Snow Storm by Davidson King
Christopher
“You settled that perfectly.” His voice was like a purr, and suddenly, I realized I was going to be very late for my meeting. “It’s like you’re some boss or something, making the hard calls.” He said the word hard with a moan and I knew if I turned around, he’d be stripping off his clothes.
“Snow…” I tried for a warning tone, but it was Snow. He couldn’t be deterred.
“You’re already going to be late.” His hands pressed against my back. “And you’re already going to be naked in a second.” He reached around my waist and began pulling my belt buckle.
“What’s a little more lateness, hmm?”
Resistance was futile, so I turned in his arms and smiled at the cheeky, adorable man I loved more than the air I breathed.
“You argue a good case, Mr. Manos, so make me later.”
He chuckled as he pushed me onto the bed, straddling me in all his flour and sugar-covered glory.
I relished in the feel of his mouth over my heated skin, his tongue gliding along my flesh like a paint brush. With my shirt open and my cock freed from the confines of my pants, I moaned as he made me later.
Eleventh Hour by Elin Gregory
Siward picked up a small leather bag and led Briers out of the back of the building into a cobbled court.
"Nice car," Briers said, admiring the vehicle's powerful lines. "Armstrong-Siddeley?"
Siward opened the dickey seat and crammed his bag down into it. "Four-Fourteen Tourer, Mendip model. It was George's," he said as he got into his seat. "He only drove it twice. I'm keeping it in tune while he's convalescing."
Briers waited until Siward had turned the car and driven it out onto Buckingham Gate before he spoke again.
"How is your brother?" he asked.
"As well as can be expected." Siward drove carefully, without much dash, content to follow a coster's cart until sure it was safe to pass it. He glanced at Briers and smiled – a polite but unconvincing grimace. "Thank you for asking. He's walking now, at least, and is his cheerful self, but we don't know how long it will be before he can get back to work. He misses it."
Briers expected he did. He didn't know the details – all very hush-hush – and hesitated to embarrass Siward by asking. "Your brother's a brave man. He could have cut and run. He didn't owe his informant anything."
"Yes, he did." Siward's reply was sharp. "The man was risking just as much as George was, if not more. And he got George to the border, injured though he was. I hope ... I hope if ever I'm in a similar situation, I have half the courage. In comparison with that, anyone should be proud to do what they can, even if it's not what they expected to be asked to do."
"I see," Briers said. Once Siward had taken the turn into Victoria Street he broke their silence again. "So – this business. Mildred?"
"Dear God in Heaven." Siward sighed. "Don't think I'm doing it because I like it. I just happen to be very, very good at it."
"And how did you discover that?" Briers asked. "No, honestly. I'm genuinely curious, not poking fun." He turned a little on the broad seat and studied Siward's profile. "We're going to be in close quarters for a while and I like to know a bit about the people I work with. Was it at school?"
Siward's flush was immediate. Even the narrow strips of skin visible between his cuffs and his driving gloves went pink. "I didn't go to school. I had rheumatic fever when I was six and again when I was nine, so I stayed with my parents and we hired a local tutor wherever we happened to be. Hence all the different languages, I suppose. No, it was when I went up to Cambridge. I read English and wasn't doing too well. My supervisor – dear me, even he was a war hero – suggested I join the Shakespeare performance society. He felt it might give me more insight. I'm not sure it worked as he intended but, over my time there, I think I played all the main female leads – Viola, Ophelia, Rosalind, Beatrice, even Lady Macbeth. I enjoyed the challenge but that was Shakespeare, with all the weight of tradition of men playing female roles. Out in the street, it's something else entirely."
"We all have to play roles in this business," Briers said. "Just remember you are doing something unique. Something I most certainly couldn't do."
Siward replied with a peevish snort. "Well, no, because you are a proper stalwart type. You don't get people sneering at you barely behind your back. I bet you played rugger and boxed for your college."
"Good guess." Briers chuckled. "Rugby League was the big thing in my house. Pa was a follower of St Helens and when I was born, the week before they played in the Challenge Cup, he named me after the entire front row."
"Briers?" Siward's tone was sympathetic.
"Briers Winstanley Allerdale," Briers said. "Actually it should have been Winstanley Briers Winstanley, because the brothers were playing, but even Pa wouldn't go that far. Being Brian Carstairs for a week or two will come as something of a relief."
