Wildfire (In Vino Veritas #1) Read Online Garrett Leigh

Categories Genre: M-M Romance, Romance Tags Authors: Series: In Vino Veritas Series by Garrett Leigh

Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)

A gorgeous new sexual awakening romance with sizzling first times, snarky British banter, and off-the-charts chemistry.

Life doesn’t always pan out as you expect. When it explodes in my face, literally, an old friend offers me a place to heal and a job renovating the kitchen of Burlington’s coolest wine bar.
V&V is a chill fest. Living above it should be a blast. But I’m not built to be a social butterfly. Not anymore. I’m a damaged man.
And I’m not its target clientele.
At least, I think I’m not until I come face to face with the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen. Joss is the new chef and my roommate. He has hair like spun gold and it’s as pretty as the rest of him. Crystal blue eyes. Megawatt smile.
I can’t stop staring. Or thinking about him. He chases my nightmares away. And when he spots my crush a mile off, his solution to our chemical attraction blows my mind.
An experiment of sorts. Science. Is this sexual exploration or sex education?
Either way, Joss is only here for the summer. He’s leaving.
I can’t fall in love with him.
I can’t.
Shame my foolish heart never got the memo.

WILDFIRE is a heartfelt MM friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort romance in the True North world, with a brooding lumbersexual, a wild-hearted chef, sweet angst and all the Vermont food. Content warning: contains mentions of depression, ADHD, suicidal ideation, and PTSD recovery.





The rain sizzles on the roof of the wrecked car. It’s a dark fall night on the deserted trail road, only fire from the burning Jeep lighting the inky sky.

Fire that grows with every step I take toward the edge of the steep hillside.

Every breath as heat burns my face, my shoulder, and the tips of my fingers as I stretch to reach the hand flailing from the smashed window.

I’m not going to get there. And it’s not my fault, or even theirs, despite the stench of liquor staining the air. Sometimes bad choices are split-second decisions that last forever. But it’s not going to be that long for the three men trapped in this car.

The Jeep starts to tip.

I shout and move faster, feet slipping on the storm-soaked ground. Slimy grass and mud. I struggle for purchase. For balance. But I don’t find it. I trip and my knees hit the dirt, bone crunching rock. Another shout tears from my chest, but it’s drowned out by the groan of struggling metal.

By screaming.

The car falls. I watch it tumble and flip, taking the sound of rain on the rooftop with it, and the eyes of the souls I can’t save.

In a split second, they’re gone, and I don’t think. I don’t breathe.

I jump.

And I land in a hell pit that will last me a lifetime.


I’ve always been good with my hands. Better than I am with my brain, which is just as well, as my brain’s been kinda broken for a while.

“Not broken, dude. Just tired.”

Thanks, Tanner. But my newfound BFF isn’t here right now. It’s just me and the poky kitchen in V&V, the bougie wine bar he runs. The kitchen I’m rushing to get finished for a chef he’s yet to employ.

Either way, I push on, and my hands seem to work of their own accord, hammering, tiling, sanding. Maybe I’m not good with them at all. Maybe they’re just better than me, and I got lucky at creation. They didn’t have the crappy ones I deserved, and I got a fuckin’ upgrade.

Strange thoughts for a Wednesday afternoon, but I’ve accepted that life is a strange thing. A year ago, I spent my summers with the wind in my face, dirt beneath my fingernails, and the Vermont sun beating down on my bare skin.

These days, I prefer the dark. Except at night, when I’m supposed to. Because, you know, that would be too convenient.

Too normal.

Stop it. I take a breath, inhaling the familiar scent of the construction I’ve immersed myself in since Tanner gave me a job to get me off his couch and back into the real world. The land of the living. The land where people leave the house every day and walk down the street without their fucked up brain transporting them somewhere else.

You’re not fucked up.

True story.

Deep down, I know there’s nothing unique about what happens to me on a daily basis. I’m not ashamed. If anyone asks me why I’m shaking as I push through the crowds on Church Street, I’ll tell ’em. But the trouble with being Mr. Open About My Mental Health is that people talk to me like I’m made of fuckin’ glass.

Or they hide from me. I’m a big, brawny dude. I’m not supposed to cry when I can’t sleep. Or cry when I do. Whatever. My honesty trips people out.

All except a handful of freaks and geeks like me.