Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 14

How to Write a Romance Novel: One Night Stand Tropes

I was chatting with another author friend about how hard it is to write one-night-stand books. You have to create instant chemistry, and develop some level of trust between two strangers in Chapter One. It's so tricky!

The first one I can remember reading is Losing It by Cora Carmack. This book is a laugh riot, but more importantly it has the classic One Night Stand setup — the heroine meets the hero in a bar the evening before the new semester starts at her college. They go home together. And…he’s the professor of a class she shows up for the next morning. Oops!

The author has to establish that rapport immediately, so that the couple’s hookup is credible and not squicky. It has to even be unforgettable, which is the title of this Vino & Veritas book from Marley Valentine. Unforgettable works so well because of that first scene. She makes you believe from the first minute. And you still believe in this couple even as they say goodbye in the morning.

It's so lovely.

In my book Coming In From the Cold, the hero and the heroine are trapped together in a snowstorm. They form a quick bond because of the adversity of the moment. This acts as a shortcut to building that relationship.

Another trick is the road I took with Bountiful. Zara and Dave are strangers, but he appears at her bar a couple of times before making his daring proposition. But more crucially, he stands up for her when something threatening happens at the bar. She doesn’t need his help, because Zara is as fierce as they come. But offering his quiet support is another shortcut to trust. And it makes their dalliance more credible.

Finally, there’s a trick Elle Kennedy pulls off in The Score (my favorite Off Campus novel!) This is a one night stand book, but the reader doesn’t see it happen. This is a strong move, and risks frustrating the reader. But Elle is so entertaining that it totally works. You believe in Dean and Allie because they have obvious chemistry on the page. And you’re patient with them because the ride is so worthwhile.

First Chapter: Starlight

Birthday celebrations were dumb. They were even dumber when you turned the non-milestone age of thirty-four and your best friend dragged you into the local brewpub, insisting you needed a birthday beer.

Birthday Wish #1: Get a new best friend.

Though the Goldenpour I currently nursed was ice cold and amazing, I didn’t need a birthday beer. What I needed was to get home to Kolton so Mrs. Lilly could end her shift as nanny-housekeeper-tutor-superhero. That was exactly what I told Nate, my former best friend, when he insisted on this detour to Speakeasy Taproom, in our hometown of Colebury, Vermont. Of course he’d already contacted Mrs. Lilly who had immediately volunteered to stay longer to watch my ten-year-old son.

“See?” Nate had jostled my shoulder at today’s job site. “Everything is all set, dude. I’ve bought you a few hours of merriment.”

“I don’t need merriment.” I’d finished packing up my masonry tools for the fireplace job Nate and I had been working on. 

“Anybody listening to the way you uttered that would definitely agree you need merriment, Darren.” Nate loaded his own tools into my truck. “Like, dump truck loads of it.”

His way of saying I was a grouch apparently. Whatever. I was tired and wanted to spend some time with Kolton before his bedtime rolled around. My original birthday plans included playing a video game with my son before bed, taking a long, hot shower, and burrowing under the sheets so I could get up the next morning and continue the fireplace job. I’d built my business, Reade Masonry, on the principles of hard work and sticking to timetables. My clients enjoyed those principles and that was how I received referrals for new jobs. That was how I kept us busy day after day. That was how the money flowed in. 

Birthday Wish #2: Keep the money flowing in.

I took a swig of beer from the tall glass Lily, the bartender, had placed in front of me. I mean, now that we were here I couldn’t let a perfectly cold beer go to waste. Plus, if I drank this one, maybe Nate would be satisfied and let me leave when the glass was empty.

I downed another gulp, hoping to speed up the process. My gaze landed on the board behind the bar where the words Life is short. Eat the cupcake! were scrawled. No doubt Lily’s doing. She always had some motivational crap up there. Eat the cupcake. Seize the day. Blah, blah.

Swiveling on my stool, I took in the taproom around me. You didn’t have to be a mason to know the old brick mill building was solidly built. Its location against the Winooski River was a nice feature and the giant leaded glass windows were eye-catching. The rough-hewn floorboards had a ton of character too. If I hadn’t been so damn exhausted—and grouchy—I’d have enjoyed the atmosphere.

When I turned back toward the bar and a cupcake with a lit candle in it showed up, I raised an eyebrow at Nate.

“What?” He arrowed his hands toward the chocolate confection. “You need a candle to make your birthday wish, man. This is how birthday’s work.”

“I wish you didn’t know it was my birthday.” I also wished he remembered I didn’t like cupcakes even if it was a chocolate one from The Busy Bean Café in town. 

“C’mon, Darren. Humor me.” Nate nudged the plate holding the cupcake closer to me. 

“I’m sitting here with a beer.” I wiggled my glass. “I’m humoring you.”

Nate’s shoulders slumped and maybe I felt a little bad about being such a grump. Maybe. 

“Why are you so against celebrating your birthday this year? I’ve always had to convince you a little bit, but you’re really not feeling it today.”

I didn’t have an answer for him so I blew out the candle and met his gaze. “Happy?”

“No. I’m not going to be happy until you’re happy.” Nate pulled the candle out of the cupcake and proceeded to eat it. I guess he did remember I didn’t like cupcakes.

Or he was just following Lily’s advice. I glanced at the board again, now noticing the cupcake-with-candles drawing beside the words. Lily mouthed Happy Birthday to me and gave me a wink before delivering drinks to customers at the other end of the bar. 

“I’m happy, Nate.” I swiped at the sweat rolling down my glass, creating a little pool of water on the bar top. 

“People who are happy don’t have to say the words I’m happy.” Nate licked chocolate frosting off his finger. “Is something up with Kolton?”

“Something is always up with Kolton.” I puffed out a breath. “I have a meeting scheduled at his school. A team—not just one teacher—wants to talk to me about him.” I rubbed the back of my neck which was always a little sore after a day of sorting through stones and selecting the perfect ones for whatever we were building. 

“A team?” Nate frowned. “That does sound serious.”

“The school year just started and I know he’s not doing that great,” I said, “but I didn’t think things were so bad. This meeting has me worried.”

Nate clamped his hand on my shoulder. “You’re doing what you can for him.”

“Am I?” My hands dropped to my thighs, a small cloud of stone dust pluming out around us. “He’s been with me for five years now and in the beginning, things were okay. Now that he’s ten more problems keep popping up.” I blew out a breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Yes, you do. You’re giving the kid a home—a kid that’s not even yours—and you’re helping him navigate his situation.” Nate brushed cupcake crumbs from his lap, sending up his own dusty cloud from his jeans. “Maybe you’ll get the help you need from this school meeting.”

I hadn’t expected to be the father of an adopted kid with severe anxiety and depression. Kolton hadn’t expected to see what he’d seen or to be left with debilitating panic attacks because of it, but I couldn’t wipe his memory clean. 

Birthday Wish #3: Wipe Kolton’s memory clean.

“I’m not sure what else the school can do,” I said. “They have offered every support under the sun for Kolton and his progress has been minimal. I don’t know what’s left to try.”

“That’s why you’ll go to the meeting and find out.” Nate motioned to Lily for two more beers. When they arrived, he held up his glass. “To Darren. A great boss, a greater friend, and the greatest father that kid could have ended up with. I’m sure thirty-four is going to be your year. Happy birthday, bro.”

Despite my not wanting to be here, Nate’s words touched me. I tapped my second beer to his. “Thanks, man.”

Piano music made us turn on our bar stools to face Speakeasy’s small stage. A circle of light hit the shiny black surface of a piano then widened to reveal a woman in a shimmery, peach-colored dress, sitting on the bench and playing a jazzy melody on the keys. Her back was to us, but her golden hair was up in a complicated twist, showcasing a long, slender neck. The cut of her dress exposed toned shoulders and arms. Some black ink decorated her left shoulder, but I couldn’t make out the tattoo’s specific image from this distance. 

She played for several moments then wrapped up the tune to much applause. A man took her place on the piano bench. When she stood and approached a microphone stand at the front of the stage, I nearly fell off my stool. I had never understood when someone described something as breathtaking.

Now I got it.

Nate leaned toward me, jabbing me in the ribs with his elbow. “Figured out your birthday wish, didn’t you?”

I blinked at my grinning friend, not able to form words. Returning my gaze to the absolute angel on the stage, I took in the way that dress hugged her curves, offering up a peek at the plump tops of her breasts. The fabric stretched all the way down to the floor, but one long slit up the front allowed me a gander at a shapely leg. Big, blue eyes glittered in the stage lights and her golden hair took on a caramel shade.

I might not like cupcakes, but I could definitely do an all-caramel diet.

This woman’s appearance was a throwback to the age of jazz and I suddenly wanted suspenders and a pair of wingtips so I could join her on that stage. When she wrapped her hand around the microphone and sang, her bluesy, soulful voice was like a lasso, roping me in one shot and cinching tightly. I had never seen or heard anything so utterly beautiful. 

Birthday Wish #4? Yeah, I couldn’t articulate what I wanted to do with her because all my blood had rushed to one part of me, leaving my brain shit out of luck. 

She sang for forty-five minutes and I was completely entranced for every second of that time. I couldn’t tell you a single lyric she’d sung, but I knew how her eyes closed during the piano riffs, how her left foot kept time with rhythmic toe taps, how her hips swayed, and how her husky voice hypnotized me.

And probably every other jerk in the brewpub.

I scanned the tables between me and the stage and yeah, men and women were fixated on her. How could they not be? She was alluring in every sense of the word. 

A tiny part of my brain still functioned and reminded me that she was, however, still a woman. Generally speaking, I tended to avoid that fifty percent of the human population. I’d gotten involved with some doozies in the past and wasn’t prepared to add to The Doozy Pile. I had enough on my plate with taking care of Kolton and running my own masonry business. I didn’t need the complications a woman—and certainly this one on the stage in particular—would bring into my life. 

I had to snap out of it and tell my dick to go back to sleep. Which would have been a simple thing to do, except when her set was over, this goddess of jazz stepped off the stage and meandered through the brewpub, stopping at tables to chat and smile and basically be charming as hell. The moment her lilting laugh hit my ears, I knew I was in trouble.

Before I had a chance to lullaby my cock back into hibernation, that sexy peach dress appeared between Nate and me. Delicate elbows rested on the bar as my entire body heated. 

Early September in Vermont didn’t generally have scorching temperatures, but I was burning up. I pulled at my T-shirt, hoping to let some air at my overheated flesh. 

“You were amazing,” Nate said. “I didn’t catch your name though.”

This vision of perfection gave me a quick glance—nearly liquefying me—then turned toward Nate. “Sasha Soul, performing jazz on Tuesdays and Thursdays at Speakeasy.” She held out her hand to shake Nate’s. Her speaking voice snagged something deep inside me with its harmonious tone.  

“What can I get you, Sasha?” Lily asked. 

“Pinot noir, Lily. Thanks.” She tapped a long, slender finger on the bar edge then peeked at me through thick lashes. “Did you enjoy the show?”

I opened my mouth, to say what I don’t know, but Nate spoke instead. 

“Of course he did. Today’s his birthday.” He peered at me around Sasha and wiggled his eyebrows while mouthing she’s so fucking hot. 

My fist curled at my buddy thinking she was hot, but of course he’d think that. She was hot. Fucking hot. 

Sasha turned completely to face me now and I was treated to a prime view of her, up close and personal. She was truly flawless . . . except for a circular patch of scar tissue on her left arm, right at the elbow crease. 

Her gaze traveled down to where mine was and she ran her index finger along the puckered skin, a small smile tugging up the right side of her mouth. “Dog bite, but that poochie and I ended up being great friends.”

I held up my left arm and pointed to a long, ragged scar on my forearm. “Masonry blade. Great on stones, horrible on flesh.”

Her laugh made me close my eyes for a moment so I could fully enjoy the sound.

“Nice to meet you, Birthday Boy.” She leaned on her elbow against the bar.

Ignoring Nate, who was making all manner of inappropriate gestures behind her, I had the good sense to hold out my hand. “Likewise.”

