⛄🎄🎅💗🎅🎄⛄
Well, the holidays are over and the new year is in full swing but there were still a few Christmas romances that were burning up my Kindle. So here are my reviews for those holiday tales and it's never too late to surround yourself with the magic of Christmas. If you find you're still in the holiday mood be sure to also check out all my Random Tales of Christmas 2020 and posts all things holiday.
⛄🎄🎅💗🎅🎄⛄
Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
Summary:
The ABCs of Spellcraft #8
Christmas is a festive time of year, one filled with food, family and tradition—Dixon Penn’s ideal holiday. Too bad Spellcrafters don’t celebrate Christmas.
Dixon’s parents have always been strict about their no-present rule, reluctant to entrap anyone in an “endless cycle of reciprocal obligation.”
Yuri Volnikov was not raised in the Craft, but Dixon has made sure he understands that for Spellcrafters, Christmas presents are verboten.
No gifts. None. Nada. And everyone is on the same page in regards to presents….
Or are they?
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where MM Romance meets Paranormal Cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect. The books are best read in order, so be sure to start at the beginning with Quill Me Now.
This holiday short is set after What the Frack? and contains series spoilers.
Oh my gosh, Dixon Penn at Christmas? Talk about a character that was made for the holiday. In the world of magic you'd think conjuring up the perfect Christmas gift would be easy peasy but then again when did Dixon and Yuri ever do anything easy and without a few mishaps?
Present Tense is short, sweet, adorable, funny, and the way both Dixon and Yuri are left scrambling to come up with last minute gifts for the other is priceless. I don't want to say "predictable" because let's face it, when you are dealing with Dixon and Yuri(especially Dixon) nothing is predictable, nothing is certain other than their love for each other but you know Present Tense is going to end in HEA for the pair, so in that regard I know some might use the term but not me. As so often with great stories, the fun isn't in the ending but how they get there and this Christmas short is no different.
If you've been reading ABCs of Spellcraft as it's been written than you'll definitely want to read this holiday gem, if not . . . well what are you waiting for? Short, long, in-between, this series is brilliant and the characters are just so darn loveable you can't help but smile.
RATING:
Summary:
Cody first met Regen when they were three and covered in glitter after a Christmas decoration project went disastrously wrong. After bonding over the taste of glue, and eating all the chocolate on the tree, the two became best friends. Living in a small Canadian town outside of Calgary, they grew up together, went to the same school, played on the Chipmunks peewee hockey team, and shared a passion for both the Calgary Cobras and chocolate. While Cody stayed at home, went to a local college, and became a teacher, Regen was on a very different path.
Regen and Cody. Their names had become inseparable over the years, just as they had. Through good times and bad, the two boys were thick as thieves and close as brothers. When the boys became men, life tried its best to pry them apart, sending Regen to LA to play professional hockey while Cody remained in Canada and pursued his dream of becoming a teacher. Even with thousands of miles between them, Regen and Cody remained best friends.
Cody is in love with his best friend, and Regen is in love with hockey, and it seems that it will take the magic of Christmas to bring the waiting to an end.
🎄🎅THIS WAS FREE IN THE RAINBOW ADVENT CALENDAR 2019🎅🎄
Scott & Locey have done it once again. Not sure how I managed to not get around to reading this during the holiday in 2019 but I read it now and loved every second of it. Waiting for Christmas is a short, sweet, friends to lovers, holiday tale that is fun, friendly, humorous, romantic, and all around goodness. Don't let Regan and Cody's holiday slip you by because even with Christmas 11 months away, this is the kind of story that is lovely reading all year long. Waiting for Christmas is short on quantity but filled to the rafters on quality.
RATING:
Summary:
Peter Cratchit, a young lad preparing to make his way in the world, is the eldest son of Scrooge’s lowly clerk Bob Cratchit. Peter flourishes under the tutelage of his “Uncle” Scrooge and seeks to make his mark as a man of business, like his uncle before him.
One Christmas Eve, as Scrooge lays dying, Peter embarks on a risky ocean voyage that he believes will secure the future for his family. Onboard, Peter finds love, happiness, and success, only to lose it all by the voyage’s end.
Returning to London, Peter shuns his family and instead finds himself living on the streets, haunted by his failures and his dead lover, selling his body just to survive while he waits for the winter cold to claim him once and for all. But winter snows also mean Christmas is coming, and for the Cratchit family, Christmas is a time of miracles. Can a visit from three familiar spirits change Peter’s life again? Is there one more miracle in store for the lost son of one of Dickens’ most enduring families?
I'm just going to say it: this was amazing!
It never really dawned on me to see if there was any Xmas Carol stories in the LGBT genre but when this one crossed my path, I was intrigued from the beginning. Not only was it a Dickens' style story but it involves his characters and I was very interested to see how the author would bring them to life. The reasons behind Peter's ghostly visitors may be a bit different than Scrooge's but never the less poignant. My heart broke for Peter at times, I found myself internally screaming wanting to make Peter see this way or that, to turn left instead of right, but the author had Peter's journey set and I was just along for the ride.
If you are simply expecting a gay retelling of the Charles Dickens classic than you will be disappointed, Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol is the character's own story, yes he knows his Uncle Scrooge's holiday adventure, yes he's visited by his own three spirits, yes he has to learn his lessons, to discover what is important in life but they are different lessons and that is what makes this story so good. A blending of classic and new.
