The Yule Log: An MM Christmas Rom Com, page 1
THE YULE LOG
An MM Christmas Rom Com
M. BONNET
CONTENTS
Blurb
Before Reading:
1. Mick
2. Otto
3. Mick
4. Otto
5. Mick
6. Otto
7. Mick
8. Otto
9. Mick
Mick: Five Months Later…
About the Author
ASIN: B0CGP57KSS
Copyright © 2023 M. Bonnet
This work is intended for audiences 18 years of age or older.
All rights reserved. No part of The Yule Log may be reproduced, distributed, or circulated in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic means, without prior permission of the publisher, M. Bonnet, except in the case of brief quotations in book reviews.
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This cliterature is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, businesses, places, and events are used in a fictitious way or are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living or dead persons or actual events is completely coincidental. All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks or registered trademarks. The author/publisher are not associated with any products in this book.
Created with Vellum
To those of us that like Christmas romance and know that the holiday spirit will help us find our one true love this year. Or ya know, we can drink a ton of spirits and see what happens.
To my people, who find phrases like ‘candy cane’ and ‘yule log’ cheeky. Good for us. Humor is essential.
To my forever love, who always keeps me in the holiday spirit year-round. I love you. Thank you for listening to all my holiday puns and laughing. And for giving me the best three gifts of all.
Forward
Cover by Joe Satoria
Edited by Geissa Cecilia
eBook formatting by M. Bonnet
Early reading by Deborah Peach and Sara Hurst
BLURB
As a teenager, my best friend’s brother barely gave me the time of day, despite my embarrassingly obvious crush. He was my bad boy fantasy, the man I would never stop thinking about over the years.
A decade later—after a successful career as a photographer on the West Coast and my own, personal glow-up—I run into him while visiting family for Christmas. He puts me on his list, and he wants to check me off, twice.
I’m not sure if I want Otto’s dominant, possessive attention. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I do. Is acting on my decade old feelings worth possibly getting hurt? Should I let him give me a white Christmas for one hot and heavy holiday night? Or should I let him be my forever-Santa?
BEFORE READING:
Please be advised that this novella was originally an anthology piece. It has been expanded. It is not M. Bonnet’s normal dark paranormal romance. It’s…contemporary *gasp* and gives off strong raunchy rom com vibes. The world isn’t ending…I just wanted to try something different.
No one is going to die, or get kidnapped, or find out who their father is… Well someone may get called Daddy, but I digress. This story includes mentions of bullying, unprotected sexual activity, bodily fluids, graphic language and sexual situations, bad puns/humor, and enough holiday jokes that it will forever change how you see the holiday season. Enjoy!
1
MICK
Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’ croons over the speakers, bouncing off the cabin walls on my long overdue flight home. Yeah Bing, I’m dreaming of a white Christmas too, all over my face.
It’s not my fault I haven’t gotten laid in almost six months. Yes, I live in Los Angeles, the second biggest LGBTQ+ city in the country. Yes, I’m a handsome guy, so my friends tell me. But work is so busy. I flew to over thirty locations in the past year alone. And contrary to popular belief, not all male photographers end up balls deep in a model after every shoot. Especially me, because I’m gay and work with all female supermodels. The irony! Most guys would kill to have my job, but all I want is for the models to stop touching my hair. Especially Valentina, the last model I just shot before I left for my trip home. She always got touchy-feely…
“Yes, we know it’s thick and shiny, Valentina. Please get back on set so we can knock out these next three poses,” I told her. Then I can drown myself in a bottle of wine in my hotel room—alone. Again.
Many of my colleagues spent their entire careers grinding tooth and nail to get my type of gig—a steady job that includes benefits and travel to exotic locations at an internationally renowned fashion and lifestyle magazine—but I got lucky. I interned for Fashion Passion in college for a year and a half, and then my boss promoted me upon graduation to an assistant photographer. I worked my way up the ladder for four years, becoming a full staff photographer at twenty-six years old, the youngest the magazine has ever had. For the past two years, I made a name for myself, and I won’t stop until I’m Editor.
So, you can say that I’m married to my career right now. Lance said that multiple times throughout our relationship before he cheated on me with the bartender from my favorite restaurant…in the men’s room while I was waiting for him at the table. He was gone for such a long time that I checked on him. I suspected that maybe his irritable bowel syndrome was acting up, but instead of defecating in the toilet, he was shitting all over our year and a half long relationship and flushing away all that commitment like it was toxic waste.
Whatever. Men are fucking commitment-phobic barn animals anyway. Oink oink, Lance. I’m better off being alone than with a loser who can’t keep his dick in his pretentious Gucci pants anyway. Fucking snob.
