New Release - KILL YOUR DARLINGS

 It's embarrassing to admit I STILL haven't managed to get the book listed on Google. What in the world am I doing all day?! But the book is live everywhere else--in fact, it's even available in print. So, hey, maybe I'm finally getting the hang of this thing called publishing. 

I think I mentioned Kale Williams will do the audio (probably in December). 

Anyway, it's live. my first new release since...November? GULP. 

Next up, The 12.2 Per Cent Solution. And then, with whatever time is left in the year, The Medicine Man Murders. I just don't write as quickly as I used to. It's just the way it is now. It's frustrating to you. It's frustrating to me. It's not that I wouldn't love to be able to crank out 13 books a year like I did back in the old days. It's just not possible. 

Anyway, KILL YOUR DARLINGS

BLURB:

At this mystery conference, murder is more than just another plot twist...

 

Nobody likes conferences, but they’re part of the job.

Millbrook House senior editor Keiran Chandler has spent years curating the best voices in crime lit, but when an unsolicited manuscript is handed to him at the Noir at the Shore mystery conference, truth collides with fiction. I Know What You Did is more than just another slush pile submission—it’s a direct threat.

U.N. Owen seems to know what really happened in Steeple Hill all those years ago. Who is Owen? How does he know these things? Clearly the mysterious author is after more than a book deal. But what?

With a potentially career-ending publishing merger on the horizon, the end of his affair with bestselling author and former homicide detective Finn Scott, and not so subtle threats from someone in his past, Keiran has a lot bigger problems than coming up with something witty to say on discussion panels.

 

EXCERPT:

It was much cooler and breezier down by the water. Sea lions barked from the far rocks, and gulls
wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and fleeting.

Finn’s back was to me, and as I grew nearer, I saw that he was on his phone. Or had been. The call seemed to have ended.

The waves didn’t completely drown out my approach—or, more likely, Finn possessed more situational awareness than most people—and he glanced around.

His wary expression changed infinitesimally, but then he held up his phone and smiled ruefully. “The kiddo,” he said, as if our a.m. encounter at the pool had never happened.

The kiddo was Finn’s son, Byron, who was in his freshman year at UCLA.

I asked automatically, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. He’s a little homesick, I think.”

My understanding was UCLA was less than an hour from home, but being homesick is not something I know anything about. I left Steeple Hill the day after I turned eighteen, and I never looked back.

I nodded and said, “Finn, I owe you an apology. You have every right to work with whomever you choose. Lila’s an excellent editor. It probably is time to work with someone who can look at the series with fresh eyes.”

His eyebrows rose. He remarked, “That was interesting, this morning. Outside of discussing books and having sex, I think that was the first completely unguarded reaction I’ve ever had from you.”

He spoke calmly, but the effect of that almost clinical tone was as cold and hard as if I’d been knocked down by one of those waves pounding the shore.

I was still trying to absorb it, when he added, “But, no. I’m the one who needs to apologize. I blindsided you. I’m sorry, Keir. You didn’t deserve that. I should have expressed my concerns two weeks ago.”

Expressed my concerns. Jesus. That was formal. Maybe he should have filled them out in triplicate while he was at it.

I didn’t say that, of course. I took another couple of steps forward, close enough to catch the scent of that herbal aromatic aftershave, close enough to reach out and touch him, though I was pretty sure I’d never touch him again. “Yeah. That might have helped. What are your concerns? Because the last time we were together—”

“Why didn’t you tell me your father had died?” he interrupted.

It was so far out of left field, my jaw dropped.

“I didn’t know you knew him,” I shot back.

“Another gut reaction,” he observed. “You’re offended. And angry.”

What the hell? I was starting to get angry. “I wasn’t close to my father. And that, you do know.”

“I do know that. Yes. That’s the extent of what I know about your family.”

I spread my hands in genuine bafflement. What the hell did my family have to do with anything?

Finn said, “I’m not sure how to put this without hurting you. More than I already have. And that’s the last thing I want to do. I really…really care for you. It’s not about writing or my career, though yes, I’m grateful. I do feel—will always feel—that I owe you. A lot.”

“I don’t want gratitude.”

“I know.” He drew a hard breath. “And that’s not what this is. This is about…us.”

He stopped again. This time I couldn’t think of anything to say.

At least I hadn’t imagined that there had been, briefly, us.

Finally, Finn said, “You’re a good friend. You’re intelligent and charming and…insightful. You’re generous. I think you’re genuinely kind.”

Insightful.

I said through stiff lips, “That’s funny. I thought you were kind, too.”

His eyes, green as the waves pounding the sand, flickered. It hit home, I think, but he hardened his jaw. “I like being with you. And I did want—for a long time I hoped maybe there would be more.”

My heart was slamming against my ribs in heavy thuds. If I’d been hooked to a cardiac monitor, I think alarm bells would have been going off. I could almost hear the panicked jangle of my emotions, like windchimes caught in a hurricane. I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. I wanted to walk away. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“But there’s something…”

Wrong with you.

Those were the words he was looking for.

What he said instead was, “…going on with you. It isn’t anything new. I realized it a long time ago. At first, I thought you were just very reserved. Then I thought it was hard for you to trust. That you’d been hurt. I told myself you had a fear of intimacy. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

I said tightly, “You tell me, Dr. Phil.”

He didn’t bite. “We were together for almost four days and you never once mentioned your father had died the week before. I know you weren’t close, but there should have been some reaction.”

“How would you know, a week after the fact, what reaction I had?”

“You also didn’t mention you’d been in California for his funeral. We’d been talking about seeing more of each other, seeing where this…friendship might lead.”

“That trip was before,” I protested. “Before we talked about any of that.”

In fairness, we hadn’t even really talked about that in any practical sense. We’d just sort of agreed that we both wanted more and that Monterey might be the time to explore some of those possibilities.

“I know.” He seemed genuinely apologetic—but also absolutely adamant. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to put it into words without— What I’m trying to say is, I’ve known—felt—for a long time that something isn’t right. Finding out about your father’s death crystallized it for me.”

I made a sound of disbelief.

“My instinct is you’re…hiding something. And I’m too old to wake up and find myself in a-a Dateline special.”

I think it was random, a shot in the dark, a little flicker of black humor. Or maybe it really was a cop—former cop’s—instinct?

But it hit home, hit the target dead center. Bullseye.

I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t breathe for a moment.

No small part of my horror was the belated understanding of what it would have meant to drag someone else—to have dragged Finn—into the mess I found myself in.

