Summary:
One hard-nosed military police officer.
One overly enthusiastic elf.
One poorly timed snowstorm.
Is it a recipe for disaster, or a once in a lifetime opportunity for holiday romance?
Teddy MacNally loves Christmas and everything that goes along with it. When he plays an elf for his charity’s events, he never expects to be paired with a Scrooge masquerading as Santa Claus. His new mission: make the holiday-hating soldier believe he was born to say ho-ho-ho.
Sergeant Major Nicholas Nowicki doesn’t do Santa, but he’s army to his blood. When his CO asks an unusual favor, Nick of course obliges. The elf to his Kris Kringle? Tempting. Too tempting—Nick’s only in town for another month, and Teddy’s too young, too cheerful and too nice for a one-night stand.
The slow, sexy make-out sessions while Teddy and Nick are alone and snowbound, though, feel like anything but a quick hookup. As a stress-free holiday fling turns into Christmas all year round, Teddy can’t imagine his life without Nick. And Nick’s days on the base may be coming to a close, but he doesn’t plan on leaving anything, or anyone, behind.
Summary:
Snow has settled over the evergreens, and love has come to stay...
Andy is a small town Sheriff with a secret. For years he’s been in the closet, hiding the truth about who he really is--and this year, it’s even more important that he keep his secret hidden. His position as Sheriff is up for grabs.
Jeffrey Smith is a big city businessman, and he’s only in town to secure an investment. When his luck takes a turn, he finds himself falling for the last person he should--the town’s Sheriff himself.
This cozy, sexy standalone gay romance from Riley Knight is 55,000 words and intended for adult audiences only. Merry Christmas!
Summary:
Captivating Captains
Will Reuben be unwrapping a captain this Christmas?
Reuben’s a makeup artist who’s much in demand in the business, from making the beautiful even more gorgeous to creating an alluring love-scene glow. All of his Christmas wishes come true at once when he’s hired to work on the set of his favourite TV show. And not only that but on the swoony Christopher Manners.
Bunny is lusted after by millions as the brooding hero of television’s Captain Firth adventures. His manly swash and handsome buckle have earned him a legion of fans, and when he strides onto the screen and commands, “Draw your sword, sir,” it’s time to get down to business.
When Reuben and Bunny’s first date turns into a disaster, it looks as though the show’s over before it’s begun, but a blizzard, a mysterious bearded man in a red coat and a hot winter night combine to give them a second chance.
Pubisher's Note: This book is linked to the Captivating Captains series.
Summary:
This bad boy is about to get everything he wants for Christmas.
Sweet, humble, soft-spoken Daniel always tried to be a good person, despite the hell his family put him through every Christmas.
But when he meets the hot and cocky bad boy Cass who crashes his holiday weekend with the family, Daniel learns what it's like to break all the rules, live dangerously and proudly make Santa's "naughty list".
Includes: Steamy situations, a "fake boyfriend" dilemma, tiptoeing around an uptight family, soul searching, and an unexpected touch of holiday magic.
Ten years ago, Jon’s passion for the piano took him across country to New York, where a demanding concert career consumed his life and left him no time to look back. His father’s stroke is the only thing that brings him home to Seattle. The sick room makes for a dreary holiday until Jon runs into Bo, whose inner light can make anything sparkle.
Bo loves the holidays; the food, the crafts, the glitter! A fling with an old school friend – who grew up to be his celebrity crush – makes a good thing better. The season turns sour, though, when Jon is offered a gig he can’t refuse. He wants Bo to share the moment, but Bo doesn’t fly. Anywhere. Ever.
Is this good-bye, or will a handmade ornament bring Jon home to Bo?
Better Not Pout by Annabeth Albert
Chapter 1
The Santa suit didn't fit. It itched. And it tugged against Nick's skin as he drove out of Fort End, heading southeast toward the small town of Mineral Spirits. On the rare occasions he ventured off base into what he still thought of as the wilds of upstate New York, he got on the interstate and went straight to Watertown. He did his shopping or went out to eat and never bothered with these narrow state highways and back roads leading to tiny villages and hamlets, most of which seemed to have Mills or Crossing in their name and were pretty interchangeable as far as he was concerned.
Mineral Spirits was slightly bigger than most of the towns, notable for the covered bridge that his older F-150 creaked over on the way into a downtown that seemed fresh out of the 1950s red- and gray-brick buildings with signs announcing homey businesses such as Nancy's Diner and Pete's Pet Store. And apparently the village was also known for a borderline freaky obsession with the holidays — even now, a week before Thanksgiving, he spied Christmas decorations on more than one storefront and cutouts of turkeys and pilgrims on a few others.
His stupid GPS kept going out — something about the hills around here made cell service spotty — but the Helping Hand Resource Center was easy enough to find, right off Main Street as Commander Grace had told him. The low white building was decorated with giant colorful handprints on the sides and a large cheerful sign that proclaimed its name and All Are Welcome. He parked in the far corner of the lot, backing into the space, as was his habit.
A bitter wind greeted him, but he didn't bother with his jacket. The damn suit was hot enough, the way it clung to his back, plush red fabric anything but breathable. He remembered to grab the beard and wig, but no way was he putting those on until the last minute. He opened the door to the center only to be greeted by an honest-to-God green-clad elf.
"Nick?" The elf grinned at him like they'd been introduced already. And okay, he wasn't a literal elf, just a small young man with curly blond hair in an elf outfit he seemed perfectly comfortable in — green-and-white-striped tights, hat with a bell, curving slippers, and all. "Sergeant Major Nowicki, yes." It had been years since he'd been just plain Nick for someone outside of his own head, and he wasn't about to start with this overly friendly elf.
"Yes, Miriam told us to expect you. I can't tell you how much we appreciate you filling in for Wallace."
Nick couldn't remember ever hearing Commander Grace referred to by her first name. He knew it, of course, but she was his commanding officer first and foremost, even if she had made efforts over the last few months to make sure he felt welcome at Fort End. And when she asked him for this favor, he'd felt unable to say no, mainly because she was kind and generous and wasn't one to abuse her position and ask for special treatment.
"Of course. Everyone at the base is hoping for a full recovery from Mr. Grace." The commander's husband was an elementary school teacher in Mineral Spirits, and they'd made their home here rather than on base as Nick did.
