Chapter 18

CYAN

On the eleventh day of Christmas, another toilet thing

Christmas Eve day starts off with a festive raucous, my nieces and nephews running around the house like demons while my brothers and sisters try to juggle them all. I hear screaming. Crying. Shouting. Something thrown.

Sigh. It’s way too early for this crap.

The drapes in my room are closed when I climb out of bed and leave the sleeping pile of boys to investigate. I’m annoyed, but content. Drowsy, dreaming on my feet. I can’t wait until Vale wakes up, so we can write. Should I make him a latte now? I smile and shake my head, loving that I’m already picking up on their morning habits.

Frost has a skincare routine. Mornings are Crispin’s workout time. Vale writes, obviously. Aspen makes cute videos for social media.

As soon as I get downstairs, I feel my heart drop into my stomach, shattering like a chunk of ice … melting like the snow outside the open front door.

I stand there gaping as Tina moves past me, dragging her eight-year-old son by the hand while he screams. I figure he’s probably shouting because he’s dressed in the most hideous Christmas outfit I’ve ever seen, decked out in a neon green sweater with a maniacal Santa Claus on the front (who looks like a serial killer), red pants with snowflakes, and boots with giant puff balls that jiggle as he walks.

One look at it and I know—it’s all Gucci. Designer name, but still ugly.

“What happened?” I ask, clenching my fist in my hoodie and trying not to feel sick.

“While you were sleeping in … ” Tina gives me a nasty look, an implication in her sneer as she yanks the child to the door and pushes him outside into the rapidly melting snow. His father intercepts and takes him the rest of the way down the freshly shoveled walk to the waiting minivan.

I notice that my sister is wearing my snowman-dick jacket, the Saint Laurent one. Fine by me. I hate that goddamn thing. She can keep it.

“Tina.” My jaw is clenched, and it’s a real effort not to pick at her the way she picks at me. Your children are brats. Your pants are ugly. I hate your shoes. Why are you so mean all the time?

“Sorry,” Tina says (she’s not sorry at all), pulling her brunette hair into a ponytail, “but we’re taking the older kids to pick out gifts for the younger ones.” She rolls her beautiful green eyes like this is the worst possible hardship, taking your kids out to buy presents for your other kids. “It was their idea, but now that it’s time to leave, the fit-throwing starts.”

“While I was sleeping in …” I prompt, waving my hand for her to continue. “What?”

“I don’t know weather,” she says with another roll of her eyes, “but some kind of warm front or something came in and voilà, we’re free to go about our business. Oh, and Mom already left for the airport. Still no service though. Heard about the weather from the radio.”

Tina shrugs and moves over to the door, screaming outside at her husband. She forgets we’re even having a conversation and storms out, slamming the door behind her.

“Oh.” That one, simple syllable, dripping with sex, but somehow soft and sweet at the same time, draws my attention around, and I find Vale standing on the stairs, one hand on the banister, his golden eyes watching me. “The storm’s stopped.”

“Yes, the storm’s stopped,” Donner says, parading into the room in the worst Christmas sweater of all time. This one has a giant felted wreath on the front with actual ornaments dangling off of it, swaying with her movements as she comes into the foyer and gives me a raised eyebrow before flicking her attention to Vale. “I went to wake you up, but you weren’t in your room. Guess I know why now,” she mutters under her breath, and I glare at her.

“It’s Christmas Eve, for fuck’s sake. Are you a bitch every day of the year?”

“Every day except Mother’s day,” she quips, giving me an honest smile and ruffling up the frosted spikes of her white-blonde hair. “Go wake the other boys up; we need to get on the road if we want to make it before it gets dark. There’s a chance the storm could start up again.”

That icy feeling in my chest intensifies.

Seriously? But okay. Okay, fine. The Heat the Frost concert is tomorrow, so there’s time to get there. The guys can do this—and I’m going with them.

But I am a little nervous. Taking them to mass with me would’ve been nice, but fuck it. I’ll start a new tradition: Christmas in concert. Christmas in coitus.

“Are you okay?” Vale asks, and I spin to face him, straightening my shoulders. He takes a small step back, crossing cashmere sleeves over his chest and tilting his head at me.

“If you meant what you said, and you’re okay with me tagging along, I’d love to go with you.” I shove my hands in the pockets of my pajama pants and hope Donner can’t see all the hickeys on my neck. I play with the jingle bells at the end of the hoodie’s strings. Wait. This isn’t my hoodie. Aspen’s?

