Summary:
Doctor Robinson O’Reilly is burned out. Exhausted, jaded, and disillusioned with the bureaucracy of his profession, he’s ready to throw away his entire career. Convinced to take a part-time position in a small town instead, he packs his medical bag for Hartbridge, Montana.
Who knows, maybe the change of pace and mountain air will do him good.
Firefighter Captain Soren De Silva moved to Hartbridge two years ago. He loves the town, the people, his job. What he doesn’t like is the lack of queer men. Well, the lack of available queer men. There are a few queer couples in town whom Soren can only look at with envy.
He wants what they have.
There’s a new doctor in town; not Soren’s usual type, but there’s something about him that Soren can’t ignore. A friendship sparks between them and Soren can’t help but wonder if that Hartbridge Christmas magic the others joke about is real.
Because a spark leads to flames, and this is not a fire Soren wants to extinguish.
Summary:
When given the opportunity to make his dream of owning his own bookstore come true, Winter Atkins couldn’t say yes quick enough. Moving to Hartbridge, Montana, with his favorite aunt is the adventure he needs to start over. And leaving behind a string of unhappy boyfriends because of his asexuality, Winter is all too happy to shelve the idea of dating forever.
Deacon Clark has never fit in. Autistic and neurodivergent, he excels in his studies and at his father’s veterinary clinic, but his social skills are lacking. He’s attracted to men, but his bluntness and aversion to physical touch have made dating impossible.
When Winter brings an injured cat into Deacon’s clinic, it sparks an unlikely friendship; something both men need more than they realize. Hartbridge’s Christmas Cupid has his work cut out for him this year. But with the help of two newly orphaned kittens, from friendship, the strongest bond forms.
Deck the Fire Halls #5
CHAPTER ONE
ROBINSON O’REILLY
I wokewith a start and stared at the strange ceiling, wondering what had woken me when I heard it again.
A motorcycle.
A big, loud motorcycle kickstarted to life right outside my bedroom wall, by the sounds of it.
New town, new house, new start.
Which also meant new sounds to get used to.
A Harley Davidson before seven on a Saturday morning was not a great way to start my day, nor was it something I wanted to get used to.
My real estate agent said the house was old but well-loved, that the street was quiet and the neighbors were great.
She was right about the house, but she never mentioned anything about said neighbor owning a Harley freaking Davidson.
I’d arrived in Hartbridge, Montana, late last night, grateful for central heating and that I didn’t have to get a fire started, and also grateful that I’d had barely enough energy to make my bed before I fell onto it and was finally getting some decent sleep. My first decent sleep in far too long . . .
Until a thundering motorcycle almost rattled me out of my bed at far-too-early o’clock, before it roared off down the street.
Not a great start to my very first day in town.
I threw back the covers and grumbled as I got out of bed, sighing as I shuffled down the hall into my living room. I frowned at the boxes stacked around me, a reminder of the day ahead of me, and headed to the kitchen.
Where I immediately regretted not setting up my coffee machine last night.
After ripping into the boxes on the table marked kitchen, I found my machine and the coffee beans, and a short time later, was gratefully sipping on a double shot of espresso out of a drinking glass.
Once I’d had some caffeine, I could admit that the house was quaint. A two-bedroom, single story bungalow, a small porch at the front, and an enclosed porch at the back. The walls were a tad too yellow for me, and I entertained the idea of having the whole house given a fresh coat of paint. Maybe in the summer . . . maybe by then I’d know if I had any intention of staying.
I’d looked at renting, but with the holidays approaching, options were limited, so I asked to see homes for sale instead. I hadn’t had any intention of buying again, not until I found the place which I wanted to make my permanent home. But given the price of real estate in Hartbridge, compared to Seattle where I’d just sold my very nice condo, it was just easier to freaking buy something instead of renting.
So maybe I’d have the walls painted, or maybe I wouldn’t.
I wandered out into the living room with my coffee and almost caught myself smiling at the sunlight streaming in through the white lace curtains.