And apparently, every year they'd been stationed at Fort End, Mr. Grace had played Santa for this charity. The job entailed letting the local paper get photos of him in unusual locations around town so it could run a contest where readers tried to guess "Where's Santa now?" And then he'd appear at a couple of different town events over the course of the season as part of a campaign to raise money for the charity's holiday efforts. The Graces loved this season and this tiny town. But Mr. Grace had suffered a heart attack two days ago and had been life-flighted all the way into Syracuse for open-heart surgery. Commander Grace had called him from I-81, worried not about making it to the hospital, but about whether there would be a Santa for this year's fund-raiser. And he, fool that he was, had said he'd handle finding a replacement. Except everyone he talked to was already committed to something this weekend and, somehow, he'd ended up being the one in the suit.
A suit that was far too small, smelled vaguely of mothballs, and had probably seen better decades. But he was here to do his duty.
"I'm supposed to see Mr. MacNally," he told the elf, who was still looking up at him expectantly.
"That would be me. Call me Teddy though. Everyone does." Another broad grin. And, of course, Mr. Casual was a Teddy. Despite his small stature and baby face, he had to be at least twenty-five since he was the director of this charity. Far too old and in-charge to be a Teddy.
"Who's the one taking the pictures?" He was eager to get this show on the road.
"That would be my cousin, Rhonda." He beckoned over a younger woman with similar curly blond hair. "She works for the paper. She's got several locations scouted out already. I thought you might like to start with a little tour of our facilities? Get you up to speed on what we stand for, maybe get you more in the spirit of things."
That wasn't possible as Nick didn't have an ounce of holiday spirit left, if he'd ever had any to begin with. But he wasn't out to be rude, so he nodded. "You've got me for the day."
"Excellent." Another megawatt smile, this one worthy of a dental ad, all perfectly gleaming white teeth and wide, full lips. He really shouldn't be noticing MacNally's mouth, full or otherwise. He wasn't here to get sidetracked by pouty perfection.
One more month, he reminded himself. One more month at Fort End, which ironically really was the end for him. End of the line, the army's refusal to let him re-up bringing a twenty-eight year career to a halt at the nation's most remote, northernmost outpost, a place that often felt like the end of the earth, far removed from his desert deployments and years stationed in Hawaii, California, and other warm states. He still wasn't exactly happy about the army's decision to go all-in on a reduction in forces, but he had a pretty sweet plan B waiting for him if he could just make it through this last month. One month and he'd be in Florida, on a boat, no Santa suit in sight, no obligations or distractions ...
Why that vision kept making his chest hurt, he didn't know. It might be the Army's call, but he'd worked nearly three decades to earn the military retirement coming to him. By this time in January, he'd have his own place on the ocean and a partnership with his old Army buddy, who did boat day trips for tourists and made himself a nice little living.
And there would be no snow in sight. Ten months here had been more than enough for him. Even the summer had been unbearable, all muggy and humid with mosquitoes everywhere, and only two really good months before fall hit. And now the weather people were calling for a big storm this weekend. Not even Thanksgiving, and they were already talking snow days. No, Florida would be far preferable to any more time at Fort End.
"So we're a multipurpose resource center here to serve primarily the low-income folks of the village and surrounding towns." MacNally had an unusually energetic speaking voice, all full of bright inflection and exclamation points where a simple pause might do. "We have a food pantry, clothing closet, heating and electric bill assistance, Holiday Giving Tree for kids, and offer a variety of workshops and classes ranging from parenting topics to food preservation to budgeting."
MacNally took him through the large, airy lobby with older couches that managed to look both well loved and inviting. Like the exterior of the building, the room was colorful with a children's play area and library tucked into the far corner. From there, he followed MacNally down a hallway as he pointed out the clothing closet full of warm coats looking for homes, the offices where caseworkers met one-on-one with families, and a meeting room for workshops. Nick tried to make approving noises as MacNally prattled on and on about the work of the resource center. He was relieved when they finally reached the food pantry that took up the rear of the building.
He was trying to listen to MacNally talk about balanced meals and perishable items when he spotted a slight teenage boy struggling under the weight of a huge case of canned goods. The case tottered precariously, and acting without thinking, Nick lunged to save it from landing on the kid's feet.
Riiiiipppp. An awful, foreboding sound happened at the exact instant he steadied the case. He immediately felt a draft on his ass where there had previously been scratchy material. The teen started laughing before scurrying away under the force of Nick's glare.
"Oh dear." MacNally's mouth opened and shut as if his bottomless supply of good cheer didn't have an answer for this turn of events. He wasn't even subtle in how he twisted around, checking out Nick's backside to verify that yes, indeed, the borrowed suit had split. "I guess you are a great deal ... larger than Wallace, aren't you? But no worries, Santa, I've got you covered." Laughing, he dragged Nick into an office off the food pantry, yelling over his shoulder, "Rhonda, we're going to need your assistance."
"I don't think —" Nick really didn't need even more of an audience for his humiliation.
"It's no bother." MacNally patted him on the arm. "Do you have spare pants in your car?"
"No." He suppressed a groan. On his way he'd dropped his uniforms off at the cleaner's, so he didn't have a spare in the truck as he sometimes did.
"Hmm. No way are you fitting into anything of mine." MacNally sighed dramatically. "Rhonda, can you check the clothing closet for men's XL or XXL anything? Sweats would be perfect."
"Sure thing."
"Now, I know I've got some red thread here ..." MacNally started rustling around a cluttered desk. The small office was busy — desk laden with framed pictures, walls covered with inspirational posters, open box of holiday decorations in the corner, stack of kids' handprint turkeys on the visitor's chair. "And a needle. We don't want to have to staple you shut."
"You are not coming anywhere near me with a stapler." Nick put all his years of MP experience into his voice. As a military police officer, he took no guff, and he wasn't about to start with this ... elf.
But MacNally just laughed. "We'll hope it doesn't come to that." He leaned in close enough that Nick could smell some sort of fruity aftershave. "But I'll be honest, I had to alter my costume to get it to fit, and I totally used a stapler on the shoes."
"Were your feet in them at the time?" he demanded.
"Of course not." MacNally's laugh reminded Nick of the fresh-picked peaches he'd loved when he'd been stationed in Georgia — warm and fresh and far too tempting. "And you're not going to be in the pants either."
Right as he delivered that alarming bit of news, Rhonda returned, hands empty. "Sorry. I couldn't find anything that might fit." Her eyes flashed with appreciation. She didn't make a secret of checking him out, gaze roving over his frame to the point that he felt his skin heat. "It's mainly kids' clothes right now, and Saint Nick here is definitely not in the juniors' sizes."
