Thursday, April 11, 2024

⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: Of Hope and Anguish by Silvia Violet



Summary:
Revolutionaries #2
Jack and Eli have been separated for months while Jack gathers intelligence in Philadelphia and Eli spies on British officers in New York. When Jack has to take on the role of spymaster and work behind-the-scenes, Eli offers to insinuate himself in Philadelphia’s loyalist circles, taking Jack’s place.

As Eli works to uncover traitorous negotiations between a high-ranking American officer and the British, he cozies up to British spymaster John Andre. Jack doesn’t like Eli putting himself at risk, nor does he like seeing him fawning over a beautiful, charming man.

As the chances of the American army surviving the winter decline, tensions mount between Jack and Eli, threatening to tear them apart. They will have to rely on their love and trust for one another to make it through these harrowing months.


Original Review March 2018:
With their missions keeping them apart, Jack and Eli haven't had much time together but now that Jack has to step in and position of Spymaster, Eli finds himself in Philadelphia taking Jack's place.  Having made an acquaintanceship with British spymaster John Andre while they were both in New York, Eli continues to cozy up to the charming enemy Andre hoping to learn all he can but will the secrets be worth the jealousy and looming possibility of losing Jack for good?

I am going to start right off the bat by saying I forgot just how much I loved Eli and Jack not to mention the lovely determined Constance.  For those who may say well that's just unrealistic that a woman would have been so forthright in the spy ring over 200 years ago, well I say "You don't know your history".  Now back to Eli and Jack, how can you not love these two?  The love they have for each other is pretty obvious but so is their love for freedom.  I won't expand on the plot more than that but I just need to say that Silvia Violet balances the mission and the heart beautifully, I won't say evenly because there is drama that tends to tip the scales one way or the other but she does it realistically.  I truly loved how the author stayed true to the times and yet Of Hope and Anguish is entertaining and not a history lesson, which personally I think is a perfect example that speaks of the author's talent.

The American Revolution is not a time period that is often used in the M/M genre and I wish we had more so when I find one it pretty much automatically goes on my TBR list.  If it's not an era in historicals that you read often I highly recommend giving Silvia Violet's Revolutionaries a visit and "visit" is exactly what you will be doing.  To say the reader will feel like their living in the time is a bit of an exaggeration but you definitely will walk away with a better understanding of the era and an appreciation for what those who fought for our freedom from British Rule dealt with.  Will you learn a few things about the era? Sure.  Will you walk away entertained? Most certainly!  I hope this isn't the last time we see Eli, Jack, and Constance but if it is then I can safely say that Of Hope and Anguish is just as good and sucked me in as deeply as Revolutionary Temptation and I am already looking forward to re-reading these spies with heart.

RATING:




October 1777
The carriage took off with a jolt, nearly tumbling Eli from the cushioned seat. “Dear God, has your driver taken leave of his wits?”

Constance frowned. “I’m afraid it’s young Tom.”

“The stable boy?”

He could barely see her nod in the moonlight that filtered through the window. “Lester has taken a chill, and I needed someone I could trust, someone who will bring back all the gossip he can gather.”

“You don’t mean to say Tom knows of our anonymous activities?”

She waved away his incredulity. “You know I only hire servants I can trust.”

“He can’t be more than fourteen, and he—”

“Hates the British army’s treatment of New York and her citizens as much as we do.”

Eli thunked against the side of the carriage as they flew around a corner. “Perhaps your trust in him as an informant is well-founded, but will he deliver us to the ball in one piece?”

Constance grimaced as she slid across the seat. “I fear I’m no longer sure.”

Eli let out a breath as they reached a straight stretch of road and the excitement of the ride diminished. “Do we have a particular objective this evening?”

“I’d like you to give your opinion of a few of the officers who have recently returned to the city, most particularly a Captain John Andre. My sources indicate he’s intelligent, ambitious, and in charge of intelligence.”

“You think he’s Howe’s spymaster.”

Constance nodded. “I do. I’ve only recently become acquainted with him, but I was impressed by his wit and shrewdness. I don’t believe he will give up his secrets easily, not even if I used my best efforts at seduction.”

Eli studied her for a moment. “Is that still an option for you?”

“Seduction?”

Eli nodded. The previous spring, Constance had fallen in love with Major Randall Bradford, a British officer, but she’d been reluctant to talk about the nature of their arrangement, and Bradford had left the city with Howe’s army on the campaign to take Philadelphia.

“Everything is an option for me, Eli.”

He could no longer say the same for himself. “I will do whatever must be done to end this war except betray Jack’s confidence.” It had been three months since he’d seen the man he loved. And even their correspondence had been sparse. He dreamed of Jack often, but waking alone, grasping after dream images, only made him miss Jack more.

Constance laid a hand over Eli’s. “I would not ask that of you. We have to give up many of our principles to do this work, but if we cannot hold to some, we are no better than the monsters we abhor.”

