Contemporary – A. L. Lester

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.

Website :: Facebook :: Twitter :: Pinterest :: BookBub :: Goodreads :: Newsletter :: TikTok

It’s release day for the World Letter Writing Day Novellas!

It’s that time again! I’m very pleased to announce that the Naked Gardening Day Team are back. We had such fun working together last year that we decided to choose another day to write about this year and landed on World Letter Writing Day on 1^st September.

Today I’ve got an excerpt for you below, and over the next few days I’ll be featuring posts from Holly Day, K. L. Noone and Nell Iris and I’ll also be visiting their blogs to talk about my own story, Reading it Wrong. This year we are very sorry to be missing Amy Spector, but we’re hoping her story will be released in time for the paperback anthology next year.

The four World Letter Writing Day novella covers

Without further ado…Reading it Wrong

A date turned down. A stolen letter. A reminder that nerds don’t just play board games. Reading it Wrong is a gentle MM romance set in the small town world of Theatr Fach.

Reading it Wrong. A date turned down. A stolen letter. A reminder that nerds don't just play board games. Reading it wrong is a gentle gay romance sent in the small town world of Theatr Fach.

Paul Cranford regrets asking Louise and Darcy Middleton to let the kids from his class have a look at the fifteenth century letter they’re selling at auction. If it hadn’t been for him, it would never have been in the theatre overnight to even get stolen in the first place.

Darcy isn’t keen on Paul Cranford. He’s never quite got over the way Paul knocked him back when Darcy tried to ask him out. But when the letter is stolen from the theatre and Darcy is hurt in the process, Paul steps up to help him and he starts to understand where he’s coming from.

Getting back the letter means they get to know each other better. Will that date Paul turned down happen after all?

A date turned down. A stolen letter. A reminder that nerds don’t just play board games. Reading it Wrong is a gentle MM romance set in the small town world of Theatr Fach.

Buy Links: Amazon US : Amazon UK : JMS Books : Everywhere Else : Goodreads

Reading it Wrong: Chapter 1: Darcy

“How can a town support not one, but two antiquarian book sellers? It’s bloody ridiculous!” Darcy fumed at his sister as she peered through her glasses at the laptop screen.
He was so irritated he was pacing to-and-fro in front of the counter, waving his arms.
Louise started to answer, “Well, Hay does…” and then glanced up and over his shoulder, frowning at him in passing. “Hello there, can I help you?” she asked the person he’d failed to notice coming up behind him.
Darcy swung round as he stepped out of the way.
Oh. No. That was just what he needed.
Paul Cranford nodded to him politely but didn’t meet his eyes, instead smiling at Louise as he stepped up to the desk. “Er. Yes,” he said. “I’ve, er—” He glanced quickly and dismissively over at Darcy again, who’d folded his arms and was glaring at him. “Hi Louise, how are you?”
“I’m good thanks, Paul. How are you? How’s David? Is he still at the boatyard?”
Paul smiled at her. “Yes! They’re doing really well; they’ve got some big contracts in at the moment. I’m sure he’d send his best to you.”
“It’s been ages since I’ve seen him,” Louise said. “A couple of years, at least. He’s not a reader.” She grinned at him.
“He’s more outdoorsy than me,” Paul told her. “Always has been. I was a failure as a little brother.” He smiled as he said it, clearly joking.
“I remember from school,” Louise said. “He did all sorts of sport. I remember him badgering you to join in and you being happier in the library. What are you looking for today? Can I help you with anything? That new release you’re waiting for hasn’t come in yet,” she said regretfully.
He shook his head. “No, that’s not why I’ve come by,” he said. “It’s something different. I’m here for a favour actually.”
Darcy didn’t bother to stifle his huff of irritation. “A favour,” he said, flatly, at the same time as Louise said, “Anything I can do to help! What sort of favour?”
Paul glanced over at Darcy for a second time as he interjected and then looked back at Louise, ignoring him. That wound Darcy up even more, but Louise gave him a quelling look and said, “Be quiet please, baby brother!” and then turned back to Paul. “What sort of favour?”
Darcy growled under his breath. She never let him forget he’d been an afterthought to their parents and was fifteen years younger than her.
“Right, er. Well. You know I teach at St Baruc Primary. I… er. I heard about the letter that you’re selling.”
Louise nodded. “The letter… we’re selling it at auction, in the middle of the week,” she said. “At the theatre. On Thursday.”
“Yes,” he said.” “I. Er. I wonder if it would be possible for the children to see it before it’s sold?” he said.
“Why?” said Darcy, sharply. It wasn’t any of his business really, but Paul put his back up simply by existing these days and this was his sister and the letter he’d found. Nothing to do with Mr Paul I’m too good to date you Cranford.
Paul looked over at him again, polite enough to notice him this time. “Oh, hello, Darcy,” he said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and blushed. “Well,” he said. “It’s local history. It’s important.”
Darcy opened his mouth and then closed it again. He couldn’t argue with that.
“I mean…it’s not local, local. But from what I’ve read about it, it’s a very normal sort of letter, about family and Christmas and things like that. I think the kids would be able to identify with it. We’re doing a letter-writing project, you see.”
Louise was making a thinking noise. “Hmm. Yes. I can see that. It’s not here though. It’s at the bank.” She pulled a face. “I wonder… I can probably get it out the day before the auction for them to see. Would that work?”
Darcy made another muffled noise of dissent. It was a fifteenth century letter, for God’s sake. Letting a sticky-fingered bunch of pre-teens have at it the day before it went up for sale for thousands of quid seemed really unwise.
But Louise was nodding and Paul was nodding and giving Louise his mobile number and everything seemed copacetic between them. Nothing to do with Darcy. Nothing at all. He turned round and busied himself shelving the Victorian fairy-tale collection Louise had bought last week.
“Bye, Darcy,” Paul said, finally taking his leave. “See you on Wednesday.”
“Yeah, see you,” Darcy said, mentally snarking Not if I can help it.
They were both members of the Llanbaruc Boardgames Club that met in the theatre café on a Wednesday evening. Darcy ran the café, so he’d negotiated with his boss to let them meet there and have access to the bar.
He didn’t know exactly when he’d taken against Paul. Oh. Yeah, he did. It was the evening Darcy had suggested they go out for a drink together one night and Paul had looked at him as if he was something that had come in on the bottom of his shoe and said “Er. No. No, I don’t think so, thanks. I don’t, er… I’m not… erm. No. Thanks,” and reversed away from him so quickly he’d knocked into the game of Risk going on behind him and caused South America to inadvertently invade Australasia via Finland.