"Sergeant Major Nowicki," he corrected, even though it felt somewhat like spitting into the wind with these two. "And perhaps we should just reschedule. I can go back to base, change, and then go see if I can find a costume shop in Watertown that might have something more suitable."
"Costume shop there closed after Halloween — the owner retired, and a new one hasn't popped up yet," MacNally said breezily. "And no need for that. Here's thread and a needle. We'll just step out, you'll pass me the pants, and I'll have you done up in a jiffy."
Jiffy? Who used words like that anymore? Nick was forty-six, and he was pretty sure he'd never done anything in a jiffy.
"Fine." He waited until MacNally and Rhonda had left the room to shed the pants. Even with his black boots on, they'd still been a bit short in the leg and the gaping hole in the seat wasn't helping anything. He set the boots aside along with the wig and beard and shucked off the pants, feeling ridiculously exposed in just a Santa coat and his black boxer briefs, which — because it was laundry day — were the ones that probably should have been retired a few years back. Like me. He passed the pants out the door, and then paced the small space, not wanting to sit in MacNally's chair in his underwear and not wanting to move the kid drawings from the other chair.
"Can I get you some coffee?" Rhonda's voice filtered through the door.
"No, I'm good," he said, even though he wasn't. But coffee would mean opening that door again, and he wasn't doing that more times than necessary. He'd held formations, had platoon sergeants under him, trained hundreds of enlisted men and women, and advised a string of commanders as he worked his way up to sergeant major. And in all his years of service, this ranked right up there for most humiliating moment.
"Okay, I think I've got it." MacNally rapped on the door. "I'm no seamstress, but I've put buttons back on coats and closed up rips on donations before."
Nick opened the door just wide enough to stick his arm out for the pants. MacNally laughed, more of that summer warmth hitting Nick square in the center of his chest.
"You are a shy one, aren't you?"
No, I just don't want you seeing my worn drawers. But of course he wasn't saying that, so he simply grunted and took the pants. If possible, they were even tighter now, and they were going to be a devil to get off, but they were better than letting the chilly air continue to batter his bare legs.
"They fit." He opened the door, pulling his shoulders back, straightening his spine, just like he might for an inspection. "Let's go get your pictures."
"Sure. Just let me see —" MacNally craned his neck to see Nick's backside, seeming like he might get in there and inspect his stitches next. Nick quickly moved so that his back was to the poster-covered wall. "Okay, okay. But I'm bringing the needle and thread just in case."
"Where do you want the first picture? My GPS keeps going in and out, so I might need directions, but I'll meet you at the site." Nick was more than ready to get this show on the road.
"Don't be silly." MacNally waved his hand. "I'm parked right out back. My Forrester can easily hold all three of us. Rhonda and I already mapped everything out. I'll drive."
No way in hell was MacNally driving him anywhere, but Nick still searched for some manners. "I don't want to trouble you —"
"It's no bother at all. I cleaned out the car this morning and everything." MacNally grinned up at him.
Fuck. Nick did not want a ride — or anything else, those kissable lips included — from MacNally. However, he was also a realist and wasn't going to waste time arguing or risk stomping all over the other two's feelings.
"Come on." Rhonda led the way through the food pantry.
This is simply another mission, Nick told himself. He'd been on patrols in roasting-hot desert temperatures, conducted murder investigations, dealt with bomb threats and more disorderly conduct than he could even remember. Surely, he could get through one day in this blasted suit with the too-perky elf for company and then be on his way back to base, back to his holiday-free orderly life with its countdown to his retirement.
Small Town Christmas by Riley Knight
One
The bird loomed as big as a house, it seemed, through the lenses of his binoculars, and Andy smiled when he saw the head tilt to the side, like it was considering carefully, before the wicked sharp beak darted forward to rap smartly against the tree trunk. Through the window, slightly open despite the November chill in the air, Andy heard the sound that gave the woodpecker its name, and his smile widened.
He didn’t get to catch many of these moments, but when he did, it was definitely worth taking the time to enjoy them. Work would catch up with him soon enough, so he might as well use this few minutes of quiet bliss, just him and the hungry woodpecker.
It took less time than he could have hoped, though a few moments longer than he would have honestly thought. Soon enough, he heard a different sort of tapping, a peremptory knocking at the door that only one person in the world would think to do at the office of the sheriff of Granite Falls, Washington State. Most people would be too respectful of his exalted position, which had always sort of amused him, but not this man.
“Andy, sorry to bother you,” he said, and Andy knew both that the other man was actually sorry, but also that nothing would stop him from doing his job. It was one of many things to respect and admire about him. “Oh, hey, are you looking at that woodpecker out back?”
He came over to stand by Andy, and Andy smiled and handed the binoculars over without hesitation.
“What’s up, Robbie?” Andy asked, briskly but not without affection. The man by his side wasn’t just his second in command, he was also Andy’s best friend, and Andy gazed over at him and, as he so often did, wondered to himself just what the other man would say if he knew who Andy really was.
Not that it was likely to matter. Ever.
“Got some things to report to you,” Robbie informed him, handing the binoculars back to him. From the look in his dark eyes, Andy got the idea that Robbie didn’t expect him to like at least some of what he was about to hear.
“Lay it on me,” Andy said, resigned. The woodpecker was just going to have to hang out by itself. Andy had work to do.
“There’s been a last minute entry,” Robbie told him, his voice sober. Andy perked up, listening intently. “Jeremy Lindstrom is running for sheriff, too.”
Andy swore, putting the binoculars down carefully, because this was not good news and he didn’t want to hurt them accidentally.
“That’s great,” he murmured, knowing that Robbie would know just how very sarcastic he was being. It was a not-so-secret secret that Jeremy was the son of Richard Orville, the richest, most influential man in the town. Illegitimate, to be sure, but it was still serious competition for Andy, who had thought that he was going to be running unopposed.
“It gets better. Two more kids are in the hospital.” Robbie’s voice was underlain by steel, which didn’t mean, Andy knew, that the other man didn’t care. It was just that he was trying to forge on through this difficult conversation.
“Overdosed?” he asked, and he didn’t really need Robbie’s terse nod. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a surprise. Unwelcome news, but not shocking. “Okay. And that’s not it, is it?”
Robbie sighed and shook his head.
“No. Chris is here.”
Those four words made Andy feel like someone had upended a bucket of very cold water over his head. Like ice cubes were slipping slowly over his spine. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known to expect that, because he had, but he had sort of willfully ignored the news. He would deal with it when he had to, and not before, but it seemed like that time had come.
