved the nineteen-year-old out to New Orleans, got him enrolled at LSU, and took over his support. Her one stipulation was he needed a job. She’d worked full-time and gone to school—her parents had the identical issue with her being bisexual—so he could do the same. I enjoyed having Conner at my bar because he was easygoing and smiled often, and it gave Darcy something else to do than worry about my love life.

“Boss?”

“Sorry, I was just thinking how pretty you are.”

Darcy gave me an indulgent smile. “You were zoning out is what you were doing,” she teased me. “But c’mon, what was the name of the band?”

I had to think. “Um, Cult of Meat?” I offered.

“No,” Xola said, reaching for the limes to start chopping them up for drinks. “I think it was Cult of Means.”

“Where are you guys getting cult?” Pete Rasmussen said, like we were all dumb, as he filled the ice bin, his arms like tree trunks, making the process quick and easy. “It was Cut of Meat.”

“It was Sweet Meat,” Elsa said, putting her tray on the counter. “I think they were going for the whole the-sweetest-meat-is-closest-to-the-bone saying, but that’s just weird.”

“Ewww.” Xola, who was vegan, gagged.

Getting out my phone, I looked at the name on my Excel spreadsheet. “It was Cut to the Meet,” I announced. “Like meeting someone.”

They were all looking at me like they’d smelled something bad.

“The fact that none of you knew their name tells me they sucked. Not memorable at all.”

“Oh, they were memorable,” Darcy assured me with a roll of her eyes.

“Just not in a good way,” Xola chimed in.

“Well…” Thad, my third bartender, grimaced. He was working the day shift for the rest of the week to learn more tips from Darcy and Xola. “I mean, it was wrong from the beginning, am I right?”

Lots of nodding from everyone.

Pete grunted. “A metal band on Frenchmen Street, boss? What were you thinking?”

All eyes on me.

“Something new?” I announced cheerfully.

Xola snorted, which was incongruous coming from a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a fairy tale. With her long black box braids with magenta highlights, and flawless deep-umber complexion with gold undertones, she was stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful. When there were men at the bar who hadn’t seen her—they would be talking, not paying attention, and then she’d ask what they wanted in her husky voice—it was fun to watch them get caught in her amber stare. I enjoyed seeing men of all ages go mute. Small perks of the job.

Not that owning a venue like La Belle Vie wasn’t fun. I loved it. My dream had been to have a place in the Quarter, and I realized it at thirty-one. Now, at thirty-six, I thought there would be more to my life than work. I had always pictured someone with me. I had, in fact, pictured someone very specific before he blew town, seeking fame and fortune. And unlike our last band, he had quickly found both. But thinking about Dawson West was a mistake, and after all the time it took me to purge him from my system, I was not going back for anything. And more importantly, thinking about my lost love did nothing to fix my current problem. We really needed a band.

Later that night,as Shenandoah was onstage, I kept my head down and made sure not to make eye contact with anyone, catching up on my paperwork and cleaning projects.

“Really?”

I groaned and lifted my head, meeting the beautiful gray eyes of my manager, my second-in-charge, the woman I’d been smart enough to hire the moment she walked into my place five years ago, after I’d owned the club for two whole weeks. She’d glanced around, then caught my gaze.

“You need help,”she’d stated. “You’re trying to do too much.”

She was not wrong. Trying to be all things when I was a back-of-house guy, not the type to be front and center, had been a mistake. In Simone Howard, I found someone who was amazing with the public, which I was not. We had the perfect division of labor. She told me to think of work like a ship. I took care of the crew, made sure we had all the supplies we needed for the voyage, and she navigated and talked to the people in all the ports. I liked the metaphor. At the moment, though, I did not enjoy how I was being looked at.

“What?” I asked defensively.

She tipped her head slightly toward the playing band.

Groaning, I put my head down.

“Dazzle me,” she goaded.

“I thought, yanno, from the name, that they were probably a country band.”

“Mmmmm-hmmm.”

“I mean, how could a country band be bad?”

“Tomorrow,” she said, one eye closed because the yodeling was just a bit off-key and had, I suspected, run straight up her spinal column to her brain, “you will invite the very nice booking agent who dropped off her card last week, to lunch.”

“I’m cooking my lobster gumbo,” Georgine informed me, taking a seat on the barstool beside me. “That way we’ll impress her.”

“We have to do something,” Xola agreed, sliding in next to Simone, gesturing at the emptiness that was our club at the moment. “Because people cannot dance and drink and sin while being reminded of God.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“Now listen,” Simone began. “I love church, and as you know, I sing in the choir every Sunday morning, but this? This ain’t it.”

No argument there.

Second Chance  /  Holiday Vacation

Christmas Song

Mary Calmes

Mary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work. She can even tell you what her characters smell like. She loves buying books and going to conventions to meet her fans.

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Once Upon a Christmas Song

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Once Upon a Holiday Story Series

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🎅🎆🎄Saturday's Series Spotlight - Xmas in July🎄🎆🎅: Hartbridge Christmas by NR Walker Part 3

Deck the Fire Halls #5

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.

Merry and Bright #6

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.”

Saturday Series Spotlight

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

NR Walker
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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WEBSITE  /  NEWSLETTER  /  CHIRP

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iTUNES  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

EMAIL: nrwalker2103@gmail.com

Deck the Fire Halls #5

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Merry and Bright #6

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Series

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WEBSITE  /  GOODREADS TBR

🎅🎆🎄Saturday's Series Spotlight - Xmas in July🎄🎆🎅: The Wright Brothers by Lily Morton

On Circus Lane #1

Summary:

The first time Bee Bannister met Tom Wright, he couldn’t stand him.

Everything about the man aggravated him—his perfect hair and body, his confident arrogance, and the way he looked straight through Bee.

