Guest – Page 5 – A. L. Lester

Ellie Thomas: Spice of Life

Today Ellie is dropping in to talk about some of the research behind her new historical romance. She’s a regular visitor and you can catch up with her always-interesting past posts here!

Thank you so much again, Ally, for having me as your guest today! (Ally: You’re welcome, Ellie!) I’m Ellie Thomas, and I write Gay Historical Romance. In this blog, I’m chatting about The Spice of Life which is my story for a Valentine’s Sugar or Spice submissions call for JMS Books.

After lurking around the 18th century for a few stories, I thought it timely to return to the reign of Elizabeth I. My other Tudor tale, Stage Struck, is set in the world of Elizabethan theatre in 1590’s London. This is a topic for which I have a lasting passion and have read around and taught about for many years.

So I decided to set myself a challenge and get out of my comfort zone and place The Spice of Life a couple of decades earlier in the 1570s amongst the merchant classes and gentry of London. Then I promptly panicked and convinced myself I knew nothing!

That was the cue to reach for my overstuffed bookshelves and my go-to author about all things Tudor, Ruth Goodman. What makes this author so special is that she is a living historian. For television programmes and her independent research, she has spent much of her career living as someone would in the past, with Tudor times being her speciality. Her books are crammed full of detailed observations about how ordinary people lived. As well as giving the reader a wealth of knowledge, Ruth Goodman’s writing is always entertaining and often very humorous, so a fun read.

The two books I dipped into for my research were How to be a Tudor and the splendidly titled How to Behave Badly in Renaissance Britain. Fortunately, I had read them both before, otherwise, I would have got horribly sidetracked, and my story would never have been written!

Having chosen my main character Gregory to be a serving man, I was reminded about the Tudor custom of such employment. Unlike later eras, where being a servant was a job for life, this was a transitional role for young people, as working in a household was regarded as training for an independent future. The same goes for Gregory’s love interest, Jehan. As an apprentice, he would have expected to learn how to become a spice merchant in his own right. So when Jehan gets into trouble through no fault of his own, he has a great deal to lose!

I also learnt details about the pomander, an object which is pivotal to my plot. These canisters contained perfume to ward off noxious smells of the city streets and ranged from something as simple as a lavender bag to costly containers filled with expensive resin, like the one that causes all the mayhem in my story. My imagination was caught by Ruth Goodman’s gorgeous description of a pomander, when worn by a lady, releasing its perfume every time it knocked against her skirts with each step.

Also, her detailed description of Tudor underwear (or lack of it) and the ins and outs of the workings of codpieces were vital for the love scene between Gregory and Jehan. Essential knowledge!

As the story played out in my mind, I could picture Gregory scurrying around London, trying his best to help his beloved Jehan escape danger. It was a boon to have such a reliable source to check those little details of Tudor life to help my story come alive.

The Spice of Life

At twenty years of age, Gregory Fletcher is content with his life, biding his time as a serving lad for kindly, wealthy relatives in Elizabethan London. Sometimes, he wishes for a spark of excitement in his staid existence. The occasional glimpse of Jehan Zanini, the handsome apprentice of a local merchant, adds spice to his dreams.

Out of the blue, Jehan is accused of stealing from an aristocratic customer. Gregory fears he may never see him again and is concerned for Jehan’s liberty and even his life. When Gregory gets the chance to help Jehan escape his fate, he grasps the opportunity without hesitation.

Can Gregory engineer Jehan’s flight from London and the authorities? Might he even clear Jehan’s name? And will their adventure draw them closer or fling them apart forever?

Buy The Spice of Life

Extract:

