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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Love Broker
- Sprache: Englisch
No matter how old you are, you want your best friends to be friends...
Mac Kelley arrives in Pine Lake to work his dream job at The Love Broker. He quickly befriends his shy landlord, Beck King, a retired model with two beloved dogs and a camera around his neck.
Deacon Wiley has been on the road with his beloved guitar, touring with country western bands for almost twenty years. He’s gotten used to having a job and an eight-by-eight cubical on the bus. But now his life has imploded, and he’s forced to high tail it to the tundra of Pine Lake to bunk with his best friend, Mac.
Three bachelors, living their best life!
Except Deacon thinks Beck is a fancy poser, and Beck believes Deacon should shower more.
However, with Mac busy working with a hostile boss and his ego, Deacon and Beck spend time together.
And then things get...interesting.
It’s a sexy secret but it’s just temporary.
It’s a connection between two people who’ve lived their lives moving and pretending to be something they’re not.
It might be bigger than either one of them imagined.
(And Mac is in for one hell of a surprise...)
Pine Lake has one rule - Fall in Love.
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Seitenzahl: 442
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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THE MAN DATE
THE LOVE BROKER
BOOK 2
TERE MICHAELS
THE WRITER GARAGE
Copyright © 2024 by Tere Michaels
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ebook ISBN: 979-8-9903515-2-3
Published by: PublishDrive
First printing, 2024.
Publisher: The Writer Garage
(Tere Michaels)
Ridgefield Park, New Jersey 07660
www.writergarage.com
Cover graphics: Oddwhims Art
Created with Vellum
This one's for all my readers of gay romance, especially my Faith, Love & Devotion folks! Thank you for your support for the past sixteen years!
CONTENTS
Introduction
The Legend of the Raven
Prologue - Once Upon a Time
1. Enter the Unwitting Matchmaker
2. Making New Friends
3. No Really, Making New Friends
4. Unwitting Wing Man
5. Rewind Time: Man on Fire
6. Starting Over Again. Again.
7. Meet Terrible
8. Being Petty
9. Meet Terrible. Again.
10. Why Can’t We Be Friends?
11. Bad Dogs!
12. Working Hard or Hardly Working?
13. Reluctant Rescuer
14. She’s a Little Runaway (Dog)
15. Charming the Locals
16. Take a Picture It’ll Last Longer
17. A Twist
18. Awkward
19. Meet…Naked
20. Just Helping a Guy Out
21. A Naked Repeat
22. Secret Sexy Times
23. Caretaking
24. Complicated Booty Call
25. Dirty Pretty Pictures
26. Terrible Days of Terrible
27. What’s Going On?
28. Hazy Daze of Lust
29. Dazed and Lusty
30. The Bells Are Tolling
31. W.T.F.
32. The Fall Out
33. Peace Offerings
34. Just Really So Very Awkward
35. A Quiet Breakdown for One
36. Sitting in the Crater
37. Oh. Hi.
38. The Third Wheel
39. Honesty
40. Presentation Day
41. An Escape Hatch
42. Charming. With a Slideshow
43. Everything’s FINE
44. Everything’s OKAY
45. Tent for Two
46. Do You Like Me, Circle Yes or No
47. Hiking and Emotional Constipation
48. Truth and Consequences
49. Terms & Conditions
50. Walkin’ and Talkin’
51. Settling In
52. Please…
53. Witness to a Fight
54. Decisions to Make
55. Date Night
56. A Momentary Truce
57. Public Displays of Affection
58. Founder’s Day Begins
59. Penguins on Parade
60. Penguin Hell
61. Facing the Accountant
62. Piercing the Bubble
63. Meeting the Parents
64. Get Down on It
65. Do the Hustle
66. Save the Last Dance for Me
67. Making an Entrance
68. On a Wing and a Prayer
69. What’s a Jerk Like You Doing Here?
70. Public Spectacle
71. Sing It, Bitches
72. It’s Got to Be the Morning After
73. Countdown
74. Home is Where Your Stuff Is
75. An Interlude of Goddesses
76. Wait, What?
77. Holy Shit
78. Who’s Your Daddy?
79. Another Crossroad
80. Making Decisions Like an Adult
81. Nope
82. Three Wise Women
83. Okay
84. All Tucked In
Epilogue
Other Books by Tere Michaels
About the Author
INTRODUCTION
“The process of love sometimes means taking unexpected detours.” – Elizabeth Alraune
“Some people are magic, and others are just the illusion of it.” — Beau Taplin
“No friendship is an accident.” — O. Henry
THE LEGEND OF THE RAVEN
In the beginning. Once upon a time.
Humans created time to measure it, to add meaning and purpose to their lives. They cannot comprehend things with no beginning, no end, no rules.
They can’t imagine existence without time.
It started as a game. That wasn’t the word for it; it just appeared one day, a thought in the shared consciousness. They didn’t know what boredom was—another human invention—they zipped around existence as solids, liquids, gases. They banged into each other and turned into yet another thing.
But now they decided to play.
Creation, it was called, a whisper some attributed to the red trail of energy that never seemed to be still. It wasn’t serious; the shared consciousness was divided into corners of existence. In one particular place, the competitors included the red energy.
There were rules.
Each got a piece to play with.
On what would be earth, the path to humans started.
Some of the entities grew anxious and dropped out of the game. They flew off to other places.
Anxiousness was a new thing, and they didn’t much like it.
Some of them liked the burst of energy it generated and stuck around, chasing that high over and over again.
In the end, the game was reduced to groups. Competition now raged between them.
It got personal.
That was also new.
