Sunday, February 23, 2025
Sunday's Safe Word Shelf: What He Hides by EM Denning
Summary:
Desires #3
Everett Butcher is a successful vlogger with a secret. By day, he’s The Crock Cock, the internet’s hottest, gayest, and most naked chef. By night, he’s ConcealedandCuffed, a secret submissive who bends to the random whims that hit his inbox. To protect his identity and his career, Everett is careful to never show his face and to never play with the same guy twice. But Everett is tired of online submission. It only reminds him he has no one. When Puck1730 messages him, his world flips upside down.
Xavier Jeffries knows he’s playing a dangerous game, but when he discovered his big brother’s best friend’s secret submissive blog, his inner Dom reared his head and he knew he had to have him. He’s been in love with Everett for years and he feels like it’s now or never. But will Everett forgive him for the dubious way he initiated a relationship?
As the big, in person, reveal looms on the horizon, both men are on edge. Will their online playtime translate into real life chemistry and will Everett forgive Xavier when he discovers it was him the whole time?
1
Everett
Everett Butcher angled the camera so it wouldn’t show anything above his collarbones. He double and triple checked the angle before hitting record. His newest task from…whatever the random username was, told him to strip down, put on the frilly panties the Dom sent him and jack-off on camera. He wanted Everett, or ConcealedAndCuffed as his followers knew him, to come in the panties and send them back. What the random Dom lacked in originality he made up for in sheer perversion.
The Dom all but begged Everett to show his face. They all did. But that was his first rule. No face shots. He had to be careful. If word got out about his secret submissive blog, he’d risked losing all the people who followed his other blog, The Crock Cock. Sure, he cooked in the nude, well, mostly. He wore an apron and nothing else. The cooking vlog paid the bills. Everett used the submissive blog to explore his kinks in a safe environment.
He had rules. No faces. No names. No subbing for the same Dom more than once. That one he couldn’t enforce. If someone went to the trouble of making another account each time they made a request of Everett that couldn’t be helped.
Everett slid the ridiculously silky panties up his slender legs. They fit like a dream, except they were very clearly women’s panties. The silky fabric held his dick tight against his body. Everett put his hands on his hips so his pelvis would jut out and show off his package, then he did a little turn. He knew how to work the camera and the Doms loved it when he put on a show.
All requests, once fulfilled, went up on his channel, but the Dom who submitted the request remained anonymous. Everett got lots of requests similar to this one. They often wanted him to wear specific things. He had a post office box so Doms could send him gifts and props they wanted to see him use. He’d amassed quite the sex toy collection. As for the pink panties, the Dom would have to do without them. Everett had a strict no returns policy.
Everett swivelled his hips and ran his hands down his smooth torso. He edged toward his crotch, then moved his hands back and cupped his ass cheeks as he turned his back to the camera. People liked it if he drew it out and made them crazy. People pretended to want instant gratification when they wanted to be teased. They wanted what they couldn’t have, and no one was more off limits than Everett.
Everett turned slowly. He rocked his hips and slid his hands all over his body. He turned to face the camera again and edged his fingers into the silk panties. He stroked his thick cock and pulled it out of the panties. A bead of pre-cum pooled on the end of his cock. Everett swiped at it with his thumb, then brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it off. Because the video would have sound, he made sure he moaned. He had to captivate his audience. After he posted a new video, his fans would decide if he did well or not. If he did well, he got a reward, but if they didn’t like it, he got a punishment. Sometimes, Everett thought they punished him for the fun of it and not because they didn’t enjoy the video.
Everett slid one hand into the panties and cupped his smooth balls. His other hand gripped his cock through the fabric and slowly stroked. He moaned and threw his head back even though that bit wouldn’t be caught on the video. He arched his back and pumped faster. His fingers slid past his balls and he gently stroked his perineum.
The silky fabric rubbed against his shaft. Pre-cum seeped out of his dick and created an impressive wet spot in the pink frilly panties. His fans would eat that up. Everett rubbed his cock with renewed fervour. He let his fingers wander back a little farther, and he gently teased his rim. Everett shoved the panties down a little and moaned as he stroked his cock. He moaned again. Everett loved to be vocal during sex, even sex with himself, and his followers ate it up.
He stroked his rim and jerked his cock. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He panted as he edged closer to his release. When he came he made a sound, half-whimper, half-moan. It was a desperate sound, in a higher pitch than his moans, but not quite a whine. Everett’s cock twitched, and the first shot of his release arched into the air and splattered against the wood floor. The rest dribbled down his cock and coated his fingers. Everett groaned. He stroked his still hard dick a few times, coating it with his cum. He made a show of tucking his wet cock back into the panties. Then, on a whim, he brought his hand to his mouth and licked his sticky release off his fingers.
The finger licking would remain off camera, so Everett teased them. "Mmm. Tastes good." Everett smoothed his hands down his torso. His fingers fluttered over his stomach, then ran down his bulge. He caressed his now half-hard cock through the silk panties.
"Thank you, Sir." Everett said. Then he sauntered across the room and stopped the recording.
Everett shimmied out of the panties and back into his regular clothing. A pair of boxer briefs under his holey, black, skinny jeans and a T-shirt a size too small. At twenty-eight, Everett was technically too old to be considered a twink, but he was still built like one. Five feet eight inches tall, slender form, couldn’t grow more than ten chest hairs at a time, so he shaved them off. But there was no word for aged-out twinks.
Everett tossed the soiled panties in the garbage, then shoved them down to hide them underneath last night’s take-out boxes. Everett’s phone vibrated in his pocket. His best friend from way back, Andrew, had moved his little brother, Xavier in with him. Everett didn’t remember much about the kid. The last time he’d seen Xavier had been at Christmas six years ago.