Her hand slid against mine and I let myself wonder if her skin was that soft everywhere. It probably was and that gave my tongue some specific ideas about tasting her. My dick agreed with my tongue. Wholeheartedly. 

She picked up the wine Lily had left for her and held up the glass to me. “Happy birthday.”

I clinked my beer against her glass and we both took sips. A small portion of my brain registered the fact that Nate had slipped off his stool and backed toward the brewpub’s exit. I should have been more worried about that because he’d driven us to Speakeasy and I’d have no way to get home now, but I couldn’t seem to muster up the desire to care.

“How do you plan to celebrate your birthday?” Sasha asked. 

“Drink a few beers, listen to some tunes, meet you . . . that’s as far as I got in making plans.”

Her lips quirked up again and I liked it far too much when that happened. “Hmm . . .” She turned toward Nate’s abandoned stool. “Hey, what happened to your friend?”

“I think he left which means I’m stranded here.”

Another smile came my way only this one was bigger. “Well, we can’t have you stranded on your birthday.” She leaned in closer and a fresh, peachy scent enveloped me. “Will you let me add to your plans tonight, Birthday Boy?”

I managed a nod as she took a final sip of her wine. With a wave to Lily, Sasha took my hand and tugged me off my stool. I should be calling a ride. I should be getting home. 

But I didn’t do either of those things. 

Instead I followed Sasha out of Speakeasy and to a blue pickup truck. “I know a perfect spot where we can have a little fun and then I can give you a lift home. You’re a local Colebury guy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Great.” A click sounded as she unlocked the doors of her vehicle. “Get in.”

I paused a few feet from the truck as she climbed into the driver’s seat. What in the world was I doing? The Darren Reade I’d known for thirty-four years would not get into a random woman’s car. That guy avoided women in the name of self-preservation. That guy expended too much energy on a kid who wasn’t his own flesh and blood. That guy spent every day among stones and mortar to fund his simple life. 

Had the arrival of my birthday turned me into some other guy? One who opened the passenger door and got into Sasha’s truck right now? One who desperately wanted to see what ideas this woman had for celebrating my birthday? 

One who wanted to strip that dress off her and worship every inch of her amazing body?

“Breathe, Birthday Boy.” Sasha’s hand on my forearm ripped me out of my musings. She traced the scar on my arm with her index finger. “We’re just going to have some fun.”

Life is short. Eat the cupcake!

She started the engine. The image of her reversing a basic pickup out of a brewpub parking spot while dressed like a jazz icon of the past amused me. 

“So I’ve never seen you at Speakeasy.” Sasha pulled the truck onto the road. 

“I come here, but only on Friday and Saturday nights, I think.”

“Don’t tend to go out on school nights?” She arched an eyebrow, but she kept her gaze on the road. 

“Not really.”

“But today is a special occasion, right?”

“Sure. Okay.”

She glanced my way. “A birthday is definitely a special occasion. How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Congratulations. Some people don’t make it that far.”

I knew that firsthand. Some people didn’t make it past their first minutes in this world. I pushed that notion aside though, not wanting it to ruin this impromptu birthday celebration. If things were headed where I thought they were headed, keeping it light and carefree was key. Otherwise this would all have to mean something and I wasn’t signing up for that. 

No way.

Sasha turned on the radio, loud enough that conversation wasn’t feasible. Fine by me. Though she was absolutely gorgeous, I didn’t want to do the small talk thing and get to know her.

Ten minutes later, she pulled her truck to a stop by a body of water. One I recognized because I lived on the other side of it. She’d reversed so the bed of the truck was facing the river.

“This is one of my favorite Vermont spots.” Sasha reached behind my seat and pulled out a thick flannel blanket. “C’mon, Birthday Boy.”

She got out of the truck so I followed her and helped her line the bed with the blanket. She’d left the driver side door open so the bed was illuminated by the light above the back window. The September air still smelled faintly of summer wildflowers and damp soil, and crickets sang their nighttime songs. Woods bordered this section of the river with houses—including mine—on the other side. 

“I’d better get rid of this dress before I ruin it.” Sasha turned around, exposing her back to me. “Can you unzip me?”

Was it going to be this easy? Unzip and she’d be naked before me? 

My conscience reared its pious head as I weighed the pros and cons of what was about to unfold here. 

“Birthday Boy?” Sasha glanced at me over her shoulder. “You’re not shy, are you? We’re two adults and I’m more than willing to wish you a proper happy birthday tonight.” Her eyebrow arched over a blue eye, so how was a guy supposed to resist what was being offered? It’d been a while since I’d gotten laid—too much of a while honestly—and she was right. We were two adults. Hooking up was natural. Nothing wrong with it. It was my birthday after all.

And she was going to ruin that dress out here.

I closed the distance between us and slowly pulled down the zipper at the back of her dress. It made a soft zzzip and the cricketsong halted for a moment before starting back up again. At least only crickets were out here to see what was going on. Maybe an owl or two as well.

Sasha wasn’t wearing a bra so an uninterrupted stretch of pale skin greeted me as the sides of the dress pulled away from her back. In the light offered by the truck, I caught a glimpse of that tattoo on her left shoulder. A dog pawprint, but made of hearts. So she loved dogs. That had to mean she was a good person, right?

She gathered the bottom of the dress and slid the entire garment up over her head so it wouldn’t touch the dirty ground at her feet. In nothing but peach-colored panties and a pair of gold heels, she folded the dress twice and set it on the driver’s seat. She pulled at her hair and caramel curls tumbled down about her shoulders as she turned to face me.

I had difficulty keeping my gaze on her face, knowing her breasts were right there, exposed to the night, but somehow I managed the impossible.

The slight grin on her lips told me she’d noted my feat. “You can look.” She took several steps closer so she was within reach. “In fact, you can do more than look.” A second later, her hand took mine. She uncurled my fingers and placed my palm on her breast.

We both let out a moan and that was the green light for me. No holding back now. My other arm wrapped around her back and pressed her against my front. Her sharp intake of breath indicated I’d surprised her with my sudden move, but she quickly relaxed into my hold, her hips doing a subtle grind against me that made my dick say hell no to hibernation. He was awake now. And ready.

So ready.

I scooped her up into my arms and walked to the bed of the truck. Setting her on the open tailgate, I slipped off her heels, placing them aside, and ran my hands along her thighs, groaning when she opened her legs wider under my touch. She backed up farther into the bed and I climbed up, slinking my way over her. I paused to remove my work boots then hovered over her again. Pushing on my chest, Sasha made enough room between us so she could grab the bottom of my T-shirt and peel it off me. I unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, but let her scrape them and my boxer briefs down over my hips. 

She let out a little sigh at the sight of my erection and I have to say, I loved that sound. 

“Why do I feel as if it’s my birthday?” She reached up to my shoulders and pulled me down to her. Her lips pressed to mine and that merriment Nate had talked about came flooding through me. 

I shoved my jeans and underwear all the way down my legs and kicked myself free of both, not much caring where my dusty clothes landed. Until I remembered a condom. The one that was tucked into my wallet for just-in-cases that never happened. 

Until tonight.

Taking a few moments to get back to enjoying the way Sasha’s mouth felt against mine, I reached my arm out, my hand groping for my jeans. Sasha realized what I was attempting. She paused in her kissing so I could concentrate on fishing my wallet out of my back pocket and finding the condom. 

“A prepared birthday boy.” She plucked the packet from my hand and set it aside. “Let’s play first.”

Her hand wrapped around my cock and I sucked in a breath as she stroked me. Up and down, up and down, her fingers tightening on my tip and making me feel a little lightheaded. What was it about this woman? I never did the one-night stand thing. This was so unlike me, but being with her like this right now felt so incredible. Maybe a parasitic alien had made my body its host, causing me to act in ways contrary to my normal personality, but hey, I wasn’t going to argue with it. Not when fucking hot Sasha Soul was beneath me and a starlit Vermont sky was above me. 

I took control of Sasha’s mouth again and when I traced the seam of her lips with my tongue, she opened for me. Sliding my tongue along hers sent a jolt through me and her hand stroked me a little harder, a little faster. I trailed kisses along her jaw, down her neck, over her collarbone, pausing every now and then to peek at her face. Her eyes were closed, but her lower lip was caught between her teeth and she wriggled beneath me, her breasts brushing against my chest. The bed light illuminated her hair, turning those caramel strands to gold. 

Traveling down her body, I made stops at her breasts, kneading the mounds before taking each in my mouth to pull more sexy sounds from her throat. I slid farther south and tested her core with a finger, finding her hot and wet and ready. 

“Let’s get that condom on you.” Her words came out breathy and strained.

I pressed kisses to her stomach, smiling against her skin. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to play first.”

She dug her fingers into my shoulders then cupped my balls. “I changed my mind.”

After nipping at her hip, I rested on my knees, a leg on either side of her, and grabbed the condom. Quickly sheathing myself, I lowered to capture that mouth of hers again and the kiss went instantly supernova.

Sasha rubbed her leg along mine and when I finally guided myself into her core, we both shuddered at the joining. She was tight around me, but with each surge into her, I went deeper, deeper, deeper until I was so surrounded by her, I could have easily been completely consumed. 

Instinct took over and we moved with each other in rhythmic thrusts that reminded me of a primal drumbeat. Something so elemental and natural and perfect. Something so unlike any sexual encounters I’d ever had. This was in its own category. One I couldn’t quite name. 

More noises came from Sasha, urging me to give her my best possible performance. She wrapped her legs around my hips and raked her fingers along my scalp as she pulled me closer so she could reach my mouth. We kissed as I plunged in and out of her and when we reached the edge, I pulled out almost entirely, teasing her for a moment, only to rush back in and send us both tumbling. 

My body shook as she spasmed around me, the warmish September night doing nothing to cool me off as we rode this wave together. When only aftershocks remained, I freed myself from her and rolled to her side. My chest heaved up and down as I stared at the stars above us and caught my breath. The starlight tonight was intense or was it that everything seemed more vibrant after being deep inside Sasha Soul?

She turned her head to face me.“Happy Birthday to you.”

“Thanks.” Man, was I glad Nate had forced me to go to Speakeasy. I’d have to pay Mrs. Lilly extra for staying with Kolton, but it had been worth every cent. 

I took care of the condom then pulled the sides of the blanket over us so we were covered. Sasha fit herself against my side and I interlaced our fingers, resting our hands on my stomach. We stayed there like that in the bed of her truck for a while, stargazing and breathing and… existing. A few stray frogs added their croaks to the cricket chirps and bats flapped by overhead, but we didn’t move. I don’t think I’d ever been that in tune with my body or someone else’s. I swore I could feel Sasha’s heartbeat in my own chest, as if I’d stolen something from deep inside her during our exchange. 

“I should get you home.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but I’d heard her words. Didn’t care for them. Right after work, all I’d wanted to do was go home, but now?

Now I wanted to lie beside her. Like forever. 

But she was right. I had to get home. We’d had some fun. Nothing more.

I let go of her hand when she pulled away and sat up when she did. “That was . . .” Nice? Amazing? Profound? “. . . great.”

Sasha gave me a half smile then leaned forward and brushed her lips against my cheek in a soft kiss. “It was great. I hope you find your thirty-fourth year to be a rewarding one.” She slid away and hopped off the tailgate. 

Her naked form walked to the cab and rustled around in the back. When she came back to the bed, she wore a simple black cotton dress that resembled an oversized T-shirt. 

And still looked hot as hell wearing it. 

Realizing I was staring, I snapped out of it and quickly pulled on my own clothes. I sat on the tailgate to put on my work boots then jumped down and closed the tailgate. I wanted to say more to Sasha, but I wasn’t sure what direction to take. The way she marched to the driver’s side after folding up the flannel blanket told me not to say anything. She was done with our fun. 

I was, too, of course. This was nothing more than a special birthday treat. It certainly had improved my attitude toward my birthday and had reminded me how much fun sex was. I’d forgotten. It’d been so long. 

I climbed into the passenger seat and pointed across the river. “I live over there.”