Siward chuckled. "So your father was a Rugby League enthusiast. What about your mother? Are they still with you?"
"Yes, bless them. Pa is a country doctor, with a practice outside Eccleston. Ma – well she organises things, mostly Pa. I've got a younger brother who's in the practice with Pa and a sister who's courting."
"Someone suitable, I hope?" Siward said. "Do they know what you do?"
Briers shrugged. "I think Pa has guessed. The others think I'm something to do with steel production, which I am some of the time."
"That must be difficult," Siward said. "At least when I write to my family I can tell them a little of my daily life. A clerical post with the government is close enough to the truth."
"Just how many languages do you speak?" Briers asked.
"Five usefully." Siward's tone was matter of fact. "One picks them up easily as an infant and my nursemaids were a mixed bunch. I could speak Czech and Serbian by the time I was three and learned this odd kind of dialect mixture of Macedonian and Bulgarian from an Embassy driver who had the most wonderful pet ferrets."
Briers laughed. "So if ever I need someone to give a talk to the ferret fanciers of Skopje...?"
"I'm your man," Siward said. Their eyes met for a moment and both grinned. "Charing Cross." Siward nodded to the turn ahead. "Why don't you nip in and get your baggage while I turn the car around?"
Slay Ride by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
Maybe Tom Finney’s phone call was a blessing in disguise.
Robert was having an early dinner at the home of Sheriff’s Deputy Clinton Dooley’s widow. Dooley had been shot to death on Mill Creek Road six months earlier, and it was a god-awful Christmas for Mabel and the three little girls.
But then, with the war on and so many families missing loved ones, it was a god-awful Christmas for everyone. Joey, Robert’s kid brother, had been killed in the Pacific the previous spring. The Pacific was where Robert had nearly lost his right leg the January before that. There wasn’t a family in Bolt that hadn’t been touched by the war. In fact, there probably wasn’t a family in Montana or maybe the whole of the United States that hadn’t felt the brush of that icy finger.
Robert was doing his best to bring a little holiday cheer to the proceedings. Mabel was swell. He’d been to school with her, had even thought about asking her to marry him at one time. But somehow, he’d never gotten around to it, whereas Clint Dooley had. Now Dooley was dead, shot one night on a country back road by a nameless assailant, and Mabel was making a brave effort not to cry into the mashed potatoes.
When he was done failing to comfort the Dooley girls, Robert was supposed to head over to his mother’s house, where his kith and kin would make their own brave effort not to notice the empty place at the table.
So yes, in a funny way, Officer Finney’s phone call was a relief.
“Chief, I just got a call from Eugene Boswell, the assistant manager of the Safeway over on Harrison Avenue. He claims there’s some bird holed up at the Knight’s Arms, waving a roscoe around and squawking about bumping off his girlfriend.”
“Knight’s Arms. That’s the place on Main Street?” Robert asked. And then, suspiciously, “How would Eugene Boswell know what’s going on in the Knight’s Arms?” Finney had a fondness for practical jokes, and was known to celebrate the holidays, every holiday known to man—including some that hadn’t been thought of yet—with a nip or two.
But Finney sounded cold sober when he replied, “Boswell was over there having dinner at his mother-in-law’s apartment when a gal burst in, followed by this Harold Braun. Braun said he had three bullets, two for the dame and one for himself. While the women were trying to reason with him, Boswell scrammed across the street to the Scandia Bar and called us. He said Braun’s not fooling.”
“On my way. I’ll meet you in front of the Knight’s Arms.” Robert hung up and turned to find Mabel standing in the doorway holding his hat and coat. Her pretty face was pale. She was a tall, thin blonde with a spatter of golden freckles across an upturned nose. In the old days, she had always laughed a lot.
“Trouble?” she asked. She had been a lawman’s wife for nearly a decade.
Robert nodded. “Sounds that way. I’m sorry about dinner.”
Mabel brushed aside the mention of the meal on which she had used up so many of her ration coupons and worked so hard to prepare. “Be careful, Robert.”
“Sure,” Robert said easily. “I’m not the heroic type.”
“Not you,” Mabel agreed. “Not being heroic is how you got shot in the Philippines.”
