GENRE: Gay Romance
LENGTH: 17,643 words
RATING:

It’s July in Smallwood, Nevada. Time to try, once again, to bring the two halves of the community together to plan the town’s holiday festival.

As usual, the craftsmen and women on bar owner Wild Bill Toohey’s side want the holiday celebration to reflect the rowdy, fun-loving Gold Rush Days of the west. On the other side of town, Smallwood Inn’s Clive Pritchert and members of the Handcrafter’s Co-op see the winter holiday as a more mellow, family affair.

Longtime resident Harold “Gizzard” Ramsey thinks if he can just get Bill and Clive together to plan the yearly event, everything will be all right. Glenglory Ski Resort management thinks their event planner, Sylvia Marsden, will whip the town into shape.

Who will win in this holiday planner’s nightmare? Gizzard’s betting on love.

EXCERPT:

“Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me tonight,” Clive said to Bill as they settled in a quiet, secluded alcove of the Inn’s dining room. The balcony window overlooked the calm valley and mellow night. After the day’s July heat, the balm of evening felt refreshing.

Bill had made an effort, Clive realized. His jeans were clean, his Henley almost new looking, and his boots not exactly polished but cleaned up. He’d also bathed and shaved. His look still leaned toward the barbarian to Clive, but a civilized barbarian, someone smart and handsomely attractive.

“Nice.” Bill was looking around as if he’d never seen or been inside the Inn before. “Always wondered what it was like in here.”

Clive was surprised.

“I thought you’d been here before.” Hadn’t Bill grown up in Smallwood?

“Nope. Always been told it was too expensive for anybody in the Toohey clan.” Bill was smiling like it didn’t matter, but his words disturbed Clive.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Do you think everyone else on your end of town feels the same way? Is that why I’ve never seen any of them eat here?” Clive frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean for anyone to feel unwanted. Ever. Especially fellow townspeople.”

Bill shrugged his huge shoulders.

Clive had a sudden urge to run his hands along those shoulders and feel the power and strength they held. His body shivered at the thought. He was surprised he was turned on by big, burly, uncouth Bill. Who would have thought?

“Thought Gizzard comes in here to eat a lot.” Bill’s gaze made a lazy arc around the dining room where rich golfers pontificated to their wives and girlfriends. Bill’s near smirk grew until his eyes landed on Clive and he smiled. “Gizzard’s townspeople.”

It took Clive a moment to place someone named Gizzard.

“Oh! Harold. You mean Harold. I keep forgetting his nickname. What is a gizzard, anyway, except a chicken or turkey part? Why would people call someone Gizzard?” Clive took a breath. “I’ll shut up now.”

Bill’s eyes sprouted laugh lines and his lips lifted, but he didn’t let out a roar of delight. He felt it rip through his body though.

“Gizz used to think he was a music visionary.” Bill snorted in disagreement. “Liked a band called King Gizzard. Something like that. We all teased him ‘cuz they were so bad. Finally one of the guys tagged him Gizzard because of it.”

Clive’s eyes lit with understanding and mischief.

“Good to know. From now on, maybe I should call him ... Gizzard, because he likes to act so grizzly.” After a moment of silence, Clive shook his head. “No, Gizzard’s bad enough. I couldn’t possibly make it worse.”

It was too much for Bill. He exploded with laughter.

“Good one. Good one.” He started to slap the table, looked startled, and his hand retreated to his lap. “Good one,” he muttered.

“No, go ahead. Be you. I like you being you.” Clive shut his mouth as his face turned bright red.

“I’m trying to be couth here,” Bill said, sounding sincere. “I literally grew up in a barn. Tryin’ not to act like it.”

Clive put his hand on Bill’s arm and squeezed.

“Don’t try so hard. In a way, I grew up in a barn too. I grew up on a farm. Only I liked the inside stuff more than the outdoor. I understand and don’t care about elbows on the table and eating with the wrong silverware. None of it matters. What’s important is you being comfortable wherever you are, including here at the Inn.”

Bill studied Clive for a long moment. Then he put his hand over Clive’s and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“You know, I think we could actually be friends.” Bill’s voice was hushed like he’d had a revelation.

“Oh, I hope so,” Clive replied with a bashful grin.