"Hey, Andy, what’s new?" Everett grinned at the sound of Andrew’s exasperated sigh.
"Don’t call me Andy."
Everett leaned against the counter. He could practically hear Andrew’s eyes rolling. "I could call you muffin."
"No. No food names. We’ve been over this. Buzz us in."
"You know the intercom thingy has a button you can press, and it lets me know you’re there. You don’t have to call."
"And touch that germy thing. No thanks."
Everett walked over to the wall phone that connected to the intercom and pressed the button. "There. Now get your lazy ass up here already." Everett ended the call and left his phone on the counter. He retreated to the bathroom where he decided his platinum hair was the perfect combination of stylish, yet messy. He adjusted his leather bracelets. They were leather bondage cuffs, but most people thought it was a fashion statement.
Everett liked the cuffs. Sure, he might not have a Master or a Sir and the only Doms he subbed for were random, faceless entities he met online, but the cuffs made him feel more himself.
Andrew pounded on the door and Everett hurried over to unlock it and let him in.
"Hey man, got any of those cookies left?" Andrew grinned at Everett.
Everett rolled his eyes, but stepped aside so Andrew could come in. "Yeah, they’re in the jar. I swear you only come here for the food."
"Damn right." Andrew called over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen. "I’m a growing boy, I need my cookies."
Everett laughed. "You’ve been over six feet tall for the past ten years. The only direction you’re going to grow is out if you keep eating the way you do."
"It’s your fault. You make the food. I eat the food."
"You ate half a pie last night, dude. Everett is right."
Everett had almost forgotten Xavier, who waited outside his door. He turned his head to see a kid who was no longer a kid. The guy who stood with his arms crossed over his chest wasn’t the skinny, pimply, fourteen-year-old Everett remembered. He was still as tall as he was then though. Apparently, Andrew received all the height and bulk genes in the family.
Xavier stood, at most, five feet ten inches. He had a slender frame like Everett. His hair was a light brown with a lot of honey blond highlights. His dark rimmed glasses gave him a sexy geek vibe.
"Xavier. Long time no see. Come on in." Everett motioned for Xavier to come in as he mentally berated himself for thinking, even briefly, that his best friend’s little brother was hot. But the truth stood in front of him with green eyes, framed with dark glasses and a deep sexy voice that turned Everett’s name into the sexiest sound on the planet.
"Good to see you too, Everett."
"Your brother told me you finished culinary school."
"Yeah. I’ve been looking for work since I got here, but no luck so far."
"I’ll give you the address of a place that’s probably hiring. Craig told me the owner, Steve, is having some staffing issues." Everett brought Xavier to the living room. "Hey, you want some wine? Craig left me a bottle of red that’s to die for."
Andrew came into the room and passed Everett a glass of wine while he took a swig of the beer Everett kept in his fridge for him. "He’s not old enough."
Everett watched slashes of scarlet embarrassment appear on Xavier’s cheeks. "Screw you, Andy, I’m legal."
Andrew snorted. "Doesn’t look old enough."
"I didn’t plan on letting him get white-girl wasted, Drew. He’s not a kid. He can handle one little glass of wine."
"Please, Daddy?" Xavier stuck out his bottom lip and batted his eyelashes. And Everett was totally fucked. Xavier looked sweet and innocent and absolutely, deliciously corruptible.
Everett wanted to kick himself. Why couldn’t Xavier have grown into a brick wall the way his older brother had? If he had, maybe Everett wouldn’t be thinking idiotic things about his perfectly pouty lips. It wasn’t Everett’s fault that even when he had been a twink, he had a thing for other twinks. And now he was a former twink who apparently still liked the fun-sized guys. Guys like Xavier, who were slender and graceful, who weren’t big and imposing and smothering.
Andrew choked on his beer and pointed a finger at Xavier when he recovered. "Do not call me daddy, dude. That’s fucked up."
Everett stood. "I’ll get him a glass." He punched Andrew’s arm on the way by. "And don’t look at me like that. One glass of wine won’t kill him. He’s an adult, dude."
"Barely." Andrew scoffed.
"Fuck you, Drew. I’m not a kid."
Everett silently agreed with Xavier. He certainly wasn’t a kid anymore and Everett’s traitorous dick had taken note. Glass of wine in hand, and dick hopefully under control, Everett returned to the living room.
Xavier took the wine and smiled sweetly at Everett. "Thank you." He then shot a look of disgust at Andrew. "At least someone in this room treats me like an adult."
Andrew shrugged and took another drink of his beer. "You’re almost eight years younger than I am. You’re my baby brother. I get to treat you like a kid all I want."
Xavier flipped him off, but Andrew only laughed.
Andrew was a jackass because Xavier wasn’t a kid. Everett was also a jackass because he noticed his best friend’s little brother wasn’t a kid. With any luck, Xavier would get a job soon and they’d hardly ever cross paths.
Xavier looked at Everett. "I love your vlog, by the way."
Everett barely managed not to choke on his drink. His cheeks heated until he realized there was no way Xavier meant his ConcealedandCuffed blog. But knowing that Xavier had watched him cook in nothing more than an apron both disturbed and pleased him. "Thanks."
"Drew says you have a few sponsors in the works."
Everett nodded. "Nothing is set in stone yet, but it looks promising."
"Would you ever consider having a guest chef on?"