“Everybody got shot, so that doesn’t count.” Robert shrugged into his coat, took his hat, and limped toward the front door. “Anyway, it was my leg that got shot, not my Philippines. My Philippines still work fine.”
Mabel laughed shakily. “If you can come back later, do. I’ll save you a slice of mince pie.”
“I can’t promise, but if I can, I will.”
She was still standing in the doorway, framed in cozy lamplight and hugging herself against the cold, when he climbed into his car and pulled away from the curb.
* * * * *
A handful of snowflakes drifted down as Robert parked behind the Scandia. He got his pistol out of the glove box and climbed out of the car. His leg ached in the damp winter air. But then, his leg always ached now.
Christmas lights strung across the windows of the bar cast watery blue and red and green smears on the black, shining street as he hurried across to where Finney and O’Hara were pacing in front of the brick apartment building. There was a third man with them, young, sandy and balding, plump as a pigeon, in a dark overcoat. That would be Boswell, the grocery store assistant manager, and Robert automatically wondered why he wasn’t in the army or some other branch of the service.
“Chief, we were just about to go in,” Finney said as Robert reached them. Finney was in his forties, short, wiry, hair prematurely white. He always reminded Robert of a smooth-haired fox terrier. Now he was almost quivering, like a dog tugging at a leash.
O’Hara was older than Finney. He was big—tall and broad—with a head of curly and startlingly dark hair. He hooked a thumb back at the trio of men hovering just out of earshot, and said, “The newshounds say they heard a shot right before we arrived.”
Newshounds? Robert swore inwardly. It had taken him less than five minutes from receiving Finney’s phone call to get over to Main Street, and he had been relieved to see there wasn’t much of a crowd gathered yet. But now that he took a closer look, he saw that the three men lurking a few feet away near scraggly shrubbery were not casual bystanders. One of them, a kid with a shock of white-blond hair, held a camera. Robert recognized the second man as Earl Arthur from the Montana Standard. And the third man… His heart jumped at the sight of that tall, lanky figure with the untidy chestnut hair.
Jamie.
He hadn’t seen Jamie—James Jameson—since Joey’s funeral, but he’d been on Robert’s mind the past few days. Ever since Officer Alf Davies had told him Jamie had traveled to Great Falls and tried yet again to enlist. With the same results as before. 4F. Weak lungs. There were worse things. A lot worse things, as Robert would have liked to remind him, but somehow he hadn’t gotten around to it, and now here was Jamie gazing back at him, eager and alert, hazel eyes shining like Santa had brought him a brand-new bicycle that very morning.
How old was he now? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? No. Twenty-three. Same age as Joey would have been. Why kid himself he didn’t know? Not like he would ever forget the year Jamie turned sixteen—and a stolen kiss at a birthday party.
Remembering that Jamie now worked for the Bolt Daily Banner, Robert groaned inwardly. He turned his back on Jamie and the other newshounds. Another snowflake drifted down and melted as it brushed his skin.
“He’s crazy,” Boswell was saying between chattering teeth. “He’s going to kill that woman. My wife’s still up there.”
Finney and O’Hara were only waiting for his word. Robert pulled his pistol from his belt. “How many people are in the apartment?”
“My wife, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Mileur, and her sister.”
“That’s four. Which apartment?”
“Top floor. First one on the left. I can show you.”
Robert nodded. “Good man.”
Finney sprang for the front door. The reporters moved to follow. Robert turned back to them. “Not a chance. You boys wait here.”
Jamie and the pup with the camera burst into protest. Arthur, older, harder, or just lazier, waved them on. Robert ignored them all, following his men and Boswell up the slick wooden steps and through a pair of tall white doors with oval panes of etched glass.
Inside, the building was warm and smelled of a dozen cooking Christmas dinners. Delicious and comfortable scents of roasting turkey and baking pies. The halls smelled the way the world used to smell before Herr Hitler came goose-stepping along.
Bing Crosby’s voice floated from beneath one closed door. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” But a few million people would not be home for Christmas. Would not be home ever.
Boswell rushed up the staircase, feet pounding, and Robert followed. His leg twinged in painful protest. Behind him, Finney and O’Hara made enough noise for a herd of elephants as they crashed after him up the carpeted steps.
As they reached the top floor, the sound of a woman sobbing reached their ears. All else was eerily silent.
“Anne!” gasped Boswell, starting forward.
