A Springful of Winters Read online

  A Springful of Winters

  Dawn Sister

  Part of

  Seasons of Love

  Anthology

  Beaten Track

  www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  A Springful of Winters

  First published 2018 by Beaten Track Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 Dawn Sister

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  ISBN: 978 1 78645 237 5

  Cover Design: Steve Lancaster

  https://www.facebook.com/weirdlybay

  Beaten Track Publishing,

  Burscough. Lancashire.

  www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  Kit is a bit socially awkward. In fact, the rules of social encounters are mostly a bit of a mystery to him, but he gets by, with lots of lists and contingency plans. He doesn’t have any plans in place for when he first meets Stephan, however, and he keeps bumping into the man in the most embarrassing situations. The trouble is, Stephan keeps turning up in unexpected places, arousing suspicion that this gorgeous man might just have some contingency plans of his own where Kit is concerned.

  Part of Seasons of Love Anthology.

  ***

  Genre: LGBT romance, humour

  Keywords: gay, autistic MC, humour, dogs with jobs, love, romance, humour

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Author’s Note

  Seasons of Love

  About Dawn Sister

  By Dawn Sister

  Beaten Track Publishing

  Acknowledgements

  As always, there are people to thank. People who work tirelessly behind the scenes to make my scribblings into a professionally published book. People who answer my questions at three a.m. in the morning when I forget that they need sleep. People who sit and listen to me ranting about a difficult plot point I just can’t work through. People who put up with my absent-mindedness and forgetfulness when my brain is focused on the story and not on real life.

  To those people: thank you. Too numerous to mention, but all there for me when I need them.

  A special mention must go to the person who designed the cover of this book. Steve, your doodles are epic.

  Chapter One

  It Shouldn’t Snow in Spring

  or

  My Dog Isn’t Trained Not to Crash Weddings

  “Snow? On the first day of spring. It goes against all the rules of nature, Yenta.” I huff as I look out the window of the bookshop where I work.

  “Oh, come now, Kit,” Yenta says in a soothing tone. “Even if it is the first day of spring, you have to admit, the snow looks beautiful. It’s like Christmas again, or how Christmases used to be when I was a child.”

  “Christmas?” I exclaim, giving her a startled, disgusted look. “But it’s nearly Easter. It’s been winter for three flipping months. That was ample time to give us some snow, but nooooo, first day of spring and boom, it’s bloody Snowmageddon out there. What the hell is going on?”

  “In Russia, where I grew up, Lapushka, the snow would last well past Easter.”

  “Hmpf. That doesn’t make me feel any happier. It’s just wrong for it to be snowing when there should be sunshine and flowers. How will the daffodils grow now? I like daffodils. They can’t grow if the ground is covered in snow. What if they don’t come? What if the snow never goes? What if it stays winter forever, like Narnia when the White Witch made it forever winter and never Christmas? Or what if the winter lasts for decades like in Game of Thrones? It’s the end of the world, Armageddon.” I throw up my hands in despair, pacing back and forth as I speak, watching my reflection in the glass.

  I get distracted by the fact that I may not have brushed my hair this morning and it’s falling in messy waves over my shoulder. I’m surprised Yenta didn’t remind me. My eyes stand out, bright against the dark glass. I rarely look at myself in the mirror, so I am always surprised by how green they are. I stick out my tongue and then stop when I realise people passing by outside might wonder what I’m doing, a grown man staring at his reflection in the window and making faces.

  “Lapushka.” Yenta chuckles. “I think you may be overreacting. It is a late snowfall, and heavy, yes, but it is not the end of the world, I assure you. Come and have some tea. It is time to close the shop, anyway.”

  With a heavy sigh, I turn away from the front window and move to the door. I flip the closed sign over and push the bolt home. The bookshop has not been very busy today, mostly because of the snow.

  I join Yenta on the comfy chairs in the window where our customers often sit and read. She pours the tea for us both.

  Yenta is my boss and my landlady, since she owns the bookshop and the flat above, which is where I live. Most of all, though, she is my closest friend. She calls me Lapushka, even though my name is Kit. I don’t mind her calling me that, because, apparently, in Russian it’s some kind of term of endearment.

  As always, there are cakes to go with the tea. Yenta likes to bake as well as own a bookshop, although I technically manage the shop, so she does have lots of time for baking. My stomach isn’t complaining, anyway.

  “The cakes are delicious, Yenta. As always.”

  “Thank you, Lapushka.” She smiles as she takes a bite of hers.

  This is our routine every weekday. Routines are good. Routines are safe. They make sense.

  This routine is a way of winding down after work, and Yenta’s way of thanking me even though I get paid—which is thanks enough—for being here and working for her. She is eighty. A spritely eighty, but she always says she could never have kept this shop going if it wasn’t for me. I am just grateful that she gave me this chance after it seemed I would never get a job. No one wanted to employ me, even though I have two degrees, and I was in danger of becoming homeless and jobless when she stepped in and saved the day. A familiar sick feeling washes over me when I remember how close I was to losing everything. Including my mind. Two years and it’s still difficult to even think about it.

