Haven Holiday, Love at the Haven 7

By Stella Shaw

Sentimental discoveries and badly-kept secrets. Is it the perfect Christmas at the Haven Hotel?

It’s the first Christmas at the Haven Hotel since Rick inherited it from his aunt, and he’s spent all year getting things back on track. When he and Eliot find a box of Auntie’s mementoes in the basement, highlighting a very unconventional theatrical career, he decides to hold a party to honour her. But there are way too many obstacles preventing him getting his friends together in one place, this close to Christmas. Or so everyone keeps telling him.

Rick loves his partner Eliot, and is very fond of his friends. But a man’s patience can only stretch so far. The day of Auntie’s birthday turns out to be a very confusing and distracting time for him—and everyone except him seems to be in on it. From covert meetings, to secret recipes, to mysteriously vanishing decorations, and even through a very hot but surprising seduction, Rick is led astray until the day is almost over.

And then his friends show another side of their meddling. Auntie Pop had love and respect from many of the escorts at the Haven, and it looks like her day will be fondly remembered after all. And Rick and Eliot may have the chance at last to make their own special commitment—that’s if Rick ever forgives all the subterfuge!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stella Shaw
• Release date: Mar 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005516178

Stella Shaw

Stella Shaw is a pen name of the best-selling author of MM romance, Clare London. Stella's series of Rent Boy romances, Love at the Haven, launched in January 2021.See all the details at her website stellashawauthor dot comJoin her newsletter at bit.ly/stellashawNewsand find her at:Facebook: stellashawauthor + Facebook Group /stellasstarsGoodreads: /stellashaw + Bookbub: /authors/stella-shawInstagram: /stellashawauthor/

Book preview

LOVE AT THE HAVEN 7

CHRISTMAS WITH THE RENT BOYS

STELLA SHAW

Copyright 2021 / Stella Shaw

Smashwords Edition

Sentimental discoveries and badly-kept secrets. Is it the perfect Christmas at the Haven Hotel?

It’s the first Christmas at the Haven Hotel since Rick inherited it from his aunt, and he’s spent all year getting things back on track. When he and Eliot find a box of Auntie’s mementoes in the basement, highlighting a very unconventional theatrical career, he decides to hold a party to honour her. But there are way too many obstacles preventing him getting his friends together in one place, this close to Christmas. Or so everyone keeps telling him.

Rick loves his partner Eliot, and is very fond of his friends. But a man’s patience can only stretch so far. The day of Auntie’s birthday turns out to be a very confusing and distracting time for him—and everyone except him seems to be in on it. From covert meetings, to secret recipes, to mysteriously vanishing decorations, and even through a very hot but surprising seduction, Rick is led astray until the day is almost over.

And then his friends show another side of their meddling. Auntie Pop had love and respect from many of the escorts at the Haven, and it looks like her day will be fondly remembered after all. And Rick and Eliot may have the chance at last to make their own special commitment—that’s if Rick ever forgives all the subterfuge!

Thanks / Dedication

With thanks to readers of the series who have contributed accessories to the fun!

yellow900 … Tom’s catsuit a la Shirley Bassey.

bmcgrath1116 … Tom’s special new skirt.

lei.anneb13 … a year’s free kisses for Micah.

A special dedication to all who helped me gather everyone together at the Haven Hotel for the rent boys’ first Christmas (i.e. everyone who encouraged, edited, and reviewed my writing – and nudged/bullied me on when I needed it most!).

And especially Dani who asked for this story in the first place and has supported Stella Shaw all the way x.

All Rights Reserved

This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee. Such action is illegal and in violation of Copyright Law.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

The Love at the Haven series

About Stella Shaw

ONE

"Oh my God, Rick! Is that the Queen with your Auntie Pop?"

Eliot’s cry startled me. He’d pulled a stack of photos from the archive box on the floor in front of him; black and white, glossy shots, like professional portraits. He stared at the top one in his lap, his eyes wide and excited. And, look, Prince Philip was there too!

I peered over his shoulder at the picture. A row of people stood in front of what looked like a theatrical backdrop, meeting the Queen and a bunch of other people in smart, official-looking suits. And there was my Auntie Pop at the end of the row, standing a head above the others in very high heels, with the unmistakable, statuesque bearing of a dancer.

Bloody hell. You’re right.

When do you think it was taken?

Auntie looks like she’s in her twenties, so I guess the late 1960s.

Eliot—who’d always been a fan of anything about the royal family—made an embarrassingly squeal-type noise. The Queen hadn’t long been crowned. Oh, fuck my life!

He and I were sitting side by side on a blanket on the basement floor of the Haven Hotel. Yeah, it wasn’t many people’s idea of a comfy afternoon—the concrete was cold, even under the thick woollen cloth, and the walls were an ugly grey, pitted with scrapes and bumps from various equipment being dragged, hung, and bolted on over the years—but this was one of the sneaky ways we could spend time together, alone, while also getting work done. Because no one else in their right mind came down to the basement unless they had to. At least, not the escorts who worked here from night to night.