“Wait.” Robert grabbed Boswell’s arm. “Stay here.” He went past the other man, moving quietly, cautiously down the hall. The line of doors stayed closed, all but the last. That one stood ajar, and through the opening he could hear voices. Women’s voices.
A floorboard squeaked beneath his foot. Robert paused. O’Hara breathed heavily down the back of his neck.
Robert’s heart was fast, but that was just adrenaline, readiness for action. He didn’t figure he’d ever feel real fear again. Not after Bataan.
He could feel Boswell’s anxious impatience from down the hall, but he wasn’t going to be rushed.
When no one charged out of the apartment at them, Robert reached the half open door and pushed it wide.
He could see his reflection—Finney and O’Hara hovering behind him—in a long mirror hanging over a white and green flowered sofa. A string of Christmas cards hung across a doorway leading into another room. A small Christmas tree sat on three-tiered table. Its silver star was crooked.
There were four women in the room. One woman slumped in a chair while two others worked over her bloodied form. A fourth woman in a red dress sat on the sofa, weeping into her hands. There was no sign of anyone else.
“Where is he?” demanded Robert, and the weeping woman looked up and screamed.
Boswell charged past Robert, nearly knocking him over in his haste. “Anne!”
“Oh, Gene!” The woman in the red dress threw herself in her husband’s arms. “Mrs. Mileur’s been shot. She was struggling with that maniac for the gun, and the gun went off. He shot her!”
“There, there, honey,” Boswell said, clasping her tight.
“You’re no doctor.” A white-haired woman, older than the others, stared at Robert.
“We’re the police.” It seemed pretty obvious to Robert, but maybe not to the woman. “I’m Chief Garrett.”
She demanded, “Then where’s the doctor?”
Robert opened his mouth.
“I’m all right.” The blood-stained woman, Mrs. Mileur, suddenly sat up, startling them all. “The bullet just nicked me.”
She was about forty, with brown hair and blue eyes. Blood soaked the white lacy collar of her navy-blue dress, but she seemed alert enough. She was holding a makeshift bandage to the side of her neck.
The second woman attending to her was younger than the rest of them, dark-haired, and very pretty. Her voice wobbled as she said, “The bullet grazed your throat, Alice. He nearly killed you.” She gulped. “And all because of me.”
“What do you mean because of you?” Robert asked. “Who are you?”
Her blue eyes were angry—and afraid. “I’m Jean McDuffy. Alice’s sister. I was…well, I used to go with Harry. Harold Braun. He was mad at me. That’s what all this was about.”
Finney said, “Why was he mad at you?”
“Because I wouldn’t take the dirty gifts he bought with his dirty blood money!”
“You’re not to blame for anything he did.” Alice Mileur glared at Finney as though he had suggested otherwise.
“Oh, Gene, I want to go home,” Mrs. Boswell sobbed.
“Sure, honey. Sure, we’ll go right away.”
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Robert said. “There are questions that have to be answered.”
“This woman needs a doctor,” the white-haired lady informed him while at the same time Jean replied to her sister, “You warned me he was no good. I guess I thought I knew better—”
“Never mind all that now. Where’s Braun?” Robert had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of everyone talking at once. “Where did he go?”
The white-haired woman answered. “He ran downstairs. He must’ve thought he’d killed Mrs. Mileur.”
The injured woman said with reassuring vigor, “He meant to kill Jean, and no thanks to him, he didn’t. He lives in an apartment in the rear of the building, by the door to the cellar. I should have thrown him out weeks ago.”
“You’re the manager of this place?”
“Yes.”
“Does Braun live alone?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you now he’s a chicken thief and a hophead. Don’t trust him for a second.”
“It’s my fault,” Jean said again. “This is all my fault.”
“Be quiet, Jean. The only thing you’re to blame for is having lousy taste in men.”
“Nobody leaves this apartment. Boswell, lock the door after us.” Robert turned back to O’Hara and Finney. “Come on. Downstairs.”
A chicken thief and a hophead. Well, it could be worse. It nearly had been. A lot worse.
He pounded back down the staircase, Finney and O’Hara on his heels.
There was a good chance Braun had already fled the premises. In fact, if he had any brains, that’s exactly what he’d have done, but if he was hopped up on dope, all bets were off. He might be sitting there waiting quietly for them to arrest him. Or he might be planning to ambush them from around the next corner.
