Ally – A. L. Lester

RAtR: Regency Romance

Read Around the Rainbow

As you’re probably aware, #RAtR is a blogging project I am doing with a few friends who also write LGBTQIA romance. You can find everyone by clicking here or on the image to the right.

This month we are writing about Regency Romance– whether we love it or hate it and why so many people love to both read and write it. This is bang in the middle of my area of interest as both a reader and writer of historical romance.

Firstly then, when, and what, was the Regency? In 1811, George III was finally declared permanently incapable of carrying out his royal duties. His eldest son, Prince George, ‘Prinny’, the next in line to the throne, was therefore installed as Regent. He was a fashion-conscious social butterfly who loved the adulation of his court, was swayed by flattery, resented his parents in the fine tradition of England’s Hanoverian Kings and was moody and mercurial. Between 1811 and 1820 when he became King in his own right is technically the Regency era. However, socially and culturally the term is used for the period from about 1795 to the ascension of Queen Victoria in 1837. The romance trope sits squarely in this period.

Why do we find it so attractive? My personal feeling is that it’s all down to Jane Austen. Generations of people grew up reading her model of middle class Georgian England. She centered her heroines in the story and we only get a frisson of the messy, dangerous rest of it… Mr Darcy going to London’s stews to find Lydia in Pride and Prejudice (1813); Captain Wentworth taking Ann Elliott’s party to Lyme to meet his friend, maimed aboard ship and living in poverty (Persuasion 1817); Marianne Dashwood falling for a roue and being abandoned in Sense and Sensibility (1811).

Georgette Heyer and Julia Quinn and their colleagues picked up the trope and ran with it. Sometimes the books aren’t even dated to a particular year and the historical period is contextualised for us through high waisted dresses, being presented at court, going to a ball, the love interest meeting his friends at Whites, getting vouchers for Almack’s, or having rooms at the Albany. If every hero in every book really had rooms at the Albany, they’d be queuing five deep around the block to get in.

When we chose this topic, Nell had a minor wobble, because she famously doesn’t read series’ and is dubious about historical romance in general. Several of us yelled at her about K J Charles and Cat Sebastian until she gave in; I recommended she try one of my favourites, A Seditious Affair by K J Charles. A dour book shop owner and publisher of seditious leaflets falls for a Home Office official who is tasked with suppressing dissent. Learn about the Cato Street Plot here! It’s the second of a trilogy called The Company of Gentlemen, which each focus on a different couple in a group of friends although I think it stands happily alone. The trilogy slides seamlessly into the London of it’s time, with Molly Houses, lamp-boys leading you astray in the fog, not having enough coal for a bath, being transported for seditious dissent and freed slaves; alongside clubs, tailors, country houses and banging unsuitable people in curtained alcoves. I’ll be interested to see whether Nell read it and what she made of it!

At the moment I’m reading The Oak and the Ash by Annick Trent, a new to me author. It’s part of a loosely connected series and this one is set at the end of the 1790s. So far I haven’t been able to pin an actual date. The whole feeling of it is Regency though, which is what I meant about it sometimes being a trope rather than a precise dating. In this story, a surgeon and a valet slowly fall in love after the valets employer — happily in an open marriage with a wife who has a lover as he has his — is injured in a duel. I’m looking forward to exploring more of the collection. It gives a gritty portrayal of the life of ordinary people, with a seditious newspaper, a reading club and the valet-protagonist fascinated with meteorological observations.

I suppose I should also hat-tip myself — The Flowers of Time, my own lesbian/non-binary/bisexual romance is set in the 1780s. It’s firmly pre-regency — we are still worrying about American Independence and the French Revolution — but we do get a flash forward at the end, with Jones and Edie watching Queen Victoria’s coronation and talking about taking the train. I think we forget people lived long and rich lives either side of the periods we set our stories.

I also want to hat-tip the lovely Ellie, my fellow RAtR blogger, who has a collection of Regency stories that I have to my shame not read. I am actually on holiday this week — I’m writing this on the plane, get me! — and I plan to rectify that as soon as I hit the lounger by the pool this afternoon.

So that’s the post! Please do check out what my colleagues have to say on the subject!

(Due to my extreme inability to use Jetpack on my phone and my refusal to bring my laptop with me on holiday I am having trouble with inserting links, for which I apologise -the below links go to last month’s posts.)

To read what my Read Around the Rainbow colleagues have written about Dark Romance, click through below!