“Okay.” Sasha started the truck. “I’ll follow the road around to that side and you tell me when to stop.”

I nodded and we were off, the truck’s rumbly engine and the radio the only sounds between us. My body felt good. Well-used and sated. My head, however, was a different story. Probably why I didn’t do this often. My mom had raised me to be a gentleman, but that hadn’t gone well for me. In fact, that had been a total disaster. 

Twice so far. 

Perhaps what Sasha and I had done was the way to go. Get down to business then call it a night. No emotions. No regrets. No promises. Just two bodies coming together to release some steam then breaking apart to be on their separate ways. 

Yeah. This was good. This was what I’d needed. I’d have to thank Nate tomorrow.

“That’s my house right there.” I pointed to the barn on the right side of the road. 

“That doesn’t look like a house.” Sasha squinted out the windshield. “Do you live with horses?”

“No.” I almost told her I lived with a ten-year-old boy, but that would have been personal information and we hadn’t exchanged any of that, had we? “This barn has been converted into a livable space though.”

“Cool.” Before I could say anything more, she leaned over and dropped a kiss on my lips. A quick, friendly peck. “Good night, Birthday Boy.”

In other words, Get out of my truck now.

“Good night, Miss Soul.”

She chuckled and I realized that Sasha Soul probably wasn’t her real name. Asking her for her real name, however, felt personal and we weren’t doing that, were we? 

I opened the passenger door and got out of the truck. Movement beyond the first large window on the bottom floor of the barn told me Mrs. Lilly was watching so I closed the door after giving Sasha a wave. As I walked toward the barn, Sasha pulled her truck back onto the main road and drove off. 

Her taillights disappeared into the darkness and I half wondered if I’d imagined all of tonight’s events. 

I licked my lips and the taste of Sasha told me I hadn’t.

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Books and things I'm enjoying this summer!

The end of summer is always hard! I’m struggling this week, pulled in too many directions. But I wanted to take a moment to share some of my favorite things from this summer! I did some reading and indulged in some stationery. Including:

Elle Kennedy’s follow-up novellas in The Legacy are just so funny! Off Campus fans have a lot to be excited about here! (Link below.)

More great reads: Long Winter by Rachel Ember who is a new M/M author to me. Repeat by Kylie Scott makes great use of the amnesia trope! Rachel Reid and Lisa Kleypas also put out winners! (But we expect that from them!)

And then? I got my 2022 planner. Yeah, it’s early. But it soothes me to pretend that my life is somewhat under control. I got started working on it with new Energel pens, new writeable washi tape banners, and So. Many. Stickers! Click the pic below for more info.

Also, if you have high-school aged kids, Valedictorians at the Gate is the book you need to soothe yourself about the college admissions racket! It’s fabulous.

Cheers, and have a great summer!

Love,

Sarina

First Chapter: Safeguard

Matteo

“Vermont has a lot of trees, Daddy,” my five-year-old daughter, Lauren, said from her car seat. A laugh escaped me as I spied her wide eyes in my rear-view mirror. 

“We had trees in New York, too. Maybe not this many but—”

“Does our yard have a lot of trees?” 

When I rolled to a stop at the first traffic light I’d seen in hours, I craned my head and reached into the back seat to squeeze her legging-covered knee. The giggle she let out made my chest deflate in a little relief. I’d gone on for weeks about our new adventure in the country, and I must’ve done a good enough job for her to buy into it. It killed me to take her away from her grandparents, but as she jabbered with excitement from the backseat, I prayed it was a sign that the crazy decision I’d made for us would work out. 

“Here we are, Cookie,” I told her as we pulled up in front of our new home. Other than the upstairs balcony, the small white house with the teal roof seemed plain to the naked eye, but the skylight windows on the roof plus the winding staircase made the inside spectacular. We had a full basement, three bedrooms, and a dining room that was probably too big for the both of us, but I was excited about it all. There was nothing like this back in the Bronx, and when I came to Colebury a couple of months ago to scope out affordable housing options close to work, I knew we had to have it the minute I stepped over the threshold. 

“That’s our house, Daddy? All of it?” 

When her mouth fell open, I didn’t know whether to laugh or tear up. Whoever said real men didn’t cry never knew what it was like to have a baby girl grab your heart right out of your chest the moment she was born. My family called us twins because Lauren and I had the same nose and mouth, but her eyes were all her mother. It was still confusing to love someone more than my own life who reminded me so much of someone I hated.

Maybe hate was a strong word since I could never hate Callie, but I resented the hell out of her for what she did, and as time passed it hadn’t stopped eating away at me. I doubted it ever would. 

I stepped out of the driver’s seat and made my way to the back to open Lauren’s door. 

“It sure is our house.” She squealed when I lifted her up and held her high over my head. “It has stairs and windows in the roof so we can see the sky, and a big yard with a ton of trees!” 

When I brought her back to my chest, she looped her arms around my neck and cuddled into my shoulder. My life was the little lady in my arms, and I would do whatever I needed to in order to make this work.

While I had help from family back in New York, the job of both parents had always been mine. The only comfort I had was that this was all my daughter had ever known. I was all my daughter knew. Most would say a mother leaving her baby when she was an infant was tragic, but I’d found it a blessing. Lauren was too young to remember how indifferent her mother had been toward her, and she’d never worried when Callie left one day and didn’t return. 

All Lauren had was me. And although I felt as if I was screwing up daily, I was all she wanted. 

It had always been my plan to move out of the city when I had a family. But I’d thought when would be years from now, and family would mean my little girl would have both a mother and a father, and I wouldn’t be doing this alone at twenty-eight. My buddies back in the Bronx were mostly unattached and never really knew what to make of what my life had become. 

There were times that I didn’t either. 

If I’d learned anything since I became a single parent, it was that life only laughed in your face at any plans you were foolish enough to make. 

Lauren was used to the lower-level apartment my cousin rented to me out of his two family house. We shared the concrete backyard but it wasn’t safe for her to play in. This yard had grass and trees, and I already had plans for a mini playground back there. The whole point of coming out here was to give her a different and—I hoped—better life.

I snatched my phone from the cup holder. After I scrolled through and replied to all the good luck messages, I shot my friend, Phoebe, a text. I worked with her at one of my first bar manager jobs in a restaurant in Manhattan and we stayed in touch. When she’d gotten a job as the executive chef at the new gastropub in Speakeasy, a trendy bar in Colebury, Vermont, she contacted me about an open bar manager position since she’d remembered that I’d always talked about moving my daughter out of the city and into the country. It didn’t get more country than Vermont. 

When I interviewed with the owners, the salary they offered was good, insurance was decent, and thanks to the savings I’d accumulated from free family childcare and cheap rent since Lauren was born, I could afford to give us the simpler and better life I’d always wanted for her.  

At least that was my plan—a plan I prayed would work. 

Matteo: We’re here. How are you holding up?

Before she’d come to Colebury, Phoebe had endured a social media nightmare after an embarrassing breakup—photos and all—went viral on Twitter. She’d been looking to leave New York too, although her reasons had been more urgent than mine. I knew she’d be stubborn and insist she was fine, but it was a miserable way to start a new job in a new place. 

Phoebe: Welcome to Vermont! Is Lauren in shock from all the trees? 

Phoebe: And fine. I’m acclimating very nicely. Small town living takes some getting used to. You guys may be in a little bit of culture shock at first. 

Matteo: Trees are the first thing Lauren noticed. And I’m very glad to hear that. I’m around if you want to talk. 

Phoebe: I’m glad you’re around. I’m really okay. No one has called me meat girl once, and without losing hours scrolling through social media, I’ve had time to come up with some killer recipes. If anyone has recognized me, they haven’t mentioned it. At least to my face. 

Matteo: Let me know if I need to go Bronx on anyone. 

Phoebe: Easy, tough guy. I appreciate the offer, though. 

“Matteo!” I recognized the shrill voice of Adeline, the rep from the home rental agency. After Phoebe convinced me to at least think about coming here, she connected me with both housing and school contacts, knowing I wouldn’t make any kind of move unless I could guarantee an upgrade in both. From the time I’d made the first trip up here, Adeline had been all too accommodating.

“So nice to see you again. Aw, this must be Lisa.” She shot Lauren a patronizing glance before meeting my gaze, a saccharine smile curling her red lips. 

“Lauren,” I corrected, my shoulders going rigid as I held my daughter closer to me. “Thanks for meeting us.” The fact that I had a child in my arms didn’t stop her from doing a shameless perusal up and down my body. 

I’d casually dated here and there since Lauren’s mother left, emphasis on casually. I would never bring another person into our lives who could hurt us both again and made it a point to never ever bring a woman I was seeing around Lauren. My daughter didn’t remember her mother, but she’d been asking a ton of questions lately. The last thing I needed was for her to get attached to someone she’d only know temporarily. On the rare occasion I’d go on a date, it was a no strings attached and mostly one-time thing. 

My friends used to tease me how my kid must be a chick magnet, but most of the women who thought single fathers were hot turned out to have no interest in children. Even if I had no intentions of introducing my daughter to anyone I’d dated, that was still a huge turn off. 

“Here are all the keys. The kitchen appliances arrived, so all you need is some furniture to set onto those shiny wooden floors.” 

“That’s all arriving tomorrow. We have an air mattress to sleep on tonight.”

Adeline put the keys into my palm, sliding her finger over my wrist before I closed my fist around them. 

“Sounds cozy. Well, you have my number if you need anything. The mailbox already says Gallo. Enjoy your new home.” 

She turned, an exaggerated sway to her hips as she made her way to her car. 

I respected women who knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to ask for it, and Adeline was sexy as hell. In another time or place, maybe I would have asked to see her again. But barely giving my daughter an inkling of acknowledgment didn’t make me want to take her up on anything she was offering. Not that I would anyway. Right now, we needed to make this place a home before I even remotely considered who I’d see in my spare time, which I didn’t anticipate to be much.

Before I unpacked the car, I let Lauren down and led her by the hand inside the house, my heart swelling at all her gasps as we walked from room to room.

“Daddy, look!” She pointed her little finger to the ceiling and to the large skylight windows. “We don’t have to go outside to see the stars.” 

“Nope.” I lifted her up again. “And up here you’ll see a ton of them without the city smog.” 

“How many?” she asked, eyes wide again.

“Thousands,” I leaned in to whisper. She was still learning her numbers, but her hand flew to her mouth at the notion of all those stars right above us. 

I could only hope that my attempt to reach for stars wouldn’t make me fall flat on my face.

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First Chapter: Stargazer

For me, hitting rock bottom happened when, in a moment of irrational panic, I reached out to a dealer I knew back in college, who I hadn’t spoken to in almost ten years, trying to score some oxycodone. Or something comparable. Just my luck, he’d found Jesus and, rather than hook me up, he’d staged a long-distance intervention (of sorts) in the form of another college buddy, Griff Shipley. 

“Been too long,” I said, pulling my old football teammate into a one-armed man-hug. After college, when I’d entered the Marine Corps, Griff headed back to Vermont to run his family farm.  

“Randy Dick.” He slapped my back then pulled away with a big grin. 

“Ha. Ha,” I deadpanned. Back in college, my friends had shortened Randall Dickson II, a name I hated, into Randy Dick. For…well-deserved reasons. Griff would laugh if he knew how long it’d been since my dick felt anything close to randy. More than a year, at least. “I go by R.D. now.”

“Glad you came, R.D.,” he answered. 

Like he’d given me a choice. “You get your ass to Vermont in the next twenty-four hours, or I will fly to California to get you. It’s almost October. We’re picking apples. Do not make me leave the farm right now.”

Probably leaving his pretty new wife, Audrey, and infant son were more of an issue than the apples, but whatever. 

“Look at you.” I took in Griff, in his red and black flannel shirt, worn jeans––from actual hard work rather than chemical distressing—and full beard. “Farmer turned chemist turned purveyor of adult beverages.” I surveyed his new venture, Speakeasy Tap Room. On the outside, a big, unassuming, old brick building. Inside, an open floorplan with rough-hewn floorboards, rustic wooden beams, and antique lamps hanging overhead. At the back, a wall lined with huge leaded glass windows overlooked a river. Off to the left, a glassed area showcased the brewery operation. At the center, an impressive oval-shaped bar. Staff moved around with purpose. The place busy for late afternoon on a Thursday. “Made something of yourself, that’s for sure.”  