“Okay. Fine. Thanks, Robbie. You can send him in,” Andy spoke firmly, as though by keeping his voice under control, he could keep the situation in check. It was a good theory, anyway.
“I’m just outside if he causes shit,” Robbie told him, and that actually was comforting. After all of these years, it was hard for him to believe that Chris had changed. People didn’t, Andy thought. Not deep down, where it really mattered.
Robbie left, and moments later, he came back with a tall man, body still as strong and sculpted as ever, and displayed just as much, too. Prison hadn’t been hard on him physically speaking, and Andy tensed his jaw and tossed the file down onto his desk, glad to have its bulk between him and Chris.
“Hey, Andy, looking good,” Chris spoke cheerfully, and Robbie shot him a look of pure loathing before he slipped back outside, deliberately leaving the door just a little bit open. The message was clear as day. Robbie didn’t trust Chris, and he wanted to keep an eye on him.
“Knock it off, Chris.” Andy was a little bit surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. There was a growl low in his throat, the sort of thing that he couldn’t have kept away, even if he had tried. “Just sign the damn form and get out of my sight.”
“You know I was framed.” Chris shot a little smirk at Andy, and it was hard to believe that he had once found it charming. But that had been a long time ago, back when Andy had been taken in by Chris’s bluster and bravado. “I’m an innocent man. You don’t have to be such a dick about this.”
Without a word, Andy handed Chris the file and a pen. He had many different things that he could say to that particular comment, but any of them would be playing into Chris’s hands. Chris wanted to get into an argument. Chris was, in fact, baiting him, just as he had done with great success far too many times for Andy’s peace of mind.
Times had changed, and Chris was going to need to see that. But Andy wasn’t sure if he had or not. He just raised his eyebrows in that same mocking way that he always had, and then he scrawled his name on the parole form.
“I don’t want any bullshit from you,” Andy told him, his voice as firm as he could make it. Unbending, like the strongest steel. Maybe Chris hadn’t changed, but things between them certainly had, and he would make him see it. “You come in once a week, you sign the form, and you keep your nose clean the rest of the time. You got it?”
Chris came to an exaggerated soldier’s stance, clicking his booted heels together sharply and sketching Andy a salute that was completely over the top, that smug smirk on his face the whole time.
“Got it, sir!” he rapped out smartly, and Andy glared at him. It was obvious that Chris was making fun of him, but that was just how Chris was. It hadn’t bothered Andy in the past, but times had changed. Now he was the sheriff, not Chris.
“I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Chris Johnson,” Andy told him, and he even managed to moderate his voice, to keep it more or less steady, though no less firm. Deliberately, he reached across the desk to pick up the file with Chris’s parole sign-in sheet, and as he did, Chris moved suddenly and unexpectedly.
He wrapped his fingers around Andy’s wrist, that smirk still as evident as ever on his face, and Andy froze in place. Once, these casual little touches had been a huge part of what he lived for, but with the expression on Chris’s face, it turned sinister in a way that it hadn’t been back then when they had been friends.
“You got it, Sheriff Wilson,” Chris murmured, and his voice was smoother now, charming, as he had always been able to be charming. But Andy wasn’t willing to be charmed, not now that he knew who Chris really was.
“You’re going to want to remove your hand from my wrist now,” Andy told him, in his best police voice. He knew, they both knew, that all Andy had to do was call for Robbie or any of his other deputies, and Chris would be in trouble. There wasn’t any actual danger here, so he kept himself steady.
“Andy?” Robbie’s voice was a surprise. His eyes had been locked with Chris’s, and he hadn’t seen the movement of Robbie opening the door. Had his best friend been waiting right there? He must have been, to hear Andy’s comment, which hadn’t been said very loudly.
“It’s all right, Robbie,” Andy told him. “Chris was just leaving.”
“Good,” Robbie commented, and Chris let out a soft, sardonic little chuckle. Robbie’s disdain and dislike for him wasn’t a secret, had never really been a secret. “But there’s something else. There’s a man outside, uh, Jeffrey Smith, needs to talk to you.”
It was a relief, to have an excuse to pull his hand away from the silent standoff that had been taking place between himself and Chris. He turned his attention resolutely away from his former friend, nodding at Robbie briskly.
“Okay. Send him in,” he instructed, not even really caring why this Jeffrey Smith needed to see him. It didn’t matter that much. It was an excuse to get out of this increasingly awkward situation, and that was good enough for him. Jeffrey Smith. He didn’t know the name, which was sort of funny. He would have been willing to bet that he knew everyone in the town of Granite Falls, which boasted ten thousand people, at most. It had been close to ten thousand on the last census, anyway, but people left.
Robbie left, and Andy was alone with Chris once more, who had crossed his arms over his chest and was watching the whole thing with that same superior smirk firmly on his face. This had once been Chris’s job, and Andy found himself wondering what it was like to watch someone else do it.
There was a movement outside the door, and then it was pushed all the way open again, Robbie standing beside another man. A slender, pale man, shorter than Robbie, who was not a particularly tall man himself, with dramatic dark hair and wearing a suit that, while Andy wasn’t an expert on the subject, he was pretty sure had cost more than Andy made in six months.
He was stunning.
“Chris, get out of here. I’ll see you next week,” Andy told his former friend, without even looking over at him. Oddly, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off of this newcomer, who had to be Jeffrey Smith. The more he stared at the man, the more details he noticed, and the more unable he was to stop staring.
Jeffrey had these wide, round eyes, thickly lashed, dark but not as black as his hair. High cheekbones, a determined chin, full, wide lips, he was the cleanest man that Andy had ever seen, and undoubtedly the prettiest.
And by some miracle, Jeffrey was staring right back at him, a thoughtful expression on his beautiful face. What was he seeing, and did it give him anything near as much pleasure as it gave Andy to see him?
“Andy, you know that they wouldn’t have let me out if they thought anything bad was going to happen. Calm your shit down,” Chris demanded, and it seemed to him that there was just the faintest hint of displeasure in Chris’s voice. Jealousy, maybe? Only that seemed to be ridiculous, and none of Andy’s business, even if it was true.
“Go,” Andy demanded, and Chris sighed audibly, then turned and left the room, pushing rudely between Robbie and Jeffrey as he went.
But Jeffrey hardly seemed to notice. He was, Andy couldn’t help but notice, still staring right at Andy, just as much as Andy was staring right back at him.