Nell https://elliethomasromance.wordpress.com/ Iris : Ofelia Grand : Lillian Francis : Fiona Glass : Amy Spector : Ellie Thomas : Holly Day : K. L. Noone : Addison Albright

RAtR: Kind of, anyway

Read Around the Rainbow

As you’re probably aware, #RAtR is a blogging project I am doing with a few friends who also write LGBTQIA romance. You can find everyone by clicking here or on the image to the right.

Hi! Hello! The observant among you will have noticed I have been absent from RAtR, and pretty much everywhere else, for the best part of a year. In that time I’ve sent out a couple of newsletters I think and put one or two things on my FB group. But essentially I’ve been focusing on family.

Littlest became very ill with a respiratory infection last September. She was in hospital for five months and became critically ill the week before Christmas. We prepared for the worst; and then the day before Christmas Eve she didn’t quite sit up and demand a bacon sandwich. But she pulled round very quickly and was discharged to home in the second week of January. We knew we were on borrowed time and amended her Advanced Care Plan accordingly.

Health and Social Care pulled a number of rabbits out of their various hats and we had an incredible amount of help put in place at home. She was largely confined to bed initially, but then towards the end of February she improved further and was able to get out and about a couple of times a week. She thoroughly enjoyed it, as she was so bored in bed. We focused on ‘quality over quantity’ and organised for her to go back to school for a few hours a week.

Luck was always against us though, and at the end of June, she passed away of COVID. It was quick, at home and surrounded by family who loved her. She was fifteen.

We are now at the end of August and I am just beginning to realise she’s not coming back. I lie in bed at night, and in my head I imagine she is asleep next door, and I can hear the quiet thump of the oxygen condenser and swsssh of the ventilator. That any moment she will mutter in her sleep or call out for one of us to come and reposition her, or pick up the cuddly toys she has thrown overboard.

It is inconceivable to me that she is gone, although we knew that this moment would happen. The house is bare without her mobility aids and when the team came to remove the ceiling hoists, I cried. If we go out, I still rush, and check my watch, and count minutes off on my head so we won’t be back late for her carers. Our grocery shopping no longer has regular bumper-packs of wet-wipes and hand sanitiser, or tins and tins of tinned fruit and yoghurt and other things to put in her tube feeds. The carpets are exponentially cleaner because she is not tracking half the countryside in on the wheels of the wheelchair. Our washing machine use has halved.

I cannot watch TV programs with bereavements, or ones with young children who giggle when their parents boop their nose. Watching, I get a physical pressure in my chest, a stone sitting on my heart and I cannot bear it.

My daughter is dead, and nothing will ever be the same again. I feel guilt, that perhaps I didn’t do enough. I constantly feel I’ve forgotten something; that ‘Oh shit I left the baby at the Post Office!’ feeling. But there is no baby now and the Post Office has been permanently closed.

A part of me is relieved. Relieved for her, that she no longer has to struggle. But also selfishly relieved for myself that I no longer have to write emails and make phonecalls and fight and fight for her care and her health and her education. I am tired. We are both so tired. If you’ve never cared for anyone long-term, you have no idea how tired you can be.

For the first month, we both just wandered around in a daze. We had nightmares, we had insomnia, we slept at odd times. Now, at the end of the second month we are sleeping better. I am dragging myself out of bed each morning instead of staying in my pyjamas all day. We are trying to keep occupied. If I’m not occupied, I seem to go into a fugue state where all I do is stare at the wall and feel the enormous weight of my grief, like a horsehair blanket thrown over me, muffling everything in the world.

Writing has been impossible for the last twelve months. I am starting, very slowly, to feel neurons come back online though. Memories I had lost pop up regularly now I have all that extra processing power freed up and can sleep for eight hours a night. I am hoping I might be able to begin to write again soon, but I’m not going to push myself. For once in my life I am going to take the time that I need. That’s why I am writing this instead of the Dark Romance topic. Next month, I hope I can join in with the team and get back on track.

For their thoughts on Dark Romance, check out their blogs:

To read what my Read Around the Rainbow colleagues have written about Dark Romance, click through below!

Nell Iris : Ofelia Grand : Lillian Francis : Fiona Glass : Amy Spector : Ellie Thomas : Holly Day : K. L. Noone : Addison Albright

World Letter Writing Day: A Flowering of Ink by K. L. Noone

Thanks to Ally for letting me stop by! I’m so excited about this project – last year’s Naked Gardening Day collection was such fun that we definitely needed to get the band back together, this time for World Letter Writing Day! Holly, Ally, Nell and I have stories out this weekend, and Amy will hopefully join us a bit later!

