9781405979382 by Smakprov Media AB

Author’s Note and Content Guidance

Dear Reader,

Writing Husband of the Year has been an emotional ride for me, and I hope the love and care I put into it resonates with you.

Marvin and Olan were my first couple and will always hold a special place in my heart. Building this universe around them has changed my life, and it was important to me to give them and all the other characters the finale they deserve. I hope I’ve done that and you enjoy this series finale.

Sheldon, Theo, Vincent, and Kent all return to help Marvin and Olan tie the knot, but other characters from the first three books also appear. There are lots of little cameos and mentions of favorites. May you find as much joy with them as I have.

Of course, I’ll thank more folks in the acknowledgments after the story, but please know, from the bottom of my gay heart, none of this could happen without you – my dear readers. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Husband of the Year is an open-door romance intended for mature audiences. The characters in the story are consenting adults, and there is explicit, on-page sexual content, explicit language, and adult situations.

While Husband of the Year is a love story, there are serious issues.

Within recovery spaces, individuals typically use the term ‘alcoholic’ to describe those in the process of overcoming alcohol dependency. While I’d prefer to label the illness and not the person, phrases like ‘person with an alcohol problem’ or ‘person with alcoholism’ aren’t commonly used within the recovery community.

Here are the content warnings if you need them:

Themes of addiction and recovery (including descriptions of being a child of an alcoholic, substance use, and rehabilitation facilities), discussions of death from an overdose (not of main characters and before the story takes place), and discussions of foster care and adoption due to parental substance use.

All my best,

‘Adorable.’

One word.

No matter how many times Olan has said it during our nearly two years together, hearing it from his beautiful lips never loses its magic. It’s incredible how a single word can bring such a profound sense of peace to my soul. It applies temporary brakes on the overthinking, anxiety-riddled train barreling through my brain. It calms the nerves that rattle through my veins like an unattended city fire hydrant on a hot summer day. With one word, Olan Stone grounds me.

I close my eyes and say a quick prayer that he calls me adorable for all eternity. When we’re old and gray in rockers on our front porch, I want to hear that simple word from his beautiful lips. It doesn’t hurt when he utters it in a deluxe room of a resort on a tropical island far away from the responsibilities and stresses of adulting. Or that his index finger traces my bottom lip as his deep brown

eyes lovingly scan my face. Or that his not-too-small, nottoo-big, but perfectly sized Goldi-cock thrusts deep inside my ass. My head pushes back, sinking into the pillow as he fills me up.

Taking a short five-day vacation during the school’s February break to Isla Mujeres, a small island off the coast of Cancún, was Olan’s idea. I would never dream of flying off to sun-filled sandy beaches to escape the harsh Maine winter and all of life’s adult obligations. And leaving his daughter and my cat for more than a day or two always leaves me feeling uneasy. The variables of what could go wrong seem to multiply each day we’re away – it’s like anxiety math threw a party and invited all the worst-case scenarios.

‘You need a respite,’ Olan informed me two days before we left. ‘And not the sit-at-home and worry about everything kind. I’m taking you away.’

Learning that the island’s name means ‘Island of Women’ left me perplexed. When I asked Olan why he chose it, he gave me a sheepish smile, a hint of that tooth gap that makes my insides simmer, and said, ‘Trust me.’

And I did. And I do.

Because my homeostasis lives in the land of worry, instead of relishing my gorgeous fiancé whisking me away for a romantic getaway, I immediately spiraled. Here’s the thing about seemingly getting your life in order: there’s always something new to obsess about. Win the lottery? Taxes. Scams. Drifters. My therapist, Erika, was like my anxiety GPS , masterfully guiding me through the potholes of life. Then she retired and left me feeling like I’d just been handed an old-school paper map with no ‘You are here’ dot. I still haven’t found a replacement.

Olan’s ex-wife, Isabella, assured me both Illona and Gonzo would be fine. Since she moved to Portland nearly a year ago, our relationship has gradually evolved into a friendship. She lives downtown in a beautiful, impeccably decorated loft, but with all of us heading over to the mainland for work and school and Illona’s every other weekend with her, we’ve fallen into a lovely rhythm of co-parenting together. Being friends with the ex-wife isn’t something most people recommend or understand, but we all simply want the best for Illona – and as little family drama as possible in our day-to-day lives. It’s one thing I don’t fret about.

Because Gonzo doesn’t travel well, on the rare occasions Olan and I take a trip, Isabella stays at our house on Peaks Island. Jill was mortified the first time it happened. ‘His ex-wife. In your space. Without you there? What if she finds . . . things ?’ Being a plane ride away, the peace of mind of having Illona’s mother with her and Gonzo overrides any fear of her discovering . . . things.