Which is why it’s such an unpleasant shock to find that he’ll be sharing space with him while on a Christmas holiday with friends in Scotland.

However, as the days fly by and snowy Edinburgh begins to work its magic on him, Bee discovers that sometimes first impressions can be very misleading. Tom is kind and funny, and somehow, rather than looking through Bee, he actually sees and likes all of him.

The two men grow closer, but will Bee follow his heart or his head when the holiday ends? And can relationships that start so badly ever lead to love?

From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a festive romantic comedy about enemies to lovers and the magic of Christmas.

This is the first book in the Wright Brothers series.

Merry Measure #2

Summary:

Arlo Wright’s introduction to his sexuality came when he saw his older brother’s best friend, Jack Cooper, in his sweaty football kit. Unfortunately, he didn’t have long to enjoy the revelation because he promptly knocked himself out on a table.

Relations between them have never really moved on from that auspicious beginning. Arlo is still clumsy, and Jack is still as handsome and unobtainable as ever.

However, things look like they’re starting to change when Arlo finds himself sharing a room with Jack while on holiday in Amsterdam at Christmas. Will the festive spirit finally move them towards each other, or is Arlo just banging his head against a wall this time?

From bestselling author, Lily Morton comes a warm romantic comedy set in chilly Amsterdam.

This is the second book in the Wright Brothers series but it can be read as a standalone.

On Circus Lane #1

Chapter One

BEE

Mariah Carey is fully embracing her time in the festive spotlight, as “All I Want for Christmas Is You” pumps out over the pub speakers. Even so, she’s barely managing to compete with the noise of party revellers. It’s one week before Christmas, and everyone seems to be throwing their all into the festive cheer.

I relax back in my chair and lift my drink to my mouth while idly looking around the converted Victorian warehouse. The bar is part of a big chain, and opened only last year. The heavy use of company colours in the space makes it look like an uneasy mash-up between Christmas and their annual general meeting. However, even their version of corporate holiday chic can’t stop the happy atmosphere.

A red-headed man leans over the bar, watching me with a sultry expression. I drop him a wink, and he brightens and immediately makes his way over.

“Hi,” he says.

I smile at him. “Hey.”

“Fancy a drink?” he asks, coming closer and gifting me a waft of his expensive cologne.

I look him up and down. “I’d love one. Rum and Coke, please.”

Smiling, he wanders over to join the huge queue.

My best friend heaves a heavy sigh next to me.

“What’s up with you?” I ask.

Ivy grimaces at me. “Well, look at you. It’s just not fair.”

“My combination of looks and brains?”

She rolls her eyes. “And your modesty. Don’t ever forget that.” I laugh, and she nudges me. “I can’t believe you. You only looked at each other once, and now you’ve pulled. Meanwhile, I can’t even get a bloke to give me a second glance.”

I drain my glass. “You’d have loads of blokes giving you third and fourth glances, but they don’t fit in with your marital timetable.”

“I told you. I don’t want casual one-night shags anymore. I’ve been there and done that, and now I want someone to spend the next fifty years with.”

“That’s alarmingly precise. What happens if he lasts beyond the time scale? Will he wake up and find you’ve chucked him in the dustbin?”

She grimaces. “I just want a bloke with a few years of monogamy in his tank. I know you don’t understand.”

“I don’t. I just want a man who’s capable of maintaining an erection for twenty minutes.”

There’s a sudden silence at the table next to us where a group of women wearing sparkly veils have been celebrating a hen party. Either that, or they’re contemplating entering a nunnery. They look at me and then immediately hoot and holler.

I grin at them, and Ivy rolls her eyes. She says, gloomily, “Good luck with your Erection Plan.”

“Is that a thing?” I ask, amused.

“By midnight, most of the men in here will be drooping like a daffodil on Mothering Sunday.”

As if on cue, a man reels over to us. He’s wearing a suit with his tie flapping limply. “Whash up, darlin’?” he slurs.

“Beyond getting pissed off your breath, not much,” Ivy snaps.

It seems to take an eternity to travel to his brain, but then he grins and sidles close to her. “Fancy a shag?”

“Ugh,” she says, shoving him. Unperturbed, he moves on to the group next to us, where his question is greeted much more congenially.

Ivy brightens as she looks to her right. “Sal,” she shouts, half standing and waving.

Her friend Sally comes towards us. She’s looking as gorgeous as ever, with her long brown hair shining in the light and her eyes sparkling.

“Alright, losers?” she says, throwing herself into the seat Ivy saved for her.

I grin at her. I don’t know Sal well, but I like her. She’s good people.

“Have you just finished work?” I ask.

“Yep,” she says, sighing. “I think Scrooge would be a better employer than mine at the moment. Last week, I had a prang in my car, and he told me to take the lunchtime off. And the stingy wanker hasn’t bought me a Christmas present.” She accepts the drink Ivy hands her with a smile and takes a healthy swig. “Never mind that, though. Are you all ready for the holiday?”

Ivy rubs her hands together. “Four days in Edinburgh. I can’t wait.”

I frown. “Who exactly is going again?”

“I knew you weren’t listening,” Ivy says. She turns to Sal. “Did you tell him facts while he was doodling? That was your first mistake. He never pays any attention.”

“I wasn’t doodling. They were valuable equations,” I protest, grabbing my next drink from the assortment that Ivy and I ordered earlier. Ivy and Sal roll their eyes, looking like disapproving meerkats.

“You’ll meet a few of the people going with us in a minute,” Sal says. “Everyone apart from Theo and Georgina are meeting us for a drink so we can get to know each other.”

“Lovely,” I say faintly.

Sal drains her drink, and I blink. I’ve only managed a sip of mine.

“I’ll go and get us another round,” she says, standing. “What do you want?”