  Bessie, my beagle, slinks in, hoping for her walk to start early. She stays upstairs during the day but must have heard me throw the bolt home. She pushes her head up against my palm in greeting. It’s her way of telling me she senses I’m upset about something, and she’s there to ground me. I give her a grateful scratch behind her ears, and her tail thumps steadily on the floor as she accepts the attention.

  I do overreact sometimes. Especially when things happen that I’m not expecting. I don’t like change and I don’t like when my routine gets interrupted. Snow certainly interrupts everyone’s routine, especially when it is unexpected. So, to put it mildly, I’m not having a very good day.

  “It was supposed to be sunny today. The weather app said it was going to be sunny. I’m never trusting that app again. The trouble is, I’m running out of weather apps to try. None of them seem to be one hundred percent accurate.”

  “Weather forecasting is not an exact science. The meteorologists do get it wrong sometimes.”

  “Hmpf.”

  To say I’m grumpy would be an understatement.
“Why can’t things just stay the same? It’s the first day of spring, and this time last year, we had a glorious day…sunshine, warmth, lots of daffodils. This year, it’s all gone to hell. And I have to walk Bessie in this.”

  “She will love it,” Yenta tells me.

  I shrug and sigh. “Yes, you’re probably right. Judging by her behaviour this morning. She went absolutely crazy when I let her out in the yard. I’ve never seen dogs do the things she did. She rolled in snow, dug in it, buried herself in it. She ate it, Yenta. She ate the snow. At least it wasn’t yellow.” I grimace and shudder. “Or rather, it wasn’t until she’d done her business.”

  Yenta is laughing, holding her sides. “Oh, I wish I could have seen that. She is a funny dog.”

  “She’s a crazy dog.” I chuckle. “She always does as she’s told, though. I’m quite lucky in that respect.”

  “You will be all right walking her tonight?” Yenta asks. “You are not worried about the snow? You must wrap up very warm, of course.”

  “I’ve seen snow before, Yenta, just never at this time of year. I can cope with it, even if I have spent most of the day complaining about it.”

  She gives me a slightly admonishing look that says she’s noticed I’ve spent all day complaining but really doesn’t mind.

  “It will most likely be gone tomorrow,” she assures me. “And spring can begin in earnest.”

  “Hopefully.” I’m not convinced.

  “Where will you be going on your walk this evening?”

  “It’s Wednesday,” I explain. “On Wednesdays, I walk Bessie in the woods.”

  “The track may be blocked.”

  “If it is, then I’ll turn back and come back through the park.”

  “That sounds like a good plan, Lapushka.”

  With the plan settled, I take Bessie out for her walk.

  I listen to Yenta’s advice and put on warm layers. I’ve even put on a hat even though I hate wearing hats because they make my hair itch.

  Most people don’t get itchy hair. I do. I wish I didn’t. It’s a little difficult to explain how my hair can itch when strands of hair don’t actually have any nerve endings. It’s not my head that itches, though; it’s definitely my hair. For the same reason, I don’t get my hair cut very often. The last time I got it cut was two years ago. Yenta says it doesn’t matter, that I suit long hair. That’s just as well because if I could, I wouldn’t ever get my hair cut again. The only reason I got it cut before was my mum made me, and after she died, it was my boyfriend, Harry. Then he left, so I didn’t have to do what they said anymore. I miss my mum because she did more than just tell me what to do. I don’t miss Harry because that’s all he ever did.

  Bessie behaves herself for the time it takes us to get to the woods and the track we usually take. This is mostly because the snow has been flattened down and frozen and she can’t roll in it or dig it up. Once we reach the track, the snow is deeper, with even deeper drifts, and she goes completely bonkers again.

  Like I told Yenta, I’ve never seen a dog do the things she’s doing. Once I let her off the lead, she loses it. She jumps in the stuff, dives at it, like it’s something alive for her to hunt. She’s rolled in it so many times within the first five minutes, it’s hard to tell if she’s still a real dog or a snow dog. Her tail is wagging so fast there’s a real chance she’ll wag it off. She’s utterly ridiculous about the entire thing and I don’t think I’ve laughed so much in my life. I’m afraid I’m going to do myself an injury.

  This continues throughout the woodland portion of our walk. The harder I laugh, the more outrageous she becomes. She is so wound up that when I call her to heel, for the first time since I got her, she doesn’t come.

  Thinking it was all part of our ‘snow game’, she waits until I get close enough to put the lead back on her collar, but before I manage to do it, she runs off again. She does this three times before I stop laughing. Things are beginning to get out of hand, and I start to panic.

  “Bessie. Come here.” I try to sound firm, commanding her the way I was taught at dog obedience classes, but it doesn’t work. What am I going to do if she doesn’t come? I can’t leave her here, but I have to get home soon because Yenta is cooking dinner and she will worry if I’m not back.