I've only ever read one other Drew Marvin Frayne before(and it was just a few weeks ago and another Christmas short) and to be perfectly frank, I was skeptical about an author "tinkering around in Dickens' playground" but I needn't have been because the author makes this story unique, intriguing, heartbreaking, heartwarming, and one that should be read any time of year. Charles Dickins' A Christmas Carol is my absolute favorite Christmas story and one I read, watch, listen to every holiday season multiple times, now I may not read Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol every year but I will definitely re-visit it for years to come. As I said above, Drew Marvin Frayne's take is a blending of classic and new, not a re-telling in any way, shape, or form but if you need a label or tag then I suppose "sequel" probably best describes it. Whatever label you want to use, it is not to be missed.
RATING:
Summary:
The story of long nights in a wintry mountain hotel, a baking show with secrets, a snowman called Jeremy, and finding the greatest love of all.
After winning season four of ratings hit the World’s Best Baking Show, Brody Thomas had become a sought-after cake maker to the stars. Happily married, he dreamed of a bright future, but his perfect life imploded when he discovered that his husband had done nothing but lie to him. A year later, Brody is mid-divorce, and his life has been turned upside down, so being part of the WBBS charity event is excellent timing. He’s sure it will give him time away from home and space to get his head straight, only he never expected to meet the man of his dreams in a snowy Alberta.
Winning season one of WBBS gave Justin Mallory a chance to outrun the demons of a childhood lost in the foster system. He’s a social media influencer, with millions of followers, and works every hour to make money that equals security for the rest of his life. His marketing team signs him up for the WBBS Christmas charity show, but he’s convinced he’ll fall at the first hurdle. Only, after a few days in the competition, his worry isn’t that he’ll be the first to leave, it’s that he’ll lose his heart to a rival baker, Brody.
I've been a fan of the Great British Baking Show(as it's called here in the US because of copyright conflicting with the Pillsbury Bake-Off) for a few years now ever since I stumbled across it on our local PBS station so when I read the setting for RJ Scott's newest holiday romance I thought "Ooooo, this could be fun" and boy was it ever!
I don't think I want to say too much to the plot, in some regards it's a typical holiday romance and that's not a bad thing. Just because something might be "typical" when it comes to holidays stories doesn't mean it isn't great. Every author has their own nuances even with "typical" and long as a story is well written with intriguing characters that you love to support and want to see succeed than it's a story worth reading. Let's be honest, when it comes to holiday romances after all these years it is hard to find one that is not "typical". So when you find one that is as fun as Cupcakes and Christmas, it is definitely worth reading. From the main characters, Justin and Brody, to their family and friends, their inner monologues, their jobs, and of course all their baking glory, this holiday romance is not to be missed. Just keep in mind you might be left hankering for more than one sweet treat.
Yumminess, yumminess, yumminess from beginning to end. Certainly a holiday treat to make you smile.
RATING:
Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
1
DIXON
Winter. It’s the time of year when frost etches pretty pictures on your windows and the world outside is nestled in a soft white blanket. A time when you get to snuggle up in your mismatched mittens, and no one comments on how many hot chocolates you’ve had—if you don’t start acting too hyper, anyhow.
I’ve always had a fondness for winter. And since there was snow on the ground and a nip in the air back when I first met Yuri, now I love it even more.
December is also traditionally a lucrative time for my people. While it’s widely known that Spellcraft has no business in politics or religion, nowadays Christmas is pretty secular. And who wouldn’t want to impress their special someone with a bespoke piece of Crafting?
My family had been working hard these past few weeks, and if my dad had his druthers, Practical Penn would be open on Christmas Eve to snag those last-minute shoppers. But our official Seer had negotiated Christmas Eve as one of his annual days off, and we didn’t dare break his contract by letting Yuri fill his shoes. Or wield his paintbrush, since shoes don’t really have anything to do with Spellcraft. And Rufus Clahd has unusually small feet.
Speaking of feet—there was still a bit of snow clinging to my shoes. I stomped it off on the welcome mat in my parents’ vestibule, then hung up my winter coat on the nearby coat tree. It was actually more like an alien life form than a tree, with a giant ball of winter coats up top that took up half the room. I’m not sure it was even possible to dig down to the innermost layers anymore. But if you did, you’d probably find something so old it had come back in style again. Maybe more than once.
My mother hustled in as I was draping my coat over the top of the coat-ball. Once my hands were free, she enveloped me in a big, squishy hug, and greeted me with, “Where’s Yuri?”
I adored the way she loved him as much as I did. “Picking up dinner.”
“That’s generous of him—but he really didn’t need to. We’ve got plenty of leftovers in the fridge.”
“What can I say? He insisted.” I steered Mom into the living room where my dad was clicking through channels from his favorite recliner. I gave him a kiss on the top of the head, then said, “You guys’ve both been working so hard lately, might as well let us pamper you.”
Mom settled into her chair with considerable arranging and re-arranging of her bulk—not unlike the way my cockatoo friend, Meringue, fastidiously fluffs her feathers as she’s settling onto her perch. “Just so it’s understood this isn’t a Christmas present.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not. He just wanted to do something nice.”
“Yuri might be a Seer, but he wasn’t raised in the Craft.”
“Trust me—I’m awesome at explaining our traditions. And Yuri knows. No gifts.”
Mom was skeptical. “Because there’s nothing less meaningful than being trapped into an endless cycle of reciprocal obligation with the people you’re supposed to love.”
“That’s just what I said.” Actually, it was more like, Spellcrafters don’t do Christmas presents. Same difference. “I think Yuri actually seemed pretty relieved.”
Dad paused in his channel-changing, looked at my mom and said, “Speaking of traditions, you told Dixon about the Magi…right?”
Normally, I would’ve presumed this was some kind of setup for a cheesy joke—except that my mother stopped rearranging herself and said, “I thought you did.”
“Magi?” I said. “As in the story about the guy who sold his pocket watch and the girl who cut off her hair?”
“As in the three wise men,” my mother said testily.
