The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Prologue: Emily

MILY

had drowned on a day like this, when the snow fell

softly from the steel-gray sky and the water roared through
the weir. Her husband had pulled her from the ice-flecked
water, the tears cold on his ruddy, honest face.

She still missed him, her Harry. When he courted her in

the spring, he had been a laughing boy. He had married her
in  the  summer  as  the  happiest  man  she  knew,  and  every
barge  on  the  river  had  escorted  them  home  through  the
warm  dusk.  Their  first  son  had  been  born  in  autumn  the
next  year,  dear  solemn  Alfie,  and  Mary  the  year  after  that,
her pretty girl.

The baby had cried for hours while Emily floated in the

water,  on  that  long  ago  winter’s  day  when  she  had  left  her
darlings  forever.  The  echo  of  those  tears  still  held  her  here,
kept  her  wishing,  hold  my  child,  somebody  hold  my  child,
even now after Mary had grown and birthed pretty babies of
her own, and aged and died and gone away.

“Love,” Emily sighed, over the cold water. There had

been  so  much  love  in  that  little  cottage  by  the  lock,  in  her
time and the years afterward. She had watched Harry grieve
and heal, his sad heart given comfort by a bargeman’s pretty
daughter.  Mary  had  kissed  handsome  boys  beside  the
sweeping  willow  and  married  the  plainest  and  kindest  of

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

them  all.  She’d  seen  Alfie  love  a  boy  and  let  him  go,  and
she’d  witnessed  the  courtships  of  grandchildren  and  great-
grandchildren for two centuries.

It was her only comfort, caught here above the cold

water. Love, in all its forms, was all that mattered.

There were no more barges, and no one kept the lock.

Her home was too small for families, the last keeper had
said, even as she wept to see him leave, her tears dissolving
into the swift water. It had been so lonely the last few years,
until the new man came.

He was trudging home now, along the river bank with

the snow catching in his dark hair. His shoulders were
bowed and he looked so tired. So lonely, this latest man of
hers. When would he bring love home?

“Love,” she reminded him, her voice thin in the quiet

hush of falling snow. “You must find love.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter One: Isaac

S HE

stomped up the ironstone path, shaking the snow off

his  boots,  Isaac  felt  even  more  remote  from  the  world  than
usual. On the step of the old lock-keeper’s cottage, he turned
and  looked  along  the  river,  watching  the  snow  sift  onto  the
lock gates and the covered boats on the bank.

He’d wanted isolation, wanted to get away from

everything that had made up his life before. Now he had it,
he just felt even more tired and sad.

The surroundings suited his mood—the river was gray,

its edges dull with ice. The snow was steadily weighing down
the trees and blanketing the heavy, tangled balls of mistletoe
that grew so abundantly here. In the distance, the sound
more muffled than usual, he could hear the low groan of
traffic heading into Guildford, but it seemed like a noise from
another world.

Then, woven between the noise from the road and the

whisper-soft sigh of the snow, he heard a woman weeping.

It came from the other side of the lock, where the water

tumbled  endlessly  down  the  stepped  weir.  Shivering,  Isaac
squinted  through  the  swirling  snow,  wondering  if  he’d  see
her  this  time.  There  was  nothing  out  there,  though,  just
snow  and  water  and  the  sound  of  tears.  The  other
lengthsmen who tended the river had told him stories when

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

he first took the job. She had been a lock-keeper’s wife. Only
children ever saw her, watching over them as they played.

She made the lock gardens flower for a wedding.
“Come inside, Emily,” he said softly. “It’s too cold for

anyone out here.”

The sound of her tears followed him as he unlocked the

door and stepped inside, shrugging off his heavy overcoat. It
got thrown onto the polished wooden coatrack at the bottom
of the stairs, and Isaac leaned back against the door,
surveying his small domain.

He couldn’t blame the ghost for weeping at this time of

year, not if this had once been her home. It was pristine, in
his defense—he had polished the antique Aga range until he
could see his face in its red veneer, waxed the old wooden
floors, and spent long evenings bringing the brass fire
surround and tongs back to their original sheen.

There was no sign of Christmas, though. He’d got as far

as bringing the boxes down from the spare room, but his
heart hadn’t been in it.

Last year his tree had been so huge that he’d struggled

to  get  it  into  the  lift  of  their  expensive  apartment  building.
He’d  festooned  every  wall  of  the  sleek  flat  with  specially
ordered  evergreen  garlands.  Subtle  lights  had  twinkled
discreetly around the windows, and the tree had been laden
with  expensive  ornaments.  A  playlist  of  cathedral  choirs
singing  carols  in  soaring  voices  had  played  quietly  in  the
evenings.  He’d  bought  a  mulled  wine  kit  and  spent
Christmas  Eve  breathing  in  the  rich  scent  of  it,  dreaming

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

about Christmases yet to come. He’d even started thinking
about children, about creating perfect memories for them.

It had been too soon, of course, only the first Christmas

of their marriage. He had wanted that life, though. The
thought of Amelia round with his child was somehow more
attractive than any other thought of her.

He must have realized at some level, he thought bitterly

now. Why try so hard to create the perfect fantasy Christmas
if he wasn’t already aware that she was slipping away?

She’d been very nice about all his efforts, very kind.

Then, on New Year’s Eve, she had asked for a divorce and
told him about the other man, the soldier she thought she
should have married in the first place.

He’d stumbled back to his parents’ house. There, in the

bustle of their New Year’s celebrations, he’d sought solace in
copious amounts of whisky and the boy next door, a pretty
pouty-lipped undergrad who’d been only too willing to sneak
into the garage and suck him off to the strokes of midnight.

Which would have been all very well, had his mother not

walked in just as he was coming down the throat of a boy
he’d once babysat.

As if the thought had summoned her, the phone began

to ring.

He was a bad son, Isaac thought glumly. A good son

wouldn’t be wishing this fervently for a double-glazing
salesman. A glance at the caller ID told him he wouldn’t be
that lucky.

“I’ve been calling all morning,” his mother said. “Where

have you been?”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Working,” Isaac said patiently. “We cut back the

vegetation around the towpath in winter.”

“On a Saturday?” His mother’s tone conveyed her

opinion  of  any  job  that  required  working,  let  alone  manual
labor,  on  weekends.  “Right  before  Christmas  too.  Really,
Isaac,  there  are  better  things  you  could  be  doing  with  your
life.”

“It’s the National Trust,” he tried. Usually, that mollified

her a little. She’d probably have disowned him if he’d started
working for English Heritage. When it came to preserving the
English countryside, after all, venerable charitable
institutions were clearly more respectable than mere upstart
government bodies, at least in the eyes of his mother’s cream
tea and church fete set.

He could hear the sniff all the way down the line and

closed his eyes in response. He loved his mother, he really
did, her drive, sharp wit, and overprotectiveness. He just
didn’t love failing to live up to her expectations.

“Now, about Christmas,” she continued briskly. “You’ll

be here in time for Midnight Mass, of course. You should
know that I’ve invited Amelia—”

“You’ve done what?” Isaac asked, startled into

interrupting.

“Invited Amelia.”
“You’ve invited my ex-wife for Christmas?”
“You know I’m very fond of the poor girl, and her family

is so far away—”

“She hates me.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Well, you can understand why, darling, given your

lifestyle choices—”

“She left me first!” Isaac yelped. His mother always

made him feel like he was twelve again. Making an effort to
claw back the intervening two decades, he took a breath and
said, as calmly as he could, “If she’s there, I won’t be.”

“Oh, be reasonable, Isaac.”
“I hardly think I’m the one being unreasonable, Mother.”
“You never do,” she accused and then took a breath.

“Jonathan, speak to your child.”

Isaac heard his father grumbling in the background, but

then he came on the phone to say, “I’m on your side, son. I
told her it was a bad idea.”

So why didn’t you stop her? Isaac thought as his mother

protested faintly. Then he reminded himself that wasn’t fair.
Nobody could stop his mother once she had an idea in her
head. Instead he said, “I’d really rather not see Amelia again.
We’re never going to reconcile.”

“Your mother did hope,” Jonathan Cobbett began, and

Isaac groaned.

“Never.”
“So are you bringing some chap along? That would set

the cat among the pigeons,” he added with a slight chuckle.

“Don’t give the boy ideas, Jonathan!”
“Not this year,” Isaac said, and his father sighed. That

made him feel worse than talking to his mother. Dad had
been astonishingly supportive, even though he was the sort
of vicar who winced faintly at the very word “reform.” He

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

heard his father walking away and the click of the study
door. “I’m sure your mother will come round. She wanted
grandchildren.”

“I know,” Isaac said and tried to hide how that made

him  feel.  He’d  wanted  children  so  much,  enough  that  he
ignored the way he liked the girls he dated well enough, but
looked  only  at  men  as  he  sat  on  the  Tube  or  walked  down
the  street.  No  women  had  ever  made  him  hunger  for  their
touch.

“I’ll talk to her. A good present wouldn’t go amiss,

either. Now, how’s the job? Any winter weather yet?”

N HOUR

later, he gave up battling his way into the town

center and parked the Land Rover on a side road. He walked
the rest of the way, which is what he should have done in
the first place. It only took an hour down the towpath on a
fine day, and he was dressed for the weather.

Every breath of exhaust and melting snow he took made

him wish he was back by the river. There wasn’t much work
he could do until the snow stopped falling, though, and he’d
left his Christmas shopping a little late.

The town center was heaving with shoppers. Tinny

music  blared  out  of  every  doorway.  Christmas  lights  were
twinkling  overhead,  big  fake  snowflakes  almost  hiding  the
real  ones.  What  snow  had  settled  was  already  yellow  and
slushy.  Grimly,  Isaac  plowed  his  way  uphill  along  the  High
Street, bracing his shoulders against the crowd and gripping

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

his wallet inside his pocket in case he met any wandering
hands.

He had no idea what to get her but just kept going until

he saw a jewelry shop that looked pricey enough. He shoved
forward and fell through the front door.

The bells on the door tinkled delicately as he grabbed at

it for balance, and everyone in the shop turned to stare at
him disapprovingly. He suddenly felt very conscious that he
was one of only three men shopping, and the only one with
mud on his boots.

Then the assistant behind the counter came toward

him, and he realized there was one more man in here.

And he was gorgeous.
His skin was a soft, hazelnut brown, and his hair, a few

shades  darker,  curled  tightly.  His  eyes  were  dark  and
creased  with  his  welcoming  smile.  There  were  freckles
dusted  across  his  cheeks,  barely  darker  than  his  skin,  and
although he wore a smart suit, there was golden glitter in his
hair.

“Merry Christmas, sir,” he said, grinning brightly at

Isaac, who could feel himself staring inanely. “Can I help you
find something?”

“Er,” Isaac managed. All the blood that should be in his

head had flooded down to fill his cock, and he was dimly
thankful for his long coat. “Um.”

“Looking for a gift for someone? Your wife?”
“No!” Isaac blurted out, and then, as the perfect guy

visibly bit back a smile, he felt compelled to add, “I’m not
married, not at all. Not anymore. My mother.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“And you need some advice choosing, don’t you?”
“Help me,” Isaac said and summoned half a smile from

somewhere. It didn’t feel quite as difficult as usual. “My
Christmas depends on you.”

“I’m all yours,” Mr. Gorgeous swore lightly, and Isaac

thought, Oh, I wish. “What’s your budget?”

“Anything,” Isaac said. There were some advantages to a

past as a banker, after all.

“You must be her favorite son.”
“Rather the opposite, I’m afraid,” Isaac admitted and let

the man steer him lightly across the shop, his fingers just
brushing Isaac’s elbow. He could feel them through his coat,
little presses of warmth which brought the color into his
cheeks.

“Goodness, what did you do?”
“I’m not married anymore,” Isaac said wryly.
That got a wince. “Oops. Let’s see what we can do, then.

Can you sum up your mother in just one word?”

“Formidable,” Isaac said immediately. “Um, committed

is nicer, isn’t it? Traditional. Immaculate. Unstoppable.”

“That’s five words, handsome, but I’m getting the

picture.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully while Isaac was still
reeling from that “handsome.” “How does she feel about Art
Deco?”