“Do you have anywhere to go?”Gregory asked.
“Other than trying to reach my uncle in Southwark, no,” Jehan replied.
“Right, then. I can find you a place to rest up for the day, and we’ll make a plan from there,” Gregory said decisively. He attached the leads to the patiently waiting dogs, and with an encouraging smile at Jehan, he said, “This way,” and the ill-assorted foursome left the field.
The dogs had expended their spare energy racing around the field and were content to trot at Jehan’s slower speed, since his limbs were stiff after a chilly night lying on the hard ground. “Where are we going?” he asked tentatively as they walked into the city.
“My family home, at least that of my master, off Bishopsgate,” Gregory said briefly as they turned onto that thoroughfare and passed St. Helen’s church.
“Wait here,” he said as they arrived at the side gate he had unbolted for his morning walk with the dogs. He pushed it open and peered into the yard, which was still quiet and empty.
“Follow me,” he said to Jehan, and the men and hounds crossed the yard towards a cluster of outbuildings, some of which were much older than the house itself. At the back of these was a small barn, sometimes used as an apple store, but currently unoccupied. While mulling over the problem of where to hide Jehan, this seemed the perfect spot.
Gregory opened the door and was pleased that the shed was dry and sound. He jerked his head towards the half-loft. “You get yourself up there, and I’ll find you some blankets.”
Jess and Roamer were content to explore this new place quietly, snuffling around as Gregory went into the stables as stealthily as he could and found some old horse rugs that wouldn’t be missed.
He let himself back into the barn and climbed the makeshift ladder to the loft, where Jehan was waiting, looking slightly lost. “Here you are,” he said, spreading a blanket over the covering of old straw on the planked floor. Jehan lay down obediently as Gregory knelt, heaping the rest of the blankets over him. “I should be able to get some food for you at dinner time,” he said.
Jehan’s eyes looked heavy already, “All I need to do right now is to get some sleep.” Then he hesitated and asked, “Why are you helping me?”
Looking down at that drawn, vulnerable face, Gregory thought, because you’re handsome and charming, and I have a liking for you, so it pains me to see you brought so low. But instead of voicing his thoughts, he said stolidly, “Such a charge could be brought against any of us. But for the grace of God, it could be me.”
“Thank you,” Jehan said, seemingly satisfied with that explanation, his eyelids closing. Gregory was so close to him that he could see the sweep of those long, dark eyelashes over Jehan’s pale cheek. Gregory imagined he could still perceive a hint of intoxicating spices from Jehan’s body as it warmed under the blankets. He ached to run his finger down the elegant cheekbone or even steal a kiss. But he contented himself to put a comforting hand on Jehan’s shoulder instead.
“You get some rest,” he said gruffly.

Buy The Spice of Life

About Ellie

Ellie Thomas lives by the sea. She comes from a teaching background and goes for long seaside walks where she daydreams about history. She is a voracious reader especially about anything historical. She mainly writes historical gay romance.

Ellie also writes historical erotic romance as L. E. Thomas.

Website : Facebook

Secrets on a Train – Nell Iris

Hi everyone, hi Ally and thanks for inviting me over. You’re always so kind and generous. ❤️ (Ally: BLUSHES)

Today, I’m here to talk about my newest release, Secrets on a Train.

A few months ago, JM Snyder of JMS Books was writing with Ofelia Gränd, Ally, and me in the morning office, and she told us about an idea she had for upcoming submission calls. One of them, “Sugar or spice,” caught my attention. The idea was to write a short story (between 6000 and 12000 long) and incorporate either sugar or spice as a theme.

That submission call idea burrowed itself into my brain and refused to let go, and even though there was another project that should have gotten my attention, I pushed that particular story back and threw myself into sugar or spice.

And I’m sure it’ll come as a surprise to no one familiar with my writing, that I gravitated towards sugar since my stories don’t tend to be hot and sizzling, but sweet and emotional. My sugar story, Secrets on a Train, is no different. In fact, I’ve repeatedly told Ally and Ofelia that I’ll probably be roasted for Secrets on a Train because there’s not even an on-page kiss.

Gasp.

I know, I know! That’s a bit extreme, even for me. I usually get at least one review with every book I release lamenting the lack of heat, and now my characters don’t even kiss? What were you thinking, Nell?

But let me assure you there’s plenty of flirting and heated glances and pin-striped crotches in this story. Okay, only one pin-striped crotch, but what I’m trying to say is that the lack of a kiss doesn’t mean a lack of chemistry because the sweetness of this story is of the literal kind. Sugar. It’s two strangers in the silent car on a train connecting when one of them pours not one, not two, but three packets of sugar in his to-go coffee. And who can resist the allure of so much sweetness? Not Runar, that’s for sure.

Secrets on a Train

It’s the fountain pens that capture Valentin’s attention on the morning commute, not the perfectly imperfect man who spends his train rides using them. Not his pinstriped suits, his chin-length hair, or his perpetually raised eyebrow. But one morning when the man strikes up a written conversation, Valentin gives up all pretense. It’s not just the pens. It’s the man. Runar.

The conversations continue, and the men get to know each other better, sharing secrets they’ve never told another soul. The connection is powerful, growing stronger with every encounter, every scribbled conversation, every scorching look. But can secrets shared on a train be enough to build a forever?