“That sounds kind of…biblical.” I could’ve sworn my mother thought the Bible was full of baloney. Speaking of which, I hoped Yuri remembered to grab us a nice relish tray, since I was feeling a mite peckish.
“I’m sure it’s all just superstition,” Dad said.
Mom gave him her patented single-squinty-eyeball look. “And since when does superstition stop a Spellcrafter from doing something? Everyone knows superstition is just the poor cousin of luck. The way my parents explained it to me, the Magi were the first Seer and Scrivener.”
I supposed legends had to start somewhere. “But aren’t there supposed to be three Magi?”
“The third guy was their customer,” Mom said. Huh, lucky him. I wonder if they Crafted a way for his camel to go faster…or at least not spit so much. “The Magi didn’t turn up for every single one of their messiah’s birthdays bearing gifts…just the first one. And so, it’s Scrivener tradition to surprise your partner with a small gift on your first Christmas together.”
“In fact,” my father said, “it’s bad luck if you don’t.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
Mom looked somewhat chagrined. “We meant to say something. You know how crazy it’s been at the shop.”
“And now I’ve got nothing for Yuri!” I scrambled to recall if I’d seen any stores open on our way over, but all I could think of was the car wash with the big inflatable noodle-guy flailing around in the parking lot. Was a premium car wash a good gift? Maybe for some people. But if I ran the pickup truck through the high-powered water jets, I’d likely blast off the rust that was holding on the fender. “It’s too late to shop online, and all the local stores are closed.”
“How about the gas station?” Mom suggested. “The one by the highway to Strangeberg is open twenty-four-seven.”
Dad set down the remote, pried himself from the recliner and dusted his hands together. “Before Dixon tries to figure out how to make an air freshener and a bag of pork rinds look festive, I suggest he take a gander at The Stash.”
The Stash was Dad’s collection of assorted useable objects that just needed a little TLC to bring them back to their former glory. In theory, it was a great resource for someone looking to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon tinkering at the workbench. But in reality, my father just can’t stand seeing anything of potential value being thrown away…and he likes gathering things a lot more than he likes fixing them. I wasn’t quite sure how much longer I could count on the supermarket keeping Yuri busy—but since those places are more cutthroat on Christmas Eve than a roller derby, I hoped I could head down to the basement and find some random item that would pass for a thoughtful gift.
Unfortunately, the current state of The Stash was less than encouraging. You’ve seen organizing shows where a stack of plastic bins makes a roomful of stuff miraculously fit onto a closet shelf? This wasn’t like that. At all. Cheap plastic storage containers teetered in tall stacks, and because they were all from some no-name bargain bin, most of them were cracked or warped, and none of them quite fit together.
Still, an invitation from my father to go through The Stash was not to be taken lightly. With Mom always hinting that she’d take great pleasure in throwing it all away, over the years he’d grown protective. But as I rifled through bin after cracked plastic bin, I wasn’t so sure there was anything there worth protecting. Jewelry—not even the good stuff, with its faux gemstones and plastic pearls scattered like ball bearings in the bottoms of the containers. Weird kitchen gadgets you might buy on TV when insomnia struck. Kitschy little statuettes that needed a touch-up to their paint job. And while I did know my way around a paintbrush—I’ve always been fond of flourishing—I strongly suspected Yuri was the wrong audience for the big-eyed baby statuettes and chubby-cheeked cherubs. He’s none too keen on looking at an inanimate object only to find it looking back.
“Aha!” my father said. “This looks promising.”
Too bad that exclamation could only work so many times. And since I couldn’t really see Yuri being particularly enthused over a broken foot massager or a promotional backscratcher, it took me a moment to realize precisely what had been plucked from the teetering stack. “Dad…is that what I think it is?”
“No clue. I’m still trying to get the top open.”
“That box you’re holding…it’s my favorite box!”
Dad looked skeptical. “It’s just your average cardboard box, Dixon.”
“You say average like it’s a bad thing—but just look at it. Not too big, not too small, not too flimsy, and not too thick. In short, it’s an absolutely perfect box. I thought it was long gone, smashed flat in some far distant recycling bin. But here it is!” I took it from his unresisting hands with a happy sigh. “In all its boxy glory.”
“And even better, if you look inside, you might find something for Yuri.”
After a few tries, the old cellophane tape yielded to my thumbnail, and with great eagerness, I pulled open the flap. And inside was….
Another box.
Not a cardboard box, but a wooden box. A fancy wooden box—very sturdy. Very solid. And very elaborate. My breath caught as I held it up to the fluorescent light and said, “What’s this?”
“Dunno. Open it and see.”
When I popped the seal, a smell wafted out that was mostly dust, but something else, too. Oranges. Cloves. And beneath it all…cedar. I opened the lid to a bunch of wood shavings. “I hope there wasn’t originally a hamster in here.”
“Potpourri,” my father said decisively. “All the rage in the eighties. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bathroom without it.”
I gave the box a dubious shake. The smell of mingled spices tickled my senses.
Dad said, “That lid’s awfully plain, though, don’t you think? Maybe you’re holding it upside down.”
I flipped it over and discovered he was right. The actual lid was very decorative. Unfortunately, there was a word etched within the carvings. A very unfortunate word.
Poopourri.
My heart sank. “Well, that’s a shame. I was just thinking Yuri would actually like this. But he’s never once laughed at an American pun. Not in my presence, at least.”
“Maybe he’s just never found the right one.” Dad eyed the lettering. “Though as jokes go, this one’s not so hot. But take a look at the etching. It’s pretty shallow. You could add some flourishes with a wood burner and turn the word into a decorative design.”