“Er,” Isaac said cautiously. He liked his old things rustic

and useful.

He got another amused smile, one that seemed to invite

him to share the joke. “I’ll show you some things in that

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

style, and you can tell me if they would suit her? How’s that
sound?”

“Good. I mean, yes, that. We’ll do that.”
“You, sir, are going to be my favorite customer today.”
It’s all sales talk, Isaac reminded himself firmly. It

wasn’t real. It was, however, steadily lifting his spirits, and
so he followed the man across the shop gladly. Placating his
mother would be worth the blow his wallet was about to
take.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Two: Ryan

YAN

permitted himself a little wistful sigh as tall, dark, and

flustered left the boutique with a perfectly wrapped gift for
his mother and a look of sheer relief.

Divorced, he reminded himself. From a woman.

Therefore not interested in you.

There was a momentary lull in the flow of customers, so

he turned to Maddie, who was leaning against the till with
wild eyes, and murmured, “Why are all the cute ones
straight?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever noticed that problem,” she shot back

and then stood up as the door jangled. “And we’re off again.
Hello, sir, and welcome to Truelove and Eade. Can I help you
find something?”

By the end of the afternoon, their display cases were

half-empty, their takings better than any other day that year,
and they were swaying on their feet.

“I can’t stop smiling,” Maddie groaned, clinging to the

counter. “It hurts to try.” Her fair hair had slipped out its
neat tail and was straggling around her face, sticking to her
cheeks where the glitter had clumped in red streaks.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Be strong,” Ryan advised her and staggered over to

switch off the music that had been looping all day. The
sudden silence made them all sigh with relief.

“Thank God,” said Kay, their manager, from where she

had just locked the front door. “I hate those annoying little
brats.”

Ryan nodded. “One more repeat of ‘We Three Kings’, and

I’ll be driven to make someone sing soprano the hard way.”

“I volunteer my ex-husband,” Kay offered, leaning

against the door. “It could only improve his personality.”

“Y’know, Kay,” Ryan said, “whatever he told you, a

man’s personality can’t really be found between his legs.”

“No,” said Maddie. “That’s where you keep your brains.”
Ryan clapped a hand to his chest. “Ooh, I’m being

discriminated against. Tell her off, Kay.”

Both women rolled their eyes at him, and Kay said,

“Enough. You’ve done good, kids. Now let’s get closed up so
you can go home, sleep the sleep of the deserving, and
then—”

“Come back tomorrow and do it all again,” Maddie

chirped with a toothy, forced smile.

“She’s learning,” Ryan said. “Restock now or in the

morning?”

“In the morning,” Kay decided. “Grab your stuff. Five

minutes until lockup. Don’t forget your gloves.”

As Maddie, who had a bad habit of strewing her

belongings around the staffroom, squeaked and dashed into

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

the back, Kay turned to Ryan. “You still good to open up
tomorrow?”

“Ten thirty for browsing, and we’ll open the tills at

eleven. All sorted.”

“I’ll try to come in to cover lunch breaks.”
“Not on your day off,” Ryan said firmly. The assistant

manager job was only a few months old, and he was
determined to show she’d made the right choice. “I’ve got
Boxing Day off. You need the break if you’re going to manage
Christmas Eve and the start of the sales.”

“Don’t remind me,” Kay said with a shudder as Maddie

came dashing back with everyone’s coats.

They stepped outside a few minutes later, and Maddie

gasped. “Oh, how lovely.”

It was still snowing, the flakes gleaming in the

streetlights as they fell between the old buildings and settled
against the cobbles. Snow had collected on top of the black
and gold clock that hung outside the guildhall and gathered
on  the  steep  roofs,  protruding  windows,  and  balconettes  of
the old inns and merchants’ houses. The street sloped down
sharply toward the river, and across the valley he could just
see the looming downs gleaming dimly. The streets were still
quite  busy,  as  late  shoppers  began  to  give  up  and  move
toward  the  brightly  lit  pubs  and  restaurants  scattered
throughout  the  town  center,  but  there  was  a  strange  quiet
over  the  scene,  broken  only  by  laughter  as  people  skidded
and tottered down the hill.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Early for snow,” Kay said, shivering. “Bad for business,

especially if the trains stop running.”

“But it’s snowing!” Maddie said, throwing her arms out

and spinning around, face bright.

Her excitement stayed with Ryan as he left the women.

He’d grown up in too many cold and drafty houses to really
love snow, but it was pretty. It softened the lines of the uglier
modern shops jammed along the bottom of the hill and
added a little glamour to the red-brick Victorian terraces just
north of the town center. A lot of the houses were dark, the
students who lived in them already home for the holidays.

He was tired enough to hope that his own housemates

might have taken that option too. He entertained himself by
imagining  it—coming  home  to  an  empty  house,  or  maybe
just one of them in the last stages of packing up the car. He
could  have  the  whole  place  to  himself,  order  takeaway  and
just  enjoy  the  quiet.  Put  the  telly  on  and  watch  something
other  than  bloody  Top  Gear.  Get  up  early  for  work  and  not
trip over some comatose rugby player on the way to the front
door.

You’re there because it’s cheap, he reminded himself.

Cheap, cheap, cheap, and better than being alone.

Then he turned into his road and heard the music.

Appalled, he stopped, too tired to process what he could see.

Every window in the house was open. Music was blaring

out  loudly  enough  to  make  the  cars  parked  outside  shake.
Three  blokes  were  trying  to  maneuver  six  crates  of  beer
through  the  open  front  door.  Someone  was  pissing  against
their landlady’s prized magnolia tree.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

As he stared, one of his housemates appeared. Framed

in the living room window, wearing nothing but baggy
underpants and a red nose, Matt hollered, “Reindeers, streak
on!”

Then he leapt out of the window and hurled himself

barefoot down the snowy road, followed rapidly by the rest of
the rugby team, all in similar state of undress, several
adorned with flashing reindeer horns.

Ryan watched the stream of bare, muscled male bodies

hurtle past and could find nothing in his heart for them but
absolute loathing.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Three: Isaac

Y THE

time Isaac got back, he was glad he had taken the

Land  Rover.  The  roads  were  getting  slick  and  icy,  and  he’d
stopped twice to help push people to the side of the road. At
least  there  was  no need  to  go  outside again,  not  unless  the
snow  made  the  river  rise  and  he  had  to  adjust  the  flow
through the weir.

He wouldn’t try phoning his parents now, he decided.

Let Mum calm down a bit and he’d try to talk sense into her
tomorrow. Tonight he’d just relax.

Leaving his boots in the hall, he went to light the Aga.

Once  the  range  got  started,  it  would  warm  most  of  the
cottage,  old  beauty  that  it  was.  Idly,  he  poked  through  the
cupboards,  trying  to  decide  if  he  could  be  bothered  to  cook
or  whether  to  get  something  easy  from  the  freezer  in  the
outhouse.  He  liked  cooking,  but  it  never  seemed  worth  the
effort just to feed one person.

He’d make something later, he decided, and ambled

through  to  the  parlor.  It  looked  very  plain  after  all  the
decorations in town. He’d brought a tree in last week, but it
stood  bare  in  the  corner,  just  scenting  the  room.  Maybe  he
should  decorate,  he  thought.  Tomorrow,  or  on  Monday,
which was Christmas Eve, wasn’t it?

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Outside, the snow kept falling. Only in the last few years

had  it  started  to  snow  so  early.  He’d  grown  up  not  thirty
miles  from  here  and  could  vaguely  remember  the  odd  snow
flurry  in  February,  followed  by  damp  springs  and  mostly
sunny summers. Now they got sunshine in March, the worst
rainfall in history all summer and snow in December. What
was the world coming to?

“Dear God,” he said out loud. “I’m an old fart. No

wonder I’m single.”

The branches of the tree rattled, as if in reproach. The

ghost was back, then. Ignoring her, he switched the telly on.

He got a choice of The Polar Express, The Snowman,

something  depressing  on  the  news,  or  a  CSI  repeat.  He
turned it off and lounged back to watch the snow. The room
was  warming  up  now,  and  he  thought  how  much  better  an
evening  like  this  would  be  with  company.  He  could  just  do
with  someone  to  lean  against  him  on  the  sofa,  trading  lazy
kisses until they stumbled upstairs, pressing together in the
wide bed under the eaves as the wind wuthered around  the
corners of the cottage.

The thought of some warm man in his arms, knowing

hands sliding over bare skin, made him shift on the sofa as
his cock stirred. He wanted that, and he just couldn’t seem
to get it. If only, he thought, you could skip all the hassle
and awkwardness of dating and courtship and just wake up
one morning with that one person who would always love
and want you.

He thought then of the man in the jewelry shop, with

his barely visible freckles and his quick smile. Where was a

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

man like that for him? He wasn’t stupid enough to take a bit
of  flirtation  from  a  salesman  as  anything  more  meaningful,
especially when someone that confident and handsome must
have an appreciative guy waiting for him at home. Someone
like that was beyond his reach, but surely there was a man
out  there  for  him,  someone  who  would  smile  to  see  him,
wrap  around  him  in  bed,  and  build  a  home  with  him.  He’d
managed  to  marry  a  woman,  even  though  he  hadn’t  loved
her much. Why was it so much harder to get it right?

Curls and freckles and an inviting mouth, all brightened

by  smiles—Isaac  knew  his  type  by  now,  knew  how  helpless
he was before that combination. He’d had a few wild months
after  that  debacle  at  New  Year’s,  drinking  and  shagging  his
way  through  the  clubs  as  Amelia  moved  out  in  a  flurry  of
screaming accusations and angry letters from her lawyers.

Then he’d looked in the mirror one hungover morning

and realized he hated everything about his life. He’d wanted
nothing but to get out of the city.

Luckily, his bank had always funded a certain amount

of voluntary work, and he’d spent every Friday afternoon for
the last eight years on the city canals. One of the few
remaining fulltime lock-keepers had pointed him toward this
job, and by the end of August he had been installed here,
tending the locks and weirs and riverbanks. He hadn’t gone
clubbing since and could only feel a dim distaste for it.

He would have homed right in on that guy six months

ago,  courting  him  with  drinks  and  brushed  touches  until
they  were  dancing  hip  to  hip  as  the  lights  flashed  and  the
beat  throbbed  around  them.  On  a  good  night  they  might

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

have made it back to his flat, or it might have been quick
thrusts and hungry hands out in the alleyway, that soft
mouth open in delight under the distant shimmer of neon.

How would it be now, he wondered, slipping his hand

down to thumb open his jeans. Perhaps he’d go for a drink in
town one night. Shop assistants drank in town center pubs,
didn’t  they?  Yeah,  their  eyes  would  meet  across  the  bar.
They’d  order  a  drink  at  the  same  time  and  chat  as  they
waited,  light  and  funny  and  smooth,  their  hips  brushing.
Perhaps the guy would invite Isaac to his table and they’d sit
with their thighs pressed together, and then his hand would
wander across….

Or perhaps, Isaac thought, sliding his hand down to

cup  the  soft,  warm  weight  of  his  balls,  he  would  just  lean
over at the bar and whisper, well, something seductive, and
the  man  would  meet  him  outside  minutes  later.  They’d
scramble  along  the  little  cobbled  lanes  until  they  found  a
doorway  or  arch  to  shelter  in,  and  then  they’d  be  all  over
each other.

His cock was firm under his fingers now, pressing

eagerly against the curve of his hand, and he threw his head
back  to  enjoy  the  double  sensation,  the  tease  against  his
sensitive  palm  a  counterpoint  to  the  growing  heat  in  his
cock.  Maybe  he’d  do  it  like  this,  those  lips  pursed  in
concentration as he slowly stroked Isaac off.

Then they’d be in a bed, somewhere old-fashioned and

cozy. Isaac would strip that prim suit off, pressing kisses to
every inch of dark skin he exposed. He’d be smooth, a man

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

like that, and he’d writhe and moan under Isaac’s mouth,
even before he was naked.

He liked the suit, though. Keep the suit, then, and he

could  crawl  between  Isaac’s  legs  as  neat  as  a  pin,  with  a
bulge  in  his  trousers  and  slick  lips.  He’d  have  a  talented
mouth,  Isaac  decided,  kicking  his  jeans  off  as  he  imagined
that mouth on him, hot and wet and tight.

