Holly Day, Nell Iris, A.L. Lester and K.L. Noone have written a gay romance novella each to celebrate World Letter Writing Day, and today you get to read an excerpt from A.L. Lester’s Reading it Wrong! 

Dear John

How to break up with your boyfriend when your only means of communication are letters?

Logan Fleet is working undercover on a one-house island. A syndicate leader he and his team have been investigating was meant to arrive a week ago but hasn’t shown. Instead, Logan spends his day watching Zion, a talented artist and the syndicate leader’s boyfriend. Logan shouldn’t care, but he feels drawn to Zion.

One bad decision after the other has landed Zion Dash on an island with no cellphone reception, no internet, and no TV. His only means of communication with the world are letters, and his life is falling apart. He wants to curl up next to Logan, but he must get out of the relationship he’s in first.

As the days go by, Logan and Zion grow closer. When news about the syndicate leader being on his way reaches them, Logan tells Zion who he is and tries to get him off the island. But Zion isn’t sure he believes Logan. How can he trust someone who’s been lying about who he is the entire time they’ve been together?

Buy links:

Gay Contemporary Romance: 17,578 words

JMS Books :: Amazon

Excerpt:

Once Zion had left the kitchen and gone back to doing nothing—poor thing—Logan steamed open his letter. Normally, he’d freeze it for a few hours to get the glue to let go of the paper, but he didn’t have a few hours today, so steam it was.

When he had the envelope open, he went into his room, locked the door, and unfolded the letter inside.

Dear Igor,

I’m fucking the houseboy. I hope that’s okay. I’m bored since I’m not allowed my phone, my computer, or even to watch the damn TV. And someone has failed to arrive with my painting supplies.

He’s bending me over the dining room table every morning before breakfast. It’s a nice way to wake up, I have to say. He fills me so good. I can still feel him move inside me, his fingertips digging into my hips.

Anyway, I only wanted to let you know. Could you ship the brown bag if you’re too busy to come yourself?

Zion

Logan stared. Fuck, could he send this? Perhaps he could pretend it got lost in the mail. Zion would get him killed.

This letter was nothing like the last one. Nothing at all. He had to report to Carr. He didn’t feel like dying for fucking Sidorov’s kept pet, especially since he wasn’t fucking him for real.

He pocketed the letter and headed back into the kitchen. It didn’t take him many seconds to locate Zion. He was staring out of the window in the dining room again, with slumped shoulders and a forlorn look in his eyes.

“I’ll be off now. Is there anything you want from the mainland?”

“Eh…” Zion stared at him. “What am I allowed?”

For a moment Logan’s mind blanked. Were there things he wasn’t allowed? Fuck, there were most likely rules in the brochure. “Why don’t you tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you if you can have it or not.”

“Wine and chocolate.”

Logan grinned. Were they a no-sugar, no-alcohol kind of resort? Wouldn’t surprise him. “Any particular brand?”

“No, red wine and anything that tastes of chocolate.”

Logan nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll love you forever and ever.”

Logan doubted it.

It was warmer now than it had been on his first trip to the mainland. The sun played on the waves, forcing him to squint as the brightness blinded him. Gulls screeched, and for a moment he believed he spotted a dog head breach the surface. Then he remembered the real owner of the resort telling him seals were common. Dogs didn’t swim this far from land. The put-put-put of the motorboat engine lulled him into a state of fake calm.

Fucking Sidorov. And why did Zion have to be nice? It would be easier if he was a spoiled brat, but he was… sad, and it made Logan want to hug him. On the other hand, if he got killed because Sidorov believed he was doing two-person push-ups with his possession, he would be angry with Zion.

As soon as he stepped ashore, he called Carr and told him about the letter.

“Send it.” Carr was chuckling, but Logan had a hard time joining in.

“Are you sure? He might come here to kill me. Or to kill Zion. Fuck, he seems afraid of him, so why would he send a letter like this?”

Carr sighed, and Logan pictured him rubbing his face as he always did when he’d slept too little. “I don’t know why he wanted Zion out of the way, but I don’t think Sidorov will show. He had another young man, no more than twenty, on his arm last night. They went to the fancy restaurant at the top of the tower you have to wait months to get a table at.”

Logan hummed, though it sounded a little bit like an eww. “Young artist?”

“Ines is looking into him, but so far nothing is pointing at any artistic talent.”

Logan nodded and moved away from the jetty as a man carrying a large wooden box approached. “Zion doesn’t know what happens to his paintings. Sidorov takes them as soon as he’s done, and then he never sees them again. He doesn’t know who buys them or what they pay. Sidorov puts some money in his account whenever he’s sold something.”