Griff’s response? “Once a farmer, always a farmer.”   

My old friend was much more than a farmer. A quick internet search showed, to his credit, cultivation of various organic fruit trees, mostly apples, production of award-winning hard cider, distributed nationally, and participation in the creation of a non-alcoholic beer that was quickly gaining popularity. 

“I only own a piece of this place. After you’re settled in, Audrey and I will have you over. Show you around the farm.” 

“I’d like that.” 

“You checked in at the motor lodge?” 

Three Bears Motor Lodge wasn’t like any I’d been to before, more like tiny one-room cabins. But, yeah, I was checked in, so I nodded. “Retro.” That place hadn’t been updated since the fifties.

“I put the word out, looking for a short-term room or apartment to rent.” 

“No worries. Don’t plan on being here too long.” One month, maybe two, to get my shit together and strengthen up before heading back to base and, Lord willing, getting the medical clearance I needed to transition back to active duty.  

He studied me. “How you doing?” 

Not great. “I’m fine.” 

A lie. Griff didn’t call me on it. 

“One of the guys who works local law enforcement, Benito Rossi, is former DEA. He catches you doing anything illegal, he won’t hesitate to arrest you. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“I won’t get caught.” My attempt at a joke fell flat. 

Griff glared at me. “Wrong answer, asshole.” 

“Kidding.” I held up both hands in surrender. “Too soon?” 

He gave my left shoulder a shove. 

“I screwed up.” Both of us a little over six feet tall, my eyes met his. “The doc wouldn’t renew my prescription. I panicked.”  

“When was the accident? Over a year ago, right?”  

On leave, stateside, to attend my mother’s funeral. Took the motorcycle out for a quick ride, and BAM! Some high-strung motherfucker in a BMW, on his cellphone, ran a red light and changed my life forever. Concussion. Open femur fracture. Shattered ankle. Shoulder dislocation. Humerus fracture. Right hand and wrist fractures with nerve damage. “Yeah.” 

“You’re still having pain bad enough that the over-the-counter stuff doesn’t work?” 

I shrugged. “Some days are worse than others.” Mentally and physically. “I left my cane in the SUV.” Hated to use it. Hated that it made me look weak. 

“You okay to stand without it?”

“Yes.”

“I can put a stool—” 

“No.”

“But—”

“No,” I snapped.  

“Okay then.” Griff gestured to a wood-top table and chairs beside him. “Let’s sit.” While we did, he asked, “You going to be okay standing for hours at a time? It’s fall foliage season, and we just got added to one of the Vermont Brewers Association beer trails. Your shifts will be busy.” 

“I can handle it.” I would make myself handle it. Standing behind a bar was nothing compared to the physical fitness and combat fitness tests I’d have to pass to get back to the job I loved. “Downloaded two bartending manuals.” Had margaritas, mojitos, and Manhattans, whisky sours, white Russians, and Moscow mules and dozens of other drinks swirling around in my head.    

“Speakeasy does a lot of business on tap. Vermont IPAs and artisanal ciders. I figure you can work the taps, pour wine, and back up the other bartender on duty if needed. More than likely, she’ll wind up being your backup.” 

She?

“You going to be okay working behind the bar? Audrey mentioned,” he shifted in his seat, “maybe it’s not a good idea for,” he cleared his throat, “someone who…you know, might have a,” he met my eyes, “drug problem, to be working with alcohol. I could set you up as a bouncer. At the door. Or Audrey and our friend, Zara, own The Busy Bean, a coffee shop down the street. You could—”

“You know about my father.” A mean, abusive alcoholic. “I don’t drink. Have no desire to drink. Will never drink. For any reason. Ever.” Wouldn’t risk turning into a man like him. I may have panicked about running out of medication. But not once did I ever consider substituting alcohol as a form of pain management. 

Something Griff saw in my expression must have convinced him, because he said, “Okay, then. Let me show you around.”  

After learning about the keg delivery system, growlers and flights—a small, rectangular tray with openings to accommodate four small glasses for their cider and beer tasting menus—Griff demonstrated holding an ice-cold mug at a precise forty-five-degree angle for a perfect pour. “Now you try.” 

I positioned the mug so the beer hit the side, limiting the foamy head. I may not consume alcoholic beverages, but I’d spent enough time in bars over the years to observe how it was done. 

Griff handed me a laminated price list then gave me a crash course in how to use the cash register. “Anything else, Lily can fill you in.” 

“Lily can what?” a female voice asked. 

We both turned. 

“Perfect timing,” Griff said. “Lily Reynolds, I’d like you to meet a buddy of mine, R.D. He’ll be working with you until he’s ready to return to active duty in the Marine Corps.”

At the vision of lovely before me, I was struck mute. Mid-twenties. Petite, the top of her head not reaching my shoulder, even in her wedge heels. Her smile: sweet with a tease of sassy, showing off straight, white teeth with a dimple on each cheek. Her skin: smooth. Lightly tanned. Flawless. Her hair: straight. Thin. White-blonde, skimming her shoulders. A loose French braid across the upper part of her forehead kept it from falling into her face. Her eyes: an unusual pale blue-green. Unique. Hypnotizing. A tiny diamond stud sparkled from her right nostril. Large silver hoops hung from her ears. 

Although Griff hadn’t gotten around to it yet, from what I could tell, the staff dress code consisted of a black T-shirt with Speakeasy across the chest on top and some form of denim on the bottom. This woman, Lily, had on the shortest denim skirt in the place. Damn. And her shirt? Fit like it’d shrunk in the wash, hugging what appeared to be a decent rack, for her size, and a flat abdomen. She had hers cut at the neck and down the chest into a deep V. Around the short sleeves and the bottom hem, the material had been sliced into vertical, maybe three-inch strips, with colorful chunky beads and—what the hell?—bells threaded onto the strips and tied off.

This woman liked attention. 

She sure as hell had mine. 

As if in slow motion, her hand came up and settled on my chest, the touch making my dick stir in my pants. Hallelujah.  Welcome back, big guy. Although now’s not a good time. 

Her lips moved, snapping me out of my stupor in time to hear her say, “Sparkling personality, big guy.” She gave me a sweet smile and a wink before turning to Griff. “Does he speak?”

Before I could respond, she continued on her way behind the bar, tossing over her shoulder, “Doesn’t matter. I can talk enough for the both of us. As long as he keeps me in clean glasses and stays out of my way, we’ll get along just fine.”

My eyes glued to her ass, I asked Griff, “Who the hell was that?” 

Griff laughed. “Dude. I remember you having a lot more skill with the ladies. Especially the pretty ones. Not that it matters. She’s into artsy losers. You, my friend, are not her type. Which is part of the reason you’ll be working all her shifts.”

A guy wearing the Speakeasy uniform yelled, “You have got to be shitting me.” He stood a couple of inches taller than Lily, his stocky chest puffed out, his long, dark hair blowing behind him as he stormed in our direction. “Why does the new guy get all of Lily’s shifts?”  

Griff raised an eyebrow and stared the guy down, stopping him in his tracks, calmly explaining, “Because he won’t be out back smoking when Lily leaves. He will make sure she gets to her van safely.” 

“One time,” the guy said, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

“One time is all it takes,” Griff responded. 

“What—”

The guy cut me off. “I told her to wait for me. I was only outside for a few minutes.” He looked down. “Didn’t realize she’d finish up so quick.” 

“I know, Kurt,” Griff said. “I’m not blaming you. Get back to work.” 

The guy looked me over, his facial expression similar to someone inspecting dog shit on the bottom of their shoe. Then he spun around and stomped away. 

“What—” I tried again. 

This time Griff cut me off. “Come,” he said, holding his hand out toward a hallway leading to the kitchen. “Let’s talk in the office.”

I followed him to a small, nondescript office containing an old wooden desk and two chairs. While Griff moved to take the fancy black one on wheels, behind the desk, I lowered onto the wooden chair in front of it, thankful it had armrests I could lean on to ease myself down. I fought to contain a sigh of relief at finally taking the weight off my throbbing leg. 

“Lily is my most popular bartender,” Griff said. “Among our staff, because she shows up on time as scheduled, she works hard from start to finish, and her shifts routinely rake in the most tips, which they all share. Be prepared for some backlash from my latest scheduling decision.” 

I’d come for some new scenery and to change up my destructive routine, to get out of my head and rejoin the living. Not to make friends. “I can take it.” 

“She’s a favorite among our customers because she is nice to everyone. She’s friendly, chatty, and flirty. Some men take that to mean—”

“That she’s interested,” I finished for him. 

Griff let out a breath. “Yeah.” 

Even though I had a pretty good idea already, I asked, “What happened?”

“Last week, after close, two drunk guys approached Lily in the parking lot.” 

My body went cold. “What happened?”  

Griff’s smile caught me by surprise. “According to one of our regulars, who happened to be outside waiting for a ride, she gave one a bloody nose, and the other is probably still trying to dig out his balls.” 

“Small thing like her?” 

“Don’t underestimate, Lily. She will surprise you every time.”

“She got lucky.” 

“Maybe,” he conceded. “I didn’t find out until three days later.” He shook his head in frustration. “Said she didn’t want to make a big deal about it. When I think what could have happened…”  

“I’ll keep an eye on her.” 

“I know you will.” After a brief hesitation, he added, “From what I hear, Kurt has a thing for her. He’s been talking shit about her boyfriend. Which may be why she snuck out on him the other night. He might give you some trouble.” 

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“The boyfriend, Dorian, who is deserving of all the shit Kurt talks about him, came in with his waste-of-life friends twice in the past two weeks, skipping out on the bills, leaving them for Lily to take care of. I don’t like it. Aside from the fact it’s an asshole move, it sets a bad precedent.” 

“I’ll ask one of the waitresses to point him out next time he comes in. He will not leave without paying the bill again.”  

Griff smiled. “Glad you’re here, buddy.” He reached into a drawer and slid some paperwork across the desk. “Fill these out, and we’re good to go.” 

That done, we returned to the bar area. Lily stood on a stepstool, leaning over a big whiteboard. “What’s she doing?” I asked Griff. 

“Writing down her motivational quote of the day. That’s her thing. People love it. They come in looking for it.” 

Apparently finished, she picked up the whiteboard, gave it a final read, then set it behind the bar for all to see: 

Positive thoughts.

Positive Prayers.

Positive intentions.

Positive life. 

What a load of bullshit. As if reading that, even saying the words out loud, could make it so. To make her message even more personally offensive, she’d used brightly colored fluorescent markers and decorated the borders with hearts and flowers.  

Fuck. Me. 

Seemed I agreed to spend the next few weeks with a perpetually happy, annoyingly positive optimist who’d probably never had a hard day in her life. The constantly cranky, struggling-to-get-through-each-day pessimist in me started to question my decision to come to Vermont.

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First Chapter: Limelight

Chapter OneTag

“Who’s a thirsty little guy? Yeah… me too. That’s life, buddy.”

I hang up my clipboard and pat the side of the stainless steel fermenter that holds sixty gallons of my newest batch of mead.

Everyone warned me about moving to the woods of Vermont to start my own business. Well, not so much warned as looked at me like I had six heads. Maybe they were right. Out here on my own, I’m finally going crazy.

At least the job suits me, though it’s a far cry from my former life. I traded the limelight for a beard and a bunch of beehives, and I make mead from my honey. Running a business is a full-time job and a half, but it’s all my own. Nobody can throw me out or keep me down.

What I didn’t consider before my wilderness move is the number of eligible men who want to be swept off their feet and carted away in my white pickup truck for a happy-ever-after farming life.

To be precise, so far that number is zero. I’ll keep hoping for a miracle.