Perhaps Isaac would fuck him in the suit, pull it down

just enough to expose that pert arse. He could tease, fingers
in and out of a tight hole, sometimes straying forward to
brush at cock and balls. Then, when the man was begging
and desperate, Isaac would sink into that heat, fuck him and
fuck him and fuck him.

He came with a groan, spilling into his hand in a rush,

and sank back against the arm of the sofa limply. Drained
and lax and pleasantly empty, he closed his eyes, just for a
moment.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Four: Ryan

YAN

fought his way from the front door in search of his

wayward  housemates.  He  encountered  plenty  of  strangers,
none  of  them  sober,  and  then  found  Vijay  sprawled  across
the  living  room  floor,  a  beer  in  each  hand  and  a  Santa  hat
perched precariously on his head.

“You don’t even celebrate Christmas,” Ryan pointed out,

standing over him.

Vijay blinked and raised a beer can in salute. “I’m just

toasting those who do. Hey, you’re late, man.”

“Late?”
“To the party. Par-tay!”
“When did it start?” Ryan demanded. The man was

wasted, and it wasn’t seven yet.

“Lunchtime,” Vijay announced. “Where were you?”
“Working,” Ryan reminded him.
“You should not be doing that, man. Hey, someone get

Ry-man a drink. Dude’s part of the workforce.”

“Ooh,” a girl breathed behind him. “I couldn’t do that,

not at Christmas.”

And he’d thought it would be quieter to share with grad

students. Trainee lawyers, he’d assumed blithely, would be
sober and hardworking. He’d failed to notice that the three of

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

them were still five years younger than him, wealthy and
spoiled.

He looked around the living room in dismay. He’d spent

hours  last  week  making  it  look  good,  stringing  streamers
from  the  high  ceiling  and  lining  the  mantelpiece  with  tinsel
that  now  hung  awry.  At  least  his  Christmas  tree  was  still
upright.

Then he looked again. Something was glinting among

the branches, something he hadn’t hung—

Someone had puked on the Christmas tree.
He bit his lip before he started screaming at someone,

then headed upstairs. He couldn’t be expected to take part,
not when they hadn’t even warned him it was happening. He
would just have to shut himself in his room and sleep
through it.

But the first thing he saw when he opened his door was

a pale arse heaving up and down in his bed. He registered
the grunting and the breathy feminine squeaks next, just
before they turned into squeals of shock.

The girl went diving under his duvet, as his third and

final housemate stood up, slick dick still waggling before
him, and rounded on Ryan. “Dude, learn to knock.”

“That’s my bed,” Ryan managed. He was so tired that

this all seemed like a distant nightmare. Why couldn’t he
wake up?

Greg looked around with a faintly puzzled air,

recognition dawning slowly. “Hey, so it is. Sorry, dude, my
bad. Give us a moment, yeah?”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

He couldn’t stay here. Ten more seconds and he was

going to start pitching the kind of fit that would find him
homeless and friendless by January. Without another word,
he swung back downstairs and out into the street.

He couldn’t afford to move. Most of his friends were

away with family right now and those that weren’t were
coupled up, and he wasn’t going to impose on them. He had
to put up with this a little longer.

Maybe there were some mature students out there

looking for a sensible local housemate.

Knowing his luck, they’d all be worse than this. He

could only afford student house-shares, but they seemed so
bloody immature. At twenty-one, he’d been on his own and
working for years. They were all still children.

The music was dying away behind him, but he just

walked  faster  and  faster,  his  hands  shoved  deeply  into  his
pockets.  He  wasn’t  comforted  by  the  snow  any  more.  Even
the  odd  lit  window  framing  cozy  scenes  of  Christmas  trees
and  kids  in  front  of  the  telly  made  him  feel  worse.  He  was
never going to get that, had never had it as a kid and would
never see it as an adult.

It had been his promise to himself, during those grim

childhood Christmases, with foster parent after foster parent
trying just a little too hard. One day, he was going to have
Christmas with someone he loved, in a place of their own.

Not fucking likely.
His mind flashed to his lovely flustered customer from

that afternoon, his wide shoulders, worry about impressing

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

his mother, and uncertain smile. Why couldn’t he have
someone like that, someone big and warm who prized family
and tradition?

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried, but he’d been called needy

one time too often. The world seemed to be full of men who
wanted him to be cute and fuckable but emotionless.

Even his mother hadn’t loved him. She hadn’t cared

enough to stay.

It was one of those thoughts he knew was crap. It

always came creeping up at moments like this, though, and
it didn’t matter how logically he tried to argue it away. It still
hurt.

He walked faster to get away from the thought, across

the traffic-packed ring road and down the steps on the other
side.  He’d  found  the  river  again,  he  realized,  the  towpath
stretching  out  quietly  in  the  snowy  dark.  This  was  what  he
needed,  if  he  couldn’t  curl  up  somewhere  and  sleep.  He’d
walk  until  his  head  was  clear.  Then  he’d  go  back  to  the
house and deal politely and calmly with the idiot brigade. He
was  working  solidly  until  Christmas,  and  Greg  and  Matt
would go home on the day. On his own and sober, Vijay was
obliging enough and could probably be shamed into cleaning
up. Then he’d just have to get through New Year, and they’d
be back to lectures and weekend-only drinking.

The snow was creaking under his shoes, and he paused

for a moment to enjoy it. The lights from the houses on the
other bank were just enough to illuminate the path, but he
dug out his phone as well to use the torch. Suddenly, this
felt like an adventure—he was close to town, so he couldn’t

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

get into much trouble, but he was completely alone, for what
felt like the first time in years, and only the unknown lay
before him.

Revitalized, he headed off along the towpath, his breath

steaming  in  the  cold  air.  It  was  at  times  like  this  that  he
wished  he  had  a  proper  camera  and  the  skill  to  use  it.  He
could  point  his  phone  at  the  ice  glittering  in  the  shallows
and  the  snow  gleaming  on  the  branches  of  the  trees
overhead, but it wouldn’t capture the magic of it.

He lost track of how long he walked.
Then his phone beeped at him, the familiar battery

warning,  and  he  suddenly  realized  how  cold  his  feet  were
and how the snow had soaked right through the trousers of
his  suit.  Looking  around,  he  saw  he  had  left  the  town
behind.  He  could  hear  the  road,  but  there  were  no  more
houses on the other side of the river, just low fields. On his
side there were only shadowy trees.

An owl called, low and eerie, and he shuddered. Maybe

this hadn’t been such a great idea.

He could go back, but it had been a long time since the

last  turning  away  from  the  towpath.  There  were  locks  all
along  the  river,  weren’t  there?  Locks  had  road  access  and
bridges  across  the  water.  If  he  pressed  on,  surely  he’d  find
his way back to the road.

As he hesitated, he heard a sound ahead of him. It took

him a moment to recognize it.

Somewhere, a woman was crying.
“Hello?” Ryan called. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Five: Isaac

SAAC

woke up slowly, his shoulders aching from being

squashed  into  the  sofa.  He  did  up  his  jeans  with  a  faint
sense  of  shame  and  stumbled  into  the  kitchen  to  wash  his
hands.  Once  there,  he  filled  the  old-fashioned  kettle  and
flipped back the lid of the hob to put it on the Aga.

While it heated, he glanced out of the window. Snow

had  gathered  on  the  sill,  curving  up  against  the  black
dividers between the panes. Outside, he could see more than
on the average cloudy night, the layered snow reflecting back
the  ambient  light  the  town  threw  into  the  clouds.  The  river
was still running smoothly. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t have
to  fight  with  the  weir  until  it  all  thawed  and  went  running
down into the stream.

As the kettle began to sing, he caught the distant sound

of Emily’s weeping again and shuddered. Poor lonely girl. A
year ago, he would have laughed at a ghost story, but he’d
lost his doubts here. Maybe there were no ghosts in the glare
and rush of the city, but out here they lingered, rooted in the
unchanging lines of the land.

Maybe he should use that when he eventually gave in

and turned to dating sites. Come and meet my ghost. I’ll hold
your hand if you get scared.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

There was an old tin of Christmas tea in the back of the

cupboard, so he measured it into the pot, breathing in the
spicy fumes.

He took his cup of tea back to the parlor and settled

back on the sofa. He’d had all the presents he’d bought
today wrapped in the shops, and he wasn’t in the mood for
telly. He could try reading, but there was no specific book
that appealed right now.

Outside, the sound of Emily’s tears was growing steadily

louder. She was normally the perfect housemate, bringing a
warm  sense  of  home  to  the  empty  house,  and  only  leaving
the  occasional  cold  spot  and  lingering  sadness.  He’d  never
heard  her  like  this  before,  her  voice  folding  into  the
wuthering wind until it sent shivers down his spine.

There was a dull thump outside, and Emily wailed,

“Iiiisaaac!”

It was the first time she had ever called his name, and

he was on his feet in a second, rushing to the window.

There was a man outside, clinging to the end of the lock

gates. As Isaac watched, his feet went out from under him
and he crashed down into the snow, right on the edge of the
lock.

He didn’t get up.
“Isaac!” Emily screamed, setting his teeth on edge, and

he ran for the front door.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Six: Ryan

E COULDN

’

find the weeping woman. She always seemed

to be just in front of him, her tears tugging at him. He
couldn’t leave someone out here in distress, not on a night
like this.

But he was in trouble himself. The snow had soaked

through his thin shoes, and his socks were full of icy water.
He couldn’t feel his toes, and slush was sliding around his
heels, making him trip. His coat, which was good enough for
the walk home from work, wasn’t warm enough for this, and
he was shivering so hard it made him cough.

He needed to get away from the river, and he couldn’t

work out how. Everything was cold and white and lonely, the
trees clawing at him every time he stumbled off the path.

He was so cold. Why wasn’t there someone with him?

He just wanted someone to keep him warm.

Dizzied by the whirling snow, he stopped, ready to sit

down in the path and just watch it fall.

“Ryan!” the weeping woman cried, and she sounded

close and desperate, so he stumbled on, from tree to tree,
aware that the river ran high on the other side of the path.

After a while, it was only the sound of her voice, fey and

distant, that kept him moving. By then, he was half-
convinced she was a dream.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Then he walked into something waist-high and solid. He

put his hands down on it, soaking the already sodden wool
of his gloves, and saw black wood under the snow. He lifted
his head enough to look at the river, and there were solid
gates stretching out across the water, a drop and bare wood
on the downstream side, a tile-hung cottage with its windows
streaming light.

He had found a lock.
Relief made his legs weak, and he went sliding down

into the soft cold welcome of the snow, his vision dimming.

The next thing he knew, there were warm hands on his

shoulders and someone was saying, voice steady, “Don’t
move. I’m just pulling you away from the water’s edge, and
then I’ll help you up.”

Ryan opened his eyes and saw a familiar face. It was

that guy, the too-cute-to-be-gay one from this afternoon. He
must be dreaming.

Then the man was lifting him, broad hands steady

under Ryan’s elbows. Ryan swayed into him, bewildered, and
a warm arm curved around his waist. The man pulled him
forward gently, and Ryan staggered along with him.

“Just a few steps and we’ll get you inside. Come on now.

I’ve got you.”

It felt real, and Ryan woke from his stupor enough to

remember what had kept him moving. “There’s a woman.
Out here. I could hear her crying. We need to find her.”

“She’s fine,” the other man said, and they were in the

open doorway.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Ryan could feel the warmth from inside pouring over

him, but he dug his heels in. “No, she’s in trouble. We can’t
leave her out here.” He could hear her crying again, a low
soft sob.

“She’s just there,” the man said, and pointed out toward

the river. “Listen. You can hear her—holy shit!”

The low mist that hung over the water was rising into a

hazy  pillar,  lit  by  the  light  from  the  lock  cottage.  As  Ryan
stared,  it  gathered  and  took  form.  A  woman  stood  over  the
rushing  water,  her  hair  hanging  in  wet  brown  ropes  as  she
wrung  her  hands.  The  sound  of  her  tears  filled  the  air,
throbbing around them.

“I’ve never seen her before,” the man breathed. “Adults

only hear her.” Then he cleared his throat and spoke up,
“I’ve got him, Emily. He’s safe now. You saved him.”

