This is the first book I’ve read by Rick R. Reed and I really enjoyed it. The story is sweet but also a bit melancholy. Milt is mourning his dead husband, Corky, and at the same time he feels a bit guilty. Corky died from early-onset Alzheimer’s and Milt kept him at home as long as he could and was burned out from the stress of being a caregiver. As much as he misses Corky it was almost a relief for it all to be over.

Billy was attracted to Milt when he saw him moving into the trailer park where they both now live. He’s always had a thing for older guys but no matter what he tries he can’t get Milt to talk to him other than a passing hello.

I like how the story is told in third person but alternates between Milt and Billy. One small thing bothered me at first…Some of the chapters are flashbacks to the past but there wasn’t any visual indication in the book to let the reader know that. It didn’t take me long to catch on but it was still a bit disconcerting at the time I read it. Other books I’ve read that do this usually have a timeline/date reference, or use italic type, at the beginning of the section where the flashback starts. I’m not sure who controls this when it’s not a self-published book and it’s possible that since I was reading an ARC that it was corrected in the copy that was used for publication.

The story itself was really good despite the melancholy. I would definitely call this a slow-burn romance; Billy and Milt don’t really get together until pretty late in the book. If you’re looking for steamy this won’t be the book for you but then you’d miss a really sweet and touching book.

Another thing I liked about the book was the frank discussion about Billy’s past. Since it’s not disclosed in the blurb, I won’t tell you about it other than to say the depiction of his struggle seemed very real to me.

I will definitely be reading more books by this author.

Reviews for Rick R. Reed

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“Palm Springs has three hundred and fifty days of sunshine a year,” Milt blurted out.Dane followed Milt’s gaze to the window—the snow falling fast, the edges of the glass etched with frost. “Sounds wonderful.” He ate a few bites of pasta, then said, “Wait. You’re thinking of moving out there? To Southern California?”

Truth be told, Milt hadn’t seriously considered it until right this very moment. In the last months of Corky’s decline, when autumn was morphing into winter, with its sleety gray skies and bare, leafless trees, he’d imagined, in a vague way, a place that was sunny and always warm. Maybe oceanfront on the Gulf coast of Florida. Naples was nice. Or maybe he could become an expat and get himself down to Mexico and the Yucatán peninsula. He and Corky had had one of their best vacations ever there, renting a beach house in the little village of Puerto Morelos. All they did was lie by the pool, drink margaritas, make love, walk hand in hand on the beach, and read a book a day. Heaven.

In the lobby of the nursing home, just before Corky passed, Milt had picked up an old issue of Travel and Leisure magazine, drawn by its cover—a field of Joshua trees with a range of rusty mountains, rocky and austere, rising up majestically behind them to meet the electric blue sky. Milt thought the trees looked like something out of Dr. Seuss. The magazine had contained a story about Palm Springs and the desert—the beauty of the area and the abundant sunshine, its spiritual presence. There were dazzling photos of sun-drenched mountain ranges, cacti, vibrant desert blooms, and blue skies, nothing but blue skies….

He’d set the magazine down when an aide came to tell him Corky was awake and would he like to see him?

He hadn’t thought anything more of Palm Springs until this very moment. But the thought had stayed with him, tucked away in his subconscious until today, when he realized, in his grief, that despite being devastated by a crushing loss, he was also free.

And now, seeing that article seemed very much like fate.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice becoming more confident and convinced as he went on. “Yeah, I am. If I can make the finances work, I just might move out to Palm Springs.” Another notion seized him. “Maybe take an extended sabbatical and write that novel I’ve always considered doing.”

A vision rose up in Milt’s mind’s eye—a dusty, rock-strewn trail, the earth beneath his feet sun-washed, ochre, heading upward, the side of a blue-gray mountain. A relentless sun beat down, making each step both effort and joy, making his heart pound in his chest, reminding him he was alive.

His vision stopped when Dane’s husband, Seth, with his curly-haired handsomeness and winsome smile, interrupted. He sat down at the table with a paper plate loaded with chicken breasts and pasta, and Milt hated him for just a moment—to be able to eat like that and maintain what was obviously a thirty-inch waist.

He smiled at Milt and gave Dane a little wink. “What are you two talking about?”

Dane spoke before Milt had the chance. “Milt here is moving to Palm Springs.”

Seth laughed. “What?”

They were quiet for a moment, and Milt was certain that Seth thought his husband was kidding around. Nothing much ever changed in Summitville. And teachers certainly didn’t leave Summitville High midterm to hightail it off to Southern California.

When no one picked up the conversational thread, Seth wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and caught Milt’s eye. “He’s fucking with me, right?”

And for just a moment, the idea did seem absurd, a flight of fancy, something one would think of in the midst of emotional trauma, but with the passage of time would come to seem like a silly notion.

Maybe when it was time to retire he could move out there, get himself a little casita with a pool.

Milt shook his head. No. The idea wasn’t the passing notion of a bereaved man. It had force. And even though Milt had yet to work out the logistics of what he knew everyone would view as a rash move, he felt deep in his gut: I’m gonna do this.