I think a lot of people were put off by the cover on this book it does look pretty grim but overall it is a sweet story about two men in love. It’s sort of my non-horror horror book LOL! It is also one of my few without any sequels or plans for sequels.
The publisher buy link is here
When two souls are entwined, true love doesn’t end…even after death.
When Bartholomew sees his dead lover at a café, he thinks he’s imagining things. Bart follows Cullen only to learn there’s a lot more going on in the world than he ever knew.
Suddenly assigned the task of collecting his lover’s soul, Bart goes through many trials in order to reclaim a man he’d thought he’d lost forever. However, nothing prepares him for discovering the truth about Cullen’s past.
Now he must figure out what to do with a man who kept his real self hidden from Bart, while handing over all of his love.
I thought I saw him yesterday-Cullen, my Irish lover with his big hands and wide muscular chest. Construction work kept his body hard, but his eyes were the kindest I’d ever seen…and after going through a lot of men, I’ve seen more than my share of eyes.
To say I knew my way around a man’s body was like saying Picasso dabbled in paints. I adore men—their smell, their strength and the hard grip they use when they fuck me against the wall.
Before Cullen, I flitted from man to man like a butterfly on meth-unable to settle but hopelessly addicted to collecting as many experiences as possible.
After Cullen, I craved only one man.
He changed everything. Endlessly patient, he put up with my chatter, my fidgety ways and my complete inability to be on time for anything, with a sweet smile and a hot kiss.
Nuclear. No one could get me from cold to smouldering faster than my dark-haired Irishman, but it was his gentleness that pulled me back and always prevented me from leaving his bed for another’s. I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointment or betrayal crossing his face when he looked at me.
Three blissful years we lived together—the happiest I’ve ever been. But I couldn’t have seen him walking around yesterday…or any other day, for that matter. As much as I longed for his touch, his smile, his presence, I couldn’t have seen him because six months ago, I watched them bury my beloved Cullen in a grave right outside the city.
An accident on a construction site had sent him tumbling to his death. Internal bleeding, the doctor had said.
One slip and my world ended.
As much as I wished the man I glimpsed was my dear, sweet Cullen, I knew I must’ve been mistaken.
Completely certain I’d imagined the entire thing, I pushed the incident out of my mind…until two days later I saw him again. In a crowded restaurant, while having lunch with a friend, I glanced up and caught the gaze of a man who looked so much like my lover, my heart clenched with pain. As I sat there gasping for breath, the man turned and walked away, quickly swallowed by the crowds of people filling the sidewalks.
Oh, hell no.
There was no way I would let him get away this time.
Tossing money on the table, I rushed out the door, leaving my luncheon companion without another thought. Jim might be a good friend, but Cullen held my heart.
I followed the man who resembled my dead lover, pushing recklessly through the crowd and nimbly dodging all obstacles in my path. Keeping him within my sights on the busy street challenged my amateurish tracking skills, but I still kept him in view until he walked into an affluent neighbourhood and disappeared into an enormous white mansion.
Glancing up and down the sidewalk, I saw no one else around. The streets were suddenly eerily empty compared to the crowded sidewalks of before. With another quick look around, I tentatively pushed on the intricately detailed iron gate. I half expected the gate to screech on its hinges—as if I were the “too stupid to live” heroine in a horror flick—but whoever had designed the ironwork must not have seen the same films as I had, because it swung open without a sound.
My nerves jittered, causing my hands to shake. I hoped whoever lived here would take pity on me and not call the police when I finally made it to the front door. No one peeked out at me from behind the white lace curtains covering the windows on the bottom storey as I approached, at least that I saw.
I don’t know what I expected. It wasn’t as if zombies were going to jump out from the perfectly trimmed hedges or that ghouls would pop up like they were on springs from between the daffodils. Still, my spine had a shivery chill running up and down it—a sensation I knew from experience didn’t bode well.
Upon reaching the entrance, I stopped in surprise. The man I followed hadn’t completely closed the door. A gap showed and, although I knew I shouldn’t, I did it anyway. With a gentle press of my fingers, I pushed open the front door.
Voices reached me. I should’ve backed out and gone on my way. Really, what business did I have walking into a stranger’s house? Unfortunately, curiosity is the one sin the nuns were never able to beat out of me in Catholic school, and I hadn’t improved over time.
“You were supposed to keep an eye on him!” a female voice screeched.