Almost.
I think I’d forgotten how to smile.
Not a fake smile for the sake of pleasantry. I mean an honest smile from happiness.
I think I’d forgotten what happiness was.
I felt beaten down by life, by my job, by the career I’d fought for my whole life. Like the people I’d called friends, my medical colleagues, were excelling and thriving, while I was going under.
I’d almost walked away.
I’d been so close to throwing everything away. Just getting in my car and driving to Canada or Alaska or flying anywhere—the next plane to literally anywhere—just for a chance to breathe, when Alaya Ross took one look at me and pulled me into her office because she was concerned for my well-being.
To cut a really long story short, I ended up taking on a general practice position three days a week at the Hartbridge Medical Center.
If I couldn’t handle that?
Then I’d know I was well and truly done.
I was only thirty-six years old. I was young in this job. Maybe I’d gone too hard too fast. I’d worked insanely long hours; double shifts were standard. I’d been promoted before my peers, my dedication was commendable, blah blah blah.
My dedication had almost killed me.
Which is why I found myself in a very small town in the middle of the mountains in a small but cute house surrounded by boxes that needed to be unpacked.
That was my weekend plans, anyway.
Before going to the clinic for my first shift on Monday morning. I was trying to be optimistic. Maybe this was the fresh start I needed. Maybe it was the change of pace my mental health deserved.
Maybe it would decide my fate once and for all.
I told myself to give it a year, even two. Give it a fair trial run. Even if I was half-convinced I was already leaving.
Doomed before I begin, I thought as I drained my coffee, then put myself to work.
By late afternoon, I was almost done. I had a pile of flattened boxes I had no clue what to do with, my kitchen and clothes were sorted and put away, books unpacked on the bookcases in the spare room, and I had the TV set up.
I tried not to let it bother me that my entire life took just a few hours to unpack.
There wasn’t much of me. My entire life had been my job. I had a few photos of my parents and my sister. A candid photo of me at college, young and carefree, laughing with abandon, so oblivious to the path I was taking.
I wasn’t sure why I kept it. It felt a little self-serving, vain perhaps. But it was a good photo. I didn’t have many, and it was a good reminder to myself that I did use to smile.
God, that younger version of me had loved life. Full of adventure and a heart big and brave enough to take on the world.
Enough.
Stop it, Rob.
Get out and clear your mind.
Before I could let my thoughts spiral and have a full-blown what-have-I-done panic attack, I grabbed my coat and my keys, locked up my house, and walked outside.
Fresh air—albeit a little too fresh—warm sunshine, and a quick trip to the local store for some essentials was a great idea. The Home Mart itself was not much bigger than a 7-Eleven, but I managed to find some almond milk and some of that grain bread I hadn’t had in years. There was a small but decent supply of locally grown fruit and vegetables, which I had to admit . . . if it was in my closest farmer’s market back in Seattle, it’d have been five times the price.
The woman behind the counter gave me a bright smile. “Good afternoon,” she declared. “Find everything you were after today?”
At first I thought she was a little too over the top, but the way she paused for my answer to greet an older lady as she walked in with—“Oh, Mabel, I was going to call you. We got the yarn in you were looking for. It’s in aisle two, right alongside the others.”—I quickly realized she was maybe just that cheerful.
She turned her smile back to me and I’d almost forgotten she’d asked me a question. “Oh, yes, I did, thank you.”
“Just passing through?” she asked as she rang me up. “Or . . .”
“No, not passing through.” I wasn’t sure if anyone just passing through town would buy bread, milk, and a supply of fresh produce, but maybe I was out of practice with the art of small talk. “Just moved here, actually, from Seattle. Got a place on Elmwood Lane.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, how wonderful! What’s your name, love?”
Love?
I stopped short on the salutation of doctor. “Rob.”
