Book Title: Hide to Seek (London Lies 2)
Author and Publisher: C F White
Cover Artist: Ethereal Designs
Release Date: September 30, 2020
Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romantic Suspense
Trope/s: Enemies to lovers, slow burn
Themes: Hurt/Comfort
Length: 76 000 words/ 318 pages
It is not a standalone story.
Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited
Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK
Lust fuelled attraction is easy to ignore.
An emotional connection is harder to deny.
Blurb
Jackson Young has gone into hiding. Fighting to get his name cleared and his truth heard, he’s followed Fletcher Doherty to Ireland for a safe haven from those who want to silence his story.
As they work on Jackson’s biography, their growing attraction gets harder resist. Fletcher’s made it clear though—their professional boundary isn’t to be crossed, especially with so many loose threads from each of their pasts left hanging.
But as he learns more about the once coveted celebrity’s rise to fame, and the manipulation and control that came with it, Fletcher finds it increasingly difficult to distance himself from their intimate moments. Lust fuelled attraction is easy to ignore, but an emotional connection is harder to deny.
Surrounded by Fletcher’s meddling family, and ex boyfriends who still harbour feelings of being jilted, Jackson has to play the part of his lifetime. Can he prove that he does have talent and win Fletcher’s heart as well as his trust?
And can he do it all before their idyllic hideaway is compromised?
Hide to Seek is the second book in the London Lies trilogy and is a slow burn, hurt/comfort, romantic suspense series.
“That bad again, was it?” Jackson stepped out into the courtyard and, after a slight jolt of surprise, plucked the rollup from Fletcher’s lips. He took a drag, blowing out the smoke. Then, holding the cigarette up, he drew his eyebrows in. “What the fuck is this, Doherty?”
“Declan’s special blend. Not sure you can handle that.”
“Then I don’t think you know me at all.” Jackson inhaled another drag, holding the stuff down in his lungs, then handed the end back to Fletcher. “Never had you down as a man who dabbled in that sort of thing.” He blew out the smoke and his whole body seemed to melt into the cobbled pavement.
“Look around you, Jax. There wasn’t much else to do growing up here.” He inhaled the remaining weed, then stubbed the butt out on the wall and threw it to the ground.
Jackson peered out to the estuary where the tourist boat moored in the dock and the distant sounds of laughter washed out the waves slapping against the bank. The faint streetlamps and moonlight shone onto his face, those sharp edges of high cheekbones and soft blue eyes that had seen such catastrophe, yet reflected such warmth, caught the rays. He rolled the sleeves up on his cardigan—Fletcher’s cardigan—that wrapped him so perfectly, so enticingly, as though it was Fletcher himself hugging that frame. There was something about that, something about this man, this famed man, hiding beneath his clothes that stirred and tingled every nerve ending in Fletcher’s entire body.
“So, go on, let me have it.” Jackson turned back, rolling his shoulders. “Solo performance for just one critic.”
Fletcher gritted his teeth. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Not that bad?” Jackson cocked his head with a grin full of relish that poked and prodded and forced Fletcher to acknowledge him. “Come on, I got up there at your sister’s insistence, in front of the whole damn town for you. So you can try harder than that. What was it you compared me to before? A piece of dried-up chewing gum?”
“That really got to you, didn’t it?”
“It did. So, what metaphor are you gonna use on me now, Fletcher Doherty?”
Fletcher breathed out an amused laugh. Then, tapping his head back against the window, he closed his eyes. His whole body unlocked, what he’d inhaled working its magic and his pupils dilated beneath his lids, reading his own words within his fuzzed-up mind. Should he be honest? Dare he be honest?
He’d always been honest. It had been why Jackson had chosen him after all.
“It was good,” he said. “Unexpected.” He pushed away from the wall, edging closer to breathe in the subtle scent of washed skin beneath borrowed clothes. “Jackson Young’s performance was like one of his passing kisses. It’s sweet. And it lingers. Achingly. I’ll be swiping my tongue over my lips to lap up the last few scraps he left behind. Just for one more taste. For a lasting flavour.”
Jackson widened his eyes. “Wow,” he said.
“It’s a rough first draft. I’ll edit it later.”
“It’s quite something. I’m going to assume that means I shouldn’t be discarded as easily as a Wrigley’s spearmint that now tastes of plastic putty anymore?”
“You deserve the limelight.”
“Nah. I think I’m giving up on show business. It’s not really for me anymore. But thanks. I’m hoping for a more rural lifestyle.” Jackson smiled, all teeth, all eyes, all shiny bright stardom.
Fletcher’s body thrummed at the suggestion and he stepped forward, swiping his forehead against Jackson’s to whisper a heartfelt, “You mess with my head, Jackson Young.”
“I mess with yours?” Jackson’s breath blew remnants of wildflower that warmed Fletcher’s face. “I’m not the one who blows hot and cold like a cheap B&B shower.”
“Fecking grand metaphor. Maybe you should write your own fecking book.”
“I’m only getting you to write it so I can be kissed then pushed away. It’s fun.”
Fletcher stepped back, a whimpering moan escaping from pursed lips. “What do you want, Jax? Do you want this to be something, or do you just want to see if it is?”
“I don’t know.” Jackson gripped the open lapels of Fletcher’s jacket. “I can’t say what this is. I’ve been around. I should know. But, right now, all I do know, is that I want you. And I can’t fucking shake it.”
Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.
Studying at a West London university, she realised there was a whole city out there waiting to be discovered, so, much like Dick Whittington before her, she never made it back home and still endlessly search for the streets paved with gold, slowly coming to the realisation they’re mostly paved with chewing gum. And the odd bit of graffiti. And those little circles of yellow spray paint where the council point out the pot holes to someone who is supposedly meant to fix them instead of staring at them vacantly whilst holding a polystyrene cup of watered-down coffee.
She eventually moved West to East along that vast District Line and settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.
After her second son was born with a rare disability, C F White’s life changed and brought pen back to paper having written stories as a child but never the confidence to show them to the world. Now, having embarked on this writing journey, she can’t stop. So strap in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
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