How many prayed and worshipped in your name? Tallies changed over and over again. How many of your creatures lived? How much chaos could you cause between the groups?
Giving up now? Never. Nothing could compare.
In a place green and lush, with bright sparkling water and soaring mountains, an entity decided to break one of the rules—because rules without punishment are just suggestions. It appeared in the woods, a shaft of light unseen by the humans.
It just wanted a peek.
They called it a village. The entity sat amongst them, observing, for so long—because what was time—the humans grew more frail. Some disappeared. It saw their energy rise to the sky, to join the rest, power absorbed by their makers.
One day, one of the humans stopped at the tree where it sat. None of them had ever come this close, had never tipped their heads and stared.
“I feel you,” it whispered, and the entity shivered.
It should have left but curiosity—hmmm new—kept it attached to the land, the people, and that man. Man. He was taller than everyone else, and his hair was blacker than night. The others in the village, the women, paid attention to him.
And it knew that because it was paying attention, too.
When he left the village to hunt, the entity followed. It drifted through the trees, dipping and soaring to watch him silently creep through the woods until his well-placed arrow took down one of the horned animals who skittered from him.
Leaving was impossible; the entity stopped considering it. It would stay until the man's life cycle ended, and his energy became part of it.
The entity did not understand feelings and emotions, and it didn’t comprehend love. But its devotion to the man overruled any other whisper that came across its mind.
It ignored the reprimands. They claimed it had lost the game and would not be welcomed back.
It didn’t care.
On a cold day—known because he wore many pelts and furs over his skin—the man went again into the woods. He stopped, then looked up. The entity was directly overhead. A ripple of something went through it.
“I wish I could truly see you,” he whispered.
The entity could not explain what happened next. Even as its own kind called it out, a warning about the rules, it flew down.
He did not truly see it.
It read the sadness in his eyes. It felt it too.
Creation with emotion happened that day. The entity felt its energy forming into something solid. It thought about soaring above. It thought about devotion. It thought about the man tramping through the forest alone.
He wouldn’t be alone anymore.
It was quiet. The entity’s vision had changed. Narrowed. Its body fluttered.
The man’s sadness turned confused.
Then he smiled.
“Beautiful,” he said, reaching out his hand.
It fluttered its wings, landing on his arm–gently so its claws didn’t hurt him. But that wasn’t close enough. It hopped lightly to his shoulder, close to the face it so loved to see.
The others in the village marveled at the creature, so tame, so devoted to the man. It stayed on his shoulder when he was awake, it sat next to him as he slept. It helped him locate prey. It kept a watchful eye on the man’s village. It felt this thing over and over—love and affection, devotion. The village now belonged to the entity.
When some of its kind appeared, intrigued by its change and rebellion, and curious about being a part of the game, the entity felt something new.
Anger.
Fear.
The newcomers crept closer to the village. The entity let out mighty sounds, to alert the man.
But he didn’t see them.
Panic drove the entity now. It had to communicate with the man. It flew through the trees, over the lake, contemplating its choices. Perhaps it could make the man leave the village but that thought brushed away as quickly as it came. He would never leave.
It landed where the others sat in wait. They marveled over its shape, its form, and substance. They wanted to know the secret; they wanted to join the game like it had. And if the entity helped, the village would be left alone.
The entity tried to explain love and affection. It tried to tell them about the feeling of being a part of the village. But they didn’t understand.
Finally, the entity knew what it had to do. It had to lead the others away from the village, which meant leaving the man. Oh, the pain—it didn’t like that. It hated it.
It left one of its ink-black feathers beside the sleeping man, gazed one more time at his face, and then took off for the woods.
The entity took the others away from the village, farther into the woods, promising to help them change. Further and further, where the trees blocked out the sun and darkness lived year-round. Finally, the others refused to go another step. They demanded their information.
Filled with fear and anger, warring with its love for the man and his people, the entity felt itself begin to change again. The wings became arms, the feathers became black hair and eyes, the body grew huge.
The entities were not afraid because they didn’t know that word. They didn’t zip away as the anger took over; they stood and watched. Waited.
When emotions recede, the entity considers what happened then. Protection became destruction, but it knew there was no destruction possible. Their kind didn’t end, just as they hadn’t begun.
So, it became consumption.
Absorbing its kind threw the entity into a state of blissful power. Like when the man and his village ate flesh and plants, it was filled with energy.
The change back to the bird was much easier. As it traveled back to the village, it practiced. A deer, a hawk, a raccoon, a tiny bug. It had words for everything. It felt everything. When it reached its home, everyone was waking, eager for breakfast as they exited their homes.
The man stood in the center of the village, anxiously scanning the sky.
They knew he was looking for them.
The urge to return to its form flickered.
It became the raven—that was its name—then changed into the wish of the man it loved.
And oh, that smile introduced a new feeling for the entity. Joy.
As the legend went, the brave warrior took a magical bride, both a raven and a woman. The raven protected the village, keeping them safe from peril, even as people poured into the region, anxious to steal their land and lives. They moved deeper into the woods, to where the raven’s power was born.
Generations of their children settled in the town at the edge of the lake. It was blessed by their protection and the protection of their ancestors.
A story handed down through the Bram family.
PROLOGUE - ONCE UPON A TIME
Trudye Berijssoen sat on the bed, wrapped in every piece of clothing and blanket they owned, listening to the furious blizzard outside the cabin. She could see her breath, she could feel the wind rattling the rickety walls, and every new brace of the storm threatened to turn their home into kindling.