M/M Contemporary / 9889 words

Buy links: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read

About Nell

Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bonafide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies room), loves music (and singing along at the top of her voice but she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, bullet journals, poetry, wine, coffee-flavored kisses, and fika (a Swedish cultural thing involving coffee and pastry!)

Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.

Nell is a bisexual Swedish woman married to the love of her life, a proud mama of a grown daughter, and is approaching 50 faster than she’d like. She lives in the south of Sweden where she spends her days thinking up stories about people falling in love. After dreaming about being a writer for most of her life, she finally was in a place where she could pursue her dream and released her first book in 2017.

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males.

Find Nell on social media:

Newsletter :: Webpage/blog :: Twitter :: Instagram :: Facebook Page :: Facebook Profile :: Goodreads :: Bookbub

Excerpt from Secrets on a Train

He taps the espresso cup with a quirked eyebrow, and I shake my head. No, I didn’t put sugar in his coffee. He tears off the lid and tosses back the coffee, as though it was a shot of whiskey, making me shudder.
“Bleurgh!” My exclaimation makes the old lady—who’s also traveling on this train every morning and has appointed herself the security guard of the silent car—shoots me a poisonous glare, and I mouth I’m sorry to her.
Laughter dances in Runar’s features and I make an exaggerated wince, my silent way of saying either “ouch” or “oops” or a combination of both.
Runar has written something in his notebook.
Thanks for the coffee. It was great. But why?
I point at the window and fake a shudder, and he nods as though he not only understood what I was trying to say but agreed, too. He underlines the word thanks and I smile and give him a thumbs-up without taking my eyes off what he’s written.
That purple ink. I can’t get over it. So far, he’s only used black or blue ink, serious colors to go with a serious-looking man, making his handwriting almost ominous. But the purple ink softens the sharp edges of his writing—turning the angry-looking slashes into swoops and swirls—and of the man himself.
I grab my phone off the table and tap out a question. What’s up with the purple ink?
He draws a big question mark on the paper, but his quirked eyebrow already asked the question.
It seems so…bubbly. You don’t give me a bubbly impression, so it surprised me.
Bubbly?
I nod.
Ink can be bubbly? The corners of his mouth twitch, as though he’s holding back a smile.
Today’s pen is as sleek as a samurai sword. Your usual black slashes would be more in style.
His eyes crinkle. You’re keeping track of my pens?
I nod. You haven’t used the same one twice since I started sitting across from you.
My admission—revealing that I’ve watched him every day for weeks—could’ve, should’ve, made him wary of me. Scared him even. But nothing in his demeanor suggests that’s the case. Instead, he relaxes back into his seat, crossing his legs over the knees, brushing out invisible wrinkles of his already immaculate suit, smirking as he catches my gaze following his every movement. He wiggles his foot, smirk widening as he gets the desired effect of my complete attention.
I tear my gaze away to ask him another question. How many fountain pens do you own?
He slides his calf down his shin, slowly. When his foot hits the floor, he lets his knees fall open and his hands land on his thighs. He might as well have drawn a huge arrow pointing at his junk and written LOOK THIS WAY! with his irresistible purple ink.
So I oblige him. I look at his long legs, his powerful thighs that not even the fabric of his pants can hide. And I look at his bulge, embraced and emboldened by pinstripes. Tantalizing, promising hidden wonders, making me want to fall on my knees and bury my face in the V of his legs and inhale him. Ingest him.
I run a trembling hand through my hair and let my eyes wander up his body and meet his gaze.
He leans forward to pick up the pen, his eyes never leaving me. More than fifty, he writes without looking, his words veering off the lines. I have to read it three times before understanding.
Oh right. Fountain pens.

Buy links: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read

Nell Iris: Santa in Sweden

Today I have a post from my friend Nell Iris for you–and I need to apologise to both Nell and you, because it should have gone up yesterday and I forgot. Nell Iris, everyone…with The Santa Emergency.

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates, and happy random day in December for everyone else. A huge thanks to Ally who’s always so kind and generous and invites me when I have a new book to talk about.❤️ And I do have a new book to talk about: The Santa Emergency. It’s out today, and it’s perfect if you wanna buy yourself a little gift. And speaking of gifts, I’m here to talk about the Swedish Santa, and I’m kicking it off with a poem.