Carr was quiet for a long time, and Logan squirmed. It was wrong. The whole setup was wrong.

“But Zion is the seller?” Carr’s voice had gone quiet.

“I don’t know, but I’d assume so. Sidorov is his manager, and when I asked if painters had managers, he said no.”

“So look into the paintings?”

About Holly Day:

According to Holly Day, no day should go by uncelebrated and all of them deserve a story. If she’ll have the time to write them remains to be seen. She lives in rural Sweden with a husband, four children, more pets than most, and wouldn’t last a day without coffee.

Holly gets up at the crack of dawn most days of the week to write gay romance stories. She believes in equality in fiction and in real life. Diversity matters. Representation matters. Visibility matters. We can change the world one story at the time.

Connect with Holly on social media:

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

Holly Day, Nell Iris, A.L. Lester and K.L. Noone have written a gay romance novella each to celebrate World Letter Writing Day, and today you get to read an excerpt from K.L. Noon’s A Flowering of Ink! 

A Flowering of Ink

One misdirected card … and a chance at love.

Professor Burne Cameron loves his job and his environmental research. Unfortunately, three months of field work on a tiny island can get pretty lonely, especially when even his brother forgets his birthday. That is, until an unexpected letter arrives … and Burne finds himself fascinated by the mysterious sender.

Devon Lilian lives alone in a house he’s designed, full of roses and ocean views. His architectural designs are famous, but Devon has reasons for not going out in public. But when a misdirected birthday card for a Professor Cameron turns up at his house, Devon has to send it on … and can’t resist adding a note of his own, a gift for a scientist who might be equally alone.

As Burne and Devon trade letters across the sea, they fall for each other in ink and paper … but now Burne’s research is nearly complete, so he’s coming home.

And Burne and Devon will have to decide whether they can write the rest of their love story together … once they finally meet.

Buy Links:

JMS Books :: Amazon

Excerpt:

Devon Lilian, perched on his kitchen counter, swung a long leg back and forth, and waited for his kettle, and stared at the letter in his hand. Coastal early-morning fog wrapped his house inside a swirl of green-grey mint-chip hillside and sea-haze beyond, a dance of opals and oceans.

The flower also in his hand glowed yellow. Bright, against his browner fingers. Sunny. A lemon drop. Incongruous.

Professor Burne Cameron had sent him a buttercup. Not rare, but radiant. Like gold on a hillside, the letter said. Devon knew it did, because he’d read it and reread it, since its arrival yesterday. He’d half-accidentally memorized most of it.

Cheerful gratitude. Unicorn jokes. Gentle reassurance. Equally gentle questions: are you an artist, have you seen flowery mythical beasts, everything light and playful, nothing too personal but an invitation. Beckoning. If Devon wanted to answer.

He rubbed his thumb along the paper. Not as expensive as something he’d’ve bought; but of course Professor Cameron — Burne; he’d signed the letter with his first name — would have practical options, out there on a wild island in the ocean. Doing research, surrounded by sea and sky and salt, rocks and microscopes and passion.

Devon considered the flower again. Burne loved his job, that much was clear. Such joy in a flower, in a description. In a mention of an ocean-splashed notebook.

Someone so passionate, so brilliant, so devoted to his research that he’d spend months on an island, exploring the minutia of sea grass, running comparative analyses and gathering samples and all sorts of scientific botanical endeavors that Devon wouldn’t have the first idea about. Someone outgoing, happy rambling around out of doors. Someone happy in general, from the way he wrote, confident and breezy, smiling and broad-shouldered and red-haired and scruffy-bearded and tanned as a nineteenth-century adventurer-hero in his official faculty photograph. Someone with whom Devon would have nothing in common, if they ever met.

Someone he shouldn’t meet, for so many reasons. Or only two. But they both were large reasons, shaped like sharp-edged island rocks and distance, and an equally sharp reminder in Devon’s own heart.

But the passion and the invitation tempted him like rich port wine anyway: intoxicating, indulgent, perilous, sensual.

Burne Cameron had touched this letter. Had put pen to paper and written, leaving indents, marks, the press of fingers. Right where Devon’s fingertips were now.

The kettle whistled, a sharp demand.

About K.L. Noone:

K.L. Noone teaches college students about superheroes and Shakespeare by day, and writes LGBTQ+ romance – frequently paranormal or with fantasy elements, and always with happy endings – when not grading papers or researching medieval outlaw life. She also likes cats, a good dark craft beer, and the sound of ocean waves.

Come say hi!

