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    Under the Felt Mistletoe
    Under the Felt Mistletoe
    Under the Felt Mistletoe
    Ebook57 pages1 hour

    Under the Felt Mistletoe

    By Nell Iris

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    The most wonderful time of the year is about to get even better.

    On a cold, rainy December morning, Finn’s beloved Grampa, his best friend and rock, makes a friend outside their home who he invites in for coffee. The last thing Finn expects is Nelson, a man with a painful past, who is beautiful and generous and turns Finn’s knees into jelly.

    What starts out as a chance to get out of the rain, soon becomes more as Nelson helps Finn get ready for the Christmas market. They bond over coffee and fabric and Mariah Carey. Can handmade Christmas ornaments and an understanding heart give Nelson the love he’s been denied?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJMS Books LLC
    Release dateDec 8, 2018
    ISBN9781634868204
    Under the Felt Mistletoe
    Author

    Nell Iris

    Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love. Nell writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

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      Book preview

      Under the Felt Mistletoe - Nell Iris

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      Good morning, son. What are you doing outside on a dreadful morning like this?

      Grampa’s voice is loud and can probably be heard two counties over. I chuckle. Leave it to him to find someone he can speak to at—I glance at my watch—eight-fifteen on a Saturday morning when it’s raining cats and dogs outside. Frozen cats and dogs.

      I cut out more stars from the red flannel fabric printed with tiny white flowers I found at a garage sale. I already have a huge pile of them but need more so I can make plenty of ornaments to sell at tomorrow’s first Christmas market for the season.

      I’m sorry, but the Freemans moved out a couple months ago, Grampa continues. Apparently, the person had answered Grampa and intends to visit the old neighbors. Nah, I don’t know. They didn’t care much for me or Finn, so we barely spoke to them.

      Hah, I huff with a shake of my head. Ain’t that the truth. The first time Mr. Freeman saw me after Gramps and I moved into the house after Gramma died a couple years back, I wore a black kilt and bright pink over-knee socks. Mr. Freeman’s eyes wandered between my clothes and my face and didn’t seem to think the outfit went with the scruffy beard I was cultivating at the time, because he snapped his mouth shut with a sound that could be heard from our side of the fence, and his big nose curled upward as though he smelled something foul. I told Grampa after that Mr. Freeman probably would have preferred a rotting corpse in his backyard over me.

      And if there’s one thing Grampa can’t stand, it’s someone attacking his beloved family, so he agreed with that loud booming laughter that always melts my heart. We kept a polite distance to the Freemans after that first awkward meeting.

      Why don’t you come inside for a second? We have fresh coffee.

      I still can’t hear the other person, but I put down my rotary cutter next to my sewing machine on the desk in the living room I use as a work space and walk to the kitchen. I have yet to meet someone who’ll say no to my grandfather, and I better make fresh coffee since I just gulped down the dregs leftover from breakfast.

      It doesn’t take me long to make a new batch. Both Grampa and I are equally addicted to the dark bitter brew of the gods, and I can make coffee with my eyes closed. The machine is already gurgling happily when the front door opens, and two sets of footsteps enter the house.

      Finn, my boy, I found a frozen young man on the street in dire need of coffee, Grampa yells, his voice booming through the house. He’s such a loud man; he can’t whisper if his life—or mine—depended on it.

      Already on it, Grampa, I call back.

      The rustle of clothing reaches me as I get mugs from the cupboard. Grampa’s Santa mug. My cartoon Rudolph with a humongous red nose. And I choose Uncle Ford’s Christmas tree mug for our mystery guest.

      Brrrr. Those raindrops are two degrees away from being ice bullets, Grampa says.

      Yes, sir. Very cold.

      My ears perk at the unknown man’s voice. He sounds polite. Quiet. And his tone is deep and rumbly, the kind that could make a man’s body tremble and shiver if he were close enough.

      Stop perving on the poor man’s voice, I mumble under my breath and rummage around the pantry in search for something to serve with the coffee, but all I find is an empty package of Oreos. I huff my annoyance. Grampa is sixty-seven and has yet to learn how to throw away empty boxes. How Gramma tolerated it all those years, I’ll never know.

      "The weather outside really is frightful, Grampa says with a chuckle. But not in the way Dean Martin meant it when he sang it, don’t

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