Midwinter’s nightly frost is hard,
Brightly the stars are beaming;
Fast asleep is the lonely yard,
All, at midnight, are dreaming.
Clear is the moon, and the snow-drifts shine,
Glistening white, on fir and pine,
Covers on rooflets making.
None but the Tomte is waking.
Poem by Swedish poet Viktor Rydberg, originally published in 1881, translated to English

Traditionally, the Swedish Santa, or tomten, wasn’t a jolly fella with a white beard who gave kids presents at Christmas. No, he was short and old and dressed in plain wadmal, gray clothing. He was the protector of the farms, he was rumored to be ill-tempered, and a sure way of angering him was to disrespect the farm or mistreat the animals. He was offended by rudeness and didn’t like changes, so it was important to follow traditions. When angered, his retributions ranged from small pranks all the way to maiming and killing the animals he was protecting.

But at the end of the 19^th century, the image of tomten changed, thanks to the poem above, and the illustration that accompanied it. Swedish painter, artist and illustrator, Jenny Nyström got the assignment to illustrate the poem, and it led to a long and successful career. She’s often referred to as the mother of Santa in Sweden, and with pictures like these it’s not difficult to understand why.

These days, our Swedish Santa looks a lot like jolly old Santa Claus, but there are a few differences:

• Tomten lives in a nearby forest, not at the North Pole,
• he has a family,
• he doesn’t come down the chimney at night, but knocks on the front door,
• he delivers presents directly to the children on Christmas Eve before the children go to bed, just like the yule goat did;
• before he hands over presents he asks, Finns det några snälla barn här? (Are there any good children here?),
• he normally walks with his sack, but if he rides in a sleigh it is drawn by reindeer across the snow – they don’t fly,
• he likes a bowl of porridge, not a mince pie and a glass of sherry

(list borrowed from here)

Since we’re all grown-ups, we know Santa isn’t real, but since the presents are hand delivered in Sweden, we need someone to play Santa for us, wearing masks like these. When I was a kid, my beloved uncle always went to the store to “buy a newspaper” every time Santa arrived. When my daughter was little, her uncle went to visit his friend who lived next door to “say hi” and sadly it collided with Santa’s appearance every year. One year, the last year she believed in Santa, she confided to us before Christmas that she was pretty sure that Santa wasn’t real, that it was in fact her uncle. And since we were mean and devious parents, we asked someone else to be Santa that year, and our daughter was very confused. 😁

Kristian in The Santa Emergency was tasked last minute to host his family’s Christmas celebrations, and he pulled it together nicely. With one tiny little problem: he forgot to ask someone to come play Santa. So when it’s less than an hour before Santa is supposed to knock on his door, he rushes over to his new neighbor with a plea. I have a Santa emergency and I desperately need your help.

The Santa Emergency

I have a Santa emergency and I desperately need your help.

Sigge isn’t exactly a grinch when it comes to Christmas, but he’s not a fan of the holiday either. So when his new neighbor Kristian shows up in a panic, begging him to help by donning a Santa suit, Sigge’s gut reaction is to say no. But Kristian is cute and funny, rendering Sigge powerless against his heartfelt plea—especially after a promise of spending more time together—so he agrees.

The instant connection deepens as they share mulled wine and conversation as easy as breathing. But is it just holiday magic swirling in the air, or is it something real? Something that will last into the new year and beyond?

M/M Contemporary / 13 816 words

Buy The Santa Emergency: JMS Books :: Amazon :: Books2Read

About Nell

Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males.

Find Nell on social media:

Newsletter :: Webpage/blog :: Twitter :: Instagram :: Facebook Page :: Facebook Profile :: Goodreads :: Bookbub

Excerpt from The Santa Emergency

“My mom broke her leg two weeks ago. We always do Christmas at her house, and she wanted us to this year, too, despite her injury. But she’s not the kind of person to sit idly by and let other people do all the work, especially since she doesn’t let anyone into her kitchen. She’d insist on business as usual, and she’d exhaust herself and risk re-injuring her leg. So my sister came up with the idea of Christmas at my house since I’m the only one in the family besides Mom living in a house and not an apartment.” He rolls his eyes. “Because Santa would surely strike us down with a mighty hammer if we celebrated Christmas in an apartment, right? I know I’m mixing my metaphors, but I’m trying to say that I’m sure the world wouldn’t end. I love my sister to death, but she has the weirdest ideas.”

He speaks with his whole body; he gestures with his hands and his face is lively and animated, and I can easily read every emotion as he experiences them, even after only being in his presence for a few minutes. All that makes him even more irresistible. In a society where everything is about hiding the truth behind a pretty surface, meeting someone open is refreshing.