The Captain's Snowbound Christmas by Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead
Reuben couldn’t believe his luck. Makeup on the filming of one of his favourite shows. As he found a spot in the studio car park, he felt as if he’d stormed the barricades and at any moment someone would arrive and try to throw him out. And Reuben would say, “Go and have a word with Amy, she’s hired me for the day.”
Reuben had loved Captain Firth since the first series had been shown on television. What wasn’t to love about the flamboyant show full of men in tight breeches and flowing shirts? And the saturnine and sexy-as-hell captain?
Maybe I’ll get to meet him. Maybe I’ll get to say “Draw your sword, sir!” to the man himself.
As a makeup artist, Reuben had met a huge number of actors and celebrities. It was both a perk and a downside of the job—some of the people he’d met couldn’t have been nicer, and some couldn’t have been more nightmarish if they’d tried. Reuben had never been particularly starstruck, but he feared he might be if he actually met Christopher Manners, the man who played the captain.
Once he’d found a spot for his Renault, Reuben tightened his scarf round his neck and headed off into the studio. He’d probably spend the day applying mascara to a chimney sweep’s face or brushing rouge onto a kitchen maid’s cheeks, but when he saw the wall behind the reception desk covered by a huge Captain Firth poster, his heart leapt with excitement.
Christopher Manners, you smouldering bastard.
“Reuben!” Amy appeared from a closed door before he had a chance to approach the receptionist. “You’re a lifesaver! Carrie’s gone into labour and we’ve got literally one day left before we wrap. Reshoots, you know… I’ll tell you on the way. We’ll go straight down. It’s a closed set.”
Reuben nodded. “Hope Carrie’s okay! Closed set, eh? This should be interesting!”
He was probably going to be stood in a room with the coachman boffing the brigadier’s wife, but it paid a wage, so Reuben didn’t care. Besides, he’d been told before on closed sets that he was a joy to work with during intimate scenes, so he would be in his element.
“I’m going to let you look after Bunny,” Amy said as they strode along a grey corridor. It was funny to think that somewhere in this labyrinth, the Napoleonic Wars were being fought by the swoonsome Captain Firth.
Bunny?
“Okay,” Reuben said, trying to mask his disappointment. Definitely one of the less-well-known cast members, then. No naked, lustful Christopher Manners for him.
“Bunny’s a complete peach.” She pushed open another door, dodging past two fully equipped astronauts as she strode on. “But everything that could go wrong this morning has. It’s all a tad tense for our Regency spies today!”
“I’ve got my kit, don’t worry!” Reuben assured her. “And I’m an old hand at love scenes, you know that.”
“Brilliant.” Amy grinned. “Because once we get today wrapped, I can start my proper Chrimble!”
They paused outside another door that Reuben knew would take him into makeup. He was no stranger to the setup at the studio, after all. Amy opened the door a little and peered in, then told Reuben, “Come on in, everyone’s mostly decent!”
Reuben strolled in, nonchalant as he swung his toolbox of makeup. Until he clocked who was standing by the mirrors wearing only his breeches.
His very tight breeches.
Oh fucking hell, no way! Christopher Manners!
“Erm…nice to meet you,” Reuben said. Nice being the understatement of the century.
Christopher turned and raised his teacup to Reuben in greeting. “Hello!” he said as a man knelt before him, face to face with the breeches. For a moment Reuben wondered what was going on, then the man began tussling with the buckle of Christopher’s sword belt.
‘Draw your sword sir!’
Reuben was so tempted to say it. The words were burning his tongue. But he didn’t dare. Here he was, in the flesh. Captain Firth. His toned chest was even more impressive in reality. And those shoulders…that flop of dark-blond hair and…and…his blue eyes. Reuben tried to bring himself to his senses and said, “Just looking for Bunny?”
“You’ve found him!” Christopher Manners extended his arm over the armourer’s head towards Reuben. “Sorry, I’m trapped in my sword belt!”
Reuben wasn’t sure where to look. He glanced down at the armourer and all he could see was Christopher’s groin in the pale-coloured breeches. Then, when he glanced up, his gaze latched on to the man’s chest before moving up the column of his kissable neck and finally settling on his eyes. And even that seemed wrong, somehow.
“I’m Reuben. And you’re…you’re Bunny? You’re on the closed set?”
Merry Christmas, Reuben!
“I hope so, or my agent’s not doing her job!”
He seized Reuben’s hand and shook it as Amy said, “Bunny, I’m going to leave you in Reuben’s capable hands today. Linda’s a bit shy and I think she’d prefer a gal, so…you boys’ll be okay together, won’t you? We need Bunny to look nicely battle-worn and beddable, smouldering basically. Dust down on torso and shoulders, all that.”
Reuben blinked. Battle-worn and beddable? But wasn’t that one of the main reasons people watched Captain Firth? Well, one of the main reasons Reuben watched it, at least.
And Reuben would help to bring the magic alive.
“Okay, could you take a seat and I’ll…” Reuben turned to Amy. “So just torso, arms, shoulders, we’re keeping the breeches on?”
She nodded. “They’re due to come off round about lunchtime, but for now just torso.”
“Arse out before lunchtime,” Bunny lamented as the sword belt finally came free. “Thank God for that! Can’t do a love scene strapped into a sword belt.”
Reuben put his toolbox down on the worktop. He caught sight of his own reflection and saw his cheeks were pinker than usual.
I’m going to see Christopher Manners’ bum. I’m going to sponge it and brush it. Dear God, this is a beautiful day.
“Okay, we’ll deal with the bum when we come to it,” Reuben said. He selected some of his creams and powders and laid them out on the work surface. “Could you take a seat, Christo— Do I call you Bunny? Or Christopher?”
“If you’re powdering me from head to toe, we may as well go straight to Bunny,” he replied with a smile. “Skip the formalities?”
Straight to Bunny?
“Dare I ask why you’re called Bunny?” Reuben asked.
“Because I earned my Equity stripes playing the Easter bunny in a rather anarchic pantomime.” Bunny gave him a dazzling smile. “And now I brood manfully on Cornish cliffs for a living.”
Amy patted Reuben on his shoulder as though to say thanks for being a sport, then headed towards the door with the armourer in tow. As she reached the threshold she paused and turned.
“Reuben, I forgot to tell you to bring your baby oil. You’ll need it after lunch!” She shrugged. “I’ve got some in my kit, shout if you need it.”