I’d only ever seen my father use the wood burning tool to singe our name onto our patio furniture in case any of our neighbors ever decided to appropriate it—which they never did—but it seemed straightforward enough. I’m no artist. Not like Yuri, with his ability to evoke a morning mist with a swipe of a half-cleaned brush or a distant horizon with a single horizontal stroke. But all Scriveners receive extensive calligraphy training, so decorative elements like cartouches and ornaments were certainly in my calligraphic vocabulary. As I considered the shape and position of the current lettering, the bowls and stems of the letters shifted in my mind’s eye to become the twigs and fruits of an elaborate bouquet of holly. Seasonal, yet secular.
In other words, perfect!
Waiting for Christmas by RJ Scott & VL Locey
CHAPTER ONE
REGEN
“No, I can’t take a later flight. I have exactly seventy-two hours. Can you find me something on a different airline?”
I paced the small apartment I shared with another rookie, stopping to grab a fry from the bag of takeout sitting on the coffee table, cell to my ear. Hey, he’d left it to go run off with the puck bunny of the night, so finders keepers, and losers go hungry. Ignoring the sounds of passion oozing through the thin walls of our second-story apartment in DTLA, or downtown Los Angeles as the vets on the team called it, I waited for the travel agent to get back to me. Two blocks from the California Power Arena, Gregor Baranov and I had been set up by the LA Condors in the brand-new building overlooking Figueroa Street. I liked the place, but man, the walls were thin as toilet paper.
“Hello? Oh yeah, that would be great!” I wiped my greasy fingers on my jeans then raced into the small kitchen to find a pen and paper. “Okay, yes, the twenty-fourth at 6:04 a.m. from LAX. Yes, landing at Calgary International at 11:10. Air Canada? Awesome! Yes, thank you so much.”
I hung up, spun in a tight circle, and pumped the air. Three days back home over Christmas! I couldn’t wait to see my father and Cody. I had so much to tell them, so many stories to pass along about life in the City of Angels. The movie stars, the women, the heat. It was all so different from Witherspoon Lake, a small town about an hour from Calgary. Everyone had told me after being drafted that a backward Canadian boy like me would get a real eye-opening experience in LA. Everyone had been right.
Gregor’s girl of the night padded toward me as I was shoving in fries and searching for Cody’s number in my contacts. Not that I had to search hard. He was at the top, right after my dad. I’d just had a greasy finger swipe that had taken me into the lower ranks of my friends, the ones lingering at the bottom of the list whom I rarely called. Cody was so not one of the bottom dwellers. My gaze left the smudgy screen of my phone as bare boobs bounced by. Wow. Okay.
“Hey, Regen!” the bubbly blonde said as she skipped past in only a pink thong. I winced at the mangling of my name. She had said Ray-Gun. I should have corrected her as I did everyone else. It’s Ree-gin, not Ray-gin or Ray-Gun. Yes, I knew people here in the States thought it should be Ray-gun like the old movie actor/president. But back in Witherspoon Lake, population two thousand and fourteen, it was pronounced Ree-Gin. I would have corrected her if her massive boobs hadn’t been bared to the world. How on earth did a big, ugly Russian like Gregor find such hot women? He barely spoke any English. Guess Ursula was right. One should never underestimate body language. “Hey, do you have any pomegranate water?”
I ripped my gaze from her thighs. It got stuck on her boobs then flew to her face. Pretty face. Typical model look, all big blue eyes, and waves of golden hair. And boobs. So much boobage.
“Uhm, look in the fridge maybe?” I offered, phone in hand, Cody’s number finally going through. Service out at Witherspoon Lake was iffy. If the wind was blowing in the right direction you might get a call through.
“Oh, sure, yeah!” She giggled then returned to skipping along.
I heard Cody pick up. My interest in the boobs waned upon hearing his voice. “Cody, my friend, you really would not believe what I’m seeing,” I whispered and explained the current view. I knew Cody would appreciate it. He was bi after all, so half of him liked the soft, round lady bits.
“Wow. Not one girl in Witherspoon Lake would dare walk around in just a thong,” he said, his deep voice making me feel a surge of incredibly powerful feelings. I loved the guy. Not in a gay kind of way because I wasn’t gay, or even bi, not really. I mean I’d experimented in college with nine or ten guys over my four years, sure, but I’d never felt anything deep for any of them. Only Cody.
“Well if they did their fun pillows would freeze and fall off. So, jot this down. Pick up Regen at Calgary International at 11:10 at the Air Canada terminal on the twenty-fourth. You got that?”
“I got it.”
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
Scrooge was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He died some two years past on this very day, Christmas Eve. I would it were not so; yet I suspect the old man would not agree. He became rather infirm at the end, frail and forgetful, and though he did his best to remain cheerful, I know he hated to show weakness of any kind. It wasn’t a matter of pride, nor vanity; no, it wasn’t for his sake that he cared so. It was that, as he himself often said, he had become a sort of safeguard, a protector, to his family and to his community, and he hated the thought of us carrying on without him there, watching over us all. And we, of course, would clasp his hand and tell him that he would be looking over us in the next life, and that such thoughts brought us great comfort, and they should bring him great comfort too. And he would sigh, and agree with us, and settle in, at least for a while, until another great spasm wracked his breast, and his chest would heave with immense, raggedy gasps for air, and his worries arose all over again.
He died a good death, if it could be said that any death should be regarded as good. Though I have not spent nearly as many years as Scrooge did on this planet, I have knocked about a bit, and circumstance has shown me both great fortune and great tragedy. And as such, I have come to believe there is no good death to be had in this world. I have seen many poor wretches, past all hope of recovery from whatever it was that ailed them—whether it be an infliction of the body or the soul—beg for death, pray for it, and have watched it come in many guises, be it the cold, or the cough, or the cutthroat. I have seen their prayers answered, even if those answers came in some form of pain they had never envisioned. And yet I say, when the end did finally come, each and every one begged to stay, begged for their final breath to be forestalled, begged to live for even one moment more. Yea, though I have been on this world for less than a quarter of a century, I have come to know its horrors and have learned the greatest horror of all is that there is no world, no life, beyond this one.