When she’d married Arndt—a widower twice her age, who lived in their village—her grandmother pressed a tiny bag into her hand and whispered to her, “when you need him to leave you alone” in the Old Language. Marrying a man she didn’t want, leaving the only home she’d known, her pain had crystalized to anger by the time the wedding was over.
Trudye used the potion frequently during the first few months, then on the wretched trip to the new world. She had no say in Arndt’s decision, just following the order to pack her meagre belongings and say goodbye to her family—whom she didn’t care about—and knowing it would be the last time she saw her grandmother. Her heart was broken.
Once again, her grandmother put something in her hand. It was a piece of paper, with three runes, written in tiny script.
Grandmother taught her the ways of the Old Religion; the offerings, the way to speak to the gods, to get their favor. The village saw her as just a crazy witch, but Trudye knew better. Her grandmother knew where true power lay; she told her favorite granddaughter over and over that only faithfulness would save her. Faithfulness to the gods, faithfulness to herself.
She kept that spell tucked against her skin, never letting it out of her sight.
In the new country, Arndt continued his belief he was right about everything. Their fellow travelers warned him of the winters, told him not to build his home on the bluff, where the winds would turn violent in winter. But Arndt dismissed their advice, dragging Trudye and their belongings up to the highest point around the new settlement.
“This is a rich man’s place to build a home,” he said confidently, as Trudye’s stomach ate itself in hunger. Rich? Them? But Trudye said nothing. Hidden away from Arndt was her tiny altar, where she left tiny thimbles of water and crumbs from their rapidly diminishing store of food to honor the goddesses. Faithfulness would save her.
They finished the tiny cabin hours before the first snowflakes fell. Arndt grabbed his rifle and knife, then departed to hunt for food.
Arndt did not know how to hunt and Trudye’s stomach ached more.
He didn’t return for two days. Trudye wept in her nest of blankets, wishing she was home with her grandmother. Wishing...then she remembered the gift she’d been given.
She pulled out the runes and wiped her tears. She took a breath and chanted the charm? Curse? Wish? Trudye didn’t know what to expect.
When the handsome man in red materialized in the cabin, Trudye gasped in terror—before a warm sensation went through her body. The hunger, the cold, the fear. Just. Gone.
“Hello beautiful,” the man purred, taking her breath away. “What is it you desire?”
Trudye’s mouth watered.
Food.
Freedom.
She said nothing but the man smiled, adjusting the strange hat on his head. Eyes glowing an unnatural blue, he leaned into whisper into Trudye’s ear.
“Yes, my sweet girl, you will have these things and so much more...”
When Arndt finally returned with a brace of rabbits, Trudye slept the deep sleep of the satisfied, a smile on her face.
The man in red returned to her frequently, when Arndt was traipsing around outside, handicapped by the waist deep snow and his own ignorance. Trudye ignored him most of the time; when he raised a hand to her, he was felled immediately by the almost unconscious wish Trudye had.
Pain. A lot of it.
Soon he was afraid of her, never put his hands on her for any reason.
Any. Reason.
Now it was Arndt that starved, the food supply dwindling as the winter showed no sign of abating. No animals to hunt, nothing green to eat. Trudye grew round and plump, her skin glowing, eyes bright. She and Arndt ignored each other until he could no longer lie to himself about Trudye’s “condition.”
“You’re with child,” he said, one afternoon, as yet another storm wracked the mountaintop.
Trudye shrugged, daintily eating a sweet biscuit from a tin that wasn’t there last night. Arndt eyed it, eyed her as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted the food or to punish her for her indiscretion. Because it had been months since he’d felt safe to touch his wife and the swell of her belly clocked a child that could not be his.
He was enraged. And confused. They were alone there. He was out every day desperately searching for firewood and food, but no one entered the cabin; he always had it in sight. Footprints going in and out were his. Inside, the tiny room had no space for someone to hide.
Unnatural, he thought. It was rumored Trudye’s grandmother was a witch. Perhaps his wife was as well.
He would need to kill her, be free of her dark magic. Then, when spring came, he would return to the settlement and find a new wife.
Easy.
Except Trudye was impossible to kill. He tried to use his gun, but it jammed. He raised his axe over his head, ready to strike her down but Trudye didn’t even look up from the book she was reading.
Like she knew he couldn’t do it.
Couldn’t because his arms locked, his spine became a burning branch of pain. Arndt fell to floor, jerking with the agony of being roasted alive.
Trudye turned the page of her book and never turned her head.
The storms ceased.
The walls of snow began to melt.
Arndt counted the days until he could escape this prison, his jailer a pregnant witch who bound him with terror and starvation.
When Arndt could see patches of ground outside the cabin, he packed up a few things, took his rifle, and stood before Trudye.
“I’m leaving,” he said, stomach roiling in fear. “You can have everything, just let me go.”
Trudye laughed sweetly, hands over her pregnant stomach. She rocked in a gorgeously carved rocking chair, that appeared while he was sleeping. “Of course. Be on your way. And if you say anything that brings harm to my doorstep, you won’t draw another breath.”
Arndt opened the door, ready to flee.
A man dressed in red stood on the snowy path.
“My love may trust you, Arndt,” the man said in a hiss. “But I do not.”
Flames were the last thing Arndt saw in life, with the soundtrack of Trudye’s screams filling his ears.
ENTER THE UNWITTING MATCHMAKER
MacArthur “Mac” Hubert Kelley shouldered his computer bag and the one small rolling suitcase that held the last things he’d packed earlier that morning, before closing the door on his tiny Manhattan rental.