Baby oil. On Captain Firth’s chest? I’ve been waiting for this moment forever.
Reuben had a quick rummage in his toolbox and held up the bottle. “Never fear, I come prepared!” He gave Bunny a wink. “Post-coital gleams are a speciality of mine.”
“I hope so.” Bunny settled into the chair, returning Reuben’s wink with one of his own. “Captain F’s known for his post-coital gleam!”
Reuben remembered one scene in particular where Captain Firth had lain naked on a bed, only a very small, convenient piece of sheet sparing his blushes. Reuben had always envied the makeup artist who’d worked that scene.
Reuben dabbed some foundation in different shades on the back of his hand, then took a sponge and tried them out on Bunny’s shoulder. Bloody hell, he’s toned. “Just finding your shade… So…I wasn’t expecting to be doing your make up today. Carrie’s having her baby, Amy was saying?”
“Isn’t it great news?” Bunny beamed. “Thanks for coming in at such late notice. You’ve really saved the day.”
“It’s no bother,” Reuben said. “I had a magazine shoot booked in for today with some politician bod, but it got pulled because of some Whitehall drama. I’d much rather be doing this!”
Reuben decided on the shade for Bunny’s chest, poured out the foundation on a palette and got to work with a large sponge. “Tell me if it’s too cold,” Reuben said, aware that Bunny’s nipples had pebbled. Nipples that he’d be stippling with rouge later.
It’s a tough job but someone’s got to do it.
“It’s fine.” Bunny took a sip of tea. He was cold, though, Reuben was sure, just too polite to say. “You haven’t worked on our show before, have you? I’d have remembered.”
Reuben smiled. He was glad that Bunny wasn’t one of those actors, the kind who saw everyone backstage, including any actor who had lower billing than them, as anonymous, entirely forgettable minions.
“No, I haven’t. But I love the show. It’s so exciting to be here. And it’s so exciting doing your makeup.” Reuben took a breath and the words of Captain Firth’s catchphrase rang loudly through his head, as intrusive as an insistent earworm. ‘Draw your sword, sir!’ He bit it off just before it erupted from his mouth. “Yeah, good ol’ Captain Firth…”
Bunny’s face was on a bus that went past Reuben’s shared south London flat every day, the features brooding and chiselled alongside the words, Draw Your Sword This Christmas. And like the rest of the country, Reuben would be glued to the screen at his family’s festive gathering.
Making the Naughty List by Daryl Banner
1
It was that special time of the year.
Cookies with faces.
Sleigh bells.
Bulb-shaped lights playfully chasing each other around the perimeter of every suburban rooftop.
Magical flying reindeer.
Gingerbread. So much gingerbread.
Mall Santas.
And there stood Daniel, right in the merry middle of it all.
“Excuse me,” he said as he tried to make his way through the busy store.
But his voice was so meek, no one actually ever excused him. In fact, he doubted anyone even heard him.
It was okay. Daniel was used to being invisible.
“Pardon,” he begged as he tried to get between two stout men who blocked his way down the aisle. But the bearded men were too busy gossiping about each other’s wives to hear him, soon bent over with deep-throated guffawing, their eyes teary with laughter as they slapped one another’s backs and continued chatting.
That was okay, too. Daniel simply chose a different aisle.
When he finally had chocolate treats picked out for all the kids in his family (as he had already gotten gift cards for the adults), he headed toward the cashier, only to find himself at the back of a very, very long line.
Daniel hugged his big shopping basket full of gifts, tired-eyed, and waited.
It felt like an eternity before he was, at long last, next in line.
But then: “Oh, no, no, no,” complained the older woman behind him, fretting as she checked the time on her wristwatch. “At this rate, I’ll never make it to the kids in time. Why me? Why today, the day before Christmas Eve??”
Daniel glanced wearily over his shoulder, observed the sad grandmother (he could only presume) and her cartful of household snacks, cookies, and a premade butter cake, then said, “You can go ahead of me, if you like, ma’am.”
The woman’s face exploded with elation at once. “Oh, you’re an angel, kind young man! Thank you, thank you!” She rushed ahead of him with her cart, then peered back and added, “Merry Christmas to you. You deserve everything you asked Santa for.”
Daniel gave her a tiny smile.
He was sure she meant it in humor, seeing as he stood before her as a thirty-year-old man. Still, the fact was, Daniel never asked Santa for anything, even when he was a kid.
That was due to the simple fact that he stopped believing in Santa Claus at an early age—earlier than most.
And he certainly didn’t believe in Christmas miracles anymore, either.
Or magic.
Just as the woman ahead of him finished up, a wrapped chocolate reindeer managed to fall out of Daniel’s basket. He let out a tiny sigh and crouched down to retrieve it off the cold, reflective tile of the store.
When he stood back up, someone else had gone in front of him.
“Oh, excuse me, I was next,” said Daniel.
The man’s broad, muscular back in a tank top gave no response.
Daniel was normally a far more patient person. But today had been especially trying—and especially long. “Excuse me,” he tried again.
His voice was so soft, however, it was lost in the cacophony of noise all around him—screaming children, chatter, squealing shopping cart wheels—and his words went unheard.
He hugged his basket once again, resigning himself to waiting just a touch longer. What was one more person, anyway?
Until a voice came from that broad, muscular back: “You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”
Daniel flinched. For a moment, he wasn’t sure who the man was talking to.
“I’m talking to you, cute stuff.”
Daniel blinked, confused. “I’m … I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
The man turned to face him completely. “Really? You’re apologizing to me? After I cut ahead of you in line?”
Daniel’s gaze fell upon the man in wonder.
And he found himself frozen to the bone.
And not because of the weather.
Rugged, handsome, brawny, beautiful—the words barely touched how astonishingly gorgeous the man was in every way. His striking face was instantly punishing to the heart. Stunning at first glance. So good-looking, it hurt to gaze on him. The man had an immediately and permanently impressive air about him.
It was as if Daniel was certain he’d never again gaze on anything more beautiful.
He was every and any word Daniel could possibly think of in such a paralyzed state of mind.
And racing state of heart.
“You look flustered,” observed the man. “Are you alright? Or should I call the supermarket doctor?”
Daniel came to at once, the spell broken. “There … isn’t a supermarket doctor.”
“Ah, so he does speak!” he exclaimed confidently, chuckling.
