Tell Me Our Story Read Online Anyta Sunday

Categories Genre: GLBT, M-M Romance, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 66203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Tell Me Our Story

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Anyta Sunday

Book Information:

Icy, standoffish Jonathan Hart always turned towards that laugh. Full-throated, uninhibited, addictive.
Soft smiles encouraging him over swing bridges. Hearty chuckles dancing around a ballroom. Wobbly grins. Double-glances. Eyes that brightened the world. His world.
From the moment he met David O’Hara, Jonathan started forming a smile of his own.
And then O’Hara left. One lingering look. No last goodbye.
Seven years later, that laugh again. Full-throated, uninhibited. Addictive.
O’Hara. Still all fire and flame, still drawing Jonathan in.
And now he wants Jonathan paired with him in a seven-week social influencing challenge. Now, he wants to finish melting his heart…
~ ~ ~
"Tell Me Our Story" is a second chance, friends-to-lovers gay romance. This is a standalone, no cliffhanger story with HEA.
Tropes: second chances bromance, friends to lovers, soul mates, opposites attract, slow burn, sunny and serious, unexpected virgin, forced proximity, one true love, first love / only love, lovers in denial, destined to be together
Books by Author:

Anyta Sunday

Once upon a time . . .

Chapter One

Jonathan loses the Social Challenge, and ex-girlfriends can still be friends

Jonathan leaned against a shelf of regency romance, worn spines and elusive happily-ever-afters pressing into him. His phone sank into his pocket, heavy with the emotional weight of a dozen Picstar messages and that newest video clip.

Air stirred the dusty, woody scent of old library books as footsteps padded over soft carpet. Jonathan contained the turbulence rising up his throat and turned his head.

Short blond hair, azure eyes, and a wide smirk moved toward him.

“Hey, Savvy,” he murmured.

His fifteen-year-old sibling—ten years his junior—arched an eyebrow, amiable and frank. “Why are you hiding back here?”

“Not hiding.”

Savvy lounged against the opposite ceiling-high shelf, gaze flicking over his face from chin to eyes. “You’re always a hard read, but . . .”

The geography of the books at his back momentarily sharpened along with a deeper ache. A hard read. He had always tended to repress feelings. It helped keep him together. In control.

But inside . . .

He pinched the shelf either side of him, kept his gaze steady.

“I know you’re disappointed,” Savvy murmured. “You want your online persona to make a difference—encourage reading marathons and thoughtful discussions on romantic literature. Winning the Social Challenge could have helped with that, increased your exposure.”

That was only half of it. That was only a fraction of it.

But it was the fraction he knew how to handle. He nodded once.

“There’s always next year. Plus, you got invited to the ICon. You’ll meet all those influencers and learn loads, and who knows, maybe that’ll launch you into the online stratosphere.”

Everyone who’d participated in this year’s Social Challenge was invited to attend the conference in April.


His stomach flipped, and flipped again.

“It’ll all work out,” Savvy continued, pulling a book from the shelf. With a grin, they thumped it against his chest like a gavel. “In the meantime, keep reading swoony stuff for your fans. People love an aloof guy secretly rooting for romance.”

The book was a warm pressure, hundreds of pages thrumming under his fingertips. An echo of his pulse.

“You should check O’Hara’s latest Social Challenge entry. You could learn heaps from him. Hell, if you were still friends, you could just message him for help. Hey, why not just message him for help?”

A strange current jolted through Jonathan.

His pocket—that post—grew heavier.

Savvy’s blue orbs searched his: Why aren’t you friends anymore?

Jonathan breathed through the press of memories at his chest, briefly shut his eyes, and then quickly lifted his wrist to check the time. The tiny golden hands on his watch ticked toward six. “Closing time.”

He pushed the novel back onto the shelf and side-stepped Savvy’s curiosity, heading for the main counter and its little brass bell.

A flash of blond hair and gangly legs jumped on the countertop before him. “I think O’Hara is ambitious and gorgeous and fun.”

“Off the counter, Savvy.”

“He’ll probably win the whole competition.”


Jonathan clasped his phone through his jeans. There’d been something . . . extra about O’Hara’s latest post, something hard to define. He’d looked strangely connected to the ruins behind him, like he was a conduit for some ethereal philosophical magic. He glowed like he wasn’t quite part of this world.

Turkey. Amongst the ruins of Aphrodisias, shirt translucent with sweat, eyes bright and glittering but his dimple lost to quiet thoughts. He doesn’t quite look at the camera. He’s speaking with someone behind it.

This ancient city worshipped the goddess of love, Aphrodite. I feel giddy standing here. How many lovers stood right where I am now and held hands and kissed and vowed to love forever? It’s so ticklish, the air here, a magical place. I feel like I could wish anything and it would be granted. Like maybe one day I could be someone’s beating heart. And they could be mine.

Jonathan shivered and snapped his attention to the little bell he was still ringing. And ringing and ringing. He quickly stopped, ignoring Savvy’s keen eye, and nodded to departing visitors until he was left staring at tens of thousands of books.

A snore rippled through the quiet.

He and Savvy exchanged a glance and trundled to the periodicals corner. Mr Cranky—Mr Crank, officially—sat sleeping in his wheelchair in his usual gold-embroidered pirate hat.

Jonathan dropped to his knees and peered through the shadows at his haggard face. “Mr Crank? Sorry. It’s closing time.”

A disgruntled snort. “Just shut me in here. I’m a big boy.”

“Your wife would miss you,” Jonathan said.

That was met with a grimace. “I wish.”

Jonathan pushed back to his feet. “How about coming with us for some fish ‘n chips and we’ll escort you to your door?”

Mr Cranky wheeled out with them, scowling when they took too long to lock up. “I want battered fish. None of this crumbed nonsense. And don’t expect me to pay for everything just because I won the lottery.”