“A Flowering of Ink” is m/m contemporary romance, 26,839 words, and it starts with Burne, a scientist on an isolated island, and Devon, a lonely architect in a thunderstorm house, and a piece of misdirected mail. And then someone writes back…

For this story, I actually did a lot of research into, er, research – that is, what kind of work Burne would be doing, as a scientist, out on a small island off the coast of California! I did a lot of looking into the work that’s being done on the Channel Islands (the ones near California, I mean – Anacapa, Santa Barbara, San Miguel, and so on): everything from studies of rare isolated ecosystems to excavations of Paleolithic rocks! The National Parks website for the Channel Islands is great for that; there’s even a lovely little 24-minute film about the islands! I’m not really a scientist but I come from a family of them; my father is a certified nurseryman (that’s plants, not babies) and gardener, so some of that’s in the background too – and it was a neat little carryover, thematically, from the Naked Gardening theme last year!

I can’t wait to see what we come up with next year – already looking forward to it! I’ve loved getting to see the stories my fellow authors have dreamed up—always so different and fascinating, despite the same starting-point! And, of course, full of romance.

I hope you enjoy our stories—and here’s an exclusive excerpt from mine, below!

A Flowering of Ink by K.L. Noone

One misdirected card…and a chance at love.

Professor Burne Cameron loves his job and his environmental research. Unfortunately, three months of field work on a tiny island can get pretty lonely, especially when even his brother forgets his birthday. That is, until an unexpected letter arrives…and Burne finds himself fascinated by the mysterious sender.

Devon Lilian lives alone in a house he’s designed, full of roses and ocean views. His architectural designs are famous, but Devon has reasons for not going out in public. But when a misdirected birthday card for a Professor Cameron turns up at his house, Devon has to send it on…and can’t resist adding a note of his own, a gift for a scientist who might be equally alone.

As Burne and Devon trade letters across the sea, they fall for each other in ink and paper—but now Burne’s research is nearly complete, so he’s coming home.

And Burne and Devon will have to decide whether they can write the rest of their love story together…once they finally meet.

Buy Links: Amazon : JMS Books

Excerpt:

The mail boat did not come every day, and even the first arrival, three days later, was a disappointment; Burne knew rationally that that was too soon, given that the post took time and Devon probably hadn’t answered immediately, but he nevertheless felt a pang in his chest, a drop of rain piercing inside.

He did some comparative growth rate analysis, grumpily. He went for walks along the pebbled beach, down to the harbor amid the sound of lapping water, up alone into the rolling summertime green-gold hills. He had meals with friends and colleagues, and chatted about research and family updates and plans upon returning home: in one case a baseball game, in another case a family reunion.

He looked at his art. He ended up smiling: even if Devon hadn’t bothered to write back and this whole odd pen-pal conversation had ended, he still had those sketches. A gift. Because someone had been kind.

He did hope Devon would write back. He’d understand if not. He’d asked questions and been intrusive, and Devon no doubt had a life and no time for a random letter-exchange with a random scientist who rambled about flowers and had sand in his beard.

But he liked Devon, or he thought he did. He liked the person who shared his sense of humor, who’d shared art with him. He wanted to spend more time with that person. Even if only on a page, in ink and words and shapes.

Three days after that, he was lying on some sun-warmed rocks and sticking a monitor into the bed of a tidepool when Mike materialized behind him. “Mail came.”

“What? Ow.” Burne hit his elbow on the rock, shooting upright. “That’s early!”

“Nah, you’ve just been busy. Put something on your desk. Looks like a book. Feels like a book.”

“A book?”

“There’s dried grass in your hair.”

“There’s what? Oh—thanks, it gets everywhere—oh, damn, that’s not properly anchored—”

“I’ll fix it. Go on.”

“Really?”

“It’s what grad students’re for. Being helpful. If it’s a book, can I borrow it later? I’ve read everything I brought.”

“Maybe. Thanks again—”

“Comb your hair!” Mike yelled at his back, laughing. Burne contemplated the relative dignity of PhD candidates versus associate professors, and finally just ran away.

He did try to run hasty fingers through his hair, in his office. And then he wondered why—not as if he were about to have a video chat—and cleared his throat and sat down. Professorial. In charge of the situation. His chair creaked, snickering at him.