I guess I’d gotten away with it for so long, I’d started believing I really had escaped. The risk to someone else hadn’t occurred to me until Finn articulated it. But yes. If—and now it was feeling more like when—the truth about Dom’s death came out, the wrecking ball wouldn’t just hit me. It would smash into whoever was sharing my life. I didn’t want that. Would never have been okay with that. I would never knowingly have done anything to hurt Finn.

As Finn stared at me, realization slowly dawned on his face. He looked stunned. And then aghast.

He said incredulously, “I was thinking more on the lines of secret wife.”

“No, you weren’t.”

His voice dropped; I couldn’t hear it over the crash of waves hitting the shore. But I saw his lips form soundless words, “What the hell, Keiran?”

I had no answer. What could I say? To Finn, of all people.

The idea that we were going to build some kind of Happily Ever After? I must have been out of my mind.

I could feel a weird smile forming. It wasn’t humor. I don’t know what it was aside from an inappropriate response to extreme nervous tension. But I could see Finn’s eyes getting darker and bleaker.

“Is this funny to you?” he asked.

I turned and walked away.

 

WHERE TO BUY:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

Kobo

Fourthwall 

AND NOW FOR AN UPDATE. OF SORTS

Every six months or so I like to let you know what's going on. 🤪

Let's see... My last post was at the end of the Advent Calendar. So...

Well, we started a new year. How's that working out for you? 

The last wide release I had was Ghosted. JF Harding is doing the audiobook on that one, which should be finished by the end this month. Fingers crossed. 

I started The 12.2 Per-Cent Solution, but stalled. I'll be honest, I just didn't have the heart for a funny book. No laughs in me. And if you've been following along, you know why. It's been a hellacious couple of years. 

However, I seem to have finally shaken the rain clouds off, so this month I'll be back to work on The 12.2 Per-Cent Solution. No preorders. No promises. But it's next on the list as far as wide releases.

I have been writing, of course, and I do have a new book out. Well, available for preorder: Kill Your Darlings  (The preorder is listed everywhere except Google, but I haven't had a chance to update my website or do a universal link--sorry about that! I'll try to update shortly)

At this mystery conference, murder is more than just another plot twist...

Nobody likes conferences, but they’re part of the job.

Millbrook House senior editor Keiran Chandler has spent years curating the best voices in crime lit, but when an unsolicited manuscript is handed to him at the Noir at the Shore mystery conference, truth collides with fiction. I Know What You Did is more than just another slush pile submission—it’s a direct threat. 

U.N. Owen seems to know what really happened in Steeple Hill all those years ago. Who is Owen? How does he know these things? Clearly the mysterious author is after more than a book deal. But what? 

With a potentially career-ending publishing merger on the horizon, the end of his affair with bestselling author and former homicide detective Finn Scott, and not so subtle threats from someone in his past, Keiran has a lot bigger problems than coming up with something witty to say on discussion panels. 

The book is being released on the 27th of this month. It's already been delivered to Patreon subscribers so, yes, it's coming out on schedule. It will also be available in print. And Kale Williams has been contracted to do the audio (which I'm so excited about -- it's been WAY too long since we've worked together!) 

OH. SALES. 

So there are several sales going on right now that I should mention: At B&N I've got a BOGO (Buy One Get One free) for three of my series: The Adrien English Mysteries, Secrets and Scrabble, and Holmes & Moriarity. If you've wanted to try one of my series--or fill in the blanks of your collection--this is a pretty good opportunity. 

Also the Holmes & Moriarity series has been knocked down to $2.99 each on Amazon. Maybe the AE series as well? And Murder in Pastel is also $2.99 (when you read Kill Your Darlings, you'll understand.) Actually, MIP is also $2.99 on B&N.

Also, after consulting with the patrons, I've decided to make a couple of exclusives--the Secrets and Scrabble Jack POV novellas (in ebook and audio)-- available through Fourthwall. The compromise is that you pay more than you would if I were to make these wide (which I don't plan to do) BUT pay less than if you actually subscribed to Patreon. 

The next wide release after The 12.2 Per-Cent Solution will be The Medicine Man Murders (Art of Murder 6). Again, life is just too unpredictable right now to commit to preorders or promises. But that is a book that will absolutely happen. (I mean, unless something untoward happens to me.) 

Let's see. What else? It's swimming weather and we're out in the pool almost every evening. The hummingbirds are buzzing around demanding greater portions of nectar and I've got about 15 plants I need to re-pot STAT. We cleaned out our library and donated 16 boxes of books to our local library. And in about two weeks our dear friends from Finland will be arriving.  

I hope you're well. I hope you're happy and healthy and creative (or just doing what you love).

Talk to you soon--or in six months (whichever comes first) 😄

And Now for Our Winners!

 

Happy Happy, my friends! 

Hope your holidays thus far have been all you hoped for. For me, well, I knew it would be weird and painful, and it has been. But I'm getting through it. There have certainly been some lovely moments, and plenty of happy memories. Some laughter. Some tears. Pretty much as expected.

Anyway. I'm looking forward to next year! How about you?

In the meantime, we have winners!

From Advent Calendar Day 5 - The winner of the Secrets and Scrabble Captain's Seat wall paper velveteen blanket is... Natasha!

From Advent Calendar Day 10 - The four winners of the 110-piece Secrets and Scrabble jigsaw puzzle "Invitation to Come Aboard" are... Loretta, Pauperjo, Ella, and Elyxyz. 

From Advent Calendar Day Day 17 - Our winners of the A Winter Romance collection are everyone who commented on the post. Your download link is here. 

(There is a catch though. The giveaway expires on January 2nd. So hurry up and claim your copy!

And, finally, Advent Calendar Day 20 - The 5 winners of subscriptions to my Patreon $5.00 tier (Murder, My Sweet) for one full year are...Karan, MistakingDreamsforPromises, Catrin, Vell, and CathyR

I would love to gift a subscription to each and every one of you, of course (but that would sort of defeat the purpose of Patreon). 

Now, to receive your gifts, please remember NOT to put your personal contact info here in the comments! Contact me through the email on my website or even Facebook. Of course, if you're on Patreon, DM me there. I do need physical addresses to ship several of these gifts out, so don't forget. :-) 

This concludes 2024's Advent Calendar. Once again, thank you so much to everyone who took part, from the talented authors and others to the generous and supportive readers. I hope our annual tradition brings a few sweet moments and happy memories during the often stressful holiday season. Thank you so much for reading along!

Wishing you the happiest of New Years!

Advent Calendar - Day 25 MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 

Merry Christmas! Love and Joy come to you, and to you... Well, not sure about the wassail this year. But I do sincerely wish you every happiness this holiday season and all through the New Year!