Everett made the mistake of looking at Xavier. His pink lips smiled sweetly at Everett. His eyes—they were green, and Everett didn’t remember them being so intense. Xavier looked serious. Everett felt torn. He could offer Xavier a guest spot. It might be fun to cook with someone who had the same passion for food than he did, and his fans would eat it up. But he hesitated because getting naked in a kitchen with your best friend’s little brother seemed as if it might be a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
"Let me shoot a guest spot, Everett."
"Okay." Everett wanted to take back his response. It had been a natural reaction to the sudden change in Xavier’s voice. The serious, no nonsense command went straight to Everett’s submissive, and he answered without thinking.
Xavier grinned. "Good."
Everett was unequivocally fucked.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
Desires
E. M. Denning is a writer from British Columbia. She loves her family and animals, and anything cute and fuzzy. She writes romance for the 18+ plus crowd because she's both a hopeless romantic and a dirty old woman.
You can find her on her website, Facebook or on her blog.
What He Hides #3
Saturday, February 22, 2025
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Kitchen Gods by Beth Bolden Part 2
Summary:
When Chef Xander Bridges leaves the warmth and safety of his car on a cold, stormy night and approaches a stranger, the last thing he expects to find is a future. He’s wanted to leave his job for awhile, but with no good opportunities on the horizon, he’s been stuck in a long, painful rut. But when he befriends the stranger viciously tearing up his own vineyard, Xander discovers something inexplicable. Maybe he’s not the bitter, sarcastic man that everyone, including himself, has endured for years.
Maybe, with someone like Damon in his life, he could be something more. Something better.
Damon Hess doesn’t just want more, he demands it. With his alcoholic past, there are no gray areas for him. Only black and white. In love or not. Sober or drunk. But the chance meeting with Xander opens Damon’s eyes, and gives him a vision full of something he hasn’t experienced in years: hope.
Hope that he can expect companionship and affection, hope that he doesn’t have to grapple with his family’s questionable Napa legacy any longer, and most importantly, hope that there’s a future worth believing in. But the longer he and Xander spend cultivating that future, the more Damon realizes that the key is so much simpler than he ever imagined--it’s Xander.
Savor Me is an 80,000 word contemporary m/m romance starring an irascible man with a soft, gooey marshmallow center and another who knows he likes men, but has never been with one before. It is third in the Kitchen Gods series, but can be read as a standalone.
Summary:
Chef Bastian Aquino is a notorious control freak. For two very long years, Kian Reynolds has worked for Bastian as his special assistant, doing whatever he and his restaurant needs. The toughest part isn’t even all the impossible tasks he expects Kian to complete flawlessly—it’s the hopeless, endless love he feels for his older boss.
Falling for someone so far above him might be agonizing, but at least his feelings aren’t unrequited. Bastian fell in love right alongside him, but at the very beginning, they made the choice to abstain for logical, smart, professional reasons.
But love isn’t logical, it isn’t smart, and it definitely isn’t professional. It defies containment, even by Bastian. While he watches Bastian struggle with their attraction, Kian finally comes to the conclusion that he’s done.
He’s done standing off to the side, done not getting any of the credit, done letting Bastian define the boundaries of their relationship. Most importantly, he’s done waiting.
Indulge Me is an 85,000 word contemporary romance, featuring an enormous amount of pining, a boss/employee relationship, an age gap and very delicious risotto. It is the fourth and final book in the Kitchen Gods series, and to receive a fuller, more enjoyable reading experience, I would recommend reading at least one other book in the series first.
Savor Me #3
Hands down, it was one of the best meals Damon had ever eaten. Even though he’d watched Xander prep it with his own two hands, it was a marvel that he’d done it with only those hands. It was a far better meal than any he’d ever had at Terroir, and that was prepared by an entire staff and countless pieces of expensive equipment.
Xander had come to his house with a bag of groceries and a knife, borrowed a pan and a pizza cutter, and had made an astoundingly delicious meal. It was talent and drive, all wrapped up in one package.
A cute package.
Damon had been telling himself not to notice—or if he was going to notice, then he should just ignore the attraction. But sitting across from Xander, staring at him in the candlelight, it was much harder than he’d imagined. Especially when he looked relaxed and much more at peace than he had that night a year ago.
At first he’d been too worked up himself to notice the anxiousness that Xander wore like a cloak. Or a very difficult-to-scale wall complete with archers equipped with fiery arrows and soldiers pouring boiling oil.
But tonight his guard had fallen a little, and despite everything, Damon wanted desperately to believe it was more than just quitting a job he’d really hated.
Damon wanted to believe the smile on Xander’s face had something to do with him.
“Thank you,” Damon said. “If that was an audition, you nailed it.”
“I know.” He was a little smug, and it was more than a little adorable. The way his nose scrunched up, the eye crinkles, the expressive look in his dark brown eyes.
Damon had imagined he might be in danger, hanging around Xander all the time, especially considering the impression he’d made on him in such a short time, but this was Trouble with a capital t.
“You’d better watch yourself. Not sure your head’s gonna fit back through the back door,” Damon teased.
“You wanted a chef,” Xander said, spreading his arms. “You got one.”
“They’re sort of thick on the ground in Napa,” Damon softly insisted, “but it turns out I’m particular.”
“Imagine that, a Hess particular.” The sarcasm in Xander’s voice cut through the dreamy romantic quality of the candlelight and let in a little of the real world. Specifically his family.
He couldn’t exactly tell Xander he didn’t ever want to talk about his family. After all, this land was their legacy, and his trust fund was making the restaurant a reality. Truth was, he really didn’t want to talk about them, and it felt like Xander brought them up as some sort of defense mechanism. Damon still didn’t understand why, and this was definitely not the first time it had happened.