“Well, Rob, I’m Rosie. Nice to meet you. I hope you’re happy here. It’s a great little town. Carl’s Diner on Main Street has some of the best coffee and cake you could ever want. And a whole range of meals, better than anything you could find in the city. Pizzeria, if you’d prefer. There’s a menswear store, Tania at the hairdressers, oh, and a hardware store if you need anything at all for your house. Go in and see Ren, he’ll fix you right up.”
Carl, Tania, Ren.
Right, then.
“Excellent, thank you,” I said, paying my bill. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I thanked her and managed a smile as I left. It was only a short walk back to my house, but I spent every step wondering if I’d stepped into the Twilight Zone, or if small towns were really like this. Where everyone was on a first name basis.
I was going to have to get used to it.
As I walked up the two steps to my porch, I heard a rumble coming down the road, and by the time I juggled my groceries and got my key in the door, the very loud Harley slowed right down and pulled in next door. Male rider from the size of him—huge bulging biceps, broad shoulders—though he wore a helmet, so I couldn’t see his face. But my god, the sound was so damn loud.
I pushed inside and closed the door. The noise cut off a few moments later, the resulting silence overly loud in its absence.
Or maybe it just seemed so loud because the rest of the town was so quiet?
With an annoyed sigh, I put away my groceries and pretended I hadn’t just bought a house right next door to a motorcycle gang member . . .
Which was probably a gross exaggeration and an awful stereotype, but as a doctor who’d spent way too many hours in the ER tending to riders of motorcycles and the occasional gang member, it was easy to presume such things.
I was disillusioned with the world. I was allowed to be mad about it.
I tried not to dwell on it though. Made myself my first home-cooked meal in far too long and put myself to bed with a book I’d been meaning to read for years.
I didn’t give my Harley-riding neighbor another thought. He had been quiet all night, thankfully no loud music or parties for a Saturday night, and I’d managed another decent night’s sleep . . .
To be woken again by the loudest, sleep-shattering rumble of that damn motorcycle.
I shoved my pillow over my head to drown out the noise, unsure if I wanted to weep in frustration or yell in anger. The rational part of my brain knew that going outside in my pajamas to yell at the guy probably wasn’t the best way to establish new neighborly relations, especially if he was in some motorcycle club.
But then the ruckus faded as he drove off, leaving blissful silence in its wake. I sighed and tried to doze off again, wondering if the bone-deep exhaustion would ever leave me.
Maybe it was part of me now.
Along with the jaded pessimism and general crankiness at life.
I never used to be like this, and I needed to shake off the mood, the funk. I needed to start looking at the positives. This was a new start, a new life. I’d left the darkness behind me and needed to start appreciating the good things.
Like coffee and sunshine through my living room window.
So with that in mind, and considering I was now very much awake, I threw back the covers, put on my robe and slippers, and headed for the kitchen.
I switched on the coffee machine to warm up, taking a few moments to breathe in the peace and quiet and the first rays of sunlight coming in through the living room window, casting shards of white on the yellow walls and sending dust motes into a spin.
Peace and quiet.
I could get used to this.
I inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, trying to breathe in the serenity.
I made my coffee, almost smiling as I took my first sip . . .
Until an all too familiar sound came thundering down the street, closer, slowing in front of my house before turning into his driveway.
My neighbor from hell.
Anger bubbled up inside me, irrational and stupid, and with my coffee in hand, I stomped out my front door, across the frosty front lawn, and met my inconsiderate motorcycle gang member neighbor in his driveway.
“Hey,” I yelled. I couldn’t even hear myself over the roar of his stupid motorcycle. “Hey!”
He cut the engine and my voice carried over the silence.
He sat on his huge motorcycle, wearing blue coveralls and a leather jacket. He lifted his hands and took off his helmet. I was expecting a hard face, scars, or neck or face tattoos.
But what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Short brown hair, sun-kissed skin, smiling hazel eyes and a grin that stole my breath. “Morning,” he said, voice like velvet. Then he looked me up and down, and I swear he chuckled. “Nice pajamas.”