And even though I’m taking a whole week off to go back home to a little suburban town outside of NYC, where there are definitely options, I’m probably not getting laid there. I’ll hang out with my best friends and my family the whole time. None of them are gay or unrelated to me, so unless I get real cool about some erotic-novel-level taboo stuff really quick, my Yule log will most likely not get felled on this vacation.
I sigh, drawing the attention of the older woman across the aisle. She furrows her brow at me, and I smile instead of rolling my eyes. It’s not her fault that she was seated next to a sexually frustrated workaholic.
“Are you alright, dear,” she asks in a sweet little old lady voice. Truly, this woman probably bakes pies and cookies for her grandchildren in her spare time, and I love that for her. “My name is Ida.” She reaches across the aisle and we shake hands.
“Michael, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Um, I guess so?”
“That sounded more like a question than an answer,” she chides me. “You’re too young to be this stressed out.”
“Ain't that the truth. I don’t know… I work a lot—and I’m always traveling all over the world for different jobs, I feel like I practically live at airports—I’m as single as a pre-packaged cheese slice, I never got over my old relationship, even though it’s been six months since it ended, I live too far from my family, I get headaches all the time, rarely sleep, and I feel burnt out,” I blurt. “Oh, I’m sorry to dump all that on you. You didn’t sign up to hear me complain. If you choose to ignore me, I totally understand.”
Ugh, dumping my life story to a random woman on an airplane. Christ, how embarrassing.
Her gaze travels over me. Not in a sexual way, more in an appraising manner, like she’s trying to find out what’s wrong with me. Her facial expression reminds me of my mother, and it’s a little unnerving, if I’m being honest. She seems like a woman who shoots from the hip and doesn’t mince words.
“Why did you move so far away from your family?” she asks me.
“For my job. I’m a photographer for a magazine.” I show her some of my work on my phone, and she oohs and ahs over each photo. I sent her a few via email, so she could show her youngest grandson who dreams of being a photographer.
“Is this a real wolf?!” she exclaims, pointing to the black British Columbia wolf on the screen. “How is this not ripping that poor woman to shreds? Is it one of those fancy computer wolves?”
“No, she’s a real wolf. Her name is Wilma, and she lives in a rehab wildlife reserve in Canada—the wolves there are used to human interaction. She was actually really gentle and wagged her tail a lot.”
“Your talent is very apparent in that photo. Why did your relationship end?”
“He cheated, and I know I deserve better than that. I don’t want to be with a man who doesn’t respect me.”
“You’re a smart one. He doesn’t deserve you. So why are you heart-broken about losing someone like that? A plant grows faster without weeds blocking its sun.”
“It’s not him I’m not over…it’s the disappointment in myself for that happening, I think?” I scratch the back of my neck. “It’s the failure and the betrayal and not feeling good enough.”
“Hmmm, my first husband made me feel that way. When he left me and our two kids to start a new life with his secretary, I was devastated. It was h
“Exactly. I put so much time and effort into him, only for him to throw it back in my face by sleeping with a random bartender.”
“Sometimes it feels easier to be alone than to potentially get your heart broken again…” she muses.
“Yes! You took the words right out of my mouth. I can’t go through that again.” I swirl my ice cubes in my plastic cup of water. She’s silent for a minute as she takes a sip of her ginger ale.
“Well, young man, it seems to me like you’re the problem.”
“Me?” She has to be kidding me.
“Yes, you. You need to get your priorities straight or you’re going to run yourself ragged, right into an early grave.” She leans over the aisle, so we’re closer. As I look into her cloudy, wizened eyes, I know I’m in for a lecture. “You’re a handsome kid who’s obviously good at his job if you’re traveling so much and smiling with pride when you talk about what you do, even if the job causes you grief. You’re the complete package, and you have the control to change your life. You can choose to change your job so you’re closer to home or go out and meet someone new, but you’re too busy beating yourself up over what you think are failures. Newsflash, kid, they’re growing pains.”
Damn lady, tell me more.
“You may be young now, but one day you’re going to be close to my age or older—here’s hoping—and you’ll take stock of your life. And do you know what you’ll remember?”
Why do I have the feeling I won’t like her answer….
“What will I remember?”
“Your family. Your friends. The love of your life. The memories of good times you all shared together. You won’t remember your sexy wolf photo, or the business trips, or the fancy restaurants you went to, or the ex-moron who supposedly ruined your self-esteem so badly you locked yourself in a tower fit for a prince. You’ll remember the love you were lucky enough to give and have returned to you.”
Way to render me speechless without cramming a dick or a gag in my mouth, Ida. This is what I get for talking to a stranger on a plane.
Ida goes on, talking about her upcoming trip to visit her eldest grandchild, and I space out in thought. Whether or not I like it, Ida is right. I locked myself in a prince’s tower and never let any potential knights try to save me. I buried myself in work to escape the pain and self-reflection needed to move on. The unhappiness I feel is my own creation, but how do I solve it? I need to get my shit in order, before I self-destruct and make bad decision like fucking the flight attendant who’s been making eyes at me this entire flight. He may be an eight, but he probably fucks his fair share of transient people in airport bathrooms, and I am not stooping that low, despite my dry spell.