“Anyway,” he says, “that gave me two whole weeks to unpack my stuff and plan a party. Dammit, Sigge, I’m a copywriter, not a party planner!”

Holy crap. He’s paraphrasing Star Trek, too? Is he perfect?

“But I did all right. The food, the decorations, everything is perfect. Or you know…everything except that I forgot to convince someone to come play Santa. When my sister found out, she lectured me in her scariest hissing voice until I was overcome with the urge to run away from my own house. She said I must not love my nieces and nephews since I forgot about a Santa. Her blame game is on point.” He grimaces.

“I’d say.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, and Santa always comes after Donald Duck is over. I can’t believe I forgot. The kids reach meltdown level if someone needs to go to the bathroom after the TV is turned off, so I have exactly—” he looks at his watch and gasps “—thirty-five minutes until my sister declares me the worst uncle ever. You must help me. Pretty please with sugar on top.”

His eyes are wide and pleading, his eyebrows slumping sadly, and I swear I can detect a hint of a tremble in his lower lip. I reach out and ease the cup out of his hands and pour more mulled wine into it before handing it back to him. “Drink this.”

He nods and tosses it back like it’s a shot, and I hope he doesn’t choke on the almonds or burns his tongue. “Thank you,” he says, then slumps back on the couch, the corners of his mouth drawn down, his lower lip pouting a little.

“What do you need from me?” I ask.

“I need you to be Santa.”

I blink. I really should’ve seen that one coming, but I didn’t. “Huh?”

“I need a Santa or the kiddos will be heartbroken. You’re my only hope.”

“I can’t be your only hope. What if I hadn’t been at home?”

“I would have been seriously fucked. Everyone I know is knee-deep in their own celebrations. I could probably convince my best friend Anton to do it because he’s too nice for his own good, but he’s a new dad and I don’t want to tear him away from his baby girl on her first Christmas.”

“I don’t even know how to be Santa.”

“Of course, you do. Everyone knows how to be Santa. All you have to do is be jolly, say ho-ho-ho, and ask if there are any good children in the house. Then you give presents to the kids whether they say yes or no. But if my sister says she deserves a gift, don’t believe her. She doesn’t. Not after the lecture she gave me.”

Of course, I know how a Santa behaves. In theory. There was no Santa when I was a kid, rarely any presents, so all encounters I’ve had with him come from TV and movies. I know it’s not like he’s asking me to do an in-depth interpretation of a complex character, but my instinct is to say no. I have little experience with kids, I’m awkward around people, and I don’t do Christmas.

“Oh.” He sits up straight. “Are you…religious? I mean…did I offend your religious beliefs with my request? If so, I’m sorry; I didn’t think before barging into your home. I mean, you haven’t decorated, and—”

“Kristian, please.”

He snaps his mouth shut and looks at me with his eyes full of concern.

“I’m not religious. That’s not why I’m hesitating.” It’s because you’re cute and I don’t want to look like a fool in front of you, my brain adds, but luckily I’m able to stop the words from spilling out of my mouth.

“Whew.” He relaxes his stiff posture “I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with my new neighbors. And you’re really cute.” His eyes widen and he sucks his lips into his mouth as though he’s trying to stuff back the words from whence they came.

Cute? He thinks I’m cute? No one’s ever called me cute before. Scary or intimidating, yes. Even hot. But not cute. “Thank you,” I say, unable to fight a smile taking over my face.

“Thank you?”

“Yes. I’m…uh…flattered you think so.” Flattered is an understatement, but I don’t want to tell him about the tickle in my belly caused by his words.

“Flattered?”

I nod.

“Okay.” He looks at me from under fluttering eyelashes, a content smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay.”

A quick glance at his chunky watch snaps his focus back to where it belongs. “So…Santa?”

Buy The Santa Emergency: JMS Books :: Amazon :: Books2Read

Meg Mardell: The Time Before Christmas

Meg Mardell is visiting today to talk about her new release A Highland Hogmany and the time before Christmas was widely celebrated in Scotland. Welcome, Meg!

‘For weeks before the great morning, confectioners display stacks of Scotch bun — a dense, black substance, inimical to life — and full moons of shortbread adorned with mottoes of peel or sugar-plum, in honour of the season and the family affections.”

Robert Louis Stevenson only lets us press our faces to the glass of the sweet shop for a moment on his whirlwind tour of Victorian Edinburgh. But, for me, one glance was enough. I could practically smell the holiday scents wafting out the bakery doors and mingling with the hint-of-snow December air. Add in the long Northern nights brightened by gas-lamps and I was salivating to set a holiday romance in late nineteenth century Scotland. After all, there are few places in the world I’d prefer to celebrate the season!