Her words brought to Eli’s mind the monster who’d jailed and tortured him, intending him to betray Constance, Jack, and their army contacts. He’d refused, and it had almost cost him his life. He still bore scars from the experience, and several fingers on his left hand would always be crooked, but he would suffer all of it again to keep those he cared for safe.

Constance seemed to sense his need for a change of subject. “You and Andre have many things in common: a love of reading, music, art, beautiful women.”

Eli laughed. “He does sound like a man whose company I would enjoy.”

“He entertains regularly, and as his friend, you would be able to attend events a respectable woman would never be invited to, events with other officers, where talk of war would be freer.”

Eli understood her well. If he could become part of Andre’s circle, he would likely hear gossip that would tell him a great deal of what the British were planning. And if they became particular friends, Eli would be able to ask questions a mere acquaintance could not. “I will do all I can to make a favorable impression on the captain.”

“Thank you, Eli. I hesitated to ask you tonight.”

“Because Jack would rather I were no longer involved in this business?”

Constance smiled. “No.” Eli started to protest, but she held up a hand. “He did ask, but I know you too well to think you will stop unless you want to. It’s more that you’ve been…distant.”

He had not borne Jack’s absence or his own slow recovery well. “I only apologize for not having been as supportive as I should have these past months.”

Constance sighed. “We neither of us have been ourselves.”

He squeezed her hand. “We’re both grieving the absence of those we love.”

“Which will not bring them back.” She squeezed his hand back and sat up straighter. “We should focus on what we can do to assist our cause and end this war.”

“Is there still hope it will end in our favor?” Terrible news of the state of Washington’s army had added to Eli’s malaise. Men were deserting in large numbers. Those who remained were cold and hungry, and disease was rampant in the camp.






Silvia Violet
Silvia Violet writes bad boy M/M romance. She can be found haunting coffee shops looking for the darkest, strongest cup of coffee she can find. Once equipped with the needed fuel, she can happily sit for hours pounding away at her laptop. Silvia typically leaves home disguised as a suburban stay-at-home-mom, and other coffee shop patrons tend to ask her hilarious questions like "Do you write children's books?" She loves watching the looks on their faces when they learn what she's actually up to. When not writing, Silvia enjoys baking sinfully delicious treats, exploring new styles of cooking, and reading to her incorrigible offspring.

She also writes high heat paranormal romance with shifters of all descriptions under the pen name Silvia Onyx.





Of Hope and Anguish #2


Monday, April 8, 2024

Monday's Memorial Moment: The Pursuit of . . . by Courtney Milan



Summary:
The Worth Saga #2.5
What do a Black American soldier, invalided out at Yorktown, and a white British officer who deserted his post have in common? Quite a bit, actually.

•They attempted to kill each other the first time they met.
•They're liable to try again at some point in the five-hundred mile journey that they're inexplicably sharing.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are… Oh, no.

The Pursuit Of… is about a love affair between two men and the Declaration of Independence. It’s a novella of around 38,000 words.



Once again another new-to-me author.  Well I aimed to make 2024 the year of the new-to-me authors and I'm off to flying start.  I went looking for recs for either American Revolution or US Civil War eras because there just isn't enough for my liking, I even added in my rec request that I'd be willing to read a story from the enemy side of the Revolutionary WarπŸ˜‰.  Someone rec'd The Pursuit of. . . by Courtney Milan and though it is a novella prequel of her Worth Saga series that appears to be MF romances I decided I had to read this MM entry.

So glad I did!

Henry and John couldn't be more opposites for a variety of reasons, major one: John is a freedman Corporal in the Continental Army and Henry is a Captain(I believe that was his rank) in the British Army.  Now I'm not going to list their differences other than the one that really made this novella sparkle: the cheese, the dreaded cheese that Henry seems to be lugging around that never seems to get better until suddenly one day it appears to, at least in the men's minds.  Okay so that wasn't really a difference or the point that made the journey sparkle for me but it lead to just too many darn funny moments of convo that I couldn't ignore mentioning it.  No the part that really sparkled for me was Henry's unending ability to talk, and talk and talk and then talk some more and the patience John had was  . . . well it's more patience than I would've had in the circumstancesπŸ˜‰. Today he would be diagnosed with ADHD but back then?  Well he was just Henry and I loved every minute of it.

There's no way this pair could get their HEA, right? Under the circumstances and the social standards of the day it's impossible to even speculate but sometimes that is when HEAs are a must but will they get their's, well you have to read for yourself.  If you're like me and not a MF reader anymore and know in your heart you most likely won't be checking out the author's Worth Saga(at least at this time in my reading journey but I'll definitely keep it on my TBR list) I definitely highly recommend giving this MM novella a chance because it's absolutely smashing and lovely.

RATING:



Yorktown, 1781
In the heat of battle, Corporal John Hunter could never differentiate between silence and absolute noise. Years had passed since his first engagement, but every time, the sheer discord of sound blended together. The cry of bugles sounding orders, the clash of bayonets, the rat-tat-tat of firearms somewhere in the distance, the hollow concussion of the cannons—each one of those things heralded someone’s doom. To take heed to any of it was to fall into fear. To fear was to make mistakes; to err was to die. No matter the odds, the sounds of battle were so overwhelming that they were no different than silence.