With his high-end shiny boots and ironed jeans, Mac wouldn't strike many as a “get your hands dirty” kind of guy but that was entirely on purpose. When one is the personification of coming from nothing and working their way to the top, Mac’s—everything—was carefully curated. At a young age, he and his twin PJ (Prudence Josephine, their mother was a character to say the least) posited that changing personalities to suit the different towns their carnival stopped in meant more business at their stalls, which meant tips, phone numbers, and invites to parties from the townies. Which meant better jobs at the Telford Brothers Fun Time Carnival and Rodeo, something hard to come by. And the Kelley twins knew that was step one in their plan to get the hell out of the family business.
For this job, Mac dropped the “college degree, raised in a good neighborhood with a low crime rate” persona for more of a “pulled up my poor boy bootstraps to become the man I am today.” And that impressed Sy, thank God.
He took a deep breath, checked his neat coif of blond hair in the reflection of the glass panes on either side of the door, and then knocked.
A quick thump of footsteps proceeded the door opening. Sy stood there with a wide happy elf smile on his cheerful round face, arms extended as if Mac were returning from the war.
“Mac! Welcome!” Sy enthused. He stepped aside to let Mac enter the warm and cozy house. Everything gleamed in period perfection, the scent of lemon and wax blending nicely with fresh baked bread. Mac felt his spine relax. Damn. This is what he imagined a normal home might smell like.
“Glad to be here,” Mac said, extending his hand, which Sy took with a hearty pump. “This town is beautiful—looks like it belongs on a postcard.”
Sy beamed. “Yes, it’s a perfect place to live. We’re so glad to have you.” He quickly directed Mac to the coat rack, with one hook free. “You can leave your suitcase here; I’ll take you to the apartment after I introduce the staff and show you your office!”
In the small mirror by the door, Mac gave another quick check of his hair and made sure his collar laid flat over the black cashmere sweater he felt was dressed down enough, not sloppy or careless, sending a message of professional but not someone unable to make a little small talk by the water cooler.
“Let’s get the grand tour started.”
Sy led him slowly, from room to room, on an actual grand tour, as he gave Mac the history of the house from its building to today, and its relation to Pine Lake, as well as the Love Broker’s place here. This was the epicenter of prestigious matchmaking, blessed with the magic of Pine Lake.
Mac nodded and “mmmm’d” appropriately. He was going to wait until he was settled for a few days before mentioning that no one knew who they were, and their web presence looked like a high schooler’s final project in Intro to Computers.
All the furniture and soft materials were either antiques or sourced from artisans, to retain the Dutch influence—a fact Sy pointed out several times. Here was a vase sent by a grateful client. And over here, a crystal heart from another couple who met via the Love Broker.
Rich desperate people, Mac thought. Business should be good.
When they reached the kitchen, Mac’s stomach growled as the scent of strong coffee and freshly baked bread hit him in full force.
Damn.
Chuckling, Sy pointed to the counter, where a full spread of coffee pots and cups sat, along with a tray of still steaming bread and various little crocks. “A perk, from the lovely Miriam Cho, our office manager. Don’t be shy—help yourself.”
His long-ago breakfast of black coffee, vitamins, and supplements, combined with the perfect scent of the kitchen, made Mac’s stomach furious. It insisted he take Sy’s invitation and scarf half that loaf down with butter and oh God, were those strawberry preserves? He hated feeling hungry and deprived, a weird thing left over from his childhood. But professional Mac on his first day at a new job overruled that request.
“How about we finish the tour so I can drop off my laptop,” Mac said smoothly. “Then I will absolutely sample these treats.”
It seemed to be the right answer because Sy nodded enthusiastically. “Let’s go then. Miriam and Norah are right through here.”
Through the doorway between the kitchen and main room was a tiny hallway, the walls covered with an array of framed landscape and architectural photos, black and white sketches to color school pictures of a sweet-faced redhead, from kindergarten through high school. Mac managed to catch a glimpse, assuming it was Sy’s granddaughter. Or daughter. He couldn’t quite get a handle on the round little man’s age; he seemed to be simultaneously from the turn of the century and sometime in the future.
The main room was as bright and charming as the rest of the house, arranged with an antique round table in the center and two desks on either side. Trailing pots of ivy on tiny shelves and floral paintings decorated the pale-yellow wallpaper. At one of the desks, an older woman with a neatly styled white pixie cut and in a wool maroon suit was just hanging up the phone. When she spotted Sy and Mac, she smiled brightly.
“Our new employee!” she said as she stood, clearly on the same enthusiasm vitamins that Sy took. Mac wondered if it was catching, and if it worked better than all the coffee he drank.
“Mac Kelley, Miriam Cho.” Sy gestured between them. “She makes this place run smoothly. Indispensable and a wonderful cook to boot.” Miriam was also ageless, and tiny, but somehow managed to be slightly taller than Sy.
“Oh Sy.” Miriam extended her hand. “Welcome Mac. I have your office set up but if you have any changes, you just ask. And that goes from the art on the walls to your favorite pens.”
Mac turned on his best “aw shucks ma’am” manners and shook her thin veined hand. “I’m sure everything you’ve done is just fine but thank you. And I hear you’re the artisan behind that bread in the kitchen! Consider me already a fan.”
Miriam flashed him a charming smile, dimples making her look about twenty years younger.
A thump came from the other side of the room, where a closed door rattled with the force of a second crash. Mac felt the urge to run over to see what was wrong, but Sy and Miriam didn’t seem to be concerned.
“Norah’s managing some files,” Miriam said demurely, in that tone your mother would use to tell a lie in public. Or at least they did in the movies. Mac’s mother was born without a filter and the vocabulary of an insult comedian. She would have just come out and said, “What the fuck was that?”