“What’s your deal with the Hesses?” Damon asked. Might as well be honest, at least before Xander walked back in the house and signed the contract that would tie them together for the near future. Of course, that also meant the question had barely made it out of his mouth.
Something ugly churned deep in his stomach, exactly the opposite reaction he should have had after that incredible meal.
What if he changes his mind?
“Nothing,” Xander said, but his chin was jutting out again, and his fingers were drumming anxiously against the wood tabletop. It sure didn’t look like nothing.
There was a definite voice in his head, begging him to leave it, to make sure he didn’t drive Xander away with his insistent questioning. After all, Xander wasn’t signing with Hess Vineyards, he was signing with Damon, who stayed as far away from his family as possible.
But Damon’s last name was still Hess, and it wasn’t going to change.
“Really?” Damon asked.
Xander sighed. “I said it was nothing, and it is. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t want it to interfere,” Damon offered. “Not with what we’re about to build.”
“It won’t. I promise. I know you’re not your family. And to be honest, that’s what it is. I’ve had a few run-ins with Hess employees. But you’re not like them.”
The thing Damon had discovered before coming back to Napa, and definitely after returning to the Valley, was that he could run as far and as hard as he could, but his family was still his family. Time and distance couldn’t alter his blood, no matter how much he wished otherwise.
Xander had come to his house with a bag of groceries and a knife, borrowed a pan and a pizza cutter, and had made an astoundingly delicious meal. It was talent and drive, all wrapped up in one package.
A cute package.
Damon had been telling himself not to notice—or if he was going to notice, then he should just ignore the attraction. But sitting across from Xander, staring at him in the candlelight, it was much harder than he’d imagined. Especially when he looked relaxed and much more at peace than he had that night a year ago.
At first he’d been too worked up himself to notice the anxiousness that Xander wore like a cloak. Or a very difficult-to-scale wall complete with archers equipped with fiery arrows and soldiers pouring boiling oil.
But tonight his guard had fallen a little, and despite everything, Damon wanted desperately to believe it was more than just quitting a job he’d really hated.
Damon wanted to believe the smile on Xander’s face had something to do with him.
“Thank you,” Damon said. “If that was an audition, you nailed it.”
“I know.” He was a little smug, and it was more than a little adorable. The way his nose scrunched up, the eye crinkles, the expressive look in his dark brown eyes.
Damon had imagined he might be in danger, hanging around Xander all the time, especially considering the impression he’d made on him in such a short time, but this was Trouble with a capital t.
“You’d better watch yourself. Not sure your head’s gonna fit back through the back door,” Damon teased.
“You wanted a chef,” Xander said, spreading his arms. “You got one.”
“They’re sort of thick on the ground in Napa,” Damon softly insisted, “but it turns out I’m particular.”
“Imagine that, a Hess particular.” The sarcasm in Xander’s voice cut through the dreamy romantic quality of the candlelight and let in a little of the real world. Specifically his family.
He couldn’t exactly tell Xander he didn’t ever want to talk about his family. After all, this land was their legacy, and his trust fund was making the restaurant a reality. Truth was, he really didn’t want to talk about them, and it felt like Xander brought them up as some sort of defense mechanism. Damon still didn’t understand why, and this was definitely not the first time it had happened.
“What’s your deal with the Hesses?” Damon asked. Might as well be honest, at least before Xander walked back in the house and signed the contract that would tie them together for the near future. Of course, that also meant the question had barely made it out of his mouth.
Something ugly churned deep in his stomach, exactly the opposite reaction he should have had after that incredible meal.
What if he changes his mind?
“Nothing,” Xander said, but his chin was jutting out again, and his fingers were drumming anxiously against the wood tabletop. It sure didn’t look like nothing.
There was a definite voice in his head, begging him to leave it, to make sure he didn’t drive Xander away with his insistent questioning. After all, Xander wasn’t signing with Hess Vineyards, he was signing with Damon, who stayed as far away from his family as possible.
But Damon’s last name was still Hess, and it wasn’t going to change.
“Really?” Damon asked.
Xander sighed. “I said it was nothing, and it is. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t want it to interfere,” Damon offered. “Not with what we’re about to build.”
“It won’t. I promise. I know you’re not your family. And to be honest, that’s what it is. I’ve had a few run-ins with Hess employees. But you’re not like them.”
The thing Damon had discovered before coming back to Napa, and definitely after returning to the Valley, was that he could run as far and as hard as he could, but his family was still his family. Time and distance couldn’t alter his blood, no matter how much he wished otherwise.
Indulge Me #4
“I’m sorry,” Bastian said quietly. “I’m sorry I gave Xander the sous job, not when you deserved it.”
Kian had been dying for this apology for six months, but even the tender, apologetic look Bastian swiftly shot him wasn’t enough.
He wanted more. He wanted Xander’s old job. He wanted more than just the fleeting touch of Bastian’s fingers on his cheek. He wanted another kiss. He wanted even more than that.
It didn’t matter that it was dangerous or that Bastian had said it was impossible. It didn’t even matter that a part of Kian believed he was right, because there was another part of him that was actively rebelling. That part wanted more, and was not going to be placated with less.
“And you’re still going to try to convince him to come back?” Kian said incredulously. He didn’t need Xander back; they both knew it. Bastian could promote Kian and the kitchen would probably run better, not worse.
But Bastian couldn’t have looked more surprised than if Kian had been the one to walk out in the middle of prep.
