He Melted Us | Ofelia Gränd

He Melted UsMy turn! The sixth story in the Love Unlocked anthology is He Melted Us written by me. I’m not one to put a lot of value into symbols of love, I’m not even wearing my wedding ring—though in my defence my husband isn’t either. When the call for this anthology came I wanted to write a character who was the complete opposite of me. I thought up this crazy person putting far too much power into an object representing his love, and that’s how Delron was born.


Blurb:

All Delron wants is to live his life with Phillipe, but when their love lock is stolen from Pont des Art, their relationship is in jeopardy. Without the lock holding them together, Delron is convinced they’ll crash and burn. The only way he can save their relationship is to find the stolen lock, and that is just what he plans to do, no matter what.

Phillipe loves Delron, he really does, but it’s driving him insane that Delron can’t see that a padlock is simply a piece of metal. The lock has nothing to do with them, not really. Up until the night the lock was stolen, their life was great, but Del’s crazy behaviour has Phillipe wondering if he has ever really known his boyfriend.

Delron’s search leads him through art-filled Paris, but will a symbol of love ever be enough to soothe the mistrust his quest has planted in Phillipe? Phillipe always thought he’d spend the rest of his life with Del, but who can live with anyone willing to break the law just to find a padlock when they can buy a new one in just about any shop?

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Excerpt:

Delron was alone on Pont des Arts. The light drizzle made it hard to see over to the cupola of Institut de France. Behind him the lamps outside of the Louvre only gave a dull glow. But it didn’t matter—none of it mattered.

The metal railing dug into his palm as tiny water droplets coated the back of his hand. He couldn’t look down, couldn’t force himself to take in the empty grate on the side of the bridge one more time. Below, the Seine’s water ran black and cold. Delron looked at it whirling and rippling. He could almost feel it swallowing him, even as he stood firmly on the wooden deck on the bridge.

It was gone—their lock was gone.

Delron couldn’t breathe. A group of young men staggered over the otherwise deserted bridge. They were too busy talking and joking to notice him. How could anyone joke at a moment like this?

Once they’d passed, he sat down on one of the benches. The wet seat soaked his trousers, but he didn’t care.

He had known, or assumed, but seeing it with his own eyes made the reality hit home. Their relationship was over. A part of him had still hoped. They’d said on the radio that about 2000 locks were missing, a few dozen had been left untouched. He’d hoped theirs would be one of those few. It wasn’t.

He remembered the day they’d stood there two years ago. The weather had been warm, the sun reflecting off the water below them, and Phillipe had been absolutely gorgeous. His short dark hair had come to life in the sunshine, and his warm brown eyes had held so much affection, Delron felt a warmth fill him every time he thought about it.

Delron had always thought Phillipe was handsome—handsome in an ordinary way. He didn’t look like a model; he looked real, and Del wanted a real man. That day he had thought Phillipe was the most beautiful creature on this Earth. They’d been standing there, holding hands—not giving a damn about what people would think. And they’d attached their lock to the bridge. Both of them had held on to the lock as they attached it, their hands touching as Delron pushed down the shackle and Phillipe pulled out the key. Instead of throwing it into the Seine like Del had wanted to, Phillipe had attached it to his other keys.

Delron had never been happier. It was like everything had finally fallen into place. That lock—it meant everything. As long as their lock hung on the bridge, he knew they would be all right. It was the closest they’d ever come to marriage—the lock was their wedding ring, their promise to themselves and the world that they would be together for eternity. And now? He looked around at the sad-looking grate; the occasional lock decorating the ugly metal grid only made it worse.

It was gone. It was over. Delron might just as well go back home, pack his things, and move out of the flat they’d shared for the last five years. No lock, no relationship—he had no say in this. Someone had stolen his happiness.

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books2read.com/HeMeltedUs


Cover Love UnlockedLove Unlocked is a collection of seven short stories and novellas – unique LGBTQ romances inspired by the Love Lock Bridge.