For the last three (four?) years, I've had high hopes that the New Year will be better than the former, and for the last three (four?) years, the New Year has been worse. Significantly worse. So I'm tempering my hopes for 2025. But I am hopeful. And there's still plenty to be grateful for, not least the fact that, for whatever reason, I'm super  energetic and highly productive right now. I'm feeling creative in a way I haven't for a long time. I have no idea why this would  be, but so it is. 

I want to thank all the wonderful and talented people who helped make up the calendar this year: Ulla, Byron, Natasha, Meg, and Almathea. Your gifts were truly appreciated! The calendar would not be nearly as enjoyable without your contributions.

Thank you, also, to everyone who took the time to read and comment and enjoy our festive offerings! And, of course, thank you for continuing to support my writing whether through buying my books or subscribing to my Patreon. It is all very much appreciated.

I'll be sharing our winners in the next day or so! 

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Advent Calendar - Day 24

 Wellllll, I had something different in mind for today, but I simply ran out of time. I can't believe it's already Christmas Eve. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? 

But happen it did, so we'll have to make the best of it. So today's offering is a favorite holiday song from that childhood classic Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I hope all your wishes come true tomorrow!

Advent Calendar - Day 23

 

So today is my first attempt at creating an online jigsaw puzzle. 

I have no idea if this will actually work. I'm going to share the picture, because it took me 620 seconds and I actually knew what the image was supposed to be 😂

Anyway, the picture was inspired by the Secrets and Scrabble series (as you probably guessed). 

You can find the puzzle here (let's hope). 

Christmas Coda 73

 

Kyle and Adam – MURDER IN PASTEL

“New York City!” I echoed right on cue.

Adam said, “Have you ever been?”

“Well, no.” I didn’t add that I’d never had any desire to go. I especially didn’t have any desire to go around the holidays. I asked reluctantly, “I guess you want to go?”

“I think it would be good to get away from Steeple Hill for a bit.” He said seriously, “I think it would do you good.”

I shrugged. It had been six months since, well, everything I thought I’d known had been turned upside down. Painful revelations. Hard truths. Followed by probably the happiest six months of my entire life. I truly loved Adam. He truly loved me. And that was as much of a happily ever after as anyone could hope for.

I didn’t see the relevance of a change of scenery.

Adam said slowly, “You don’t like the idea?”

“You know me. I like home and hearth.” I listened to myself and added hastily, “But if I was to go to New York, I’d want to go with you.”

Adam’s eyes tilted up when he smiled. He said ruefully, “That’s a very tactful non-answer.”

I did a little belated soul searching. For the past six months our lives had revolved around me. What was good for me. What I wanted. Adam was so generous, so kind, it was too easy to take all that unselfishness for granted. To take advantage.

I said with a firmness I did not feel, “My answer is, I think you’re right. I think it would be good for us to get away. I think it would do both of us good.”

He looked surprised, which confirmed my suspicion that I was turning into a selfish asshole. “Is that the official answer or your real answer?”

I shook my head. “O ye of little faith. Are you booking this trip, or am I?”

 

 

Wisely, Adam booked our trip. Otherwise, we’d have spent five days in a nice hotel room enjoying room service, streaming movies, and fucking like minks.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Adam’s idea of Christmas in New York was a little more ambitious and a lot more romantic, given that it also entailed the fucking like minks part, but included exploring Greenwich Village and the High Line, trips to The Met and MoMA where I got to see others responding to my father’s paintings in person.

“What do you think?” Adam asked after the crowd thinned and we stood in front of a moody study of the beach below Drake Trent’s cottage. The dock was still intact in the seascape. I stared at it as if waiting for the cracks to appear.

“I don’t remember this one.” It was one of this older works, probably painted during the time I’d been hospitalized.

Adam was still looking at me, still waiting for something more.

I said, “It’s…quiet. It feels sad, like he was…”

I had never thought of my father as anything but strong and self-sufficient. Most of his work felt restless and fierce. But there was something lonely and melancholy in this moody swirl of clouds and waves and shifting sand.

“He was afraid he was going to lose you that summer.”

I smiled faintly. “I don’t think all that stormy weather would be over me. Unless he was worried about having to stick close to home.”

Adam raised his brows, but didn’t argue.

He really did try to think of everything. We paid a visit to the New York Public Library, as well as fitting in a shopping trip at the Strand Bookstore with its legendary “18 miles of books”—a mile of which I’d have been willing to bring home if I could have fit it into our luggage.

“Tell me if any of this gets to be too much for you,” Adam had said seriously. That was the night we arrived, when we were having dinner at our hotel. “I don’t want you to push yourself because you think I’ll be disappointed if we don’t do everything this trip.”

“Yeah, of course,” I promised.

Thanks to the new medication regimen and the drastic reduction of attempts on my life, I was feeling better than I had in months. Maybe years.

I did want the trip to be everything Adam wanted. But I also knew the main thing Adam wanted was for me to be glad we’d made the trip.

Imagine my surprise when it turned out I was glad.

I don’t know how I’d feel about New York at any other time of year, but in winter, at least during Christmas, it was kind of magical. And that was even before it snowed. Every street, from Fifth Avenue to small neighborhood blocks, was lit up like, well, you know. Stars twinkled overhead, glittered in windows, flashed and sparkled in trees and bushes, all of it reflecting and glowing on the snow. Nothing like Steeple Hill. Not the lights. Not the snow. Not the feeling of excitement crackling in the hazy air.

Yes, the air felt different. Smelled different too. The ordinary city smells masked by the more pleasant scents of roasted chestnuts and candied nuts, the piny smell of the fresh Christmas trees for sale lining sidewalks, the mouthwatering aromas of cinnamon rolls and gingerbread cookies drifting from cafes and bakeries.

Every day there was some new little adventure. We wandered the market stalls at Bryant Park Winter Village, we drank cocoa and watched ice skaters, we gawked at the holiday window displays at Macy’s and Saks Fifth Avenue with all the other tourists, we listened to the street musicians and carolers, and we even did that most cliché of cliché things and went for a horse-drawn carriage ride in Central Park.

Which, it pains me to admit was pretty fun.

“Like Elf,” Adam said, grinning.

“Or The Lady from Shanghai,” I said.

“Your other favorite Christmas movie!”

So, yes, we did all the things.

I loved it. And I loved it more because Adam loved it. Sometimes I couldn’t help remembering that Adam had met Brett in New York. And that he had perhaps, probably, done all these things with Brett too.

But did that make it any less special?

 

 

At night we returned to our lovely suite in our lovely hotel, and curled up in our nest of blankets and pillows and talked.

Talked and kissed and made love and talked some more.