I stole my bias’ hoodie. Gasp.

“We promised we’d go to mass with you, if that’s what you want. We can stay instead.” Vale takes a step forward, doing that thing with our bare toes. Donner’s had enough, scoffing in disgust and taking off before our affection can destroy her evil, black heart.

“You guys should go,” I tell him, moving into the living room and staring up at the thirty-foot Christmas tree soaring above us. It’s decorated not with fun, eclectic ornaments collected over years, but with a very specific set of themed bulbs in my father’s color choices for this season—gold and white. Boring. I can see Vale moving up behind me in the reflection of a shiny orb.

“You are absolutely sure you don’t want us to spend Christmas here?” he asks, and I keep my attention on the tree for a long moment before I turn to face him. “It’s not a problem,” he adds, and somehow I believe him.

But I can’t do that to them, take so much when we’ve just met.

“I know,” I tell him, and Vale’s lips purse. He doesn’t believe me. “Your concert is about a million times more important than one random church thing. I’m not even religious, so it’s not like it matters. I’d rather go with you than stay anyway.”

“What about after?” Vale asks, raising an eyebrow and ruffling up his silver-blonde-blue hair. “We can take you back to San Francisco with us. If you need a place to stay, our apartment is huge. Pack a big bag. Try it out for a week, and if you don’t like it, you can always come back.”

What the fuck can I even say to that? My inner fangirl is now dead. RIP. Hold a funeral.

“Alright,” I find myself squeaking, and every dumb protest I tried to summon over the past two weeks disappears in a puff of smoke. “I’ll shower and pack my stuff, and then we’ll go?”

Vale nods, and I throw my arms around his neck, squeezing him and sighing in bliss when he squeezes me back and buries his face in the hollow of my throat. This is a good thing, the storm being over. I can dump the bastards (my family) and the blizzard, and see if it works out between me and the guys. What do I have to lose?

We pull apart and Vale runs his fingers affectionately through my hair.

“Coffee first. Then wake up the boys. Shower, pack, go,” he says, writing each item on his wrist as he says it. “Meet you at the bus in, say, two hours?”

I nod, and then we split up.

Instead of going into my room, I slip into Tina’s and borrow one of her Dad-supplied Christmas dresses. My sister’s a bit curvier than me, but I find a gorgeous white and red sleeveless dress with a deep-V neckline that fits me well. The slip portion of the dress is tight-fitting and ends at the knee, while the gauzy and beaded outer layer flares out from the hips, an ombre of white to red, ending in a near crimson layer at the bottom.

I find a box of gold heels with Wear with Red/White Dress scribbled on the top. Only two sizes too big for me. Aaand, that would be my father, micromanaging our clothing the same way he micromanaged every degree my siblings ever earned, the careers they chose, their spouses.

I’m the only one that ever voices dissent.

This is the dress I’m going to wear to the concert.

After raiding my sister’s closet, I head back to my room (which is now empty), throw some things in a duffel, and then hit the shower.

I’m so excited that I can barely breathe.

Halfway through my shower, I find myself in the middle of a stomach attack. Too many sweets. Too much coffee. Definitely not something any of the Inked Pages men can find out about.

With the shower still running, and the fan blasting away, I wind up on the toilet just seconds before somebody knocks at the door.

Frosty’s frozen fucking balls, who is it now?

“Busy at the moment!” I yell, praying that it’s someone in my family and not one of my sexy new boyfriends. I reach over and flick the tap on, adding an additional layer of sound protection. Just in case.

“ Sugar Plum.” It’s Crispin. That’s obvious even with the water running and some light Christmas music playing on my phone. Not Inked Pages though.

Alright, fine, it is Inked Pages. Hope he doesn’t hear that either. How embarrassing.

Crispin asks me to come to the door, I think, but it’s hard to hear. The bathrooms in this house are huge, and the toilets are tucked away in their own little side rooms, outfitted with a sliding pocket door. I crack that door and lean forward, so I can shout back at him.

“What?” I ask, blushing with embarrassment. It’s totally normal, what I’m doing, but come on. Some things should stay private, especially since we’re not exactly close. I tell myself that Frost probably clogged the toilet on the bus (according to Vale) and so maybe he’d be sympathetic, but I won’t advertise anything.