We give her the order and watch her make her way to the bar. She grins wickedly at a group of blokes who are waiting to be served, throws her hair back, and they part like the Red Sea around Moses. In fact, Moses should have taken Sal along with him. She’d have found someone to carry the Ten Commandments in no time at all.

“Tell me again how you roped me into this Edinburgh idea,” I say to Ivy.

She digs her finger into my ribs until I squirm. “Because I want to go. I’ve never been to Scotland before, and Edinburgh is supposed to be beautiful at Christmas.”

“And where do I come in? I do have a lot of work on my plate at the moment, you know.”

She blows a raspberry. “Bee, you could take that DPhil with your hands tied behind your back.”

“I’m not sure that’s quite how it works. Well, not unless the examining board have become intriguingly BDSM themed since I took my last degree.”

“Which degree? You’ve got so many, I’ve lost count.” She leans closer. “You’re going because I don’t know any of the others, and you’re my best friend, so it’s the law that you have to come too.”

“You know Sal.”

“She’s my friend from work.” She says this as though it explains everything.

“And?” I prompt.

“Well, it’s not the same as being with someone I’ve known since I was five.” She smiles coaxingly. “We’ll have a great time, and it’ll be good for you to get away from your desk. You’ve been working so hard this term. You look tired and worn.”

“Was any of that meant to sound sympathetic?”

She cocks her head. “I was going for that, yes. Did I go too far?”

“Just a bit.”

Sal comes over in a flash of scarlet dress and long legs. “Nice blokes over there.” She plops down the drinks and gives the group at the bar a flirty wave. Then she settles down in her seat. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, the rest of the party. It’s going to be us three, plus my brother, Tom.”

“I’ve never met him,” Ivy tells me. She’s spacing her words out very precisely, as she always does when drunk.

“Lucky you. He’s lovely, but a complete wanknugget sometimes,” Sal says with the affectionate scorn of a sister. She starts to count off on her fingers. “Freddy’s coming. He’s one of Tom’s best friends, and you’ll love him. He’s awesome. There’s also Theo and Georgina. She’s my flatmate, and he’s her boyfriend.”

Ivy noisily sucks the last bit of her drink through her straw and then immediately picks up her next drink. If she doesn't slow down, I foresee an evening of holding her hair back while she hovers over the toilet.

Sal grins at me. “Then there’s Jack and Steven.”

“Ooh, I’ve met Jack. He’s lovely.” Ivy turns to me. “You’ll like him, Bee. I haven’t met his boyfriend Steven yet, though.”

“I can tell that,” Sal says, wrinkling her nose. “You still have your sanity intact.”

“Oh dear.” Ivy’s eyes widen in dismay.

“Ah, it’ll be great,” Sal says, waving her hand dismissively. “And if it isn’t, Edinburgh is a big city. I’m so glad you’re both coming.”

I grin at her. She’s incredibly charming and has a naughty air about her that I like.

She focuses on something in the distance and then waves.

I turn in my chair to see two men walking towards us. They’re bundled up in coats and already attracting attention because they’re very attractive. The dark-haired man has warm brown eyes and the perfect amount of stubble on his jaw. He has a sweet but slightly anxious expression and is holding hands with a blond man who’s smiling widely at us.

“Hey,” the blond man says. He loosens his grip on his boyfriend and extends his hand. “You must be Bee?” His voice is attractive, and his smile is very winning. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

I wipe my hand of the condensation from my glass and shake hands briefly. “Yes, that’s me. And this is Ivy.”

“I’m Steven.” He smiles at Ivy.

When Sal stands to hug his partner, Steven slides into her seat. “Just for a minute,” he says. "My feet are killing me. Jack forgot to order a taxi, so we had to walk miles from the restaurant.” His voice has a peevish edge.

The man who must be Jack turns around. He’s even more gorgeous up close. “Did I hear my name mentioned?” he says lightly, his chiselled jaw flexing.

Steven tsks. “It was a silly thing to do, Jack. You know it’s busy at this time of the year.” He gives him a loving, if still pained, smile. “It’s not like you to be so scattered. You’ll remember better next time.”

Jack’s eyes narrow, but then, obviously being polite in front of the strangers, he shrugs affably.

Sal directs a cool look at Steven and hugs Jack. “Or alternatively, we’ll get you so pissed you can’t even remember your own name.” She adds a few mumbled words that sound like, “Or who you’re sleeping with,” but a burst of laughter at the next table drowns her out.

Steven glances at the laughing women as he removes his coat and smooths it neatly over his knees. He makes a moue of distaste. “I can’t stand drunk women.”

He looks around for support but doesn’t get any, so he directs his gaze back at me. “So, Sal says you’re very clever.”

“I do my best.”

“Well, having some intelligent company on this trip will be nice. The Wrights are…” He waggles his hand. The gesture could mean anything from “they’re stupid” to “they’re mass murderers.”

“Hmm,” I say, falling back on my catchall expression for department events and social interactions just like this.

Jack leans over. “Nice to meet you, Bee,” he says with a charming smile. “I’m getting a round. What does everyone want?”

I grin up at him. “I’m fine, thank you. I have someone getting me another drink.” I look for the redhead but can’t see him in the scrum around the bar.

The others give him their orders while Steven stays quiet. Jack smiles at him. “And for you?”

Steven rolls his eyes. “Only the same thing I’ve been drinking for the last four months, silly.”

“Is it hemlock?” Sal asks sweetly.

Luckily, Steven doesn’t seem to hear her. Jack’s lips twitch as he gives Sal a nudge. She guffaws.

“Come on, trouble. You can help,” he says affectionately.

They vanish into the queue, and Steven huffs as he looks after them. “It would be good if that particular friendship went away.”

“Do you mean Sal?” I say, astonished. “She’s lovely.”

