With help from a Christmas miracle, two bruised hearts find joy again.
Greg Cabot is the third generation to run Cabot’s Christmas Wonderland and tree farm in rural Vermont. But this year will be his last. Since the death of his son, Sam, in Afghanistan, Greg no longer has the heart to run a business based on holiday cheer. When he picks up a hitchhiking soldier on a snowy night, he finds the help he needs to get his farm through the holidays—and maybe much more.
Sergeant Robbie Sparks doesn’t have much to be thankful for this holiday season. Badly wounded in Afghanistan, he’s spent the last eight months in recovery and was discharged after ten years of service. When fate lands him at Cabot’s tree farm, he feels like he’s fallen into a snow globe reality. Friendly people, gorgeous trees, lots of Christmas kitsch… and Greg Cabot.
Greg believes he’s too heartbroken for romance, but those we love never truly leave us. A little nudge from heaven may help build a bridge for these two men trying to heal. If only they are willing to take that first step.
This stand-alone, long novella is a small town, Christmas cornucopia, May-December, hurt/comfort , ex-military romance stuffed full of family and holiday feels.
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The sleigh and horses were put away, Jim was paid, and we began the walk home. The country lane was cast in blues and grays thanks to a full moon, which was a blessing since I hadn’t brought a flashlight. But it was all the more surprising when fat flakes began to fall.
I stopped and looked up at the sky. What had been a completely clear sky no more than an hour past was now leaden with gray. But the full moon glowed in an empty patch in the clouds like an all-seeing eye. It reminded me of how, in the summertime, it can rain even while the sun is shining.
“Vermont!” I shook my head. “Snow wasn’t—”
“—in the forecast.” Robbie broke in. “You have childlike faith in the weather report, tree man.”
I snorted. “Weather determines how many customers I’ll have on any given day. So, yeah, I count on it to be accurate more often than not.”
“It is pretty,” Robbie commented as we started walking again.
He meant the snow, I figured, and it was. The moonlight turned the slow, fat clusters into falling crystals that glinted in the light now and then, like frozen fireflies.
We walked on. I kept my pace slow, mindful of Robbie’s limp, which seemed to be getting worse.
“You had a long work day today,” I noted again. “Sorry about that.”
“Nahsir. I was on the baler most of the day. I think I’m just stiff from riding the sl—” Robbie slipped on an icy spot and flailed for a moment, cursing.
I grabbed his arm, steadying him. And when Robbie’s feet were stable again, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for me to slide my hand down Robbie’s arm and take his hand.
“Okay?” I asked, though whether I meant to ask if he was okay after almost slipping or okay with holding hands, I couldn’t have said.
“A-yup.” Robbie gripped my hand firmly, and we kept walking.
The crunch of our boots on the groomed snow, and the distant hoot of an owl, were the only sounds in the silent night. I wanted to chitchat, just to ease the tension that was growing in my gut. But my throat had closed up and my mind had gone utterly blank. I could only stare out at the bucolic scene in front of me, steal glances at the handsome young man beside me, and marvel over the feeling of Robbie’s hand in mine, attuned to it with every fiber of my being.
We were both wearing gloves, but even so, Robbie’s hand was large and strong and warm. And he was okay with holding hands. He wanted to hold my hand. And a man like Robbie wouldn’t do that just to keep from falling. He’d probably parachute out an airplane rather than touch someone he didn’t want to. I was simultaneously elated and terrified by that certainty.
How long had it been since I’d touched any man? At least three years. After Sam left, I was too busy picking up his slack and doing my own work at Cabot’s to even get on an app. Besides, that sort of sneaking around had lost its appeal long ago. Since Sam’s death, I’d barely been alive myself. It had probably been the summer before Sam’s senior year, when Sam and Roseanne had taken a mother-son road trip for three weeks down to Virginia. I’d hooked up with a man from upstate New York I’d chatted with on Hinge. I’d hoped it might lead to something, but when we’d gotten together for a date, there’d been no real connection, no sparks. The man was nice enough, but not attractive to me at all.
Jaysus. That felt like a lifetime ago.
And now this young man had fallen into my life like… like a gift. Hard-working. Polite. Kind to the families and kids who came to Cabot’s and to Roscoe and Lucy and Tori, which meant a lot to me. He had that occasional devil-may-care humor, which I wanted to see a lot more of. He was respectful and thoughtful, always trying to figure out what else he could do to lighten my load. Determined to power through his injuries and not looking for any sympathy, but tugging on my heartstrings all the more because of that.
Sexy as fuck.
Knock it off, I told myself sternly.
We turned onto the lane that would lead to the Cabot property. Up ahead a quarter mile or so, crop fields turned into a dark bank of Christmas trees. A stream gurgled to the right of the road….
Wait. I stopped.
“What?” Robbie asked, still holding my hand.
“That should be iced over.” I took a step toward the ditch, and Robbie followed.
We looked at the ribbon of ice in the ditch, which had cracks and openings through which we could see water run.
“Huh,” I said. “That’s normally completely frozen up this time of year. It shouldn’t be like this ’til April.”
“Global warming?” Robbie offered.
I frowned. It hadn’t been that warm lately. There shouldn’t be enough melt-off to create a stream here.
Robbie drew in a sharp breath. “Look.”
I glanced at him and then followed his gaze. Yes, by any standards, the landscape was breathtaking. A blanket of snow cloaked the fields on either side of the road, glistening in the moonlight that was still shining right along with the snow that fell. Down the road, the wide, long bank of neatly planted green trees looked like a medieval forest from a fairy tale. The stream gurgled. An owl hooted on a nearby fence post, its eyes flashing. Fat goose-feather snowflakes danced and glinted in the air.
He pointed toward the ditch. It took a moment, but I saw it—an all-white bunny sat by the stream, raised up on its hind legs, front paws held in front of its breast in a cute pose, nose twitching as it watched us. The whole scene was so Disney romantic, with the wildlife and gurgling brook, it suddenly seemed absurd.
I burst out laughing and Robbie followed. We looked at each other in disbelief.
“If I told someone about this, they’d never believe me,” Robbie grinned.
“Right? Someone’s put a lot of effort into setting this stage,” I agreed, shaking my head in amused wonder.
“Well. It’d be a shame to waste it.” Robbie’s smile faded.
And before I knew what was coming, Robbie tugged on my hand, stepped closer, and pressed our lips together.
I might have liked to think I’d nobly resist such an overture but, no. I was instantly lost. A red-hot flame of need and longing burst inside me the moment Robbie’s lips touched mine. I could only reach out blindly to wrap my arms around the man and pull him closer.
Robbie placed a hand firmly on the back of my neck and kissed me soundly, his tongue shockingly warm and sweet as he sucked at my mouth. The kiss went to my head like a shot of whiskey, or maybe two, and I realized, embarrassingly, that my knees were weak, and I might not even be able to stand without Robbie holding me up. Dear God, I was a forty-three-year-old man, not a teen.
Coming from a background in computer game design, Eli has written over 50 books in m/m romance since 2013. The Mating of Michael (2014) and A Second Harvest (2016) both won The William Neale Award for Best Gay Contemporary Romance, and Eli’s books have won many awards from the Goodreads M/M Romance Group’s Reader’s Choice Awards. She is best known for her Christmas romances, the Howl at the Moon series of rom coms featuring dog shifters, and the Nerds Vs Jocks series, co-written with Tara Lain.
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