Yorktown was just like any other engagement. 

Oh, the strategists might have begged to differ. There were more clouds, more night. Less frost than some of the battles he’d taken part in. Someone had talked prettily at them about how the freedom of this nascent nation was at stake and some other things John had listened to with his hands curling into fists. The colonies didn’t care about John’s freedom, so he returned the favor by not caring about theirs.

In the end, all battles were smoke and shit and death, and John’s only goal was to see the other side of this war without being forcibly acquainted with the Grim Reaper. Fight. Survive. Go home to his family. The most basic of needs.

The night was dark around him and his fellow infantrymen. The spiked branches of the abatis had left scratches on his arm; the charge up the scarp had John’s heart pounding.

They’d crept through the ditch and were approaching the final defenses of Redoubt Ten—a wall of sharp stakes, somewhat battered. A group of fools ahead of him was negotiating how best to storm the parapet. John held back. Apparently, the idiot in command of this maneuver wanted to lead the charge. Sutton, one of the other black men assigned to storm the redoubt, was hoisting him up.

Nothing to do but join them and hope for the best. Nothing to do but survive, fight, and return to his family before anything ill happened to them. Fight, survive—

John stilled, the chant in his head dying down.

There was a reason he let the background noise of battle fade to nothingness in his mind. It left room for wariness and suspicion. There. Behind them, back toward the abatis—there was a shadow.

It moved, man-shaped.

The person behind them was large and almost invisible, and he lay in wait. John’s comrades hadn’t noticed him. In their haste to get in, they’d all left themselves vulnerable.

All of them but him.

Damn it all to hell.

Silence and noise mingled in John’s head. Perhaps the gunfire from the feint on Fusiliers Redoubt a ways off was loud; perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps the man he saw screamed in defiance as John turned toward him; perhaps he was silent. 

Fight. Survive… Damn it.

There was no hope for it. John couldn’t wait to see what would happen. He lowered his weapon, said a prayer for his sister, should his soul become irreparably detached from his body, and sprinted back toward the shadowed branches of the abatis.

The man’s head tilted. John braced himself, waiting for the man to fire a weapon or raise a blade, but instead the fellow just waited in silence. One second. Two.

John crashed into him at full speed, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest. God, the other man was huge. The impact traveled bruisingly through his body. Still, John wasn’t exactly tiny himself. They fell together, hitting the ground. It took one moment to get his bayonet into position, another to drive it forward, blade seeking the other man’s belly.

It didn’t make contact. Instead, the fellow hit John on the head with the butt of his musket. John’s head rang; he shook it, pushed the echoing pain aside, and rolled out of the way of the next bayonet strike. 

There was no time to think, no time to come up with any plan except to survive the next instant, then the next. No room for fine blade work, either; John swung his musket like a staff.

The other man blocked the strike, and the force of gun barrel meeting gun barrel traveled up John’s arm. The battle had all but disappeared into a pinprick, into this moment between two men.

“God,” the other fellow said. “You’re strong.”

John refused to hear his words.

John had neither energy nor emotion to waste on conversation. Fight. Survive the war. Go back to Lizzie and Noah and his mother. He’d promised them he would—stupid promise, that—but he’d break the entire British Army before he broke that promise. Men who let their attention slip perished, and he had no intention of perishing. He gritted his teeth and tried to smash the other man’s head.

The other man ducked out of the way. “Nice weather for a siege, isn’t it?”

John’s almost perfect concentration slipped. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Nice weather for a siege? Did that mean the weather was good—it wasn’t—or that bad weather was preferable during a siege? And what did preferable even mean between the two of them? Siegers and the besieged had different preferences.

Ah, damn it.

This was why John couldn’t let himself listen to battle. Anything—everything—could be a distraction. He shook his head instead and threw his entire weight behind his next strike.

It wasn’t enough; the other man was taller and heavier, and their bayonets crossed once more. He was close enough to see features—stubble on cheeks, sharp nose, the glint of some distant bombardment reflected in the man’s eyes. They held their places for a moment, shoulders braced together, their heaving breaths temporarily synchronized.

“It’s your turn,” the man said with an unholy degree of cheer. “I remarked on the weather. Etiquette demands that you say something in return.”

For a moment, John stared at the fellow in utter confusion. “I’m bloody trying to kill you. This is a battle, not a ball.” 

He pivoted on one foot, putting his entire back into whirling his weapon. This time he managed to whack the other man’s stomach. A blow—not a hard one, he hadn’t the space to gather momentum—but enough that the fellow grunted and staggered back a pace.

“Yes,” the man said, recovering his balance all too quickly, “true, completely true, we are trying to commit murder upon each other. That doesn’t mean that we need to be impolite about it.”

Fucking British. Would he call a halt to take tea, too?