But wait. Did I put the . . . things in the back of the dresser and cover them with clothes? Is the lube adequately hidden in the drawer of the bedside table? Did I remember to push it toward the back and place wholesome self-help books in front of it? What would Isabella think if she found it? Surely she knows we have sex. And need lube. Lots of lube.

‘Babe, you okay?’ Olan asks.

With my legs securely wrapped around his waist, Olan’s heavy, warm breath lingers in my ear. Marvin Gaye croons ‘How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)’ from the portable speaker Olan brought so he could continue teaching

me the ins and outs of Motown essentials. I remember it was produced by Holland and Dozier, who are the team behind some of Motown’s biggest hits. There’s a James Taylor version that makes Olan’s face squish up like he’s just eaten the world’s most sour lemon. I also know it’s no accident one of his favorite artists (and quickly becoming one of mine) is named Marvin. His ‘Motown Lessons’ have become something fun to distract me from the stresses of planning our wedding – and life in general. Whether or not intentional, they have a way of pulling me out of my incessant thoughts.

‘If you’re marrying me, this is critical knowledge,’ he said after my first lesson.

And I’m an excellent student. There’s often dancing. Singing. And sometimes sex. I love those lessons best of all.

The island’s warm, humid air is a dramatic switch from the chilly, snowy Maine winter. The air conditioner on the wall in our room runs constantly but isn’t quite able to keep the tropical dampness at bay. Or maybe it’s Olan’s sweaty body on top of mine. My fingers trace the small of his back, and he’s definitely wet. There’s a ripeness to him when he’s worked up that somehow turns me on even more. As he lets go and immerses himself in the passion of sex, I am privileged to witness a side of him that is reserved only for me.

Our days on the island have been spent walking the beaches, swimming, eating, and taking naps – naps that always include sex. Olan calls them ‘play naps,’ and every time he says it, a tiny ember in my belly rekindles. We cuddle, kiss, and grope, which escalates to lovemaking

and concludes with more cuddling, kissing, and, eventually, sleep. It’s been heavenly.

‘Yeah, I’m good. No, better than good. Amazing.’ I reach lower, grab Olan’s firm ass, and draw him closer. His cock plunges deeper like he’s trying to find hidden treasure, rearranging me from the inside out. ‘Will you kiss me? Please?’

‘Marvin Block, you never have to wonder about that.’

His lips brush mine, the faintest hint of his cherry ChapStick sweetening the kiss, and I attempt to center myself in the moment. Thoughts of children, ex-wives, cats, the hustle and bustle of school, and the freezing temperatures are all banished from my mind. Away with you, monkey brain! My eyes lock on to the ceiling fan, and I stare, watching the blades blur as Olan nibbles on my lower lip.

‘Babe?’ He’s completely still – the only movement his dick throbbing inside me.

‘Thank you for this.’ I kiss him, doing my best to convey my deep gratitude. Yes, for the trip, but mostly for him.

‘You needed a distraction from . . . well, everything. And it’s going to be even more hectic once we return. We have to get moving on planning the . . .’

My hand covers his mouth, his luscious lips vibrating on my fingers. Talking about the wedding will simply send my anxiety into overdrive.

‘Not now. Not yet. One more day of . . .’ My fingers find Olan’s butt and squeeze the firm muscle.

‘Yes, sir. My adorable fiancé.’

He smiles, and that’s it. His sweet lips part, revealing that sexy tooth gap, and his words flip a switch in my brain.

I’m present. In the hotel room, the light, warm weather comforter neatly folded and placed on a sitting chair, getting railed by the most beautiful man in existence.

My head dips back, and Olan’s tongue finds my neck, licking and sucking, and I don’t even care if he leaves a mark. He brought me here for this. For a reprieve. Between the rest of the school year and our impending nuptials, it’s going to be . . . a lot. This is our last escape before the chaos descends. But now, I focus on him. His breath. His heartbeat. His weight on me. His honeyed lips attempt to taste every bit of my skin. His dick darts in and out of me. The moans and gasps he’s making signal his pure delight.

‘Olan?’

‘Yeah?’

His fingers comb through my curls.

‘Can I ride you?’

He chuckles. The sweat on his brow glistens under the sunlight coming from the window, and I’m grateful for a room on the top floor overlooking the private beach. We haven’t closed the curtains once, and there’s something magical about sleeping and fucking with the waves crashing outside.

‘Of course. Whatever you want.’ Olan rolls over and puts his hands behind his head. He’s simply getting comfortable, but as his muscles flex, I stare for a moment, once again in awe that I get to spend my life with someone so beautiful – inside and out.

