Chapter 1

Martin Gibson was on the wrong side of the road.

Not technically, of course. He was on the right side as in, not left , but also the right side as in, correct . The ninety-minute drive across the rolling hills of Maryland had got him used to seeing oncoming cars to his left. He’d adjusted rather quickly to that massive change.

What felt so, so, savagely wrong was spending Christmas an ocean away from everyone he knew and loved.

Humming along to the indie song on the car’s satellite radio, Martin examined the landscape, which grew more rugged as he traveled west. The sharp blue sky held but a few wispy clouds, but the sun was sinking fast, as though late for a date with the horizon.

This escape had seemed so logical when he’d planned it. But now that he was here, the trip seemed the daftest idea of his thirty-seven-year life.

The road dove steeply, and he found himself on a bridge over a wide, raging river. Traffic slowed enough for him to look past the green iron guardrail.

On the river’s eastern shore behind him, railroad tracks cut into the side of a mountain, like in the electric train set his nieces had built last summer. Directly to his right, where two rivers joined to form the large one beneath him, a tiny town perched atop a rocky outcrop. From here it looked as though a strong breeze could send the village tumbling into the rapids.

Was this Harpers Ferry, the town nearest his destination? The sat-nav claimed his trip would end in fifteen minutes, so it seemed likely.

As his car rolled off the bridge, the device cheerily announced, “Welcome to Virginia!” A surprise, that, ticking off a third state on his first journey to America.

The music cut off just as he passed a yellow sign warning Falling Rock . Steel-mesh netting draped over the enormous brown rock formation to his left that was no doubt blocking the satellite signal. The netting would hold back smaller stones, but a boulder or two? Not bloody likely.

“Welcome to West Virginia!” the sat-nav piped, interrupting his dark thoughts.

“Farewell, Virginia,” he whispered. “I was barely in ya.” And now he was making bad poetry to himself.

He took a slight left turn when directed onto the steepest road he’d ever seen. The small car’s engine protested feebly at the task.

Martin downshifted into second gear. “You’ve got this,” he told the car—and maybe himself as well. The river and the village, though receding quickly, were still visible through the branches of leafless trees. Glancing over at them gave him a bit of vertigo, but he couldn’t help admiring the view, especially since on his other side were giant boulders which were conspicuously not held back with netting.

Finally the incline grew gentler. He patted the dashboard. “You did it, car. Gaun yersel!”

Now Martin was surrounded by forest on both sides. He switched on his headlights. The sun wouldn’t set for two hours, but its weak winter rays were already beginning to fade here in the shade.

It wasn’t too late to abort this mission. He could change his flight, return to Glasgow tomorrow or on Christmas Eve. It would cost a fortune, but it would be worth it to reunite with his family and friends.

As he passed a telephone pole, the words Pet Amber Alert shouted at him from a homemade flyer.

He slammed on the brakes, checked his mirrors, then backed up to read the rest.

Pumpkin Spice missing since 12/20. Friendly with strangers, answers to Spicy. $500 reward for return!

A photo showed a ginger cat with a ragged notch in its right ear. It sported a red bow tie as it posed on Santa’s lap.

Martin pulled his phone from the cup holder to take a picture of the flyer. But as he unlocked the screen, the device’s battery died.

He muttered a string of profanities. Was this an ominous sign? Had the Curse followed him across the Atlantic?

No. The phone battery was dead because he’d listened to too much of his audiobook on the flight. A simple explanation.

Martin memorized the phone number for Pumpkin Spice and vowed to write it down when he got to the house. Then he drove on, resolute once more.

There would be no change in plans. He’d go back to Glasgow after Christmas, as scheduled. The lost-cat flyer reminded him how selfish it would be to do otherwise, because the Curse wasn’t just about him.

Homes here were scattered like wildflower seeds rather than grouped in estates. He passed a pair of caravans with several old cars parked on the lawn, the vehicles missing bits like carcasses after a vulture feast. Not far from the mobile homes was a posh-looking house with freshly painted window frames and sleek red ribbons decking well-trimmed hedges.

He turned onto a county road that had a number instead of a name. “In a quarter mile,” the sat-nav soon announced, “your destination will be on your right.”

Martin slowed the car, dubious. Here there were nothing but trees and the occasional discarded beer can trapped in roadside shrubbery. Here the mountain seemed to wrest back the land from its human invaders.