We talked about the usual things: Vince and Jenny’s divorce, about Jenny’s new boyfriend, about Joel’s new boyfriend, about Micky’s decision to buy a retired circus donkey, which had turned into two circus donkeys—both of which apparently moonlighted as escape artists. We talked about Adam selling his house in San Francisco and moving to Steeple Hill. Living in Steeple Hill year-round. Permanently. We talked about the upcoming trials.

We talked about things we rarely talked of. Brett. My Father. The past. The future.

On Christmas we had dinner at One if by Land, Two if by Sea, an historic 18th-century carriage house in the West Village. The building had once been owned by Aaron Burr, and according to legend, Burr and his daughter Theodosia haunted the place. There was no sign of them that night, though. No ghosts of any kind. By then, I think we had talked our own ghosts out. Anyway, the restaurant was charming and intimate with exposed brick walls, fireplaces, and grand chandeliers, and meal—and the wine list—were superb.

Adam and I toasted Cosmo and we toasted the future and we toasted to Adam’s upcoming exhibition in the spring.

No question about it. It was the best Christmas ever.

That night, as we lay in each other’s arms, watching the huge moon meandering past our window, drifting through the night like an untethered balloon, I whispered, “Are you happy, Adam?”

He opened his eyes, and I could see their colorless shine as he studied me. “Yes.”

There was a childish, insecure part of me that wanted to ask that stupidest of questions: happier than you were with him?

I didn’t ask it. But Adam said quietly, reflectively, “I didn’t know it was possible to be happy like this. To be so happy, you actually know that you’re happy.”

I made a thoughtful sound. I saw the brief gleam of his teeth as he smiled. “Are you happy, Kyle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish we’d stayed home for Christmas?”

I smiled, pressed my smile softly to his smile, and whispered, “I’m happy that we’re spending Christmas together in New York.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I’m even happier because we share the word home tonight--and all the rest of the year.”

“All the rest of our lives,” Adam said.

 

 

Advent Calendar - Day 21 Fiction by Almathea!

 

More fiction! I'm honestly so happy and grateful for all these generous contributions for our writer-reader friends! It's made this calendar such a special one.

So this morning we have another fiction offering. This giftie comes from Almathea.

Disclaimer and warning : 

Though it is a Christmas story -kind of- it is a darker one that way trigger some people. There are heavy mentions of suicide and a lot of grief. So if this is a trigger for you, please do not read further.
This is also a coda I’ve been wanting to write for a long time, because it directly follows the ending of one of my very favorite books by Josh. But one I was not prepared to write before because of its mix of dark themes and very personal use of Dickens. It is a weird headspace to be stuck in.
Please, keep in mind that English is not my native language so any mistake or heavy sentence is due to lacuna of the language on my part.
Still I hope you will like it as I promise you hope and mystery at the end. ^^

 

THE HAUNTED HEART : A DARKER CHRISTMAS CAROL

When I finally climbed into bed I could hear Kirk playing his guitar downstairs.

I turned out the lamp ans stared at the pattern of moonlight on the ceiling. The bed was warm and more comfortable than I remembered. I thought I would sleep well that night.

After a time, I closed my eyes and listened to Kirk strumming. Not random chords, not a haphazard scattering of notes, juste a slow, tentative introduction to an unfamiliar melody.

Something new that accompanied me while I drifted into sleep.

**********

The dream started.

Not a usual one.

Not an unfamiliar one.

Even in my sleep I knew I had already had it and I didn’t want to have it again. Please not that dream.

 

The dream started exactly the same way as it did before. I was strapped on the hospital bed on that Christmas Eve, my wrists hurting so much under the thick bandages, my heart pumping more anger than blood. More grief. More pain. No place left for the blood sent in my system from a plastic pouch. Too much emotions churning in my dry body. My only thought Let me out ! 
I wanted to die.

Someone grabbed my hand. It was weird because I hadn’t heard the door open, nor the sound of the key in the lock. But the weirdest part was that suddenly the ache in my body vanished and I felt so light. Floating like a snowflake in a winter gust. Am I dead ? Am I asleep ? It didn’t really matter. I was feeling almost good. The hand holding mine pulled and my body followed the gentle command, drifting upwards. I opened my eyes and startled. I was facing myself. A distorted version of myself, like a face seen through a frosted window. But it was me.  Maybe a slightly older version of myself as the other me with the sad eyes and the wry smile wore a beard. Before I could react or blink, the bearded clone turned around and led us towards the door of my hospital room. But it was not the same door anymore. Gone was the bland light brown of the ward door and its window. In its place was the warm chocolate of an apartment door with the number 13 on a plaque. I knew this door too well. It was our apartment door. Alan’s and mine. I couldn’t go in there ! I couldn’t face his absence ! I tried to free myself from the hand holding me, this hand so gentle and so cruel, but it dragged me though the door like it was just mist.

What awaited on the other side was like a rusty blade stuck and twisted into my heart. The dim lights. The illuminated tree. The colorful wrappings like a rainbow sea on the floor. And the laughs. Oh these laughs ! So full of joy, so full of hope, so full of LOVE. I couldn’t help bursting into tears. Alan and I lying naked in each other’s arms after making love, the most radiant raft of this multicolor sea. Kissing, snuggling and giggling as we were exchanging the most ridiculous endearments we could think of. « Cuddlebug. » « Snugglebunny. » « Love muffin. »

I was watching one of the highlights of last year’s Christmas Eve like the most heartbreaking movie ever made. All that delight was unbearable. I wanted to scream « Stop laughing ! Life is a bitch and this is your last Christmas together !!! » But I couldn’t breathe, let alone shout. All I could do was watch through a curtain of tears, intruding on my own passed happiness, on that day that would never come back again.

I tried to step forward to get closer to the warmth of Alan’s smile, to carress his cheek or maybe to revel in his smell one more time, but the other me, this witsful ghost, stepped in front of me and sadly shook his head. As painful as it was, I got it. « Yeah… This is gone. It’s only a memory of my… Of our past. But please… » The spirit or whatever didn’t let me finish. With his hands gently put on my shoulders, he suddenly pushed and I stumbled back through the door that was not there and found myself lying strapped on the bed, with all my pain and all my loss. Unwanted.  

 

Unwanted and crying on the hospital bed on that Christmas Eve, my wrists hurting so much under the thick bandages, my heart pumping more despair than blood. More grief. More pain. No place left for the blood sent in my system from a plastic pouch. Too much emotions churning in my dry body. My only thought Let me out ! 
I didn’t want to live in a world where Alan was not.