“Oh, she’s very charming. Have you met the rest of the family?” I shake my head, and he leans forward confidingly. “They’re all charming, but they’re a rackety bunch. Very loud and far too chaotic. Stoned all the time.” He mimes smoking a joint. “But Jack is ridiculously attached to Sal’s brother, Tom. They’ve been friends since primary school.”

I try to unpick that statement and look to Ivy for support, but she’s gone to the bar with Jack and Sal. She’s saying something that seems to require a great deal of gesticulation and laughter. Satisfied she’s okay, I turn back to Steven.

“Hmm,” I say again. I’m not very keen on bitchy people. It must show on my face because his expression changes.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for,” he says contritely. “I’m nervous in social situations and just tend to blurt shit. Ignore me.”

I relax instantly, feeling a wave of empathy. “I’m exactly the same.”

“So, Sal says you’re doing your DPhil. What’s it in?” Steven smiles at me encouragingly.

“Oh, it’s in mathematics.”

“Fascinating. I work in telecommunications. We were working with a university last month. Very interesting.”

“Really?”

He starts to tell me something, but I can barely hear him over the noise. I catch sight of my redhead. He grins at me and grimaces at the packed bar where he’s still queuing. I tap my watch discreetly, and he signals that he’ll wait.

Satisfied that my late evening is sorted, I turn back to Steven. My plan is to give his monologue an encouraging nod, as I’d prefer not to talk, but his voice drifts off and his expression turns sour. Reminds me of when Scrooge took a turn down memory lane.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, staring at a point beyond me.

Before I can turn, Ivy darts over to me. “Supreme Hottie at ten o’clock,” she hisses.

I look in the direction she’s staring. “That’s not ten. It’s more like half past—” I abruptly forget what I was going to say. Something that rarely happens, but then it’s not every day I see the most beautiful man in the world moving towards us, and even better, his attention is on our table and… me. I swallow hard.

Thick, wavy, brown hair frames a chiselled face with full, pouty pink lips. He’s tall with legs that seem to go on forever and broad shoulders. His clothes don’t quite fit in with the bar’s party atmosphere, as he’s wearing heavy work boots, jeans, and a white T-shirt spattered with mud with a red plaid shirt flung over the top. However, he’s hotter than most blokes in their holiday best, and his walk backs it up. It’s a confident, loping stride, and he’s attracting appreciative looks that he seems oblivious to.

I sit up straight and offer him my patented pulling smile. It’s never failed me yet. His eyes assess me slowly, and I smile wider. My stomach falls as, instead of smiling back, he looks straight through me, his eyes flicking beyond me as if looking for a better option. It’s an utterly dismissive look, and I flush red in embarrassment.

Arrogant wanker, I think savagely.

I look around to see if anyone has spotted him bin me off, but everyone is talking loudly and laughing.

“Oi, tosser,” he says loudly, and conversation around us dims as a few people sit up for a better view of a potential fight.

“Pardon?” I squeak.

He waves a hand at me. “Not you,” he says, his tone matching that dismissive expression. “You,” he says, pointing at Steven.

“Hello, Tom,” Steven says with a distinct note of nervousness. “Good trip?”

Tom? My eyes grow big. This is Tom? The lovely person I keep hearing about is this rude, gorgeous twat?

I shift a little closer to Steven, ignoring my previous reservations about him. He obviously needs backup if he’s being confronted by this idiot. Steven shoots me a grateful look.

“Where’s my house key?” Tom grits out.

Steven’s eyes open wide. “What?”

Jack and Sal appear with handfuls of drinks. Jack’s face lights up when he sees Tom, despite Tom’s sulky twat expression. “Alright, Tom?” he says. “Have you just got back?”

“I have,” Tom says grimly. He gestures theatrically at his body. “And lo and forsooth, look at my party outfit. Now ask me why I’ve embraced lumberjack chic.” He puts his hands on his narrow hips. It makes the T-shirt ride up and I’m very cross with myself for noticing the sliver of yummy olive skin and the beginning of a very interesting V-line.

“Are you drunk already?” Jack asks.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance,” Tom grits out. “I drove all the way back from fucking Northumbria and got home in good time to get changed and meet you all, only to find that I can’t get into our fucking house,” he grits out.

“Tom shares a house with Jack,” Ivy whispers to me helpfully.

“Thank you so much. I would never have guessed.” I wince as she pinches me.

“Why couldn’t you get in?” Jack frowns. “Have you lost your key?”

“Oh, not lost,” Tom says silkily. He points to Steven. “Twatface took it.”

“What?” Jack exclaims. “Surely not. How do you know that?”

“I never removed the key from my keyring. And, before I set off, I saw him fiddling with it. He’s been itching for a key to the house for ages.” He turns to Steven. “How the fuck dare you take my key without asking, you total knobhead.”

“Tom,” Jack says, wincing.

Steven sighs, and I pat his hand. Tom’s eyes narrow at the gesture, and I offer him a glare of my own, which makes him blink.

“Bully,” I mouth. He either doesn’t notice, or he chooses to dismiss me. Again.

I’d like to say I’m sticking up for the underdog, but I can’t for two reasons. Firstly, I suspect the underdog is probably at fault here, and more than likely Steven has a vicious bite of his own. Secondly, I know myself. I’m still smarting at Tom’s dismissive look. It brought back more than a few unpleasant memories of my adolescence.

“I needed a key,” Steven says defensively. “Jack never remembered to get one cut for me.” He glances reproachfully at Jack as if this is all his fault.

“How farsighted of Jack,” Sal breathes. She’s moved to stand next to her brother, her eyes bright with irritation.

Tom rolls his eyes and pats her hand. “Step down, psycho,” he murmurs.

She grins at him and kisses his cheek. “Glad you’re back,” she says and sits down on the arm of my chair.

