Title: Throwing Hearts
Author: NR Walker
Genre: MM Romance
Series: Standalone
Tropes: Sweet and steamy;
humour
Universal: http://mybook.to/ThrowingHearts
A fun and
sexy romance where the kiln isn’t the only thing that’s scorching hot.
Leo
Secombe loves his life, and he’s convinced himself he’s happy to be single. In
his spare time, he keeps himself busy at a local LGBTQ centre that pairs a
younger person with a community elder to help them feel included in today’s
rainbow family. Leo and Clyde have been buddies for a few years now, and
signing up for a pottery class seems like fun.
Merrick
Bowman has been so focused on getting his pottery business up and running that
he’s forgotten how to date. How to live, even. But when a young, bubbly Leo and
an older, grumpy Clyde walk through his door, Merrick has no idea how much Leo
is about to centre his world.
Throwing
clay has been Merrick’s entire life, but Leo’s about to change all that. Maybe
Merrick’s ready to throw caution to the wind. And maybe he’s ready to finally
throw his heart on the line.
Throwing Hearts is 55,000-words.
Excerpt
I was still smiling when I
got into Merrick’s car. He’d pulled into the street as I got to the footpath,
so I climbed straight in. “Hey,” I said, trying not to notice how particularly
gorgeous he looked tonight. He wore a navy button-down shirt and faded jeans,
his short hair was glossy black, his smile, and his smell . . .
Jesus. I was ready to forego
dinner and just get straight to the dicking.
“Hey,” he replied huskily. He
looked at me like he might want to devour me. “You look so good.”
Yep. Straight to the
dicking. Please, and right now, thanks.
He let out a laugh as though
he was nervous. “I told myself to try and play it cool. That didn’t last very
long.”
“God, same.”
He laughed again, but then
his gaze darted to the rear-vision mirror. “Oh shit.” There was a car behind us
so he kept driving, and that was a good distraction. “How was work?”
“So busy. Actually, it was
crazy-busy, but that was possibly a good thing because I was too busy to
overthink everything and have a nervous breakdown before you picked me up. How
about you?”
He grinned at me. “About the
same.”
The electricity between us
was insane. I was surprised there weren’t actual physical sparks. My heart was
doing some squeezy-hammering thing; I couldn’t seem to breathe properly, my
skin was warm all over, and all I wanted to do was laugh. “Ooooh boy,” I said,
trying to catch my breath, grinning like an idiot. “So where are we going for
dinner?”
“It’s an Asian-fusion noodle
bar,” he answered. “They have everything. You hungry?”
“I am, actually. I didn’t
really get a lunch break.”
“Well, the food at this place
is amazing.” He looked down at my shirt again before meeting my eyes. “I really
like that shirt.”
I almost said where I would
like to see it end up but decided against it. “Uh, thanks.”
He shot me an odd look.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” I was still
grinning, and I figured what the hell. “I was just
thinking . . . if you really like my shirt, I’ll be only too
happy to leave it on your bedroom floor tonight.”
He burst out laughing,
surprised but amused. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, sorry. Corny pickup
lines are terrible.”
“Not completely terrible. I
liked where that one was going.”
He pulled the car into a
parking spot and I realised then where we were. We were at his studio, or more
significantly, at his house. “Oh. Was the offer of my shirt on your bedroom
floor better than dinner? Because seriously, I won’t mind.”
He laughed again and got out
of the car. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t.” He nodded up the street. “But
the restaurant is within walking distance.”
We got out of the car, and I
kind of felt bad that he had come to pick me up only to drive straight back to
his house. “I could have driven to your place,” I said.
He put his hands to his
heart. “But it’s a date. My dad always said I had to date properly. Pick them
up, drop them home. Be a gentleman, that kind of thing.”
“Pretty sure your dad was
just looking after your virtue. By picking your date up and then dropping them
home, you’d be minimising the time spent at your place.”
Merrick laughed. “Maybe.”
I looked at the studio, at
the darkened windows, at the privacy. And my empty stomach was forgotten,
because inside that ceramics studio—or rather, in the loft above it—was privacy
for kissing, touching, tasting . . .
I pointed my thumb towards
the front door with the closed sign. “If you’d like to take me upstairs right
now, I could help you find that virtue . . .”
Merrick barked at a laugh and
grabbed my hand. “Dinner first. Conversations and questions. Then we can worry
about virtues.”
As we walked up the street,
Merrick kept a hold of my hand. I threaded our fingers properly, and the
adrenaline and the nerves, the anticipation, and the sexual tension manifested
as a shit-eating grin.
The restaurant was only a
block away, but there wasn’t just one place to eat. There were heaps on both
sides of the street. I could see lots of people, smiling and eating, seated at
tables inside each one. “Man, I wish Kell and I had a dozen different
restaurants a block away.”
“Perks of living in a
semi-commercial zoned part of the city,” Merrick said as he held the door open
for me. “Means I don’t have to cook very often.”
It was busy inside, but
thankfully Merrick had made a reservation. We were shown to our table by a
woman who knew Merrick by name, and we each ordered a Coke. “You do come
here often.”
He nodded. “The japchae
is to die for. And the shoyu ramen is better than my grandmother’s, but
if anyone else asks, I’ll deny I ever said that.”
I chuckled and sipped my
drink. As much as I had wanted Merrick to take me upstairs at his studio, I was
really glad he had opted for dinner first. He was right; there would be time
for that later. Getting to know each other and being certain that this thing
between us was right was too important to ignore.
“So,” I began, “you wanted
conversations and questions . . . What did you want to
ask?”
“Everything,” he replied
simply. “I want to know everything.”
God, that could be dangerous.
“Such as?”
“Favourite colour?”
I snorted, because that was
not what I expect him to ask. “Um, it depends. Are we talking about Skittles?
Or having to choose one colour to wear for the rest of your life? Because they
have vastly different selection criteria.”
My answer clearly surprised
him. He almost choked on his drink. “Okay, sorry. I should have been more
specific. Favourite colour Skittle?”
“The purple ones, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Yours?”
“Orange.”
“Least favourite?”
“Yellow.”
“No one eats the yellow
Skittles.”
He grinned. “Favourite colour
M&M’s?”
“The normal ones or the
peanut ones?”
“Both. Either.”
“I prefer the peanut ones,
not gonna lie. Blue ones are my favourite. Yours?”
“I like the normal M&M’s
better, and I eat the brown ones first. The red ones die last, and all other
colours are indiscriminately picked off at random.”
“Ooh, organised chaos. I like
that.”
Merrick laughed again. “And
if you had to choose a colour to wear every day for the rest of your life?”
“Probably blue. It’s more
adaptable for more situations. I love splashes of pink, but wearing it head to
toe every day of forever would be a bit overwhelming.”
“Agreed. Very Umbridge.”
Now it was me who laughed.
“God, I didn’t even think of that. She was so evil.”
The waitress came back and
took our order, but because we hadn’t even looked at the menu, Merrick ordered
for the both of us. I figured it’d be interesting to see what he chose, what he
thought I’d like.
“Okay, my turn to ask a
question. Dating history. And go . . .”
He made a face. “Wow, okay.
You just jump right in.”
“Well, we have discussed
Skittles and M&M’s, so there’s nowhere left to go, really.”
N.R. Walker Bio
N.R.
Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves
writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn’t have it any other
way.
She
is many things: a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty
boys who live in her head, who don’t let her sleep at night unless she gives
them life with words.
She
likes it when they do dirty, dirty things… but likes it even more when they
fall in love.
She
used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day
she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.
She’s
been writing ever since…
For
more about N.R. Walker you can find her at:
Email:
nrwalker@nrwalker.net
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