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Danny Hall is terminally single. That’s not surprising, given that he lives in the tiny township of Goose Run, Virginia, and the only other gay guys he knows live with him in his grandma’s house and are like brothers to him. It probably also doesn’t help his dating prospects that he works at a gas station.
When a series of petty disputes with his awful neighbor escalates into a legal matter, Danny calls in a lawyer. But when Miller Clarke turns up on his doorstep, Danny finds himself chasing more than just legal advice. Miller Clarke is used to dealing with minor claims and oddball cases. But tree law? That’s a new one. He can’t exactly be mad though, not when his new client Danny is super cute and just Miller’s type. But Miller only intends to stay in the area for long enough to gain some experience before establishing a real career in the city. He doesn’t have time for a relationship, no matter how tempted he is. Miller’s got big plans, and Danny Hall and Goose Run don’t fit in with them. You know what they say. The course of tree—oops, true love never did run smooth. Welcome to Goose Run, a small town full of quirky characters, big personalities, and unexpected romances. Just don't ask about the goose. |
"Danny and Miller's story is absolute sweetness personified with some humor and mischievous found family moments tied in. One thing that I love about this duo's writing is the comedic undertone that's within their writing style."
- MM Romance Reviewed
An excerpt from Danny Hall Gets a Lawyer:
“Hey!”
Harlan Whittaker was a pain in my ass. He was old and cranky, and he shouted at us any chance he got. This morning was no exception.
I hunched my shoulders up around my ears, kept my gaze fixed ahead of me, and quickened my steps, ignoring my neighbor’s shout. I just needed to make it to my truck.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Harlan Whittaker waved a set of pruning shears wildly in my direction from where he was standing on the property line.
Six in the morning was too early for this shit. I bit back a sigh and turned my head in his direction, pretending I’d only just noticed him. Neither of us was fooled for a minute. “Hey. I’d love to talk, but I’m running late for work.”
“Y’all need to get your yard in order!” Harlan made a sweeping gesture with his pruning shears in the general direction of my front yard. To be fair, it was a mess. Straggly weeds spilled out of overgrown flower beds and combined with the patchy, overgrown lawn—and the occasional dead spot—to give the place an air of neglect. The oil stains on the driveway from my old truck added to the whole postapocalyptic feel. What could I say? I wasn’t a yard guy, and neither was any of my roommates.
Now Harlan, he was a yard guy. He was forever watering and fertilizing and mowing and pruning, and his front yard looked like it belonged on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens. There was a definite line between where his yard ended and mine began, marked by a perfectly manicured lawn that came to an abrupt halt, and the difference between the two was stark. Our yards were like a before and after photo. His yard was a guy all dressed up in a blazer and tie for a job interview. Mine resembled that same guy ten hours later, stumbling out of the backstage area at a rock concert with no shoes, no shirt, and a brand-new nipple piercing, swigging Jack out of the bottle and passing out in the parking lot.
Harlan was forever on my case to clean up. And I did feel kinda bad about the mess, except every time I was about to organize the guys to pitch in for a weekend and restore some order, he’d come over and waggle his shears at me and grumble at me like a stereotypical boomer as he reminded me that my house—my grandma’s house, technically—looked like shit. So obviously whenever that happened, I was morally obliged to ignore him, just so he didn’t think I was caving in to his demands. Like, the last time we’d started to pick up the trash, he’d stood out there watching us with his arms folded, staring at us like we were on work release or something, and it had been super weird. So we’d given up, gone out back, and had some beers instead.
The power struggle was real, y’all.
Harlan stared at me expectantly, and I fell back on my usual excuse. “You know the guys work shifts, Mr. Whittaker. I can’t start a mower when Cash has just come off nights.”
Not that there was any guarantee the mower would even start. Last time I’d looked in the shed where it was stored, it had been covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.
Harlan scowled. “Don’t need a mower to pick up your trash,” he snapped, “or to get rid of that.” He pointed at a long, craggy branch that had fallen a few weeks back from the towering red maple that sat on our side of the boundary line and cast a giant shadow over both properties. “Your yard’s a disgrace, and someone needs to do something.”
I ducked my head and scurried toward my truck without answering. I needed to get to work, not get caught up in a shouting match with my cranky neighbor. As I opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat, the roar of a dirt bike shattered the early morning quiet. The rev of the engine and the echo of faulty exhaust pipes got closer and louder until Chase, one of my roommates, pulled around the corner and into view. He gunned it up the street and parked in the driveway next to me, cutting the ignition. The bike sputtered into silence.