“… an idea.” That’s all I hear from Crispin, but I can’t exactly get up and answer the door right this very second. “… doesn’t seem right.”

“I’m in the shower, can we talk after?” I call back, locked away in a weird dark bathroom closet thing with the fan going and the sink running and the shower blasting. The song that’s playing is one of Inked Page’s harder tunes, guitar riffs and drums blurring all outside sound.

“ Out of time,” is the next bit that comes through, and I want to scream, clutching my poor tummy and wishing I could just be done with this. Shower. Get dressed. Look cute. Run away with rockstars. Those are my Christmas Eve plans, and I am for sure finished with sugar for the rest of the year. And also next year. And also coffee. “… gotta set up for the show. You okay with that?”

I’m not sure what setting up for the show entails or why he’s telling me about this, but I shout an affirmative and wait to see if I hear his voice again.

Nothing.

Thank you, sweet Christmas star. If Aspen had crawled under the stall door during a moment like this, we might not be together.

I pop back into the shower, cursing myself out for having the worst timing known to mankind. Or … the best timing? Hey, last time I ended up on a toilet, I met these guys. Maybe my toilet luck isn’t so bad after all?

Once I’m out, smelling like mistletoe shampoo and dressed in a fuzzy green Christmas robe, I pad back into my room and pause when I notice that the bus is no longer parked in view of my window. Huh. I move over and lean on the edge of the windowsill, scanning the street to see where they might’ve moved it.

It’s not there. Breathe, Cyan. Breathe.

Seems like the neighbors got a new blow-up Santa for their lawn though. Dad’ll love that.

My stomach clenches, and I whip out my phone, pausing when my bedroom door opens and one of the brats runs in. This is Atticus’ daughter, sprinting full-tilt at me and then stealing my phone directly from my hand.

The child is dressed like a gingerbread thing , like some unholy anti-Christmas mini monster. Footie pajamas and the smell of too much microwave popcorn. She’s terrifying.

“She’s out of screen time already,” Atticus declares, appearing in the doorway. He tries to chase my niece down, but she sprints into the bathroom and throws my phone as hard as she can in the toilet. I’m seconds too late, stumbling in my slippers and gaping down at the hot mess inside the porcelain bowl.

The phone is shattered and broken phones are not fucking water resistant.

“Atticus!” I’m angrier at him than I am at his brat child. Her behavior is at least partially his fault. He shoulders past me and snags the little princess by the hand.

“I’ll pay to replace the phone,” he assures me, scooting right out again and doing absolutely nothing to help. Doesn’t apologize. Nothing. His daughter tears away from him and takes off again, leaving him to follow with a sigh. “And what does it matter? There’s still no service. Towers are down. Wi-Fi isn’t back up yet. Calm down, Cyan.”

I’m so beyond pissed, but I’m also a little concerned that the bus is missing. Sending a text would’ve cleared things up in an instant. But I can’t do that.

Because what starts with a toilet always ends with a toilet.

There’s a rational explanation for this. I know there is. There has to be.

I search through my closet for the jacket with Frost’s number in the pocket, but it’s gone. Then I remember that Tina was wearing it this morning. She stole my jacket like I stole her dress. Fuck.

It’s not a problem, Cyan. They promised. You’ve read enough Christmas book porn and seen enough Netflix Originals to know that the guys did not abandon you.

Heading down the stairs, I peek out the front door to see if I somehow missed the bus from the upstairs window. Nope. It’s gone. Next logical step is to look in each of the guy’s rooms, see if their luggage is still there. Also nope. Other logical step: search for the men on the premises, inside and out.

I even dig my feet into snow boots and check all over the yard, like maybe the band is filming something to post on social media later.

Still don’t see ‘em.

“What on earth are you doing?” Dad asks, holding a fresh-cut bouquet of flowers in his hands as he peers at me from behind his glasses, taking in my fuzzy robe and snow boots and half-frozen hair.

“Have you seen Inked Pages?” I ask, and he sniffs at me in disapproval, turning and putting the flowers into a vase. He fluffs them before bothering to answer me.

“They said they had to set up for the concert,” Dad informs me, turning back around as Atticus comes into the room once again. “Not that I was paying much attention to those monsters. Poor Hunter tried to pop in this morning to see you, and they chased him off.”

Ah. That bodes well, I think. They definitely didn’t abandon me. They wouldn’t.