Cautiously, Robert and his men made their way down a narrow hall. No ambush materialized.
They passed the battered door to the cellar and lined up outside Braun’s rooms.
There was no sound from within.
Robert nodded at Finney. Finney pounded the door with his fist.
“Police! Open up!”
The door did not open. There was only silence.
Robert touched the round doorknob. The door swung silently open.
“Careful, boys,” Robert whispered.
Pistols at ready, the three men entered the apartment. The blinds were drawn and the room was in darkness.
“He’s gone,” Finney said. “He must have lit out.”
Robert felt through the gloom for a lamp.
“There’s another room here,” O’Hara’s voice floated through the blackout.
There was a squeak of hinges, the gloom wavered as a door opened, and too late Robert saw white muzzle flash and heard the blast of Braun’s revolver.
O’Hara cried out. The lamp flared on just as there was another flash and another loud bang. Robert glimpsed the nightmarish vision of Finney crashing into the wall, firing at the open bedroom door.
Robert didn’t remember turning the lamp out again, but the room fell back into blackness as he dived for the floor.
Braun was still shooting, and Robert returned his fire. He could hear Finney groaning and swearing, and for one crazy, confused moment he thought he was back on Luzon, under fire from the Japs. He had fallen badly on his leg, and it was throbbing like he’d been shot all over again, but that was the least of his problems.
Swift footsteps approached, someone running toward Braun’s apartment, and to Robert’s horror, a voice he would have known anywhere called, “Rob? Chief Garrett?”
So much for the comfortable notion he would never feel real fear again. Terror squeezed his heart, squeezed his lungs as he yelled, “Jamie, stay the hell out of here.”
He listened, ears straining.
Braun had stopped firing.
Had he managed to hit Braun in the dark? Robert didn’t think so. More likely, Braun was hoping to slip into the front room and pop him. He kept his gaze trained on the slit of faded light between the dark living room and the bedroom.
Jamie hovered outside the apartment doorway. Robert knew it, could feel it in his bones, but he didn’t dare call out again, didn’t dare draw Braun’s attention to Jamie. Finney was still groaning.
“O’Hara?” Robert tried.
There was no answer. Rather, that deadly stillness from the spot O’Hara had fallen was the answer.
“How bad are you hit, Tom?” Robert called.
Finney stopped moaning. He choked out, “The sonofabitch chicken thief got me in the right shoulder. And my left arm.”
“Did he get you, Rob?” Jamie asked from the other side of the front door frame. He sounded startlingly calm.
“No. I’m okay,” Robert said. “Stay out of here. Understand? Stay clear of the door. Stay back from the walls.”
“Got it.”
A gust of cold December air blew in from the bedroom, and Robert tasted snow. “Goddamn it,” he exclaimed. “He’s gone out the back.”
He scrambled up, levering himself on the small table with the lamp, knocking both over. The glass globe smashed on the wooden floor. Robert stayed close to the wall, moving quickly around the square of the room. Keeping to the side, he threw open the bedroom door.
In the wintry light he saw O’Hara sprawled and motionless. Crimson pooled beneath him, soaking the floorboards.
“Goddamn it,” Robert said.
Brown curtains bobbed lightly on the breeze blowing through the open window next to the bed. Aside from O’Hara, the room was empty. When he thrust his head out the window, the alley behind the building was empty too.
Robert swore again, bitterly, turned and ran past Finney, who was slumped and bloody against the wall. “Hold on, Tom.”
Finney didn’t answer.
There was no sign of Jamie in the hall. That showed reassuring good sense, and Robert was relieved as he limped hurriedly down the narrow passage and back to the front of the building.
Arthur from the Montana Standard was fairly dancing with excitement on the pavement in front of the house. “By God, what a story! What’s the name of this gunman?”
“Never mind that. Where’d he go?”
“Thataway.” Arthur pointed down the street, where a green sedan had all but disappeared into the now heavily falling snow. “There were two women in that car he grabbed.”
God almighty. It just kept getting worse and worse.
Robert looked around. A crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk behind them. Well, that was bound to happen, and maybe in this case it wasn’t such a bad thing. He scanned the ring of bystanders. “I need a doctor. I’ve got two men down in the apartment next to the cellar entrance and an injured woman upstairs.”