THE STORIES:
The Trap by Claire Davis and Al Stewart
Writer’s Lock by Victoria Milne
Locked in the Moment by Dawn Sister
The Weekend by J P Walker
The Scarlet Lock by Caraway Carter
He Melted Us by Ofelia Gränd
Chain of Secrets by Debbie McGowan

books2read.com/LoveUnlocked


* By clicking the Books2Read link you’ll be taken to an external page. Links to Smashwords, Kobo U.S and Amazon contain affiliate links that earn me a small commission at no additional cost to you. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

 

Writer’s Lock | Victoria Milne

Writer’s Lock by Victoria Milne is the second story in the Love Unlocked anthology. Phil is in Paris to write a romance novel but the words aren’t coming to him. Laurent sees him and offers to show him Paris to help him find inspiration. I’ve never been to Paris but it felt like I was there while reading this story. It’s sweet, a little sad, but it left me smiling.

The lovely cover is made by Shayla Mist.


Blurb:

Spending a month in Paris to write his romance novel had seemed like the perfect plan, but one week in, Phil Pearson is suffering from a severe case of writer’s block. With barely a word written, he’s fed up and ready to cut his trip short.

When Laurent Marceau sees Phil in his café, it sends him hurtling into the past, opening old wounds and reminding him of the love he lost. But, after watching the aspiring writer struggle for inspiration, he surprises himself by offering to show him Paris through the eyes of a true Parisian.

Finally bursting with ideas, Phil is delighted to put pen to paper, albeit badly at first. As the writer finds himself falling in love for the first time, Laurent knows he needs to decide quickly if he’s strong enough to return his affections, or whether it would be better for them both if he walked away. He knows he may not have a choice, once Phil finds out the truth.

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Excerpt:

Phil Pearson tilted his head, contemplating the blank pages of his notebook, and a dark lock of hair skimmed his eyes. Still nothing. Yet again, his mind was totally blank—an alarmingly familiar feeling. He squinted hard, blurring the faint, ruled lines into thick, grey barriers.

So much for coming to Paris for inspiration; he’d barely written a word in the six days since his arrival. Leaning back in the rickety, wooden chair, he slammed the notebook shut, sighed and gazed out of the café window at the tourists bustling past in the warm, evening sun.

He felt like such a fraud. How could he legitimately call himself a romance writer, when he was in the city of love and still struggling to write anything of significance? His fingers trembled as he smoothed condensation from his beer glass. His inexperience of love was certainly shining through. He had to prove he could do this, for his own sanity if nothing more. Surely, it shouldn’t be this hard.

Vous désirez…un café peut-etrê?

Phil peered blankly at the waiter, who smiled and repeated in English.

“Can I get you anything else?”

Phil shook his head, and the waiter took a step closer—a little too close, Phil noticed—as he glanced at his notebook.

“Ideas not flowing today?”

“Or any day, it feels like.”

The waiter indicated towards the empty chair opposite, and Phil shrugged his acquiescence, catching the delicate scent of the man’s aftershave as he took his seat. “You’re a writer?”

“Trying to be,” Phil said with waning conviction.

Studying him, the waiter pursed his full lips. “You cannot wait for inspiration to come to you like this. Sometimes you have to go out there and create it for yourself.”

Phil snorted a laugh. “You really think I’m going to take advice about inspiration from a waiter?”

His companion’s chair legs noisily scraped the tiled floor as he stood and gave Phil a long, hard stare. “Perhaps you should not be so quick to judge on appearances. Most things are not as they seem at first glance. You could learn a lot about inspiration from me, if you were not so arrogant.”

Phil stared at the man as he walked away, horrified with himself. He’d been so caught up with his own woes and torments that he’d unwittingly committed the one sin he despised most in others: not only to judge someone negatively but to do so with no thought as to whether it were true, or deserved, even.

The waiter was preparing coffee behind the bar, and Phil looked at him more closely. His shoulder-length, auburn hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, and he had the physique of a long-distance runner, or perhaps a cyclist. The sleeves of his crisp, black shirt were rolled to his elbows, and a wooden beaded necklace graced his throat. The more Phil watched the man’s practised movements, the more intrigued he became, and also more embarrassed.