A thin and delicate hand grabbed mine under the thin cover. No, no, not again. Like the previous visitation, the new hand grabbed mine and yanked me up floating. But this was not a gentle touch. It was a hard and cold one forcing me to face a gorgeous woman whose face seemed to be hiding under a veil of backwater. Black hair twisting and hateful gaze, the only features I could comprehend. So much rage. Even more than I felt. All my pains were gone again, except for the hand the stranger woman held, crushed and numb with cold. Without a word, she turned around and dragged me like a disobedient puppy towards the door. A door that had changed again. Not a bland light brown nor a warm chocolate. Now the door was a stylish white with trimmings and a bronze lock and handle. A door I had known every day of my childhood. I didn’t want to got there ! Even less than the previous place I was taken to. I didn’t want to witness more bygone memories. But when she towed me through the door, my parents living room was not like any remembrance I had of it.

A fir tree was up but out of place, bare as it was of any kind of ornament. A skeleton of Christmas exumed from a closet. Facing the naked tree, my parents were on the leather couch, where the entity brought me. My dad, always the stoic man, suddenly appeared… small. Shoulders hunched, blank stare, tan turned to ash, he seemed as lost as a bankrupt mogul. Isolated in his own bubble of grief while his wife was curled up on the other side of the couch, wailing like a banshee. Gone was the collected and sophisticated woman I called mom. Her ever perfect hair were now in a mess, her eyes red and puffy while snot was running out of her nose to end its course with the tears on her once pristine shirt. The cold mantel clock on top of the unlit fireplace was tick-tocking as ever, a language of time claiming it would always be the winner. The only answer, a denial from the heart, was in my mom’s broken mumbles. « My baby. My poor little baby. »

After an eternity of a minute, my dad’s hoarse voice finally echoed back. « We will visit him as soon as the doctor allows it. You know he wants to run a preliminary diagnosis on Flynn’s mental state before. To think he cut his wri… if we hadn’t found him in the nick of time… » Dad stopped there with a gulp and resumed his staring into the green nothingness of the bare branches.

This was no memory. This was now. My parents devastated by my own choice waiting here to see their son strapped to a hospital bed. The son they had almost lost but hadn’t. Yet. The son who still wanted to take his leave and who would. Who would force them to live this hell again. My decision almost wavered while I was floating there, facing the consequences of my actions on the people I loved, sick with guilt. « But everything is in the almost, isn’t it ? » I whispered. Maybe to myself. Maybe to the unknown scary woman. She seemed to take it for her as she grabbed my shoulders, pure fury in her eyes -the kind of fury where lightning was born- and shoved me back trough the door. Alone.

 

Alone and crying on the hospital bed on that Christmas Eve, my wrists hurting so much under the thick bandages, my heart pumping more culpability than blood. More grief. More pain. No place left for the blood sent in my system from a plastic pouch. Too much emotions churning in my dry body. My only thought Let me out ! 
I didn’t want to wreck my parents’ life.

Another hand grabbed mine. Please stop ! Not again ! I beg you, I can’t take it anymore. This hand was big, warm and firm. A calloused and nice male hand. Again I was taken out of my body and facing another entity. A tall and muscular man wearing a grey camo uniform and a tan beret that eerily succeeded to put all his face in shadows, despite its lack of brim. Still this creature was more comforting than the other entities. I knew he would lead me to another door. But to my surprise, this time there were two doors. No. A double set of heavy doors in opposite condition, one dilapidate and lank, the other renovated and glossy. Impressively carved, richly ornate wood beautifully screaming Victorian era doors. The ghost guided me through the dilapidate one…

On the other side was a clutter of an apartment, full of sturdy mismatched furnitures and a mess of books, magazines and knick knacks, and a garage calendar on a wall showing this was taking place one year later . The place was colder than a grave. No fir tree of any kind in sight. Only the back of a broad man sitting on the floor and playing with something, his long-ish black hair a shrew’s nest. I wanted to get closer, but my guide kept me where we were floating, staring at the man on the ground. So I stared too. The shabby man was hunched, shivering and his frame was racked by silent sobs. He was also on a mumbling rampage. « I’m sorry Flynn. I tried. I swear I really tried. I wanted to save you. I needed to save you ! But in the end I failed. I couldn’t convince you to give up your fucking Agreement ! But who was I kidding ? I’m such a failure ! I couldn’t save save Gordy back there. I couldn’t save Maria, Chess or anyone else from my squadron. Not even this Afghan kid ! I’m no use, I can’t save anyone. Oh Flynn… Flynn, I’m so sorry I couldn’t be better. I couldn’t be more. I couldn’t be enough to ground you here. But I wouldn’t want myself either. Such a fucked up useless poor excuse of a man ! And still I tried to save you. I swear Flynn ! » And it went on. My heart ached for this bereft  stranger who was hurting so deeply. Mostly because of me. Again. Suddenly the man straightened up as he shouted « But I won’t let anyone else down ! Nobody else will die on my watch ! » and he raised up his left arm. The thing he was playing with was no toy. It was a gun ! It’s steely grey as devoided of hope as a November sky. I sreamed « Don’t do that ! » I tried to reach him, to stop him. But my guide still kept me at his side and the sound of my voice didn’t reach the grieving stranger. The gun went to his temple and I closed my eyes at the exact moment it spat its deadly charge. I didn’t want to watch anymore, but I could still hear the heavy thump of a massive body hitting the flooring. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to curl up there on the ground. Another life destroyed because of me. But my guide firmly guided me back to my hospital room and immediatly through the other door, the renovated one.

We found ourselves in the exact same place. But everything was different. It felt warm. The rooms have been renovated too. Every wall, door, window frame, trimming was in perfect condition. Gone was the clutter and most of the sturdy furnitures. In their place was still a mix a furnitures, some I’ve seen in the scene before, some from my place and a few antique ones that seem to have been chosen with love and taste. The trinkets and books were all well arranged on shelves in the company of other books, baubles and framed pictures. Pictures of a well groomed older man, tall and muscular, handsome with his black neatly trimmed beard and fashionable haircut framing dark smiling eyes looking at me. Because I was with him in these pictures, always with his arm around my shoulders or mine snaking around his waist. There were only two different pictures : one of a younger version of the man that he shared with a stranger, a lovely red haired guy, both wearing grey camos. And another one of Alan and me taken the day we moved in together. They were all couple pictures !

Between a set of window panes stood a large Christmas tree towering over the living room, all bursts of lights, colorful ornaments, garlands and bows. A kind guardian for the cheerfully wrapped gifts and the couple seated at its foot on a thick rug, the true focal point of this happy scene. Me and the man from the pictures. Me, smiling serenely in the arms of that handsome man, nursing a mug of mulled wine while the stranger with a deep voice was reading me some kind of… Play ? Sometimes I was laughing, sometimes suggesting some change in the text, sometimes he laughed, sometimes he kissed my head or my temple or asked for a sip of my wine. My laughs were not the same  ones I had shared with Alan. The youthfulness, the levity, the innocence were lost. But it was still such a joyous sound. Deeper. More trusting. More placid. A laugh coming from a place of grief and acceptance. An adult laugh... I wanted to see more of me snuggled with so much content against this man’s torso, my head lying in the curve of his neck. I wanted to learn more of this obvious love. But my guide started to take me back towards the misty door.

