Isle Be Home for Christmas

By Michael P. Thomas

With no job and no boyfriend, Justin sees no reason to make a big deal out of Christmas this year, so he plunks down his severance pay on a cottage in the Caribbean and jets away for some Me Time. Not that he'd mind a little Us Time, you understand, but the handsome young islanders of his acquaintance are all friendly, fun, and straight as they come. He sure didn't leave San Diego looking for any middle-aged American gym jock, but when one washes up at his favorite local watering hole, Justin discovers there are worse ways to dance the night away. Too bad the sexy stranger is on a cruise and the next port is calling.

When he spies the ship still in port while he tends to his Christmas Eve hangover, Justin knows he must manage his expectations. Just because the ship's still here doesn't mean the guy will come ashore, and so what if they do cross paths again? Did they really connect as Justin thinks he remembers, or is that just the beer filling in the blanks? He invents an errand, throws on some clothes, and heads for the dock, figuring there's one way to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Dec 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611526981

Michael P. Thomas

Michael P. Thomas is a former flight attendant whose mid-life career change to 911 operator has shown him that the widespread fear of sharing and receiving love is a real emergency. He writes to spread love and encourage others to do likewise. And a little bit to scare the gay-haters. For more information, visit facebook.com/GoReadMichaelPThomas.

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Isle Be Home for Christmas

by Michael P. Thomas

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2014 Michael P. Thomas

ISBN 9781611526981

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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Isle Be Home for Christmas

By Michael P. Thomas

If I was looking for a big, square-shouldered American meathead, I’da stayed in America. I live in San Diego, for Heaven’s sake—it’s like the square-shouldered American meathead outlet mall. Any size you want, from Extra Small to Big ‘n’ Tall, available in custom colors: brown-on-brown, red and white, even blue and green, if ink’s your thing.

Mind you, they’re not all quite as grin-happy as the guy wedged behind the little pink wooden table back in the corner of the bar. Not quite as chest-heavy. They certainly don’t all have that dimple in their right cheek that you could do tequila shots out of. He’s sipping a local beer—a Loro Loco, like me—and waiting for his ceviche, which I only know because I was eavesdropping, which I was only doing because I haven’t heard American English outside my own head in the three weeks I’ve been here, and Mister Two Hundred and Forty Pounds of Muscle and Teeth didn’t exactly whisper.

He’s from one of those states that you think of as the Midwest, but you forget they border the South, which would explain the lilt of an accent if you ever looked at a map. I’m from Indiana! He might as well have been carrying a sign.

Not that I care, I remind myself. I’ve done the whole baseball-and-apple-pie scene—hell, my last two exes were named Matt. I swear I dated Matt P. for three weeks before I knew his ball cap even came off, and we’d been having sex since our very first date. No, I came to this island because I’d heard it was hot, sultry, and sticky-wet in December if you went to the right beaches, and that was no weather report.

My latest Matt had never been real big on timing, as our twin misdemeanor convictions for public lewdness in Florida will attest; it should not have come as a shock that he would choose the day my firm restructured me out of a job to announce his intention to run off with the excessively bearded hipster douchebag that prepared his pretentious espresso experience—which involved cloves and peanut butter or some shit; just get a fucking coffee!—every Saturday morning when we met at the vegan café across the street from his apartment. It was near me, too—didn’t take but ten minutes to walk it—but I walked past three other cafes to get to it, and we never met at any place that was closer to me than to him. He wouldn’t walk three extra blocks to have coffee with me, so he probably wasn’t gonna be much help to me during the stress and mess of a lay-off. Not, just to be clear, that he offered.

After thirteen years in the cubicle zoo, my severance was okay. Not more than I felt I was owed, mind you, but enough that I’d be able to pay my bills and cover