Inspired by the Highland castle romance tradition, I quickly sketched out a mistaken identity romp: English heiress Sharda follows feisty Scotswoman Fin back to her Highland castle – only to discover she’s not the owner. And then they’re stuck for Christmas! One slight problem: “the great morning” Stevenson describes? Turns out it wasn’t Christmas morning! What were the mottos Edinburgh’s confectioners spelled out in candied peel? “‘Frae Auld Reekie,’ ‘A guid New Year to ye a’,’ ‘For the Auld Folk at Hame’.”

Yep. Happy New Year. Not Happy Christmas. Because, for around 400 years, Christmas wasn’t popularly celebrated in Scotland. The Scottish Parliament abolished the festivities in 1640, which in the 17^th century would have been the Twelve Days of Christmas, as part of their clean sweep of the Catholic Church. “The kirke within this kingdome is now purged of all superstitious observatione of dayes.” The Puritans in England also banned Christmas at the same time, but the feasting and dancing of the Twelve Days came roaring back when the Monarchy was restored in 1660. You have to wonder if Christmas would have stayed cancelled in Scotland if they hadn’t had New Years to fall back on. Instead, all the holiday baking and bustle in December neatly lead up to Hogmanay, the traditional Scottish celebration of the New Year.

As an historian, I find this all fascinating. But, as a fiction writer, I had a dilemma: how was I going to add Sharda and Fin’s story to my queer Victorian Christmas series? Could I still do it? To answer that question, I sat down and made two lists. First, what makes a great holiday Romance for me? Next, could I still tick all these boxes in Sharda and Fin’s queer castle romance with Hogmanay at the centre of the celebrations?

Home for the holidays – Hogmanay was absolutely a time when all Fin’s family would descend on the castle. So Sharda gets all the awkwardness of meeting her not-quite girlfriend’s family for the holidays. Yes.

Eating everything – Those shortbread full moons of Stevenson’s definitely make an appearance! And I updated the traditional haggis dinner to some tasty fish pie with all the trimmings because I wanted something on the table I would eat.

Roaring fires – One of most memorable features of Hogmanay is the torchlight processions. Why couldn’t my book have its very own parade right up to the castle gates?

Surprise snow – What Highland castle would be complete without a sugar-sweet dusting of snow? One of Sharda’s requirements for her holiday visit is seeing the hills of North-East Scotland transformed by the first snowfall. No prizes for guessing if she gets her wish.

Poignant presents – Gifts are an essential ingredient of Hogmanay. Particularly the ceremonial presents carried by the first person over the threshold at midnight: bread for plenty, coal for warmth, and whiskey for cheer. But obviously I wanted something a bit more sentimental and schemed for ways for our lovers to make a private exchange.

Finding family – This one might seem like a gimme at the holidays. Find your family? You’re practically tripping over them! But I’m taking about the ‘gets a family for the holidays’ trope. It’s one of my absolute favourites. Could I deliver it without a Christmas tree? I figured, as long was I’d got all the other holiday romance ingredients at my fingertips, I’d give it a go.

This checklist was a real confidence boost that I could give Sharda and Fin the holiday romance they deserve at Hogmanay. I also discovered the Scottish new year is simply awesome. I love its emphasis on clearing old debts and starting the new year with a clean slate. It almost made me sorry not to live somewhere that Christmas got cancelled. The 25^th of December became a public holiday in Scotland in 1958, but it’s still overshadowed by the pageantry of Hogmanay. Now I understand why!

A Highland Hogmanay

The daughter of an Indian raja and renegade Englishwoman, Sharda Holkar, was gifted with a magnificent dowry but little say in her future. Until now. She must endure one more depressing holiday season with her controlling cousins, then she will be free to begin her emancipated life. But her discovery of a plot to marry her off to the preening son of the house has Sharda wondering if her new start should begin at once. When Sharda meets the intriguing owner of a Highland castle at a Christmas Eve masquerade, she wastes no time in forming a plan—she will escape across the Scottish border!

Finella Forbes cannot imagine why a sophisticated heiress like Sharda would even associate with someone who manages a castle for a living, let alone accompany her all the way back to the Highlands in time for the raucous celebration of Hogmanay. But a wealthy buyer is just what Balintore Castle needs. Fin is determined to prove she is just as good an estate manager as her father, but with the negligent lordly owner refusing to do his duty, she needs help fast. When mistaken assumptions jeopardise their initial attraction, Sharda and Fin will need all the mischief and magic of a Highland holiday to discover the true nature of their feelings.