“I need to leave soon if I want to make it to the airport for my flight.” My brother turns to look at me, giving my outfit a similarly disapproving perusal. “The band left, Cyan. What did you think was going to happen? Mom warned you about getting involved with them. If you’d listened to her, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You were used.”

I shut them both out, for mental health purposes, and then try to remember what Crispin said to me when I was in the shower. He did say they were running out of time and needed to set up for the concert, asked me if I was okay with that. What exactly was I agreeing to?

Did I seriously spend so long on the toilet that they had no choice but to leave me here?

Having a fucking phone with Frost’s number plugged into it would be great right about now—having service would be even better. I’m sure if I could talk to the boys, there’d be a simple solution to this. They promised, and I believe them.

But what if we get service back soon? Like the storm, it can’t last forever.

So I head upstairs, dress myself in my Christmas Eve best, and steal my dad’s SUV to drive myself to the store for a new phone.

Actually, it’s six stores.

They’re all closed because one) blizzard and two) Christmas Eve.

I rush back home after, hoping to see the bus pulled up to the curb, but it’s still not there. It isn’t, and neither are the guys. Another thorough house search reveals nothing. The service is still down, but (according to the radio) expected to be back up tomorrow.

Doesn’t help me now.

I sit at the desk in my room, trying again to decipher my conversation with Crispin. No matter how many times I go over it, I always come to the same conclusion. Logically, it makes sense that he was trying to tell me to hurry up, that they needed to go, and that they couldn’t wait any longer.

He asked me if that was okay, and I told him that it was.

Like an idiot. Like a toilet-sitting, no-phone-having idiot.

I shit myself into being alone on Christmas? That’s all I did though, I’ll bet. Tomorrow, with a new phone, and a cell tower that isn’t wrecked by mother nature, I’ll be able to talk to the guys. They won’t give up on me. Might still ask me to come to San Francisco.

We can still be together, but I’ll have to spend the day alone. Loneliest night of the year. First one without my best friend around. Without my store. Alone. Alone. Alone.

Since I refuse to let go of my Christmas miracle, I wait in the formal living room for hours (except for the few times I have to camp the toilet).

It takes some time, but I get the picture. No service. No notes left around the house. No Inked Pages.

Maybe they did use me? a little voice in the back of my head whispers, but I crush it down, get to my feet, and grab a black wool coat from the closet in the foyer. Before I leave, I scribble down a message on a napkin and tape it to the front door, just in case.

Gone to church, it says, and then I leave for mass.

I’m early, but it doesn’t matter. The interior of the non-denominational church I found online is decked out in lights, garlands, wreaths. They have their own tree in the front left corner. It’s a peaceful place for me to sit and write, my laptop balanced on gauzy knees, light from the stained glass windows coloring my hands all sorts of different colors as I try to explain what I’m feeling inside.

Er, what my character is feeling inside. Because she … she isn’t me. I write her the way I wish I were, with the strength and self-confidence that I know I’m lacking.

You’re torturing yourself, punishing yourself on purpose, but the question is why? You don’t have anything you need to make reparations for, silly.

I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen for a long moment, wondering what the hell could’ve possibly happened today that it ended up like this. Me, here. My mother and brother fleeing back to DC. Inked Pages trundling off in their bus while my butt was metaphorically frozen to a different toilet seat.

My computer isn’t connected to the internet (obviously, thanks blizzard). But my email client is loaded from a few days ago, when we still had it. There’s a message from my realtor sitting at the top of my inbox. I was too busy baking cookies with hot dudes to check any of my messages.

I click it, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved by its contents or if I want to cry.

“ Hey, Cyan!” she writes, sounding far too cheerful for someone doing business over the holidays. This email is from four days ago. “Good news. I tried to call you, but no answer. We got an offer, and it’s a good one. I’ll email you the details, and we can talk about it whenever you have a minute. Feel free to call me anytime—even on Christmas.”

People start to fill up the church as I read and reread the email. Outside, it’s pitch-black again. From here, I can see outside the upper windows, big white snowflakes drifting down out of the velvet sky.

I close my laptop and sit there in silence, people slowly crowding the pews on either side of me. I’m surrounded by them, but I’ve never felt so alone. Sitting here like this, I realize it’s partially by choice. I let myself be lonely because it’s what I know, because it’s what I understand. Because sometimes, putting yourself out there is hard. Sometimes anticipation only ends in disappointment.