“Does she need help?” Mac asked but Sy and Miriam just shook their heads in weird synchronicity.
Sy escorted Mac to the closed door next to the one where he surmised “Norah” was dealing with files by throwing them across the room. Miriam had indeed kitted the place out to Mac’s tastes, which was odd because he didn’t remember mentioning the type of pen he liked or the fact that he preferred white legal pads to yellow.
The art on the eggshell blue walls were all beautiful photographs of sunrises over mountains and lakes and a delicate watercolor that looked like Kansas that sent a jolt down to his bones. His carefully curated resume didn’t mention where he was born, where his mother was buried, or where he and PJ packed up their late mother’s pick-up before driving off to seek a better life.
When he looked up, Sy was watching up, a secret little smile curling over his lips. “Let’s get that snack and then we’ll go over to the loft. Beckett will be meeting us there.”
Feeling a bit off-kilter, Mac left his laptop back on the light brown leather chair then followed Sy out the door...
Where he was smacked in the face with a floral perfume that seemed to impact his brain more than his olfactory senses. Standing across the room was the most stunning woman he’d ever seen, seemingly born out of his dreams. Tall and willowy with dark red hair twisted on top of her head in a knot, like a ballet dancer. She wore a high-necked lace cream shirt with a cameo at her throat, and a dark brown pencil skirt, falling just past her knees. Not a hair out of place, pale green eyes, freckles. God, freckles. And a pair of brown Mary Jane heels on her feet. Mac actually felt a little faint.
He was about ten seconds away from dropping to his knees to pledge his undying loyalty for at least forty-eight hours when those pink bow lips curled into a cutting snarl.
“Mr. Kelley,” she said, in a soft voice that somehow managed to be melodic and mean at the same time. “We normally only have a relaxed dress code on Fridays. And even then, no jeans. You might want to make a note of that.”
A lake’s worth of cold water washed over Mac; he felt his spine tighten up at her tone. He’d grown up with that attitude from adults and young kids alike, looking at him working the tilt-a-whirl or running one of the games on the fairway, like he didn’t know what good manners and proper behavior were. Like he was automatically less than.
Mac blinked. He slammed the door shut on the memories of his childhood and offered his nicest “fuck you” smile. “I’ll put it on my calendar,” he quipped back. “I take it you’re Norah? I hope you got those files under control. Sounded like a fight to the death.”
Okay, he should have stopped at the calendar remark, but her perfect face continued to morph into something you do when you smell something bad.
Sy broke the tension with his sudden burst of laughter. “Mac Kelley, Norah Fields. She’s my second in command.”
No hands were extended for shaking.
In response to Sy’s words, a sly smile graced Norah’s face. “That makes me your supervisor. So, whatever you do needs both Sy and me to sign off.”
Mac counted to ten, holding his face in perfect politeness. “Of course.”
Norah said, “Hmm,” and then gracefully walked back to her office, without a glance back. The door slammed behind her as Mac let out a stream of air.
He waited for someone to mention what just happened—the evil woman, her horrible attitude, how they were being held captive here, how she clearly wasn’t getting enough hugs or freshly made bread or happy pills—but Sy just clapped his hands together and said, “Snack then a visit to your new home!”
No one mentioned the thud echoing from Norah’s office.
MAKING NEW FRIENDS
Beckett King changed his black tee-shirt three times—into other black tee-shirts—as he waited for Sy’s text that he was heading over with the new tenant. This was a big change for him; Cam had been renting the loft space in Beck’s building since he bought it and now, he had to get used to someone else.
It was a lot.
Not that he and Cam hung out before he decamped for New York City with that bakery woman. Beck spent his days with his dogs, Horace and Greeley, up in the woods, taking photos or just sitting at the highest points he could find, staring out over the lake. Quiet. Alone—except for his furry girls—and peaceful. Cam was a nice guy, polite and respectful, and he left Beck to his own devices.
What if this new “Mac” person wanted to hang out?
Could he do that again? Be a social butterfly, flit around town and form relationships beyond the state of the weather? Reveal himself in an intimate, familiar way? No. That life was behind him, and he didn’t have the energy to be that person again. He put on a black hoodie, resisting the urge to pull the hood over his head like a sullen teenager.
His good friend, Mrs. Freida Filth—tax accountant by day, drag queen karaoke host by night—was always on him to buy more real estate, diversify, but all Beck needed was help balancing his books and doing his taxes. He said that to his friend in the nicest way possible. There were also a lot of comments about him stopping this hiding shit, but Beck just pretended he didn’t know what that meant.
His phone dinged and Beck took a deep breath. They were heading over to the building.
When Beck bought the old factory, it was the ultimate spur of the moment's decision. After leaving his maternal grandmother’s funeral in Sleepy Hollow, he’d made a wrong turn on his way back to the city, and ended up on Main Street in Pine Lake. He stopped for dinner at Arturo’s then decided to take a walk, still wearing his black suit, eyes red from crying and heart hurting. The one person in his family who didn’t think him a sinful monster, in service of the Devil himself, was gone. And worse, Beck had been off in the world, leading a decadent life, and not there as illness wasted her away.
Before quaint Main Street turned into the road leading up the mountain, Beck saw a For Sale sign on a brick factory, boarded-up, flanked by trees and bushes, with the mountains rising behind it. In the distance, he could see the curve of blue lake water.
He watched the summer sun sink down, the sky pink and orange and peaceful, then called the number on the sign.