I looked down at myself, horrified to see my robe open and my navy pajamas with pink flamingos and rainbows on full display. They were old. I’d bought them for a Pride Pajama Party at med school, and everything else I own had been packed. I’d kept them out with the intent of throwing them out once I got settled in . . .
“You okay?” he asked, concerned now. “You just moved in, right? Need help with anything?”
His kindness threw me for a second, not to mention his ridiculous good looks. “I, uh, I’m, um . . .” I looked down at the cup I’d forgotten I was holding. “Coffee,” I said.
Like an idiot.
Then I noticed the Hartbridge Fire Department logo on the breast of his coveralls, under his leather jacket.
Oh my.
Of course he was a firefighter.
“Hi, coffee,” he said, smiling obscenely. “My name’s Soren. It’s nice to meet you.”
Merry and Bright #6
CHAPTER ONE
WINTER ATKINS
“Mr. Winter Atkins,” the realtor said. “Please sign here.”
He slid the paperwork in my direction, pointing to the sticky note with an arrow. I gave my aunt Rowena a quick glance, unable to hide my happiness and excitement. She grinned right at me, encouraging me to seal the deal.
I scribbled my signature, and Ro gave my arm a squeeze. “Well, we’re doing it!” she said. “No going back now.”
No, there wasn’t.
There was never any going back.
Once I’d quit my job, packed up my small apartment back in Boise, and said goodbye to my friends, there was no going back.
I mean, I could, if I had to.
But I didn’t want to. I wanted this new adventure to work out.
I needed it to.
Ro had invested some of her inheritance money in this new venture. She’d invested in me. More than my mother, Ro’s sister, had. To say my relationship with my mother was strained was an understatement. Had been since as early as I could remember, since I was obviously gay and she couldn’t deal with it.
She never disowned me or kicked me out. But her parenting came from a sense of obligation, not out of love. I learned all too well that her love came with conditions.
Whereas my aunt Ro welcomed me with open arms. She used to take teen-me aside and tell me it was okay to be me, it was okay to be gay, to be figuring shit out. I was basically the child she never had.
She’d been my saving grace.
Then and now.
Ro and my mother’s uncle had died and, not having any children of his own, left them a sizable amount of money and stocks. My mother had never mentioned the money to me—not that I’d expected her to—but Aunt Ro wanted a change of scene, and something to dump some dollars into for tax purposes. She’d been to Hartbridge before and had fallen in love with the tiny town. And given I’d been a bookstore manager for years, we found an ideal location, and I’d just signed the lease.
This was really happening.
She’d also found an old farmhouse a few minutes out of town, which we’d moved into just two days before. And I wanted to clean the store and paint the walls before the contractor guys installed the shelving and service counter next week. So, when I say it was happening, I meant it was all happening.
We took the keys and went to the store that was now ours. I parked out back, my hands trembling as I unlocked the door, and we stepped into the empty store. The glass front faced a paved road closed to traffic that met up with the river, just off Main Street. Directly across from us was a coffee shop run by the youth center as a training hub.
“It’s going to be amazing,” Ro said. “And the installers will be here on Monday, right?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“Then let’s get to work!”
I laughed. She’d always been such a doer. I knew it would be pointless to tell her not to worry, that I could do it on my own. I didn’t expect her to help me, but hanging out with her was always fun. We’d always gotten along so well, and I enjoyed our time together. We often just hung out because we enjoyed each other’s company. Even when I was a kid, she’d hated being called aunt or aunty and had insisted I call her by her name.
She was five feet and three-quarter inches. That three-quarter inch was important, apparently. She had dark gray curls to her shoulders, Kermit-green chunky glasses and a brilliant smile, usually painted a bright red. She had a bright aura, she was smart as a whip, kind and gracious, and her energy was contagious.
I adored her.
The fact she was putting her trust in me made me even more determined not to let her down.
I wasn’t worried. In fact, I knew we could do this. I knew my industry. I knew the book market. It was a great location in a great little town. Everyone I’d encountered so far had been friendly and welcoming, and it was inclusive.