“The doctor just went up,” Arthur said.
Well, that was something anyway. Robert realized that the face he had been instinctively searching for was not among the growing crowd.
His heart sank still lower. He turned back to Arthur. “Where’s the kid?” he demanded.
“Who?”
“The red-haired kid. Works for the Bolt Daily Banner. He followed us inside. Where did he go?”
“Kid? You mean Jameson?” Arthur pointed down the street, now empty of all but snow flurries. “He and that damned cub who’s supposed to be my photographer took off after your bird.”
Surprise Groom by DJ Jamison
“Should we kiss?” Caleb asked.
Julien gave him an arch look. “My answer to that question is always yes.”
Caleb chuckled awkwardly. “For the selfie, I meant.”
“Mm-hmm.” Julien managed to make skeptical sound sexy.
“Okay, shut up and put your lips on mine,” Caleb said.
“Oh, baby. Your dirty talk is off the charts.”
Caleb laughed. “Stop, I’m trying—”
Julien caught his mouth mid-word, shifting toward him as their lips clung. The feeling it evoked caught Caleb off-guard. They’d been joking around like friends, but the kiss didn’t feel friendly. It wasn’t erotic. No tongues plunging deep. But it was sweet. He had no idea kissing another man could feel that way.
In contrast to his soft lips, Julien’s hard chest pressed against Caleb’s shoulder. His right arm was behind Caleb, fingers brushing his neck, and his left hand slid down to just over Caleb’s upper chest. Their position was a little awkward, Caleb’s neck craned to the left, and he had his right arm outstretched for the selfie.
The kiss wasn’t getting his entire focus as he fumbled with the phone in his hand. Even with his attention divided, even with the very un-sexy circumstances of why they were doing this, the kiss felt real. Just as real as any he’d shared with a girlfriend. Maybe even more so. Julien had been the most important person in his life once. He couldn’t say the same for any of his short-lived girlfriends.
It took only seconds to break through Caleb’s self-delusion. His surety he wasn’t into men that way. He liked Julien’s lips on his.
Julien shifted, then slipped, and they were ripped apart by gravity as he nearly faceplanted in Caleb’s lap.
“Whoa!” Caleb said, catching Julien’s shoulder with one hand. “Trying for second base already? Or is that third? Not sure with guys.”
“I slipped! I had my arm braced behind you, and the pillow moved, or—”
“Suuure,” Caleb said. “I bet you say that to all the guys, huh?”
Julien pushed himself upright, his hand leaving a brand of warmth on Caleb’s thigh, before he pulled away. Grabbing the pillow behind his head, he smacked Caleb in the head. “Asshole.”
When Caleb finally stopped laughing, he noticed Julien didn’t look amused.
“I was kidding. I’m sure you’re much smoother when you’re actually trying to put the moves on someone.”
Julien flipped him off. “That picture better be worth it.”
Third Time's the Charm by K Evan Coles
“Hey, Luke, I’m going to Starbucks to buy coffee for everyone. You want?”
Luke Ryan stared at the code on his computer monitors and nodded absently. “Sure.”
“Okay. Grab your stuff and come with me.”
Luke blinked. “What do you need me for?” He turned away from the monitors and faced his best friend and business partner, Simon Martin.
Simon stood and eyed Luke across their shared office. “To help me schlep back the orders.”
“Ugh.” It was nearly two p.m. and Luke’s concentration was flagging. As much as he wanted to keep working, fresh coffee sounded wonderful. The idea of going to fetch it, however, not so much. He stood and picked up his wallet and phone from his desk. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you’d let me buy a new coffeemaker.”
“I said I’d buy it, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you said that two weeks ago. And here we are, making the trek to Starbucks once again.”
Simon sighed at Luke’s grumbling. “Oh, goodness. I’ll buy one this weekend, I promise. In the meantime, you could stand to go outside for a few minutes. Your ass has been bolted to that chair all day. You didn’t even break for lunch.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You ate a plastic squeeze tube filled with something green.”
“It was yogurt,” Luke said. “I bought a box of mixed flavor tubes but Ella doesn’t like lime, so they’re all mine.”
Simon grimaced. “That sounds appalling. Serves you right for feeding that girl junk.”