Then, up ahead, gold-white lights shone through the darkening forest. He slowed until he saw a windshaken wooden sign reading Pockaway .

This was the place.

Dwarf spruces flanked the long gravel driveway, each tree looped with strands of faerie lights, guiding him toward the house. “Lovely,” he whispered. He wasn’t immune to a little Christmas magic, though by now he certainly should have been.

He stopped the car beside the house and got out, his travel-stiff back and limbs sighing with relief. A gust of cold wind greeted him, rattling the bare branches of the towering trees. He pulled his coat tighter and turned to examine his holiday residence.

The booking site had emphasized that this was “a genuine TINY HOME” of only two hundred square feet. Standing in front of Pockaway, Martin felt like he’d gobbled up the Wonderland cake labeled EAT ME and was now too big to fit inside four walls and a ceiling.

He stared dazedly at the wee green wooden house with matching corrugated-iron roof. Where was the door? Was he meant to crawl through that window?

Then he spied the flagstone path, nearly obscured by damp brown leaves. He took his bags from the boot and carried them down the path to a gate in a wooden privacy fence, which opened onto a stone terrace.

Ah. At the back of the house—or maybe this was the front?—was a porch and a door. Pine garland dotted with red silk bows wrapped around the railings, and the doorway was outlined in the same gold-white faerie lights as the driveway trees.

At the sight of the door’s security pad, he reached for his phone. Loretta, the property owner, had texted him the code.

Of course, his phone was still dead. He let out a groan. Now what?

Hold on. She’d said the code spelled XMAS on a phone dialer. There were no letters on the keypad, but his brain lurched into gear and worked out the corresponding numbers: 9627.

The lock glowed green. A fucking Christmas miracle.

Martin took in the entire log cabin–style interior at once, for it was all fewer than a dozen steps from the entrance: the lounge containing a sofa and small wall-mounted TV, the kitchenette with miniature appliances, and the bedroom loft with pull-down ladder.

First thing first. He plugged in his phone, leaving the device off so it would charge faster.

The bathroom wasn’t technically a bathroom, since the tub and shower were on the terrace, but the small toilet and sink worked. The lack of indoor bathing space made the house extremely affordable during the winter, and as Martin washed his hands, he thought of a line from A Christmas Carol : “Darkness was cheap, and Scrooge liked it.”

On the kitchenette’s wooden worktop, there was a note written with graceful green letters on a sheet of pale cream paper.

Martin,

Hope your journey was safe and smooth. Instructions for the stove, soaking tub, and the sound system are in the top drawer. Please call my son if you need anything fixed, even on Christmas Day. Enjoy the goodies!

Loretta

A phone number was circled at the bottom of the note.

What were the “goodies”? He opened the mini-fridge, which contained a few bottles of water but nothing goodie-like.

No matter. The nearby town had a supermarket and places to get a takeaway. After unpacking, he’d fetch everything he needed for his stay.

He lugged his suitcase up the ladder to the loft, then sank onto the end of the double bed, which consumed nearly every inch of floor space. He stretched his arms up and out, brushing his fingertips against the polished boards of the peaked ceiling.

Sudden laughter bubbled up from his chest. He’d wanted a space built for one, and now he’d got it. Alone, he would have the least-worst Christmas ever.

Humming one of the songs from the radio, he returned downstairs and looked out the door onto the terrace. Aha, there by the railing was the soaking tub other guests had raved about in reviews.

The shopping could wait. He needed rid of this travel sweat, pronto.

He shed his clothes, shrugged on the white terry dressing gown hanging in the open cupboard by the back door, and tucked the provided soap and shampoo into the pocket.

Outside, the frigid air wrapped round his bare legs. He turned on the water and bounced on his toes to keep warm while the tub filled.

The view was incredible. In summer the horizon would have been obscured by millions of green leaves, but now he could see a wide river far below and far away, sparkling with the last of the afternoon sunlight.

Martin leaned on the terrace railing and peered down at the damp leaves and mossy rocks scattered perhaps fifteen feet below him. There were no trails here, so he’d bring his phone with its compass app when he took his morning walks.

At last the tub was full. He braced himself for the momentary chill, then tore off his dressing gown and draped it over the terrace’s polished wooden railing.

Holding onto the edge of the tub, he dipped his left foot into the water. “Och!” Too hot.