The skitter of claws and a soft whine from outside make me smile. I’m not completely alone. Queenie, my chocolate Lab, has enough energy for both of us. Great when I’m out hiking, but I feel guilty when she’s ready to hop in the truck and I can’t bring her along.

“Sorry, girl,” I call out, hoisting a case of mead on each shoulder. “Not tonight.” 

I carefully do the one-two step it requires to keep a huge, curious, overgrown puppy out of the food production area she really shouldn’t be in.

Today, I manage it. Queenie takes one look at what I’m carrying and spins in a circle, wagging her tail furiously like she hopes that will convince me. Sometimes her cute act works. If it’s gonna be a quick drop-and-go, I’ll bring her and let her sit in the truck. 

But with the nights getting chilly, I don’t want her stuck out there waiting for me… not that I can enjoy a late night. I have to feed the mead again at midnight.

No point in getting dressed up for an evening off, then. This red plaid shirt and jeans will do fine for a quick delivery. I’m bringing these cases to Vino and Veritas, the local bookstore and wine bar. Here in Burlington, people aren’t pretentious. I won’t have to sneak in the back door… so to speak.

I drop off the cases in my truck, and then close the door before Queenie can jump in. She puts on her best dejected face as I lead her to the house.

“I can’t smuggle you in tonight,” I tell her, scratching the top of her head before I push open the door and wait for her to scamper inside first. “You wouldn’t fit in my handbag. Should have thought about that before you grew so much, huh?”

Queenie’s big even for a Lab. It means I can’t keep food on the counters. She can pretty much barge into any room she chooses, and often does, even when I’m showering. But it takes a forceful personality to be around me. I love her to death. She’s my best girl.

And right now, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth as she gazes at me expectantly.

“Okay, okay,” I laugh, my willpower lasting about two seconds. I open the cupboard, and before I can even grab the jar of dog treats inside, she does her happy dance around my ankles.

“Sit,” I tell her firmly, biting back my smile and waiting. When she gets her excitement under control enough to put her butt on the ground, I toss her two treats, both of which she snatches out of the air like a champ. “Attagirl. Go take a nap.”

Queenie can be obedient when she chooses. She skitters across the hardwood floor of the old farmhouse to curl up in her giant, fluffy dog bed in front of the fireplace.

It’s getting cold enough at night to light the wood stove in the evenings. There’s nothing I love more than sitting in front of it with Queenie sprawled across my lap. Together, we watch the flames and daydream.

In the last four years, I’ve settled into a seasonal rhythm, and this time of year is the best. I’ve just finished the hard work of prepping the beehives for winter. My only stress is starting new batches. Once the mead is aging, I’ve got a lot more time to myself.

Not gonna lie, though. The evenings are long when the only soul around speaks in woofs and barks, not English. Once upon a time, in the bright lights of the city, I could have found a friendly face and warm bed any time I chose.

I don’t miss the attention, but now and then I wonder how my life could have played out differently. 

“Oh, stop moping,” I grumble. I’m no longer Titus Taylor, rock star and media darling set firmly on a rising trajectory to superstardom. It feels so long ago that it might as well have been another life.

I’m not exactly in hiding, but I haven’t told anyone here who I used to be. I’d rather blend in than step into another spotlight, or worse yet, make people think I’m some big-headed star. That’s not me. Not anymore.

I’m just Tag now. A guy with a delivery to make and a dog to cuddle later.

After shrugging on my insulated flannel jacket, I hop in my truck for the quick drive to the town center.

Parking is easy to find in the side street near Vino and Veritas. After shoving the truck door closed, I hoist both cases of mead bottles into my arms and head for the front door.

Live music greets me, stopping me in my tracks for a moment. Did I miss a concert? No, wait. Duh. It’s Sunday: open mic night.

There’s a spotlight on the stage, where a young guy is just finishing a song on his guitar to a round of applause. I duck my head and steer around the crowd. Once I get to the bar, I jerk my chin up in a greeting to the bartender, Murph.

“Evening, Tag,” he greets me. He’s wearing a black shirt with pink writing and a sparkly necklace, and a charming grin as usual.

“Going well?” I jerk my head toward the stage.

“Can’t beat the talent here in Burlington. You still living under a rock?” His teasing is always kind, like he wants to encourage me to get out more, and it makes me smile.

“Business keeps me busy,” I say, but heat creeps up my cheeks. Guilty as charged. To hide my blush, I quickly look across the room again.

I might stay for a few minutes. God knows I’ve heard some off-key singing in my life. Done some off-key singing, in the early days. I don’t mind that.

As long as nobody ropes me into going up to the mic. Thankfully, Vino and Veritas plays more jazz than pop rock music, but someone with a keen ear could recognize me in a flash.

I’ve avoided any kind of publicity and moved here under a new name. For the last few years, I’ve stuck to myself and let everyone assume I’m a shy wallflower. Okay, I guess what I’m doing here in Vermont could technically be called hiding out.

My gaze lands on one particular face in the crowd, and then I can’t look away.

A guy around my age is standing by the wall, shuffling papers in his hands. He looks like he expects a tiger to jump out of the crowd and swallow him whole.

He’s cute, though. Really cute. A head full of defined gold curls, thin eyebrows, full lips, a scruffy jawline that could kill a man. He’s dressed up nicely too, in dark slacks and a white shirt that clings to his shoulders, hinting at biceps and pecs that I wouldn’t mind getting up close and personal with.

My heart skips a beat or three. 

“Who’s up next? Him?”

Murph follows my gaze. “Yeah. He’s reading poetry, I think.”

Then someone comes up to the bar and Murph excuses himself, so I nod absently. My gaze is fixed on the poet.

Is he…? 

No, there’s no point in even wondering if the guy is single and interested in reclusive hermits. He’s gorgeous. He’ll be mobbed by fans.

I lean on the bar and watch, trying to behave myself and not mentally undress the poor stranger. Apparently it’s been way longer than I realized.

Tap tap. The guy taps the microphone to make sure it’s live. I wince, but mercifully there’s no feedback. He leans in, his eyes skittering across the room like he doesn’t know where to look. “H-Hi,” he stutters. “I’m Caleb. Uh, I’ll just… um…”

Caleb almost drops his papers as he fumbles to take the mic out of the stand. I shove my hands in my pockets and fix a supportive smile on my face in case he happens to look my way.

I know what a difference it makes, seeing smiles instead of folded arms.

When Caleb has the microphone gripped deathly tight in one hand, he looks at his papers and comes to the same conclusion I already did—he can’t hold it and turn pages.

“Sorry.” He gulps and shoves the mic back into the stand, raising the papers until they form a shield in front of his chest. At least he doesn’t go totally amateur and raise them so high we can’t see his face.

Yeah, textbook stage fright. Poor guy.

“Oh, uh, I should say, I’m reading poetry. My poems. Hope you like them.” His voice is light, musical, and warm despite the taut, breathy stress in it. There’s a faint, stereotypical lisp to his words, too, but he hardly seems conscious of it.

Just relax. You’ve got this, I urge like I’m coaching Super Bowl players on TV.

“Okay, um. Here goes…”

Caleb stares at the paper like he hopes it will save him, and then launches into a poem.

“Your sheets, a cold rip—rippling mountain…” He gulps for breath, sneaks a panicked look over the page, and his voice turns strangled. “Range,” he continues with determination, like he’s trying to murder someone with his syllables. “Brushed by dawn.”

Then he stops again, gripping both sides of the stack of paper so tightly I’m afraid he’s going to rip them in two.

I can’t watch any longer. Caleb looks like he might cry. It’s been years since I’ve felt the dizzying panic of stage fright myself, but seeing his face makes me feel like it was yesterday.

I’d tear down the stage barehanded to rescue him.

I step away from the bar and stride through the room, picking my way to the little table at the front of the room. Then I sit and smile up at him.

Caleb’s eyes go wide as he looks at me like he’s praying for the stage to open up and swallow him whole. 

When I have his gaze, my heart skips another beat, and my fingertips suddenly go all tingly. Like I’m the one in the spotlight, not him. From up here, I can see each gold strand of his curls and the taut line of his mouth.

I gesture with two fingers to my eyes, then point at myself. Then I wave my finger in a circle and mouth, Start again.

If he can just look at me and only me, he can get through this.

My first time in an arena of two thousand people, I played the whole show to a woman who looked kind of like my mom and was obviously there with her daughter. They probably never even knew they got a private concert.

Caleb blinks several times, but he fixes his gaze on me, nods, and then looks down at the page again. Then he lowers the papers and speaks from memory.

His voice flows, and the words suddenly spark to life.

Your sheets, a cold rippling mountain

range brushed by dawn. Plucked

from the bed, the peaks overshadow

your body far below, a winding river,

still and clear. From the summit

I look down upon the view again,

again, nursing parched fingertips. 

One step to water’s edge, but

how far could I bear to fall?

Caleb never looks away from me. His eyes sparkle with suddenly lively, even playful energy. Holy shit, I feel like I’m the center of his universe, and I love it.

Like we’re the only two people in the room, the rest of the world falls away. My smile fades into intense focus. I don’t want to miss a word. I wish I could replay these few seconds over and over later for, uh, reasons.

I’m not being serenaded, I try to remind myself. For god’s sake, Tag. He’s just looking at me. He’s not talking to me.

I wish he were. Like a punch in the gut, I feel the yearning in his words. It floats from his voice to my ears and burrows deep into my belly where it’s suddenly mine, too.

I can barely breathe with it. My throat is tight with loneliness and a bittersweet tang of memory. He caught me on a lonely night, that’s all. 

I swallow down the feelings and bring my palms together. The others watching join in for a few moments in a soft ripple of applause. The murmurs of conversation behind me are low and respectful.

For the first time, Caleb smiles in a flash of white teeth, youthful exuberance and relief shining from his face. I might as well have been turned to stone. I’m transfixed, completely under his spell.

One at a time, from memory, he reads the other four poems he brought tonight. They’re pretty, too. Lots of nature references. One quirky poem about numbers. I like the one about an old house, too.

But they don’t stick in my mind and gut and make a home in me like that first one. My heart is still fluttering at a mile a minute.

Then it hits me: after he’s done, this guy is probably going to talk to me. He’s going to want to know who I am and how I knew how to deal with stage fright.

Eventually he might ask questions, and then I’ll have to answer them, and those piercing eyes will stick me to the spot and carve my standoffish mask to pieces.

And… I don’t hate that idea. 

Oh, no.

I haven’t felt these butterflies in my stomach about anyone for a good couple of years. Haven’t tried to date anyone in even longer. I usually keep my distance and let the feelings pass.

But it’s too late for that. Caleb’s on his last sheet of paper, while all rational thought is quickly slipping out of my grasp. Instead, a shimmer of pleasure dances over my skin when he smiles at me.

I can’t run this time. But I’m going to try—I just know it. Because at the end of the day, that’s who I am.

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First Chapter: Unforgettable

I wasn’t sure if agreeing to come to Speakeasy so early in the evening was a good idea, but with the scent of hot, fried food wafting around the room, the low sounding pop music playing in the background, and the slow trickle of people waltzing in, I’ve never been more grateful than I am right now to be beating that night-time rush. 

Seated with a perfect view of everyone who enters, I anxiously wait and watch him as he searches for me. My body vibrates, and my leg bounces on the spot, bursting at the seams with both energy and tension that I’m desperate to burn as I take in all of him. 

He has chestnut-colored hair, short on the sides, long and tousled on the top. His eyes are pools of dark chocolate and his cleanly shaven face accentuates his sharply angled jawline. He’s even more attractive in real life than in his profile picture. 

But it’s the rest of him that has me staring. The parts of him the photo doesn’t show. The parts of him that are exactly what I’m looking for tonight. 

He’s tall. Not as tall as my six-foot-four frame, but tall compared to most people. He’s slim but not skinny, lean but not lanky. He looks like a mix of strength and submission, and fuck if that isn’t my kryptonite. 

He’s wearing a charcoal-colored shirt and ripped, black skinny-leg jeans, which you’d think would make him blend into the crowd. But even with his choice of dull, understated colors, my eyes have difficulty noticing anything but him.