Luke chuckled as they started for the door. His niece, Ella, was ten years old and particular about what she ate. Luke had been stuck eating food she’d rejected before, but he didn’t mind—weird foods came with the territory of raising children. Or helping to raise them, anyway, as Luke had been helping his brother, Peter, do for the past several years, ever since Peter’s wife had walked out on her family and Peter had moved Ella from the Marine base in Virginia back to Boston and into Luke’s Back Bay apartment.
Once outside, Luke and Simon walked a block and a half to Winter Street, navigating around shoppers and tourists. The line at Starbucks stretched nearly out of the door, and they stepped up to its end while Luke read over the orders his coworkers had scribbled on a scrap of paper.
“I don’t know what this says.” He pointed at one messy line. “This looks like Klingon.”
Simon squinted. “You would know, I suppose. I’m fairly sure everyone ordered cold brew, by the way. That’s all those hipster punks drink anyway.”
Luke laughed. “Good point. Gillian wants an almond milk Macchiato, though.” Gillian Vasquez was the third partner in their software development business. Petite, red-haired and whip-smart, her easygoing personality provided an excellent foil for Simon’s brashness and Luke’s hyperfocus. Gillian kept Simon and Luke in line and they knew it.
“Is she still doing the dairy-free thing?” Simon asked.
“I’m not sure. I think she just likes almond milk, to be honest. Ella’s the same.”
“That doesn’t make those bowls of sugar cereal you feed her any healthier, you know.”
Luke rolled his eyes. He’d never understood why kids’ cereals got such a bad rap. Beyond the high sugar content and their dubious nutritional value, that was.
“I found a recipe for Cap’n Crunch cookies,” he said. “I was thinking Ella and I could make them over the weekend.” He snorted with laughter at Simon’s obvious disgust.
“Where on earth would you find such a thing?”
“Pinterest. It’s loaded with all kinds of questionable recipes.”
“Oh, Pickle.” Simon made a sympathetic noise. “This only underscores what I’ve been telling you for months—you need to get out more.”
Luke winced. “Please don’t call me Pickle in public.” He glanced around, hoping no one had overheard the ridiculous nickname, and met the gaze of a dark-haired guy standing behind them.
Well, hello there.
Luke flashed a grin and the guy blinked, clearly surprised. He offered Luke a shy half-smile of his own just before the line shifted.
Luke faced forward. “You know I don’t have time to go out,” he said to Simon. “Even if I did, the men I’d meet would take one look at Ella and run for the hills.”
“Surely not every man you meet is averse to the idea of family.” Simon frowned. “I like children. Or Ella, at least.”
“Yes, but you and I are not dating.”
“Not since I kicked you to the curb a decade ago, true.” He smiled at Luke’s laughter. “Still, I can’t imagine anyone you meet not being charmed by Ella. She’s loveable even when she’s being difficult.”
They stepped forward as the line moved again. Luke hazarded another glance back and felt a pang of disappointment to find the cute guy talking on his phone. He met Luke’s eyes again, however, and Luke smothered a curse when Simon nudged him with his elbow.
“Ella likes you, so of course you think she’s fun,” Luke said. “Not everyone thinks the way you do or wants to stick around while I fill in for her dad, though.”
“Are you so sure?” Simon asked.
“I’m still single, am I not?”
“Yes, though I confess I don’t know why. It’s not because you’re lacking in looks and your personality is certainly adequate.”
“Nice.” Luke shrugged off both the compliment and the tease. He knew he was easy to look at. He was tall and fit with a heart-shaped face and gray-green eyes, and his friends joked he couldn’t take a bad photo. Luke didn’t suffer for lack of attention from men. Keepinga man’s interest presented the real challenge these days, and that had a lot to do with the fact that he was taking care of a young child.
“I’m thirty-two years old,” he said. “The men I meet who want children are either already parents or in committed relationships and headed in that direction.”
“This is why you need to meet newmen,” Simon replied. “Ella isn’t your daughter, Luke. Pete’ll be back from deployment in a couple of months and that’ll take some of the pressure off you. There’s no reason for you to be celibate until then, either.”
“I’m hardly celibate,” Luke muttered, his cheeks hot. “And please keep your voice down.”
He paused as they approached the counter. Simon placed the order and Luke glanced at the guy behind them again. Thankfully, he was still on his phone instead of being forced to eavesdrop on the saga of Luke’s sad single life.