Steven glares at Tom. “So, I borrowed your key. Is it really a big deal?”

“Yes. You took my key without asking for my permission. And I’ll take a wild guess that you had a copy made and never asked your boyfriend about it.”

Steven settles back in his seat and crosses his legs nonchalantly. “You can have it back,” he says sweetly.

“You bet I can. Now.” He snaps his fingers and holds out his hand.

Steven huffs, reaches into his pocket, and then drops two keys into his palm. “Happy now?”

“Are you coming home with Jack tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, I’m not.”

“Tom.” Jack sighs.

Tom grimaces. “I’m going home to get changed. Are you coming to the Stardust bar? The drinks are half price. Freddy’s already there.”

“I’m in,” Sal shouts.

Tom gives her a crooked smile that is not attractive at all—not one bit. I smile at Steven in solidarity, ignoring the peevish look on his face.

“What about staying here?” Jack asks. “You can get to know everyone and say hello.”

“No need,” Tom says cheerfully. “I can do that really quickly.” He looks around at us. “Hello, everyone,” he says with a charming air. “Coming to Stardust with us?”

Everyone smiles and choruses greetings at him. The next thing I know, they’re standing and gathering their coats. I glare at Tom and become even more irritated when he appears to miss my expression.

“Meet you at Stardust, then?” Tom says to Jack.

Jack shoots a look at his boyfriend, and Steven huffs. “Oh, don’t mind me.”

“Okay,” Tom says happily. “Come on, Jack,” he coaxes. “We can have a drink and let loose. We’ve broken up for the holidays, baby.”

Jack grins at him, his slightly anxious air completely gone. “Okay, then.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Steven stands and stomps off towards the toilets.

Tom claps Jack on the back. “I’ll leave you with that.”

“Thank you so much.”

Tom nods at us and walks away.

Ivy comes to stand next to me, and we watch him march out of the bar. I can’t help noticing the swell of his world-class arse.

Ivy looks at me. “Where’s your coat?”

“Where it was before the lord and master appeared. And coincidentally, where it’s staying.”

She blinks like a tiny drunken owl.

“I’m not coming,” I explain.

“What? Really?”

“Do you mind?” I ask. “Will you be okay?”

She waves a careless hand. “We’re going on to Sal’s afterwards, so I’ll get a taxi home from there. Why won’t you come, though? Is it Tom? You were glaring at him like he’d eaten the last Penguin in the biscuit tin.”

“He looks the type to do that.” I shrug. “He shows up and is appallingly rude, and then flashes a smile and expects everyone to follow him. What a complete twat,” I finish disapprovingly.

“Good-looking one, though.” She leans into me. “And we’re going away on holiday with him.”

“Well, hopefully, he’ll stay far enough away that you can stare at his face and be able to ignore his personality.”

“Oh, come off it. I can’t blame him for being cross.” She looks around to check Steven is out of earshot. “He’d got no right to take Tom’s key. He doesn’t pay rent in their house.”

“I’d lock Tom out if I lived with him. I’d lock him in a room in Outer Mongolia.”

She stares at me. “It’s not like you to be so judgemental, Bee.”

I shrug. “Men like that wind me up.”

“Maybe you’ll end up sharing with him,” she says slyly.

“Only if I was impossibly evil in a former life.” I smile at her. “Never mind,” I say, looking past her at the redhead. “I’ve got other fish to fry tonight, and if I play my cards right, I won’t have to speak to Tom at all while we’re away.”

Merry Measure #2

One

Arlo

The taxi pulls up at East Midlands Airport, and, after grabbing my bags and almost throwing the money at the startled driver, I fall out of it.

“Thank you,” I gasp and start to run towards Departures, my feet skidding in the slush.

Catching the eye of a security guard, I amend my pace to a dignified jog that hopefully doesn’t scream drug mule or gun-toting maniac to someone who has the power to cavity search me. He shakes his head in a slightly patronising manner as I immediately get myself stuck in the revolving door.

“Shit!” I gasp, trying to get free, but the bag on the back of my shoulder refuses to budge. “Sorry, didn’t mean to do that.” The door makes a high-pitched whining noise and judders to a stop while the guard stands there looking stoical and slightly bored. “But don’t worry about me,” I call, straining to get myself through the opening as several people tut from behind me. “I’m excellent in small, tight spaces. Not that I’m implying something seedy,” I gasp as I wriggle like a tortoise stuck in a revolving door. “Not me.”

“Could we get a bloody move on?” a bloke says from behind me.

“Maybe,” I say through gritted teeth. I pause. “You could always try giving me a push,” I shoot back hopefully.

I hear a muttered, “Fuck me,” but then strong hands push me from behind, and I shoot through and into the building with a clatter. My grumpy Samaritan steps neatly around me and walks off, muttering under his breath about twats.

Ignoring him, I gather myself and look around frantically for the flight-information kiosk. But my gaze immediately lands on something better than the kiosk.

He’s leaning against the booth, his attention on his phone, a slight frown of concentration on his face. Two of the attendants eye him and whisper and giggle. I can’t blame them. Jack Cooper is gorgeous with his thick black hair and warm brown eyes. He’s wearing a camel-coloured jumper and faded jeans that show off his long, rangy body, and he looks as neat and tidy as ever.

“Hey,” I say breathlessly as I race up to him. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The alarm on my phone didn’t go off, and then the taxi driver was so slow. I’m sure I could have got out and pushed the car faster.”

He looks up and grins. It’s warm and wide and lights up his whole face, and it’s as familiar to me as my childhood home. It should be, because he’s been in my life for as long as I can remember. Since the day he met my older brother at primary school and became best friends with him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says immediately, a tone of familiar comfort infusing his voice. “I was getting a bit worried, though. I thought you were going to miss the flight.” He looks behind me. “Why is that security guard eyeing you like you’re Charles Manson?”