Scrooge would not have agreed with this; oft he told us the tale of his visitation by his old friend, Jacob Marley, dead seven years in the grave before his return, and the further visitations by the three spirits who haunted him, also on a Christmas Eve. To Scrooge, there was no greater evidence of providence than this, and he lived such feelings in his heart for the rest of his life. I was glad of it; we all were, all of London town, though those of us who were closest to him felt his change of heart and his largesse most keenly. And many was the time, as a young man, on a Christmas Eve like this one, I sat cross-legged on the floor at Scrooge’s feet and listened to his tales of Christmas ghosts and astonishing spirits, of visitations to the past, and of the wondrous things that are yet to come.
Yet even then, I was a skeptic. After his tale was complete, Old Scrooge, as wise at reading faces as he was at managing his business, would frequently tousle my hair and tell me, “Young Master Peter, you must have the conviction of your faith. It is not enough to simply believe; you must know Christmas, and keep it in your heart all the year long.” Such words were enough for Tim and for the others; but I, I would only smile, and say, “Yes, Uncle Scrooge,” in a manner and tone that were always respectful, but that the cunning old man also knew to be mollifying. And Scrooge would then bend quite low—for he was a tall, wizened old fellow, and I have always been inclined to be undersized—and he would say to me, “You must not fear the world so much, Peter Cratchit.” And I would nod, and he would pat my cheek, or sometimes playfully pinch my nose. But what he meant by those words, I cannot say. In my experience, there is much to fear in this world, and much calamity the world will set upon the unwary soul who is not ever vigilant.
A growl in my stomach disturbed my thoughts. Time to dispense with these ruminations on the past; I was hungry. I willed my body out of its bed, a small recess in the side of a crumbling brick building used for the storage of livestock, a cramped pen to house the beasts before they were led to slaughter. The recess provided some shelter from the elements; there had been rain last night, so it was useful to keep dry, though the rain had been only a drizzle, and the weather was unseasonably temperate for so late in December. That was no small mercy.
The recess had once been a side door, now sealed up, when the building had been used for some other purpose, long forgotten to time. The smell of animal excrement that clung to the building—and to those who worked or, like me, dwelt within her—was formidable, but it also meant the alley I called my home remained deserted during the nightly hours. Safety in this life often comes at great cost. Those who have suffered at the world’s hands know this lesson all too well. The men who tended the animals had assembled a small cleaning station, clean water and a strong lye soap, behind the building, and they charitably did not begrudge my use of it from time to time, provided I did not tarry, and they did not see me. I hastened in my morning ablutions and made my way out to the street.
There was a bakery on Saint Martin’s Close; it was there I would seek to break my fast. Every morning, my repast was the same: two hot buttered rolls and a small tankard of ale. The only difference was whether the baker would tally the cost of his labors on my tongue or on my tail.
I made my way down Carol Street to the main Camden Road. I used to live on this very road, as a youth, but far down the other end from those places where I now worked and resided. Camden Town was named for Camden Road; the road was the heart of the ward, bisecting it in the north and making up the entirety of its western edge. It was impossible to be in Camden Town and avoid the Camden Road. And yet, in all of my wanderings through this neighborhood, I always avoided the familiar façade of my former house, with its chipped paint and ill-fitted front door. I was more interested in the thick, oaken door that led to the alley behind the bakery, where the business received deliveries of flour and other such supplies. I knocked. Some days, the baker answered promptly, as if expecting me; other days, like today, I had to wait. He was a busy man, having woke well before the dawn to assemble his breads and rolls and pastries and cakes. His bakery was a small one, but he did a good measure of custom, enough to keep him in flour and dough and sugar and coal for the ovens. Still, he had only one boy to help him prepare the daily wares—in this neighborhood, even relative prosperity resulted in genuine poverty.
Whether the boy was his son, or some urchin off the street, I do not know. The baker and I did not converse on such matters. It was, in part, because the man’s well of English was so deficient that any conversation would prove inconsequential at best. I could not identify his native tongue, and he spoke only the English of a tradesman and knew the terms for barter and exchange, and little more. My own English improved greatly under the tutelage of Ebenezer Scrooge, who gave me books to read and provided college-trained tutors to sharpen my intellect. I was beyond basic schooling by the time our families came together; but my mind was quick and hungered for knowledge, and Uncle Scrooge filled it with book after book on all manner of subjects—history, literature, economics, philosophy, mythology, the principles of business. I eagerly took it all in, save perhaps the poets, who I found too disordered, too insubstantial, to truly relish. Still, for an occasion such as this, the silver portion of my tongue was not really necessary. It was my tongue’s other talents that the baker was interested in. I suppose, in the end, this, like so much in life, was simply a matter of business. I needed what the baker had to offer; he felt the same. Talk would only prolong the necessities of exchange.
The man finally answered and hurried me inside. In nicer weather, he sometimes took his payment in the alley, but he did not like the cold and the damp, so he ushered me into a cramped cookery room stuffed with coal- and wood-burning ovens. I had no objection to being enveloped in warmth; it made for a pleasant change of atmosphere from my usual status at this time of year.
I could see by the sights and sounds of his distresses that my morning patron was more harried than usual. His eyes were darting around the room. His gestures were quick, and rough, and impatient. He was a large, hirsute man, with a rotund belly and a gray, prickly beard, which, at the moment, was dusted in a rather generous supply of flour.