The small box on his desk had a post-office printed label. But the name, the return address—

Burne shut his eyes, opened them. Knew he was grinning, ear to ear. Did not care whether anyone, grad students or dried roots or computer data, saw.

He opened the box. He found the book, which had a letter tucked inside, which he discovered upon picking up the book and hastily catching the envelope as it slid. Pages opened; a beautiful spray of illustrated purple needlegrass, Nasella pulchra, displayed hand-drawn antique color for him. Entranced, Burne drifted through a few more chapters, basked in a fifty-years-ago author’s love of California wild oats and lemonade berry.

Devon had sent him a book. A gorgeous book.

And a letter. He pounced on it.

About K.L. Noone:

K.L. Noone teaches college students about superheroes and Shakespeare by day, and writes LGBTQ+ romance – frequently paranormal or with fantasy elements, and always with happy endings – when not grading papers or researching medieval outlaw life. She also likes cats, a good dark craft beer, and the sound of ocean waves.

Come say hi! Blog : Twitter/X : Facebook : Instagram : Mastodon : Amazon

Love, Isidor by Nell Iris

Hi! *waving happily* Thanks for inviting me to your blog, Ally, it’s always a pleasure to be here.

After we finished our Naked Gardening Day project, we wanted to work together again because it was so much fun, and after some back-and-forth about what theme to pick, we settled on World Letter Writing Day because who doesn’t like letters, right? 😍

I do, so I voted enthusiastically for a letter theme when we decided, and I was certain I’d write a proper epistolary story because I absolutely adore them. Instead, one of my friends unknowingly gave me another idea. She’s French and she told me a story about her grandparents, and how they were separated because her grandfather was sent to a forced labor camp during WW2. They wrote letters to each other when he was away, and many years later, the family found the grandfather’s letters in a box. My friend told me that she cried when she read them, and that she could feel the pain of the separation in them.

Saved letters, in a box, or tied with a pretty ribbon, is far from a new or unusual thing, but my friend’s grandfather’s letters stuck with me, and a box of letters snuck into my story.

Love, Isidor

Dear Henri, there was a man at the restaurant this evening who looked so much like you that I winked at him and laughed.

One letter from his ex, Isidor, is all it takes to turn Henri’s world upside down. It’s been a decade since they broke up, a decade since they couldn’t make their long-distance relationship work despite their best efforts.

Do you ever think back on the decisions we made and wonder if we could’ve tried harder?

Isidor was the one that got away, the one who’s impossible to forget, and Henri still questions the decisions they made back then. Could they have fought harder for what they had?

My darling Henri. I still dream of you after all this time.

Is ten years apart too long, or will old feelings reignite when Henri and Isidor meet again?

M/M Contemporary / 15111 words

Buy links: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read

About Nell

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males. She published her first book in 2017.

Nell is an author with a day job that steals too much time from her writing, her reading, her gardening, and her crocheting. She’s an introverted tea drinker who loves her family, her books, and her home in the Swedish countryside.

Find Nell on social media: Newsletter :: Webpage/blog :: Twitter :: Facebook Page :: Facebook Profile :: Goodreads :: Bookbub :: Bluesky

Excerpt:

“Did you expect me to reply to your letter?”

“I hoped, but…” He shrugs. “I didn’t think you’d write me an actual letter. I would have thought an email, or maybe a phone call asking ‘What the hell, Isidor?’ but your letter…it surprised me.”

“Good or bad surprise?”

“Good. I figured you’d just throw away my letter and go on with your life if you didn’t want to speak to me again. And you wouldn’t suggest our spot if you weren’t at least a little interested.”

He’s right, of course. Can he know me still, after all these years? Haven’t I changed at all? “Back to my first question that you ignored. Tell me something about yourself that I need to know.”

He doesn’t reply for several minutes, but I’m in no hurry; it’ll take several hours for us to reach Uppsala, which means I have a lot of time to take him in, to memorize all the new things that weren’t there when I saw him last.

Like the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes; they’re thin and fine, as though he doesn’t smile a lot, and his mouth, serious and somber, confirms my theory. The hint of stubble on his face and neck says he shaved before bed yesterday instead of this morning. I used to love it when he’d rub his stubbly face all over my body making me squirm and pant and hard.

But he’d also tease my ticklish spots, making me squirm for completely different reasons. His eyes would shine with mirth, and he’d laugh at me when I tried to wriggle away from him, begging for mercy.

He was always a serious person, but he’d let go when we were in bed. He allowed himself to be romantic and sentimental, but also silly and nonsensical. Has he allowed himself to behave like that since we broke up? Did he find another guy he could tease with his stubble and tickle to death with his thick fingers?