Olan reaches down and pushes his cock, thick and hard, so it’s standing straight up. I’m not sure if he’s admiring it himself, putting on a show for me, or a bit of both, but my eyes are certainly enjoying the show.

‘Like what you see?’ he asks as he wiggles his eyebrows. The words should make me cringe, but they don’t. Because coming from Olan, with his sweet soul and kind heart, everything comes off as completely sincere.

I nod and take over, holding his dick up. It’s still slick with lube, but I take the intermission as an opportunity to apply more to both of us.

‘Never enough,’ he says, repeating our little inside joke. And he’s right. The more we use, the more unhinged we become. Because when everything is greased up, the experience gets a major upgrade.

‘Now,’ I say, setting the cheap bottle of lube we bought at the bodega a few blocks away on the bedside table.

‘I’m going to ride your cock.’ I straddle him.

‘And you’re going to pound me.’ I lower myself.

‘Sound good, Mr Stone?’ My fingers position his tip right at my hole.

A smile overtakes Olan’s face. What I call ‘the big one’ spreads from cheek to cheek, every tooth showing. It appears whenever he’s overjoyed – watching Illona sing and dance, licking soft-serve ice cream with sprinkles in a waffle cone, or when he’s completely engrossed in pounding my ass into oblivion.

Olan nods and slowly pushes back inside me. I’m open and ready for him and my eyes close with the complete ecstasy of his cock filling me up.

‘There we go,’ I say, finding a rhythm on top as he grins up at me.

My thumbs find their way into my mouth, and I wet them before attending to his chest. As I massage Olan’s firm pecs, my slick fingers giving his nipples attention, his

face twists with pleasure. With the first swipe, he thrusts inside me, his cock becoming even harder.

‘Now, fuck me.’

Olan moves his hands to my waist, holds me in place and guides me up and down at a faster pace. Even though I’m on top, he’s plunging up as I descend, sending frissons of delight through me as his dick hits all the right spots.

‘Olan. You’re rocking my world.’

He smiles, and it erupts into a laugh, his deep chuckling echoing in the room against the sound of our bodies slapping together. It’s a familiar symphony my ears have grown to relish.

‘Happy to rock it,’ he says, and again, his dad-level humor tickles the cockles of my heart.

Olan grasps my dick, stroking, and I keep a hand on his left pec, flicking and pinching his nipple, while the other reaches back and begins massaging his balls. The only thing Olan loves more than fucking me is having his ass played with while he’s doing it. My fingers catch some lube from my ass as he’s fucking me, and I add a little pressure under his sack, eliciting a deep moan from Olan’s lips.

‘Is your hole horny?’ I ask. Olan’s eyes lock on mine, and he nods slowly as he rams his cock inside me.

I maneuver my index finger to his opening, and yup, he’s ready to roll. He stops fucking me for a moment while I slip the tip in. A low, deep noise escapes his lips. Having me finger-bang him while he fucks me will send him over, and I’m ready to watch him come undone.

‘You good?’ I ask.

He welcomes my finger, and there’s clearly room for

another, but Olan and I always check in with each other. It’s kind of our thing.

‘Yeah. Good. Great. Another.’ Olan’s strong fingers grip my cock, and he pumps, taking care to massage under my balls. He reaches under, caressing where his dick stretches me open, and then returns to stroking.

I add my middle finger to the first, and Olan shifts, opening his legs wider and lifting his knees, giving me better access to his warm hole.

‘Another.’ The word leaps from his lips, and now I’m grinning like I’ve just won the lottery. At home, I’d grab a toy and fuck him properly, but on vacation, we’ll have to make do with finger-banging.

Since we began dating, Olan has continued to defy expectations. Refusing to label his sexuality as bi, pan, gay, or anything really, he’s also rebuffed designations in the bedroom. Technically, we’re versatile with each other, but Olan avoids defining it explicitly. ‘Why does everything require a label? We’re not clothes.’

The longer we’re together, the more we take turns, and while I’d be happy with either role, being inside Olan while having him inside me is perfection to a tee.

With three fingers he finally seems satiated. He plunges into me while stroking my cock as I go to town on his ass. My thumb glides between his opening and balls, adding pressure and Olan’s hips shake. Deep dicking me while being fucked by a trio of my fingers does the trick. He’s close.

‘Marvin . . .’

‘I know. Go for it. Fill me up.’

I squeeze his firm nipple a little harder, and his cock

unloads. Throbbing. Pulsing. Shooting inside me. My fingers push deeper, burrowing and stretching until I can’t go any further. Olan’s entire body trembles as he lifts his pelvis, breeding me.