“If you prefer,” the man continued, sidestepping another blow, “you could try, ‘Die, imperialist scum.’ The moniker is somewhat lacking in friendly appeal, but it has the benefit of being true. I own it; we are imperialist scum.”

What the hell?

“But aren’t we both?” The conversation, like the battle, seemed interminable. “You colonials are displacing natives as well. I will give you this point. You’d be quite right not to use that particular insult. It would be rather hypocritical.”

Not for John, it wouldn’t. His presence in this land could not be put down to any volition on the part of his black mother, who was the only ancestor the colonials counted. But now was not a time for the fine nuances of that particular discussion. It was not, in fact, the time for any discussion at all. 

He swung his musket again, heard the crack of the weapon against the barrel of the other man’s musket.

“It just goes to show. Politics is obviously not a good choice of conversation among strangers, I suppose. My father always did say that, and damn his soul, he is occasionally right. What of books? Have you read anything recently?”

There were still a few soldiers making their way through the abatis, streaming past them. One went by now, glancing in their direction.

“Can’t we try to kill each other in silence?” John snuck out a foot, attempting to trip the other man. His enemy danced away.

“Ah, is that it?” The man brightened. “I see. You can’t fight and talk at the same time? My friend, Lieutenant Radley, was exactly the same way. I drove him mad, he used to say.”

Used to? Ha. As if anyone could ever become accustomed to this jibber-jabber.

“He died in battle,” the other man continued, “so possibly he was right. You probably shouldn’t listen to my advice on this score. I don’t have the best record.”

Their weapons crossed again.

“Except”—unbelievably, he was still talking—“I obviously should not have told you that. I’ve given away an important advantage. Damn it. My father was right again. ‘Think before you speak,’ he always used to say. I hate when my father is right.”

John didn’t want to think of this man as someone with family, with friends. War was hell enough when you were just killing nameless, faceless individuals. 

There was nothing to do but get it over with as quickly as possible, before he started thinking of his enemy as a person.

He threw himself forward, caught the other man’s shoulder with his, and managed to send him off balance. A moment, just a moment; enough for John to clip his hand smartly with the butt of his musket. The weapon the man had been holding went flying. John hooked one foot around the man’s ankle; his opponent landed flat on his back. John pushed the tip of his blade into the man’s throat.

The man’s hands immediately shot above his head. “I surrender the redoubt!”

John froze in place. “Have you the authority to do that?”

“No,” the other man answered, “but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think? Excellent tactics on your part. I almost didn’t see you coming. Somebody ought to surrender it eventually. Why not me?”

“Sorry,” John said, and it was quite possibly the first time he’d ever apologized to an enemy on the battlefield. “I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Ah, well,” the other man said. “You know your duty. Be quick about it, if you must. Better me than you, don’t you think?”

Literally no other person had ever said that to John on the battlefield. John frowned down at the man in front of him, and…

And, oh Christ. He suddenly realized that he’d heard of this man. His friend Marcelo had mentioned something about encountering him before. British officer. Tall. Meaty. Blond. He’d chalked the tale up to campfire boasting. When he’d heard there was a madman who couldn’t stop talking, John had imagined something along the lines of a berserker, frothing at the mouth. He hadn’t expected a mere prattle-basket. 

“I think it’s better me than you,” John said, frowning down at the man. “You can’t possibly agree.” 

A flare from the battle reflected in the other man’s eyes, temporarily illuminating him. John didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t want to see the haunted expression in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember him as a person. He should never have let the clamor of battle give way to the sound of conversation, because he suspected that the tone of this man’s voice—all gravel and regret—would stay with him all the rest of his days.

“Don’t make me go back,” the man said, so at odds with his cheery conversation on politics. “I can’t go back to England. Dying is not my preferred form of non-return, but for the past months it’s the only one I’ve been able to think of.”

John tightened his grip on the musket. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t think. In battle, he could only allow himself to be a husk, an automaton. Fight. Survive. Killing was a necessary part of war. He’d learned not to look too hard at his enemies, not to ask too many questions. He’d learned not to let himself dwell too much on the men who perished at the other end of his musket.

It was always a mistake to listen during battle. Here he was, hesitating, when it was either John or the man who’d asked him about books and the weather. He could make it painless—as painless as death by bayonet ever was.

The man gave him a sad smile. “It’s nice weather for dying, isn’t it?”

He was lying. He had to be lying. This was the sort of thing for a lying officer to do—to converse politely, as if manners meant a damned thing on the battlefield. John pushed his bayonet down a quarter inch.

“Go on,” the man said. 

His permission made it even harder. John didn’t want to do it, but it was John or the prattle-basket, John or the prattle-basket, and John had come too far to perish now. 

A bugle sounded.

John looked up into chaos. He could hear cheers, could see the lieutenant colonel in charge of this attack—Hamilton, was it not?—clapping one of the soldiers on the back. Ah, the idiot in command had survived storming the parapet after all. While John had been fighting, his fellow soldiers had stormed the redoubt and taken it.

It was done. They’d won.

