nell iris – Page 2 – A. L. Lester

#RAtR: Weird Internet Searches

This month’s topic for Read Around the Rainbow is the brainchild of Addison Albright—and I’m really looking forward to her post revealing whatever prompted this suggestion! As some of you already know, #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, and I will link to everyone’s post on this month’s topic at the bottom of this page.

So. My weirdest internet search? For this question, I usually talk about researching butter lamps for The Flowers of Time and making my own butter from scratch and then rendering it to ghee and making a lamp in a jam-jar with a bit of string. I got a bit obsessed. I’ve downgraded that particular search to ‘only mildly obsessive’ over the last few years though, as things have moved on!

photo of brown metal cage with lighted candle — Photo by Craig Adderley on Pexels.com

I’m pretty sure that everyone who writes about murder or death has a disturbing search history story; and for The Quid Pro Quo I joined the team. I researched what a body would look like after being submerged for twenty four hours. I don’t recommend googling this for fun—I can still see some of the images in the articles I read and it was deeply unpleasant and upsetting.

When I’m researching things I know nothing about I find it very easy to get sucked into a rabbit-hole where I spend an unnecessary amount of time on subjects that are only going to be mentioned in passing in the story. I need to get the background straight in my head in order to be able to drop a couple of colourful details in there. If it’s something I know a bit about already, even if that’s only incidental knowledge, it’s much easier to know what it is I don’t know, if that makes sense?

For example, Out of Focus is set in the world of contemporary theatre. I know quite a bit about how the technical side of that works and I knew what I didn’t know…I went off and found out about scissor lifts and health and safety regulations and it took me a couple of hours. In contrast I spent two days searching and reading up on how eighteenth century women dealt with menstruation for The Flowers of Time—not because it featured in the story particularly, but just because I felt as if it was something that would impact my characters even if I never mentioned it.

I think that’s partly why I’ve set seven books in the post-WW1 period now. I’ve done my research and I feel confident with the background colour of the era. Yes, okay, I have to toddle off and read up on what treatment you’d use for migraine, or whether medicals were required by then to join the army. But I’ve got all the building bricks in place, I know where to find the resources and I’m comfortable.

It’s a very nice feeling, being able to hunker down in a setting you’re reasonably knowledgeable in and just get on with the narrative. I think that’s why I’m enjoying writing my short contemporary stories so much—the only searching I did for Surfacing Again for example, was to use Google Earth to walk the old pilgrim route to Lindisfarne.

When I have the time and inclination I try to gather my research sources together for particular books and time-periods. You can find them under the menu Interesting History Stuff at the top of the page. It’s a bit of a work in progress and it’s not comprehensive, but it also serves to remind me what I looked at 😊.

So what am I going to leave next in my browser history? Honestly, I don’t know. This year I have crashed and burned a bit as far as longer projects are concerned, but I had planned to write the final book in the Bradfield trilogy, so if that happens I’ll be going back to the 1920s. And perhaps a companion book to The Flowers of Time, which is going to take a bit of a jump-start as I’ve forgotten quite a lot about the 1780s. I feel as if I want to get those done, interspersed with contemporary Celtic myths and the Theatre Fach world, before I begin a completely fresh project. However, it might be that I just stick with the contemporaries for now rather than forcing myself to concentrate on anything longer.

Watch this space and you’ll be the first to know!

http://www.amyspectorauthor.com/blog2To find out what’s in the internet search histories of my Read Around the Rainbow colleagues, visit their blogs here! K. L. Noone, Addison Albright, Nell Iris, Ofelia Grand, Holly Day, Fiona Glass, Ellie Thomas, Lillian Francis, Amy Spector.

Read Around the Rainbow. Writers and bloggers of LGBTQIA+ Romance.

Nell Iris Guest Post: It Rained All Night

Thank you so much, dear Ally, for allowing me back into your space to talk about my newest release It Rained All Night. (You are most welcome, Nell!)

This story features a trope I usually don’t write: class differences. I’ve written about it exactly once before, but that was in one of my rare fantasy stories, and it felt more natural in that situation. It Rained All Night is a contemporary story, and it doesn’t come naturally to me in this context. I’m aware that class differences are a real thing—both IRL and in books—but the poor MC meets billionaire MC isn’t something I read a lot, which means I don’t write it either.

But Henrik, the narrator in It Rained All Night, told me he was filthy rich, and I had to listen to his voice. He started as a regular gazillionaire (hah!) with a private plane at his disposal, but in the final edit, after I got my manuscript back from betas, he morphed into something more. He turned out to be nobility.

Sweden is a kingdom and has had noble, titled families for hundreds and hundreds of years, but in 1902 the last person became ennobled, and the nobility lost their official privileges, such as tax exemptions on July 1^st, 2003. They still enjoy some informal social privileges, and in 2022 there are still 657 noble families in Sweden.

And Henrik is one of them. His family still garners lots of attention from the press, and they’re very rich, not just from inherited money, but also from hard work. They’re always in the public eye, something Henrik doesn’t like, something that has kept him from trying to find a significant other because he doesn’t want to subject someone to a life of public scrutiny.