I put my computer into the big red bag with the white polar bears on it (matches the socks I was ravaged in) and then sit back to wait for the sermon to start. Is it still a sermon if it’s at a non-denominational church? I have no idea. It doesn’t really matter to me. That’s not why I came.

I came to remember my grandmother.

A few minutes later, the lights dim in the rest of the church but brighten around the stage.

Finally.

I take a deep breath and sit up, folding my hands in my lap.

The strum of a guitar is the first sound I hear, and although the note itself is soft, melodic, there’s a certain level of cruelty behind it, a sinful snap that I’d recognize fucking anywhere.

I’m a big enough Inked Pages fangirl to know when Frost Manderach is playing.

“ There’s no celebration without your heart,” a voice croons from the shadows, just before a flickering spotlight—hey, these guys run a local church not a stadium—highlights the singer, the drummer behind him, the guitarist, and the bassist. “Unthawed and rescued from the storm,” Aspen sings, moving forward with his blue eyes scanning the crowd. “If I stoke the flame, will you sit by the fire?” he continues as the audience murmurs, excitement flickering through the pews. “If I strip you down, will you lay beside me?”

Vale hits his drums nice and slow, an even, steady rhythm that makes my foot bounce in time with the beat. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Like one of my dad’s ugly paintings: Holy Shit - Reimagined.

Stalker girlfriend mode unlocked.

“ Make me your home and stay, let the heat of me melt away your tears like snowflakes.” Aspen pauses when his gaze catches on mine, the corner of his lip curving up in a smile. “It’s only when our knees collide, beneath a breakfast table set for two, that it feels like Christmas Day. Honey, Christmas starts and ends with you.”

Aspen trails off and taps the mic against his other palm, swaying in time with the crowd as Crispin and Frost strum their instruments, bringing the song to life and making my heart explode like the imported English Christmas crackers my dad is obsessed with.

I can’t for the life of me figure out what Inked Pages is doing here or how they found me.

The song is slow and melodic, the perfect tune for a dark and snowy Christmas Eve. And as they play … as Vale hits his drums, Frost strums his guitar, and Crispin teases his bass, they all join Aspen in staring at me.

They’re so not subtle about it, that by the time the song ends and the room breaks into reverent applause, there’s enough space on either side of me for two guys each.

“Hello Cyan,” Aspen says, sitting on my right with Crispin beside him. Frost is on my left, Vale on his other side. As they take their seats, the first speaker of the night picks up the microphone and starts to talk.

I don’t listen to a damn word of the presentation.

I’m melting like the snowflakes in the song. I want to keel over like my inner fangirl, but Cyan has to sit up straight and deal with this. Cyan is not a crier, even if tears are streaming down her face.

“I knew you guys wouldn’t just leave. I knew it.” I turn and slap Frost in the chest, vision blurring and melting into gold when the tree’s lights catch on the salty drops. “What the hell happened? We had an epic misunderstanding.”

“We came here to set up for the show,” Frost whispers roughly, putting his hand over mine and squeezing. “When we got back, you were gone. Your dad said you were upset and left, so we panicked. We drove all over town trying to find you.”

“Then we went back to the house and found your napkin note.” Aspen reaches out to touch his fingers to my cheek. “We came back here, and there you were. So we put on a show with one of Vale’s new songs. Do you like it?”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a flush color my cheeks. I nod, almost too vigorously. Do I explain the toilet stuff? “You decided to stay and perform for me rather than go to a concert with a live-stream world record and a hundred-thousand attendees? That makes sense.”

I choke on the words, so I don’t end up wailing and ruining the sermon (presentation? prayer?) for everyone else.

“We promised ,” Vale repeats, reaching out to take my wrist and writing I’m so sorry on it in blue ink. “I didn’t feel right after our conversation this morning. Crispin was supposed to explain this idea, make sure you were okay with it.” He gives the leader of the group a knowing look.

Crap. Literally. I have to tell them about the toilet fiasco. This is definitely more than just Crispin’s fault. My excessive cookie-and-coffee consumption is partially to blame.

“I fucked up bad, Sugar Plum.” Crispin switches spots with Aspen, so he can take my hand in his and rub his thumb over my knuckles. His face is serious, brown eyes dark. “I shoulda kicked down that door while you were in the shower and told you face-to-face.”

Err. How do I tell him it’s best that he didn’t?