She lifted her head, and the sound of her sobs stopped.

All they could hear was the steady sigh of falling snow. Then
the ghost smiled, and the mist shifted again, and she was
gone, fading into the river.

“What…?” Ryan managed. Everything felt so surreal

now. He didn’t understand what was happening.

“Let’s get you in. I’ll explain later.”
He let himself be towed inside and sighed as the warm

air hit him. He didn’t resist as the man peeled his coat and
gloves off, dropping them on the floor behind the door before
he pushed him gently through one of the doorways off the
little hallway.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

It was a cozy little room, Ryan thought, taking in the

fireplace, the lace curtains at the windows, and the soft,
battered chairs and sofa. He liked it, from the beams across
the ceiling to the rag rug in front of the hearth. He was so
absorbed, that he only belatedly noticed the hands stripping
his clothes away.

“Hey,” he protested, fumbling to stop the man.
“You need to get those wet clothes off.” Then, he added,

clearing his throat, “I’m a first aider.”

“I’m not ill.” But it felt better, the warm air on his

clammy flesh, and he stopped fighting, merely shook his
trousers off his ankles obediently and sank down on the
sofa, half-naked in front of a stranger.

“Get under the blanket and stay there until I find you

something dry to wear.”

It was a very comfy sofa. He’d never lived somewhere

where he could have a sofa of his own, and he couldn’t
imagine ever being able to afford one like this—long enough
even for his legs, deep and soft. He tugged the fleecy blanket
over himself happily and snuggled down, closing his eyes.

He was shaken awake only moments later, it seemed.

He mumbled a protest, and got a pile of clothes dumped on
his midriff.

“You should get dressed. Do you need help?”
“I can manage.” He dragged the tracksuit on with

clumsy hands, aware that it was huge on him. His rescuer
was built on a different scale, and it was all muscle, Ryan
was sure, now he was getting a closer look at the guy. “Are

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

you the lock-keeper?” he asked, wrapping his hands in the
warm hem of the sweater.

“I’m the lengthsman. My name’s Isaac.”
“Hi,” Ryan said, rolling the name around in his mind.

He’d never met an Isaac before. He held out his hand.
“Ryan.”

Isaac shook politely and then hissed and cupped both of

his big, warm hands around Ryan’s. “You’re so cold.”

“My gloves got wet,” Ryan said, letting out a little groan

of protest when Isaac let go. That warm touch had felt so
good. “Is there a radiator? I should put them on a radiator.”
He tried to get up.

“Stay there,” Isaac said and pushed him back down

onto the sofa before he backed out of the room.

Ryan watched him go. His brain was all fuzzy, but he no

longer thought he was hallucinating. Isaac was real, gruff,
concerned, and even sexier here in the comfort of his own
home, with his broad shoulders, dark, tousled hair, and kind
eyes.

Although, looking around, it didn’t look all that

comfortable. It was clean and neat, no doubt, but there was
no personality here, no photos or dust-catchers. No
Christmas decorations.

So maybe he was Jewish—or Wiccan, given he was

living out here with all this nature—but, no, he’d bought his
mum a Christmas present.

Isaac came back with a steaming cup of tea. Ryan

wrapped his hands around the thick mug in gratitude. It

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

smelt like Christmas, despite the bare tree and empty
windows.

“It’s sweet,” Isaac said, and then asked, “You’re not

diabetic, are you?”

“No, I like it sweet,” Ryan said and added automatically,

“Just like my men.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Seven: Isaac

“E

,”

SAAC

said, feeling his cheeks heat. With Ryan safe

inside,  he  could  barely  think  past  his  attraction.  It  was  not
two  hours  since  he’d  wanked  himself  senseless  imagining
stripping the suit off this man, and now he’d had the chance
to do it for real. He’d had to remind himself firmly that it was
for  medical  reasons,  but  he  had  fumbled  all  the  same,
desperately trying not to let his hands wander.

And now Ryan was curled up in his old jogging kit, his

slender body swamped in it. Seeing his lovers in his clothes
had always been a turn-on, and Isaac had been hard ever
since he shook Ryan’s hand. He was torn between gratitude
for the way his tight jeans and long jumper hid his hard-on
and the desperate need to relieve the binding pressure on his
cock. He’d had to flee to the kitchen and stick his head in
the fridge to try to cool himself down.

He’d got a headache and no relief for his hard-on, but it

had been enough to remind him that the man needed his
help. He wasn’t ready for the flirtatious comment, though,
and he knew he was gaping like a fool.

Ryan rolled his eyes at him over his mug. “Relax, man. I

know you’re straight, and I won’t waste my time.”

“I…,” Isaac managed and then made a concerted effort

to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He was

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

thirty-two years old, had a respectable job, and was far from
a virgin. There was no excuse for getting tongue-tied in front
of a gorgeous man. “I’m not.”

Ryan had closed his eyes to sip his tea. “Not what? Is

there honey in this?”

“Straight,” Isaac said.
He had the satisfaction of seeing Ryan’s eyes fly open,

his long lashes sweeping up in shock. “You said you’d been
married.”

“You remembered,” Isaac murmured, pleased, and then

added hurriedly, “My ex thought I was straight too.”

Wincing, Ryan hissed through his teeth. “That sounds

like quite a story.”

“Not a good one,” Isaac said flatly. The thought of

Amelia had managed what the fridge had not and killed his
erection. “Drink that. If you don’t warm up soon, I’ll have to
drive you to Casualty.”

“No,” Ryan said sharply, but then flashed him a slow,

suggestive smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be sharing body
heat?”

Oh, yes, Isaac thought, blood rushing away from his

head again. Naked, in my bed, balls-deep in your arse.

“Isaac?”
Six months ago, he’d have got them both naked by now.

But he wasn’t that person any more, and Ryan had been
pretty disoriented out there, even before Emily got involved.
A good man wouldn’t touch him while he was this
vulnerable.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Ryan sighed and tugged the blanket tighter. “Or is that

just a myth?”

“No,” Isaac said, ticking the list off on his fingers.

“Remove wet clothing, wrap the patient in dry blankets, give
them warm drinks and high energy food, and hug them
lightly if needed.” At Ryan’s amused stare, he added, “First
aider. Even in the summer the water’s cold, especially for the
elderly.”

“And you hug all of them, do you?”
“Usually I get their friends to do it,” Isaac admitted, and

made up his mind. Ryan wasn’t shivering as badly, and he
was getting more coherent, but he still looked cramped and
miserable. “Sit up.”

“I was joking,” Ryan protested, but he put his tea down

and sat up. Feeling self-conscious again, Isaac settled
behind him.

Clearing his throat, he said, “If you shuffle over a bit, I

can get my leg over—”

Ryan snickered and then said hurriedly, “Sorry, sorry.

God, you must think I’m a right fool, with this and passing
out on your doorstep.”

Isaac was blushing too hard to answer, so he just took

Ryan’s hips and moved him, swinging his leg up so that
Ryan was cradled between his thighs. The fleecy material
was soft under his hands, but he could feel the faint quiver
of the other man’s skin through it. “Are you still shivering?”

“Something like that,” Ryan said, sounding a little

breathless. “Your hands are warm.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Only because you’re cold,” Isaac said and bit back a

gasp  of  his  own  as  Ryan  leaned  back  against  his  chest,
holding  himself  taut  for  a  second  before  he  groaned  and
burrowed  closer.  Isaac  closed  his  arms  around  him
instinctively.

He fought back the urge to press a kiss against Ryan’s

tight curls and pulled the blanket up over them instead,
saying, “You’re not as cold as you were.”

“I feel it, next to you,” Ryan said. He was steadily

relaxing against Isaac’s chest, his breath slowing. “Better
than a hot water bottle. Everyone should get themselves a
lock-keeper instead.”

“I’m not a lock-keeper,” Isaac said. His body was

reacting to Ryan’s proximity, his hard-on back full force and
every place where Ryan touched him flushed. He tried to
shift his hips discreetly, making a slight space between
them. “I’m a lengthsman.”

“Uhm?”
“Don’t go to sleep,” Isaac said and shook him gently.

“Not until I’m sure you don’t need the hospital.”

“I was tired before I started walking. Talk to me. What’s

a lengthsman? Sounds dirty.”

“I look after a length of river,” Isaac told him with a

sudden  flutter  of  nervousness.  He  loved  his  job  and  was
proud  of  what  he  did,  but  it  wasn’t  flashy  or  modern.
“Manage  the  weirs  and  sluices  so  the  river  doesn’t  flood,
keep the banks and towpath clear of invasive plants, fix the
locks,  tree  work—pollarding  willows  at  the  moment  and

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

dragging any fallen trees out of the water. Everything that
needs doing, really, and these days there’s some publicity
stuff as well.”

“Facebook?”
“Yeah, though someone else does that. I write a

newsletter and run volunteer groups and events in the
summer.”

“Boat races?”
Isaac cleared his throat. “Actually, I run the sponsored

dog walk.”

Ryan laughed at that, longer than Isaac really thought

was necessary. Then he said, a note of longing in his voice,
“And you get paid for this?”

“I do,” Isaac said, relaxing again. Almost without

realizing, he was rubbing circles on Ryan’s flat belly, the
sweater soft below his fingers. “And the house comes with it;
you have to be near the water. It’s not really office hours,
either.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said vaguely. “I always wanted a job like

that, y’know. Grew up in London, but they used to take us to
visit this farm every summer, out in Kent. I just wanted to
stay.”

“No jobs going?”
“The old man died. His son sold the land to developers.”

He sighed. “Can’t blame him really. They were pretty badly in
debt. Sad, though.”

“There’s seasonal work here,” Isaac said.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Ryan shrugged slightly. “I can’t risk being out of work in

the winter. I’ve got nothing to fall back on. Maybe I could be
one of your volunteers.”

“With countryside experience? We’d fight over you.”
“Would you win?”
“I’m not sure I can answer that without impugning my

colleagues in some way. The girls in the teashop have a
mean way with a bread knife.”

“I’m sure you could fend them off,” Ryan murmured. He

was  completely  relaxed  now,  warm  and  pliant  in  Isaac’s
arms.  Isaac  was  beginning  to  relax  himself,  and  he  let
himself  imagine  it  for  a  moment,  one  of  those  perfect  early
summer  days,  with  the  banks  in  full  flower,  and  the  two  of
them  at  work,  pulling  out  the  balsam  in  pink-flowering
swathes until Ryan was breaking a sweat and had to peel his
shirt off. There was a little patch of woodland not half a mile
from here, with a hollowed out clearing that couldn’t be seen
from the towpath. He’d pull Ryan there and press him back
against the mossy banks—

“Isaac?” There was a note of amusement in Ryan’s voice.

“Where’d you go?”

“Uh,” Isaac said, suddenly aware that his fingers had

crept under the edge of Ryan’s sweater to stroke bare skin.
“Thinking about work.”

“Of course you were,” Ryan said, laughing properly now,

and shifted his hips to press even closer between Isaac’s
legs.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Which was when Isaac realized his erection was

stabbing the poor guy in the arse and must have been for a
while. Mortified, he whipped his hand out from under Ryan’s
clothes and tried to jerk his hips back.

“You really don’t have to stop,” Ryan breathed, catching

his flailing hand and bringing it back, not to his stomach
this time but lower, so Isaac could feel the hard jut of his
cock through the cloth. He closed his hand around it gently
in response, groaning, and Ryan let out a shaky breath and
thrust up.

“You’re borderline hypothermic,” Isaac managed, flexing

his wrist. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I never think straight,” Ryan told him and nuzzled his

neck, little sharp kisses that sent heat blazing down to
Isaac’s balls. Then he slowly and deliberately rubbed his arse
against Isaac’s cock. “And from the feel of that, neither do
you.”

Hypothermia, Isaac reminded himself, making a

desperate effort to still his hands. Hypothermia, hypothermia.
Very mild hypothermia, from which he seems to be almost
completely recovered, given how very, very hot—

“You know,” Ryan said conversationally, twisting round

so they were face-to-face. “I’m still about 80 percent
convinced that I’m unconscious in a snowdrift somewhere
and this is just a dream.”