‘Fuck. Holy fuck, Marvin.’

Olan’s gaze glues to mine, and he’s quiet while the last spasm explodes inside me.

He jerks me faster, determined to make me come. Olan’s fingers gently graze my chest, finding my nipples and reciprocating the attention I just gave him.

‘I’m close,’ I say, feeling my orgasm knocking.

‘Right here,’ Olan replies, nodding at his chest as he thrusts up. ‘Hit me with your best shot.’

I laugh at his unintentional nod to Pat Benatar, and then it happens. As he remains deep within me, my pulsating cock surges with pleasure, releasing a torrent of scorching cum onto Olan’s glistening chest. It pools in the little dip between his sturdy pecs, and I’m grateful for the extra washcloths we requested from housekeeping.

We’re both still. His fingers still wrapped around my cum-coated cock, Olan whispers, ‘God, I love you.’

I lean forward, and his dick slips out as my lips find his. My ejaculation, mixed with our sweat, smooshes in between our chests, and there’s something incredibly hot about being covered in the fruits of our labor. I nibble the ChapStick from Olan’s lower lip before reaching up and grabbing at his thick hair.

I deliver a slow, steady kiss, my fingers getting lost in his curls.

‘You. Are. My. Favorite.’

Olan laughs and replies, ‘That makes me very pleased.’

‘Now . . .’ I say.

‘I know . . .’ Olan kisses my nose. ‘My guy is hungry.’

‘No.’ I nip at his chin. ‘Starving.’

‘Let’s get some food.’

I stand to grab a washcloth from the bathroom, and Olan leans over and slaps my ass. I try to give my best annoyed face, but my mouth just ends up looking like it’s trying to whistle with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. He’s clearly not buying it.

‘Adorable.’

‘Do you want another margarita?’ I move my thumb along the vein I’ve become so fond of, tracing its path on Olan’s forearm. One major benefit of heat and humidity – short sleeves.

We’re sitting at the hotel bar, waiting for a table. The bar itself is a stunning centerpiece, crafted from polished mahogany and adorned with gleaming glass shelves displaying top-shelf spirits and exotic liqueurs wasted on us. We eat at least one meal a day here simply because it’s the closest available sustenance to our bed. And they make mean fish tacos. They put slices of avocado on each one, and then smother them with a spicy crema. I could eat them for every meal. We’ve turned our beach strolls into a full-blown taco tour, diving into every tiny local joint we stumble across, all in the name of finding the island’s best fish tacos. The plot twist? They’re all so ridiculously good, we’re starting to think the tacos have joined forces to make sure we never leave the island.

‘Virgin.’

‘Excuse me?’ My head tilts. ‘Not even close. You were literally just inside me.’

‘No, I mean a virgin margarita,’ Olan says.

‘Of course.’

I nod to grab the waiter’s attention, and Olan’s cell, resting on the turquoise-tiled table, buzzes. When we arrived four days ago, I was told to stash my phone in the in-room safe and forget about it. The only person who’d need to reach us here is Isabella, and she has Olan’s number.

‘Maybe Gonzo isn’t eating. He does that sometimes when he misses me.’ Worry coils within me, tightening its grip. ‘Let me talk to her. I can give her some tips. And talk to him. Tell her to put me on speakerphone. He might just need to hear my voice.’ I reach for Olan’s phone, but he pulls it away.

‘It’s my mother.’ Olan’s lips purse as he blinks rapidly a few times. I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what to say. ‘I should take it.’ He stands. ‘I’ll be right back.’

His brow wrinkles as he heads for the hallway leading toward the beach exit.

Olan’s relationship with his family is complicated and, honestly, I can empathize. They talk on the phone every few weeks, but on my end, all I hear from Olan are a lot of ums, yeahs, and okays. When I’ve tried to push him for more information on Rebecca and Erik Stone, his willingness to offer anything beyond surface-level facts remains minimal. I know they still live in the south side Chicago home where Olan and his brothers were raised. They’re retired, but Rebecca managed caretakers at a nursing home, and Erik was a city bus driver.

Communication with his brothers is even more sparse. Gabe, two years older, is married, with two boys slightly older than Illona. He sells huge industrial cooling units, which requires him to travel often. Then there’s Liam. The youngest. I know he struggles with drinking, but Olan has never filled in the details. They don’t talk often – maybe once a year since we’ve been together, but he gets sporadic updates from his parents.

Olan usually calls his mother. Why would she be calling him? And while we’re in Mexico. I wonder if something’s wrong. Did something happen to his dad? Olan exits the building, and I’m momentarily mesmerized by the twinkling lights hanging above.