Then he meets Mikko, a regular middle-class, yoga-loving guy, and his life changes completely…

It Rained All Night

Can a chance meeting in the rain change someone’s life?

Meeting someone who can make him stop going is an eye-opener for Henrik. The man, Mikko, is his complete opposite, a steady rock in the wild rainstorm that is Henrik’s life, but the connection between them is both unexpected and instantaneous. Their encounter only lasts a few minutes, but before they part, they exchange phone numbers.

They live far away from each other, but soon they text and call daily, until Mikko is Henrik’s dearest friend and most trusted person. But a late-night question on the phone has Henrik re-evaluating his feelings. It’s impossible to love someone you’ve only met in person once…right?

Is the connection Henrik and Mikko forged long distance enough to sustain them when they meet again? And will their love be strong enough to give them the happily ever after they deserve?

M/M Contemporary / 7673 words

JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read

Can a chance meeting in the rain change someone's life? It Rained All Night by Nell Iris.

Excerpt

It’s late when I finally get home. I tear off my white bowtie as soon as the door closes behind me and toss it on the entryway table. The peacock-y tailcoat suffers the same fate, and as I march through the apartment to my bedroom, I remove the cufflinks and the studs from my suffocating shirt, flip open the button on my pants, toss them on the bed after shimmying out of them, and by the time I reach the shower, I’m naked. I quash the guilt about throwing my fanciest clothes around like I was a teenager in a snit, but I’ll take care of them in a moment. I need to wash off the day first.
I turn the water to red-hot and step under the spray. I hate weddings. At least grand formal affairs that are mostly for show and less about celebrating love—the ones attracting the press like flies to a rotting corpse—the kind my family likes to put on. It’s not that I doubt that my cousin Emma loves her now-husband, but a white-tie wedding? Yes, we’re a rich, titled family, but we’re not the royal fucking family.
The warm water beats down on my tense muscles as I scrub off the ostentation of the evening, and I feel a little better after drying off. I pull on some soft sweats, take care of my fancy suit, then slip out onto the balcony. It’s chilly; spring has just sprung, and the rain-heavy air doesn’t help with the temperature. Raindrops are splattering against the glass roof, and the scent…the scent is intoxicating. It’s earthy and fresh, it’s washing away the old and dead to make way for the new and the budding.
I take a picture of the rivulets on the roof and send it to Mikko without a message. It’s late—a glimpse at the time tells me it’s close to one in the morning—and he’s probably already sleeping. He’s an early riser and never misses his yoga practice at five-thirty, so I don’t expect a reply. Instead, I sit on one of the chairs, dragging the other one closer so I can rest my feet on the seat, before reclining the back and closing my eyes, exhaling all the frantic energy of the day.
If I ever get married, it’s going to be a small affair. Just him and me and the witnesses needed to make it legal. No napkins printed in gold with our names, no long-winded speeches, no band playing, no press photographers. Just him and me and the I do’s and a light drizzling rain in a remote place where no one can find us…
I sigh. If I ever get married. I need a man for that, and I won’t find a man if I’m not looking, and I’m not looking because…
A gust of wind sprays me with chilly raindrops. I shiver but don’t go inside. Instead, I sink deeper into the chair and let the steady dripping on the roof soothe me.
I’m not looking because of Mikko.
I don’t know when it happened. When my feelings for Mikko veered from being friendly to something else. Something more. Something deep.
We stayed in contact after the yoga retreat; even though we’d exchanged phone numbers, I didn’t expect much, but he’s an avid texter and kept me updated about his long train ride back home after we parted. He was funny and thoughtful, and it didn’t take long until texting him daily was a regular part of my routine. Until I started expecting “good morning” messages with a picture attached of him contorted in one of the harder, fancier yoga poses. Until I started needing to chat with him for a few moments at the end of the day to unwind. Until he was the one I wanted to confide in, until he was the one I started to turn to when something important was going on.
Until he was the one I fell—
I push away the thought before I can complete it. It’s not possible to fall in love with someone you’ve only met once. It’s not.
Still, as I sink deeper into the chair, as the pitter-patter of rain against the roof chases away the stress of the day, I allow myself a second to acknowledge that I’m fooling myself with those kinds of thoughts.
But then my phone buzzes with an incoming call, I know it can only be one person. Only Mikko would call me at this hour.
“What are you doing up this late?” I ask as a greeting, as the tense set of my shoulders bleed away, leaving me relaxed for the first time all day.
“I was waiting for you to report back from the wedding of the century.” His voice is hoarse, sleepy, but happy.

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

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 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 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

Flowers Under My Pillow – Guest Post by Nell Iris

Hi everyone, I’m back! Thank you so much Ally, for inviting me to your blog to talk about my brand new release, Flowers Under My Pillow, a contemporary story infused with some of the Midsummer magic of the olden days.

The idea for the story came from old Swedish folklore. In olden times, Midsummer was considered a time of magic. Its proximity to the summer solstice makes it one of the brightest nights all year because the sun barely (or never) sets, and it was believed to be one of the most magical nights of the year. The boundaries between the human world and the paranormal were blurred, and anything could happen.