Buy Links: Amazon US : Amazon UK : JMS Books : Everywhere Else : Goodreads

Second Wind is out now! Read an excerpt.

Are you looking for a low angst gay romance with a trans MC set in a little Welsh town? With a truly terrible community orchestra? I’ve got you covered.

Second Wind

What do a shy French-horn-playing accountant and a single-dad trans trumpet player have in common other than both being members of the community orchestra at Theatr Fach in the little town of Llanbaruc?

Gethin’s been more or less hiding from life since his marriage broke up a couple of years ago. He’s joined the orchestra because his sister told him he needed a hobby rather than sitting at home brooding about his divorce.

Martin is careful who he dates because of his gender and his teenage daughter. He came to Llanbaruc as a stage manager for the Theatr Fach twelve years ago. He’s got a good set of friends here. Shannon’s a good kid. They’re a team.

Martin and Gethin hit it off. Will their mutual baggage prove too much to sustain a relationship?

A gentle m/transm romance in the Theatr Fach universe.

Buy Links: Amazon US : Amazon UK : JMS Books : Everywhere Else

Excerpt

“Martin!” Julie, the lead violin, waved him over. “This is Gethin,” she said, her hand on the arm of a tall, thin man nervously clutching a French horn and peering out from behind a thick pair of glasses. He resembled a nervous heron. “He’s new,” she added unnecessarily. “Can you take him under your wing a bit?”
Martin shot her a look. She was a very competent, friendly woman with no tact at all.
“Of course,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Gethin,” he held out a hand and Gethin took it. “I’m Martin. Trumpet.”
“Gethin Jones,” the thin man said, shaking his hand a little too hard. His palm was warm and firm and he was clearly apprehensive. “Erm. French horn.” He waved his instrument vaguely at Martin. “As you can see.”
Martin smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Brass is over here. Let me introduce you around.” They started picking their way through the chairs. The brass section was made up of Martin and Alan on trumpet, Tim and Lucy on trombone, and Portia, a ten year old who played a tuba almost as large as she was. They were setting up music and gossiping about their week when Martin and Gethin reached them.
“Hullo hullo,” Martin said. This is Gethin Jones.” He waved vaguely at Gethin beside him. “Gethin, this is Tim, Lucy, Alan and Portia.” Everyone made noises of greeting. The room was beginning to echo with the sound of instruments being tuned and scales being played. It was a familiar cacophony.
“Are you Marion’s Gethin?” Lucy asked suddenly, leaning toward them to be heard over the cat-like screech of a young violinist and a burp from Portia’s tuba.
Beside him, Gethin tensed. “Not any more,” Gethin said brusquely, nodding. “But yes. I used to be.”
Lucy nodded, blushing. “Sorry,” she said. “My sister is Penny Wright. They went to school together. Penny told me what happened.”
Gethin nodded again. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, again. He didn’t add anything else. He seemed almost paralytically shy. But then, Martin would be reticent if he knew everyone was talking about his private business.
“I’ll go and get you some music,” Martin said, forestalling any more awkwardness. “Here, stick your horn down on the seat and grab yourself a music stand from the stack in there”. He gestured at the open door of the cupboard behind them.
The spare sheet music was on the table at the front. He made his way across the room, wending around chairs and people offering greetings until he could pick up a sheaf.
Julie met him there. “Is he all right?” she hissed at Martin, glancing past him over his shoulder at Gethin, an anxious expression on her face.
“Yes? Why shouldn’t he be?” Martin asked, frowning at her, puzzled.
“He’s Posey Morgan’s brother,” Julie hissed some more. “You know. Posey the health visitor?”
Martin shook his head. “Not my area,” he said apologetically. “Never met her.” He couldn’t remember who Shannon’s health visitor had been. An older woman though, no-one who could have been the sister of someone Gethin’s age.
Julie scowled at him, apparently blaming him for his lack of knowledge. “Well, she said he needed to get out of the house,” she continued, still hissing. “His wife left him two years ago and he’s become a recluse, she told me. I suggested he come along here to help take him out of himself.”
Martin bit his lip. As a gentle first step back in to a social life, he had his doubts about the suitability of the orchestra. One of it’s other activities was going to the pub after practice on a Friday and drinking steadily ‘til closing time. And there was a country-dancing-for-exercise sub-set of members he tried to avoid ... they’d invited him along to one of the sessions and he’d been crippled for days afterwards.
“So?” he said. “He seems perfectly normal.”
“The wife took off with his best friend,” Julie told him, shooting another guilty look over his shoulder at the brass section, who were settling the newcomer in their midst like a chicken in a nest of ferrets. Martin stopped himself turning properly to look at them, watching out of the corner of his vision.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Martin promised. “Does he actually play?”
“He brought it in to the shop to have it serviced,” she said. “He seemed to know what he was doing. And Posey said he played at school. But I don’t think he’s done much of anything for a while.” She pulled a face. “He’s an accountant.”

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