Page 194 of Men in Shorts

For two years at university, Brodie Campbell and Duncan Harris were inseparable. Then Brodie’s summer internship abroad turned into a six-month job on the other side of the continent.

Time and distance have tested Duncan and Brodie’s steadfast love. Now, with Brodie back in Glasgow, they’re in for a surprise reunion, thanks to a “match-mending” friend and a Christmas charity curling event. Will their on-ice rivalry lead to holiday heartache, or will they win each other back better than ever?

The long-awaited “happier ever after” story for the first (and youngest) Glasgow Lads couple is here!

All Through the House includes characters from the Glasgow Lads series (and features the heroes ofPlay On) as well as its spinoff series, Glasgow Lads on Ice. It can also be read as a stand-alone fun ’n’ sexy holiday treat.

Chapter1

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”

“I’m awake.” Brodie Campbell tugged the duvet up over his shoulders, re-cocooning himself in warmth, then snuggled his face deeper into the soft pillow. “You can stop harassing me.”

“Mate.” John’s voice was right at Brodie’s ear. “Your eyes are closed.”

“The better to rest my weary head.” Also the better to cling to his last dream.

“I’ll wearyyourhead if you don’t get your arse up and moving.” John whipped off the duvet, exposing the dream’s lingering effect beneath Brodie’s sleep trousers. “Well, good morning to both of you.”

“D’ye mind?” Brodie rolled onto his stomach, hiding his erection but also crushing it beneath him. “Ow.” He uttered a stream of slurred curses directed at John and the general universe.

“You telt me to wake you before I left for the rink.” John nudged his shoulder. “Time to bundle up for the big bonspiel. Your teammates need you. Especially me.”

So it was Saturday, the day of the Christmas charity curling event, which John had somehow roped him into despite Brodie’s complete absence of athletic ability.

John leaned over him. “I brought you a nice fresh cuppa. ’Mon, sit up and get yourself caffeinated.”

Brodie’s stomach growled. “You mentioned eggs and bacon?”

“Naw, it’s just a saying. There’s toast and porridge, as usual.” John sat next to him, creaking the futon’s springs. “Did you phone Duncan last night to tell him you’re back in Glasgow? Like you’ve been promising me you’d do the last three nights?”

Brodie reached under the pillow and crushed it against his ears. He couldn’t breathe like this, but surely John would give up before suffocation set in.

“Right.” John’s weight left the futon. “You’ll wish you had done.”

Brodie lifted his head. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I need to go to the rink early to help set up. See you at ten o’clock on the dot!” He strutted out, leaving the guest room door open.

Brodie sat up to sip from the holly-patterned mug John had left behind. The tea was fair strong, just the way he needed it.

He rubbed his face hard to wake himself. Och, he still hadn’t shaved the beard he’d grown in St. Petersburg. Maybe there’d be time to at least trim it before going to the rink today.

He tugged on his comfy tan cardigan—the one Duncan always said made him look like “a hot Mister Rogers”—and dragged himself out of bed.

As he shuffled into the living room, his toes struck a Christmas bauble that had rolled off the tree—no doubt with the help of Hardie the tuxedo kitten, who was sitting in the crook of the L-shaped couch, washing his face like an innocent bystander.

Brodie picked up the bauble and returned it to one of the tree’s higher branches, theoretically out of Hardie’s reach. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The scent of Fraser fir eased his morning grumpiness by at least ten percent.

Each time he examined this tree, a new piece stood out. John’s husband, Fergus, did salvage art as a hobby, recycling castoff items into marvelous works. Hanging a few inches from Brodie’s nose was a Santa made out of a small strip of weathered wood, with glittering costume jewelry forming his eyes and the buttons of his coat. Beside it hung a reindeer assembled from tiny springs like those inside a clicky pen.

Brodie went into the kitchen to find the artist himself at the table, hunched over his tablet.

“Excited for your big curling debut?” Fergus asked. “John tells me you looked a natural at Thursday night’s practice session.”

“Really?” Brodie let rip a yawn as he took a bowl from the cupboard beside the sink. “I’ve never been a natural at anything sporty.”

“Everyone’s got an athlete in them somewhere.”

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