I wave my hand airily. “Probably because I’m an intriguing bad boy.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Really?”

I grimace. “No, of course not. I got stuck in the revolving door.”

His laughter is warm and hearty, the kind that makes you want to chuckle along with him. “You do make me smile,” he says affectionately.

“Well, that’s very good,” I say briskly. “This holiday in Amsterdam is going to go swimmingly, then.”

He holds out his hand in a mute command, and I reluctantly place one of my bags in it. “We’d better make a move,” he says, sliding the strap over his shoulder. “We haven’t got much time.” He reaches into his messenger bag and removes a leather travel wallet. Unzipping it, he produces his ticket and boarding pass. They’re pristine. “Have you got yours? Give them to me, and I’ll do the honours.”

I reach into the pocket of my jacket and produce my crumpled paperwork. It’s creased to hell, and there’s a stain across it where I spilt coffee on it last night. It rests in his hand like a big paper turd.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s—”

“Coffee?” he asks, laughter lighting his eyes.

I shrug. “Could have been whisky from my incredibly wild life.”

“The day you don’t have your coffee is the day England will fall.” He winks at me. “Ready?”

I nod and follow him. Usually, when I travel abroad, it’s chaos. I invariably lose something or turn up at the wrong time, or on one memorable occasion, the wrong airport. However, with Jack, everything goes perfectly. We pass quickly through the check-in as he unerringly picks the queue that begins to move as soon as we join it. Things even go smoothly in Customs. Usually, my naturally guilty expression results in me being searched and asked prying questions about my intentions, like I’m a drug-smuggling Mr Darcy, but today we sail through. Probably because of Jack’s choir-boy expression.

We emerge into the bustle of the Departures lounge. I inhale the scent of coffee and look hopefully over at the nearest coffee shop. Jack shakes his head, but obligingly makes his way over to it.

The place is warm and bright, with Frank Sinatra in the background entreating everyone to have themselves a merry little Christmas. I lean against the glass display case, eying the baked goods as my stomach rumbles.

“Are you having caffeine withdrawals?” Jack asks, coming up next to me. “You’re looking rather jittery.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” I mutter. “I was in a bit of a rush this morning, if you didn’t get the memo.” He laughs and leans against the counter as I place my order. “Want something?” I ask him. “A croissant?”

He makes a face. “Not this early, thanks. Anyway, they’re full of sugar.”

“That’s the best bit,” I say, mystified.

“I’ll have a cup of green tea, though.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”

Humour tugs at his full mouth. “Because it’s very good for you and gets rid of toxins.”

“So does coffee.”

“Since when?”

I wave my hand airily. “It was in some study I read.”

He chuckles, and I take my drink, smiling a thank you at the barista. I remove the lid immediately and, closing my eyes, inhale the scent greedily.

“What are you doing, Arlo? Don’t you normally use another orifice for drinking with?”

I open my eyes and direct a mock glare at him. “Don’t rain on my moment of holy communion. This smell has the power to make me wake up, regardless of how much sleep I’ve actually had.”

He shakes his head, taking his own drink and smiling at the barista. She looks like she’s considering swooning. I can’t blame her. I’ve been close a few times myself.

“How do you cope with school hours, Arlo? Or do your students come in a lot later than I remember?”

I smile at him. “They’re six, Jack. They come in when they’re dropped off by their parents, and knowing some of those, I’m eternally surprised that we’re not forced to do sleepovers. Private schools are run by the parents. Don’t let anyone ever tell you any differently.”

He laughs and makes his way out of the coffee shop, the crowd obligingly parting for him like he’s Jesus with a bread roll.

I follow him, attempting not to ogle the gorgeous swell of his bum in his jeans. It’s a losing battle and one I’ve fought since I was eleven and eating soup in the kitchen of my family home. Young Arlo had looked up and seen a vision at the door—Jack in sweaty football gear that clung to his fifteen-year-old body like glue. And then Young Arlo had promptly had several revelations about his sexuality. He’d had to shelve thinking about them for a few hours, however, because he inhaled a crouton and, while choking, fell over and knocked himself out on the kitchen table.

Not my finest moment, but looking back, not my worst either.

That summer, I spent several months following Jack and my brother around, much to my brother’s mystification, as we were at that point in our relationship where he frequently wanted to batter me. I ceased my youthful pursuit of Jack when two things happened. The first was that my brother threatened to pull off my arms and legs slowly and then tell mum, if I didn’t stop following him and impeding his wooing of his crush at the time. The second was that Jack got himself a girlfriend—Samantha Hampson. I’d wallowed in misery for at least a month, and then my natural optimism surfaced, telling me that he’d notice me soon and that Samantha was a total ho and unworthy of my beloved.

He never did notice me, of course. Samantha went the way of many of his girlfriends, and then, after he came out as bisexual, his boyfriends. They were all perfect-looking, and they dated exclusively and generally looked like something from toothpaste commercials. But invariably something went wrong, and they’d vanish, only to be replaced by the next perfect specimen.

I curl my lips at the thought of his latest one. Steven, who is spectacularly good-looking but also a complete twat. He’s cold and deeply possessive of Jack’s time, but Jack never seems to notice. My stomach roils a little at the thought that Steven has lasted longer than anyone else. Maybe this is it. They’ll get married and settle down and raise children or penguins, or whatever people in perfect relationships do.

Not that I’d know. My love life is as scatty as my timekeeping, and my partners have all largely become the stuff of family legends—hilarious stories to be related at family parties to newcomers, like the time my boyfriend from university got stupendously drunk and refused to talk to anyone apart from our family dog. After a full weekend of deep and meaningful chats, Fee-Fee looked like she was glad to see the back of us when we went back to uni.

