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M/M, Contemporary Romance, Explicit [Coming July 17, 2025 / 6,000 Words] AMZ / Apple / BN / Kobo / SW / All Buy Links When Owen needs a little distance from a crowded wedding reception, what better way to escape than following a meandering path through a cheerful forest? Even better, his not-quite-boyfriend has joined him without complaint. Now, alone with Gail at last, Owen is ready to find more intimate distractions to share. "This," Gail says, in a tone full of affection and humor and breathless incredulity, "may not be the brightest idea you've ever had." "Shut up," Owen retorts, but what he really means is, I love you so much my chest hurts every time I look at your stupid face. Gail knows it too, cocky menace that he is. And yes, this probably is a terrible idea. Wandering off into the woods wearing expensive shoes and fancy suits isn't the most inspired choice Owen has ever made. But he keeps hold of Gail's hand anyway, dragging him stubbornly along through a thick stand of trees. And when he risks a glance over his shoulder, he finds Gail's handsome face shining with a maddeningly smug smile. Owen tries to scowl, but he can't make the expression stick. He's too grateful that Gail didn't even protest Owen dragging him off into the scattered woods surrounding the lodge. They won't be missed for a while. It isn't their wedding, after all, and neither of them is a member of the wedding party despite being acquainted with both brides. Or. Well. Not just acquainted. Gail used to date Joan. Owen used to hook up casually with Holly. It probably makes sense that neither one of them was up for Best Man. Weird enough to be attending at all, when Owen considers the situation in this light. But it was still inevitable that he and Gail would show up for Joan and Holly's wedding. They're all still friends, their vast and complicated social circle being a messy network that makes it difficult to hold a grudge after a breakup. With deliberate effort, Owen shoves thoughts of the wedding from his mind and focuses on his surroundings—not just the warmth of Gail's hand or the steady sound of Gail's breathing as they maintain an impatient pace through the forest, but also the forest itself. There are plenty of clearly marked trails and lookout spots, but it still won't do to get lost, when all Owen craves is a moment alone with his sort-of-not-quite-boyfriend. He can only imagine how humiliating it would be, to get turned around in the underbrush and require rescuing, all while wearing their fancy suits and probably worrying the handful of people who notice they've disappeared. It's not that Owen has a destination in mind. He doesn't know this area, or these paths. But the endless spread of trees gives off a friendly and inviting air, narrow birch and sturdy walnut and reaching oak, all creating a shady canopy over the mossy ground. Sunlight flickers through, dappling the forest floor and casting visible streaks of brightness through the soft shadows. Every step Owen takes along the marked path makes the music of the wedding reception recede farther behind them. When at last the only sounds are from the surrounding forest—bird calls in the branches above, an occasional territorial rasp of a squirrel protecting its tree, the rise and fall of buzzing cicadas—Owen finally slows. Gail stumbles obligingly to a stop beside him, squeezing Owen's hand without letting go, turning his head to take in their immediate surroundings. They're standing in a clearing just above a quiet inlet of the larger lake, the open ground positioned at the top of a rambling slope that leads right down to the water's edge. The trees stand more sparsely along the bank, allowing for a stunning view of sunlight glittering across quiet water. A dizzyingly bright sky stretches above, with only occasional puffs of cloud to break up an otherwise endless canvas of perfect blue. There are a couple old benches at the edge of the clearing near the water, and some even older fallen trees lying across the ground, covered in moss and mushrooms, being slowly reclaimed by the forest. "Holy shit." Gail takes a step past the center of the clearing, closer to the shining lake. He tugs Owen along with him as they both refuse to let go. "That's a hell of a view. Did you know this was here?" "Nope." There's a lighthouse at the center of the lake, far beyond the little inlet and so small that neither the structure nor the island it stands on look quite real. Gail cuts Owen a narrow-eyed look, studying him just as closely as he was studying their surroundings a moment before. "Then why the urgent quest?" Owen shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. Not that Gail would ever make fun of him for feeling overwhelmed in a crowd, or needing to sneak away for a little breathing room. But Owen still feels ridiculous for just how desperately he needed to escape a perfectly pleasant wedding reception, full of good music and good food and people he genuinely likes. He keeps his gaze angled out across the lake—it really is a lovely view—but there's no ignoring the way Gail watches him in the silence. Even in Owen's peripheral vision, Gail is a reassuring presence, broad and sturdy and breathtakingly beautiful. The thick slope of his neck is tantalizingly visible where he's undone the topmost buttons of his shirt collar, his tie long since abandoned and stuffed carelessly into a pocket. His brown skin is flushed with warmth from their dash through the forest. His eyes spark with questions, and fondness, and a first flickering hint of desire. Owen glances down at their joined hands—at his long, thin fingers threaded through Gail's blunt digits—his own skin a darker, cooler shade of brown than Gail's. Their fancy clothes have long since lost the pressed crispness of the morning, and Owen feels suddenly far too warm beneath his suit jacket. "Come on," Gail murmurs, tugging Owen toward the sturdier of the two benches. He lets go long enough to shrug out of his suit coat and drape it over the high back of the bench. The wood is badly weathered, and the coat will probably come away dusted with splinters, but if Gail doesn't care, then Owen sure as hell isn't going to protest. Owen's breath hitches a moment later when Gail drops onto the bench, arms spread along the back in a lazy slouch and legs sprawled decadently out before him. He's gorgeous like this: his muscular chest shaping the button-up shirt; his powerful shoulders making the fabric strain; his head tilted back to regard Owen with an unmistakable glint of mischief. AMZ / Apple / BN / Kobo / SW / All Buy Links |
Cover design by Yolande Kleinn ISBN 978-1-946316-60-8 |