NineStar Press | Books2Read

About Meg

Meg moved from the US to England because she fell in love with the Victorians’ peculiar blend of glamour and grime. After a decade of exploring historical excesses in a prim scholarly fashion, she realized that fiction is the best way to delve into that period’s great female-focused and LGBT+ stories. Weaned on the high-seas romances of the 1990s, Meg’s lost none of her love for cross-dressing cabin boys but any tolerance for boorish heroes. She’s delighted to now have a whole raft of quirky and queer characters to cheer for on their quest for Happily Ever After. She frequently breaks off writing for an Earl Grey tea (milk not lemon). She’s trying to learn Polish and Portuguese at the same time. She plans to escape Brexit Britain.

Website | Twitter

Holly Day: How to Soothe a Dragon

This week my friend Ofelia is here in her persona as Holly Day to talk about her new release How to Soothe a Dragon and explain that it’s actually about aliens...take it away, Holly!

Hello! Thank you, Ally, for letting me crash the blog. (You’re most welcome!) I’ve written a story titled How to Soothe a Dragon. I was visiting Nell Iris yesterday where I talked about how this story turned into something completely different from what it was supposed to be.

I believed I was writing sci-fi – I have aliens! – but this is a fated mates dragon shifter story. (I mean, this could happen to anyone! – Ed.)

It has all the components of a paranormal romance story plus a badass alien race that has taken over Earth. The aliens are from the planet Pacuria, and they’re big and burly but mostly human-looking.

Pacurians are working all the top positions in society, leaving only minimum wage jobs for humans, and they can control minds. Most humans are lulled into a false sense of security and believe the Pacurian race has taken control to help them. Derek sees them for what they are, though. He’s not affected by their mind control, but he’s as powerless as every other human.

It has the premise of being a dark story, but it isn’t, not really. All Pacurians are dressed in uniforms similar to those The Beatles wear on the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band cover, and they’re allergic to lemons.

Yup, lemons.

Derek has heard about Pacurians being allergic to lemons, but he doesn’t believe it. There are still lemons to be bought in the shops, and he doesn’t believe there would be if the rumours were true.

It isn’t until he finds a button in his apartment that doesn’t belong to him – oh, I didn’t say I wrote it to celebrate National Button Day, did I? I wrote How to Soothe a Dragon for National Button Day, which is on November 16, so buttons play an important part in it 😆

Derek comes home one day and finds a button in his apartment from one of those Sgt. Pepper uniforms. A black button and his neighbour Ocren wears a black uniform. Derek has had enough. For years, Ocren has been chasing him up the stairs in the apartment building where they both live, but finding Ocren’s button on his living room floor is the last straw. He cuts a lemon in half and goes to confront him.

"You should keep a bottle of lemon juice on you."
Derek stared at her before laughing. "What?"
Casey leaned closer, glancing at Ziril, before whispering, "They're allergic to lemons."
Derek chuckled and took a swig of the beer.
"They're not. It's a myth. If they were, there wouldn't have been any lemons left on Earth."
Available now: How to Soothe a Dragon by Holly Day