He yanked his foot out, then stood there, one leg raised like a dog pishing on a tree trunk. Slowly he sank his foot back into the water, the heat flashing fire through his body. He pulled in his other leg, then sat down in the deep stainless-steel tub.

His groan was rhapsodic. The water came all the way up to his neck, making every muscle sing hymns of gratitude.

Somewhere in the wood, a bird twittered. It was the last thing he heard before he slid down and let the water cover his head.

Martin kept his eyes open as he scrubbed his scalp with his fingertips. The deepening blue sky and skeletal tree branches blurred in the lens of the rippling water, creating an impressionist painting above him.

In all the years of living with the Curse, utter solitude was the one solution he’d never had the courage to try. Family, friends, and lovers had done what they could do, but it was down to him. Martin had started it, and this year he would end it the only way he could: alone.

The last of his breath bubbled out, and soon his lungs began to ache. Martin sat up again, cresting the water like a dolphin. He gave a happy hoot as he whipped his head back and forth. The cold air, the hot water, it all made him feel so…fucking…alive!

A car door slammed. Martin froze, then wiped the water from his ears to hear better. Was it a neighbor? No, the closest one was half a mile away, maybe farther.

“Helloooooo!” a man called out from the driveway. The only door to the house was right here, so he’d have to come round.

With a great heave, Martin sprang out of the tub, nearly face-planting on the flagstones. “Just a second!” With one lunging step, he reached for his dressing gown?—

—and knocked it off the railing. Just beyond his grasp, it fell to the forest floor below.

Anthony stepped around the side of the Pockaway house, following the voice muffled by the flaps of his hat. As he approached the privacy-fence gate, he focused on not slipping on the clumps of wet leaves the morning’s storm had swept onto the stone path. He should have come earlier to clear the walkway, but this guest had arrived before normal check-in time. Hopefully these muffins would make up for any imperfections.

He unlatched the gate and pushed it open. “Mr. Gibson, I heard you—oh!” The naked man turned from the deck railing. “Oh.” Anthony looked away, but not before he saw…it all. “I’m so sorry!” Wait. “I mean, not sorry about…” he waved toward the man “I mean, not that any of that is to be sorry for.” Ugh, what were words? “Sorry I barged in on you. I texted first. Not that that makes it okay. Please don’t give us one star.”

In Anthony’s fuzzy peripheral vision beyond the frame of his glasses, the man shifted his hands up and down his own body, as if deciding which part they should cover. “Who are you?” he asked in a growly accent and even growlier tone.

“Anthony Bello. Loretta’s son. I made muffins.” He held out the steaming basket, as if it excused everything.

“Ah, the guy with the goodies.” The man—Martin Gibson, unless there was a serious mistake—drew in a teeth-chattering breath. “My dressing gown fell.”

Out of pure reflex, Anthony glanced over to see Martin standing with arms folded over his fair, freckled chest. He locked his gaze onto the man’s sharp eyes to avoid scanning his body again. “Dressing gown?” he asked, picturing a gauzy Victorian nightie.

“My, erm, what do you call them here?” Shivering, Martin dragged the toes of one foot up and down over his other calf, no doubt trying to warm himself. “The cover-uppy thing.”

“Oh, your bathrobe!” Anthony sidestepped to the railing and peered over. The terrycloth robe had fallen into a pile of shiny wet leaves. “I’ll get you a clean one.” Yes. Good. Do something other than talk to a frozen naked stranger.

The spell broken, he opened the door, set the muffins on the kitchen counter, and yanked the second bathrobe from the linens shelf, all while trying not to tread on the pile of discarded clothes. As he turned to go back outside, Martin appeared behind the door.

“Oh! Sorry. Here.” Keeping the door between them, Anthony held out the robe like he was standing outside a department-store changing room.

If only there were a back door he could slink out of. Maybe he would just run through the wall like a cartoon character, leaving an Anthony-shaped hole behind.

“Cheers.” Martin put on the robe, then rapped on the door. “May I come in?”

Yikes. Definitely a one-star review in the making.

“Yes! Of course.” He pushed the door open. “This is your place. I’ll leave you alone.”

Martin squeezed past him, making a beeline for the counter. “You mentioned muffins?” He picked up the basket. “Och, they’re still warm.”

“Fresh from the oven.” Well, obviously.

Martin grunted his approval through a mouthful of muffin, but his brows were still lowered in a completely justified frown.