My mind wanders to my mother. Crap, when was the last time I called her? I didn’t even inform her about this trip. She’d worry. And want every detail about flights, hotels, island dynamics, and hotel safety protocol. Chances are she’s seen a Dateline about someone being murdered on an island and that’s all I’d hear about. I’m certainly not calling her now. Or while we’re here. Maybe from the airport. Maybe when we’re back. I’ll tell her all about it after. Once I’m safely home.

‘Is this seat taken?’

Blinking out of my mini-spiral, a white woman, probably around the same age as my mother, smiles at me with ruby red lipstick. She has bright orange hair, and I admire both the tenacity and effort it must take to keep it so vibrant.

Before I can tell her, yes, the seat is taken by my gorgeous fiancé and he will be right back, she’s hanging her purse on the back of the chair and sitting.

‘Elise.’ She extends her hand, and I instinctively take it. But she doesn’t want a shake. She uses me to steady herself, while her other hand grabs the bar as she hoists herself onto the stool.

‘Marvin,’ I say.

There’s some wobbling as Elise sits, and I do my best to clasp her hand firmly until she settles.

‘Marvin.’ She repeats my name, pursing her lips, mulling over the sounds or perhaps considering it before nodding her approval.

‘And what’s a handsome man like you doing here all by yourself?’ Elise taps the wood counter, and the bartender appears. ‘Chardonnay, please.’

The bartender nods. His long hair, pulled back into a ponytail, has a few stray wisps that tickle his face.

‘Did you want anything?’ Elise asks.

‘No, I’m good.’ I raise my seltzer, the lime hanging on the rim for dear life. ‘But thank you. Wait. Yes. A margarita. Virgin.’

‘One virgin margarita,’ Elise repeats, and the bartender nods and busies himself making our drinks. ‘Now, tell me why you’re here alone.’

‘I could ask the same of you.’

A wide smile cracks Elise’s face in half as her head tilts back, and a loud, shrill cackle takes over the entire bar area.

‘Me? I’ve been coming here for years.’

‘By yourself?’

‘Well, for the last . . .’ She looks to the sky, searching. ‘Six years, yes. Since my husband passed. Richard and I honeymooned here over thirty years ago.’ Another smile

spreads on Elise’s face. ‘He brought me back every February for our anniversary, and I figured he’d want me to keep up the tradition. So here I am.’

‘Wow. That’s so sweet. And thirty years.’ I press my lips together, and a gentle smile slowly curves onto my face.

‘Now, what’s your excuse?’

‘Excuse? For what?’

‘For being . . .’ Elise motions around us. ‘In paradise. Alone.’

‘Oh, I’m not alone. My fiancé is taking a call.’

‘Of course. You’re engaged. And what’s the lucky lady’s name?’

‘Well, his name is Olan.’ I smile. My stomach stills waiting for her reaction.

‘His. Of course. My apologies for assuming.’

‘No worries. And speak of the angel.’

Olan returns, his white linen shirt billowing as he walks and stands near us. Attempting to understand the purpose of his mother’s call, I study his expression, only to be met with his expertly maintained poker face. My eyes find his, searching for a clue, but there’s nothing. When he sees Elise perched on his stool, he quickly snatches a free one from the end of the bar. He positions it between us, distancing himself further from the counter, forming a triangular arrangement perfect for conversation.

‘And you must be Olan,’ Elise says, extending her hand.

‘Ma’am.’ Olan shakes it and does a small bow. I’m not sure if he thinks she’s royalty, or he’s just showing extra respect, but it’s possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

‘Elise, please. And thank you for letting me steal your lovely fiancé for a few minutes.’

‘No, thank you for keeping him company while I was occupied.’

Olan and I exchange a glance, my eyes filled with unspoken encouragement.

‘It’s my pleasure. I hear you’re engaged. Regale me with the details of your impending wedding.’ The bartender delivers our drinks, and Elise takes a sip of her wine. ‘No, wait. Start at the beginning. How did you meet?’

I clear my throat. ‘I was his daughter’s kindergarten teacher.’

Elise’s eyes bulge and a mischievous grin appears on her lips. ‘Scandalous.’ She takes another drink, this time a large gulp. ‘I love it.’

‘It wasn’t egregious.’ Olan lifts his mocktail, and my eyes hone in on his lips. A flash of that first kiss in my tiny apartment. My surprise at his interest and overall enthusiasm for kissing floods back. Being pushed against the wall, as he tasted, nibbled, and devoured my mouth. Our midsections rutted against each other near my old apartment’s front door while Gonzo looked on in horror. A quick shiver scurries up my spine. ‘It’s not like I gave her any special treatment because her dad was . . .’