He eased up on the bayonet. “It’s your lucky day. You’re a prisoner now, instead of a dead man.”

“No.” The man’s hand clasped around the musket barrel, holding the bayonet in place. “No. You have to do it.”

“What?” John stared at him.

“You have to do it,” the man instructed. “Do you understand? If you Americans take the redoubt, Yorktown falls. If Yorktown falls, the war is over. If you don’t kill me now, they’ll make me go back to Britain, and I can’t go back.”

“Can’t?” John swallowed and looked down.

“Can’t.” The man shut his eyes.

They’d called him a madman, and John had imagined a demon on the battlefield, not a man who talked of politics.

Perhaps it was mad to prefer death to a return to a place that could never be called home, but if that was madness, it was a madness John knew. He’d once been enslaved. He knew what it was like to yearn for freedom, to prefer death to a return to a state that robbed him of choice, of freedom, of humanity. The fellow was obviously given to dramatics. John doubted anything so horrid waited for him back in England. Still… He understood.

He didn’t want to have anything in common with a blond British officer…but he did.

He should take the man prisoner. Should call for reinforcements. Who knew what this man would do if John gave him the opportunity?

“I can’t go back,” the man said again.

John should never have listened. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He swore and threw down his weapon.

The man struggled, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Then don’t.” John took off his coat. “Here.” He held the garment out.

It wasn’t much—a bit tattered, and God knew what it smelled like; John couldn’t detect the stench any longer.

The man stared at it.

“It’s not red.” John shook the coat. “It’s a mess out there as it is. Get muddy enough and nobody will know who you are. If you don’t want to go back to Britain, turn into an American. You talk enough; I’m sure you can come up with a believable lie. Get out of here. Don’t go back.”

The man stared at him. “Why would you let me go? I’m the enemy.”

“Enemy?” John rolled his eyes. “Take a good look at me. I have little love for…what did you call them? The colonial brand of imperialist scum. I have no enemies, just people I fight on a battlefield.”

The officer sat up. Looked at John. John knew what he was seeing—not the broad shoulders, not the determination John knew flashed in his own eyes, nor the set of his square jaw. No, this blond prattler who talked of manners and politics would see only the brown of his skin. 

John was an idiot to offer anything. But he knew too well what it was like to have no hope of help and to find it anyway.

Here, he thought to the woman at the well who had shaken her head, denying his existence to the man who sought John. John had crouched hidden behind the bushes until the threat had passed. She’d looked at him then. She hadn’t spoken; she’d only nodded and left, as if she hadn’t changed his life with that simple denial. Here. I’m paying you back for that after all. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” John said. “I don’t want to be your friend. I’ll kill you on the battlefield if I have to. But if you’re desperate enough to die, you’re desperate enough to abscond. If you don’t want to go back, get rid of your damned officer’s coat and take mine.”

The man stared up at him. He looked at the coat, at the musket that John had tossed aside.

Slowly, he took John’s coat. “I won’t forget this,” he said. “I’ll pay you back someday.”

John had heard that particular promise before. He’d heard it when he saved his father from being crushed by a falling mast. He’d heard it when he’d rescued another man in the Rhode Island First on the battlefield. Half the time, white men didn’t even bother with empty words to assuage their consciences—at least not to the likes of him. The other half? They never remembered their promises. They didn’t have to.

John shook his head. “Don’t bother.”

“John?” Elijah’s call came from further in. “John, is that you down there? Are you wounded?”

He turned, leaving the British officer alone with his coat. He was already faintly regretting his choice—the late-autumn night was cold enough that he’d want that coat before morning struck.

He would never see the man again. 

In the dark of the night, the man had no idea what John even looked like. Even if it were day, he’d never be able to distinguish John from any other black man. White men rarely could.

“I’m Henry,” the officer called after him. “Henry Latham, at your service.”

Henry Latham no doubt thought he was an honorable fellow. He’d tell himself that one day he’d return the favor, just as he assiduously avoided contact with anyone who looked like John. There was little use puncturing his illusions.

John knew that the roll of his eyes was hidden by the night, so he took care to imbue an extra dose of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” 

“John?” Elijah was coming closer. “John, are you well?”

“I’m alive,” John called in return. “Alive and unharmed.” His body was already protesting the unharmed designation, his shoulder twingeing, his head still hurting.

Ha. He had already forgotten the name. He’d never hear from the man again.



Once, the Worth family was one of the most respected in England.

Then the head of that family, the Earl of Chatford, was discovered to be the ringleader of a treasonous plot. He was stripped of his title and properties, and only escaped execution because he committed suicide. Anthony Worth, the eldest son, was also implicated--and while treason could not be proven, he was convicted of theft and ordered transported. That left the younger children--Judith, Camilla, Benedict, and Theresa--alone in the world, with no friends, no skills, no property, and no future.

Meanwhile, when Anthony Worth’s ship landed in Australia, he was no longer on board. He had vanished without a trace.