The man wore black, low-hanging jeans that hugged a set of tight, thickly muscled thighs, and the black boots on his feet kept the man solidly planted in front of the cashier. He wore nothing on top but a loose white tank, which hung off a tapered, muscular form. His broad, tanned chest was dusted with dark hair, and his arms were thick and veiny with corded muscle.
And atop his head sat a Santa hat.
Red with that signature fluffy white trim, and a cute, fluffy white ball at its end, dangling off to the side.
A Santa hat.
“Oh,” Daniel muttered, his eyes dropping to his own basket as he realized. “You were joking. About the doctor. Right.” He blushed, feeling dumb.
The man seemed to appraise Daniel for a moment before nodding at his basket. “What you got there? Bunch of chocolate, from the looks of it. You planning to eat yourself into a chocolate coma for Christmas?”
Daniel watched as the cashier rang up the man’s items. Was he supposed to merely gloss over the fact that this man cut in front of him and continue to carry on a conversation? Thankfully, he didn’t have much to ring up. “They’re gifts for my nephews and my niece.”
“Hmm. You’re braving this big store just to give some kids cavities?”
Daniel shrugged.
The man considered his shrug as though he’d given a monologue, then leaned toward the cashier and whispered something as he handed her his money. He took his bag of items. “Well, I hope you’ve got something in that basket for your cute self, too. Merry Christmas.” He gave him a wink.
Daniel glanced away, uncertain.
Then the man was gone, and it was as exquisite a torture to watch him leave as it was to stand in his presence. Daniel couldn’t help but run his eyes down that broad back to that tight, jeaned butt, which danced with hypnotic invitation as the man sauntered confidently away.
What Daniel wouldn’t give for that kind of confidence.
And a man like that to keep him warm this miserable holiday season.
“Sir?”
Daniel flinched, then faced the cashier apologetically. “Yes, sorry.” He placed his basket on the counter, his thoughts still lingering with the man and that charming wink he was thrown.
He was brought out of his daze when the cashier said, “How interesting.”
Daniel glanced up at her. “What?”
She rang up the receipt, then handed it to him. Daniel was confused, as he hadn’t yet paid, when the cashier said, “That man paid for your items, and somehow knew exactly how much they’d cost, to the cent. Not even off by a penny.”
Daniel stared at his receipt, baffled, then glanced up at the curly-haired cashier. “He … what?”
She smiled with compassion, her face warming, and gently pushed his bag of chocolates toward him. “Guess someone ‘paid it forward’ for you this holiday season. Have a nice day, sir.”
Daniel couldn’t make sense of it.
He was still wondering about it as he got in his car, then left the parking lot in a daze. His mind still turned as he inched his way along the freeway, which had a section under construction and was consequently reduced to one lane of traffic. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and focused on the bumper of the car ahead of him, still obsessing over why a random stranger would do such an act of kindness.
But he even knew exactly how much to pay. Daniel glanced at the bag of chocolates sitting in the passenger’s seat, wondering if the prices were showing on the outside of the boxed chocolate Santas or reindeers. They weren’t.
He squinted suspiciously at them, unable to work it out.
Even when he took the exit and was patiently crawling down the winding country roads that led to his parents’ house, he was still puzzling it together—unsuccessfully. Could it have been something the cashier and the man worked out with each other? Like a little act? Or a “pretend” thing? He bit his lip, frustrated.
There was a loud and sudden pop.
His car swerved.
His eyes flashed with alarm.
Thump, thump, thump—The car went off-balance as his tires grinded the gravel.
Slowing, he pulled to the side of the road. When he stepped out to confirm his fear, his lungs deflated like a popped party balloon.
He could have cried right there. This was the last thing he needed to top off an already terrible day.
Half an hour passed, and Daniel was at the end of his thin, frayed rope. He had already pulled out the jack and spare from the trunk, figuring this ought to be something he could do himself, despite never having changed a tire before. But after getting his car raised with the annoyingly insufficient jack, the spare donut still sat on the side of the road, untouched, while Daniel negotiated feebly with the stubborn lug nuts, which he could not seem to figure out how to remove. Wasn’t that what one was supposed to do first? Lug nuts? The instructions he googled were no help.
He gave his flat tire a sad look. After working on it for the last while, the tire was now something like a sulky friend whose issue he was trying to figure out. “Did I do something to upset you?” he asked it sweetly. “Is that why you’re being difficult?”
The flat tire, expectedly, did not reply.
The next minute, he abandoned his attempts at changing the tire himself and began pacing around his vehicle, gently waving his phone in the air in search of any decent signal, which he lost the moment he exited the highway. Every attempt to call AAA had failed, and none of his texts to his family were going through.
And there was about a one percent chance that anyone would be straying off the highway as far as Daniel had, taking the lesser-known back way to his parents’ countryside home. The road was lined with tall, daunting trees on one side and an endless plain of grass and corn on the other. There wasn’t a building for miles. He couldn’t even see the highway across the field.
His phone buzzed with a sudden text, startling him. He breathed a sigh of relief, then noted that the text was from his big brother. “WHEN ARE YOU GETTING HERE? MOM AND DAD ARE GETTING ANTSY AND YOU ARE OVER AN HOUR LATE! FOOD’S ALMOST READY!” the text read in all caps, forcing Daniel to imagine his bodybuilder brother shouting the words in his usual aggressive rage—even if he typed the text as calmly as counting sheep.
Just as Daniel began replying with a cry for help, he noted the battery percentage on his phone.
1%.
His eyes flashed with alarm. When did that happen? Wasn’t it 40% just a moment ago? What the hell drained it so swiftly? Did it actually read 4% and he misread it?
Then before his eyes, the screen went blank, and his half-typed reply vanished.
“No!” he whimpered with deep frustration, shaking his phone like a neck he meant to strangle to death. Maybe he could dislodge a few more percentages of battery from some unseen corner of it if he shook the thing violently enough.
The effort, of course, proved fruitless.
He kicked his flat tire—clearly no longer friends with it—then hopped in place as he nursed his now-stubbed toe.
Even a flat tire was too strong a beast for Daniel to vanquish.
Today was simply not his day.
He threw his back against the side of the vehicle with a disconsolate sigh, then crossed his arms and stared into the nothingness ahead.
“I need a miracle,” he sighed toward the sky.
Just then, a gentle breeze crashed over his face, tossing his hair. It was a breeze that felt strangely cool, as if brought by a nearby opened fridge, or the North Pole itself—inviting, soothing, and surprisingly rejuvenating. It even made Daniel close his eyes and smile with a moment’s relief, despite his mounting frustration with his car and his phone.