“It’s not,” Isaac gasped. The move had settled Ryan even

closer, cock against cock, and his hands were now curving
around that perfect arse. He could barely think.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“I have this idea, y’know, of my perfect man. There’s

only one—no, two things here that don’t fit my fantasy.
That’s all I’ve got to tell me that you’re real.”

“Increasing mental confusion could mean you’re getting

worse.”

“Okay, three things.” His eyes were wide and dark as he

leaned in, breath brushing Isaac’s parted lips. “Want to
know what the other two are?”

“No,” Isaac growled, giving up and lifting himself to go

after that mouth.

Ryan pulled back just enough. “Firstly, you have no

decorations on your Christmas tree.”

Isaac blinked at him. What?
“And, secondly,” he breathed, leaning in again, “we’re

not naked.”

Then his mouth descended on Isaac’s, lips brushing

lightly at first until Isaac reached up blindly to pull him
closer. Then their tongues were tangling urgently, lips
catching on stubble as they rocked together.

They were both breathless when Ryan pulled back,

staring  down  with  reddened  lips,  his  shoulders  heaving.
Their hips were still locked together, and he could feel every
press  of  Ryan’s  cock,  even  through  the  unbearable
constriction of his jeans.

“Look at you,” Ryan sighed, eyes wide. Then he was

kissing Isaac again, slowly this time but with the same
intense hunger. When he pulled back, it was only to
murmur, “Tell me what you like.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Anything,” Isaac groaned, pushing up into him, and

then modified that. “Anything naked.”

Ryan huffed a laugh in his ear then nibbled the lobe

gently, startling a whimper out of him. “More of that? Tell me
something you want. Come on, you saved my life out there.
Let me show my gratitude.”

Gratitude.
Fantasy.
And, he mustn’t forget, hypothermia.
Three words that, in the morning, would add up to

“taking advantage.”

Oh dear God, it had never before been this physically

painful to be the good guy.

“Isaac?” Ryan asked, and there was a note of

uncertainty in his voice now, probably because Isaac had
just squeezed his eyes shut and gone still.

He was a man, he reminded himself as his pulse beat

hotly, not a horny adolescent with no self-control. He had to
find a way to say “wait.” He liked this guy, his warmth and
humor and resilience, and he wanted a real chance, damn it,
not to alienate him on their first encounter.

What he ended up saying, when he opened his mouth

and tried to slow things down, was, “What possessed you to
do something as moronic as going hiking in a snowstorm?”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Eight: Ryan

T FELT

like a slap in the face, and he’d had enough of those

in his life.

One moment he’d been losing himself in this man who

made him shameless and hotter than anyone had before.
Then Isaac was drawing back and calling him names.

What the hell?
It wasn’t that Isaac didn’t want him, he was sure. He

was hard and shaking under Ryan, and his kisses had been
wild and hungry right up until he’d stopped.

Stopped to think about what he was doing, clearly, and

taken a good look at who he was rutting against.

He’d pushed the man, even when he tried to resist, and

Isaac had given in, but Ryan had forced the issue. He’d just
wanted this man so much he’d gladly thrown away his
dignity.

It was possible to physically react to someone you

despised. He’d been there himself, more than once, and it
was one of his greatest regrets that he hadn’t walked away
from the situation either time.

Why would this man, with his perfect house and dream

job and kind, kind heart want someone needy and slutty
and, yes, stupid enough to go walking down a dark country

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

path when it was snowing. This man wasn’t going to tell him
to fuck off directly, but he could take the hint.

He scrambled off the sofa, backing away hurriedly.

“Yeah, you’re right. I should’ve known better and I should be
going, shouldn’t I? Let me get my own clothes back on, and
I’ll get out of your way—”

“Your clothes are still soaking,” Isaac said, frowning at

him. “Come on, sit down. You don’t need to go anywhere.”

“Damn. Right, then is it okay if I keep your clothes until

I get home? I’ll get them back to you, I swear. I’ll post them,
even—except I don’t know the address. Shit, where am I?”

Isaac approached him, hands held out. “Mistletoe Lock.

We’re about three miles out of town. And I’m sorry. That
came out wrong. I meant, are you okay?”

“I just need to find my shoes.”
“Ryan. You’re out here in the middle of the night, when

you should be sleeping somewhere warm. Are you in
trouble? Do you need help?”

Ah, pity. Even better. “I’m fine.”
Isaac crossed his arms. “People who say that usually

aren’t.”

“And you’re a bloody expert, are you?” People always

seemed  to  have  an  opinion  on  how  he  should  live  his  life.
They  didn’t  seem  to  realize  that  he’d  been  on  his  own  long
enough to learn how to cope.

“Let me help. Do you have somewhere to go?”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

The hell? “I’m not fucking homeless.” He’d come close

once or twice, but he’d always managed to keep a roof over
his head. It was a point of pride.

“That wasn’t what—” Isaac took a slow deliberate breath

and held his hands up. “I’ll drive you home if you want, but
you are welcome to stay here as long as you want. I can
make a bed up on the sofa.”

Because that was flattering from the man whose leg he’d

been humping five minutes ago.

“I’ll get myself home,” he said and stalked into the hall.

He was three steps from the front door, where his shoes were
still dripping slush onto the polished floor, when there was a
soft, sighing noise, and all the lights went out. In the
kitchen, something rattled and went quiet.

He couldn’t see anything and he stumbled, reaching out

blindly. There was no light, not even the usual glow of
streetlights through the window that he was used to. At least
out on the towpath, he’d had his phone.

“Are you okay?” Isaac said, somewhere behind him.
“Yeah,” Ryan said, pleased that his voice was steady. He

didn’t mind the dark outside, where there was space to
breathe. He didn’t like the way it instantly made houses
seem smaller and tighter. “Power cut?”

“Let’s have a look.” Ryan heard Isaac moving around

and then he said, “The people at the farm still have their
lights on. Must be the electricity box. It happens.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“The snow can’t help,” Ryan said. The sudden darkness

had taken the sting out of his humiliation. One thing at a
time.

“I’ll go out and have a look,” Isaac said. There was a

slight easing of the darkness as he switched a torch on and
made his way out toward Ryan. “All right, there?”

“I’m fine,” Ryan snapped and then made himself take a

breath. Even the man’s voice was teasing his nerves, and
lust was mixing with embarrassment in a sick coil in his gut.
“Is there anything I can do?”

“Don’t worry. There are grass snakes hibernating in the

box and I know how to reach round them.”

Something about that struck Ryan as funny, and he

laughed. Isaac brushed past him, touching his arm as he
went, and reached toward the front door.

There was a clear, echoing click.
Isaac twisted the doorknob. Then he said, “Huh,” and

tried again. Next he reached up and unhooked some keys
from behind the door. A moment later, he said, “The lock’s
jammed. Let me try the back door.”

There was another distinct click from the back of the

cottage. Then, in succession, from every window, the noise of
latches turning.

In the silence afterward, the sound of weeping swelled

up  around  them  again.  This  time,  it  wasn’t  outside,  but
came  out  of  the  walls  around  them,  echoing  through  the
darkness.  Ryan  shrank  back  from  the  sound,  flattening  his
palms against his thighs, looking around, braced to see her
floating there again.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Emily!” Isaac bellowed, over the noise. “Emily!”
The noise cut off, as suddenly as it started.
In the resulting silence, Ryan asked, “Isaac?” It came

out shaky.

“She’s locked the door,” Isaac said blankly. “She’s never

done anything like this before.”

“Your ghost has locked us in and cut the power?”
Isaac went quiet.
“Okay,” Ryan said, fear tightening the knot in his gut.

“I’ve seen this film, and I don’t want to be in it.”

“She’s not malevolent. I’ve been living with her for

months.”

How could the man be so calm? “And how does she

normally react when you bring men home?”

Isaac said, clearing his throat slightly, “I’ve not really

done that, not since I’ve been here. Well, I suppose she is
two hundred years old.” He sounded disappointed.

“I want to get out of here,” Ryan said, shoving forward to

where Isaac still had the torch pointing at the door. He
grabbed the handle and twisted it hard, but the door didn’t
even rattle. Panicking, he put his back into it, wrenching at
the handle.

Isaac’s hands closed over his shoulders. “Calm down.

We’re safe.”

“Easy for you to say.”
“She’s never hurt anyone,” Isaac said, rubbing his

shoulders. “I researched her, once I realized she was here.
She’s just lonely.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“She’s locked us in, and it’s dark!”
“I think…. Maybe…. The thing is, you were trying to

leave.”

“I don’t care how lonely she is, she’s not my type.”
“I think even a two-hundred-year-old ghost could work

that out,” Isaac said, and his hands went still. Then he said,
and there was a note of vulnerability in his voice that seized
Ryan’s attention, “She thinks I’m lonely.”

Ryan should have laughed at that, because the idea of a

matchmaking ghost was ridiculous and a little presumptive.
Instead, he found himself covering Isaac’s hands with his
own, drawing him closer, and asking, “Are you?”

For a moment, Isaac didn’t respond, though Ryan could

feel his breath on the back of his neck. Then he breathed,
“Very.”

“You pushed me away.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was a bastard in the

morning.”

“Why would I?” He’d obviously missed something here.
Isaac was plastered against his back now. “You said you

were grateful.”

“You’re not serious,” Ryan breathed, shaking his head,

and turned himself round, so he could see Isaac even in the
dim light of the torch. “I am grateful, but I’ve been wanting to
do this since you walked through the front door of the shop
this afternoon. I was cold and confused, but I’m not now.” He
wracked his brain. Was there anything else? “When I said
you were my fantasy, I didn’t just mean physically, though

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

I’m obviously—well, yeah. I was talking about how much I
want a good, kind man on a cold winter’s night. And, for the
record, I’m twenty-six. I’m single. I have a full-time job and
have finally paid off all my debts. I’m not homeless, but I do
live with three idiots who like to throw parties without telling
me. Do you have any other moral scru—”

He was cut off by Isaac’s mouth. He rose up into the

kiss, letting Isaac bear him back against the door, gasping as
his  back  hit  the  cold  wood.  Then  Isaac  was  pressing  along
his front, the heat of his body a blazing contrast in the dark.
Ryan grabbed at him, clawing at his back for balance as his
head spun. His hands slid on the soft wool as Isaac’s tongue
plundered  his  mouth,  making  his  heart  race  and  his  pulse
beat in his throat.

He fought his way past layers of cloth, gasping, and

finally found warm, bare skin, feeling the flex of muscle
under his spread fingers as Isaac thrust against him. Then,
Isaac’s mouth slid off his, leaving him choking in air as Isaac
nuzzled kisses across his jaw and down his throat. At the
same time, everything made sudden and sharp by the dark,
a wide hand tugged his tracksuit bottoms down.

The sudden shock of cool air against his swollen cock

made  him  whimper,  but  then  Isaac’s  hand  was  closing
around  him,  hot  and  steady,  his  palm  just  sweat-damp
enough to slide teasingly as he began to work Ryan’s cock in
a slow, relentless rhythm.

“You feel good,” he sighed against Ryan’s ear, making

him jump and jerk so he pushed forward against Isaac’s
thigh. The brush of rough denim against the head of his cock

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

made him choke and throw his head back, his hips snapping
forward to push against Isaac faster and harder.

Isaac bit his ear and started to jerk him off faster,

breath rough as Ryan writhed against his touch. He could
barely think, but he could reach around blindly to fumble at
Isaac’s fly, feeling the thick press of Isaac’s erection through
the cloth, pressing at his wrist.

Then Isaac caught his hand and pulled it up, pressing it

against the cold glass. “You first.”

“But—” Ryan protested, but Isaac was kissing him

again, his tongue thrusting in to take possession of Ryan’s
mouth as his hand drove him mad below. Trapped between
cold wood and the rough heat of Isaac’s thighs, every touch
on his slick cock sent heat flaring through him, and he was
sobbing into Isaac’s mouth, too caught in the rising wave to
even kiss back.

When his balls tightened, he arched his back to drive

forward hard, orgasm blazing out of him in an endless rush,
pouring into Isaac’s waiting hands.