The Worth Saga is the story of the Worth family--all of them. I’m calling it the Worth Saga because while the series tells the story of the Worth family, not all the books in the series will be about Worth family members. It’s really the story of the Worth family, another family (not yet introduced), and a business conglomerate. Anything more would be spoilery.

There will be more books in the series than those listed above. She'll announce additional books as she finalize titles and covers.



Courtney Milan
Courtney Milan writes books about carriages, corsets, and smartwatches. Her books have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and Booklist. She is a New York Times and a USA Today Bestseller.

Courtney pens a weekly newsletter about tea, books, and basically anything and everything else. Sign up for it here.

Before she started writing romance, Courtney got a graduate degree in theoretical physical chemistry from UC Berkeley. After that, just to shake things up, she went to law school at the University of Michigan and graduated summa cum laude. Then she did a handful of clerkships. She was a law professor for a while. She now writes full-time.


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The Pursuit of . . . #2.5
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Sunday, April 7, 2024

⚾️🎭Week at a Glance🎭⚾️: 4/1/24 - 4/7/24




















⚾️Sunday's Sport Stats⚾️: Unexpected by Felice Stevens



Summary:

Party planner Colin Brightman doesn’t drink or dance, preferring to go to bed early with his spreadsheets and lists. All he wants is to forget the singles weekend his friends sent him on, but he’s stuck with a suitcase filled with condoms and skimpy Speedos that don’t belong to him.

He doesn’t expect his luggage thief to be ex-baseball superstar Walker “Walk-Off” Scanlon. Or that Walker has hired his firm to put on a charity event at his bar. Colin can’t deny the mixed emotions the annoyingly flirty man stirs in him, but he refuses to fall for someone who racks up lovers as easily as he once hit home runs.

No matter how much he might want to.

Walker Scanlon likes his men easygoing with no complications. He’s had enough of those in his life. So why is he drawn to tense and straitlaced Colin and his frosty scowl?When even his corny one-liners and jokes don’t get him a smile? Because the sparks between them are undeniable. And that unexpected kiss? Amazin’.

Now if only Colin would stop running away.

When Colin and Walker come face to face with past hurts and betrayals, they’ll need to trust themselves and each other to learn that heartbreak and love don’t go hand in hand. It’s the bottom of the ninth and if they swing for the stars, they just might hit the grand slam of a lifetime.

Unexpected is a low-angst, high-heat romance between a corny joke-telling ex-baseball player who doesn't believe in striking out on or off the field and a divorced, tea-drinking homebody who isn't willing to get played...again.



Chapter One
There was nothing more embarrassing than watching a drunk person lose control.

And his shorts.

Colin Brightman sipped his drink and averted his eyes from the man gyrating on the dance floor in his tiny Speedo, although he couldn’t help taking a peek at him from behind the pink umbrella of his fruity cocktail. His cheeks burned at the sight of the man’s hefty bulge. Wasn’t he embarrassed? The way that bathing suit clung to every curve and ripple of skin, he might as well be naked. Colin would rather die than embarrass himself like that. And yet…all that power and strength momentarily made him weak, and his blood burned as he imagined that heavy dick inside him.

Colin blinked and gazed around as if he’d spoken his dirty fantasy out loud. What the hell was he thinking? He gulped more of his drink and wiped his lips, ashamed his hands shook slightly.

Obviously, he wasn’t the only one enjoying the show, as whistles, laughter, and clapping rose from the crowd. The man appeared to revel in it, and his dancing grew wilder. Colin grimaced. If he stripped naked, Colin would demand a refund for this whole godforsaken experience.

Colin knew he shouldn’t have accepted the trip, but leave it to his sneaky best friends to give him as few details as possible. He would’ve never agreed to go to an all-inclusive singles resort—they only attracted people like this man. Guys who drank all day and partied all night. But he’d mistakenly allowed Alan and his husband, Dustin, who were also his business partners, to talk him into taking time off from the company—his first in years—and gift him a weekend away.

“You’ve been working way too hard, and your doctor told you stress is a killer. You don’t want to have to go on blood pressure meds or have a heart attack, do you? Now that you’ve decided to make Iris your assistant, you can afford some time off. She can use the experience. It’s just a weekend—what’s the worst that can happen? You’ll sit in the sun, have a drink with an umbrella, and listen to the waves. Maybe someone will catch your eye.”

Too busy with demanding clients to pay attention to the details, Colin hadn’t bothered to check the resort and didn’t have a clue it was for gay singles, or he would’ve canceled. Alan and Dustin must’ve taken that into account and deliberately left out that most salient fact, knowing he’d have bailed.

Now Colin realized what he hadn’t been missing. It wasn’t an atmosphere he enjoyed—he’d never been into the bars and clubs. He’d met his ex-husband, Brad, at an event-planning convention, and was immediately drawn to his warmth, sense of humor, and what he’d thought were their similar outlooks on life. Brad had been embarrassed that he was only part-timing as a waiter and that he didn’t know what he wanted to do in the future, but Colin didn’t care about that. He understood sometimes it was hard to find your place in the world.