I resisted as much as I could until my guide turned towards me, head tilted on the side like a question mark. « It is you. The man who killed himself and this man reading to me. They have the same voice. They’re both you » I said. My guide didn’t speak, but the shadows vanished from his face and he was exactly like the man in the picture with the red haired, smiling like a proud teacher. But I was not done. « Why are you doing this ? Why put the weight of your fate on my shoulders ??? I can’t be responsible of you. I don’t want you to be sad and take your own life but I don’t want to live and love without Alan. » Still mute and smiling, the stranger put his left hand on my heart. It was clear enough. Alan would always remain there. His right hand let go of mine to carress my cheek. A snowflake kiss laid there. And his hand still on my torso pushed me back through the fog. Pondering.

Pondering on the hospital bed on that Christmas Eve, my wrists hurting so much under the thick bandages, my heart pumping more questions than blood. More grief. More hope. No place left for the blood sent in my system from a plastic pouch. Too much emotions churning in my dry body. My only thought Let me out ! 
I didn’t know what to do anymore.

The sound of keys in the lock. The bland light brown door opening. And a man as lean as his thin fake smile entered the room, getting close but never touching my hand. A man in a white doctor coat I would soon learn to know and loathe as Dr. Kirsch. The dream I just had was forgotten the moment he said « Welcome back Flynn. Well, what are we going to do with you ? »

**********

I woke up in uncle Winston’s bed. The sun was shining through the window, melting the last puddles of snow. I felt rested for the first time since… In months. My mind was clear. And I remembered every second of the dream.

Not the usual dream.

Not the unfamiliar dream.

The exact same dream, down to the tiniest detail, I had only once when I was recovering from my suicide attempt and had forgotten. Until now.
The impossible dream. Impossible, because I couldn’t have known anything from it at that time. I couldn’t have known about my mysterious clone from a bygone era I had seen on a picture for the very first time just before bed the night before and that I had mistaken in the dream for an older version on myself. I couldn’t have known about the still to come Agreement. I couldn’t have known about the second entity though now I knew the ghost of Ines too well. And I couldn’t have known about the house on Pitch Pine Lane nor about Kirk Murdoch and his rooms. It was all impossible. Despite the strong Dickens vibes, I was no Scrooge and things like that did not happen in reality.
 
First I became a magnet for an angry ghost, then an unknown copy of a man from a different era and now I had glimpses of the future in my dreams ? And Kirk’s fate in my hands ? Yes I was starting to have doubts about the Agreement. Even more now. But this was a new source of concern. Too many impossible things were happening to me. Last night’s question came back to me with urgency.

Who was I ?

 

                                                                                                                                                      The end (for now…)

Almathea

 

 

 

 

Advent Calendar - Day 20 A VERY SPECIAL GIVEAWAY

 WELL, THIS IS EMBARRASSING. TWO POSTS WENT UP YESTERDAY. That was obviously a mistake. So I'm reposting this today because otherwise I'm going to be short a post. ARGHHHHH. Sorry about that! 

Good morning! I have something different in the way of giveaways today. I think it's a very cool gift, but who knows? 

Anyway. I've decided to gift 5 subscriptions to my Patreon at the Murder, My Sweet (that's the $5.00) tier for one full year.

What do you get to access at that tier? Well, it's changed over time (and will continue to change) but as of right now:

• Access to one chapter a week of a story written specifically for Patreon - starting in February 2025 (project to be determined).

• A minimum of one rough draft chapter a month of What Lies Beneath (Mystery at the Masquerade from Jack's POV)

• Bonus materials such as story snippets, character interviews, artwork (not including Monday Man Art), deleted scenes, holiday codas/epilogues, character notes, etc.

• Sea Change - Murder at Pirate's Cove (first book in The Secrets and Scrabble series retold from Jack's POV). The final version will be collected in an edited epub exclusive to Patreon members who subscribe at this tier following your 1st month anniversary   

• The edited and formatted digital editions of each Secrets and Scrabble cozy mystery published during your subscription period (I don't know that I'm writing any S&S next year, to TBH).

How do you get your name into the running for a gift subscription? Obviously, I'd like these to go to genuine fans. So comment down below about any one of my books that really means something to you.  Tell me why you love that particular book. I'll give it a week and then randomly select from the responses I like best. Because the membership will begin on January 1st, there's a shorter window to respond. I plan to send out the winners their gift links on December 30th.

Now, I should also mention that I'm currently running a 50% discount on a one year subscription to Patreon. Those discounts apply to four tiers, beginning  at the $20.00 tier. You cannot have previously subscribed to Patreon, I believe, though if you're there as a free member, I think you can use the discount code. That code is 38CE0. It expires December 31st. 

It's actually a really nice deal though, because you can participate at the $20.00 tier with all its rewards, for the price of the $10.00 tier! For a full year! 

(This is the first year Patreon has offered creators these kinds of tools for promotion, so we'll see how it goes. Which is my vague way of warning that there's no guarantee I ever do any of this again.)

Anyway, if a gift membership sounds like fun to you, comment about which of my books means the most to you below! 

Advent Calendar - Day 19

 Meg Perry's post got me thinking about chicken wings. This recipe for "Heroin Wings" is the SO's, and it's my absolute favorite. He makes them for me on special occasions (like I manage to finish a book)  or something equally amazing.

Try them. I think you'll really like them. 

HEROIN WINGS

 

Ingredients

 

4 pounds chicken wings

1 cup grated parmesan (or, even better, Cotija)

2 tablespoons dried parsley

1 tablespoon dried oregano

2 teaspoons paprika

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper

1/2 cup butter

Cayenne to taste

 

How to make it

 

Preheat oven to 350°F.

 

Cut the wings into drumsticks.

 

Combine the Parmesan cheese and the parsley, oregano, paprika, salt & pepper in a bowl.

 

Line a shallow baking pan with foil. (Do not omit this step, or you'll still be scrubbing the pan a week later.)

 

Melt the butter in a shallow bowl or pan.

 

Dip each drumstick in butter, roll in the cheese and seasoning mixture, and arrange in the foil-lined pan. Don’t forget the foil. Or invest in a jackhammer.

 

Bake for 1 hour, and be generous with the ingredients. 

Christmas Coda 72

 Caz and Raleigh from THE LEMON DROP KID

 

It was dark when I opened my eyes.