Jealousy flares up in my chest at the thought.

“I wrote you letters,” he says, yanking me out of my study of him. “Before this one, I mean, I wrote you many letters. But I never sent them. I couldn’t. They’re still in a box in my closet.”

“Wha…” My chin threatens to wobble, and I look away for a moment, forcing breath into my lungs so I can finish what I was going to say. “What made you send this one?”

“It was that guy in the restaurant I wrote to you about. My heart did this weird…” he gestures for his chest as though he’s trying to show me, “this weird…jump…when I thought it was you. After all these years, I wanted to rush over to you, him, whatever, and fucking beg you for a second chance if I had to. I didn’t expect such an…intense reaction. I thought I’d gotten over you.” He clenches his teeth. “Or hoped, is the more truthful word, I guess. And I hadn’t written a letter to you in years, so I thought I’d broken the habit. I hadn’t planned on sending this one either, but…somehow…I found myself putting it in the mailbox. As though I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Do you regret sending it?”

He glowers at me, not deigning to a verbal reply.

“Would you let me read the unsent letters?” My voice is so thick, I can hardly interpret my own words.

“Yes. Of course. They’re yours.”

Buy links: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read

World Letter Writing Day: Dear John by Holly Day

Hello everyone! Thank you, Ally, for allowing me to swing by. I’m Holly Day, and I write MM Romance in all sorts of subgenres.

By now, you might be aware we’re doing a group thing for World Letter Writing Day. Nell Iris, A.L. Lester, K.L. Noone, and I have each written a gay romance novella with letters in it. I always write stories for specific days. This is actually story number… let me count… thirty-three that I’ve written for a specific day.

Insane, but so much fun! 😊

My story for this project is called Dear John, and yes, if you know what a Dear John letter is, you can guess where this is going.

I know I said above that I write all sorts of subgenres, and I do, but I don’t do historical. I’m amazed by those who do, all that knowledge and research, but it’s not for me. I’d be terrified of getting it wrong, so instead I was trying to come up with a reason for there to be letters, old-fashioned, handwritten letters sent with snail mail today.

And the characters could’ve been letter-writing kind of people, they could have been, but they’re not. Not under normal circumstances. So I had to change the circumstances. And I did. I placed them on a one-house island without any phone reception.

The island is a digital detox resort. All screens are forbidden, and there is no phone line and no reception. And those attending aren’t allowed to leave the island. The remaining possibility of communication with the outside world is letters.

Logan is a cop working undercover and posing as the resort manager. Their intel says a syndicate leader will spend six weeks alone on the island, but instead, it’s his boyfriend, a lonely artist, who shows up. It soon becomes apparent the syndicate leader won’t show, and Logan gets to know Zion, the artist, instead.

Zion knows the relationship he’s in is beyond salvage, and he needs to end it, both for his own sake and because he sees something in Logan, he’d like to investigate closer. So… he sends a Dear John letter.

No one knows exactly where the expression Dear John letter comes from, but it’s believed it came into use among the American soldiers during World War II. The soldiers had wives and girlfriends (and probably a few boyfriends too) back home that they were forced to leave for months on end. It wasn’t uncommon for their partners to meet someone else while they were away, and then they’d send a Dear John letter, calling things off.

So that’s what Zion does. And since Logan is a cop working undercover, he steams it open and reads it.

Dear John

How to break up with your boyfriend when your only means of communication are letters?

Logan Fleet is working undercover on a one-house island. A syndicate leader he and his team have been investigating was meant to arrive a week ago but hasn’t shown. Instead, Logan spends his day watching Zion, a talented artist and the syndicate leader’s boyfriend. Logan shouldn’t care, but he feels drawn to Zion.

One bad decision after the other has landed Zion Dash on an island with no cellphone reception, no internet, and no TV. His only means of communication with the world are letters, and his life is falling apart. He wants to curl up next to Logan, but he must get out of the relationship he’s in first.

As the days go by, Logan and Zion grow closer. When news about the syndicate leader being on his way reaches them, Logan tells Zion who he is and tries to get him off the island. But Zion isn’t sure he believes Logan. How can he trust someone who’s been lying about who he is the entire time they’ve been together?

Buy links:

Gay Contemporary Romance: 17,578 words

JMS Books :: Amazon :: Everywhere Else

Excerpt:

Zion looked at him for several seconds before turning around and leaving through the kitchen. Logan made coffee and when Zion didn’t come back into the room, he put a kettle on the stove to steam the letter open. He winced. It was his job, but he didn’t want to betray Zion’s trust.