Harlan glared at him and opened his mouth, no doubt to complain again, but Chase just gave him a cheery wave, dismounted, and ambled into the house without even taking his helmet off. I guessed that was one way to avoid a conversation.
I took the opportunity to make my escape while Harlan was distracted, backing the truck into the street before heading toward Goose Run Gas, where I worked. It wasn’t exactly my dream job, but I didn’t hate it and it paid the bills for now. One day I was going to have enough savings that I could afford to study to be an EMT, but that day was still a ways off.
“Hey!”
Harlan Whittaker was a pain in my ass. He was old and cranky, and he shouted at us any chance he got. This morning was no exception.
I hunched my shoulders up around my ears, kept my gaze fixed ahead of me, and quickened my steps, ignoring my neighbor’s shout. I just needed to make it to my truck.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Harlan Whittaker waved a set of pruning shears wildly in my direction from where he was standing on the property line.
Six in the morning was too early for this shit. I bit back a sigh and turned my head in his direction, pretending I’d only just noticed him. Neither of us was fooled for a minute. “Hey. I’d love to talk, but I’m running late for work.”
“Y’all need to get your yard in order!” Harlan made a sweeping gesture with his pruning shears in the general direction of my front yard. To be fair, it was a mess. Straggly weeds spilled out of overgrown flower beds and combined with the patchy, overgrown lawn—and the occasional dead spot—to give the place an air of neglect. The oil stains on the driveway from my old truck added to the whole postapocalyptic feel. What could I say? I wasn’t a yard guy, and neither was any of my roommates.
Now Harlan, he was a yard guy. He was forever watering and fertilizing and mowing and pruning, and his front yard looked like it belonged on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens. There was a definite line between where his yard ended and mine began, marked by a perfectly manicured lawn that came to an abrupt halt, and the difference between the two was stark. Our yards were like a before and after photo. His yard was a guy all dressed up in a blazer and tie for a job interview. Mine resembled that same guy ten hours later, stumbling out of the backstage area at a rock concert with no shoes, no shirt, and a brand-new nipple piercing, swigging Jack out of the bottle and passing out in the parking lot.
Harlan was forever on my case to clean up. And I did feel kinda bad about the mess, except every time I was about to organize the guys to pitch in for a weekend and restore some order, he’d come over and waggle his shears at me and grumble at me like a stereotypical boomer as he reminded me that my house—my grandma’s house, technically—looked like shit. So obviously whenever that happened, I was morally obliged to ignore him, just so he didn’t think I was caving in to his demands. Like, the last time we’d started to pick up the trash, he’d stood out there watching us with his arms folded, staring at us like we were on work release or something, and it had been super weird. So we’d given up, gone out back, and had some beers instead.
The power struggle was real, y’all.
Harlan stared at me expectantly, and I fell back on my usual excuse. “You know the guys work shifts, Mr. Whittaker. I can’t start a mower when Cash has just come off nights.”
Not that there was any guarantee the mower would even start. Last time I’d looked in the shed where it was stored, it had been covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.
Harlan scowled. “Don’t need a mower to pick up your trash,” he snapped, “or to get rid of that.” He pointed at a long, craggy branch that had fallen a few weeks back from the towering red maple that sat on our side of the boundary line and cast a giant shadow over both properties. “Your yard’s a disgrace, and someone needs to do something.”
I ducked my head and scurried toward my truck without answering. I needed to get to work, not get caught up in a shouting match with my cranky neighbor. As I opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat, the roar of a dirt bike shattered the early morning quiet. The rev of the engine and the echo of faulty exhaust pipes got closer and louder until Chase, one of my roommates, pulled around the corner and into view. He gunned it up the street and parked in the driveway next to me, cutting the ignition. The bike sputtered into silence.
Harlan glared at him and opened his mouth, no doubt to complain again, but Chase just gave him a cheery wave, dismounted, and ambled into the house without even taking his helmet off. I guessed that was one way to avoid a conversation.
I took the opportunity to make my escape while Harlan was distracted, backing the truck into the street before heading toward Goose Run Gas, where I worked. It wasn’t exactly my dream job, but I didn’t hate it and it paid the bills for now. One day I was going to have enough savings that I could afford to study to be an EMT, but that day was still a ways off.