Renovations took almost a full year; he lived with his ex, Dylan, and Dylan’s new boyfriend, sleeping on the couch in a scenario that felt like the setup for a sitcom. Or porn. Before they broke up, it would have absolutely been porn... Beck tried not to make it personal when Dylan decided to be mostly monogamous with the guy after him.
They lived their lives like Beck wasn’t there, and Beck got to know every twenty-four-hour establishment in the Village.
Phil and Phil’s husband Nolan—who had a studio or else he’d be sleeping on their couch—thought Beck was crazy but Beck had checked out emotionally and didn’t care that Dylan and his boyfriend were sleeping and screwing on the mattress and sheets he’d bought when he briefly lived there. Like, really lived there. And yeah, maybe the least they could do was invite him to join but it wasn’t a big deal. When the contractor called to say the top floors were finished, Beck wrote a polite thank you note for the guys, packed up his tiny duffle then headed to Pine Lake.
Another part of his life closed and now ignored. For someone not even thirty, Beck knew all the tricks of how to move on from a life that no longer suited you. He’d done it before.
Being a landlord wasn’t his goal, but the real estate lady suggested it, as well as the “performance space” on the first floor being handy for income, and Beck felt uncomfortable sharing that he didn’t need the money. People got weird when you said stuff like "yeah, I’m not even thirty and retired.” Because then they’d ask how? No. If you didn’t recognize him, he wasn’t sharing the information. She got the papers signed, had the money directly deposited to him, and everything was fine.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, Beck corralled the girls into their room—the second bedroom which had been outfitted to handle two huge malamutes, including a king-size bed, and every toy known to man—then headed down the stairs to the first floor. He directed Sy to come to the back door via text, then tapped his foot nervously waiting for a knock.
When it came, Beck smoothed his face into a neutral expression, took a breath, and then unlocked the massive fire door, opening it with a jerk.
Sy stood next to a tall, well-dressed man, a bit shorter than Beck. They were both smiling, and Beck nodded, stepping aside for them to come in.
“Beck! Mac Kelley here, your new tenant!” Sy said, slapping Beck on his back. Well, lower back.
The man, Mac Kelley, was very good-looking, almost model handsome. Beck, as he did with all the new people he met, waited for a spark of recognition but none came. That was a bit of a surprise because Beck quickly recognized the top brand cashmere sweater, jeans, and low boots. His overcoat alone was four digits. This guy knew fashion—but he didn’t know Beck. He also didn’t look at Beck like he was, as Frieda put it, a snack so that told himself something else about the guy.
“Thanks for setting this up for me. Took a real load off, moving, knowing I didn’t have to find a place to live.”
“No problem.” Beck smiled shyly. “Your stuff got here yesterday, and I had the movers leave it in your apartment.”
Sy clapped his hands. “Wonderful. I’ll leave you two to settle in. I’m headed back to the office.” He turned to Mac, all sparkles and grins. “See you tomorrow!”
And then he was gone, darting out of the building, the door slamming behind him.
Mac laughed. “He’s quite a character.”
Beck nodded, unsure of what to say. He didn’t really have opinions about people in Pine Lake; most he knew only in passing and in a “hello, smells like snow, thank you, yes the performance space is available on that date, of course I’ll be at that town meeting” sort of way. And he didn’t like offering his thoughts—what if it got back to the person and hurt their feelings?
How far he’d come since the catty gossipy world that was modeling.
“Well, let’s head up. I’ll give you the keys and uh, explain some stuff.” Beck stuck his hands in the front of the hoodie then gestured with his shoulder towards the staircase.
Beck quickly recited the history of the building, a nearly word-for-word speech his realtor had given him on the first day. His brain worked weirdly like that.
It was built in the late 1800’s, as Pine Lake residents decided to manufacture textiles, taking advantage of their waterfront location and passage to the river, and the constant stream of new citizens seeking employment. When that died off, the company was repurposed and redesigned to house a box company. By the 1980’s, factories as small as this one were nearly obsolete, and it was abandoned.
Several buyers tried to design it into something else—housing, offices—but it always fell through. The result was a tiny parking lot, a modernized bottom floor and acres of property untouched as a backyard, all with a perfect view of the mountains and the lake.
Mac followed Beck up the winding steel staircase, past the two-story windows. An occasional “wow, what a view” punctuated Beck’s speech.
“The bottom floor is space I rent out for concerts and parties; I’ll make sure you know when something is booked. We have a private entrance in the back...which I don’t have to tell you since you came in that way. And you can barely hear any noise from down here. I mean, up there from down here.” Beck laughed nervously. “The second floor is storage and a home gym—you're welcome to use it. Half of the third floor is yours.”
“Do I have any neighbors?” Mac asked.
“No, just me.” Beck had an ear for accents, given his extensive traveling, but Mac’s deep, smooth voice was a manufactured product. It made him curious but not enough to ask. Of course. “The second unit is empty.”
They kept going. “I’m on the fourth floor. And I don’t make much noise.” Beck pulled the key out of his pocket when they hit the third floor. Mac didn’t loom behind him, just went over to the giant window to look out.
“This view is freakin’ amazing,” Mac enthused. “Is there rooftop access?”
Beck pushed open the door. “Yeah. It’s got some planters and a grill, which I don’t use so you’re more than welcome to make it your own.”
Mac grinned as he stepped by, ducking into the apartment. “I am a genius with fine cuts of beef and a spatula.” He flashed his big smile, with perfect teeth and dimples. “The ladies love it.”
"Wow, that’s cool.”
Mac disappeared into the apartment and Beck rolled his eyes. At least he didn’t say anything stupid like, I wouldn’t know.