Draining his beer and packing up his things, he stood and walked the short distance to the bar and placed the empty glass down with a thud.

“I’m sorry about before,” he said and slid twenty euros across the bar. The waiter glanced over his shoulder and made to open the cash register, but Phil shook his head and began to walk towards the exit. “Have a drink on me.”

“Wait!”

Phil spun to look at him and was studied with a guarded smile.

“How would you like to know Paris through the eyes of a true Parisian?”

Phil eyed him cautiously, and the waiter strolled over.

“This is not true Paris,” he scoffed and waved his hand at the tables of tourists. “You will never feel inspiration here. Allow me to show you Paris, the places we Parisians go. If you cannot write afterwards, I guarantee it was never meant to be your passion.”

Phil considered his offer for a moment. “Okay, you’re on.” He scraped a lock of hair from his eyes and held out his hand. “I’m Phil, by the way.”

“Philippe, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Laurent.” He leaned forward, ignoring Phil’s outstretched hand, and kissed him on both cheeks. “But we should start right away, and I know exactly where we’ll go. I’ll get my coat and tell Luc I’m leaving.”

Phil hovered by the doorway, wondering what exactly he’d agreed to. He’d just put what felt like his entire future in the hands of a complete stranger. To his surprise, instead of feeling apprehensive, he was excited to see where this journey would take him.

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books2read.com/WritersLock


Cover Love UnlockedLove Unlocked is a collection of seven short stories and novellas – unique LGBTQ romances inspired by the Love Lock Bridge.

THE STORIES:
The Trap by Claire Davis and Al Stewart
Writer’s Lock by Victoria Milne
Locked in the Moment by Dawn Sister
The Weekend by J P Walker
The Scarlet Lock by Caraway Carter
He Melted Us by Ofelia Gränd
Chain of Secrets by Debbie McGowan

books2read.com/LoveUnlocked


* By clicking the Books2Read link you’ll be taken to an external page. Links to Smashwords, Kobo U.S and Amazon contain affiliate links that earn me a small commission at no additional cost to you. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

 

How Og the dog came to be

OgtheDog

Do you see the handsome fellow in the picture? It’s my dog Ove. He is a nine-month-old German Shorthaired Pointer. We got him earlier this year and as always when you get a new pet the biggest problem is what to name the little creature. In our case, it was fairly easy. In Swedish ‘vovve’ is ‘dog’, or rather ‘vovve’ is ‘doggie’ and my two-year-old said “ove”—she still does whenever she sees a dog. Ove is a male name in Sweden, though not a very common one, but it seemed fitting for the dog. So Ove it was and Ove this is.

When I was emailing with my friend, Jonathan Penn, he asked what the dog was called. I told him what I wrote above. So it would be as if I named a dog Og, he asked. And it would.

When I came to write Once in a Snowstorm I figured our lonely lumberjack needed a dog to keep him company in his secluded cabin, and remembering what Jonathan had written back in the summer I named him Og. In the first draft, I did say that Og was a German Shorthaired Pointer, but I think that paragraph got deleted sometime during the process because when I went back to check now I couldn’t find it. In my head, Og still is a German Shorthaired Pointer, but I guess you can make him whatever breed you see fit.


Og’s first appearance in Once in a Snowstorm:

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Soft approaching footfalls interrupted his slumber, or were they footfalls, or…? They were closing in rapidly, and they didn’t sound…human. Aiden didn’t have the energy to open his eyes and look. It was probably all in his imagination anyway.

But he couldn’t ignore when something wet and cold touched his face.

Aiden grunted and turned away, squinting in exhaustion at his would-be attacker. Through the blur of icy lashes, he saw a brown face and honey-coloured eyes watching him with interest. The light-brown snout came towards him again, but Aiden managed to put up an arm before the wet whiskers made contact with his skin. What is a dog doing in the middle of the forest?

The bark startled him.

“Og! Get back here!” That’s a human voice. Aiden tried to speak, but not a sound passed his lips. The last of his energy seeped out in the snow. He reached up and grabbed a hold of the dog’s collar, not wanting it to leave him. Then he closed his eyes.