There were pride flags in the youth center window, and the man at the hardware store who’d helped me choose the paint yesterday was clearly gay. I don’t like to judge or assume, but when I’d asked for a neutral, warm white, he’d smirked at me, grabbed my arm, and said, “Ooh, I know just the thing.” He’d handed me a swatch of different whites.
“These have a warm undertone. Ren thinks I’ve learned about paint colors from him, but honestly, I learned everything I know about undertones and complexion from Drag Race.”
I’d laughed at that. “Love that.”
He was a bit fem, had a dark beard, an accent I couldn’t quite place, and a wedding ring on his finger. I had no idea who the Ren was that he’d mentioned, but I figured from the way the tall guy behind the counter had smiled at him that it was probably him.
Everyone seemed so friendly here. It was such a pretty town, nestled in the mountains by the river. I couldn’t wait to see it in full winter mode. Ro told me there was a Christmas festival in the town every year, and while that sounded fun, given it was mid-November already, it told me I didn’t have much time to get this store up and running to capture most of the Christmas trade.
So, Ro and I got busy painting walls. Plus the pre-cleaning and cutting in and everything else, and by the end of the second day, the awful, dirty sepia yellow was gone, and ‘First Snow’ warm white was in. It looked fresh, clean, and inviting.
It felt so good.
Good to be productive, good to get the ball rolling. Good to start this new chapter of our lives.
“Okay, I’ll head off first,” Ro said. Then she stretched out her shoulders and arms. “Ugh. I need a hot bath. But I’ll stop by the pizzeria first and pick up dinner. We’re not cooking tonight.”
The old farmhouse had one of those old-fashioned deep baths that was made for soaking tired and aching bodies.
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “I won’t be long here. Just gonna put a second coat on the windowsill.”
“Okay, darling,” she said, waving me off as she headed out to her car.
I finished the windowsill and, standing in my new empty store, I took a minute to look around. I was so freaking happy. This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to me. A fresh start like the fresh coat of paint.
I intended to bury myself in work for the foreseeable future. No exes to run into to remind me how I was so lacking, how my being asexual was a fault or something they could fix.
No siree.
I had zero intention of making those same mistakes twice.
Or a third or fourth time, as the case may be.
This was my chance to start over. Build the business of my dreams, and get to live a fulfilling life, happily single forever, surrounded by books.
Cozy town, cozy bookstore, cozy me.
That was the plan.
And I couldn’t wait.
Locking up the store, I pulled on my coat and went out to my car. Found my favorite playlist, which I’d aptly named Best Songs for Being Gay. I cranked up the volume. Queen began to belt out “I want to break free” and I was giving it my best karaoke special, reversed out of my parking spot with enough vigor to make Freddie Mercury proud, and felt a thump and heard a godawful screech.
Even above my own godawful screeching.
I hit the brakes and shut the engine off. There was only silence, and I was almost too scared to get out . . . but then I saw a cat half drag itself to the side of the building.
Oh no!
I jumped out and ran over to it. It was not good. Lying very still and its back legs were . . .
Dear god.
I took off my coat and bundled the cat up, carrying it to my car. I drove off again, this time without the vigor and the screeching, but with extra panic and sobbing. There was a vet clinic we passed on our way from home, so I thankfully knew where it was.
There were still a few cars in the lot, and the lights were on inside.
Thank heavens.
I grabbed the bundle of coat and cat and raced it inside. There was a lady behind the reception counter, and she stood up when she saw me. “I hit a cat,” I said, crying, and I’m surprised she understood me.
“Come this way,” she said, quickly ushering me through a door.
A man in a white lab coat appeared and took the bundle from me, and I was all but pushed back out of the room.
So, not knowing what else I should do, I sat in one of the waiting room chairs and waited. And cried, and wiped my snotty nose, and despite how badly my hands were shaking, I sent Ro a text.
Will be late. I hit a cat with my car. I’m at the vet
Her reply came through immediately.
