Praise for Garrett Leigh

  “Emotional and brilliant…”

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  “An unforgettable voice in every book Leigh writes…” USA TODAY

  Christmas On Firefly Hill

  GARRETT LEIGH

  Copyright © 2022 by Garrett Leigh

  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.

  For my own bearded superhero <3

  Contents

  Playlist

  1. Logan

  2. Remy

  3. Logan

  4. Remy

  5. Logan

  6. Remy

  7. Logan

  8. Remy

  9. Logan

  10. Remy

  11. Logan

  12. Remy

  13. Logan

  14. Remy

  15. Logan

  16. Remy

  17. Logan

  18. Remy

  19. Logan

  Other Holiday Titles

  About the Author

  Also by Garrett Leigh

  Playlist

  Please Come Home For Christmas - Charles Brown

  Last Christmas - Wham!

  Sleigh Ride - Carpenters

  If We Make it Through December - Pistol Annies

  Upon A Winter’s Night - Cara Dillon

  Merry Christmas Baby - Lou Rawls

  O Come, All Ye Faithful - Elvis Presley

  I’ll Be Home For Christmas - Dean Martin

  A Spaceman Came Travelling - Chris de Burgh

  Stay Another Day - East 17

  Carol of the Bells - John Williams

  Listen on SPOTIFY

  Logan

  Summer Then

  The night is hot and humid, thick August air heavy in the sky. There are no clouds, just smoke trails from the fire show I’m marshalling, the smell of paraffin heady with danger.

  I’m not the kind of dude to get excited by that. I flick a scowl at the clear sky. I want it to rain, and not just because I’m in a bad mood. This grass, man. It’s dry. Yellow. Not far from straw at this point. One spark out of place and this whole field is going up, and because I’ve seen too much horrible shit to ever believe the worst won’t happen, I’m standing here like a doomsday peddler, glaring the heck out of every dancer that spins past.

  That’s what you get for moonlighting, bro.

  My twin brother’s amusement is loud in my head, but given his solution to an expensive divorce is playing gangster with a biker crew down south, he can suck a bag.

  I’m the sensible one.

  Honest.

  A fire dancer prances by me, all sequins, flesh, and smoke. She’s an attractive woman, but it’d take more than long legs and curves to distract me from hawk-eyeing the flaming baton she twirls.

  I don’t see her.

  I don’t see anything but hazards.

  It’s my job.

  The woman flits on by. She’s last in line and I almost relax. Then an awed murmur ripples through the audience and I remember there’s another performer I didn’t get to lecture before the show.

  Before I even see him, I know he’s different. It’s not just the louder noise from the festival crowd, it’s everything, from the increased heat in the air to the wider expanse of smoke in the sky.

  From the goosebumps breaking out over my skin, to the thud of my heart when I finally clap eyes on this fucker.

  Goddamn.

  There goes my theory about knowing myself.

  “You’ve got a thing for thic brunettes, dude.”

  Nope. Apparently not. Because there’s no way this dude’s slender limbs and sunshine-blond hair aren’t every sexual thought I’ve ever had rolled into a fucking thunderbolt.

  A thunderbolt that hits me straight through the soul.

  Like, legit kills me stone dead.

  If stones could burn like molten lava, that is.

  That’s the word for what spreads through me as the dancer whirls closer. He’s spinning a flaming poi above his head, a double-ended baton that sends sparks showering all over him as he swings it faster and faster, his nimble body a blur of tattooed skin and that gorgeous fucking hair.

  Oh, and he’s bare-chested, naturally, dressed in black harem pants that sit low on his narrow hips, the rest of him in full view, from his lean abs right down to his tattooed bare feet.

  Fuck me. I might’ve misjudged my attraction to blonds, but my penchant for the hard planes of a bloke’s torso is in full flight. I watch him twist and turn, the dance timeless and primal, and another bolt hits me. Blood rushes south in time with the audible whoosh of the poi. In an instant, I’m beside myself with an intensity I haven’t felt since a dude first turned my head at the tender age of fifteen.

  More than that, because this feeling isn’t laced with fear.

  This feeling is all fucking heat and I don’t have to worry what anyone else thinks about that.

  Except maybe anyone within a close enough radius to see the dick print making my utility trousers ridiculously tight.

  The only soul close enough is him.

  He dances into my peripheral, and dear lord, I’m not religious, but I need a divine intervention right now.

  I get it in the form of a clap of thunder. A loud whip of sound that breaks the sky open. Raindrops fall, fat and wet. Some of the audience flees. Dancers too. Not this one, though.

  Not him.

  He laughs and turns his face to the inky abyss above us, letting the rain pelt him, soaking his skin.

  His poi fizzles out. I wait for his magnetism to fade with it, but as the crowd thins, the aura he carries seems to swell, drawing me in.

  I’ve taken four steps before I catch myself, and by then it’s too late.