Sipping on his coffee while little by little getting the glue to let go without burning his fingers, he soon had the envelope open.

He peeked into the dining room to make sure Zion had gone to bed before pulling the letter from the envelope.

Dear, John.

Logan double-checked the address. It was for Igor. He snorted and kept on reading.

Yes, it’s one of those letters. Spending time on this island has got me thinking, and I can’t go on the way we have been. I’ll arrange for a moving company to clear out the apartment. I won’t come back once my stay here is over.

This is the last letter I’ll send to you. All future communication will go through my lawyer. Don’t try to contact me, and don’t come here.

I hope we can resolve this as smoothly as possible.

Zion

Logan didn’t know what he’d expected, a longer letter perhaps. He swallowed the last of the coffee, resealed the envelope, and headed toward the motorboat.

He’d send the letter, call Carr to make sure someone was watching the apartment, and then he’d go to the library to use the computer to look for apartments… or did Zion want a house? Was he planning to buy or rent? Maybe the house-hunting could wait till tomorrow.

The sky was overcast this morning, and Logan feared it would rain. So far it hadn’t rained. He hoped he’d make it back to the island before it started. He should’ve kept an eye on the weather report. Being out on the sea wasn’t smart if there was going to be thunder, and he didn’t think the boat would do well in a storm. He had to report to Carr, though. He had no idea how Sidorov would react to Zion’s letter, but they had to survey the apartment.

He had his phone out the moment he set foot on land, calling Carr.

“Yes?” He sounded stressed.

“I’m about to post a Dear John letter, express mail.”

“Oh?”

Logan nodded at an old man walking down the jetty. “Yeah, don’t know if it’s gonna make any difference, but he writes he’ll have a moving firm empty the apartment. I don’t think he’s hired anyone yet, unless he did while I slept, though how could he without a phone or internet? He wrote all future contact should go through his lawyer. I don’t know if he has one.”

“Steer him toward Catalina Moreno, she’s handled similar cases before.”

Logan hummed. He’d never spoken to her, but she had a reputation for being unflinching.

“Bad weather is rolling in, so I don’t know if I can make contact tomorrow. We’ll see how it develops.”

“You have the satellite phone should you need to call.”

“Yes. It’s in my room in the house.”

“Good.”

They ended the call, and Logan stepped into the small post office. The woman behind the counter smiled at him. “The retreat, right?”

Damn, did everyone know who he was now? He hadn’t been here long. “Yes.”

“I have a letter for you that arrived this morning.” Her English was good. So far, he’d hardly met anyone here who didn’t speak English.

“Great! And I have one I want to send. Could you make it so it arrives as soon as possible?”

She hesitated. “It costs extra.”

He nodded, well aware it cost extra.

The letter addressed to Zion burned in his pocket as he exited the post office and headed to the tiny grocery store. There were more people than usual, and when he heard someone mention the oncoming thunder, he added an extra loaf of bread to his shopping basket. Stocking up, that’s why there were more people than usual.

“Will the storm be bad?” He studied the cashier as he put his items on the conveyor belt.

She grimaced. “I doubt it. Most of these people live on the island, though, so it’s a precaution. They’re already well-prepared, but it’s a chance to connect.” She smiled. “It’ll be the same once it’s blown over, then everyone will come in to check on each other and report the damage.”

“There will be damage?” Shit, he wasn’t ready for a gale, hurricane, typhoon or whatever they got out here.

Her hands stilled on the bread as she watched him with narrowing eyes. “The retreat, right?”

Damn, did everyone know who he was? He nodded.

“It’s a solid building. There are no trees on the island. Make sure to tie the boat properly, and you’ll be fine.” She rang up the bread. “You have a satellite phone, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’re all set.”

Was he? He’d never been afraid of the ocean, but he and Zion would be alone on a tiny island. He’d better get going so the storm didn’t catch him halfway there.

About Holly Day

According to Holly Day, no day should go by uncelebrated and all of them deserve a story. If she’ll have the time to write them remains to be seen. She lives in rural Sweden with a husband, four children, more pets than most, and wouldn’t last a day without coffee.

Holly gets up at the crack of dawn most days of the week to write gay romance stories. She believes in equality in fiction and in real life. Diversity matters. Representation matters. Visibility matters. We can change the world one story at the time.

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