“To be fair, you asked me something and I yelled back sounds perfect, yeah let’s do that. ” I stare down at my hand, at his thumb tracing between each knuckle, and at the tiny stars inked down the outside, four of them in total. Four years of happiness with my store and my grandma.

I can find happiness again somewhere else, can’t I?

Look at the gifts I’ve been given in these men.

“I have a confession.” I close my eyes, summoning up the courage I’ll need to hit this New Year hard. To figure out who I am, what I want to do, and we’re I’m going. It starts with accepting the offer on the store and learning to say goodbye. Life isn’t a made-for-TV Christmas movie. There’s give-and-take in everything. “I was … unavoidably detained on the toilet.”

My right lid cracks, trying to get a feel for Aspen and Crispin’s facial expressions. Laughter on the former. Confusion on the latter.

“You were, ah.” Crispin’s eyes widen as I brave my left eyelid next, checking in with Frost and Vale. “Why in the hell didn’t you just say that? We coulda waited easy.” But he’s laughing, too, so I guess it’s not a deal-breaker for dating me, just an amusing anecdote.

“Frost understands,” Vale says softly, sucking his bottom lip in to keep from laughing. There are tons of people staring at us, like they want to ask for autographs or interviews but have enough social decorum to restrain themselves. I’m impressed. “He clogged the bus bathroom which is what started this whole thing in the first place.”

“Wasn’t me,” Frost grinds through clenched teeth. “It was Magda. ”

“You sure about that, honey?” Crispin has trouble keeping it together, and Aspen has removed his hat so he can cover his mouth with festive knitwear.

“You guys didn’t think to tap me on the shoulder before you got onstage?” I tease and see Vale’s lips curve up in a smile. I can barely look at the four of them, so I just keep staring straight ahead and up, at the stained glass windows of flowers and birds and trees silhouetted against a dark, snowy sky.

“Yeah, well, we’re musicians,” Aspen says, taking my other hand in his, “we let our music do the talking.”

And that line is totally going in the book I’m writing.

“Give it to her before you plum forget,” Crispin instructs, nodding his chin. Aspen pauses for a moment and then smiles, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket.

“We made an offer on your bookstore before anyone else could. Of course, if you want us to just give you the money for the mortgage, we could do that, too. Either way, it’s yours to keep.” Aspen hands me a printout, one that details their offer—and it’s a very generous offer.

“Your choice,” Vale tells me, putting a hand on my knee and fondling my tights. His thumb grazes the inside of my knee, and I jump. He loves that, scraping his teeth over his lip. “Take the money and start fresh. Or you can keep your store. It’s our Christmas present to you.”

I hold the paper to my chest and try to fight back another rush of tears.

Not a crier. It’s my fangirl. It’s not Cyan.

They come anyway.

“Don’t cry,” Aspen pleads, reaching over to wipe a tear from my cheek. “If we’ve just started our new relationship and you’re already crying, that doesn’t bode well for us, does it?”

“I’m a little overwhelmed is all,” I say and then laugh, loudly enough that the entire congregation glances in my direction. I sniffle and wipe at my nose with a napkin from my purse that somehow already has Vale’s writing on it. “So … this is your confession of love? Because I don’t believe in love at first sight.”

Aspen lets his lips twist into a cocksure smile, like he doesn’t think that’s true.

I don’t think that’s true either. I kind of do believe in it. Or at least I want to.

Frost raises a dark brow in question, weaving his beautiful fingers through my own.

“Come back to San Francisco, Cyan. It’s way easier to be our girlfriend if we’re in the same city.” Frost uses his tongue on his own lips in a way that could possibly cause him to catch on fire in such a holy place. I’m halfway to flames myself. He whispers this next part in my ear. “Much easier to fuck if we’re in the same city, too.”

“I want to run my bookstore.” My heart thunders as I turn my head and watch snowflakes falling outside the window. “I want to write a book, and … I want to be your girlfriend. Yes, I’ll go. Of course I’ll fucking go.”

“ His girlfriend?” Crispin teases. “Or our girlfriend?”

“Yours,” I whisper, closing my eyes and leaning my head against Frost’s shoulder. He stiffens for a moment and then relaxes, smelling like Balsam Fir incense and cinnamon. “All of yours.”

And that … that is the merriest fucking Christmas I’ve ever had in my life.

One blizzard, four bastards, the start of a brand-new relationship.

I’m looking forward to everything.