  He sees me and lowers the poi, a grin stretching a face I’m fast realising is a thousand suns more beautiful than his bewitching body. Drumbeats still come from the band beneath the boho umbrellas. They thud an ancient rhythm in time with my heart. I take two more steps. We’re inches apart, and up close, his smile is blinding.

  And older than I expect. Mid-twenties rather than the nineteen-year-old I feared he might be with flexibility like that.

  Older and fucking hell, he’s stunning. All cheekbones and hair. It’s too dark to see what colour his eyes are, but they could be mud-brown and he’d still, hands down, be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

  He’s also waiting for me to speak, and I realise, too late, I have nothing to say that isn’t various versions of I want to fuck you. And I can’t say that—I’m working. And shy, at least when it comes to picking up men. I’m a damn good lay, and I know it, but this bit…yeah. I’m ten shades of terrible.

  A silence stretches out. It should be awkward, but he’s still moving to the primal drumming, like it’s part of him, swaying his hips, head bobbing. He reaches out and flips the crew ID hanging from a lanyard around my neck.

  “Logan Halliwell,” he breathes. “You’re a fire marshal.”

  I nod.

  He tilts his head, his big eyes slightly hazed from the zoot I spot between his fingers. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No—” My voice is as croaky as his is warm and melodic. I try again. “No. Just checking you’re okay. You had sparks all over you.”

  I itch to grab his wrists and check his skin. His inked chest, neck, and hands. The tattoos are chakras and mandalas, in thick black-blue ink that didn’t come from a modern tattoo gun. They’re imperfectly perfect, like the glowing copper pendant hanging from his elegant neck, and I want to trace them with my tongue.

  “I’m good.”

  His voice startles me. I drag my eyes from his chest to meet the snare of his gaze. “Good?”

  “Yeah.” He draws the word out, then takes a toke from the joint, blowing the herbal smoke sideways from his lush mouth. “I’m used to it. Probably wouldn’t notice if I lit myself on fire.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “You gonna save me?”

  Save him. Toss him over my shoulder and carry him to my fucking cave. “I’d try.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “I’m a nice man.”

  “You look it.”

  Can’t say I’ve ever been told that before. I’m big and wide, my hair as dark as my brother’s is light. He says I have a grumpy mug, and no one’s ever told me any different. “You look—” Fuck. How am I gonna finish that sentence? With the truth? Nah. My internal monologue is articulate as shit, but put me in front of someone who makes my heart skip like a broken clock and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “You look all right too.”

  Amazing. At this rate, we’ll be married by the end of the month.

  Not.

  Besides, I’m not in the market for another expensive clusterfuck. I’m down to fuck. I just don’t know how to say it without sounding like a colossal wanker.

  So I don’t say it. I say nothing else at all, and neither does he. We stand in the rain and stare at each other until someone be

hind me calls my name.

  It’s the festival organiser. She’s a nice lady paying me cash for a couple of days’ work, but dear god I wish I’d never met her right now.

  If you’d never met Xena you wouldn’t be kicking it in this wet field.

  Can’t argue with that, but if she’s calling my name, she needs me for something, and that means stepping out of the vortex this dude has sucked me into with an angelic smile that somehow holds the heat of the devil.

  He steps closer. “Someone wants you.”

  It’s a whisper my dick chooses to take out of context. I want you. It’s not what he said. Not even close. But I hear it, bank it, and steel myself to turn away from him.

  A hand skates over my hip, scalding fingers grazing my skin through the thin T-shirt I resent even more than Xena for calling my name a second time.

  The dancer leans in.

  I catch the scent of accelerants and smoke, a hair trigger for hyper-vigilance on any normal day or night. But there’s nothing normal about the rush his proximity gives me. Nothing about it I don’t like, save the fact I know I’m about to lose it.

  His hand on my hip burns me up. Scrambles my brain. I meet him halfway, but I’ve got nothing. I don’t know what I’m doing. What he’s doing. Where we’re going.

  I have no clue that his hot-as-hell mouth is about to land on mine, so when it does I’m a fucking statue. A fortress of nothing as his hot lips brush mine in a sweet ghost of a kiss.

  He’s kissing me.

  Ten years ago, the mere idea of a man’s kiss in a public place was enough to give me a fucking stroke. Now it’s a different kind of trip. One that spins me in the best ways, lifts me off my feet, and takes me on a magic carpet ride.

  His lips are everything.

  Then they’re gone and I realise I’ve stone-faced him.

  Scared him, probably. Mean mug, remember?

  He doesn’t look scared.

  He looks amused. Joyfully amused and my lips begin to rise. Another clap of thunder rattles the earth and I make my move, tugging him back into my orbit.

  I kiss him. In front of hundreds of festival goers. In front of Xena, and every dancer still braving the rain. Lightning flashes in the sky and it’s fitting with the chemical combustion happening in my body with every soft flex of my mouth on his.

  It’s funny how the world can shift in a split second. I mean, that’s how long I kiss him for. Seconds. No tongues or teeth, just gentle lips. But by the time it’s over, I’m a different person.

  A better person, maybe. I don’t know.