For long moments, all he could do was sag against

Isaac, resting limply against his broad chest. Every nerve in
his body was still thrilling with the aftershocks, and he could
feel every ridge in the wood behind him, every knot in the
floor beneath his feet. Isaac’s cheek was pressed against his,
warm and rough with stubble, and his breath was a hot rush
with every strained breath he took.

His knuckles were pressed into Ryan’s belly, pushing up

as his shoulders jerked. It wasn’t until he felt the slick round

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

press under his ribs that he realized that Isaac was bringing
himself off, his cock rubbing against Ryan’s bare stomach.

“My turn,” Ryan managed, and Isaac’s breath caught.
Ryan reached down to wind his fingers between Isaac’s

and grinned widely in appreciation. Where had he been
hiding that?

“Isaac?” he asked. “Is there any reason I can’t suck you

off?”

Isaac jerked against him. “Oh God. I’m good, that’s what

you mean, isn’t it? I’m clean. I’ve got the bit of paper
upstairs, and there hasn’t been anyone since, not for
months. I can….”

Ryan let him babble and slid to his knees. Down here,

he didn’t even have the reflected light from the snow to light
his way, but he could just press his face forward. And there
was muscled belly and the slap of a rock-hard cock against
his cheek. He breathed in musk and sweat, feeling his own
cock give a hopeful twitch, and turned his head to press his
mouth against fine, butter-soft skin.

Above him, Isaac’s words gave out in a slow groan, and

Ryan  smiled  and  explored,  tender  kiss  by  kiss,  until  his
tongue was circling over the rough crinkles of Isaac’s heavy
balls.  He  was  hairy  under  Ryan’s  lips,  all  man.  He  slid  his
hand up Isaac’s thigh, feeling his way past the rucked denim
where  he  had  dragged  his  jeans  down,  and  cradled  Isaac’s
balls as he licked his way up, flattening his tongue to press
against the vein throbbing there.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Ryan,” Isaac groaned, and one of his hands cupped the

back of Ryan’s head, pushing him closer.

Ryan took pity on the man and closed his lips over the

plump head of his cock, drinking in the sudden tang of salt
as he slid his mouth down. He loved this, the taste of it and
the strain on his jaw and the way that he could make a man
fall apart, especially when it was this man, who was so kind
and controlled and strong and who was now choking out his
name in the dark, his hips trembling under Ryan’s hand.

When he felt Isaac stiffen, he didn’t pull away. Isaac

might not want gratitude, but that didn’t mean Ryan wasn’t
going to show his appreciation. As Isaac pulsed out his
climax, Ryan gulped it down, not pulling away until Isaac
had slumped over him, limp and trembling.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Nine: Isaac

a while, Isaac could do nothing but lean, his forehead

pressed against the door as he enjoyed the long afterglow. He
felt pleasantly drained, too warm and lazy to move. It felt
good, so much better with someone else to share it with.

Ryan was slumped against him, his cheek against

Isaac’s  thigh,  and  Isaac  could  feel  how  slowly  he  started  to
move,  lifting  his  head  and  then  dropping  back  to  place  a
light kiss below Isaac’s belly button.

It made Isaac sigh and smile, but then the guilt began

to creep in.

He’d promised himself no more of this: no more one-

night stands and meaningless sex, no more coming down the
throats of strangers.

Reluctantly, he stepped away, jerking his jeans back up

as his cheeks burnt and his heart tightened. What was he
supposed to do now?

“Er,” he said. “Has Emily unlocked the door yet?”
Ryan didn’t respond for a moment. Then he stood up,

stretching with a slow satisfied groan, and turned the
doorknob. “Still locked. Want me to try the key?”

“Go for it,” Isaac said.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“I need a bit of light.” Isaac didn’t need to see him to

know he was smirking as he added, “I think you dropped the
torch. Want to bend over and grab it?”

“It’s right here,” Isaac said, ducking down to pick it up.

He shone it toward the door without moving closer.

“Isaac?” Ryan asked, his voice suddenly sharp.
“Just try the door.”
He heard the scrape of the key in the lock, and then

Ryan said, “Still jammed. Which I’m getting the impression is
not what you wanted to hear.”

Isaac inched back a little further. How to put this

tactfully? “It’s not—”

“Not that long ago you were begging me to stay. A man

could get whiplash.”

“That’s not fair.” The man wasn’t giving him time to

think, let alone explain.

“Neither’s life,” Ryan said wearily, and more softly, so

Isaac wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear, he added, “I
thought you were one of the decent ones.”

He wasn’t going to have that. “I don’t do casual,” he

snapped, folding his arms.

“What?”
“I don’t do casual sex,” Isaac repeated. “I don’t do one-

night stands. I’m looking for something real this time. And…
you’re obviously a nice guy, and what we just did was very,
very good, but it’s not what I want. I’m looking for forever, for
a man who will stay, and someone like you”—someone young
and gorgeous and flirtatious, he meant—”someone like you

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

isn’t looking for a relationship.” He stopped before he choked
over the next bit, with someone like me, some lonely divorcé
who lives for his job.

“Oh, fuck off, then,” Ryan snarled.
“The doors—”
“I know we can’t leave. Just go away. Go into some

other room, and leave me alone.”

Isaac backed away, only stopping to leave the torch on

the stairs. He felt his way back to the kitchen slowly, his gut
knotting as he moved. He’d never felt so miserable doing the
right thing.

You want more than this, he reminded himself sternly.

You want love, not just sex.

But the sex had been fantastic.
He could feel the disapproval gathering in the air, and

he sighed. What did Emily know? In her day, sex meant
marriage, didn’t it? How could he expect her to understand
that he wanted more?

If the power hadn’t been off, he would have stuck his

head in the fridge again. Instead, he groped his way around
the kitchen until he found a box of matches and a packet of
candles. It wasn’t the first time he’d lost power out here, and
he had a routine. Within a few minutes, the kitchen was lit
by twenty wavering flames.

His hands were shaking. Noticing it, he suddenly

realized he hadn’t eaten. No wonder he was struggling to
think properly.

He lifted the lid off one of the hobs on the Aga and

poured a couple of cans of soup into a saucepan. He left it to

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

heat and headed into the parlor with one of the lit candles
dripping warm wax onto his hand. That one went onto the
mantelpiece, and then he lit the next ten from it, positioning
them along the windowsills and sideboard.

His predecessors in this house would have lived by this

kind of light, he remembered. He couldn’t imagine it, though
it felt peaceful and romantic once in a while.

He went back to the kitchen to stir the soup, breathing

in the rich scent of tomatoes. There was a faint sound at the
kitchen door, and he said, without turning round, “You
hungry?”

“I thought the power was off,” Ryan said.
“The Aga will stay warm for a while.” He belatedly got

the last of the loaf out of the old china bread bin and put it
in to warm. “It’s just from tins, I’m afraid. I’m out of
homemade.”

“You make your own soup?”
“Usually. Tins are quicker, though, and I’m hungry.”
Ryan slipped further into the kitchen. He sat at the

table and rested his chin on his fists, staring at Isaac. In the
dim candlelight, his eyes looked dark and owlish, and Isaac
couldn’t help smiling at him, hoping it might ease his ruffled
feathers (and there was a metaphor going too far, and in the
morning, he’d have to remember to check on the barn owl
that hunted across the local fields).

“I live with students,” Ryan said suddenly, eyes still

fixed on Isaac. “We’ve only got a little kitchen. They cook
sometimes, but it gets messy.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“I remember that,” Isaac said, digging out a couple of

glazed

bowls

and

matching

plates.

The

painted

chrysanthemums on their sides shone golden, reflecting the
flames.  He  went  to  find  the  breadboard  next,  unhooking  it
from  its  place  beside  the  window.  “One  of  my  housemates
decided  to  make  turducken  one  Christmas,  where  you  stuff
the chicken into the duck and the duck into—”

“I thought that was just an urban myth.”
“Took us all day,” Isaac remembered, shaking his head.

“And half the people we invited were vegetarian anyway.”

“How ungrateful,” Ryan said and took the breadboard

from him. “This has flowers painted on it.”

“It’s a replica of an old barge design,” Isaac said

defensively. “I like old-fashioned things.”

“I can tell,” Ryan murmured and then broke into a

startled smile. “Is that a butter dish?”

Isaac cradled the china cottage warily. Amelia had

loathed his taste and insisted on a kitchen full of chrome
and black plastic. He just liked things with character.

“One of my foster parents had one of those,” Ryan said,

shaking his head. “I’ve not seen one since.”

“It’s quite old,” Isaac said, putting it down next to the

breadboard.

“Yeah, so was she. I was only with her for a couple of

weeks. She was retired and only took in the odd emergency.”
He was still smiling. “Wow. Mrs. Lesley. I wonder what
happened to her.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“You’re not in touch?” Isaac asked, heart catching in his

throat. He knew very little about the care system, beyond a
vague sense that it was awful. He wanted to ask, but he
didn’t want to tread where he wasn’t welcome.

“No, they don’t want you getting attached, not if you’re

not staying. Yeah, it’s the same one—the roses are only over
three of the windows.”

He could smell the warm yeasty rise of the bread now,

and the soup was steaming. Turning back to the Aga, he
took the bread out and poured the soup. When he turned
back to the table, Ryan had already cut the bread into thick
slices and was sharing them out.

The food was satisfying, but Isaac found himself

lingering over it, watching Ryan eat. He devoured it, fast but
neat, mopping up every drip of soup and then eyeing the
breadboard hopefully.

“Help yourself,” Isaac said, pushing it toward him. “I’ve

got cake too, if you want.”

“Cake?” Ryan said and then sat back. “I shouldn’t—”
“I made it a few days ago,” Isaac said. “It needs eating

soon.”

“You made cake?”
“I like feeding people,” Isaac muttered and retreated to

get the cake tin down and cut a broad chunk.

“Hence the turducken. What are you feeding your

friends this year?”

Isaac put the cake tin away, noticing that one of the

candles on the windowsill was already starting to gutter.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Isaac?”
“I’m not seeing them this year,” he said without turning

round. “Most of them… they were friends we had as a
couple. I moved away, and Amelia stayed in London, so….”

“Some friends.”
“I’ve got uni mates still, but they’re all over the place.”
“What did you do at uni? Environmental studies?”
“Maths and Philosophy,” Isaac admitted, deciding not to

mention it had been at Oxford. “I, er, worked in finance for a
while before I started this.”

“I never even made it to the end of sixth form,” Ryan

said, that note of bleakness back in his voice.

“Not through lack of intelligence,” Isaac said, because

that much was obvious.

“Oh, it was a special kind of stupidity. I was sort of wild,

for a while. Got moved around a bit. Couldn’t be bothered to
study and got what I deserved.”

“But you’ve turned it round,” Isaac said, coming to sit

with him again.

Ryan nodded, forking up the last of his fruitcake. “I’m

one of the lucky ones. A lot of the people I grew up with…
not so fortunate.”

“From what I’ve seen of you, you make your own luck,”

Isaac told him.

Ryan shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Thanks.” Then he

got up, gathering plates and taking them over to the sink.

“Leave them,” Isaac said impatiently. He wanted to just

sit and talk.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“I’ll just wash up.”
“There’s no hot water until the power comes back. I’ll do

them in the morning.”

“I should clean up. You cooked.”
“This hardly counts,” Isaac said and went over to take

the plates out of his hands and dump them on the side. He
grasped Ryan’s shoulders to steer him back to his seat, and
Ryan  went  stiff  beneath  his  hands.  This  close,  Isaac  could
suddenly  smell  him  again,  the  unmistakable  mixture  of
sweat and sex. His cock, traitor that it was, stirred again.

Ryan pulled away without looking at him.
Yes, he deserved that. Now he’d eaten, he was beginning

to realize that he’d been a bit of a bastard. Cautiously, he
cleared his throat and said, “Ryan?”

“So,” Ryan said brightly over him. “What’s the plan

now? What did people do for entertainment before there was
electricity?”

Have sex, Isaac thought glumly. He was pretty sure he’d

destroyed his chance at that one. No one-night stands, he
reminded himself firmly. Relationships only. With a sigh, he
offered, “I think I have a chessboard. Somewhere.”

“Now there’s a way to show a man a good time,” Ryan

muttered. “Actually, there’s something I would like to know.”