I was no longer fond of beards; I generally preferred smooth-faced youths, like myself, and not the wooly chins of older men, though, in my line of work, older men were my main custom. And this was business, not pleasure, and the baker felt the same as I, especially today. Even as he penned me into his back kitchen, he continued to bellow orders to the boy out front. I often wondered what the boy thought of our exchanges. Perhaps it was of no consequence to him. Perhaps he was grateful he did not have to provide a similar service. Or perhaps he did. Who can say.
Cupcakes and Christmas by RJ Scott
Chapter One
Save the planet! It’s the only one with cupcakes!
Justin
“Hey, Mallys! It’s stunning here.” I grinned at the camera, panning the phone to take in the entirety of the space, along with distant views of Sulphur Mountain. Up to now, each season of the World’s Best Baking Show had been filmed in California, but for this Christmas special, they explained they wanted authenticity. This meant filming had been moved to a beautiful convention center on the grounds of the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel in snowy Alberta. It was certainly a step up from a dressed sound stage and I was going to be sharing a ton of photos and videos. In fact, I’d sat down with my social media team and carefully planned most of them. There was always room for impromptu shots but for now I was sticking to the carefully considered script.
“It’s a bit different to the studio back in Cali.” I crossed my eyes to the camera, a trademark of mine whenever I was being self-deprecating, and then I panned back to the mansion. I took my audience with me, and my screen was already filled with hearts and messages. “I was so nervous when I started the show, but I’m such a different person since I took part in season one. I’m not the nineteen-year-old kid who wanted to take the baking world by storm. I was lucky to win, and my life has changed.” I smiled and then dropped the smile a little. “I think I’m still as nervous this time as I was then.” I paused dramatically and looked wistfully in the distance at the snow-covered vista. “I hope I do okay,” I added for good measure. “Until next time, Mallys!” I gave them all a thumbs up, cut the feed, and pocketed my cell.
“And that’s a wrap,” Erin Lister shouted from her hiding place behind the tree and scurried toward me. “Two hundred likes so far and climbing. You hit all the main points.” Erin was part of the team I’d hired to look after my brand, although the contract was due for renewal and I was already getting itchy feet to move on. I’d allowed the team, and more particularly Erin, to control my output so far, and it had worked, but I knew what I needed to do was to get a hold of everything myself. I couldn’t carry on letting other people tell me what to do just for money—hell, I could work for the money by myself.
I could fail. Lose everything.
I stiffened slightly—who said I was going to fail anything at all. I should think more of myself.
As usual, Erin looked harried and tense, but that was her job. All I had to do, in her words, was look pretty and say my lines. I’m not sure when my genuine organic rise in social media became something else, which meant other people calling the shots, but my bank account was healthy, so I wasn’t going to argue. Money was my main objective in life. When I had enough, I could do what I really wanted to do, which was not having to worry about money.
“Great.” I could see she had something to add though and waited to find out what I’d done wrong.
“Apart from the fact you didn’t mention the KlecksoCream.”
“There’s a reason for that,” I muttered. “It’s shit.”
KlecksoCream may be perfectly white and smooth, kind of like the whipped cream sprayed out of a can which also tastes good, but this cream tastes like shit.
She heard me and tutted. “It’s also adding twenty-thousand to your already heavy bank account, Juss.”
“Justin,” I reminded her. My name was already short, why did people think they had to shorten it even more.
“So let’s do a segment where you say you’ve forgotten and that you have something to add.”
I hate those. I can’t believe my followers don’t see right through the add-on advertising. I declare it on all my posts, but my fan base grows every day, and sometimes things slip through. Still, I try to respect the people who follow me and see them as more than numbers, even if everything had blurred together since the old days when I knew the names of a lot of the people who contacted me.
“It’s not the right time.”
“Juss-tin, please, we need a KlecksoCream mention to hit your feeds by seven p.m.—”
“So it’s in the public’s conscience when the ad during prime time airs,” I sing-songed as she glared at me. “I know all that.” I sighed inwardly. “Remind me why I agreed to promote a cream brand that tastes like ass?”
She tilted her head and stared at me as if I’d just asked her what two plus two was. There was an unspoken duh in her that she was holding back. It didn’t matter why I signed a contract with a company that made fake cream which tasted like ass, it just mattered that I had. As usual, I’d signed it on a day when I felt my life was spiraling and when my constant companion, impostor syndrome, kicked in.
What if the money ran out? What would I do? How much money is enough?
Still, she had a point. I had commitments, and I would see them through. “Okay, jeez, I’m doing it.”
She nodded, and I waited for her to move, but evidently, she needed to witness this small humiliation so she could cross it off her list. I pulled out my cell then turned a full three-sixty in the snow to search for inspiration. At least a couple of inches of new snow fell overnight. When the beautiful, virgin white snowfall that was smoothed over a large bush with some of the greenery exposed caught my eye, I headed down the steps, passed Erin, and crossed the large lawn. I stood next to the bush with the fresh snow, making sure it was in my shot, ruffled my hair a little so it was casually tousled then connected again.
“Hello, Mallys, look what I just found. This snow is white and smooth and looks exactly like the KlecksoCream I used in last week’s episode of Baking with Mallory. Kinda cool, right? Links in my bio! Later, guys!” I ended the connection and got a thumbs up from Erin. Kleckso got their mention, and I didn’t even have to add that it tasted like shit because I stayed true to myself. KlecksoCream was smooth, and it was white. Neither of those things were lies.
Forget that it tasted a little cheesy, or that it was a long way past natural colored and right onto glow in the dark.
Ka-Ching, twenty-thousand in my happy-with-life pot and not one single lie told. All I had to do was ignore the guilt that some poor baker out there would buy that shit on my say-so. The guilt wasn’t new. It grew worse each day I was pretending to be something I wasn’t. In the last year, as I’d grown closer to the magic number of five million in my account, the guilt had turned to a self-hate, and it was consuming me. I have a few more commitments after the charity competition, then I was finished with all of this. I just hadn’t fired my advisor team yet or even given a hint I was done.