Blog: https://klnoone.wordpress.com/blog/

Twitter/X: https://twitter.com/kristinnoone

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kristin.noone

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/greenwoodoutlaw/

Mastodon: https://wandering.shop/@klnoone

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/K.L.-Noone/e/B07CWMZ6CP

Holly Day, Nell Iris, A.L. Lester and K.L. Noone have written a gay romance novella each to celebrate World Letter Writing Day, and today you get to read an excerpt from A.L. Lester’s Reading it Wrong! 

Reading it Wrong

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

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

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

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

Buy Links:

JMS Books :: Amazon

Excerpt:

Darcy had been pondering all evening … would it be creepy to ask the guy out again, even though he’d turned him down once already?

He’d concluded that maybe it would be, but hadn’t yet decided whether he was that slightly creepy guy or not. Probably not. But … he was going to sleep on it.

It had been a long day and he was tired. The swish-swish rhythm of the mop, swirl in the bucket, twist out the excess water, swish-swish, swish-swish, repeat was hypnotically soothing in a weird kind of way, set against the murmuring chat in the background from the one remaining table.

He was nearly asleep on his feet when the alarm went off. It shocked him into dropping the mop over the bucket with a clatter and swinging round in confusion.

“What the fuck is that?” Dave, one of the boardgames guys was asking as he got to his feet. “Fire alarm?”

“No,” said Darcy, turning back to face them. “It’s the burglar alarm.” He didn’t know the second and third guys at the table. “Stay put, I need to …” he didn’t get to finish his sentence, because all the lights went out.

“Shit,” he said. The other guys were expressing similar sentiments. He fumbled in his pocket and got his phone out, using the torch to illuminate the area with a weak light. It was better than nothing.

“I need to see if anyone else is still here,” he told his companions. “I don’t think there is.” His eye flickered over the group. “Where’s Paul?” he asked.

“Went to the Gents. I saw Lacey go out about five minutes ago,” Dave said helpfully.

“Shit,” Darcy said. “I’ll call her mobile.”

She was probably already driving … she didn’t pick up. He left a message and then sent a text as well. The alarm was shrill and shrieking in his ears, making thought difficult.

“Can you turn it off?” one of the guys whose name he didn’t know asked.

Darcy shook his head. “No, we’ll have to wait til the coppers get here. The alarm company will have called them. And hopefully get in touch with Lacey, and Luke as well.” Luke was the Production Manager, Lacey’s second in command. Darcy tried his number too, but it went straight to voicemail. He was probably in The Dragon with the theatre company, there was rubbish signal in there.

He picked up the mop and bucket and moved them out of the way in the inadequate light of the phone. “I should go and check the doors,” he said. “It’s weird the lights have gone off.”

“You should probably stay here if it’s a genuine break-in,” Dave said. “Rather than hunting for burglars.”

“Point,” Darcy said. “But … oh shit! What if they’re after the letter?”

“The letter?” Dave hadn’t been here this afternoon.

“The medieval letter … it’s being auctioned tomorrow. It’s still in the Small Hall.”

They had discussed putting it back in the bank, but had decided against it eventually. The case, the room, the wing of the theatre and the theatre itself could all be locked. And there was the alarm.

Which was still shrieking.

“Dave, could you go and see if you can pull Luke out of The Dragon?” Darcy asked. “He has the alarm codes. I’ll wait for the police.”

“Sure,” Dave said. “He’s the tall, dark-haired guy, isn’t he? The one in charge?”

Darcy nodded. “He’s usually got a leather jacket, and maybe a twink with him.”

Dave snorted. “Yeah, I know Alex.” He turned to the other two. Are you guys all right staying here with Darcy until the coppers turn up?”

They both nodded. “Sure,” the shorter one said. “No problem.”

“Do you think there’s really something wrong?” the taller one said as Dave made his exit, guided by his own phone torch.

“Yeah, I do,” said Darcy. “If it was a fault, the lights wouldn’t have gone off like that, surely? Or if it was a general fault, they’d have gone off at the same time as the alarm triggered.”

The taller one nodded. “Good point,” he said. “So, what are they stealing?” He waved an arm in the dim light.

“I don’t know,” Darcy said grimly. “But I’ve got an idea it might be …” He turned towards the entrance to the wing containing the Small Hall, which let off the far side of the cafe.

At that point the taller man grabbed him.

“What?” he had time to say, before the shorter one joined in and they had him face-down over the table, arguing over the top of him.

About A.L. Lester:

Writer of queer, paranormal, historical, romantic suspense, mostly. Lives in the South West of England with Mr AL, two children, a terrifying cat and a dog that eats things. Likes gardening but doesn’t really have time or energy. Not musical. Doesn’t much like telly. Non-binary. Chronically disabled. Has tedious fits.

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