Theoretically, of course, I wouldn’t care if I was sitting in a ditch in sleet and snow, wearing nothing but a pair of socks and a jockstrap, as long as Eliot was with me. But on a cold day in early December, I really appreciated my devotion didn’t need to go that far.

Now I laughed, partly in amazement at the photo, partly because Eliot’s pink cheeks made him look even younger than the twenty-seven he was. I had no idea anyone in my family moved in those kinda circles.

Or that the Queen went to cabaret shows, Eliot teased. Isn’t Auntie gorgeous?

He was right. I’d never seen my aunt looking so glamorous, or so young. She had long, luscious dark hair, stage makeup, and thick lipstick on her rosebud mouth. She wore a floor-length velvet cloak and, even in a black and white photo, I could imagine its dark, rich colour.

Do you want any more of the coffee? Eliot asked. Still engrossed in the photos, he absentmindedly held out the large thermos flask, perched at his side.

Thanks. He’d made it just as I liked, strong and with two sugars per mugful. Eliot spoiled me like that.

Today, the washing machines behind us were chugging and circling away, full of the usual load of towels and bedlinen, and I’d just finished packing a stack of toilet tissue and cleaning materials from the wholesaler into the cupboards against the back wall. And now our afternoon was, unusually, free of hotel duties. One of Micah’s playlists was playing on my iPod, and we’d taken things easy with a lunch of sandwiches, biscuits, and coffee. We’d been planning to go through this dusty old archive box for ages, but hadn’t found the time before now. It had been sitting untouched at the back of the basement until I disturbed it last month, mending the latest leak in the pipes.

I finished my sandwich, topped up my mug, and passed the flask back to Eliot, taking the chance to check him out. He was settled on the blanket, engrossed in his task, without any complaint. He worked almost as many hours as I did at the hotel, and with just as much love and commitment to it. His stamina and dedication still amazed me.

The Haven was our home, but it was also our business. And our burden. It had been headed towards collapse when I inherited it from Auntie Pop, and at least I’d rescued it from that fate, with a lot of help from my friends and the escorts who worked from the bedrooms. But it hadn’t been an easy year in my new role. In fact, it had been a whole new learning curve; it had eaten every last penny I possessed, and then some. And the maintenance and repair work never seemed to stop.

At least—and actually, the most important thing—it had brought me Eliot.

Oh, shit. Eliot gave a gasp. He looked up again from his exploration, wide-eyed. Thank God she wore a full-length cloak when she met royalty!

What do you mean? Show me. I held out my hand for the rest of the pictures. They were candid shots of Auntie Pop, laughing, surrounded by other dancers. They were set in a different venue, a different time, though she was dressed similarly as before. But, in these, her cloak was shorter, and of lighter material—and, under it, the only thing she wore was a corset and thong, with pale glossy stockings, and some sparkling jewellery.

I caught Eliot’s shocked but delighted eyes, and we grinned at each other. Who’d have guessed? It looked like Auntie had been an exotic dancer!

You know, I think that’s Madame Jojo’s, Eliot said. The famous Soho club. Lizzie says her Mum went there when she was our age, before it closed down. I had no idea your aunt worked there.

Neither did I. I was fascinated by the happy smile on Auntie’s face, and the graceful way she twisted towards her fellow dancers, with a total lack of inhibition at being all but naked in front of people. She told me she was in show business when she was young, but she always made it sound like she was in an amateur dramatic production of Mary Poppins. Not this.

You mean burlesque? Eliot was watching me carefully. Are you okay about that?

I snorted. Hell, yeah, totally. It’s just a surprise. I looked again at the glowing young woman in the photo. She was smiling with pride, standing tall, graceful, and fabulous. I’m proud of her. I wish she’d shared more about it.

She must have seen life at that club, Eliot said. He sounded very envious. All the celebrities, all the entertainers. Some of these photos could be collectors’ items. They’re looking to re-launch Madame Jojo’s at the moment, you know. Smarten up the area where the Windmill and the other clubs were. They’re even talking about building a new theatre.

We huddled up—I never needed an excuse for that with Eliot—so we could look at all her photos together. The crappy old cardboard box, where I’d expected to find faded utility bills or letters from the local council, felt more like a glorious treasure chest. Here’s one of her in a sequinned catsuit. A lace and velvet corset. And how the hell did she ever dance in those heels?

Eliot rummaged deeper in the box and pulled out a sheaf of brightly coloured papers. Wow. She must have kept every playbill and programme from her engagements. And she didn’t just play in Soho—she played some of the best theatres in London. And Paris. Berlin, too. Rick, just look at all these! He frowned briefly. Was there a reason you called her Auntie Pop?

No. she just said she liked that. Her name was Patricia, so I don’t know where Pop came from.

Eliot held out one of the playbills. His look of excited triumph was delightful. For one week only! it said. A full show of dance, music, and comedy. Featuring the tantalising