Anyway, what would I do instead?
Anything is better than peddling shit fake cream to innocent bystanders.
Erin consulted her list. “Okay, next up we need you to film yourself going inside. Remember your lighting, but we’re not live for that one so we can fix it if you mess up. I’m going back to the hotel. Don’t forget, I’m only staying two nights, then I need to head out. So I want video for the collection as back up, and we’d also like you to mention what you’re wearing. Hilfiger struck a deal with some big football star, so Klein wants you to one up them.”
Names like Hilfiger and Klein used to mean nothing more to me other than brands I aspired to own. Now both of them wanted me for endorsements, and they paid me good money to mention their casual wear. I took a few still photos of the venue, which was a pretty atrium to a plainer building, a pouting selfie for her to post, and hashtag Klein whenever needed, and then finally I headed up the steps and opened the door.
“Film it!” Erin called up from the bottom of the steps.
“Later,” I called back and before she could shout anything else, I slipped inside the big door and pulled it closed. She wouldn’t come inside, that was my freedom from all things Erin, with her lists and her marketing schedules, and the relief was instant.
I crossed the threshold into a tumble of decorations in tones of green and red for Christmas, with show banners and posters everywhere. Just seeing the show logo again, fancied up for Christmas with extra holly and berries, was a startling reminder of all the hopes and dreams I’d had when I got a place on season one.
I leaned against a pillar and took in the atrium, with its gleaming glass and show banners. The whole place had the feel of luxurious wealth. I closed my eyes for a minute just to listen to the absolute silence. I hadn’t slept properly for the last week and the same worries I carried with me from childhood were milling around in my head. Mostly about how the hell I was going to fit in with the other contestants.
It’s not like I’d know anyone here from meeting them before. We’d all been contestants on World’s Best Baking Show, but I’d missed the WBBS reunions, even though I’d been invited every time. Erin had doubted whether it was worth my time to look back, and she’d convinced me that my life was moving forward, reminding me of how much other people had to tidy up my bakes for my videos. However, that didn’t stop her from wanting me to connect to the show when it suited my profile, like being part of this charity show. I blame her for suggesting I shouldn’t go to the reunions, but deep down, I’d always been relieved. After all, what would I have said at these meet ups? I was better on-screen and Erin and her team agreed, so I’d never gone. Of course, now my association with WBBS was of utmost importance for as soon as news of the charity show was announced, five companies had approached me for endorsements.
Or approached Erin.
It meant that Kleckso was abruptly good for my brand income, and so here I was, out of my comfort zone, but with seriously heavy deposits into my already healthy bank account. Twenty-thousand to mention KlecksoCream was just the tip of the iceberg to what I would be earning if I made it to the finals on the show while sticking to Erin’s rules.
I just had to meet people who could actually bake and have conversations with them.
Embrace the fear, confront the fear. Learn from the fear.
That is what my therapist wanted me to live by, but what didn’t seem obvious to her was that I’d already used my fear as fuel to propel me into being a very rich man. I had my first hundred thousand from winning the show and now at twenty-five, I have almost five million beautiful, sexy dollars locked away. Right now, no one could send me away from anywhere or take anything from me. But the nagging doubt was there all the time, the one that said I should’ve stayed at home, and that I didn’t need to do this show. Yes, I’d pull in endorsement money, but I could do that through my various social media platforms, just at a slower rate. Being here meant possibly exposing me for the fraud I was, but maybe I needed that scandal to stop people from wanting a part of me.
I got the irony. Selling myself and selling products made me rich, people wanted to be me, people wanted to bake like me, use my products, even my hair gel. But if they knew the real me, the scared kid who, more by luck than judgment, had made it to the final of season one and then won it by accident, then they’d run. When I signed up for it, I’d clearly been having an I can bake, I’m a good baker, I can do this kind of day. Or maybe the PR company signed me up for it? Erin and her team tend to over commit me, and I’ve yet to say no to anything they arrange.
Until the new year, when I was done—not that anyone knew it yet. And who would I tell? The marketing company I paid for? Or the next door cat that spent most of its time in my vast back yard?
Shake it off, Justin.
WBBS has six completed seasons so far and there’d be the six winners here, all fighting to be crowned the best of the best. With four rounds run over two weeks and handling various challenges, one person would be leaving each round until it was two people standing for the fifth and final round. Everything would be knit together in just the right way to capture the Christmas market. Some of how I felt was just the very real worry I wouldn’t make it past round one, but the rest of it was a mess of concerns about where I was going next, what I was doing. Nerves gripped tight and wouldn’t release me, and a familiar panic began to grow in my chest.
“Hi.”
I spun quickly to face the owner of the voice, coming face to face with someone stepping out of the shadows of a huge tree, and yelped.
Brody Thomas. Winner of season four, and just as sexy in real life as he had been on television. God, the crush I’d had on tall, dark, and seriously handsome was off the charts, but a proposal by his fiancé at his season finale put to rest any fantasy I may have had about getting anywhere near him.
“Shit! Sorry.” His nose wrinkled as he peered down at me from his lofty six inch advantage. I realized I had my hand over my heart, and that his frown was probably more like he was worried about me.
“No, it’s good. I’m really early, so I just wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here yet. It’s okay. Sorry.” Go me with the scintillating conversation.
“Brody Thomas, season four.” He held out a hand. With almost black hair, deep velvet brown eyes, and a voice smooth as whiskey, I could lose myself staring at him but instinct kicked in, and I shook his hand. Married. He’s married.
“Justin Mallory, season one.”
