This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Richard will be awarding a $25 Amazon Gift Card to a randomly drawn commenter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour. Remember, the more stops you visit and comment, the better your chances to win.
When ghosts from Will's past threaten their future together and all looks lost, Alex devises a plan to save Will’s reputation.
But will love be enough to save the day and win Alex the man of his dreams? Or will he be doomed to eating his favorite apple crumble all alone-–with lashings of crème anglaise, of course.
Now enjoy an excerpt:
Empty chairs, no one at home apart from a grumpy-looking receptionist. “I’m a medical student. I’m looking for Mr Jackson’s clinic. I’m afraid I’m late,” he said in a sweaty, breathless, hyper/hypoglycaemic, verbal diarrhoeal explosion. She turned from her dirty, crumb-spattered NHS keyboard at a speed barely compatible with life and pointed a bony finger that could have belonged to ET. He looked in the direction of her home constellation and saw a consulting room door. One door of many, impossible to tell them apart, just like stars. Except this door said ‘Mr Jackson, Consultant Surgeon’. But the sign was at an angle with ‘Mr’ drooping about an inch lower than ‘Surgeon’, which was disconcerting. It was as if a mister was a lower life form than a surgeon – which is true, of course – but then, surgeons also insist on calling themselves ‘Mr’ rather than ‘Dr’, which was even more confusing given that doctors are universally known to be supreme beings, just below the Daleks. And that meant surgeons were on a par with Daleks, which was just plain ridiculous.
Alex reached up to adjust the sign (the least he could do, he thought, given his tardiness) but it was attached with something blue and sticky which had picked up its fair share of staph aureus-strewn fingerprints over the years. He heard a “Tut” from behind. He looked around and saw the receptionist shaking her head very, very slowly, as if wanting to make a point without her wretched cranium falling off her scrawny neck. “Sorry,” he said, leaving the drooping sign, adjusting his tie and generally checking that he was ready to cross the threshold to the delights/horrors that lay in the room ahead.
Alex knocked timidly on the door. Not a super-confident ‘da-da-de-dah’ but a pathetic ‘de-de’ that’s barely worth putting down on paper. He felt his right testicle rubbing itchily against his thigh. He didn’t have time to perform a rearrangement as a deep and commanding “Come in!” emanated from the inner sanctum. He opened the door and his first sight was of three female students on the left, sitting demurely on blue plastic chairs, pens poised in their hands like wands above steaming cauldrons. Directly opposite the door, and a scant six feet away, was Mr Jackson, sitting on the edge of his desk. The door remained open behind him and he felt a shiver of air on his left testicle and his thighs go all a-wobble.
Oh. My. God. He’s drop dead gorgeous. Imagine Brad Pitt and Hugh Jackman rolled into one. No, not rolling together (although that would be AMAZING) but genetically merged into a superbeing, a wankfest, a man beyond all men…well, you get the drift. But there’s more: blue eyes you could drown in, blond hair falling effortlessly to wide shoulders, a trim, muscular torso and long, long legs. It’s amazing what a good suit does for a man. And then there was the crotch…
The evaluation took milliseconds but he wanted it to be a lifetime.
“Mr Stevens, I presume?” inquired the demigod, addressing the mere mortal. “How nice of you to give us the pleasure of your company. Perhaps you stopped off somewhere for an extended lunch?”
Alex couldn’t be certain that his jaw actually dropped, but it certainly felt as if his mouth was searching for his voice on the floor. He felt as if Mr Jackson’s x-ray vision was dissecting him into his ever-so-slightly queenie parts and an end-of-bed diagnosis was imminent. That crumble was SUCH a mistake. “We seem to be away with the fairies, Mr Stevens,” Mr J added sarcastically.
But nota bene the Pluralis Majestatis. And the mention of fairies.
The trio of oh-too-perfect Hermiones, perched on their plastic chairs, giggled. It might have been a trick of the light but Alex was sure there was a hint of a smile in the corner of the demigod’s mouth. And those wonderful, sexy, luscious, subtly pouting, kissable lips…
Fimble, fumble, mimble, mumble. A strangulated stutter emerged: “S-s-sorry, M-M-Mr J-J-Jackson. I went to the wrong clinic. I’m v-v-very s-s-sorry.”