  All I know for certain is that I have to go as much as I want to stay, and he knows it, too. I see it in eyes that still have no colour.

  He steps back.

  I let him go.

  He dances away with his lips imprinted on mine forever.

  Remy

  Winter Now

  Early mornings have always spoken to me. Cold and wet. Hot and dry. I don’t mind. Even the grey ones lift my spirits. The mist. The rain. Doesn’t matter if I’ve been awake all night, trying to get comfortable on the sagging mattress in the back of my beat-up Transit, it still feels brand new.

  I don’t even mind the melting frost seeping through my battered boots. I’ll be cursing my damp socks later, but right now the sparkly ground at the foot of Firefly Hill is magical enough to distract me from the fact it’ll be spring before I can afford new boots, and who knows when I’ll get my socks dry.

  That could all change today. I close my eyes briefly, leaning on the back doors of my van, testing my state of mind to see if I feel lucky. Nope. Not really. But there’s a lump of peridot in my pocket. Maybe that’ll help.

  Something has to. I’m a humble bloke. I don’t need much. But winter in my van is killing me. There’s tightness in my chest from the damp, and the bones I broke in the middle of the festival season have this dull throb I can’t shift.

  I’m tired. Probably. In the summer months, I love my van. The freedom. The great outdoors. But the colder it gets, the harder it is to sleep. Not just because it’s freezing, but because I’m scared and pissed off, emotions I’ve spent most of my life fortunate enough to avoid.

  The sun rises behind the hill, bathing the scattered dwellings with a misty glow. It’s not exactly tropical, but I soak up the faint warmth while eyeing the path I need to take later this morning, up the winding road to the highest house on the peak. Behind it is a building I can’t see from below, a concrete-walled workshop that could save my life. I can’t afford the rent up front, or even a deposit, so I’m relying on my charm.

  And the fact I managed to sneak a shower at a fucking glacial waterfall last night. I might be frozen to the marrow, but I’m clean.

  I’m not meeting my potential new landlord until midmorning. It’s barely dawn, but I need to get moving before I seize up. Mentally. Physically. I’m not good at staying still. So I walk into town, ignoring the low thrum of pain in my hip. The quiet thump in my shoulder. Sitting around feels like waiting to die, and I’m not there yet.

  I have too much to do. Besides, this place is too pretty for me to sulk once I get here. It’s November, but the Christmas fairies have been busy. There are lights everywhere, street art, and ad posters for festive performances. The air even carries cinnamon and spice, but I’m pretty sure the coffee shop smells the same all year round.

  Like heaven in a paper cup.

  I have two quid in my pocket. Truth be told, I need to buy some instant rice and a banana for my dinner, but coffee, man. I want it. I need it. And I’m not always good at long-term thinking. If I was, there’s a chance I wouldn’t be living in a van in darkest winter, scraping pocket change together for the smallest Americano this town has to offer.

  Hot coffee helps me not ride that train of thought too hard. I take my precious cup to the park on the outskirts of suburbia. It has the best views. From the bench where I slouch I can see the whole town and the landscape beyond, where the hills and fields give way to the industry in the distance. The big city with its twinkly lights and high-rises.

  I like cities when I’m far away from them. When I can talk myself into the promise of the unknown. Bright lights and opportunity. From up here, it’s easy to forget it’s full of shit I don’t want. Give me a tent in a field. A burning poi in my hands. The summer sun unimpeded by plastic and litter.

  Right. Because there’s no litter at festivals. Or doped-up dickheads who nearly killed you.

  I sigh and drain my coffee. The bitter tension in my gut is an unwelcome intruder. I squash it down, but it leaves an itchy feeling in its wake. I need to move again, but I have nowhere to go, unless I want to traipse back to the van and catch a nap before I hike up a hill to meet a man I’ve been told goes by the name of Uncle Marr.

  A snooze sounds good. But I have form for sleeping through every method I employ to wake me when my time is up. Also, I want to be tired. Chasing exhaustion gives me more chance of sleeping tonight and I need that more than anything.

  So I stay where I am, watching early-morning joggers, commuters heading for the station, and school children playing on the frost-damp play apparatus while their parents tell them not to. It’s a nice scene, almost as good as a nap, and I find myself drifting, eyes growing heavy, muscles relaxing. The pain in my aching bones fades and it’s all I can do to stay awake.

  I’m on my way to failure when a new family arrives. A father with two boys. Twins, I realise. Identical in everything except their personalities. The kid in the red hat is running towards the climbing wall, his gap-toothed grin a mile wide. His brother is wearing blue and shuffling along next to his dad, kicking stones and chewing his lip.

  He doesn’t want to climb the wall. My guess is he’d rather be indoors with the Ironman figure he’s carrying in the hand that isn’t clutching his dad’s, but he keeps shuffling on anyway, only stopping when he comes to the foot of the structure his brother is already halfway up. He tilts his head to look and his chin starts to wobble. He’s a cute kid and it breaks my heart, but he’s got a good dad. A kind one, so tall and strong he has to squat down to talk to his son.

 

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