Brody grinned and there were dimples. Beautiful, sexy dimples. “I know. I watched your season.”
“I watched yours too.” Was I sounding too eager?
“Cool.”
Brody was wearing the softest cashmere sweater, decorated with a sprig of holly. He caught me staring and glanced down at his chest. “My brother’s idea, something about getting into the season. I just think he’s an idiot. I clearly got all the clever genes.”
“Right.” Way to kill the conversation.
Brody cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m early as well. I just wanted to get in as soon as I could, to familiarize myself with the new place, get a sense of what it was like.” He was filling the quiet, and I was thankful for that as there was no way it would be me guiding a conversation. Not unless it was online—then I was fine. I’d been so lost in memories of the show and consumed with nerves, that I hadn’t had time to put my Brand Justin mask on, and I hated that he’d caught me off guard.
“It’s big,” I offered, even though he was standing right here so he could see how big the inside was.
“It’s very different in here compared to the soundstage we filmed on. Did you go into the back and see the kitchen yet?” he asked and stared at a crystal chandelier above us, suspended from the ceiling and implausibly not crashing to the floor. His lips parted, and abruptly I wasn’t checking out the opulent surroundings but was staring at Brody. Ever since I’d seen him step onto the WBBS kitchen, I’d had this interest in him. When he stayed in week after week, my interest was backed up by frequent views of him being sexy in so many ways.
Sexy as he bent over and stared into his oven with his cute pout when things weren’t looking as good as they should. Sexy with powdered sugar on his face. Sexy as he grinned in excitement when he won. Sexy, always smiling on the show, a little clumsy, funny, fucking gorgeous, and totally gay. I could deny that I’d watched every scene Brody had been in several times over, including the highlight reels on YouTube, but I’d be lying.
“I’ve not seen anyone else yet. I literally just got here.”
He smiled at me and stretched tall. “I’m considering this a vacation, and I was excited to start.”
“A vacation?” Maybe a holiday in hell.
“Yeah. You know, baking things I love. The Fairmont is quiet, so maybe I can get some time to think.” Brody shrugged.
Justin wondered why he’d had said that with such a serious tone. Was he having problems?
For a second, he looked as if he wanted to run, and suddenly I felt more confident. If he was nervous as well, then I wouldn’t be alone. “I want to visit Banff as well.”
The producers of WBBS were putting us up at the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel since the show was being taped in the convention center. It was great because it was within walking distance of the town. I loved what I’d seen on the internet about the town of Banff, with its gorgeous shops and the mountains all around. I actually had a long list of things I wanted to do while we were here.
Anything to stop thinking about everything I needed to do all the freaking time. I’d imagined walking along the street, looking into the huge Christmas shop, doing the tourist thing, snow falling around me, totally anonymous. I could buy a coffee and people watch and hope there wasn’t any social media users in town.
“Banff is gorgeous, I saw some of it as I drove through,” I said.
“We should go. I mean the bakers. We should visit, and maybe go to the hot pool on Sulphur Mountain, and there’s a lookout point on the mountain with a crystal bear. We could do that as well.”
He was so animated that I wanted to touch him just to steal that spark of energy, but then he was staring at the chandelier again.
“That’s stunning,” Brody announced and pointed up at the huge display. I quickly took my stare from checking him out and instead looked at the crystals above us.
He makes cakes. He’s funny, cute, but he’s married, and Marc is a lucky guy.
He was standing close, and my mind was spinning too fast. I was getting hard in the middle of an expansive garden room with a definitely-not-single gorgeous baker who was my competition. I should be less worried about my libido and more concerned that I wasn’t going to make it past week one. The first season had been easy for me to win, not because I’m the most amazing baker ever, but because it was a test show, and I was lucky. I was up against other amateurs who were lost when asked to make choux pastry. Hell it was so bad that we’d muddled through together. No one had even really known about the show or watched it until the college kids found it, and abruptly it went viral. Every season had to have new and exciting challenges, so it got harder and trickier for the contestants. The level I’d managed compared to what Brody had to do to win his season was like the Wright brothers going up against Boeing.
They will see right through me. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t—
“Hey, you okay?” Hands gripped me, and I stared up at Brody, who peered down at me with a concerned expression. “You went all weird there for a moment.”
I blinked at him and then pointed up at the chandelier. “Vertigo,” I lied. I’m good at lying.
“Wow, okay then, no more staring at the pretty.” He sounded so damn serious, but all I could think about was that I would be very happy to stare at the pretty that was Brody Thomas.
Any day of the week.
Jordan Castillo PriceAuthor and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
RJ Scott
RJ Scott is a USA TODAY bestselling author of over 140 romance and suspense novels. From bodyguards to hockey stars, princes to millionaires, cowboys to military heroes to every-day heroes, she believes that love is love and every man deserves a happy ending.
USA Today Bestselling Author V.L. Locey – Penning LGBT hockey romance that skates into sinful pleasures.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, Torchwood and Dr. Who, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a pair of geese, far too many chickens, and two steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in one hand and a steamy romance novel in the other.
Drew Marvin Frayne is the pen name of a long-time author (Lambda Literary Award finalist) who is finally taking the opportunity to indulge his more sentimental and romantic side. When not writing the author lives with his husband of 20+ years and their dog of 10+ years in a brick home in the Northeast.
Jordan Castillo Price
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
SMASHWORDS / LIVEJOURNAL / B&N
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
jcp.heat@gmail.com
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
VL Locey
Drew Marvin Frayne
EMAIL: drewmarvinfrayne@gmail.com
Present Tense by Jordan Castillo Price
KOBO / iTUNES / SMASHWORDS
Waiting for Christmas by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne
Cupcakes and Christmas by RJ Scott