He takes one last look at his cell and slips it into his back pocket. I watch his body rise and fall in a big exhalation as he silently, but very obviously, gives himself a pep talk. The carefree confident man of his Blush profile is nowhere to be found, and, for some unexplainable reason, that single change in him hits me square in the chest. 

Meeting someone for sex through an app isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, but it looks like this guy desperately wants it to be his. 

It doesn’t take too long for his gaze to find mine, and when it does, I tip my chin up at him and smile, careful not to scare him away. He looks both relieved and nervous, and I realize I, too, let out a sigh of relief when he finally starts walking in my direction. 

Because my mother taught me manners, no matter the circumstances, I rise up to my feet to greet him. Knowing one another only by our Blush usernames, I hold out my hand and introduce myself. “Hey, I’m Oz.”

“Reeve,” he supplies, slipping his hand into mine. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Smiling, I release his hand and watch as he awkwardly sits in the chair perpendicular to the one I was in.

Running his hands over his thighs, it’s obvious he’s shy. And I don’t know why I’m surprised or why I find it so endearing, but I take the seat beside him and feel myself loosen up in his presence. I feel the shitty day that propelled me to seek out a hook-up in the first place, fade into the background, and my natural inclination to put other people at ease rise to the surface for this stranger. 

“What would you like to drink?” I ask. 

“Drink,” he repeats, like he’s surprised I would offer.

“What?” I smirk. “Did you think we would just fuck on the table straight away?” I almost regret my crass words, but when a loud laugh bursts from his mouth, I know it worked in my favor.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I’m really bad at this.” 

I tilt my head to the side, playing coy. “At what?”

He gestures between us. “I’ve never done this before.”

Because I feel like it needs to be said, and I don’t want him to think just because he showed up he has to follow through with anything, I hold his gaze, my tone a little more serious. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Now or later, one drink or ten drinks. There’s no obligation.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I mean, I know. But I still appreciate you saying it out loud.”

“How about those drinks?” I offer. “I think we could both use one.”

Nodding, he reaches for his wallet, but I put a hand out to stop him. “You can get the next ones. Any preferences?”

He turns to look at the selection of drinks and taps on display and then back at me. “Whatever’s good.”

Walking up to the bar, I’m reminded of my own job at Vino and Veritas. While it would’ve been easier and closer to my apartment to have Reeve meet me there, I don’t like to give a stranger complete access to me, at least not past our night together. 

When it comes to one-night stands, I have my own set of rules, and making sure I’m safe and comfortable as well as the person I’m with, is one of them. I know some people are happy to meet at a hotel and get right down to business, but I don’t work that way, and in this scenario, I don’t think Reeve does either. 

The forty-minute Uber ride from Burlington to Colebury might seem like a bit much, but Speakeasy is my home away from home, and if it doesn’t work out with Reeve on the sex front, then at least I can easily turn it into a night spent with good beer and good food. 

“Oz,” Matteo, the manager, says with a welcoming smile. “I haven’t seen you in ages. What brings you here tonight?”

I tip my head back in Reeve’s direction. “Just meeting someone.”

“Like a date?”

“Something a little less serious than a date,” I say cryptically. 

“Ah.” He points a knowing finger at me. “What can I get you both? The usual? Actually…”

His voice trails off as he grabs two pints and holds one up to the beer tap. “A batch of the Audrey was just delivered earlier today, and they don’t call it the cider that smells like sex for nothing.”

I scrunch my face up in confusion. “Smells like sex?”

“Yes.” He chuckles. “Everybody knows about it, but we don’t stock it often.”

He flicks the tap and a stream of amber liquid flows down and into the glass. As it reaches halfway, Matteo effortlessly switches out the pints and alternates between the two until the glasses are full, the tap is flicked back, and they’re both resting on the bar. “Maybe it will help move things along for you two.”

“Are you saying I need help, Matteo?” Smiling, I look down at myself and back at him. “I’ve been told I’m a fine specimen of a man.”

He laughs, his eyes flickering between me and Reeve sitting behind me. “You might not need help, but I think your date does.” 

I look over my shoulder and Reeve is sitting there wringing his hands together nervously. That unnamed feeling from earlier returns as I watch him try so hard to step out of his comfort zone. 

Turning back to Matteo, I drag my wallet out of my pocket, pluck out a fifty, and slap it onto the bar. “Put whatever’s left toward the next one.”

He takes the cash and smiles at me fondly. “Good luck.”

Carefully, I pick up our drinks and head over to Reeve. As I get closer to the table, he raises his head, and his eyes slowly travel up and down my body. The flicker of interest gives me a confidence boost I don’t usually need. 

Placing our drinks on the table, I take a seat, inching my chair just a little bit closer to him. “I hope you like cider.”

“I think I’ve moved to the wrong place if I don’t like cider.”

My ears perk up with interest. “Oh, so you’re new here.” 

“It’s a long story, but I’m originally from Connecticut.”

He doesn’t say much more, and I respect the silence enough not to pry but don’t really know where to take the conversation from here. Just as I’m about to fill the silence, Reeve pipes in. “What about you? Are you from here?”

“I’m from Vermont, yeah,” I say casually. “Born and raised.”

“Ever left?”

The question hits too close to home. Too close to the fight I had with my dad this morning. “I do, occasionally. I love hopping around the country for different food and music festivals.” 

When my answer is met with nothing but silence again, I’m almost certain the night is over before it’s really begun. 

“I’m sorry,” Reeve says, and I wince at how often he feels the need to say those two words. 

I place my hand over his forearm, stopping him. “No apology necessary. We can call it a night if you want to.”

His face falls, and I immediately backpedal, wanting that look of disappointment to disappear.

Without hesitation, I angle my body in his direction and lean forward until my mouth is lined up right next to his ear. Going in for the kill, so he knows exactly where I stand, I decide on another way to salvage the evening. He came here tonight for sex, and maybe that’s all I need to focus on.

“I don’t think you realize that you’re this gorgeous mix of sexy and adorable.” His breath hitches, and my dick stirs at the sound. “And I do very much want to end the night with me fucking you.” When he doesn’t say a thing, I add, “Is that okay?”

“Yes.” The word is all heat and air, and I can’t help but tilt my head enough for our eyes to meet. My gaze drops to the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and back up in time to catch his tongue sliding between his lips. 

It’s not exactly an invitation, but there’s something in the small motion that has me looking up at him, my eyes asking for permission. 

When he does it again, I take hold of his chin, keeping him in place, and cover his mouth with mine. It’s much more forward than I intended to be, but it seems to be the exact antidote needed. For the both of us.

It’s soft and sincere. Careful, yet deliberate. A gift of comfort. A taste of pleasure. 

I don’t let it linger, and I don’t take more than that moment. 

“How was that?” I murmur.

He presses his lips to mine in response, deepening the kiss ever so slightly. Returning the sentiment, I take his gratitude and welcome his interest. 

“Thank you,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. “I really needed that.”

I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but I brush my knuckles down his jaw. I don’t even bother fighting the need to touch and soothe him, instead running on nothing but instinct. His eyes widen slowly, but he doesn’t move, just waiting and watching me. 

Dropping my hand, I put some distance between us and grab my drink, taking a long, refreshing sip. When Reeve continues to stare at me, I bite the bullet and ask, “Did I just fuck this up?”

He smiles, and the mood shifts. His teeth are on display, and small laugh lines make an appearance around his eyes. It’s the look I want him to wear for the rest of the night. 

“No,” he reassures me. “The kiss was just a surprise, that’s all.”

“A good surprise?”

He nods, his smile stretching wider.

“I’ve got more where that came from,” I say with a wink.

Picking up his glass, he takes a sip of his cider, his face still smiling, his gaze still locked on mine. 

Swallowing his beverage, he puts the glass down and settles comfortably in the seat, his body language much more relaxed than earlier. “So, tell me,” he starts. “What brought you out here tonight?”

“Just wanted to burn off some steam,” I say, the husk in my voice making the implication of my words very known. “What about you?”

He chews on the corner of his lip. “About the same.”

When the lull in conversation returns, I once again take the lead and suggest, “How about we play a game?”

“I’m listening.”

“Ever played Never Have I Ever?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes at me, clearly thinking I’ve lost my mind. “I can recall a few times.”

“Perfect.” I slap my hand down on the wooden table. “I’ll grab us some shots to start, but not a whole lot because that isn’t the type of messy I have planned for tonight.”

Reeve’s face flushes at the insinuation, and I can’t help but lean over and kiss his pink cheek before standing and heading over to the bar.

“Another round of the same?” Matteo asks. 

Shaking my head, I look at the display of bottles behind him. “Could I please have six shots of anything that’s easy to go down and won’t hit us too hard later?”

He tips his chin toward Reeve. “My shift is just about over, so why don’t you go back to your ‘little less serious than a date’ and I’ll bring them over to you.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. You can return the favor when I’m in your neck of the woods.”

“Thanks, man.” I drop another fifty on the bar and head back to Reeve.

“I think it was my turn to pay,” he says as I take my seat.

“It’s my crazy idea,” I tell him. “And the night’s still young, isn’t it?”

Matteo comes through with the goods, placing a tray down on the table with eight shots of something that looks a lot like orange juice, and another two pints of cider.

“What’s in these?” I ask.

“I can’t tell you all my secrets, Oz, but I do promise they’re easy to go down and they won’t hit you too hard later.”

“Smartass,” I mumble. 

“Thank you,” Reeve says and hands Matteo a folded-up bill. “That’s for you.”

Matteo plucks the cash out of his hand and pretends to tip his hat at us. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.” He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Hope to see you soon, Oz.”

“Is everyone here that nice?” Reeve asks. “I’ve yet to have a horrible encounter here.”

“Well, let’s not jinx it,” I joke. “I guess that depends on how long you’re staying for. I’m sure someone is bound to act like a dickhead at some point.”

Shocking me, he grabs a shot glass and downs the alcohol, his face scrunching together at the taste.

“Bad?” I query. 

“No.” He shakes his head. “Just the right amount of kick to have me playing this game of yours.”

“Does that mean I get to ask the first question?”

He nods, and I tap my index finger on my lips in mock concentration. Wanting to go easy on him, and wanting to take a drink for the team, I say, “Never have I ever had a one-night stand.”

Reeve’s lips turn up in a shy smile as I pick up a shooter and throw it down quickly. Whatever the concoction is offers a slight burn, but the aftertaste is much sweeter. 

“Are you going to let me live that one down?”

“It’s cute,” I tease. “Any specific reason?”

He sighs loudly, and I almost expect him to shut me down, so I’m surprised when he says, “I’m a relationship type of guy. At least I was… in a relationship.”

“Oh, so this is why you moved?” 

“Yeah, I just needed some me time. A fresh start. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, obviously you’re not new to this.”

A self-deprecating laugh leaves my mouth. “I am nowhere near equipped for a relationship.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to think that way about myself too,” he says despondently.

“From my experience, there’s a lot of fun to be had of the one-night stand variety.”

Leaning back into the chair, he gives me a hungry once over. “You definitely seem like a lot of fun.”

I drag my teeth across my bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to kiss him. Deeper. Hungrier. Just more. “How much longer are we going to stay here?”

He slides the tray toward me. “Let’s at least finish these.”

I reach out for a shot, but he places a hand over mine, stopping me. “What?”

“We’re playing the game, Oz.”

Jokingly, I roll my eyes and pull my hand back, shifting uncomfortably in my chair, my body clearly opposed to staying still, my dick wanting nothing more than to leave and get up close and personal with Reeve.

“Ask away, then.”

“Never have I ever had a hard-on in public.”

I glance down at my lap and back up at him. “Caught that did you?”

We both reach for a shot glass, continuing to hold one another’s stare. A clear admission that we’re both here, horny, and raring to go.

He places his empty shooter down first and raises an eyebrow at me expectantly, waiting for the next question. Too far gone, I don’t hold back, and his confidence has me wanting to take this to unimaginable heights. 