‘In your pants?’ Elise laughs, and again, nearby patrons glance to see what the commotion is all about.

‘I was going to say “interested in me”, but you’re not wrong.’ I sip my seltzer quickly, attempting to moisten my parched mouth.

Olan pats my knee. As his fingers linger, squeezing and rubbing, my chest releases a tiny bit of the building tension.

‘A gorgeous father of a student,’ Elise says with a wink. ‘A secret affair. I’m impressed.’

‘It was only a secret for a few months,’ I say.

‘I couldn’t keep things hidden for long.’ Olan’s fingers wrap around my chin, his thumb coming close to my bottom lip. ‘Look at this adorable face.’

My shoulders lift in amusement, and a soft laugh bubbles up. I meet Olan’s gaze, and I find myself captivated by his mesmerizing brown eyes – my future stares back at me and I’m still amazed at how my love for him continues to flourish.

‘We’ve been together for almost two years now,’ Olan says. ‘Living together, planning a wedding. This one . . .’ Olan’s hand migrates to my shoulder. ‘Needed an island getaway.’

‘Well, you couldn’t have picked a better one,’ Elise says. ‘The food, the people, the drinks.’ She lifts her glass. ‘My Richard loved the quiet beach on the west side of the island. The tourists don’t venture that far, and it’s usually quite empty. He’d pack us a picnic, and we’d spend the day reading, swimming, and grazing on his makeshift spread from the bodega. On our honeymoon, he convinced me to go skinny dipping, and we continued the tradition every year after.’

‘He sounds like a special man,’ Olan says.

‘He was.’ A nostalgic smile takes over her face. ‘He was my blue rose.’

Olan’s eyebrows scurry together. ‘Your what?’

‘My blue rose. Rare. Special. Unattainable. There’s a poem I read once by . . .’ Elise’s eyes scan the sky, searching. ‘Someone thoughtful. People search their whole lives for that special person – a soulmate. Their blue rose.’ A contented smile blossoms on her face. ‘Richard was mine.’

The love radiating from Elise’s face catches me off guard, and my heart aches for her loss. But I’m also grateful for the joy they shared. ‘And you were his.’

Elise nods, pulling her lips in, her eyes exploring, perhaps for another cherished memory of her husband.

‘And you two. You’ve found your blue rose.’

‘Absolutely,’ Olan says, taking my hand in his. ‘He’s never getting rid of me.’ Olan kisses my cheek softly, the smell of linen, coconut, and cherry swirls as he whispers into my ear, ‘You’re stuck with me.’

‘Happy to be stuck,’ I say and take a deep breath, attempting to capture as much of this feeling as possible and bottle it up. Since the moment his lips landed on mine two years ago, Olan has done something to my body’s chemistry. Sure, the erections are plentiful and often unyielding. But he’s somehow managed to both excavate and nurture my heart in a way I never knew possible. All my life, I’d heard the word bashert and wondered if it was a crock of shit, but nope, I just hadn’t met my . . . blue rose.

‘Well, let me leave you two to your night,’ Elise says, standing and setting her almost empty glass on the bar.

‘Why don’t you join us for dinner?’ I ask, knowing Olan would be more than happy to continue our conversation with Elise.

‘No, no. I have . . . a late-night swim waiting.’ She winks, grabs her purse, and stands. Olan and I promptly rise to our feet.

‘Take care, boys. And maybe I’ll see you back on the island sometime.’

‘Good night,’ Olan says. We both wave, and Elise heads

toward the exit, the fringe on her shawl shaking with each step as she departs.

‘What a lovely lady,’ Olan says, taking my hand and we sit.

‘So sweet,’ I say as I run my finger along his forearm.

‘Just like these.’ Olan’s lips land on mine, and his kiss, like everything about him, makes me feel like the most precious, cherished treasure – his blue rose.

After a long stroll along the water, we end up at the small beach on the west of the island. Elise was right; there’s nobody here except us and a few stray seagulls. The shoreline is a crescent of pristine, powdery sand, gently curving around water that sparkles like jewels under the moonlight. The beach is framed by lush, emerald-green foliage that provides natural privacy and a sense of seclusion.

With his convincing smile, Olan persuades me to take a quick dip in our underwear. The warm water and night sky dotted with stars provide a peaceful backdrop for our swim.

We’re able to stand, the ocean up to our chests, and Olan wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. Water beads on his skin and when he kisses me under the sparkling sky, it seems as if the entire universe has converged to create this perfect moment for us.