Excerpt

He grabbed a lemon, cut it in half, and opened his window. If Casey was wrong about the lemons, Ocren would get a good laugh, and then he’d kill Derek, but this had to end.
His legs were unsteady as he walked down the grid stair to Ocren’s apartment. With a deep breath, he stopped at the landing outside his living room window and squeezed the lemon so the juice trickled through his fingers.
Ocren was there. His green eyes bore into Derek, his dark skin was duller than he’d ever seen it, and the little ridges the Pacurians had where humans had eyebrows stood out like horns. They were similar to humans—lips, nose, the shape of their eyes, everything was the same. But they were bigger, and they had those little horns almost as lizards did. Ocren had one on each cheekbone too—most of the others didn’t.
And the eye color was wrong. Pacurians had different eye colors, as humans had, but they were more intense. And at times they glowed.
Ocren’s glowed a vivid green.
Derek held up a lemon, waiting for Ocren to laugh at him—he didn’t.
Seconds went by and neither of them moved. Derek’s heart banged hard in his chest, but he had no idea what he’d do now.
With the glass between them, they continued to stare at each other. The November chill was creeping into Derek’s core.
An eternity went by, and Ocren continued to stare at him. Slowly, he reached for the sash lift and pushed the window up.
“Derek.”
The growly tone made him shiver more. “Stay out of my apartment, fucker.”
Ocren raised his lips like an aggressive dog, showing off piranha teeth identical to those he’d seen at the bar. What the hell was wrong with the world? Had they suddenly been invaded by crazed aliens? Not suddenly—they’d been invading since long before Derek was born, and he’d always known they were far more dangerous than they’d let on, hadn’t he?
He nodded in reply to his inner monologue which had Ocren conceal his teeth with a frown. The color of his eyes grew more intense and pressure built behind Derek’s eyes.
“Hey! Cut it out!” He flung half a lemon at Ocren but missed, and it swished by him into the apartment. Ocren hissed, and Derek wiped at his nose to see if he was bleeding—he wasn’t.
“I’ll report you. I know you’re a cop, and you can threaten me all you want, but I won’t let you get away with this.”
He took a step back and Ocren paled. “No.”
The hoarse word made him pause. It wasn’t like a demand, more like a plea.
“No?” Derek glared at him, and he clearly had a death wish because he continued to speak. “No, you won’t get away with this? Or, no, I shouldn’t report you? I have the right to be here too, you know? I was here before you moved in, and you have no right to harass me.”
Ocren breathed in deep through his nose. “Derek.” His eyes flashed with the intense green again, and Derek prepared for the pressure to build behind his eyes, but it never came.
“Yes?” He looked away, which most likely was a mistake, but he feared it would be easier for Ocren to control his mind if he maintained eye contact.
“Derek.”
“Yes, dammit! What is it?” He glared at the buttons on Ocren’s uniform—none missing. It didn’t mean anything. He could’ve changed since he’d been there.
“Derek.” This time Ocren whispered his name. Derek frowned at him. The eyes were a soft green now, lacking the intense glow.
“What, Ocren? I’m not a mind reader, I don’t know what you’re trying to say by repeating my name over and over again.”
Viper green flashed in his eyes, and he reached out through the window.
“No! Stay!”
Ocren stilled but narrowed his eyes.
Derek’s heart beat so fast he feared it would stop from exhaustion. “Can’t you be normal for a few minutes?” He was taken aback by the desperation in his voice. “Stay inside and don’t try to grab me. Why are you always trying to grab me?”
Those horned almost-eyebrows pushed down over Ocren’s eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You chase me up the stairs, you abuse my door, you break into my apartment, and you don’t know why?”
Ocren’s eyes flashed green. “I’ve never been in your apartment.”
“Your button was on my floor.”
“No.”
Derek huffed. “Look man, your button was on my floor. I might only be a human, but I’m not stupid.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m a bit stupid, but I’ve kept an eye on your Sergeant Pepper fetish, and this is your button.”
Ocren blinked. “Pepper? I don’t know any Sergeant named Pepper, and I have no fetish… I don’t think.”
Derek snorted. “Right.” He took a step back, putting one foot on the first step of the stairs. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but please stop. The piranha act is getting old.” He walked up another step. “The lemons don’t work, do they?”
“Lemons?”
“You’re not… allergic to lemons.”
The expression, Derek didn’t know if it was a smile, a flash of now mostly human-looking teeth, or a wince. “We’re not supposed to talk about lemons.”
“What?” A small chuckle escaped. He was standing on the fire escape, talking about lemons with a Pacurian who had piranha teeth one moment and normal teeth the next.
His life truly had gone to shit.

How to Soothe a Dragon

Derek Herman is living a nightmare. Long before he was born, the planet was taken over by a mind-controlling alien race, and everyone is affected except for him. Derek does his best not to draw attention to himself, but it’s not going well.

Ocren Starburst is obsessed with his human neighbor. Every time he sees Derek, he wants nothing more than to grab him, hold him, and keep him forever. And four years of chasing him up the stairs in their apartment building has resulted in Derek refusing to even acknowledge his existence. That is, until Derek accuses Ocren of breaking into his apartment.

Derek found a button on his living room floor, the same kind of button Ocren wears on his police uniform. And while Ocren hasn’t broken in, he knows the button means someone has. Ocren’s race has kept their shape-shifting abilities secret for years, but now his other form wants out to slaughter everyone that dares to get too close to Derek. And staying in control proves hard when threats toward Derek increase.

Will they be able to keep Derek safe without Ocren losing control of his dragon self?

JMS Books :: Amazon :: Universal Buy Link

About Holly

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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