“Never have I ever met someone and then fantasized about all the ways I want to fuck them.”

The sharp intake of his breath tells me everything I need to know, with another round passing and both of us taking another drink. There’s one remaining shot, and I don’t bother asking another question. I slide it to him.

“Drink,” I command. 

Eight empty shot glasses are now scattered across the table, and Reeve and I are buzzing with matching need and curiosity. 

Feeling loose and lax, I lean forward, invading his space. “You ready to get out of here?” 

Courageously, he brushes his lips over mine. “Please.”

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First Chapter: Undone

Jason

“That was fun,” Marnie murmurs. Her naked ass presses against my bare hip. Reaching away from me, she yawns and picks up her phone to check her texts.

Or TikTok.

Or I have no idea what.

I don’t know what she’s doing, and I’m not really curious. She can scroll on her phone all she likes, because we’re done with today’s activities.

Activity, singular—a Friday nooner.

I grin at the ceiling, relaxed and content, an idle hand grazing up and down my belly. It’s groomed. I’m no Sasquatch.

Drowsy, I smile wider at the randomness of my thoughts—the state of my body hair has to be among the stranger ones—but whatever. I like this postorgasmic mind-wander time. Sex makes me forget about my crappy workweek.

All the crappy workweeks.

And for that I’m eternally grateful.

“Yeah. It was fun,” I say.

What do normal people do after sex? Run their fingers through each other’s hair? Trace circles on each other’s skin? Whisper sweet nothings?

What’s a sweet nothing, anyway?

In all the time that Marnie and I have been getting together—a few years now—I’ve never had a lot to say to her. Or she to me. Between our high sexual appetites and nonexistent need for a relationship, we don’t talk much outside of the bedroom. (Kitchen table. Couch. Hallway.)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not unfeeling. I care that she’s happy and healthy, and if she needed something, I’d give it to her. She’s also very beautiful, so banging her is no hardship.

At all.

I don’t, however, envision myself spending the rest of my life with her, nor she with me. I don’t feel any spark with her beyond a simple and straightforward fondness. At most, we’re friends.

“I’m getting a new roommate,” I say to Marnie’s spine. Her skin’s a rich, dark umber, and I run a finger down her warm back. Not sure why I’m feeling talky.

A long moment passes, so I nudge her.

“What?” Marnie says absently. She stops scrolling and looks over her shoulder at me, only she can’t quite see me, so now she’s talking to the ceiling.

I repeat myself. “My new roommate moves in today.”

That’s why I took off work early. But I skipped lunch to sneak in sex with Marnie before I have to go meet the guy and give him the keys. It’s convenient hooking up with someone who works from home.

“Greg moved out? I didn’t even know.”

Maybe I mentioned it. Maybe I didn’t.

“Yeah, he’s moving in with his girlfriend. Becky found me a replacement. Some guy she met at a bar. He paid first and last and the deposit. Sounded nice enough.”

Sounded flamboyantly gay on the phone, but whatever. There was a gay guy in high school I had a lot of classes with, so I got to know him. We’d do homework together. There were plenty around at my superliberal college, too. No biggie.

My sister vetted New Guy, and I trust her judgment. Plus, she’s a realtor who does property management. If she thinks this guy would be a good roommate for me, she’s probably right.

“Cool.” Marnie’s voice sounds distant—even though we’re sharing a bed.

“Greg was hardly ever there, you know? The perfect roommate. New Guy will have big pants to fill.” I don’t know why I can’t shut up. Maybe it’s dawning on me that I’m going to be living with a guy I’ve never met. I should perhaps rethink having my sister do everything for me.

“I think the expression is ‘big shoes to fill.’”

“Greg was the size of a small elephant, so it’s both big pants and big shoes.”

She giggles. “What kind of elephant big are we talking about here?”

“Man, we get random after we fuck.”

“Yeah.” She finally sets her phone down and flops over, the tight brown spirals of her long, curly hair bouncing as she moves. Her half-lidded brown eyes widen to catch mine, and she squeezes my hand.

I knife up, breaking the contact, and head to the bathroom to ditch the condom. When I get back, I hunt around for my boxer briefs while she watches me from the bed, legs bent in a zigzag. Perky breasts exposed and vulnerable.

She’s so sexy.

Too bad I’m not in love with her. But she’s not in love with me, either.

I check my phone. “Fuck. I’m running late. How’d it get to be two?”

After I tug on my underwear, I hike my jeans up and lean over Marnie’s reclined form, giving her a quick kiss while simultaneously doing my best to pull on my T-shirt. The move doesn’t work that well. After I’m all done up, I pause, sitting on the side of the bed to slide on my socks and boots. She wraps her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder.

I interrupt my shoe-tying to tug her into my lap. I give her a big hug, my arms wrapping the whole way around her body, then kiss her gently, once. I embrace her again and lay her back on the bed as she smiles.

“You’re the best,” I whisper in her ear, not knowing if that sentiment goes too far toward the girlfriend scale rather than the land of friends with bennies. But it’s the truth.

“See ya later,” she whispers back, her eyes closed and her button nose tilted up. And then she fumbles around for her phone again.

I’m dismissed.

After tying my other boot, I skedaddle, closing the door to her bedroom and the door to her house behind me, and climb in my car to go home.

It’s a warm August day full of leafy trees and that feeling that school’s about to begin. Kids run around, some on bikes and some on skateboards. Or they huddle over their phones.

I pull up in front of my Victorian house and park behind a U-Haul van. I own the whole place, which has been divided into apartments I rent out. I’ll be sharing the two-bedroom top floor with my new roommate.

A slim, pale, dark-haired guy hops out of the van. He’s wearing skinny jeans, a tight, light-blue T-shirt, and red Chucks.

Must be my new roommate.

Before opening the car door, I study my reflection in the rearview mirror. God, I have sex hair. I do my best to comb it with my fingers, but it’s hopeless. Oh well.

I get out and walk toward him.

The precise cut of the guy’s hair makes me want to get mine trimmed, although I keep it on the longer side. He’s got very blue eyes that gleam from several paces away. And there’s a manner about him that’s graceful. A dancer, almost. At six-one, I have to have four or five inches on him, at least.

“Hey,” I say when I near him. “It’s Dave, right? David Murphy?” I extend my hand.

Is he wearing lipstick? Lip gloss? I don’t know. His cheeks are sparkly with some glitter shit, too.

Not sure I’ve met a guy who wears makeup before. But his sexuality isn’t a problem. I’m not a homophobe.

I care more about whether my roommate has a criminal record and if they can pay the rent, but my sister’s skip tracing—fancy background search—takes care of that. I don’t want anyone stealing my shit. Other than that, my tenants can do just about anything.

He pauses and grimaces before he shakes my hand, his hand narrow but strong, and I wonder what I’ve done wrong already. Did he not want to touch me after I messed with my hair? Did he see that?

Then he starts to explain, and I realize that the reaction was for the name, not the handshake. His words all come out in a rush. Like he speaks at one-and-a-half speed.

“My mother named me David, and my last name is really common, so I have quite possibly the most boring name on the planet. Try googling it. There’s a million of us Murphys out there. That’s the real Murphy’s Law. Can you do me a favor and do what most people do? Call me Murph. I’ll answer to Davey, too. But only if you’re good.”

A laugh bubbles out of me at the end of this speech. “Got it, Murph. I’m Jason Falkner. Welcome.” I fish out a set of keys from my pocket and hand them to him. “Well, this is it.”

“Thanks.” The guy hits me with a mischievous smile as he looks up at me and accepts the keys. Then he pulls a key chain from his pocket and threads them on the ring. The plastic rectangle adorning the chain says, I’m gay, and since we’re getting to know each other, I also like nachos. When he’s done, his eyes trace my body from head to toe. “It comes with a built-in handsome man, I see.”

I snort, trying to hide a blush. “Right. Only good-looking people live here,” I say. Then, realizing he might take my sarcasm as hitting on him, I clarify, “I mean, I’m kidding. Well, you’re plenty good looking. But I don’t exclude people based on what they look like. Or choose people based on their looks.” I let out a laugh. This is hopeless. Murph’s eyes are all kinds of delighted at my misery, a hand cupping his mouth to hide his smile, so I change the subject as fast as I can. “You know what? Let me help you with your stuff.”

Murph opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, then shrugs. “Glad you think I’m hot. And I’m not gonna say no to a kind offer of assistance.” He turns and opens the van door, which has a mattress, bed frame, boxes, and suitcases stacked inside.

It’s not weird to think he’s adorable, right? I mean, anyone would. You could put him in your pocket.

“What is all this, anyway?” I gesture at the open van door.

“Clothes. And more books than I can carry. Don’t worry, it’ll stay in my room.” His eyes twinkle. “What happens in my room stays in my room.”

I chuckle and hoist a retro-modern lamp in one hand, in addition to slinging a bag over my shoulder and grabbing a dark gray duffel. “This is Vermont, not Vegas.”

“You can take the boy out of Vegas, but you can’t take the Vegas out of the boy,” he says airily. He picks up another two bags and walks with me up to the front door. I swear he sashays as he moves.

“You’re from Las Vegas?”

“Yes, cutie. Mom’s a showgirl. Dad’s a gambler. Got out of that one-horse town as fast as I could.”

“So you came to Vermont.” I can barely keep the incredulity out of my voice. While there are gay people in Vermont, I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever met one as, I don’t even know the word—feminine?—as him before. I’m coming up short.

I look over at him, and his grin widens. “Yep.”

“From Nevada.” My tone remains flat.

“Yep.”

I shake my head. “You know there’s only one area code, right?” I gesture with my elbow to indicate all of my home state. “And the most cows per capita in the country.”

Now I get a full-on hearty laugh from the little guy, and it’s a good one, full of mirth. “I know. I’ve lived here for a while. I like it a lot.”

Furrowing my brows, I try to place him. Burlington isn’t that big, and he’s the kind of guy who stands out. “My sister says you tend bar?”

“Yes. At V and V.” That’s Vino and Veritas, the new LGBTQ bar and bookstore. Well, it’s not so new anymore. But it’s made a splash in Burlington. “I love it there. All the gossip, all the time. Plus the bookstore side is where my heart lies.” I keep my eyes ahead and aim for the door, but I can picture his eyes shining, and I can see how the owners would love him. He’s effervescent.

He’d talk to each and every customer, remember all their favorites, and know all the goings-on in this part of the world. You can just tell he’s a people person.

That’s great for everyone except someone who keeps to himself, like me.

I exhale and dig out my own keys.

Oh, man. What have I gotten myself into?

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First Chapter: Waylaid

Lunchtime is over on the Shipley farm, and now we’re standing outside again under the hot summer sun. I’ve been working here for a few weeks, so I know the routine. First thing in the morning I help my friend Dylan milk the cows and the goats. Then we eat breakfast before spending the rest of the morning on hard labor.

My legs and back are already tired from digging fence post holes. I’m a city boy at heart, so the last few weeks have been a challenge. 

“You’ve done this before, right?” Dylan hands me a wire basket with a wooden handle. “Put the eggs in here.” 

“Sure thing.” Although I haven’t collected eggs before. It sounds easier than hauling fifty-pound bags of feed around. 

He also hands me a plastic milk jug, with the top cut off and a braided rope looped around the handle. “This is for picking blueberries. You hang it around your neck, so you can use both hands to pick.”

“Cool, cool. Because I’m really good with my hands.” I lift my gaze to Dylan’s twin sister, Daphne. And sure enough, I find her watching me with curious brown eyes that sharpen immediately when I catch her staring. Again.

Flirting with Daphne is the second-best thing about working on this farm. The first best thing is the food. Honestly, I’d happily swap the order of those favorites, except the flirting hasn’t gotten me where I need to go. Yet. 

But it’s only a matter of time. Daphne knows what she wants. It’s the same thing that I want. I can’t say why she’s so skittish, but I’ve given her the time and the space to overcome her hesitation. And yet she’s still keeping her distance, shooting me looks every time she thinks I’m not paying attention. 

Spoiler alert: I’m always paying attention.