‘Mmmmh. Tasty.’ He takes a quick lick at my mouth.

‘I love you,’ I say. ‘Thank you, again. For bringing me here.’

‘Anytime.’

Another kiss lingers on my lips as Olan intertwines his fingers with mine, his touch sending a gentle electric current through my body. With a tender tug, he pulls me

toward the shore. The sand beneath our feet shifts and molds with each step.

We’re soon lying on the beach in our wet underwear, waiting to air dry enough to put the rest of our clothes on.

‘What is it about the ocean?’ I ask, taking in a deep breath.

‘The fish? The salt?’ Olan tilts his head in thought. ‘The gravitational pull of the moon creating lapping waves and the tidal current?’

I prop myself up on an elbow and lean over to kiss his chin. Lips. Nose. Forehead. Finally, skirting back to his mouth, and taking a small bite of his lower lip.

‘You are such a nerd.’ Another kiss. Longer. Deeper. My tongue skates over his mouth. ‘Fuck, I love it. You. Being nerdy. All of you.’

‘Yeah.’ Olan’s arms encircle my torso, pulling me on top of him, our damp skin clinging together like two magnets. ‘I kind of got that.’

‘But the beach. The oceans. All of them. The Atlantic. Pacific. Indian. Even the Arctic. They’re all so magical.’

‘Scientists have given names to the different oceanic regions, but technically, they’re all one body of water. The sand, too. Every grain is connected. The sand we’ll stand on in Maine to take our vows could’ve been here at some point.’ He reaches down and picks up a handful, letting it cascade over his fingers and return to the beach. ‘And the stars.’ He glances toward the heavens. ‘Same stars we’ll get married under thousands of miles away.’

My teeth land on Olan’s chin, and I bite down hard enough to elicit a small ‘ouch’ from him.

‘What was that for?’ he asks.

‘For being such a . . .’

‘Nerd. I know.’ Olan points to himself, and I nestle my face into the crook of his neck.

‘My nerd. My fiancé nerd. Future husband nerd.’ My hands travel to his chest, delighted by the firmness of his pecs. ‘Nerdy love of my life, nerd.’

Olan captures my lips in a tender, fervent kiss, the lingering taste of the ocean salt still vivid between us. We lie side by side beneath the vast, twinkling expanse of the night sky, each star a distant witness to our closeness. The gentle rhythm of our breathing and the whisper of the waves create a serene backdrop as we bask in the cocoon of our love and the promise of our future together.

Some people say the bigger seats, stream of drinks and snacks, and constant doting from the flight attendants in first class are nothing more than an overpriced, unnecessary luxury. Those people are wrong.

As a teacher, I’ve never had much disposable income for flying. And when I do, I’m typically in the back of the plane – near the bathroom and galley, where the flight attendants sit and make small talk with each other. But Olan insisted I’d enjoy first class. There’s a dedicated flight attendant, and it appears his only job is our comfort.

Staring out the window, a blanket of clouds covering the ocean below, my mind swirls with thoughts of the plane. How does a giant hunk of metal filled with people and all their luggage stay up in the sky? Exactly where are the rafts if the plane goes down and manages to land on water? Is the flotation device I’m supposed to use under my seat, or is it my actual seat cushion? Do I blow into the tube to inflate it inside the plane or wait until I’m

drifting on the sea full of ravenous sharks? How will the flight attendant get an infant life vest to the poor woman sitting in the back of the plane with her newborn?

Olan gently takes my hand. His strong fingers squeeze mine, and he pulls it toward his lips for a kiss.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine. Totally fine,’ I say, biting my lower lip.

‘Marvin. Look at me.’

I do as I’m told, and yup, the mere sight of his face puts me at ease.

‘Take a deep breath with me,’ he says.

I watch his face and follow when he purses his lips, pulling air in and then pushing it out slowly, all while never letting go of my hand.

‘Better?’ he asks.

I nod and offer a small smile.

‘Illona will be excited to see us,’ he says.

‘Not as excited as Gonzo.’

‘Nobody will be more excited than Isabella,’ Olan says, and we both laugh. She loves the bonus time with Illona, but she’s purely a good sport about taking care of Gonzo. There’s a reason Olan and Illona never had animals. Isabella Stone is not a pet person.

‘Close your eyes. I’m right here.’ Olan lifts my hand and tugs it close to his chest. The thumping of his heart beats against my fingers, and my eyes shut. As long as we’re together, I’ll be okay. He’s got me.

Apparently, when you return to the United States, the government has intricate forms for you to fill out. And questions to ask. And people to ask them.