NO REALLY, MAKING NEW FRIENDS
Mac took in the building as he walked up the metal stairs to the second floor. The place was enormous, with exposed brick and shiny pipework overhead. Two-story windows lined the walls of the wide metal staircase, letting in the late winter light and showing an incredible view of the mountains. God, he hoped this place had fireworks on the Fourth of July.
His new landlord was shy but had otherwise hit the genetics lottery in every possible way, even with that shaggy cut of his hair, hiding part of his face—Mac was straight but not blind, the guy was gorgeous—and he quickly assumed a rich mommy and daddy who gave him the building to “manage” which—whatever. Mac didn’t begrudge people born on third base just because he was spawned under the team bus and had much further to crawl. The kid seemed nice. The rent was cheap as hell and his commute was about four minutes, with the Love Broker offices practically across the street.
Couldn’t get better than that.
Then Mac saw his new apartment.
His jaw dropped.
Beck, with a blush, began to give him a quick tutorial of the high-ceilings and the controls for the fans, after dropping the keys in Mac’s hand. Original brick walls divided the space into room vignettes, all open plan except the two bedrooms. A living room with floor to ceiling windows. The master bedroom had two windows and a bathroom with a giant clawfoot tub and rainfall shower, that boasted a view of the mountains. Another, smaller bedroom, no windows, but Mac quickly decided it would be his closet. Washer and dryer. The kitchen took up one wall and a single staircase led to a loft space that would make a perfect home office.
It was stunning, even with the mass of boxes sitting in the center of the living room with his plastic-wrapped furniture. And huge. You could ride a bike in the open space.
“Holy shit,” was all Mac could manage and Beck seemed pleased.
“If you need anything moved or changed, you can just let me know. I don’t mind if you paint or whatever.
“I...holy shit,” Mac said then laughed at himself. Could you sound more out of your element, he thought. “I don’t mind saying, this is the nicest apartment I’ve ever seen. And the view!”
Beck shyly ducked his head. “It’s the best part,” he said softly. “Oh, one quick question. Are you okay with dogs?”
Having been raised around angry horses, cookie-obsessed racing pigs, and bulls that acted like seasoned felons, Mac just grinned. “Absolutely. Are we sharing a space? Because all I ask is that I get the bed.”
“No, no.” Beck smiled. “I have two Malamutes. They’re very well-behaved, I promise, but I forgot to have Sy ask you. Like, if you were allergic.” He suddenly looked pained, like he might have had to give away his dogs because his tenant was allergic.
“No allergies to anything so you don’t need to worry. In fact, I’d love to meet them.”
Beck lit up like those fireworks Mac was hoping for. “Of course! Um, you might want to change though. New people make them very excited, and very...uh, they like to lick.”
A thousand dirty jokes went through Mac’s head, but he didn’t quite have a bead on this guy. Maybe he was just a rich, shy kid with a limited personality. Maybe Mac was going to have to get used to women filing in and out of this place like there was a ninety percent off sale on shoes. Some chicks dug quiet, shy, hot guys.
Other ladies liked charming outgoing hunks, such as himself.
“I'm going to get changed then head up, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. I’ll put on some coffee? I also have food if you’re hungry.”
Mac nodded enthusiastically. “Whatever you have, I’m not picky.”
Beck seemed far less stressed when he left to go upstairs and Mac got his phone out to text PJ that he was here, safe, and the apartment made her mansion look boring and beige. He took some pictures to emphasize this point.
This job offer to expand the reach of the Love Brokerbrand had come out of the blue, like a miracle, as any more time spent as the assistant manager of the Chateau D’Mange on the Upper East Side would have rendered him completely stupid and permanently enraged.
PJ told him to quit before he had another job because he could “come stay in the guest house!”—as if that sounded better than “go sleep on your rich sister’s couch because you have no job.” He didn’t want to live with his sister and Dr. Brandon and their adorable kids or reside in a posh gated community in Westchester. He wanted to have a job he enjoyed, that wasn’t a tenure of a year or two before he needed to move on, where he made a shit ton of money. Was that so impossible?
Then, leaving work one night, he saw a man nearly flattened by a bus. It was a damn miracle—and possibly a cat—that saved him, and Mac couldn’t move past it. It hammered him day and night. Was this what he wanted? If he got smashed by a bus tomorrow, would he have regrets? He’d done so much to get away from his original destiny, becoming just another guy with a fucked up back and lung cancer, hauling his tired ass from town to town, fathering twenty kids with random women who thought carnies were hot.
He’d wanted to be different but was he now just the shiny, proper version of that? (Except for the kids—he was careful about that—and the lung cancer. His liver, however, might have had some shit to say.)
Mac didn’t want that either.
He didn’t want to be a fancy errand boy anymore. Nearly forty and still having to answer to idiots who got their jobs because of a degree he didn’t possess pissed him off.
Soon after, as he mentally made lists about all the places he could hide his manager’s body, a rotund and insanely friendly guest named Sy asked him about his prospects and dreams, a bit of a chat before the dapperly dressed man set off on his “daily walkabout” and Mac let it all out. He rarely opened up like that, not even with PJ, with whom he’d shared a womb, a trailer, and seedy apartments over the years, or Deacon, his best friend since childhood. But there was something about Sy and his round face, and kind voice that made Mac let loose.
And he surely did.
By the time Mac clocked out that evening, he felt exhausted but cleansed. Perhaps he just needed to share his burden. Of wanting more, unapologetically. And deserving more—also unapologetically. As he walked to the subway, Mac encountered Sy at the corner, exiting a cab.