Plants and herbs with healing powers were believed to be extra powerful during this night, so people picked them and dried them to preserve the power of Midsummer all year. Walking barefoot—or rolling around naked—in the morning dew supposedly helped keep you healthy and strong during the year, and people also collected the dew and added it to bread and beer to help leaven and ferment. They also used the dew for medicinal purposes.

People also believed you could predict the future on nights like this, and this is where the idea for my story came from.

If a young lady wanted to know who she was going to marry, all she had to do was pick seven kinds of flowers on Midsummer’s Eve and put them underneath her pillow and she’d dream of her future husband. There are variations to the tradition; in some places, you had to pick nine kinds of flowers, and in other places, you needed to jump over the corresponding number of fences before putting your bouquet under the pillow. And if you didn’t do it in silence, you broke the magic and it didn’t work.

So I took this idea and adapted it to suit my purposes. I threw out all the heteronormative crap and made a man dream about a man because this is the 21^st century and even old folklore needs to be more inclusive, amirite? 😊

Traditional Swedish folklore tells you that if you pick seven kinds of flowers in silence and put them under your pillow on midsummer's eve, you'll dream of the man you'll marry. Flowers Under My Pillow available now!

Excerpt:

“You’re certainly beautiful enough to be a hallucination,” he murmurs. “Are you some kind of forest spirit, here to lure me into your lair?”

His thumb strokes, strokes, strokes my lip, but his words make my breath stutter. Make my words stutter. “Wh-wh-what did you just say?”

“I asked if you’re a forest spirit, here to captivate me and hold me prisoner for the rest of eternity.” His smile tells me he’s joking.

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“Why?”

“My mom calls me her forest spirit son. She has a mad scientist daughter and me. The forest spirit.”

“So you are here to abduct me.” He runs his finger along my hairline and then twists an errant lock around his finger. “I can totally believe it. What’s happening here is too surreal; you must be some kind of sprite.”

I snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I come willingly. I’m yours; do what you want with me.” He tugs lightly on my hair, his brown eyes twinkling like stars in a night sky.

“Whatever I want?” I let my gaze fall to his mouth; the darkness of his beard surrounding his full lips makes them shockingly red, like sun-ripened strawberries.

“Yeah.”

I run my finger along the seam of his mouth and my skin buzzes at his touch, as though one of the bees had gotten stuck between my digit and his skin. His eyes darken and hypnotized, I trace the outline of his lips. Then I skim my fingers down his beard, careful to not disturb the blossoms. “Every year, I pick the same flowers as I did that first year. And now, you’re wearing them.” His beard looks wild, wearing my bouquet. The cow-parsley is sprawling everywhere, the forget-me-nots and buttercups are dainty and almost disappear among the thick strands, the daisies take up too much space, and the cornflowers are so blue against the dark hairs they’re almost too bright to look at. It should be crazy, but it’s amazing and I can’t take my eyes off him.

“May I take a picture of you?” I ask.

“Of course.”

I take out my phone, and he smiles at me as I snap several photographs of him before stuffing my phone back into my pocket, my hand returning to his face like a magnet, my finger softly ghosting over his lips.

What would kissing him feel like? Would his beard scratch and prick me? Or would it be a gentle rasp, drawing my blood to the surface, arousing me? I squirm at the thought.

His brown eyes burn into me and his grip strengthens on my hand. “Anything,” he whispers.

I move closer to him, crane my neck until our noses nudge. I let my eyes fall closed and wait for a heartbeat, giving him the opportunity to pull away if he wants to, but he doesn’t. So I rub my nose along his, feeling the first tickle of his beard against my clean-shaven cheek. It provokes a shudder and spurs me on. Unable to wait a nanosecond longer, I lean in, and hum when our mouths touch.

It’s a chaste kiss, so light and fleeting I wouldn’t have believed it was real if it hadn’t been for his beard tickling my lips, inviting me to press a little harder. My heart hammers so hard in my chest, I’m certain he can feel it pulsing through my lips, certain it reverberates through the forest like some ancient, shamanistic drum. The kiss is everything I’ve ever dreamed of and I want more. I need more.

Flowers Under My Pillow

Smiling brown eyes. A dark beard. Dandelions. Sunny, happy dandelions.

For thirty years, Frode’s had the same dream. Every Midsummer’s Eve since he was a kid accompanying his sister to pick flowers to put under his pillow, he’s dreamed of the same man. A dream he never shares with anyone, that makes him wish for impossible things…like true love.

“It’s you.”

Then one Midsummer’s Eve, the man of Frode’s dreams stands before him in the flesh. Both men recognize each other despite never having met in real life. Both men are instantly drawn to each other and want to know more.

“Who are you, Viljar? Are you even real?”

Their questions are many but do the whys and the hows matter? Or should they allow the Midsummer magic that brought them together to lead the way into each other’s arms? Into each other’s hearts?

Traditional Swedish folklore tells you that if you pick seven kinds of flowers in silence and put them under your pillow on Midsummer’s Eve, you’ll dream of the man you’ll marry.

M/M Contemporary / 17 477 words

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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.

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