“I know I haven’t had a boyfriend since Ella moved in with me,” Luke continued while Simon paid for the order. “Taking care of her complicates my life, but it’s nothing compared to Pete’s wife taking off on them. AndI do go out on occasion, Simon. I date.”
Simon cocked a well-groomed eyebrow at him. “Okay, and when exactly? Because we both know you don’t have time to yourself anymore.”
Despite Simon’s gentle tone, Luke winced. Even with help from his parents and his babysitter, Melissa, he rarely had a minute to himself outside his own bathroom. Even then, odds were Ella would knock on the door and blithely ask questions while Luke showered or shaved.
“In all seriousness, when did you last go out with a man?” Simon asked. They moved aside so the baristas could mix up their magic, and he patted Luke’s arm. “Hell, when did you last pick someone up?”
“I met someone while I was grocery shopping last week, believe it or not,” Luke replied. “We emailed a couple of times, but he dropped off the map. I picked someone up a couple of months ago, the last time Pete came home on leave.” He grinned at Simon. “You and I went out for dinner and drinks, then over to that bar in Back Bay named after Oscar Wilde. Remember?”
“That’s the bar with the boozy milkshakes?”
“Yes! I met Jeremy that night.”
Realization flashed in Simon’s eyes. “I’d forgotten that’s where you met. Where was I?”
“Sucking face with some bartender, I think.” Luke smirked at Simon’s raucous laughter.
“Oh, God, that’s right. Those milkshakes are lethal!”
“Believe me, I remember.” Luke reached up and ruffled Simon’s hair. “Anyway, I didn’t take Jeremy home that night, but we exchanged numbers and spent time together for a couple of weeks.”
“What happened between you two, anyway? I don’t think you ever said.”
“There was nothing to tell. Pete’s leave ended and I canceled a couple of dates because Melissa was busy and I couldn’t find a sitter. Jeremy just faded out.” Despite his careless tone, Luke’s heart twinged a little. He’d enjoyed spending time with Jeremy and watching him withdraw had stung.
Simon clasped Luke’s shoulder with one strong hand. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t have to be that way all the time, you know. I can watch Ella for you if Melissa is busy—I just need some notice. Gillian will, too. Hell, ask around the office if you need someone for a couple of hours. I’m sure at least one of the kids on staff is the babysitting type.”
“I know, and thanks. It doesn’t matter, though. The reality is I’m with Ella a lot because I want to be and guys usually bolt after they figure that out.”
Simon’s gentle scowl warmed Luke’s heart. He loved that his friend cared enough to listen. Then Luke saw the cute guy with the dark hair pay for his single coffee and leave. Damn. Once upon a time, Luke would have struck up a conversation with him instead of watching the opportunity slip away. Maybe Simon had a point.
“It’s fine,” he said. “And you’re right. I should make an effort to get out there and meet new men. Especially since things will go back to normal after Pete gets home. For a while, anyway.”
“That ‘for a while’ is kind of a problem.” Simon’s expression sobered. “Your brother will still be at Quantico more rather than less. I don’t even mean that in a bad way because I know you love having her here.”
Luke nodded. He’d never thought twice about welcoming his niece into his home. “I do. All the more reason to find someone who’s okay with Ella being in my life.”
Is that such a bad thing to want?Luke didn’t think so.
The barista called their order and Luke handed Simon the bags he’d been holding. “At any rate, it’ll be great having Pete back, even if he’s not in Boston. Ella hasn’t been the same since her dad was deployed.” Carefully, he collected the trays of cups.
Simon led the way out, talking over his shoulder as he held the door for Luke. “You think so?”
“Oh, yeah.” Luke sighed. “She really misses him, and it’s not like we can visit. She worries about his safety, just like my parents worry, and I do, too. Life will be a hundred times easier for all of us with Pete on US soil, whether he’s at the Marine base or not.”
“I understand,” Simon replied. “I’m just sorry I can’t do more than listen.”
Luke smiled. “Don’t be. I’d have gone bananas a long time ago without you and Gillian around to listen and keep me sane.”
“Girl, you’ve always been bananas,” Simon said, his tone airy. “But we’re used to it and don’t love you any less.” He shot Luke a wink and they headed for the office.