His fingers tightened around his glass. Dammit. It had been three years since the divorce. Why couldn’t he forget? He was content with his conference calls, spreadsheets, and planners. He was the only one in the business who didn’t mind speaking at all hours with nervous clients who called on a whim, and he relished working on multiple projects over the weekends. Burying his head in work gave him little time to dwell on the fact that he had nothing else.

He was going to kill Alan and Dustin, but that would have to wait until he came home. He took another sip of his fruity cocktail.

“Not your kind of scene?” A shirtless, sweaty blond man collapsed in a chair at the neighboring table and drank his beer. “I haven’t seen you on the dance floor yet.”

And you won’t.

Colin allowed a faint smile. “Not my scene.”

The man raised a negligent shoulder. “Eh. Gotta live a little. Otherwise you become a tree, stuck in the ground. Wanna dance?” He gulped down the beer and rose to his feet, hips swaying to the music. Bodies ground against one another on the dance floor, and shirts had come off. It was a sea of flesh, ripe for the picking.

Colin was about to answer, when his gaze was drawn to a limbo contest. The man in the Speedo was halfway under the pole, powerful thighs shimmying, hips pumping in a manner that indicated he’d never be told he was a boring old fuck. His husband wouldn’t cheat on him and bring his lover into their home and bedroom.

The man made it out from under the limbo pole and caught his eye. He winked and blew him a kiss. For a split second Colin wondered what being with someone so…physical would be like. He’d be demanding in bed, no doubt, probably ask him to do things he’d never imagined. Maybe his mind rebelled at the thought of a pickup, but his body sure as hell didn’t. His breathing kicked up, and his dick hardened. Colin wanted that big body on his, pinning him down. He wanted those lips kissing him, sucking him.

This can’t be happening. I’m not like this.

Panicking, Colin set his drink on the table and rose from his seat. Belatedly, he answered the still-waiting guy. “No thank you. I’m gonna go.”

“Suit yourself.”

Hands clapping above his head, the man joined the Speedo guy, gyrating his hips in front of him, and was rewarded with a blinding smile. They held each other around the waist and began to kiss.

“I knew it,” Colin muttered to himself in disgust. “He doesn’t care who he dances with. All he wants is action; any dick will do.”

Colin left and returned to his room, where he showered and dressed in boxers and a T-shirt, lay in bed, and tried to read, but the words blurred together. All he could see were those two men kissing. Soon their faces morphed into his ex-husband, Brad, and his lover, Anthony.

He’d come home at seven—early for him—suffering from a bad sore throat. Brad, who’d left bartending to work as his assistant, had woken up ill that morning and said he was taking the day to stay in bed. They’d likely caught the same bug.

With a cup of tea in hand, he headed straight for the bedroom. Strange noises came from behind their half-closed bedroom door, and he chuckled, imagining that Brad had fallen asleep with the television on, waiting for him. He pushed the door open, and his happiness died.

Instead of a sleeping husband, he was greeted by Brad, naked in their bed with Anthony, their usual server from their favorite Italian restaurant. Only the night before, they’d been there for dinner, and Anthony had greeted them each with a hug. And now Brad was facedown, biting the pillow, having his ass eaten out, and from his writhing and shaking, along with the squealing noises, loving every second of it. He’d never sounded like that in all the years they’d been together. Their lovemaking had been filled with tenderness, not this raw, animalistic power that filled the room with heat.

Frozen, Colin couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him. All those groping hands and naked, slick skin. So much moaning.

“God, Brad. Every time it’s better and better.”

“Baby, you’re amazing. Fuck me now. Hard. Need you. Love you so much.”

“Love you too. Mmm. My poor baby needs some real loving. Stuck with that old fart. Lemme make you feel better.”

“God, you make me feel alive. Never have to fake it with you.”

Anthony replaced his tongue with his cock and began to fuck Brad. Bare.

That final outrage shocked him into movement. The cup of tea fell to the floor, and Anthony caught sight of him. His jaw dropped and his eyes bugged out.

“Oh, shit. Colin.” He pulled out, and Brad whined.

“What the hell. Fuck Colin and his boring old ass.”

Colin had turned around and walked out.

The last time he’d seen Brad was across the table at his divorce attorney’s office.

From that moment on, Colin buried himself even deeper in work and building Pinnacle, his event-planning business, into one of the top-tier companies in the Tri-state area. He was the attention-to-detail person, the one to deal with the contracts and make sure not a single aspect of an event was overlooked, while his college friend, Alan, along with Dustin, were the meet-and-greet front men. Colin was more than happy to let them be the face of Pinnacle and bring in the clients. With Alan’s exuberant, go-getter personality, plus Dustin’s family’s connections to the entertainment world, they had a steady stream of high-end clients, and Pinnacle was constantly featured on national and local news shows.

His phone buzzed with a FaceTime request.

“Are you still talking to us?” Alan’s and Dustin’s faces appeared on his screen. “And where are you?”