Oh no! Need me to come down?
No, it’s fine. Just waiting to hear
Okay. Let me know if anything changes
She was such a godsend. I cried a little at her kindness, wiping away a tear.
I couldn’t believe I’d hit a cat. Was it under my car when I’d gotten into it? Did I not see it in the backup camera?
And I’d been having such a good day . . .
Still a decidedly better day than the poor cat was having.
And of course, that made me start crying again.
Then a man came out of the door, holding my coat, folded neatly, his expression sad.
And I knew. I knew it was bad news.
Didn’t stop me from asking though. “Is the cat . . . did it . . . ?”
He shook his head. “She couldn’t be saved.”
I slumped back in my seat and cried, my face in my hands. “I killed her. Oh my goodness, I killed a cat. I’m a terrible person. Does she have an owner?” I looked up at him. “Oh no. Does she have an owner? Was she microchipped? Who do I have to go break the bad news to? I just moved here and someone’s going to hate me already.”
He fidgeted with my coat he was still holding. “There was no microchip. From the condition of her coat and weight, she was likely a stray.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. I mean, it didn’t make it any better, though I was relieved I didn’t have to go tell some poor child I’d killed their beloved pet. Or a little old lady’s only companion. I wasn’t sure which would be worse. “Well, it’s not good. That poor cat. I think it was under my car when I got in. I don’t know. I didn’t see it. It was an accident, I swear. I’ll pay the bill, whatever the cost. That’s fine.”
He made a face, though it was hard to tell through my tears and snot-sobbing, then he sat beside me and handed me a tissue. He waited until I had some composure.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “I’ve never killed anything before.”
He didn’t say anything, and when I looked at him, I could see he was uncomfortable. He was a little wide-eyed, unsure of how to react or where to look. He handed over my coat and stood up.
“We are closed for the day now,” he said.
Oh.
Well then.
Right.
A little rude perhaps, but at least I got the message.
“Okay, sure,” I said, dabbing my tears as I stood. “Thanks, I guess.” I walked to the door, giving him one last look.
He shifted his weight, fidgeting his hands. He looked uncomfortable but sad. He was only young, I realized now that I took better notice of him. Twenty-something, short ashy-brown hair, blue eyes.
He squinted, uneasy, glanced at me before focusing on the wall instead. “‘Death is not the opposite of life but an innate part of it,’” he said softly.
Then turned on his heel and walked out.
I stood there, blinking at where he’d been, until I remembered that he’d asked me to leave.
I went home, was met by Ro with a big hug, wine, and pizza. After I’d told her everything that had happened and had another good cry, I couldn’t help but think about what that guy had said.
I’d heard it before; I was sure of it. I just had to place it . . .
“I’ll be damned,” I said, rushing to my bookcase. I pulled out one of my favorite books ever and flipped through the pages.
“Death is not the opposite of life, but an innate part of it,” I read out loud. “What the hell.”
“What is it?” Ro asked me from the door.
“That guy. The vet,” I replied. Well, I’d assumed he was the vet. He had a white coat over scrubs, but he could have been a cleaner for all I knew. Not that it mattered. He’d had the awful task of giving me bad news. I held up my well-read, well-loved copy of Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. “He quoted this.”
She stared at me, a slow spreading smile at her lips. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh what?”
“I thought you’d sworn off men forever.”
“I did. I am,” I replied indignantly. “I mean, yes. One hundred percent. I have sworn off dating, sworn off being disappointed by men who don’t understand me, sworn off men who . . .”
“Who quote one of your two hundred most favorite books ever.”
My eyes met hers and I let out a pathetic whine. “Yes. Even then.”
“That wasn’t very convincing, Win. Try it again, this time with meaning.”
I stroked the cover of my book as if I’d hurt its feelings instead of my own. “Yes. Even then.”
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.
She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.
She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.
She’s been writing ever since...
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EMAIL: nrwalker2103@gmail.com
Deck the Fire Halls #5
Merry and Bright #6
