GENRE: Gay Spicy Romance
LENGTH: 75,095 words
RATING:

Musician Sam Poe is having the worst week of his life. On the night he discovers his boyfriend destroyed Sam’s trumpet in the name of art, Sam learns his beloved grandmother has died, too. He flies to Ohio to help take care of the funeral arrangements, but grief over his losses threatens to overwhelm him. It takes the devotion from a dog named Turquoise to help him get through it all.

Quentin Hacker hates that he’s so attracted to his dead neighbor’s grandson. Sam needs a friend, not a closeted man ten years his senior lusting after him. Loaning Turq to offer solace is the least he can do, at least until Sam decides to break up with his boyfriend and spend the summer in Ohio to re-evaluate where his life is going. Neither man anticipates the friendship that forms between them. Both end up wishing it could be even more ...

EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

Quentin was the only person waiting when people began to trickle out of the secured area and toward baggage claim. He held his sign in clear view, his gaze jumping from one bedraggled flyer to the next as he assessed which one could possibly be his passenger. When a dozen people had walked by him without a second glance, he frowned. The flight hadn’t been a busy one. Not many found the need to hop a puddle-jumper from Chicago to Fort Wayne on a Sunday night. But the lull in arrivals was worrisome. It didn’t look like anyone else was coming through. Had he screwed up the details?

As he was about to call his dad and find out, someone else appeared.

“Holy shit,” Quentin said under his breath.

The man was gorgeous and, from the way he did a double take when he saw Quentin’s sign, obviously who Quentin waited for. His auburn hair was styled into a pompadour made modern by a close shave above both ears. He had the features of a young Nigel Rathbone -- the Greek nose, the pointed chin made more so by the neat beard he sported -- but his bedroom eyes were what struck Quentin speechless. They were wide-set and a pale green, framed by lashes that should’ve been illegal for as long as they were. However pretty his eyes were, though, the man was far from feminine. He was tall, six-four at least, with a body that didn’t come from sitting behind a desk. Faded jeans hugged narrow hips and strong thighs, while the charcoal slub notch T-shirt he wore stretched over an impressive chest, baring sun-kissed biceps that would give Dwayne Johnson a run for his money.

When he came to a stop in front of Quentin, Quentin had the overwhelming urge to suck in his stomach.

“I’m Sam Poe,” the man said, a line forming between his fine brows. “Since when does Hertz do gate-to-gate service?”

“They don’t.” Shoving aside his disquiet, he thrust out his hand. “Quentin Hacker.”

Though Sam accepted his greeting -- Christ, his hands were huge -- his frown only deepened. “Please tell me my mother didn’t put you up to this.”

“Nope, I volunteered. It seemed silly for you to rent a car when you can use Maxine’s once you get to town.” He smiled as brightly as he could. “So here I am.”

Sam shifted the backpack on his shoulder. “I hadn’t thought about Grandma’s car.”

Quentin felt like an ass for trying to be so cheery about the whole situation. What was he thinking? Sam had come to town to mourn. He didn’t need Quentin turning into Pollyanna and making it worse.

“Will it be too weird for you to drive it?” Quentin asked, his tone more sober.

“I don’t know.” The response sounded genuine, matching the lost little boy quality in his eyes. Quentin had the sudden desire to wrap the man in a hug. “I’ve been so caught up in the details of actually getting here that I haven’t thought about much else.”

“Nobody expects you to do any thinking at all,” Quentin assured. “That’s what I’m here for.” He nodded toward the luggage carousels behind him. “Why don’t we pick up your bags and get out of here? You’re probably exhausted.”

They fell into step beside each other, though Quentin had to consciously lengthen his stride to match Sam’s. “I’m not tired, actually,” Sam said. “I’m still on California time.”

“Oh, that’s right. It’s only ... seven there?”

“Yeah.”

Someone who looked like Sam probably would’ve had his entire night booked solid, too. By the end of the week, Sam would be climbing the walls, ready to leave Farncombe far behind again.