Marc Jillson & The Gazebo Read online Anyta Sunday (Love Inscribed #2)

Categories Genre: Gay, GLBT, M-M Romance, New Adult, Romance, Young Adult Tags Authors: Series: Love Inscribed Series by Anyta Sunday
Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 58425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

Marc Jillson & The Gazebo (Love Inscribed #2)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Anyta Sunday

Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B087WP31LG
Book Information:

Want true, heart-throbbing romance? Put down the Cheetos, and stop being a jackass. The question is, can I do it?
I’ve been an epic dick to my friends, my uncle. Him.
Travis Hunter. Photographer, econ-student, paraplegic. Can I redeem myself? Apologize? Make a fresh start?
Hunter seems to think so. Even roped me into saving his favorite gazebo from the bulldozers. The confidence of this man amazes me. He’s no bullshit where I’m all bullshit. I throw up walls where he knocks them down.
He’s beautiful, too. Strong arms inked with hummingbirds, a wide teasing mouth, and blue eyes that read me like an open book. He looks at me, and I look away.
These shivery feelings I have for Hunter? They can’t happen. I don’t deserve him. Where did I put those Cheetos?
"Marc Jillson & The Gazebo" is a sweet, sexy M/M romance with humor and a definite HEA. This New Adult, college, redemption story is book two in the "Love Inscribed" series. The books in the "Love Inscribed" series are standalone romances, and can be read in any order.
LIAM DAVIS & THE RAVEN: Liam & Quinn's story
MARC JILLSON & THE GAZEBO: Marc & Hunter's story
Books in Series:

Love Inscribed Series by Anyta Sunday

Books by Author:

Anyta Sunday



Chapter One

To visit him in jail, or not to visit?

Time was ticking. If I was gonna make it, I needed to leave now.

I should visit. Except . . .

Echoes of long-healed bruises ghosted my undereye and snuck down my arm.

It’d only been nine months since that night. Nine months stewing in past bad decisions. Nine months barely making it to lectures and scraping through exams. Nine months restricting myself to online life.

I shouldn’t visit him. Shouldn’t dredge all that up.

My foot jiggled a leave-now, leave-now rhythm, while my heart beat a scared or-not, or-not.

I stuffed Cheetos into my mouth, gripped my console, and moved my knight, Fawkes, through creepy, thick woods.

A familiar mage popped out from behind a tree—tall, muscular, beautiful . . . .

My knight fell on its heavily armored ass.

The chat box lit up and I jumped into the distraction.

DaMage: I figured out who you are, Fawkes.

Me: I’m your best bet at survival.

DaMage: You’re Marc Jillson. I can’t believe I’ve been playing all summer with YOU!

I stiffened on my chair.

Me: Do we know each other in real life?

DaMage: *Know* takes it too far. You used to write for the Scribe.

Me: How’d you figure it out?

DaMage: I have my genius ways.

Me: Hack my profile?

DaMage: Confession . . . I’m really good at it.

My stomach sickened. He knew the real me?

Definitely shouldn’t have baited the mage. He claimed to be 100% Geek Force, and I’d demanded proof. Apparently I’d underestimated his tech savviness.

I ground my knuckles over a long-winded “Fuuuuuuck.”

My foot jiggled harder.

Me: What else you got on me?

DaMage: You study history and economics. Prof. Carol’s 302. Prof. Velazquez’s 311. Prof Shammas’ 324. Me too.

My fingers hovered over the keys. Have we met in person?

Me: Enough chit-chat. We have demons to slay.

DaMage: That’s your problem, Marc. You always claim the need to slay demons, yet you never do.

Me: Ohhhh, game fucking on.

I raced my knight through the woods to the cave of nightmares and charged in—gutsy, sword leading the way. DaMage glided gracefully to my side, a ball of light sparkling in his grip.

Real-life knocking broke my concentration. I swung toward the reverberations shaking the cherry-wood basement door. “Marc. You in there?”

Hinges squealed. I abandoned the console and leaped up. “Uncle Ben. Yeah, I’m here.”

My uncle stalled two steps into my bedroom, plate in hand. A muffin with a blazing birthday candle. He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, dark gaze absorbing the room. Dog-eared books littered the couch. The comforter lay strewn atop unfolded laundry on my desk chair.

He focused on me in my sweatpants and the smudged T-shirt clinging to abs that had almost lost their definition.

“When you said you had plans for your birthday, I didn’t think you meant . . . this.”

I glanced at the screen; a demon was munching on my soul. Dammit. “I didn’t want to put you out. This is great.”

“This is sad, Marc.” He gestured to the computer screen, where a smartass reply popped into the chat box. “Who’s your online friend?”

“Just a dude,” I said evasively. “Someone from around here.”

“You’ve met him in real life?”

“Not exactly.”

“Video called him? Verified his age?”

“No. What’s with the frown?”

“Just don’t want you catfished.”

“We’re both into role-playing. He’s a kickass mage and I’m his knight in shining armor.” Uncle Ben’s expression visibly contorted from information overload.

I blanched. “Role-playing games. Fantasy. I mean . . . fuck. Nothing is going on. Nothing.”

“I wish there was.”

I flushed, hard. “What?”

Uncle Ben waved away my assumption. “Not between you and your role-playing friend. I wish something was happening in your real life.”

“Uncle—”

“No, listen. This moping in self-pity has to stop. You’re an adult. I let you have your space last semester to figure life out on your own. But it’s the start of a new term. I won’t let you squander your potential.” He moved toward me, flame slanting on the muffin. “Here’s the plan.”

“Uncle Ben—”

“You’ll attend every lecture and tutorial, and you’ll return to the Scribe.”

My throat tightened in dread and yearning.

Mostly dread.

“You’ll write an article every week,” he continued, “and by God you’ll burn those sweatpants. Got it?”

“Uncle Ben—”

“Don’t think of me as family. I am your leader, and it’s time to follow my orders, kid.”

I laughed incredulously. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll make you pay rent.”

That shut me up. That, and I was secretly thankful for the kick in the ass. “Won’t miss a single class. I’ll even take up another side project. But please don’t make me work at the Scribe.”

“Why not?”

Because Jack used to be there. Because Liam still was.

Hunter now, too.

Uncle Ben sighed. “Look, I know you think you messed up, Marc.”

“I did mess up.”

He nodded. “Accept it. Apologize. Don’t let it define you.”

My voice cracked. “Please, Uncle Ben—”

“I expect you at Wednesday’s meeting. Until otherwise, I’m not Uncle Ben, I’m Chief Benedict. Your boss at the Scribe.” He passed me the muffin and the melting candle. “Happy birthday, kid.”

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