Ewan Matthews is one of Boston’s leading genealogy experts. When a would-be bridegroom comes looking for confirmation that there are no skeletons in his ancestral closet, Ewan considers turning the job down. Trey Capell is a jerk of the highest order and yet Ewan experiences an infuriating attraction that’s easy to justify. Trey’s exactly his type—a carbon copy of the man Ewan’s been looking for his entire life.
Harder to explain is the sense of recognition that leaves Ewan speechless the moment Trey steps into his office. Or the stomach-churning sensation at the thought of casting the job aside.
Trey gets more appealing by the day, leaving Ewan struggling with forbidden desire for his client. Desire not helped by strange voyeuristic dreams that have started to haunt his sleep. Dreams that appear to be an echo of the past.
The Lieutenant dropped into a rickety canvas chair with more force than the furniture was possibly designed for, and the sigh that escaped his lips was almost certainly intended to be heard. It filled the canvas room with anticipation and something heavier than the sum of its parts, something a watcher could have no hope of understanding.
The batman’s smile grew melancholy and he made his way back toward his officer, dropping to his knees on the thick colourful rugs, indigenous in nature, which appeared to be layered to keep out the worst of the dust and the sand. Reaching for the right boot first, Owen swiftly unfastened it, tugging it free. He paused, his hand cradling the ankle with the officer’s socked foot resting on his thighs. When Owen looked up, his gaze was serious, eyes shimmering pools of green and gray, and he focused all his attention on the man in front of him.
“If we make it home, then I’m yours for as long as you want me,” he paused for barely a heartbeat, “Tristan.”
“It may be difficult to word on a contract of employment,” Owen said with a laugh in his voice, the emotion accentuating a previously barely registered Scots brogue, “but always seems satisfactory to me.”
The laughter caught in his throat, turning into a dry cough that left him breathless.
“I wish you would see the medic about that cough.” Tristan didn’t bother to conceal the concern in his voice and he leant forward, hand reaching out…
* * * * *
Something caused Ewan to wake with a start, and he brushed a hand over his cheek at the ghost of a touch. He’d been dreaming, he was sure of it, but the dream was quickly scurrying away from him as was their habit to do. His throat was dry and scratchy, almost rough, and he felt strangely unsettled, as though his subconscious had been exploring events which he couldn’t quite remember.
Lillian Francis. Author of gay romance. Happy Endings guaranteed. Eventually.
An avid reader, Lillian Francis was always determined she wanted to write, but a “proper” job and raising a family distracted her for over a decade. Over the years and thanks to the charms of the internet, Lillian realized she’d been writing at least one of her characters in the wrong gender. Ever since, she’s been happily letting her “boys” run her writing life.
Lillian now divides her time between family, a job and the numerous men in her head all clamouring for their stories to be told.
Lillian lives in an imposing castle on a wind-swept desolate moor or in an elaborate ‘shack’ on the edge of a beach somewhere depending on her mood, with the heroes of her stories either chained up in the dungeon or wandering the shack serving drinks in nothing but skimpy barista aprons.
In reality, she would love to own a camper van and to live by the sea.
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