“Okay kids,” Dylan says with a chuckle. “I’ll be back in time to fence in the chickens and do the second milking. Go easy on him, Daph,” he tells his sister.

“Why?” she demands. “Everyone has to do his share. Even the new guy.”

“Yeah, I know. But that isn’t what I meant.” His eyes twinkle. “Be nice.”

“Hey, it’s all good,” I insist. “I like your sister. A lot.”

Her lips tighten. 

Dylan smiles. Then he gives us a wave and lopes off toward his truck, where his girlfriend is waiting to accompany him to town to do errands.

As soon as he’s gone, I turn to Daphne. “This is good. We need to talk.” This is pretty much the first time we’ve been alone together since I arrived here. Daphne always watches me with hungry eyes. But she doesn’t talk to me. When I walk into a room, she walks out. 

She’s afraid to let me in. I just need to figure out why.

“We’re not here to talk,” she says. “The berries won’t pick themselves.”

“Fine—should we pick berries first, then? Or collect the eggs?”

“Divide and conquer. I’ll take the berries.” She takes the milk jug right out of my grasp. “You get the eggs.”

“But—” This arrangement doesn’t work for me at all. “Why not together? We can have a nice little chat about why you’re avoiding me. Besides—the chickens don’t like me. Don’t send me in there alone.”

She halts midstride. “Wait. Are you afraid of the chickens?” Her brown eyes light up as if I’ve just handed her a precious gift.

“No way. Did I say that?” I scoff. I’m not actually afraid of the chickens. We eat chicken a couple of nights a week, so I’m pretty confident about who should be afraid of whom.

Their eyes are a little creepy, the way they look at you first with one side of their pointy heads before switching to the other. 

But never mind. She’s already looping the berry jug around her smooth neck. Daphne Shipley is all long limbs and honeyed summer skin. She has soft-looking brown hair and expressive brown eyes that can go from angry to laughing with dizzying speed. 

And I have it so bad for her.

“Get the eggs. Don’t miss any,” she calls over her shoulder. “There should be thirteen or fourteen today.” That’s all she has to say before she disappears into the blueberry patch—a dozen or so shrubs arranged in three rows. 

The berry bushes aren’t as tall as me, but Daphne bends over and disappears, leaving me alone here on the grass, with a wire basket and too many questions and my sexual frustration.

Just another day in my messed-up life. I’m kinda used to it already. 

I turn toward the coop and contemplate my strategy. The faster I get this done, the faster I can pick berries with Daphne. 

Two or three of the hens are already watching me warily. At least I don’t have to deal with their electric fence, which Dylan already dismantled. So the hens are milling around their coop, scratching in the grass for bugs, and waiting to slash my throat with their sharp beaks and their scaly red feet.

“Okay, ladies,” I say, easing my way toward the coop. “Everybody be cool! This is a robbery.” 

I hear a snort from the berry patch. Maybe Daphne isn’t a fan of Pulp Fiction. But a good line is a good line, even if the chickens are doing their best to ignore me. The coop has these little doors that open from the outside, revealing the nest boxes. It’s a pretty good system, and the first one I open has an egg right there for the taking. 

It’s still warm. I set it carefully into the wire basket and then open the next box. 

A hen glares at me from inside, her red eye angry. 

“Lift up your feathered ass, girl. I don’t have all day.”

She doesn’t budge, and I let out a sigh. Then I give her a little nudge, and spot the two eggs she’s sitting on.

“This hurts me more than it hurts you,” I promise her. Then, one at a time, I steal those eggs. And she lets me.

Three down, ten or eleven to go. 

As I open the next box, I feel eyes on my back. I don’t turn around yet, though. Daphne’s watching me. She probably thinks I’m incompetent. While I was born in Vermont, I’m a military brat. I grew up all over the world. And my idea of spending a great day outside is drinking in a German biergarten or sitting at an Australian cafe drinking flat whites and reading poetry.

But it’s hard to deny that the country life looks good on me. It’s only been a few weeks, and I’m tanner and stronger than I’ve been in years. And Daphne likes that a whole lot more than she’s willing to admit. 

Fine. If she’s going to watch me, I’ll give her something to look at. I set the wire basket down in the grass and then strip off my T-shirt. Then I angle my torso a quarter turn and flex when I open the next box. I gather another egg and then cut my eyes to the right to try to catch her watching me. 

Bingo. I see a flash of silver between the branches of a blueberry bush. 

“Shipley?” I call out. “You need something? What are you doing with your phone?”

“Checking the time! I have a call in an hour. My new job in Burlington starts tomorrow.”

Huh. I was planning to head to Burlington tomorrow too. What a coincidence. 

“After you’re done with the eggs, you can pull some of these weeds,” she says, changing the topic. “It’s a mess over here.”

“Yes ma’am. We can do that together, right?”

“No way,” she insists. 

Damn. I go back to the eggs.

* * *

The sun beats down on me an hour later as I tug another dandelion out of the dirt. My back aches from leaning over, but my knees are saved by the green cushion I’m kneeling on. It’s called The Garden Pad, and when Ruth Shipley—Daphne and Dylan’s mom—handed it to me fifteen minutes ago, her smile said, Here, you poor, tired fucker. Don’t die on my property. 

The chance of that is low, but not zero. And I’m really fucking thirsty right now. My body aches from this morning’s pasture work, where I dug hole after fence post hole to keep up with Dylan and his older brother, Griffin. I’d had too much pride to take things slow. And now my poor tired body needs to lie down on this strip of grass for a nap. 

I'd also like a cold beer and a smoke. But I’ve promised Mrs. Shipley that I’d quit smoking, so I can't light up so close to the farmhouse. And I'm a stubborn bastard. I’m going to weed this damn patch if it kills me. 

Staying here for the summer was all my idea, after all. Dylan Shipley is my friend and roommate during the school year. I knew the Shipleys were always short-handed, so I’d made Dylan a deal—if they took me on for the summer, I could rent out my Burlington house and get Dylan’s rent down to practically nothing for next year.

“Hell yes,” he’d said. “We’d be happy to have you, so long as you know what you're getting into. The hours are long.”

I’ve never thought of myself as a wimp. I’ve climbed El Cap. I’ve crossed jungles in Thailand. Not lately, though. A couple of years ago I was injured, and it took a big toll on my body as well as my life. 

Still—I hadn’t realized until now how soft I’d become. And it’s taking longer than I’d hoped to adapt to all this farm work. 

I plunge the dandelion fork down into the dirt and wiggle it. But when I tug on the weed, it promptly breaks off in my hand. “Fuck.” The weeds know I'm not cut out for this. They can tell I'm the kind of guy who thinks weed is something you put in a bong. It's not a verb, damn it. 

Several long minutes of digging and cursing later, I'm finally able to extract the damn root from its hole. I toss it into the ragged pile I’ve made. Then I throw down the hand tools and sink onto the grass like the tired man that I am. 

Above me is a sky so blue that it almost hurts to look at it. The yellow sun beats down on my bare chest. Three weeks on this Vermont hillside have already tanned my skin to a burnished glow beneath my tats. My back throbs and my limbs ache against the grass. 

And now there’s something crawling on my ankle. I’m too tired to see what it is. Who knew it was so exhausting to be healthy? 

Slowly I sit up again and flick a spider off my foot. The view between the blueberry bushes offers me an oblique look at Daphne. She’s hosing down some of the wooden barrels the Shipleys use to age their cider. After berry-picking, she hustled over there to keep her distance from me again.

She’s a tough nut to crack. But I’m a patient man. I’ve had to be. These last couple of years have tested me in every possible way. Daphne thinks I’m cocky, and she used to be right. But these days my cocky routine is more about muscle memory than confidence. It’s hard to be a shell of your former self at twenty-two.

When I flirt with Daphne, though, it’s not an act. She is very interesting to me, and not just because she’s ridiculously pretty. It’s her attitude that really gets me going. She has a brisk efficiency that I find sexy—a no-nonsense way of moving her body. She doesn't have time for your bullshit and she doesn’t suffer fools. 

She's not particularly warm or friendly. That doesn’t bother me, because neither am I. She’s the angry Shipley. And it works for me. 

I’m dying to know why she avoids me. We met a couple times before I came to stay here, and it's completely possible that I offended her and don't remember.

I sure as hell hope not. I wish she’d soften up toward me, otherwise it's going to be a long summer. We’re sharing a bathroom, for starters. I’m staying on the second floor of the main farmhouse, where she and her mother also live. 

Meanwhile, Dylan is living it up with his girlfriend in the bunkhouse, which is a separate building. They need their privacy, I guess, because those two have more sex than soldiers returning from war. Last week I caught them going at it in the middle of the meadow on a blanket. Had to walk an extra quarter mile just to get out of range of all the moaning. 

Across the way, Daphne straightens up again. Her tank top is just a little damp from the spray of the hose, and I find myself wondering what she’d look like soaking wet. 

I’ve had a strange time of it lately. Hookups haven’t really been very high up on my list of things to do. But I’ll be damned if Daphne Shipley hasn’t shaken the dust off my rusty libido. There’s something about those long limbs that gets me going. Her thick brown hair is always trying to escape a soft-looking knot on top of her head. I’d like to pull the clip off that hair until it tumbles down around her bare shoulders. 

In the middle of this evil but entertaining thought, I hear just the slightest rustle from the other direction. The sound is far enough away that I can’t tell if it’s a person or a creepy-eyed chicken.

But I sit up either way. It would be embarrassing to be caught lying down on the job. So I'm back to work, tugging another weed out of the ground, when someone comes around the corner of the chicken coop. I look up, ready to call out a greeting. But the visitor is not, in fact, one of the Shipleys. 

It's a black bear. A real one—a full-grown motherfucking bear, and it's holding a white bucket in its jaws. 

And now I understand that expression frozen with fear. It takes me several long glugs of my heart to react, since I'm paralyzed with indecision. Should I stand up and run? Shout? Play dead? The beast is just a few paces away. I can see the whiskers on its snout.

It takes another step, and that’s what gets me moving. I stand up, but my shout gets caught in my throat. I grab the dandelion fork off the grass—it’s my only weapon. But when I take a step backward, I trip on the goddamn Garden Pad and go down on my ass.

The bear watches me scramble around on the ground like a wounded cockroach. I pop up again with a strangled sound. And I turn my body as far as I dare, trying to warn Daphne. “BEAR!” I yelp in a voice much too high for a grown man’s.

But it’s enough. Her head swings in this direction. The bear drops his bucket, and it lands with a loud smack. Even if he’s about to eat me for lunch, at least Daphne can get away. I see her running toward the tractor shed. At least one of us can flee to safety.

Clutching the garden tool, I take a slow step backward. “Fuck off, bear. Go on back to the Hundred Acre Wood or where-the-fuck-ever.”

He grabs the bucket’s handle in his mouth again and drags it a few feet away from me. And then I edge backward, wondering if it’s safe to make a run for it.

But then I hear a sound behind me. And I risk everything to take a look over my shoulder. 

Daphne storms out of the tractor shed. And she’s carrying…is that a shotgun? Before I can blink, she lifts that gun and blasts a shot into the sky, handling the recoil like a champ. 

My head whips around again as the bear drops the bucket with a loud thump and then trots his fat ass away from me. He keeps right on going, ambling across the meadow and finally disappearing into the tree line. 

“Holy shit!” I shout, turning around to see Daphne, who’s watching him go. She’s holding the shotgun carefully but casually, muzzle pointed toward the ground, her posture a hundred percent badass in her tiny little shorts. “Did you see that? It was a motherfucking bear.” I’m still in shock.

She shrugs. Shrugs! “They like the sunflower seeds. Those assholes. I hope he didn’t break the bucket.” She passes me to pick up the bucket and give it a shake. The lid is still screwed onto it, and I can hear the sunflower seeds rattle inside. 

Then she walks past me again, on her way to lock the gun away. I watch her long, tanned legs march past, and I’m both turned on and a little frightened of her. 

I like my women feisty. This one particularly. And I’m starting to think that this summer could be a whole lot of fun.

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