“They’re banana nut, because potassium and magnesium are good for jet lag.” Anthony pressed back against the wall to put a few inches between their bodies. “I knew you were coming from overseas.”

Martin nodded, his scowl fading but not disappearing.

“Um, so…” Anthony spied his mom’s note. “Obviously you figured out how to use the soaking tub.” An unbidden memory of a wet, naked Martin flitted before his mind’s eye. He flipped the note over. “The Wi-Fi password is here.”

Martin shook his head. “I need to stay off the internet while I’m on holiday. Loads of books to read,” he hurried to add, as if Anthony needed an explanation.

“Okay, then.” Anthony inched toward the door. “Just call if you?—”

A booming bark came from the driveway.

“—need anything.”

Martin looked toward the bark, his expression brightening like the sun popping out from behind a cumulus cloud. “Is that your dog?” he asked, pronouncing it dug .

“Yeah, Betty’s a bossy one.”

“Bring her in.”

“Uh.” Anthony examined the lower level’s floor space, a third of which was already occupied by the two of them. “She’s also very big.”

“She can join us for tea.” Martin smiled for the first time, and the sight of it weakened Anthony’s knees and hips. Good thing he was already leaning against the wall.

Anthony adjusted his glasses. “You don’t want me out of your sight forever?”

“I need caffeine and company”—Martin fought back a yawn—“or I’ll pass out and wake up at midnight. Need to reset my circadian rhythm.” He motioned toward the door. “Just gie’s a minute to dry myself and dress.”

“Of course. Wave from the window when you’re ready.”

Outside, the house seemed even smaller. Anthony still marveled at the tiny homes his parents loved to build and rent out. Pockaway was the tiniest and most basic but had the best view, so it was his favorite.

Betty woofed again from inside the pickup’s cab. Anthony climbed in and was greeted with a slobbery kiss on his ear.

“Wanna make a new friend?” he asked, ruffling the dense black fur on the back of her neck. “He seems nice. Ish. Nice-ish.”

Anthony checked his phone. For once there were no messages from his parents. Now that the leaves had fallen and the Olde Tyme Christmas festival was past, work had slowed to a merciful crawl, which meant his mom and dad had finally chilled out a bit. Soon Anthony would have time to figure out what the heckfire to do with his life.

In his sideview mirror, the front window opened and Martin gave a cheerful wave.

“Okay, Miss Betty, let’s go.” Anthony got out and set up her doggie ramp beside the driver’s side door. He took her leash, and she sashayed down the ramp like a model on a catwalk.

Martin met them at Pockaway’s entrance. Betty set about sniffing his hands, her bushy tail waving low and slow. He came down to her eye level, an easy feat considering she was two feet tall at the shoulders. “You’re a pure beauty, so you are,” he said as he scratched behind Betty’s floppy black ears.

Wow, that accent. In his mortification over interrupting Martin’s bath, Anthony hadn’t appreciated the strange combination of Scottish lilt and urban growl. “You’re from Glasgow, right?” he asked, remembering the address on the registration form.

Martin’s face pinched. “Aye, Glasgow.” He pronounced it Glaz-go , not Glass-cow as Anthony had done.

“Is it nice?”

“It’s not nice, but it is brilliant.” Martin beckoned them inside just as the electric kettle dinged. Betty muscled past him and went straight through the kitchen to the living “room” where she sat on the rug, sniffing the air.

“She’s a BMD, no?” Martin asked as he plopped teabags into a pair of mugs.

It took a moment for Anthony’s brain to untangle the heavy-tongued syllables. “Um, yeah, Bernese Mountain Dog. Betty’s been my foster since September. Her parents—her previous owners, I mean—had to go into assisted living, so I’m her dad until we find her a new home. After the holidays, obviously. The rescue org I foster with doesn’t let people give pets for Christmas, since they’re more likely to be given up.”

“Shame about her parents.” Martin put a muffin each on two saucers, then handed one to Anthony along with a mug. “Is she old? I saw the ramp, and her muzzle…” He swiped fingers over his own tawny-stubbled cheeks, the part where Betty was turning gray.

“The Swiss have a saying about BMDs: ‘Three years a puppy, three years a good dog, three years an old dog, and the rest is a gift.’ Betty just turned gift.”

They went into the living room, where the subject of their conversation was now stretched out, covering most of the green woven rug.