The room was dark, yes, but outside was also dark. I knew I was in my own bed. In my own bedroom. Knew I was home. I felt a wave of relief and gratitude. I was never going to get over being grateful for normalcy. I could see stars shining through the window. See the pinpoint reflected gleam in Freyja’s eyes as she gazed toward the closed bedroom door.

There was a band of light beneath the door, and now that I listened, I could hear Raleigh’s deep voice speaking quietly.

My hearted started to pound in instant anxiety.

Which didn’t make sense, because everything was okay.

Everything was better than okay—unless something had happened while I’d slept, unless the D.A., the chief, Raleigh had changed his mind again—

The frantic, frightened drumbeat in my ears drowned out the sound of Raleigh’s hushed tones. I felt like I was smothering beneath the weight of fear. That was not survival instinct. It was PTSD. And it was going to take me a while to get over it even as I reminded myself of the last few hours.

Hours so lovely they felt like they had to have been a dream.

Never mind believing in Santa Claus, I was having trouble believing in happiness.

Freyja’s tail stirred on the comforter, the door opened cautiously, and Raleigh was briefly silhouetted in the doorway, before the door closed again.

I pushed up on elbow, said softly, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said quickly, apologetically. “I was trying not to wake you.” He climbed into bed, blocked Freyja’s enthusiastic greetings, and slipped his arm beneath my shoulders, pulling me toward him. I locked my arms around him, buried my face in his throat.

“My mom wants to know if you’d want to come to Christmas dinner.” He still sounded apologetic.

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. I was fighting tears. Trying to conceal my reaction. So much reaction to every little thing. It was exhausting. Draining.

Freyja noisily snuffled the back of my neck, my ears.

“Freyja, don’t.” Raleigh bent his head lower to mine. “You okay, Caz?”

I nodded.

“Tell me,” he said gently.

I said thickly, “Just…reaction.”

After a moment he said, “Yeah, of course. That’s normal.” He kissed the top of my head, my ear, nudged my face so he could kiss my nose and then my mouth. Then my mouth, wet from the silent tears, again. “It’s going to be okay. I promise you.”

I nodded.

“I won’t ever let you down again.”

“I know that.”

He had to stop apologizing. I had to stop having panic attacks. It was all going to take time. But we had time. That was the important thing to remember. That was the thing to hold onto. Second chances.

I said, “I just want things to be normal again.”

“They will be.” His throat moved against my face as he swallowed. “It’s going to be a new normal that’s all.”

Freyja seemed to feel progress was not being made fast enough. She thrust her muzzle between my face and Raleigh’s, snuffled loudly, suspiciously, and then suddenly sneezed. Everywhere.

“Jeez, Freyja,” Raleigh protested, letting go of me, wiping his face.

I rolled over, laughing unsteadily, and Freyja, seeming to feel her work was done, settled against me and sighed.

I tugged gently on her silky ears. “What do you think of all this, Freyja?”  

Freyja licked my wrist.

Raleigh said, “Dogs live in the moment.”

I thought about that. “Sometimes in the moment is the last place you want to be.”

Raleigh resettled, pulled me closer.

I knew what he was thinking, and I said, “This is good moment to be in, though.” I tilted my face up, and in the moonlight, he looked so serious.

Raleigh said in that gruff voice he got when he was afraid his voice would shake, “This is the best moment.” It took him a moment before he could add, “I didn’t think there was a chance in hell of ever having a moment like this again.”

“Same.”

Like one of those schmaltzy tchotchkes: Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself!

True, though.

Very true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advent Calendar - Day 17 GIVEAWAY

 

Today I'm giving away 10 copies/downloads of A WINTER ROMANCE (Holiday Codas 3). 

As I'm sure most of you know, every year I try to write a few holiday codas for this "Advent Calendar."

If you don't know, in literature, a coda is a concluding section of a narrative that provides closure or resolution beyond the main action of the story. It can tie up loose ends, expand on the themes of the story, or--in our case--offer a glimpse of the characters' lives after the main plot has ended. It's a similar to an epilogue, but in the world of romance fiction, there can be multiple codas which can eventually even turn into short stories (as in "A Funny Thing Happened").  Basically, it's a little book of HEA. (Mostly.)

Anyway, every few years I collect these codas, get them edited and formatted--actually, here's the intro:

In 2012 I began a holiday tradition of writing holiday codas for some of my—and your—favorite stories. I ran the codas on my blog and left them up there for readers to enjoy all year round.

At the request of readers, I collected the codas in an expanded and edited edition which I published in 2015 as Merry Christmas, Darling.

In 2017 I did a second collection titled Christmas Waltz.

In the years that followed, I’ve written an additional thirty codas, so it seems about time to do a third collection. As before, I’m including recipes for cocktails and dishes that are either featured in the original works or seem to add some final comment or insight into the era or the characters or their relationship. OR that I just want to share with you, my readers! (Black Orchid martinis, anyone?)

Because the codas are a holiday gift to you, my readers, they also remain available for free on my blog (minus edits, expansion or any erotic content).

There are those who complain about the “predictability” of happy endings, but after the unpredictability of the last few years, I think there’s something to be said for happy holidays and true love. May this season be filled with only the best and loveliest of predictabilities.

So yes, there's a new coda collection this year, and I'm giving away a few copies. As of writing this, I'm not sure if the collection will be ready by the time this posts, but it'll be out soon. 

To be eligible for the giveaway for A Winter Romance, just comment down below letting me know the couple you'd most love to see in another coda. 

OH. Almost forgot. The original two coda collections are currently on sale. Merry Christmas, Darling and Christmas Waltz are each currently priced at $1.99 in the U.S.

PS -- Thank you to Johanna Ollila who did the lovely art for all three collection covers! 

Advent Calendar - Day 16 Fiction from Byron Beach!

 

Happy Monday! 

Even the Mondays are a bit nicer this time of year, I think. Right? Everyone's a bit cheerier. A little more hopeful that THIS is the year they finally get their pony. 

I figured Monday was the perfect time to share this bit of holiday sweetness from Byron. Today we're checking in with Griff and Pierce of Stranger on the Shore.

 

"Pierce Discovers Costco"

 

Griff was finishing his morning run, and as he turned onto their street, he couldn’t help but marvel at the vibrant fall colors on Long Island. The leaves seemed even more intense than in Wisconsin, and winter’s snow wouldn’t arrive quite as early. While he missed parts of his life in the Midwest, being close to his grandfather—and, of course, to Pierce—made him feel truly at home. Nearing their house, Griff was filled with a sense of contentment: health, love, and the promise of a hot cup of coffee.