I don’t think I ever expected Jack to look at me, though. I’m his best friend’s little brother. The nuisance whose knees he patched up after a fall and who he tried to teach how to fish until he had to give up when I fell in the river. He’d never look at disastrous me.

Unfortunately, even with this knowledge, I’ve never been able to completely shelve my youthful infatuation. Maybe because it was first love—intensely painful when it happens to you, like slamming your head into a kitchen table, but bits of it linger in lines on your heart. Maybe it’s also because he’s a genuinely lovely person, inside and out. He’s kind and thoughtful and clever and has never talked down to me.

We make our way over to the bank of seats near the huge window. I determinedly turn my gaze away from the view of the planes waiting outside. There’ll be plenty of time to think about flying later. I focus my interest instead on Jack, who is stripping off his jumper to reveal a white T-shirt that clings to his chest and highlights his bulging biceps. His skin is a lovely clear olive, and, as he folds his jumper into his bag, the veins in his forearms flex.

We sit for a few minutes in a comfortable silence as he drains his drink and surprisingly doesn’t look like he’s going to vomit afterwards. Then he makes sure the teabag is neatly set inside the cup before fastening the lid back on as thoroughly as any barista. I watch him affectionately. Jack gives new meaning to the word careful. He’s a perfectionist through and through, which in his job is good, because who wants an architect who gets a bit distracted and forgets to include the roof on a house? However, I’m not sure his carefulness is good for him in his private life. He could really do with letting go a bit.

He gathers my empty cup, which looks distinctly grubbier than his own, and vanishes to place them neatly in the rubbish bin.

I smile at him as he comes back. “Why didn’t you travel with everyone else? East Midlands Airport is a bit far from London.”

I’m on a one-year contract to cover maternity leave at a private school in Derby, but the rest of my family and friends are in London.

“Disappointed?” he asks.

I laugh. “Of course not.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

“Why on earth would I?” I ask, mystified.

“I was visiting my parents, so I said I’d catch the plane from here instead.”

I grimace before I can help myself and then pretend to cough as he looks at me curiously. I fucking hate his parents. They are, in my opinion, responsible for the way Jack is so obsessed with perfection. He’s their only child, which was probably a blessing for all other potential children, but it meant that they focused their full attention on him. He had to dress the best and be the best at all times. There was no time for youthful indiscretions when there were A-Levels to be taken in the future and sports to come first in. And that was when he was seven. It’s a testament to Jack’s inherently sweet personality that he didn’t turn out like Attila the Hun with those parenting techniques.

“How lovely,” I say faintly, and he watches me with humour twinkling in his eyes. “How are Derek and Barbara? Did they enjoy the move?”

His parents moved to Eyam a few months ago, a tiny village in Derbyshire whose last natural disaster before Derek and Barbara was the Black Death.

“Much the same as usual.”

“That bad, eh,” I say carelessly and then blanch. Shit.

Before I can apologize, he laughs and says, “Probably. Especially after I shared my news.”

Oh my God, he’s engaged. I stare at him, aware that I must look like I’ve inhaled cat sick, but I can’t stop myself.

“You okay?” he asks, looking torn between patting me on the back or performing the Heimlich manoeuvre. He’s had to do both for me over the years.

“Fine, fine,” I say heartily. “Erm, what news?”

He grimaces. “Steven and I split up.”

“Really? That’s amazing.” I say this way too loudly, and the couple next to us immediately look up. I frown at them repressively while getting my jubilation under control. When I’m satisfied that I’ve done it, I pat his arm. “I’m so sorry. How awful for you both.”

“Really?” The incredulity is loud in his voice. “You couldn’t stand him.”

“That’s just not true. Where on earth did you get that idea from?” I ask heartily.

“Erm, you told me.”

“Really?” I wrack my brain. “When did I do that?”

“When you were drunk last Christmas.”

“Oh. Oh dear, I’m so sorry.”

He laughs. “Why? You were being honest. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”

“Really?” I sound as breathy as Marilyn Monroe in her heyday. I really want to know what other things he likes about me, but I settle for asking, slightly uneasily, “And what else did I say? Because I have no memory of this conversation at all.”

“That’s because you finished your dad’s eggnog off.” We both shudder at the thought, because that stuff is heinous, and then he carries on talking. “You ranted about private school parents and how demonic small children are and then told me very seriously that Steven was a complete wanker, and I could do better.”

“Oh,” I say faintly. “Well, I wasn’t wrong. Although my delivery sounds less than ideal.”

He stares out of the window, and I watch him, rather than the planes. “You weren’t,” he says. “You actually made me think about what I was doing, Arlo.”

“Obviously, I didn’t make you think very hard. You lasted another year.”

He shrugs. “Only because Steven’s been out of the country on a job for six months.”

“What exactly is it that he does?” I ask sweetly. “Contract assassin?”

“Telecommunications.”

“Well, bless him, he’s never lacked the ability to get his thoughts across,” I say with a shudder.

“I should say thank you, Arlo.” He throws his arm over my shoulder. It’s warm and heavy, and being this close I can smell his woody Guerlain cologne. It always makes me want to sniff him.

I swallow hard. “I must say I’m a little concerned about that,” I say honestly. “What if in twenty years you’re still bemoaning your lost love and howling my name in anguish?”

He blinks. “Wasn’t that Miss Haversham? I don’t think I’m temperamentally suited to wearing the same clothes for twenty years.”

I laugh. “There is that. How did your parents take it?”

He grimaces. “As you’d expect.”

“I try not to have expectations of your parents,” I say earnestly. “Other than not to move too quickly near them, lest it activate their hunt and kill settings.”

He laughs, but it fades quickly, leaving him looking a bit sad. “They were very disappointed in me, actually.”