“Is she allowed on furniture?” Martin asked.

“Sofas but not beds. Why?”

Martin set his tea mug on the floor, then patted the middle couch cushion and made a kissing noise. Betty pricked up her ears, then looked at Anthony.

“Okay,” he told her, drawing a line with his gaze from her to the sofa. She stepped daintily up onto the caramel-colored couch, turned in a clockwise circle, then sank down with a happy sigh.

“Floor’s too hard for old bones,” Martin said as he sat down cross-legged on the rug.

Anthony’s heart went squishy as a water balloon. He was a sucker for kindness to animals. Betty always gathered admirers with her intelligent eyes and tricolor coat, but this man had put himself into her shoes—um, paws.

He sat on the rug, leaning back against the couch so they weren’t full-on facing each other, which felt too intimate at this proximity with a stranger. Munching the muffin—which was outstanding, if Anthony thought so himself—he scanned Pockaway’s interior, confirming that every surface was clean.

As Martin focused on peeling off his muffin wrapper, Anthony took him in with quick glances. The Scotsman looked mid-thirties like himself, and his wet hair was drying into a mass of tousled red-gold waves. His lean face wasn’t conventionally handsome, but it was hard to look away from. Maybe it was the crooked nose or the easy grin or the way his sky-blue eyes danced when he looked at Betty.

Anthony cleared his throat. “So what made you pick this place to spend Christmas?”

“It came highly recommended by a mate of mine. He did a tiny-home tour of North America last April with his—” Martin gave him a guarded look. “With his partner.”

“Oh, right. This was before I came home from Pittsburgh. Mom showed me a picture of your friend and his hot boyfriend.” The words had fallen out before he could stop them, so he kept going. “She said they dazzled her with the accent, and yes, she used the word dazzled .”

Martin laughed, showing no signs of cooling at Anthony declaring another man hot . If anything, he looked relieved. “My friend who stayed here is a player of mine.” He fidgeted with the wrapper on his plate. “I manage an amateur gay football team, the Glasgow Greens.” He shook his head. “Dunno why I said the name of the team like you’d know them.”

Anthony knew why he’d mentioned what his team was, at least. And now it was out. They were out. The day was looking up.

“I coached my niece’s soccer team this fall.”

Martin’s brows rose. “How’d that go?”

“It went—” Anthony made a noncommittal noise as he shrugged. He wanted to impress Martin, but it would be obnoxious to brag about the championship. “Coaching is a challenge, but I enjoy it.”

“I could give you some pointers. We could watch a match on TV and I’d explain things, about formations and that.”

Explain things? Did he think Anthony knew nothing about the sport? Then again, it would be a good excuse to see him.

“Soccer has formations?” Anthony managed to keep a straight face. “Like in real football?”

“Aye, what did you have them do, run about on the pitch any way they felt like? Are they five years old?”

“Nine.”

“That’s old enough to learn formations.” Martin pointed at him. “And by the way, American football is not ‘real’ football.”

Anthony snickered. “So you noticed I said that.”

“Now you’re trolling me?” Martin flashed that electric grin again. “The man you just met, who is literally your paying guest?”

“Is it too soon in our acquaintanceship? I mean, I have seen you naked.”

“Hah.” Martin’s freckled face turned bright red. “Cheeky banter, then. Got it.”

Betty gave a soft woof as she stretched out. One long leg extended off the edge of the sofa, coming to rest in the space between Martin and Anthony like the arm of a toll gate.

“See?” Martin nodded toward her. “She knows we’re talking shite.”

Anthony sensed he should leave while he was ahead—or at least, not behind. “I’ll happily take your offer of football pointers.”

“Brilliant. I can find a match replay to stream, as all the big live games won’t be until Boxing Day, which is when I leave.”

Anthony found it odd he was staying only for Christmas, but he knew not to pry into guests’ reasons for coming and going. “Tomorrow’s crazy busy,” he said as he put on his coat, “but I could come over Christmas Eve morning.”

“Cannae wait,” Martin said, giving Betty goodbye scritchies.

“Call if you need anything before then. Also, the pizza menu in the kitchen drawer? According to my Italian mother, who is never wrong, they have the world’s best calzones, so count yourself lucky.”

“Lucky?” Martin’s expression turned faraway and inscrutable. “Lucky’s one thing I’ve never been.”