“I don’t think you understand,” Bastian began, and Kian knew him well enough, knew his mental gymnastics well enough by this point that he knew exactly what he was going to say. I don’t apologize to anyone, and I’m apologizing to you. You’re special, you’re important, and you need to stay exactly where I’ve put you.
Kian had liked that place, but even at the beginning, it hadn’t quite felt like enough, and by now, two years in, Kian was tired of it and bored.
“I understand,” Kian cut him off. “More than you realize.”
Bastian’s hand dropped to his side and he flexed it, like he was trying to forget the way Kian’s skin had felt under his fingertips. Even if he never forgot, it wouldn’t be enough. Kian wanted to weasel his way under his skin, until there was nothing else between them. Until Kian didn’t know where he stopped and Bastian began. He loved him. Why had he ever thought this sort of half-relationship would ever be enough?
“I guess you do,” Bastian said slowly.
“I need to check on the soup,” Kian said and walked away.
He wanted to be shocked and incredulous that in one breath, Bastian would tell him that Kian should have had the job that was Xander’s and in the next, tell him he was getting Xander back. But the truth was, Kian wasn’t, at all.
He’d known the person Bastian was for a long time now, and he’d loved him anyway. Believing that his mother’s advice was solid, he’d loved the good and the bad parts of him, and that wasn’t going to change, at least not anytime soon. But he was done tolerating Bastian’s shit and he was done giving in.
Most of all, Kian was done being jealous of Luc for having things he never would.
Kian had been dying for this apology for six months, but even the tender, apologetic look Bastian swiftly shot him wasn’t enough.
He wanted more. He wanted Xander’s old job. He wanted more than just the fleeting touch of Bastian’s fingers on his cheek. He wanted another kiss. He wanted even more than that.
It didn’t matter that it was dangerous or that Bastian had said it was impossible. It didn’t even matter that a part of Kian believed he was right, because there was another part of him that was actively rebelling. That part wanted more, and was not going to be placated with less.
“And you’re still going to try to convince him to come back?” Kian said incredulously. He didn’t need Xander back; they both knew it. Bastian could promote Kian and the kitchen would probably run better, not worse.
But Bastian couldn’t have looked more surprised than if Kian had been the one to walk out in the middle of prep.
“I don’t think you understand,” Bastian began, and Kian knew him well enough, knew his mental gymnastics well enough by this point that he knew exactly what he was going to say. I don’t apologize to anyone, and I’m apologizing to you. You’re special, you’re important, and you need to stay exactly where I’ve put you.
Kian had liked that place, but even at the beginning, it hadn’t quite felt like enough, and by now, two years in, Kian was tired of it and bored.
“I understand,” Kian cut him off. “More than you realize.”
Bastian’s hand dropped to his side and he flexed it, like he was trying to forget the way Kian’s skin had felt under his fingertips. Even if he never forgot, it wouldn’t be enough. Kian wanted to weasel his way under his skin, until there was nothing else between them. Until Kian didn’t know where he stopped and Bastian began. He loved him. Why had he ever thought this sort of half-relationship would ever be enough?
“I guess you do,” Bastian said slowly.
“I need to check on the soup,” Kian said and walked away.
He wanted to be shocked and incredulous that in one breath, Bastian would tell him that Kian should have had the job that was Xander’s and in the next, tell him he was getting Xander back. But the truth was, Kian wasn’t, at all.
He’d known the person Bastian was for a long time now, and he’d loved him anyway. Believing that his mother’s advice was solid, he’d loved the good and the bad parts of him, and that wasn’t going to change, at least not anytime soon. But he was done tolerating Bastian’s shit and he was done giving in.
Most of all, Kian was done being jealous of Luc for having things he never would.
Beth Bolden
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
Savor Me #3
Indulge Me #4
Kitchen Gods Series
Charleston Condors
Rainbow Clause
Los Angeles Riptide Series
Food Truck Warriors
Star Shadow
Friday, February 21, 2025
📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
Time Quintet #1
NEWBERY MEDAL WINNER • TIME MAGAZINE’S 100 BEST FANTASY BOOKS OF ALL TIME • NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE FROM DISNEY
Read the ground-breaking science fiction and fantasy classic that has delighted children for over 60 years!
"A Wrinkle in Time is one of my favorite books of all time. I've read it so often, I know it by heart." —Meg Cabot
Late one night, three otherworldly creatures appear and sweep Meg Murry, her brother Charles Wallace, and their friend Calvin O'Keefe away on a mission to save Mr. Murray, who has gone missing while doing top-secret work for the government. They travel via tesseract--a wrinkle that transports one across space and time--to the planet Camazotz, where Mr. Murray is being held captive. There they discover a dark force that threatens not only Mr. Murray but the safety of the whole universe.
A Wrinkle in Time is the first book in Madeleine L’Engle’s Time Quintet.
CHAPTER 1
Mrs Whatsit
It was a dark and stormy night.
In her attic bedroom Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed and watched the trees tossing in the frenzied lashing of the wind. Behind the trees clouds scudded frantically across the sky. Every few moments the moon ripped through them, creating wraithlike shadows that raced along the ground.
The house shook.
Wrapped in her quilt, Meg shook.
She wasn't usually afraid of weather.—It's not just the weather, she thought.—It's the weather on top of everything else. On top of me. On top of Meg Murry doing everything wrong.
School. School was all wrong. She'd been dropped down to the lowest section in her grade. That morning one of her teachers had said crossly, "Really, Meg, I don't understand how a child with parents as brilliant as yours are supposed to be can be such a poor student. If you don't manage to do a little better you'll have to stay back next year."