“Really?” I ask, startled. “I thought they viewed the male part of your bisexuality as something to be hidden in the attic with all the pesky dust collectors like books and art.”

He smiles. “Ah well, they liked Steven. He appealed to them because he was so focused and goal-driven.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I say sourly. “As soon as they met, I bet they all got their calculators out and worked out their capital allowances for the year.”

Steven was far too driven for Jack. In my opinion, Jack needs someone a lot more relaxed. Someone who will make him feel comfortable rather than trying to wind him up even tighter the way Steven did. I steer my mind away from the thought that I’d be good for him, but it’s a damn truth that he’s more relaxed with me.

He laughs. “Well, they liked him.” He looks thoughtful. “Which really, when you look at it, should have been a warning for me. The equivalent of a code red in a nuclear reactor.”

“Steven hated me, anyway,” I say. “He always treated me like I was five years old, and at the last barbeque, he told me I was flippant in the same tone that most people use to call someone a cunt.”

Jack bites his lip but doesn’t correct me. I knew it.

He changes the subject adroitly. “Anyway, I stayed the night and thought I’d fly with you.” He smiles at me, his eyes as warm and rich as a packet of chocolate digestives. “I thought it’d be nice to have you all to myself before the madness starts.”

My heartbeat picks up speed, and I remind it to pipe down. It misbehaves so badly around him some days that I’m glad I’m not hooked up to monitors.

“And it’s not because I’m freaked out by flying?” I ask.

“I didn’t like leaving you to fly on your own,” he says in a serious tone.

My heart achieves lift-off without my permission. “Really? That’s so lovely.”

He looks up at the Departures screen. “We’re boarding,” he says, standing up and gathering his bag in his usual hyper-efficient manner.

I swallow hard. “Oh, are we really? How super.”

He grins down at me. “Come on. Ninety minutes and it’ll all be over.”

I pause. “What? Life?”

He blanches. “No, I meant the flight.”

My stomach immediately springs a nest of baby birds. “Oh absolutely,” I say heartily. I get to my feet and look out of the window at my fate. “Well, it could be worse. At least we’re not flying in that old banger.” I point to a small plane sitting on the tarmac.

He looks beyond me and bites his lip. “Oh no, of course not.”

I stare at him. “Oh my God,” I say faintly. “We are flying on that, aren’t we?”

He holds his hands up to forestall my almost certain attack of the vapours. “They’re excellent planes, Arlo. We’ll be absolutely fine.”

“It’s got propellers,” I say far too loudly.

He grabs my bag, hanging it from my shoulder, and wraps my coat around my shoulders as if caping a superhero. “It’ll be fine,” he says firmly. “You want to go to Amsterdam at Christmas, don’t you?”

“Yes, but is it possible to walk there?”

“It’d be hell on your shoe leather, and you wouldn’t be back in time for the new school term.”

“You think you’re dissuading me with that, but you’re not,” I inform him, obeying his guiding hand and joining the queue of people waiting to get on the grimy death trap. Everyone looks far too perky and happy. I look around for a fellow sufferer and find one in the form of the woman in front of me who is visibly shaking.

“Yes, but what if a bird flies into one of those propellers?” she says too loudly, judging by the glare that she’s receiving from an air hostess.

The people around us shift uneasily, but I nod approvingly. And then her question sinks in. “Oh God,” I say faintly, fumbling in my messenger bag and retrieving my pills.

“What are you taking?” Jack asks immediately, a look of concern on his face like he thinks I’m throwing a handful of ecstasy tablets down my throat. Not that I wouldn’t be tempted if I thought they’d do the trick.

“Valium,” I say, popping one from the blister pack and swallowing it dry. “The doctor prescribed them.”

“Couldn’t you try something else? Like hypnosis?”

“Only if you fancy trying to calm down hysterics at fifty billion feet in the air.”

“Thirty-one thousand feet. We’d be in space, otherwise.”

“Oh, fuck. Now you tell me that.” I shake my head. “We’re going to be flying too low. Can this day get any worse?”

The woman in front of us moans in agreement.

The air hostess takes our boarding passes and passports, and I watch her with an eagle eye to make sure she obeys all security procedures.

“Arlo, come on.” I can tell Jack’s trying not to laugh. He puts his arm around my shoulder and guides me out onto the concourse. The wind hits us icy cold and fierce. “You’ll be fine.”

“Touch wood.”

“It’s a bit early in the morning for that, and we’re in public.”

I shake my head but can’t conceal my smile. “Are you making the funny, Jack?”

He grins. “Only a little bit.”

We reach the incredibly tiny plane and join the slow-moving queue of people, none of whom look like they’re contemplating their deaths. I try to avert my gaze from all aspects of the aircraft as we wait to walk up the steps, but I accidentally look at the propellers again and give a little whine. “Oh my God,” I say, fumbling in my pocket.

“What are you doing now?” Jack asks.

“Taking another tablet. This one isn’t working.”

“Arlo, you only had the last one a minute ago. Give it a chance to work and… Oh Christ, you’ve taken it.”

I swallow it and nod. “Yep. Don’t worry.”

“Should you be taking two in quick succession?” he asks anxiously, pulling the packet off me and reading the back of it like he’s got a medical degree.

I wave my hand casually. “Don’t worry about it. They’re more guidelines than hard and fast rules.”

Lily Morton

Lily is a bestselling gay romance author. She writes love stories filled with heat and humour.

She lives in sunny England with her husband and two children, all of whom claim that they haven't had a proper conversation with her since she got her Kindle.

Lily has spent her life with her head full of daydreams, and decided one day to just sit down and start writing about them. In the process she discovered that she actually loved writing, because how else would she get to spend her time with hot and funny men? 

She loves chocolate and Baileys and the best of all creations - Chocolate Baileys!

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On Circus Lane #1

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Wright Brothers Series

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