Because of a deathbed promise to his father, Elijah Peck reluctantly left his friends and successful career in Bridgeport to return to Willowby, Connecticut, the small town of his upbringing, in order to run the antique shop that had been in his family for generations. Now, in just the span of two years, Eli has morphed into a social recluse, isolated in what he believes is a stuffy, suffocating nowheresville. With no thriving gay community at his disposal, and with his entire existence wrapped around the store he never really wanted, Eli's devoted little time to his personal needs. As a result, instead of acting like a man in his mid-thirties, living out his own dreams, maybe even finding love with the right guy, he often feels like just another item in his shop -- a dusty, moldy antique that has seen better days.<br><br>But all that starts to change when a stranger moves to Willowby.<br><br>One night outside his shop, Eli has a chance encounter with Neville "Gray" Grayson, a wickedly handsome musician who's purposely left the bustle of New York City in favor of quiet country living. Eli is instantly drawn to Gray, and the flirtatious jazzman stirs dormant feelings inside Eli, reinvigorating his hopes for a brighter future. Not only does Gray make Eli feel attractive for the first time in years, but also makes him appreciate small-town life in a way he never has before. And Eli can't help but wonder if Gray's presence also offers the promise of finding much-needed companionship, sexual fulfillment, and perhaps even love ...

When the Jazzman Sings

“Oh, you must tell me everything. Eli, here, is a big music lover. He takes after his father in that respect.”


“You do? So, is thathow you boys met? Over music somehow? Is that—”


“Thanks for popping in, Gray,” I interrupted. “I-I have that merchandise I told you about yesterday right here in the back.”


“Merchandise?” After a second, the devilish twinkle in Gray’s hazel eyes indicated that he’d caught on to my ruse. He started weaving his way toward the back of the shop. “Right! You’ve sorted things out for me, have you?”


“Y-yeah,” I replied. “Sorted things out. Just like you asked.”


To my dismay, Bertie started following in Gray’s wake. “Is there something I can do to help? What would you like me to sort?”


I halted her with a wave of my hand, hoping it appeared a nonchalant gesture. “No need, but thanks, Bert. Mr. Grayson and I know exactly what he wants.”


Chapter 13