And stray thoughts of his stressful job downtown, and his evil boss who treated him with no remorse or compassion.
And all the urgent emails that would await him when he returned from his weekend at his parents’.
And that growing list of tasks left on his kitchen counter under a cherry-shaped paperweight he would have to attend to.
And the crushing sense of indefinite, inevitable lonesomeness he fought within his chest every day of his adult life.
Would any of it end? Or was this all he had to look forward to the rest of his life?
Just then, the noise of a rippling engine cut through the gray gloom. Daniel opened his eyes with a start and tracked the sound. It came from down the road, far away. He watched for a while, squinting curiously as the noise drew closer.
It was a man on a motorcycle.
Daniel bit his lip. He’d hoped for a kind old gentleman, or a farmhand, or some bored fatherly type—a neighbor of his parents, even—to be the one to drive down this road and offer some help with the tire.
And not a bad ass on a motorcycle who’d probably sooner laugh at him and speed off than stop and help him.
Daniel turned away and pretended to check his phone, only to be reminded anew of its depleted battery. Perhaps if he stared at it long and hard enough, it would miraculously turn back on.
It didn’t.
He heard the man’s bike slow as it grew near, then with several obnoxiously loud claps of its engine, it came to a stop.
“Got a flat?” the man called out.
His voice was surprisingly pleasant to the ear—smooth, clear, and confident—and it carried a hint of an accent Daniel couldn’t quite place. The man’s question didn’t carry the tone of condescension he was, perhaps unfairly, expecting from the rough-and-tough kind of guy who might ride a motorcycle.
Daniel finally gathered enough courage to turn and face his visitor. “Actually, I was just—” he began to say.
Until his eyes fell upon the man. All his words and thoughts fled his brain at once, and his heart dropped straight out of his mouth.
A Holiday Homecoming by Liv Rancourt
THE WOMAN’S shriek rose above the burble of talk and laughter, fading away in a cascade of giggles. The spray of glitter that prompted it, however, would last a little longer.
Bo slipped between tables, the bells on his Christmas sweater jingling. “You okay, Miss Lady?” To be honest, this student’s little accident had only added a sheen of gold to the chaotic mix of glitter, sequins, and fabric scraps already covering the floor. Oh, well. It’s that time of year. “I’ll sweep it up later.”
Bo’s favorite time of year. Christmas. When everything could be a little extra. Even if he did have to face it as a single man. Again.
“Thank you, Bo. You’re an awesome teacher.”
The woman’s smile was contagious, catching him before he could dive too deep into his own navel. She was one of a dozen students in Bo’s class “Glue Guns and Glitter: Making holiday decorations on the fly.” The class was being held in the workroom at Bonnie’s Fabrics, Crafts, and Yarn. The dozen students had spread out at the six tables, helping themselves to the overstuffed supply shelves lining the walls.
Bo didn’t so much teach them anything as give them permission to play and the toys to play with. He might have made a few suggestions, but most of the inspiration came from the students themselves, which was how he liked it.
Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open--no flashlights required! When she's not adding to her keeper shelf, she's a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Riley Knight is an avid reader and has always had a soft spot for gay romances. What could be better than a sweet story between two beautiful men who need each other? It only seemed logical for Riley to write these steamy, emotional romances, focusing on an emotional and happy ending.
When not reading or writing, Riley can be found wandering the landscape and loves to go for long walks and observe all sorts of people and situations.
Catherine Curzon is an author and royal historian of the 18th century.
In addition to several non-fiction books on Georgian royalty, available from Pen & Sword, she has written extensively for a number of internationally-published publications, and has spoken at venues and events across the United Kingdom. Her first play, Being Mr Wickham, premiered to sell-out audiences in September 2019.
Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine can often be found cheering for the mighty Huddersfield Town. She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill with a rakish colonial gentleman, a long-suffering cat and a lively dog.
Eleanor Harkstead likes to dash about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She knows rather a lot about poisons, and can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens, and has a huge collection of vintage hats. She is the winner of the Best Dressed Sixth Former award and came third in the under-11s race at the Colchester Fire Swim.
Originally from the south-east of England, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
Daryl Banner is an author and composer who graduated magna cum laude from the University of Houston Honors College with a degree in both Theatre and Psychology. During his time in college, he wrote, composed, and produced a musical under Tony Award-winning musical and Theatre producer Stuart Ostrow, as well as two original plays produced under the mentorship of Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Lanford Wilson, who also mentored Daryl through the writing of his very first novel. In addition to new adult and M/M romance, Daryl also writes post-apocalyptic fantasy as well as dystopian. He is most inspired by the smart and unlikely hero, but urges you (the reader) not to fall in love with them; they may deceive you with their innocence.
Join his mailing list here to never miss out on the latest from Daryl Banner! He awards one of his subscribers an Amazon gift card every newsletter.
Fun facts: Daryl is also an obsessive piano player, video game enthusiast, and performer. He's been remixing video game music for over fifteen years. You can feed your ears with his remixes and original music on his YouTube page.
He also composes original soundtracks that accompany his books and series. You can listen to and download them here.
Liv Rancourt writes romance of all kinds. Because love is love, even with fangs.
Liv is a huge fan of paranormal romance and urban fantasy and loves history just as much, so her stories often feature vampires or magic or they’re set in the past…or all of the above. She also co-authors two m/m paranormal romance series with Irene Preston. Their partnership works because Liv is good at blowing things up and Irene is good at explaining why.
When Liv isn’t writing she takes care of tiny premature babies in the NICU. Her husband is a soul of patience, her kids are her pride and joy, and her dogs – Trash Panda and The Boy Genius – are endlessly entertaining.
Liv can be found on-line at all hours of the day and night at her website, on Facebook, or on Twitter. For sneak peeks and previews and other assorted freebies, go HERE to sign up for her mailing list or join the Facebook page she shares with her writing partner Irene Preston, After Hours with Liv & Irene. Fun stuff!
Annabeth Albert
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: Annabeth@annabethalbert.com
Riley Knight
Catherine Curzon
Eleanor Harkstead
EMAIL: contact@eleanorharkstead.co.uk
Daryl Banner
Liv Rancourt
Better Not Pout by Annabeth Albert
KOBO / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
Small Town Christmas by Riley Knight
The Captain's Snowbound Christmas by Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead
KOBO / WEBSITE / GOODREADS TBR
Making the Naughty List by Daryl Banner
A Holiday Homecoming by Liv Rancourt