“Barely, and I’m in my hotel room. Where did you think I’d be?” If he sounded growly, he didn’t care. He and Alan might be close as brothers, but this was a step too far, even for his pain-in-the-butt, nosy ass.

“I thought you’d meet people…hang out and have a few drinks. Maybe find someone and have a fling.” Alan’s hopeful smile wasn’t going to guilt him. “You know why we did this, right?”

“Because you love to torture me?”

Imagine him having a fling. He hadn’t had sex in three years; his libido had died that evening in his bedroom along with his marriage.

“Because we love you, idiot. You’re wasting away emotionally and physically. Your butt is glued to that chair and you never leave the office before eight or nine at night. Plus, if you think I miss the time stamps of your emails—one or two in the morning—you’re wrong.”

“I’ll up my gym workouts. And I enjoy working hard. Why is that a problem?” He huffed out his impatience.

“That’s bullshit. There’s working hard, and then there’s working yourself into the ground. You’re punishing yourself for a bastard who isn’t worth it. Life is fucking short, Colin. You have to enjoy the time you get.”

“I’m fine, except for the fact that my friends thought it would be fun to send me to a singles’ resort when I am happy being by myself.”

“If I didn’t know you for over twenty years, I’d believe that. I know you loved being married.”

He refused to be swayed by Alan’s sad face and pleading. “Sure I did. Until I walked in and watched my husband having sex in our bed with someone else, and found out it had been going on for years.” He’d never told Alan that Brad had called him boring and old, or that he’d had to fake enjoyment of sex. “That’s when I realized it’s all bullshit. Marriage, monogamy, all this happily-ever-after crap we deal with every day. I’m glad to give it to our clients, but I know better. No offense to you two. I know you’re disgustingly in love.”

“Just because Brad was a lying, cheating bastard doesn’t mean you can’t take another chance on love. Hearing you so bitter makes me sad.”

“Well, being forced to watch drunk grown men act like horny teenagers makes me sad, so we’re even. If I wanted to go to a strip club, I would. But I don’t.”

Dustin held up a hand. “But, Colin, think of it this way: it might be good for you to meet someone you’d never see again. Even have a crazy, one-night stand because there’s no expectation of anything permanent, but it can get you to start feeling good about yourself again.”

Dustin was a sweetheart, who Colin was convinced existed on quad espressos and M&M’s, as he never saw him in the office without one or the other. He and Alan had met walking their dogs on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, and Colin loved him almost as much as he did Alan. He was never judgmental, and when it all went down with Brad, Dustin had offered to find someone to “make Brad disappear” if Colin desired. The man was enthusiastic about everything and was one of the few people who could make him laugh even in his darkest hour.

Except for now, when he wanted to strangle them both for sending him to this fresh hell.

“I do feel damn good about myself,” he snapped. “I’m fucking awesome. I just don’t want to fuck some random guy. I don’t want to fuck anyone. And that doesn’t make me a freak or a weirdo. Now I’m going to bed, and when I come to the office on Monday morning, don’t ask me about it, because I don’t plan on ever discussing it again. Good night.”

He cut the connection on Alan’s openmouthed protest, and paced the bedroom. As much as he loved Alan and Dustin and was appreciative that he had friends who cared, it was both humiliating and galling that they’d gone to this length.

A dull knocking sound stopped his internal raging, and when he cocked his head to listen, he heard laughter followed by a squeaking bed frame.

“High-class resort, my ass,” he muttered to himself, narrowing his eyes as low-pitched groans replaced the laughter, growing louder by the second. “I can’t believe this shit.”

Wired up with annoyance and the unmistakable sound of someone having sex in the room next to his, he turned up the television, but when the rhythmic banging against the wall behind his bed began, Colin knew he’d had enough.

Fucking hell.

There was no way he could sit in this room and be bombarded with this noise. The fact that he was a little turned-on didn’t help, so Colin slipped on a bathing suit, shoved his feet into flip-flops, and left.

He wandered outside, the dark shape of the palm trees rising up high above him with their feathery fronds stirring in the light breeze. The water called to him, and he left the flip-flops behind, sinking his toes into the cool damp sand of the shoreline.

There was nothing like standing at the edge of the ocean to make you feel insignificant. Colin waded to midcalf, wondering who would care if he kept on walking until it covered his head and he disappeared.


Felice Stevens

Felice Stevens writes romance because what is better than people falling in love? Her favorite part of a romance novel is that first kiss…sigh. She loves creating stories of hopes and dreams and happily ever afters. Her stories are character-driven, rich with the sights, sounds and flavors of New York City and filled with men who are sometimes deeply flawed but always real.

Felice writes M/M romance because she believes that everyone deserves a happily ever after. Having traveled all over the world, she can safely say that the universal language that unites people is love. Felice has written in a variety of sub-genres, including contemporary, paranormal and has a mystery series as well.

Felice is a two-time Lambda Literary award nominee, and Lambda award winner for Best Gay Romance for her book, The Ghost and Charlie Muir.


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