During lunch she'd rough-housed a little to try to make herself feel better, and one of the girls said scornfully, "After all, Meg, we aren't grammar-school kids anymore. Why do you always act like such a baby?"
And on the way home from school, walking up the road with her arms full of books, one of the boys had said something about her "dumb baby brother." At this she'd thrown the books on the side of the road and tackled him with every ounce of strength she had, and arrived home with her blouse torn and a big bruise under one eye.
Sandy and Dennys, her ten-year-old twin brothers, who got home from school an hour earlier than she did, were disgusted. "Let us do the fighting when it's necessary," they told her.
—A delinquent, that's what I am, she thought grimly.—That's what they'll be saying next. Not Mother. But Them. Everybody Else. I wish Father—
But it was still not possible to think about her father without the danger of tears. Only her mother could talk about him in a natural way, saying, "When your father gets back—"
Gets back from where? And when? Surely her mother must know what people were saying, must be aware of the smugly vicious gossip. Surely it must hurt her as it did Meg. But if it did she gave no outward sign. Nothing ruffled the serenity of her expression.
—Why can't I hide it, too? Meg thought. Why do I always have to show everything?
The window rattled madly in the wind, and she pulled the quilt close about her. Curled up on one of her pillows a gray fluff of kitten yawned, showing its pink tongue, tucked its head under again, and went back to sleep.
Everybody was asleep. Everybody except Meg. Even Charles Wallace, the "dumb baby brother," who had an uncanny way of knowing when she was awake and unhappy, and who would come, so many nights, tiptoeing up the attic stairs to her—even Charles Wallace was asleep.
How could they sleep? All day on the radio there had been hurricane warnings. How could they leave her up in the attic in the rickety brass bed, knowing that the roof might be blown right off the house, and she tossed out into the wild night sky to land who knows where?
Her shivering grew uncontrollable.
—You asked to have the attic bedroom, she told herself savagely.—Mother let you have it because you're the oldest. It's a privilege, not a punishment.
"Not during a hurricane, it isn't a privilege," she said aloud. She tossed the quilt down on the foot of the bed, and stood up. The kitten stretched luxuriously, and looked up at her with huge, innocent eyes.
"Go back to sleep," Meg said. "Just be glad you're a kitten and not a monster like me." She looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror and made a horrible face, baring a mouthful of teeth covered with braces. Automatically she pushed her glasses into position, ran her fingers through her mouse-brown hair, so that it stood wildly on end, and let out a sigh almost as noisy as the wind.
The wide wooden floorboards were cold against her feet. Wind blew in the crevices about the window frame, in spite of the protection the storm sash was supposed to offer. She could hear wind howling in the chimneys. From all the way downstairs she could hear Fortinbras, the big black dog, starting to bark. He must be frightened, too. What was he barking at? Fortinbras never barked without reason.
Suddenly she remembered that when she had gone to the post office to pick up the mail she'd heard about a tramp who was supposed to have stolen twelve sheets from Mrs. Buncombe, the constable's wife. They hadn't caught him, and maybe he was heading for the Murrys' house right now, isolated on a back road as it was; and this time maybe he'd be after more than sheets. Meg hadn't paid much attention to the talk about the tramp at the time, because the postmistress, with a sugary smile, had asked if she'd heard from her father lately.
She left her little room and made her way through the shadows of the main attic, bumping against the ping-pong table.—Now I'll have a bruise on my hip on top of everything else, she thought.
Next she walked into her old dolls' house, Charles Wallace's rocking horse, the twins' electric trains. "Why must everything happen to me?" She demanded of a large teddy bear.
At the foot of the attic stairs she stood still and listened. Not a sound from Charles Wallace's room on the right. On the left, in her parents' room, not a rustle from her mother sleeping alone in the great double bed. She tiptoed down the hall and into the twins' room, pushing again at her glasses as though they could help her to see better in the dark. Dennys was snoring. Sandy murmured something about baseball and subsided. The twins didn't have any problems. They weren't great students, but they weren't bad ones, either. They were perfectly content with a succession of B's and an occasional A or C. They were strong and fast runners and good at games, and when cracks were made about anybody in the Murry family, they weren't made about Sandy and Dennys.
She left the twins' room and went on downstairs, avoiding the creaking seventh step. Fortinbras had stopped barking. It wasn't the tramp this time, then. Fort would go on barking if anybody was around.
—But suppose the tramp does come? Suppose he has a knife? Nobody lives near enough to hear if we screamed and screamed and screamed. Nobody'd care, anyhow.
—I'll make myself some cocoa, she decided.—That'll cheer me up, and if the roof blows off at least I won't go off with it.
In the kitchen a light was already on, and Charles Wallace was sitting at the table drinking milk and eating bread and jam. He looked very small and vulnerable sitting there alone in the big old-fashioned kitchen, a blond little boy in faded blue Dr. Dentons, his feet swinging a good six inches above the floor.
"Hi," he said cheerfully. "I've been waiting for you."
From under the table where he was lying at Charles Wallace's feet, hoping for a crumb or two, Fortinbras raised his slender dark head in greeting to Meg, and his tail thumped against the floor. Fortinbras had arrived on their doorstep, a half-grown puppy, scrawny and abandoned, one winter night. He was, Meg's father had decided, part Llewellyn setter and part greyhound, and he had a slender, dark beauty that was all his own.
"Why didn't you come up to the attic?" Meg asked her brother, speaking as though he were at least her own age. "I've been scared stiff."
"Too windy up in that attic of yours," the little boy said. "I knew you'd be down. I put some milk on the stove for you. It ought to be hot by now."