“Oh Mac, I have an idea I’d like to run by you.”
And now, here he was, with an office and a desk and a door, taking on a project which, Sy assured him, he could craft and execute on his own— expanding the reach and scope of the tiny company’s singles-looking-for-love clientele. A high-end singles group with a high-end membership fee, that offered group activities, tours, and holidays, all designed to help you find your true love? While Mac wasn’t a romantic in any sense of the word, he knew a good relationship could really change someone’s life. Like PJ and Dr. Brandon, for example. Carny girl makes good and snags the son of a former Bahamian ambassador and a brain surgeon? The swelling music writes itself.
Mac knew how to make people happy, comfortable, and satisfied—rimshot—and he knew how to charm folks into taking a chance on what he had to offer. Second rimshot.
He could do this.
But first, Mac would head upstairs and let himself get tackled by two big dogs and drink some coffee. What a fantastic first day in Pine Lake, so long as he didn’t linger on the topic of his new boss, Norah. Nope, not going to think about it. He’d just have to charm her like he’d charmed everyone else in his life.
UNWITTING WING MAN
Mac, Beck had to admit, was hard to say no to. He glowed with energy, eager to go, go, go. In the first week since Mac moved in, Beck had—at Mac’s insistence—taken him hiking up the mountain to view Trudye’s tree, a traipse around the frozen lake, to every restaurant in town—that didn’t take too long—and then further out to various bars, of the sports and singles variety, in their county. Oh, and a trip to several stores to build up his cold-weather wardrobe.
He very kindly never asked why Beck didn’t pick anyone up, probably assuming he was shy. Or a virgin.
Yes to the first. No to the second.
The persona he adopted during his modeling years was an exhausting mask, saying yes to everything from drugs to orgies, seemingly without a care in the world. If his family thought him a whorish, godless person, why not lean into it.
When his grandmother died, Beck’s ability to play that role went with her. While there were still things he hid, at least they weren’t behind a plastic, self-destructive caricature.
But, with the good-natured and charming Mac, Beck didn’t mind going out, having a beer or soda he nursed for hours, people watching and wishing he could bring his camera. Mac would check in now and again, before disappearing back into the crowd of beautiful women.
Once or twice a guy with a certain look in his eye approached but Beck pretended not to notice. He didn’t want to be rude, but he also felt he had missed the window where he could tell Mac he was gay.
It hadn’t seemed important at first; after all he was just the landlord but then Mac seemed hellbent on cultivating a friendship and they’d socialized daily since his tenant moved in.
When it didn’t show signs of slowing down, an announcement would have absolutely made things weird, with Mac worrying that Beck thought they were dating and then a mess.
At least it was a tangled pit in Beck’s head when he overthought it through his morning workouts in the home gym.
Tonight though, Mac didn’t seem all that eager to go flirt with the ladies sending heat-seeking stares his way, before choosing his fun for the night. He drank two quick vodka tonics, raising his hand for a third as Beck ripped the label off his microbrew.
This is what friends do, he told himself. What if Freida was here, crying in their Cosmopolitan? Or Nolan in his Manhattan?
“Everything okay?” he asked, leaning a bit closer.
But not too close.
“Eh.” Mac drained his glass. “A friend of mine got himself into some shit. And work...” Mac didn’t finish his sentence, but the scowl was hard to miss.
“Not going well?”
“The job’s great. Sy’s great. Miriam’s great.”
“But?”
Mac took a sip of drink number three. “Do you know Norah Fields? She’s like Sy’s right hand woman.”
“Oh yeah, red hair?” Beck neatened up the pile of ripped wrapper. “Her daughter is in a dance troupe—they do their recitals in the space downstairs and she’s always there.”
“Did she spit ice cubes at you? Threaten to hurt your dogs?” Mac asked sarcastically and Beck had a moment of imaging her spitting anything at any time and it did not compute.
“Uhhh, no. She’s very polite. And...” Beck trailed off. He wasn’t good at gossip, ironic considering how much time he’d spent modeling. But even a hermit like him knew the rumors about Norah Fields and the black cloud that followed her that were whispered around Pine Lake. Would it make it better or worse if he told Mac?
“Cold? Cruel? Absolutely the worst person and I used to work in...” He trailed off. And his glass was already empty.
“Mm, no. I didn’t get that impression. But honestly, I haven’t talked to her much.” Beck waved Mac's glass at the bartender. “Is she difficult to work with?”
Mac’s look was sarcastic and deadpan at once. “I can’t take a piss without her threatening to write me up.”
“Write you up? She’s trying to get you fired?” Beck was aghast.
“Not literally. And I don’t even know how she’d do that. I think her goal is to make me slowly go insane so when I run screaming from the building she can point in my direction and go, See? I told you.”
Having never had a real job—barely a teenager, modeling, retired before he was thirty—Beck just nodded.
Logically, Mac should speak to Sy about this but, also logically, Mac might not want to do that, appearing to be a tattler. Something that would get Beck’s ass whooped when he was a kid. Perhaps an office was different—he doubted Sy spanked—but squealing on someone close to you always had a consequence.
“Maybe...maybe you could ask Sy if working from home a few times a week is okay.” Beck perked up. “Maybe you could figure out some trips out of the office. For research.”
Mac didn’t reach for his now full glass; he seemed to be contemplating what Beck said.
“That’s a great idea.” His wide smile was back. “Plus, with my buddy coming to stay, I can haul his ass up the mountain, get some fresh air into his lungs.”
Beck was extraordinarily pleased with himself.
