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    Secrets on a Train
    Secrets on a Train
    Secrets on a Train
    Ebook45 pages46 minutes

    Secrets on a Train

    By Nell Iris

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    It’s the fountain pens that capture Valentin’s attention on the morning commute, not the perfectly imperfect man who spends his train rides using them. Not his pinstriped suits, his chin-length hair, or his perpetually raised eyebrow. But one morning when the man strikes up a written conversation, Valentin gives up all pretense. It’s not just the pens. It’s the man. Runar.

    The conversations continue, and the men get to know each other better, sharing secrets they've never told another soul. The connection is powerful, growing stronger with every encounter, every scribbled conversation, every scorching look. But can secrets shared on a train be enough to build a forever?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJMS Books LLC
    Release dateFeb 5, 2022
    ISBN9781685500542
    Secrets on a Train
    Author

    Nell Iris

    Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love. Nell writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

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    • 5/5
      Adorable. Attraction to understanding each other to love in a few chapters as sweet as Valentin's coffee.

    Book preview

    Secrets on a Train - Nell Iris

    Chapter 1

    Monday, February 13

    When I board the train, the man sits in his usual spot. He always occupies the same seat in the back corner of the silent car, a four-seater with a table, always with a notebook open in front of him. This morning, his eyebrows are drawn together, creating two vertical lines above his nose, and he taps the pen against his chin, as though whatever it is he’s scribbling in his notebook is giving him trouble.

    The man is gorgeous, and I can’t stop looking at him. Not classically handsome—his nose is too big and a little crooked, his brow ridge on the heavy side with one eyebrow arched a little higher than the other as though he’s perpetually asking what? His face is narrow, austere, and I imagine he’s a perfect negotiator, giving nothing away. Everything about him appeals to me, he’s imperfectly perfect, and maybe the way he slicks his black, glossy, chin-length hair away from his face, displaying himself, his looks, and his expressions, means he likes the way he looks, too.

    He’s tall—his legs sprawling everywhere, barely fitting underneath the table—and sinewy, dressed in nice suits—no tie—the top two buttons of his shirt carelessly flipped open, revealing a couple strands of chest hair that makes me want to unbutton the garment completely and find out if his entire torso is hairy.

    Like a magnet, he attracted my gaze the first time I stepped on the train, or maybe like a giant planet catching me into its orbit. My feet carried me without conscious input through the car, and I chose the seat across from him, one of the few open spaces.

    It’s been the same every morning since; I look in his direction as the train rushes into the station, before I’ve even boarded, and as soon as I’m inside the doors, I find myself walking toward him, sitting across from him, the other three seats always empty, as though everyone but me keeps a wide berth of him and his harsh features.

    And just like the giant planet capturing space debris without making a fuss about it, he’s made no indication that he finds my presence weird; he just looks up from his notebook, gives me the tiniest nod of acknowledgment before tightening his grip on his fountain pen and returning his focus to his writing.

    His fountain pen. Another thing that fascinates me. Everyone else on the train, including me, uses phones or tablets or laptops on their morning commutes, but not my guy. He’s old-school and analog and the fountain pen fits with his overall style. His slicked-back hair and suave suits deserve nothing less; a regular boring plastic pen would ruin the appeal.

    And it’s not just one fountain pen. Every morning these last three weeks I’ve spent sitting across from him on my one-hour commutes to my new job, he’s used a different one, and it makes me breathless with curiosity. How many fountain pens does he own? Does he rotate them? Can I expect to see the pen from the first morning again

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