Blurb
Chris
Everhart attends his best friend’s weeklong wedding festivities. He
meets handsome, enigmatic, Owen, and in a haze of attraction ignores
the strangeness surrounding Owen. Convinced he’s falling in love,
Chris spends every moment he can with Owen, until on the final day of
his best friend’s celebrations he discovers a heartbreaking and
shocking truth. He and Owen can never be together.
Traumatized,
lonely, Chris can’t settle into another relationship, and then,
after two years of wishing he could feel the way he felt for Owen
with another man, fate intervenes. He meets gorgeous, gentle Matthew.
Spooked,
Chris is about to run from Matthew who reminds him so much of Owen,
but Matthew asks Chris to dance with him.
In
Matthew’s arms, Chris can’t ignore the feeling of belonging that
rushes over him.
Will
he take the risk to love again, or continue to yearn for a ghost?
Excerpt
The
early evening sun glowed in the sky. Birds still sang. The breeze
caressed his face, gentle and warm. Only white wisps of cloud trailed
across the sky. It was an evening meant to walk hand in hand with a
lover.
Chris
sighed and drank some of his whisky. Since his boyfriend left him
nearly a year ago, he hadn’t met anyone who stirred his heart. If
there were any gay guys at the gathering, he’d yet to identify
them. Since he was the only gay man among his friendship group, Chris
expected to be the only person who hadn’t hooked up with someone by
the time the bride and groom met at the altar. He smiled to himself
recalling a work colleague’s words about wedding festivities.
“That’s what usually happens isn’t it … you sleep with
someone out of sheer envy for the “glowing with love” bride and
groom?” Chris had laughed when the guy put air commas around
the words “glowing with love.” “Some might. I might
not,” but in his heart he dearly wished for a gentle, handsome man
to love. Chris was lonelier than he admitted to himself or anyone
else.
Four
days of games, parties, and outings stretched ahead of him. Chris
forced a more positive mood. This is a beautiful estate. I should
explore. Phil’s parents owned the huge old house on a wealth of
gardens. Ben, Phil’s dad, ran his events planning business from
there and often one or two of the large rooms were used for
conferences. Presently, the estate was closed for two weeks as the
families and friends assembled to celebrate Phil’s wedding.
He
peeled the label that named him from his jacket lapel, and stuffed it
into his pocket. Then left his half-empty glass on a bench beside a
row of rose bushes, heavy with large pink blooms, and wandered off
down the path that wound around the house. The hem of his jacket
trailed along two of the flowers and the perfume shed by the roses
followed him.
The
path forked at a corner of the house, and Chris took the one that led
into an archway of trees. The path beneath his feet changed. Some of
the paving stones held large cracks where tiny white daisies grew
among dark moss. Chris bent and picked one—so small, yet so
perfect. He put it into the buttonhole on his collar. The tree
branches met at their canopy and only a few slanting rays of sun
penetrated. Some scented climbing flowers wove through the trees,
twining around their trunks. Chris smiled, enjoying the fragrant
enclosure. Peace dropped over him as he walked.
At
the end of the path, he turned at a fork that led toward the house
again. Chris considered striking out across the lawn for a look at
what appeared to be a small round pond, but the evening sun had
disappeared behind a bank of clouds. He glanced upward at the sky. A
few large orbs of rain splattered on his face. Funny, only minutes
ago it didn’t look like rain at all.
He
walked more rapidly in the direction of the house as the sky became
overcast. On this side of the building, he could see a long line of
windows, two of which from that angle, seemed to be French doors, and
they were flung open. As Chris neared them, strains of music floated
in the descending twilight. Fairy lights glittered, strung across the
tops of the doors, and as the rain fell, the drops reflected their
silvery twinkle.
By
the time Chris reached the entrance, dark stars of raindrops
patterned his dove-gray suit jacket and dampened his face. Chris
dashed into the room accessible from the large glass doors and froze.
He’d expected this to be another way into the living room he’d
left earlier, especially with the lure of music guiding him, but a
totally different and smaller room lay before him, and in the middle
of the parquet, a man danced a kind of waltz, alone, clutching a
rectangular cushion to his chest.
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