How did Charles Wallace always know about her? How could he always tell? He never knew—or seemed to care—what Dennys or Sandy were thinking. It was his mother's mind, and Meg's, that he probed with frightening accuracy.
Was it because people were a little afraid of him that they whispered about the Murrys' youngest child, who was rumored to be not quite bright? "I've heard that clever people often have subnormal children," Meg had once overheard. "The two boys seem to be nice, regular children, but that unattractive girl and the baby boy certainly aren't all there."
It was true that Charles Wallace seldom spoke when anybody was around, so that many people thought he'd never learned to talk. And it was true that he hadn't talked at all until he was almost four. Meg would turn white with fury when people looked at him and clucked, shaking their heads sadly.
"Don't worry about Charles Wallace, Meg," her father had once told her. Meg remembered it very clearly because it was shortly before he went away. "There's nothing the matter with his mind. He just does things in his own way and in his own time."
"I don't want him to grow up to be dumb like me," Meg had said.
"Oh, my darling, you're not dumb," her father answered. "You're like Charles Wallace. Your development has to go at its own pace. It just doesn't happen to be the usual pace."
"How do you know?" Meg had demanded. "How do you know I'm not dumb? Isn't it just because you love me?"
"I love you, but that's not what tells me. Mother and I've given you a number of tests, you know."
Yes, that was true. Meg had realized that some of the "games" her parents played with her were tests of some kind, and that there had been more for her and Charles Wallace than for the twins. "IQ tests, you mean?"
"Yes, some of them."
"Is my IQ okay?"
"More than okay."
"What is it?"
"That I'm not going to tell you. But it assures me that both you and Charles Wallace will be able to do pretty much whatever you like when you grow up to yourselves. You just wait till Charles Wallace starts to talk. You'll see."
How right he had been about that, though he himself had left before Charles Wallace began to speak, suddenly, with none of the usual baby preliminaries, using entire sentences. How proud he would have been!
"You'd better check the milk," Charles Wallace said to Meg now, his diction clearer and cleaner than that of most five-year-olds. "You know you don't like it when it gets a skin on top."
"You put in more than twice enough milk." Meg peered into the saucepan.
Charles Wallace nodded serenely. "I thought Mother might like some."
"I might like what?" a voice said, and there was their mother standing in the doorway.
"Cocoa," Charles Wallace said. "Would you like a liverwurst-and-cream-cheese sandwich? I'll be happy to make you one."
"That would be lovely," Mrs. Murry said, "but I can make it myself if you're busy."
"No trouble at all." Charles Wallace slid down from his chair and trotted over to the refrigerator, his pajamaed feet padding softly as a kitten's. "How about you, Meg?" he asked. "Sandwich?"
"Yes, please," she said. "But not liverwurst. Do we have any tomatoes?"
Charles Wallace peered into the crisper. "One. All right if I use it on Meg, Mother?"
"To what better use could it be put?" Mrs. Murry smiled. "But not so loud, please, Charles. That is, unless you want the twins downstairs, too."
"Let's be exclusive," Charles Wallace said. "That's my new word for the day.
Impressive, isn't it?"
"Prodigious," Mrs. Murry said. "Meg, come let me look at that bruise."
Meg knelt at her mother's feet. The warmth and light of the kitchen had relaxed her so that her attic fears were gone. The cocoa steamed fragrantly in the saucepan; geraniums bloomed on the window sills and there was a bouquet of tiny yellow chrysanthemums in the center of the table. The curtains, red, with a blue and green geometrical pattern, were drawn, and seemed to reflect their cheerfulness throughout the room. The furnace purred like a great, sleepy animal; the lights glowed with steady radiance; outside, alone in the dark, the wind still battered against the house, but the angry power that had frightened Meg while she was alone in the attic was subdued by the familiar comfort of the kitchen. Underneath Mrs. Murry's chair Fortinbras let out a contented sigh.
Mrs. Murry gently touched Meg's bruised cheek. Meg looked up at her mother, half in loving admiration, half in sullen resentment. It was not an advantage to have a mother who was a scientist and a beauty as well. Mrs. Murry's flaming red hair, creamy skin, and violet eyes with long dark lashes, seemed even more spectacular in comparison with Meg's outrageous plainness. Meg's hair had been passable as long as she wore it tidily in braids. When she went into high school it was cut, and now she and her mother struggled with putting it up, but one side would come out curly and the other straight, so that she looked even plainer than before.
"You don't know the meaning of moderation, do you, my darling?" Mrs. Murry asked. "A happy medium is something I wonder if you'll ever learn. That's a nasty bruise the Henderson boy gave you. By the way, shortly after you'd gone to bed his mother called up to complain about how badly you'd hurt him. I told her that since he's a year older and at least twenty-five pounds heavier than you are, I thought I was the one who ought to be doing the complaining. But she seemed to think it was all your fault."
"I suppose that depends on how you look at it," Meg said. "Usually no matter what happens people think it's my fault, even if I have nothing to do with it at all. But I'm sorry I tried to fight him. It's just been an awful week. And I'm full of bad feeling."
Mrs. Murry stroked Meg's shaggy head. "Do you know why?"
"I hate being an oddball," Meg said. "It's hard on Sandy and Dennys, too. I don't know if they're really like everybody else, or if they're just able to pretend they are. I try to pretend, but it isn't any help."
"You're much too straightforward to be able to pretend to be what you aren't," Mrs. Murry said. "I'm sorry, Meglet. Maybe if Father were here he could help you, but I don't think I can do anything till you've managed to plow through some more time. Then things will be easier for you. But that isn't much help right now, is it?"