 

Despite the wealth now at his command, Griff still believed that the simple, frugal values he’d grown up with were the clearest path to happiness. Pierce, Jarrett, and most of Syosset, however, would politely but firmly disagree.

 

Unlocking the front door, Griff was greeted by six large packages piled in the foyer, another testament to the festival of excess their upcoming wedding had become. For the most part, he and Pierce were aligned on the important parts of “The Event,” like vows and tone, but minor details—guest lists, appetizers, music— were part of an incessant demand for decisions. Griff had made countless concessions, mostly to make his grandfather, Jarrett, happy, but also for Pierce’s family. Lately, though, he was beginning to feel just a bit—not annoyed, not angry—more like overlooked. It was fine with him if it made Jarrett happy to spend a disturbing amount of money on a single afternoon and evening; Griff would still be married to Pierce at the end of the extravaganza, and that was what truly mattered. But there was a limit, and with the holiday season approaching, Griff felt that line drawing near.

 

The run had cooled his temper, but earlier that morning, he’d found himself nearly snapping at Pierce over something that seemed simple enough: how to decorate their home for Christmas. Pierce’s “Don’t you want it to be nice?” comment had gotten under his skin, as if only expensive decorations could be “nice.” He understood, though—for Pierce, Christmas decor had never been personal or intimate. His parents hired a designer every year to transform their mansion with enormous trees, sparkling lights, and exquisite ornaments. Pierce saw no reason why this year should be any different, but Griff had other ideas.

 

“Why hire someone when we can do it ourselves?” Griff asked as they stood in their spacious, mostly empty living room.

 

“I don’t have the time,” Pierce replied in a clipped tone, signaling he was ready to push his case. “And neither do you, considering you were up until 2 a.m. working on your new book.”

 

Griff opened his mouth to respond, but Pierce cut him off. “What’s the big deal? It’ll be lovely. You can ask for any special touches, and it’ll all be done by the end of the week.” Griff, bit back a few choice responses and let it go for now deciding a run would clear his head.

 

Griff walked into the kitchen, where Pierce handed him a cup of coffee with a smile. He knew cost wasn’t the right angle to approach this, so he chose a different tactic. Growing up, Christmas hadn’t been lavish, but it was the one time of year he felt truly close to the woman he’d considered his mother. They baked cookies, made their own wrapping paper and ornaments, and created a world where, for a short time each year, Griff felt safe. No designer could recreate that feeling—not with all the German blown-glass ornaments and brocade ribbon in the world.

 

“What would make this Christmas special for you?” Griff asked softly, taking the coffee and meeting Pierce’s gaze. “If the right designer would give you that feeling of love, comfort, and home, I won’t stand in your way.”

 

Pierce’s face softened. “You didn’t tell me this was going to be a dirty fight.”

 

“It’s not a fight. I don’t want to fight,” Griff said earnestly. “I want us to do things we love together, things we’ll remember year after year. And I don’t see why that has to cost tens of thousands of dollars.”

 

Pierce, now certain that he’d been bested, wrapped his arms around Griff, kissed him, and whispered, “Anything you want, as long as we do it together.”

 

Griff seized the moment. “We can get everything we need from Costco. Make it our own. It'll be fun.”

 

Pierce arched an eyebrow, adjusting the collar of his cashmere sweater. “Costco? Really? Isn’t that like a discount Whole Foods or something?”

 

“Are you serious? You’ve never been to Costco?” Griff tried not to laugh.

 

“I’m pretty sure I own a fair amount of their stock,” Pierce replied.

 

“Definitely not the same thing,” Griff chuckled. “You’re in for an adventure.”

 

The next day, Griff checked his pockets for his holy trinity: keys, wallet, and phone before locking the front door. Pierce was already waiting in the driveway, revving the engine of his sleek Porsche Boxster.

 

Griff raised an eyebrow. “You do realize we’re going to Costco, right? How exactly do you plan on fitting anything in here?”

 

Pierce winked. “Adventurous spontaneity, my love. That’s what today’s about.”

 

Griff laughed as he climbed into the passenger seat. “This is definitely not what I meant by ‘adventurous,’ but sure, let’s go with that.”

 

As they sped down the road, Pierce asked, “So, what exactly do they sell at Costco that has you so excited?”

 

Griff grinned. “Everything. Toilet paper, Christmas trees, and—of course—wine. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

 

Pierce made a skeptical face. “Christmas trees and toilet paper in the same store? This should be interesting.”

 

When they arrived, Griff grabbed them each a cart. The moment they stepped inside, Pierce froze, taking in the vastness of the warehouse. Rows upon rows of bulk products stretched into the distance, and the air buzzed with a scattered choreography of high-performance shopping. 

 

“This is… comprehensive,” Pierce muttered as they passed a display of 90-inch TVs.

 

Griff chuckled, leading the way toward the Christmas section. “Welcome to the real world.”

 

As they wandered the aisles, Pierce marveled at the oddities. “Who needs a five-pound bag of peanut brittle? And why would anyone want a six-pack of mini waffle makers?”

 

“Here, try a mini quiche,” Griff said, holding out a sample. “Eating samples at Costco is part of the experience.”

 

Pierce eyed the quiche warily but took a bite. “Hmm… not bad.”

 

The real test came when they reached the Christmas trees.

 

“So,” Griff began, pulling out a slim, 7-foot artificial tree from the display. “This one looks great, right? We can decorate it together.”

 

Pierce stared at the tree, his expression unreadable. “It’s… small.”

 

“It’s personal,” Griff countered with a grin. “And easy to set up. Plus, no pine needles all over the floor.”

 

Pierce hesitated, and for a moment, Griff thought he’d lost him. Then Pierce spotted a towering 15-foot tree. “What about this one with the lights already attached? We could get one for the living room, one for the kitchen, and maybe this smaller one for the bedroom.”

 

Griff laughed, nudging Pierce playfully. “With that setup, we could camp out in our Christmas forest. Maybe even zip our sleeping bags together.”

 

While Griff picked up decorations and a few office supplies, he let Pierce wander on his own. By the time they met at checkout, Griff found Pierce with a cart loaded with wine—not just a few bottles, but enough to stock a small vineyard. Alongside the wine were 480 frozen mini quiches.

 

Griff raised an eyebrow. “Planning a party I don’t know about?”

 

Pierce grinned. “This place… it’s unexpected. They had an excellent selection of French Bordeaux and a Château Neuf-du-Pape. I thought we could stock up for holiday visitors.”

 

Griff laughed. “Good thing they deliver the trees. The Boxster’s going to be maxed out just with this—you might have to leave me behind.”

 

Pierce winked. “Dream on. I’m never leaving you behind, not as long as we both shall live.”