A Painted Bay Story
by
When JUDAH MADDEN flees his tiny suffocating home town in New Zealand for the dream of international ballet stardom, he never intends coming back. Not to Painted Bay. Not to his family’s struggling mussel farm. Not to his jerk of a brother. Not with his entire life plan in shreds. And certainly not into the tempting arms of MORGAN WIPENE, the older, ruggedly handsome fisheries officer who seems determined to screw with Judah’s intention to wallow in peace.
But dreams are fickle things. Shatter them and it’s hard to pick up the pieces. Hard to believe. Hard to start again.
And the hardest thing of all? Finding the courage to trust in love, and build a new dream where you least expected to find it.
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Publisher: Southern Lights Publishing
Editors:
Cover Artists:
Genres:
Pairings: M-M
Heat Level: 4
Romantic Content: 5
Ending: Click here to reveal
Character Identities: Bisexual, Gay
Protagonist 1 Age: 36-45
Protagonist 2 Age: 18-25
Tropes: Age Difference, Coming Home, Hurt / Comfort, Opposites Attract
Word Count: 112,000
Setting: New Zealand
Languages Available: English
Series Type: Same Universe / Various Characters
“Jude, get your arse the hell out here! We need to leave now!” My front door shook on its hinges.
Judah.
“Fuck off.” I weaselled my aching head further under the pillow and ignored the bile that bit at the back of my throat. My brother was an arsehole.
A spark of guilt flared in my chest, then was gone just as quickly. Whatever.
The hammering continued. “Jude!”
Judah.
“If you don’t get your arse out of bed and on that damn boat in five minutes,” Leroy shouted, “I’m gonna come in and drag you out myself. I need your help to seed the nursery ropes before we lose the spat. Maybe you could try not to be a total waste of space, yeah?”
Fucker.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Shut the hell up, will you? Jesus, Leroy, we own the fucking business. Who cares if we’re ten minutes late?”
READ MORE“Mum owns the business, arsehole,” Leroy continued to batter at my aching head. “Not me, and certainly not you. We’re doing this for her and you’re gonna damn well earn your keep. Who works for seven years and has nothing to show for it?”
A fact I wasn’t proud of, but it wasn’t like professional ballet came with bonuses and a stock portfolio.
“Plus, you’re not ten minutes late, it’s a fucking hour after I told you we’d be leaving.”
Shit.
“So if you don’t like it, you can fuck off out of this boathouse you’ve been wallowing in rent-free, and get a damn job.”
COLLAPSE