Olan and I stand in line at Boston’s Logan Airport, waiting our turn to clear customs. We each have a duffel slung over our shoulder, the only luggage we brought because Olan assured me we’d be naked or in our bathing suits most of the time. He was correct. As the line moves, we get closer to the agent, and there’s something about his face that throws me. He’s a young white man, maybe in his mid-twenties, with a buzz cut and a clean-shaven, severe jawline. The TSA uniform hugs his muscular body, and in the time I’ve been watching him, I’ve yet to see even a hint of a smile on his face.

‘Do we go up together or on our own?’ I ask Olan when there’s only one person in front of us.

‘Together.’ Olan shifts his bag and throws his shoulders back. ‘They speak to the entire party that’s traveling together.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

I’d noticed families going up together, but Olan and I aren’t family. Yet. We’re not married. And there’s the fact that we’re two men. Even once married, would everyone consider us family? Does the agent know we’re gay? Does he care? Does it matter? Of course, the minute we walk up to the agent together, he’ll know. Won’t he? There’s no way Olan and I are brothers. We could be friends. Or work colleagues. Traveling together. From Mexico. Yeah, not likely.

It’s our turn. We walk up silently, and Mr TSA says, ‘Passports, please.’

Olan hands him our documents and I stand slightly behind, letting him take the lead. It’s one in a long list of my favorite ways Olan takes care of me.

‘Traveling together?’ The agent’s eyes don’t leave our passports and the paperwork Olan handed over.

‘Yes, sir.’ Olan’s voice comes out louder than I’m used to.

‘Where are you flying from?’

‘Cancún, Mexico.’

The agent’s eyes dart up, scanning Olan, me, and back to Olan. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but my skin crawls as he studies us with his slightly squinted eyes.

‘How long were you out of the country?’

‘Five days.’ Olan’s never a man of many words, but my throat constricts with his particularly clipped answers.

The agent scours us with his eyes. Then, back to the paperwork. He types something on his computer without returning his gaze to us.

‘Sir. Mr’ – he reads my passport – ‘Block. Welcome home. You can wait over there.’ He nods to a cluster of metal benches. ‘Mr Stone, come this way.’

There are two more agents. I’m not sure where they came from – they seem to have materialized out of thin air.

‘Keep your bag with you,’ one of the new scary agents says. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail.

‘Should I come –’ I begin, but Olan interrupts.

‘Marvin. Wait there. I’ll be right back.’

I walk to the bench, a knot tying in my stomach, as I watch Olan escorted by two of the agents. They turn a corner and he’s gone.

My hand wanders into my pocket and checks for my phone. Yup, it’s there. Maybe I should call Isabella. No, Jill. She could be here in an hour if she drove fast. Jill Kim will know what to do. She’s not only my work wife and best

friend, she knows how to handle the toughest situations at school. If you can manage a kindergartner refusing to come down from the jungle gym, you can handle two menacing TSA agents. Why did they take him and not me? What do they think we were doing in Mexico?

I’m staring at the contacts on my phone. Isabella. Jill. Sarah Block. Yes, I have my mother’s full name instead of ‘mom’ in my contacts. What if I call someone and they come for me? What are they asking him? Doing to him? My head feels light and I take a deep breath and remind myself I’m safe. Olan needs me to be calm. Cool. Collected. Fuck. I’m none of those things. Ever.

Olan drove us here in his fancy James Bond car and, even though I’m a capable grown-up, I’m not sure I could get the damn thing started. And the parking garage ticket is in his wallet. Would they let me out of the lot without it? Of course they would. They’re not going to hold me hostage in Olan’s fancy-pants Aston Martin for all eternity. But I’m not driving back to Portland without him. No way. He’s driving. He has the ticket. And the car keys. And he’s . . . Olan. Fuck. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and I close them, breathing deeply. My fingers reach for my temple and, using my index and middle fingers, I tap quickly the way Erika showed me. Five taps near my eyebrow. Five under my eye. Five on my collarbone. Combined with deep breathing and my anxiety might lower a notch. If not, I’ll repeat. Erika truly was the ideal therapist for me, a perfect match. Why’d she have to go and retire? Didn’t she know it took me my entire life and four failed therapists to find her? She knew. Because I told her.

Counting to twelve, I move to my clavicle and repeat.

9781405979382

M.A. WARDELL

HUSBAND OF THE YEAR

Husband of the Year

Teacher of the Year

Mistletoe and Mishigas

Napkins and Other Distractions

Husband of the Year

Teachers in Love: Book 4

PENGUIN BOOKS

To Dave – husband of the millennium

Author’s Note and Content Guidance