“What?”
“Why does a man who was willing to cook turducken

have an undecorated Christmas tree?”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Ten: Ryan

E GENUINELY

wanted to know, not least because every

time he thought he understood this man, Isaac pulled the
rug out from under his feet.

He wasn’t expecting to see Isaac’s shoulders sag. “I put

more effort in last year.”

“Then what happened?”
Isaac’s mouth quirked up bitterly. “My wife left me.”
“At Christmas?” Ryan demanded.
“She waited until New Year’s Eve.”
“After you’d exchanged presents, then?”
“Yeah.”
“Your ex is a bitch,” Ryan decided, but then thought

better of it. The man was clearly still heartbroken. “I mean,
I’m sure you saw some good in her.”

“We were friends. Once.”
“You shouldn’t give up on Christmas just because she

broke your heart,” Ryan said earnestly.

Even by candlelight, he could clearly see the grimace on

Isaac’s face. “She did not break my heart. I’m not talking
about this without a drink.”

“Pour yourself one, then,” Ryan said.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“No booze in the house,” Isaac grumbled. Interesting.

Ryan was about to ask why when Isaac got up and stomped
through to the living room. Ryan drifted after him to watch
him kneel in front of the fire and start stacking wood, his
shoulders stiff. Without turning round, he said, “You want to
decorate, knock yourself out. There’s a box behind the sofa.”

“Okay. Mind if I bring some more candles through so I

can see what I’m doing?”

Isaac jerked up to stare at him. “You’re serious?”
“I’m one of those Christmas people,” Ryan said, grinning

at him easily. He couldn’t get away, so he was going to try to
ease things over.

Isaac kept looking at him. After a moment, he said, “I

can see that from the glitter.”

“Is it still there?” Ryan asked, wincing a little as he went

to collect more candles. “That one was my manager’s idea.
Right, what have we got in here? Lights?”

“Top of the box,” Isaac said. “It’s all in order.”
“Tidy mind,” Ryan commented, taking out the reel of

lights. “Yours or hers?”

“Mine,” Isaac said and then gave a grunt of satisfaction.

“Fire’s going.”

The tree was real, breathing out resin when Ryan

brushed against it to wind the thin strand of lights through
the  dense  branches,  the  needles  prickling  against  his  skin.
There  was  tinsel  next,  fat  and  glossy  rather  than  the  cheap
skinny bits he’d always bought. The candlelight made it glow
softly  in  his  hands.  Then  he  started  unwrapping  the

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

carefully  packed  decorations  and  felt  his  eyebrows  rise.
There were no bits of plastic and cheap glitter here. Instead,
he found blown glass baubles gleaming with oily rainbows in
the  soft  light,  polished  wood,  gilded  finials  hanging  from
faceted  glass  stars,  and  intricate  painted  angels  bearing
carved  instruments,  the  hems  of  their  robes  glittering  with
tiny crystals.

“Are these antiques?” he asked, lifting one of the angels

gently.

“Replicas,” Isaac said and came over to join him. “I

wanted them to be childproof, just… well, doesn’t matter
now. There’s a box of hooks taped into the top of the box.”

“You take this pretty seriously,” Ryan said, considering

it. Here was another puzzle piece of the man.

“I suppose I used to be one of those Christmas people

too.”

“No joke,” Ryan murmured and picked the first bit of

tinsel up. “So, is there a system?”

“Not exactly,” Isaac replied and his voice had gone wary

again. “Amelia used to tell me to just hurry up and get it
done.”

“Doesn’t that miss the point entirely?” Ryan asked. “Can

you grab the other end of this?”

“I really wasn’t planning to decorate this year.”
“Just so I can get it round the back of the tree. My arms

aren’t that long.”

Sure enough, Isaac’s hand brushed against his in the

pine-scented darkness, and Ryan couldn’t quite pull himself

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

away,  even  after  Isaac  had  a  firm  grip  on  the  tinsel.  It  was
such  a  strong  hand,  broad  and  long-fingered  and  firm,  and
even  that  quick  brush  reminded  him  how  very  good  it  had
felt around him.

Ryan fed the tinsel around the back of the tree

thoughtfully. The man had issues, clearly, and seemed to be
braced for rejection. He’d take some work, clearly, some
seduction. Was it worth it?

He had never come like that just from a hand job. And

the man was gorgeous, interesting and decent. He just
needed a little persuasion.

“You want more?” Isaac asked, waggling the next piece

of tinsel at him.

“Always,” Ryan murmured and would have batted his

eyelashes if there wasn’t a seven-foot Norway Spruce
between them.

By the time they’d arranged the tinsel, Isaac was the

first  to  reach  into  the  box  and  hang  a  bauble.  Ryan
deliberately  didn’t  comment,  but  worked  on  his  own  side  of
the  tree,  weighing  the  branches  down  carefully.  He  let  his
hand  linger,  though,  every  time  Isaac  passed  the  box  of
hooks  and  took  the  time  to  turn  and  smile  at  him.  It  grew
harder to look away from Isaac’s puzzled, intent gaze.

“So,” he said lightly. “Plans for Christmas?”
“Home, as usual,” Isaac said, with a faint groan. “My

mother invited my ex.”

“Awkward,” Ryan muttered, passing him an angel.

“Trying to cure the gay?”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Oh, I don’t think she would have minded that so much

if I’d provided her with a couple of grandchildren first. And,
to be fair,” he added, carefully fixing the angel in place,
“Mum has a point. Amelia’s family is all in New Zealand. No
one should be alone at Christmas.”

Ryan shrugged. “Personally, I think that’s taking the

spirit of forgiveness a little too far. Please tell me she’ll at
least be sleeping on the sofa.”

“Oh, she’ll get one of the spare rooms. Hopefully the

drafty one on the third floor.” At Ryan’s slanted look, he
added, “It’s an old house, big and creaky and a fortune to
heat.”

“I bet you decorate the whole place, don’t you?” Ryan

was  starting  to  build  a  picture,  despite  Isaac’s  efforts  to
dissemble:  big  house  in  the  country,  the  job  in  finance,  his
accent dripping with privilege, and he’d bet that intimidating
degree  hadn’t  been  from  an  ex-polytechnic,  either.  It  was  a
world  away  from  where  he’d  grown  up.  Even  the  posh  boys
he’d known before had been city-rich and slumming it.

“Usually, yeah,” Isaac said and paused to smile dreamily

at  the  tree.  It  softened  his  face,  making  Ryan  yearn  to  kiss
him  again.  “We’re  pretty  traditional.  I  help  Mum  finish  the
decorating  once  I  get  there  on  Christmas  Eve.  We  keep  the
evening fairly quiet: no telly, just the carols on the radio and
sitting around the fire until we go to Midnight Mass—”

“People actually do that?” Ryan said and then raised a

hand in apology. “Sorry. I’m not religious.”

“Nor am I,” Isaac said. “But Dad needs someone to

laugh at the jokes in his sermon—”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Your dad’s a vicar?”
“He is.”
Ryan’s grin spread widely across his face. “Isaac, are

you saying—”

Isaac groaned, covering his eyes.
“—that you’re the son of—”
Isaac pointed a glass icicle at him wildly. “I’m warning

you—”

“—a preacher man!” Ryan finished triumphantly, and

although he was laughing too hard to carry a tune, he
managed to strike up, “Lord knows to my surprise—”

Isaac tossed the icicle back onto the pile of packaging

and tried to tackle him, shaking his head as he laughed.
“Not another note.”

“Going to stop me?” Ryan challenged, dodging out of the

way. “The only one who could ever reach me—”

Then, inevitably, he tripped over something he couldn’t

see in the dark, and went crashing backward over the arm of
the sofa. Isaac grabbed for him but stumbled himself, and
they both landed on the sofa in a tangle of limbs.

Gasping for breath, Ryan looked up into Isaac’s eyes,

their pale hazel turned to gold in the firelight. Isaac was
pressing down warmly, his breath gusting against Ryan’s
lips.

He couldn’t look away.
Then one of them moved and their mouths met. It was

slow and easy this time, almost innocent. Lips brushed and
caught, yielding to the soft exploration of tongues. Ryan’s

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

pulse caught in his throat and then began to quicken,
shaking through him as he lost himself in the kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, his head was spinning,

and he was wrapped around Isaac, one leg laced between
Isaac’s thighs and the other foot against the floor. His hands
had crept into the back pockets of Isaac’s jeans.

None of that mattered when Isaac was right there, only

a breath away, his lips slick and swollen and his breath
hitching.

Ryan pushed himself up again, closing the gap between

them, and Isaac fell back into the kiss with a sigh.

This time, when he broke it, he said, voice soft with

regrets, “Ryan—”

Ryan cut him off with a quick press of lips. “Don’t. Stop

looking for problems, Isaac, and just enjoy the moment.”

“That never works out well for me,” Isaac started, so

Ryan kissed him again to shut him up.

“I’m going to do that every time you say something

stupid,” he explained.

Isaac looked down on him with a faint frown. Then, very

slowly, he smiled. “Doesn’t seem like an incentive to change
my ways.”

Ryan kissed him for that as well, just for the hell of it.

“So, what now? Want to make out in front of the fire?”

Isaac nuzzled into the crook of his neck, making Ryan

roll his head back with a hum of delight. “Actually, and don’t
take this the wrong way, I’d like to finish the decorations. I’m
suddenly feeling rather—”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

“Christingly?” Ryan suggested with a leer.
Isaac rolled his eyes and pushed up out of the sofa,

holding his hand out. “Want to help?”

It was easy this time, crowding together around the tree

to  hang  the  last  few  pieces.  They  talked,  about  the
decorations  and  the  weather  and  meaningless  things,  and
Ryan  stole  kiss  after  kiss  until  Isaac  started  meeting  them
with laughter and eager hands.

When they finished the tree, they both stood back to

admire it. Isaac’s arms slipped around Ryan’s waist, pulling
him back against his chest. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ryan murmured, leaning back. “You smell like

pine cones.”

“Strange, that. We’re almost done. I’ll go out tomorrow,

if Emily lets us, and cut some holly and mistletoe.”

“And what are we going to do until morning?” Ryan

asked, turning around to loop his arms around Isaac’s neck.

“I really don’t do one-night stands anymore.”
Ryan looked straight into his eyes. “Then invite me back

tomorrow. And the night after and the night after that—”

Isaac cut him off with a kiss.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Eleven: Isaac

HEN

their lips parted, Isaac was smiling. “Come to bed.”

“With pleasure,” Ryan said, and he was smiling too, so

brightly that Isaac had to kiss him again.

It was a rush then, to put out the candles and bank the

fire. Isaac took the last candle and led the way upstairs, his
hand  around  Ryan’s  wrist,  pulling  him  on.  In  his  room,  he
put  the  candle  down  on  the  bedside  table  and  turned,
suddenly nervous.

Ryan was there, though, his hands reaching out to push

up Isaac’s jumper. Isaac went to help, stripping off both
layers as Ryan’s hands roamed.

“Look at you,” Ryan breathed, wetting his lips. He

flattened his hands against Isaac’s shoulders and then ran
them slowly down to his stomach, leaving trails of heat.
“Gorgeous.” Then he looked up, and his grin turned wicked.
“And blushing.”

Isaac could feel his cheeks burning. Without another

word,  he  tugged  the  sweater  over  Ryan’s  head  and  pulled
him  close  enough  to  press  kisses  along  his  shoulder  and
down  his  chest,  nosing  through  the  unexpected  thatch  of
hair to fasten his lips around a peaked nipple.

Ryan groaned, his hands tightening on Isaac’s waist.

“Oh, that’s good.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Isaac drank in every gasp and shudder, each one jolting

down  to  his  balls  as  his  cock  filled  and  lifted.  Then  Ryan’s
hands  were  easing  his  jeans  off,  his  long  fingers  curling
around  Isaac’s  cock.  Abandoning  his  exploration,  Isaac
buried his face against Ryan’s neck and kicked his jeans off,
surging forward to plaster himself against Ryan.

Then Ryan was shoving his own trousers down and

closing  his  hand  around  both  their  cocks,  sliding  his  grip
down  to  press  heat  against  heat.  For  a  mindless  moment,
Isaac  rode  his  hand,  reveling  in  the  sweaty  slickness  that
made  them  slide  together  like  silk.  Then,  before  he  lost  his
mind completely, he murmured, “Slow down.”