"Maybe if I weren't so repulsive-looking—maybe if I were pretty like you—"
"Mother's not a bit pretty; she's beautiful," Charles Wallace announced, slicing liverwurst. "Therefore I bet she was awful at your age."
"How right you are," Mrs. Murry said. "Just give yourself time, Meg."
"Lettuce on your sandwich, Mother?" Charles Wallace asked.
"No, thanks."
He cut the sandwich into sections, put it on a plate, and set it in front of his mother. "Yours'll be along in just a minute, Meg. I think I'll talk to Mrs Whatsit about you."
"Who's Mrs Whatsit?" Meg asked.
"I think I want to be exclusive about her for a while," Charles Wallace said. "Onion salt?"
"Yes, please."
"What's Mrs Whatsit stand for?" Mrs. Murry asked.
"That's her name," Charles Wallace answered. "You know the old shingled house back in the woods that the kids won't go near because they say it's haunted? That's where they live."
"They?"
"Mrs Whatsit and her two friends. I was out with Fortinbras a couple of days ago—you and the twins were at school, Meg. We like to walk in the woods, and suddenly he took off after a squirrel and I took off after him and we ended up by the haunted house, so I met them by accident, as you might say."
"But nobody lives there," Meg said.
"Mrs Whatsit and her friends do. They're very enjoyable."
"Why didn't you tell me about it before?" Mrs. Murry asked. "And you know you're not supposed to go off our property without permission, Charles."
"I know," Charles said. "That's one reason I didn't tell you. I just rushed off after Fortinbras without thinking. And then I decided, well, I'd better save them for an emergency, anyhow."
A fresh gust of wind took the house and shook it, and suddenly the rain began to lash against the windows.
"I don't think I like this wind," Meg said nervously.
"We'll lose some shingles off the roof, that's certain," Mrs. Murry said. "But this house has stood for almost two hundred years and I think it will last a little longer, Meg. There's been many a high wind up on this hill."
"But this is a hurricane!" Meg wailed. "The radio kept saying it was a hurricane!"
"It's October," Mrs. Murry told her. "There've been storms in October before."
As Charles Wallace gave Meg her sandwich Fortinbras came out from under the table. He gave a long, low growl, and they could see the dark fur slowly rising on his back. Meg felt her own skin prickle.
"What's wrong?" she asked anxiously.
Fortinbras stared at the door that opened into Mrs. Murry's laboratory which was in the old stone dairy right off the kitchen. Beyond the lab a pantry led outdoors, though Mrs. Murry had done her best to train the family to come into the house through the garage door or the front door and not through her lab. But it was the lab door and not the garage door toward which Fortinbras was growling.
"You didn't leave any nasty-smelling chemicals cooking over a Bunsen burner, did you, Mother?" Charles Wallace asked.
Mrs. Murry stood up. "No. But I think I'd better go see what's upsetting Fort, anyhow."
"It's the tramp, I'm sure it's the tramp," Meg said nervously.
"What tramp?" Charles Wallace asked.
"They were saying at the post office this afternoon that a tramp stole all Mrs. Buncombe's sheets."
Release Date: March 9, 2018
Release Time: 110 minutes
Director: Ava DuVernay
Cast:
Oprah Winfrey as Mrs. Which
Reese Witherspoon as Mrs. Whatsit
Mindy Kaling as Mrs. Who
Storm Reid as Meg Murry
Lyric Wilson as young Meg
Levi Miller as Calvin O'Keefe
Deric McCabe as Charles Wallace Murry
Chris Pine as Dr. Alexander Murry
Gugu Mbatha-Raw as Dr. Kate Murry
Zach Galifianakis as Happy Medium
Michael Peña as Red
David Oyelowo as The IT
André Holland as James Jenkins
Rowan Blanchard as Veronica Kiley
Bellamy Young as Camazotz Woman
Conrad Roberts as Elegant Man
Will McCormack and Yvette Cason as two gossipy teachers
Daniel MacPherson as Mr. O'Keefe
Madeleine was born on November 29th, 1918, and spent her formative years in New York City. Instead of her school work, she found that she would much rather be writing stories, poems and journals for herself, which was reflected in her grades (not the best). However, she was not discouraged.
At age 12, she moved to the French Alps with her parents and went to an English boarding school where, thankfully, her passion for writing continued to grow. She flourished during her high school years back in the United States at Ashley Hall in Charleston, South Carolina, vacationing with her mother in a rambling old beach cottage on a beautiful stretch of Florida Beach.
She went to Smith College and studied English with some wonderful teachers as she read the classics and continued her own creative writing. She graduated with honors and moved into a Greenwich Village apartment in New York. She worked in the theater, where Equity union pay and a flexible schedule afforded her the time to write! She published her first two novels during these years—A Small Rain and Ilsa—before meeting Hugh Franklin, her future husband, when she was an understudy in Anton Chekov’s The Cherry Orchard. They married during The Joyous Season.
She had a baby girl and kept on writing, eventually moving to Connecticut to raise the family away from the city in a small dairy farm village with more cows than people. They bought a dead general store, and brought it to life for 9 years. They moved back to the city with three children, and Hugh revitalized his professional acting career.
As the years passed and the children grew, Madeleine continued to write and Hugh to act, and they to enjoy each other and life. Madeleine began her association with the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, where she was the librarian and maintained an office for more than thirty years. After Hugh’s death in 1986, it was her writing and lecturing that kept her going. She lived through the 20th century and into the 21st and wrote over 60 books. She enjoyed being with her friends, her children, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren.
A Wrinkle in Time #1
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