Eventually we land, and I grab my suitcase from baggage claim. Making my way to the rideshare pick up area, I think about how much I miss everyone—even my baby sisters. I haven’t visited as much since I got promoted. The last time I traveled home was to meet my godson, Louis. Most of my friends and family want to come to the city to visit me and get the WeHo experience. I can’t blame them. We have the best nightclubs, drag shows, restaurants, and shopping in LA. But I can’t wait to be home again. I want to eat my mom’s homemade cooking and hang out with my friends. A vacation may be just what I need to reset my life and start tackling how to free myself from my self-imposed shitstorm.
After a five-hour flight and a thirty-minute ride from the airport, I finally arrive home a day early to surprise my family. The whole house erupts into pandemonium after I waltz right through the unlocked front door to the kitchen with my suitcase screaming, “Ho ho ho, bitches! Santa came two days early and dropped off your favorite child!”
My dad sits on the couch in the living room, eyes glued to A Christmas Story. He watches that movie religiously every year because ‘That’s my childhood, Mick’. He knows all the words by heart. It’s a shame, because we all know the Jim Carey version of How The Grinch Stole Christmas is the best Christmas movie of all time. I see so much of myself in The Grinch that it’s alarming, a cry for a mental help professional to answer, really. Don’t fucking judge me.
“Is that my son?!” I hear him say in his booming voice. “Bebe, your son is home!”
“No shit, Joe, are you sure it’s not a stray caroler?” Mom snarks from the kitchen, her hands wrist deep in some kind of dough. “I can see Michael from the island stunod, remember? Can you believe him?” Only Mom can call Dad stupid to his face and get away with it. We all know to give her a wide berth… She’s a formidable ex-nurse who knows how to kill you without it showing up on a toxicology report. She’s got a towel thrown over her shoulder, and she’s not afraid to swat people with it.
Mom rolls her eyes while she hurries over to me. She envelops me in a bone crushing hug that never seems to end. Before we part, I feel two other people squeezing us.
“Mick, you’re home a day early?!” my younger sister Giada yells right in my ear. Christ she’s loud.
“HE’S HOME!” my youngest sister Sophie screams at the top of her lungs. “Mick, I missed you so much!!!”
I truly forgot how loud my family is since I saw them over the summer. They’re going to bust one of my eardrums before this week is out. I won’t just be a sad, lonely workaholic who needs to get laid—I’ll be a sad, lonely workaholic who needs to get laid and can’t stop the ringing in his ears.
Before I know it, my mom has me sitting at the table eating leftover pasta and meatballs.
“You’re too skinny, don’t you eat in LA? Or are you eating an organic, vegan, free range, no-carb, gluten free, dairy free, fat free diet?” she scoffs.
“Ma, that basically leaves him with water and grass, but not the good kind of grass. Maybe rice. Isn’t it technically a vegetable?” my baby sister Sophie asks. She’s not a smartass—she’s really that dumb.
“Um yes Ma, I do eat. I’m just an average sized man.” I’m 5’9 and normal sized, unlike Dad, my uncles, and my cousins, who are all over six feet tall and built like human monsters, disgustingly large in comparison.
“Speaking of men, do you have a new one yet, or are you still licking your wounds from that Lance asshole?” she nags on. “It’s been six months, Mick. You need to get back out there. Mrs. Giotti has a son who’s single and adorable. He’s been asking about you…”
“Mom, I know Joe Giotti, and I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. He’s another asshole, like Lance. I live in LA anyway, so it wouldn’t work out.”
Giada changes the subject, easing some of the tension in the room. My mom is my favorite, but she can be super nosy and blunt, which comes off abrasive. I clean my plate, polish off a helping of the casserole they had for dinner tonight, and inhale two slices of cheesecake. I gotta live out my Golden Girl fantasy, even if that means my sisters have to roll me up the stairs to drink wine with them. Our holiday tradition, vino and gossip, will not stop because I’m too bloated to get my ass up twelve stairs.
Somehow, I do make it up, one daunting step at a time. My sisters and I go into Giada’s room. Because it’s the biggest, and lay out on her bed and some bean bag chairs. When we were growing up, she always rubbed in how she had the bigger room. But it’s also the room closest to our parents' room. Mine was at the far end of the hall, making it way easier to sneak out.
“Are you excited for the Anderson’s Christmas Eve party?” Sophie asks while we inhale our first bottle of wine.
I’m a heavy pourer, and these glasses are goblet-sized. Now that my two younger sisters are both over twenty-one, we can all get shitfaced together with the door open and not have to worry that our parents are going to bust us.