Ryan froze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Isaac breathed, wrapping his arms around

him and pressing slow kisses up his neck. “We’ve got all
night. I want to appreciate you.”

“I feel appreciated,” Ryan breathed, but he slowed his

touch to a steady glide and lifted his mouth to meet Isaac’s
kiss. It felt so good, heat gathering under his skin as his
tongue slipped between Ryan’s lips, sloppy and easy.

He let his hands drift across Ryan’s back, learning his

leanness, the dip of his spine and the shift of his muscles.
Everything felt so good, each touch shivering through him.

“Take this to the bed?” Ryan breathed, his hand

smearing precome down both their shafts in a slow tease.

Isaac let him go, stepping back to let him drop down

against the wadded duvet, his legs spread and his cock
jutting up eagerly, its plump head bobbing toward Isaac. The

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

candlelight washed his skin with gold, making every inch of
it pure temptation.

“You just going to stand there and stare?”
“You’re worth staring at,” Isaac said and was delighted

to see Ryan suddenly squirm, his eyes widening. He kicked
his jeans away from his ankles and crawled onto the bed,
between Ryan’s spread legs. “Let me.”

“I’d rather you—oh….”
Isaac lifted his head from where he had pressed another

kiss to Ryan’s nipple. “Hush, you.” He worked his way down,
tasting Ryan’s belly, the crease of his thigh, the quivering
skin below his belly button. Then, taking mercy, he nuzzled
his way up the straining length of Ryan’s cock before
wrapping his lips around the head.

Ryan groaned, his hands suddenly tangling in Isaac’s

hair.  The  sudden  pull  made  his  scalp  tingle,  another
sensation  piling  onto  him  to  go  throbbing  to  his  cock.
Sighing,  Isaac  slid  down  further  onto  Ryan’s  cock,  closing
his  eyes  to  savor  the  heavy  weight  of  it  in  his  mouth,  soft,
hot skin under the caress of his tongue.

Then, because he was craving more, he slipped his

finger into his mouth as well, rubbing teasing circles around
the head of Ryan’s cock as he got it wet. Once it was
dripping, he pulled it out to reach behind Ryan’s balls and
trace wet circles around his hole.

It was more a question than anything else, but Ryan let

out a keening breath and jerked in his mouth. “Oh, yes,
please.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

Isaac pulled his mouth back and pushed himself up the

bed, dropping his full length down against Ryan so he could
growl into his ear, “You want me to fuck you?”

Ryan’s answer was another whimper and the hard

thrust of his hips up against Isaac, his cock sliding against
Isaac’s.

“Say it,” Isaac demanded. He’d forgotten how good this

felt, driving someone beyond words.

“Yes,” Ryan gasped, his back arching. “Oh, please.”
Isaac rolled over to reach the bedside drawer, and Ryan

went with him, wrapping around him with roaming hands
and wicked kisses as he scrabbled for the tin of lube and the
condoms that had been sitting untouched since he moved in.

The moment they were in his hand, he wrestled Ryan

back  down  onto  the  pillows,  stopping  to  kiss  him  hungrily.
Then he scooped out a generous gob of lube, shuddering at
the  sudden  cold,  and  reached  down  again,  pressing  one
finger  in  slowly,  swallowing  Ryan’s  gasp.  The  tight  heat  of
Ryan’s hole closed around his finger, sucking him in, and he
rubbed slow circles until that velvet grip loosened and Ryan’s
hips were rocking.

The second finger made Ryan writhe, and Isaac played

for as long as he could bear, stretching and scissoring his
fingers. Part of him wanted to stay there all night, teasing
shudders and whimpers out of Ryan. But his own cock was
hard and heavy, heat prickling through his balls already.

When he pulled his fingers out, Ryan groaned in

protest. Then he opened his eyes and smiled, his gaze dark

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

and  hot,  watching Isaac  roll  the  condom  down  his  erection.
Isaac locked his fingers around the base to stop himself from
coming  too  soon,  unable  to  look  away  from  the  way  Ryan
was  spread  wantonly  across  his  bed,  gleaming  in  the  soft
light.

“You going to fuck me with that monster?”
“That’s the plan,” Isaac managed, his hands clumsy and

slippery on the lube.

Ryan grinned up at him. “I like that plan.” Then he

gripped his knee and lifted it toward his shoulder, pulling
himself further open. “Come on, then.”

Isaac groaned and threw the lube aside. His first press

in  felt  impossible,  Ryan’s  hole  clenching  hot  and  tight
around  him,  glorious  pressure.  Then  his  head  pushed  past
that  tight  ring  in  one  sweet  rush.  He  managed  to  stop
himself and choke out, “You good?”

He got a snarl in reply, and then Ryan drove his hips

up, impaling himself, and Isaac couldn’t wait any longer. He
pushed  forward  hard  and  fast,  burying  himself  to  the  hilt
before he pulled back and thrust back in again. On his third
stroke,  Ryan  suddenly  convulsed  and  cried  out.  Isaac
grinned  savagely  and  set  to  finding  that  exact  point  again
and again and again as Ryan rose to meet every thrust, his
fingers tight on Isaac’s hips and his head thrown back.

Isaac was losing his mind, his vision awash and heat

surging through his body. He felt the point where Ryan
started to come, the sudden clench around his cock as Ryan
stilled, his back arching and his cries suddenly silent as he
spurted against Isaac’s stomach. Isaac let go then, losing

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

himself as he thrust wildly into that welcoming heat. His
orgasm came roaring through him like a flood as he emptied
himself into the condom in a seemingly endless rush.

Drained, he slumped against Ryan. After a moment,

Ryan’s  arms  came  round  him  loosely,  though  his  breathing
was still ragged. Isaac pressed closer, unwilling to move, and
pressed  his  cheek  to  Ryan’s  chest,  feeling  the  thump  of  his
heart.

At last, Ryan said weakly, “Wow. What happened to slow

and appreciative?”

Isaac snorted and then roused himself enough to say,

“What, you only have one round in you?”

“Oh, I love you,” Ryan breathed, and Isaac’s spent cock

gave a sudden twitch. Then Ryan was pulling away,
suddenly flustered. “I mean, obviously that’s an
exaggeration, although we’re obviously fantastic in bed, and I
like you, I really do, but we’re virtually strangers.”

“It’s okay,” Isaac murmured. “Slip of the tongue. Come

back here.”

But Ryan was sitting up, his shoulders tight. “But you

should know that’s what I’m looking for, if we’re going to
carry on with this. It’s always what I’m looking for.”

Isaac stared at him, and slowly it all fell into place. Ryan

was just like him, and he’d been so busy defending his own
heart  that  he  hadn’t  even  noticed.  Suddenly,  the  gloom  he
had  been  carrying  for  months  seemed  foolish.  He  reached
out and slid his hand around the back of Ryan’s neck, where
his  hair  feathered  against  his  nape.  “That  sounds  good  to

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

me.” He pulled him close and dropped a quick kiss on his
lips. “Stay there.”

It only took a few moments to get rid of the used

condom and blow out the candle. Then he rolled himself
back into bed, pulling the duvet over them and wrapping
himself around Ryan. “Warm enough?”

Ryan pressed close. “Yeah. Isaac—”
“When do you finish work for Christmas?”
“What? Christmas Eve afternoon.”
“Have you got anywhere to go on the day?”
Ryan went tense. “No. Isaac—”
“Want company?”
“You’re going to your parents. You can’t let them down.

You mustn’t—”

Isaac shushed him, hearing the urgency. That made

sense, given what he’d learned about Ryan’s lack of family.
“Okay, I’ll go. I wouldn’t really stay away, Amelia or no
Amelia.”

“Well, then.”
“Come with me.”
“What? Isaac, you can’t—you’ve only known me for a

few hours. If you’re just trying to piss off your ex, it isn’t fair
to anyone.”

“That’s not why. Spend a real Christmas with me.”
“But—”
“You’re right,” Isaac murmured, swinging a leg over

Ryan’s hip to pull him back in. “We barely know each other,

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

but you know I don’t want something casual. I like you. I
want to try for something more, if you think it’s worth the
attempt.”

“I do,” Ryan murmured, and his mouth found its way

back to Isaac’s, laying soft kisses upon him in the warm
darkness, his body relaxing into Isaac’s embrace.

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

C hapter Twelve: Ryan

OME

hours later, a sound woke Ryan. He lifted his head,

blinking hazily into the darkness, not sure where he was.
Then the broad arm around his waist tightened, pulling him
back, and Isaac grumbled, “Wha?”

“Something woke me.” There was light showing through

the door, shining up the stairs. “I think the power’s back.”

Isaac made another grumbling sound and then sat up,

rolling his legs out of bed and then wincing as his feet hit the
cold floor. Ryan dropped back against the bank of pillows,
sinking into them sleepily. “Where are you going?”

“To turn the lights off downstairs.” He dragged his jeans

back on with a shiver. “And put the heating on before we
both freeze.”

“Your whole macho, hardy, one-with-nature image just

took a hit.” Ryan pushed the duvet back with a sigh,
wondering where his own clothes had landed.

“It’s the twenty-first century,” Isaac muttered. “I like my

central heating. What are you doing?”

His sexy lengthsman was grouchy when he first woke

up. It really shouldn’t be charming, but Ryan bit back a grin
as he said, “I’m not going to let you suffer alone.”

“Irrational for both of us to get cold,” Isaac pointed out,

but he strode across the room, hitching his jeans up, and

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

pulled a drawer open to toss Ryan another pair of jeans.
“Here. Wear something you haven’t jizzed on.”

“You were much more of a gentleman before I put out,”

Ryan informed him with a snicker.

All the lights downstairs were blazing, and the

microwave was beeping quietly. Ryan let Isaac deal with
them while he surveyed the tree with a critical eye. It looked
pretty good for something that had been decorated in the
dark.

A thought occurred to him and he padded out into the

hall to try the front door.

It swung open easily under his hand, letting in a gust of

sharp air that thrilled through him.

Isaac switched off the parlor light, and the scene outside

suddenly  became  clear.  The  snow  had  stopped,  and  the
moon  was  out,  casting  a  soft  pale  light  over  the  water  and
the  trees  beyond.  Everything  was  still:  the  dark  water  and
the  snow-weighted  branches  of  the  trees  and  the  white-
capped knots of the mistletoe.

An owl called, low and long, and Isaac’s arms slid

around his waist, warm and comforting.

“Looks like Emily decided to let us go.”
Ryan leaned back against his broad chest, still caught

by  the  strange  beauty  of  the  icy  world  outside.  Then,  quite
deliberately,  he  turned  his  back  on  it  and  settled  his  arms
around  Isaac.  “I’d  rather  stay  right  here  with  you.  For  as
long as you want me.”

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock • Amy Rae Durreson

And, as the two men sank into each other’s embrace,

out over the water Emily smiled triumphantly through her
tears.

“Love,” she cried, although they were too caught up in

each other to hear her. “Always, let there be love.”

About the Author

URRESON

teaches in an eccentric boarding

school deep in the English countryside. When not teaching,
marking  or  trying  to  fathom  the  mysterious  logic  of  the
typical  teenage  brain,  she  likes  to  go  wandering  across  the
local hills with a camera, hunting for settings for her stories.
She’s  got  a  degree  in  early  English  literature,  which  she
blames for her somewhat medieval approach to spelling, and
at  various  times  has  been  fluent  in  Latin,  Old  English,
Ancient  Greek,  and  Old  Icelandic,  though  these  days  she
mostly uses this knowledge to bore her students when they
foolishly  ask  why  English  spelling  is  so  confusing.  Amy
started  her  first  novel  nineteen  years  ago  (it  featured  a
warrior  princess,  magic  swords,  elves,  and  an  evil  maths
teacher)  and  has  been  scribbling  away  ever  since.  Despite
these  long  years  of  experience,  she  has  yet  to  master  the
arcane art of the semicolon.
She can be found online as amy_raenbow on livejournal and
dreamwidth.

Published by
Dreamspinner Press
5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Catt Ford

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 5032 Capital Circle SW,
Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

Released in the United States of America
December 2012

eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62380-195-3

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