Jameson Hawthorne Novels & Stories

“Your parents are waiting in the study for you. Jameson stayed silent, all of his features a mask of cold resolve as he brought me inside. The house was as monumental inside—chandeliers swinging overhead, marble polished to an oily sheen by countless cold smiles— We were shown in by the study, where Jameson's parents sat. Robert Hawthorne, Edward's father was a large and imposing man whose face was set in a hard expression; his wife Evelyn, cast lightly to pose with her hands clasped. “Jameson,” my father acknowledged with a nod and then on to me. “And this is Avery.” Even though I could feel the observation of his face I would not blink. “Mr. Hawthorne Mrs, Hawthorne,” I greeted properly. E

Emma wandered toward the section of notebooks and journals, her fingers brushing spines until she paused at one with a simple cover. “You like that one?” James asked softly. Emma nodded. “I want to write again. Not for anyone else. For myself.” James smiled. “Take it.” At the counter, the bookseller offered a friendly nod. No recognition. No whispers. James realized how much he missed small moments of anonymity like this—being an ordinary man buying a book at night. Outside, the air had grown colder. They walked slowly back to the car. As James settled Ethan into his seat, the boy murmured, half-asleep, “Papa.”

Hawthorne was caught between two difficult choices, pursuing his personal satisfaction or surrendering to the pain. “You’re such a cunning fox,” he growled, his gaze sharp and piercing. *** Mr. Hawthorne ate his meal calmly. However, across the table, Jasmine hadn’t touched her food, even though the dishes looked delicious. The image of Mr. Hawthorne’s disappointed face remained etched in her mind, filling her with guilt and robbing her of her appetite. “You have less than ten minutes.” Mr. Hawthorne glanced at the confused Jasmine, then added, “Finish your breakfast before I throw it away.”

Chapter 1 James’ POV The cabin smelled of pine, old paper, and the faint metallic tang of arousal by the fourth night. Ella Whitstone had arrived four days earlier with her battered leather satchel, sensible cardigan, and the wide-eyed reverence of every fresh literature graduate who believes she’s about to meet a living legend. At sixty, I knew the truth: I was just a dirty old man with one final book clawing its way out of me, and she was the pretty young thing foolish enough to lock herself away with me for two weeks to transcribe it.

I wasn’t sure I could force the words out of my mouth, relive all of it in the telling. “I don’t know where Hawthorne was while he was supposed to be dead,” I said, because that at least was both true and not all that important to me. The asshole had faked his own death two years before, disappeared, and only returned shortly before I came on the scene. And I hadn’t known him before then. “He mentioned Seattle. I think he was in Washington part of the time. But that’s all I know.” “Not all that helpful,” Matthew said. “And also not the most pressing issue. How did you end up working for Kimball?”

He said his voice stern as he got out of bed and sauntered towards the bathroom to take a shower. James relished having sex with the young male servants in his cottage regularly. there was something so dangerously alluring about having his way with the pliable, young man that worked the grounds at the Meyer Mansion over the years. his latest flavor, the twenty-year-old Tom had been particularly interesting. they did disgusting and shameful things to each other's bodies that he enjoyed mightily. the boy was not only talented in working the grounds of the Mansion with his hands. but he had other talents as well, particularly his mouth. the thought of him gave James goosebumps.

“Okay, who is that person?” “Hemmingway. He is noted both for the intense masculinity of his writing and for his adventurous and widely publicized life. His succinct and lucid prose style exerted a powerful influence on American and British fiction in the 20th century. One of his famous book is The Old Man and the Sea—a novella written himself.” While I am continuously answering his question, I found his gaze and saw him staring intently at me as he waited for my next words. I bit my tongue, already distracted on the way he look at me so I look on my right only to see Rael, Nathan and Levi looking so proud at me. I lick my lower lip one more time as I continue what I was about to say earlier

She tried to relax and clear her mind. Nathaniel pointed out certain buildings and told her their history along the way. She had to admit that it took her mind off the stone. She enjoyed the scenery as they drove into the countryside. Nathaniel had told her that Barnaby lived in the woods and had no neighbors for miles, so she wasn't surprised by the countryside they saw. She also wasn't surprised when they turned down a well-maintained dirt road.

“Do not think of it in such common terms, June,” he whispered, his voice smooth as silk but heavy as lead. “You are looking at this through the lens of human morality, but we are wolves. We are creatures of destiny and design.”He stepped even closer, his heat radiating through my thin, silver dress, a cruel contrast to the damp stone wall at my back.

“Do you sleep?” Noah rubbed the back of his neck. “On occasion.” A tall man with broad shoulders and a jaw full of whiskers stepped around the truck and noticed her. He lifted his hand and greeted her warmly. “Hey, there. I’m Jameson. You must be Camille. Everyone ‘round here’s been talkin’ about you.” He gripped her hand and shook gently. “I didn’t know what to expect ‘cause some of the Hardings think you hung the moon and some of ‘em kinda don’t think you should be hangin’ around at all.”