  I chase Bessie along the track as she runs from side to side chasing imaginary rabbits. I eventually catch up with her as she rolls enthusiastically in a patch of snow that does not look particularly white. In fact, it’s not snow at all, because it is brown.

  “Oh god, Bessie, I hope that’s just mud.”

  My hopes are dashed when my nostrils are attacked by the familiar and most unwanted scent of fox excrement. This is a beagle trait, built into their genes by generations of her breed being used for fox hunting. Bessie is not a fox hunter, but she still rolls in fox poop whenever she finds it. I’m sure the bloody foxes leave it by the side of the track just for her…and to annoy me.

  “Bessie!” I exclaim. “There is no way you are ever going to get anywhere near a fox, so why the hell do you roll in their crap?” I click my tongue as I fumble with the clip of her lead, trying, with frozen fingers, to attach it to her collar. “Now I’ll have to bath you, and because you’re such a mad dog, that means bathing me as well. Yenta won’t have you anywhere near her house when you smell like this. Gah! You stink.”

  I’m getting increasingly worked up, cold, wet, and fucking annoyed, quite frankly.

  Bessie decides that she needs to up her game because I haven’t laughed for the last five minutes. So, instead of letting me clip the lead to her collar, she finds a hole in a fence that runs alongside this part of the track and disappears through it.

  “Crap crappy crap crap!” I curse as I watch her squeeze her slightly puppy-plump body through the hole.

  Beyond the fence is private land—belonging to a hotel, I think. I have no choice but to follow her, so we will both technically be trespassing. I hope the owner is understanding.

  I can’t fit through the hole Bessie wiggled through. I’m slim, but with four layers of warm clothes, there’s no way I’m getting through there. I have to scale the fence.

  I’m just glad there’s no one around to see me fall on my face in the snow drift on the other side.

  I get up and brush myself down just in time to see my wonderfully smelly dog disappear across the back lawn of the large mansion house hotel and in through an open door that’s lit up like a beacon of welcome to a sociable beagle like Bessie.

  I vent my utter frustration with a growled, ”Fuuuuuuuck,” before I set off in pursuit.

  Judging by the flashing strobe lights and the noise emanating from the propped open fire door, there is a party going on in that very swank hotel. A party that has just been crashed by an overly friendly beagle covered in snow and fox poop.

  I reach the door, out of breath and feeling the effort of running in my snow boots through freshly fallen, foot-deep snow. Peering inside, I gasp and feel the need to go off and hide somewhere on another planet—in another universe, maybe.

  There is a woman…not just a woman. A bride, in a meringue-style white dress, except it’s no longer white because there are two very obvious brown paw prints on the hem. She is holding a champagne flute, shouting and gesticulating wildly with her other hand and glaring in the direction that I assume Bessie has gone.

  Shit, I hope she’s already had her wedding photos taken because I am pretty sure that wedding insurance doesn’t cover attacks from wild, shit-covered beagles.

  I sneak in through the door, not really wanting to draw attention to the fact that I am responsible for this unfortunate mishap. I feel sick with panic now. When I make a plan, I like to try and include everything that might go wrong and list all the things I can do, or say, if those things do go wrong, but there’s no way I could ever have predicted this would happen.

  For a moment, I am frozen in indecision. Everyone is too busy consoling the hysterical bride so they didn’t really notice me, which
is just as well, because I’d rather have the floor open up and swallow me than have to talk to anyone right now. And right now, the possibility of the floor opening up is just as likely as the actual turn of events.

  From my vantage point at the back of the room, I see Bessie weaving her way around the perimeter in stealth mode, heading towards the buffet. This is just getting worse and worse. I have to get to her before she gets to the food.

  I can’t go across the dance floor. I would attract too much attention, and I don’t really want to face the wrath of an angry wedding party with an upset bride. I don’t do interactions with people at the best of times, but angry people, I just can’t deal with. Most of the time I don’t even know what they’re angry about, although it wouldn’t take a degree in rocket science to work out the source of their anger tonight.

  I edge around the room and exit via a side door. Surely there’s a corridor running alongside this room. I can see other doors that lead off to somewhere. I can probably get to Bessie quicker going along the corridor than feeding through the party. My assumption is right, and once out in the corridor, I run.

  I just get to the nearest door to the buffet section of the room when I am accosted by a member of staff—at least, I assume he is because he is wearing a waiter’s uniform and carrying a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.

  “Can I help you? You look a bit lost.” He’s obviously taking in my appearance and realising I don’t exactly fit the dress code for the night. I’m at a loss to think of a place I would fit in right now. I’m in such a state I must look like a wild man. “You can’t be here, it’s the staff access corridor. Are you invited to the party?”

  He approaches me, and I feel my heart start to pump wildly. Words escape me, and I simply stare. That might have something to do with the fact that I am still out of breath after my run through the deep snow across the hotel lawn. It also has a lot to do with the fact that talking to people is not really one of my strong points, especially when I’m stressed. But my tongue-tied state might also be due to the fact that he is fucking gorgeous.