Chapter 3

CYAN

Still the first day of Christmas, but at least I’m getting orgasms

The rest of the ride to my parents’ house is slow-going, the wind picking up speed, gusting against the metal side of the tour bus with violent, wild howls. The snow is thick and heavy with snowflakes half the size of my hand. The whole world looks white, just one endless plain of powder, suburbia asleep beneath its blanket.

My body feels wired and I’m having a really hard time sitting still—especially with Frost’s eyes flicking my way every few minutes.

God.

Not much longer, I tell myself, a second mug of cocoa clutched in my hands. Both times, Crispin made it for me. He’s really too fucking cute. And yet you wasted your have-fun-with-rockstars-free-fuck on the jerk of the group? I remind myself that Crispin flirts with every fan, everywhere, all the time. Frost pretends to be shy during interviews.

Everyone on this bus knows you just had sex in their bathroom. Everyone but Vale whose bare arms are covered in Sharpie now, all the way from his biceps to the collection of rubber bracelets on his wrists. He’s asleep again, red earbud shining in his left ear, head leaned back against the cushions.

Crispin is at the stove, making a cup of peppermint tea for his lead singer. He sways with the sensual whisper of old-timey holiday music piping into the bus, those holey jeans clinging to his perfect ass. He saluted me when I came out of the bathroom, my trembling fingers combing through my hair while I visualized that my legs were made of steel instead of wobbly canned cranberry sauce.

I could barely walk. Crispin noticed. He keeps peering at me over his shoulder when he thinks I’m not looking.

“Have any Christmas plans?” Aspen asks, his sapphire eyes pretty, even with the white parts still red from the pepper spray. He’s a little teary, but he looks better. Now that his symptoms are lessening and he’s sitting up, he doesn’t seem quite as rude as I originally thought.

I feign confidence, like I have quickies with strangers on the regular. Definitely not. The Cafe Boys were my wildest encounter prior to today.

“Me?” I reply with a small chuckle. “Oh Lord, yes. Heaps. My dad is a holiday fanatic, and he’s very particular about the way it goes down. You won’t see any … uh …” I clear my throat and rephrase what I was about to say. Looking around at the ceramic reindeer glued to the countertops with hot glue, the plastic wreath on the bathroom door, and the multicolored Christmas blankets on all the bunks, I figure somebody in the band likes this kitschy style. Calling it tacky like my dad does … probably not the best idea. “He likes classic Christmas,” I say, trying to figure out the best way to describe my father’s decorating style. “White and gold, a lot of glitter, designer decorations, holiday work from local artists.”

“And your mom?” Aspen asks, sniffling and touching a wad of tissues to his still-running nose. Poor guy. I mean, it was an accident that I ended up spraying him in the face, and it was sort of his fault for crawling under the stall. But the sex with Frost has calmed me down quite a bit, and I feel sorry for Aspen now. He is my bias, after all.

Unless … he’s not anymore.

I glance over at Frost, meet his eyes, and feel my breath catch.

He looks away first and crosses his arms over his chest, like he doesn’t give a fuck. But even from here, I can see his pulse thundering in his throat like a live thing. He gives many fucks, it seems. Nice to know that it’s not just my inner fangirl losing her mind.

“She’s a busy lawyer,” I say, waving my hand dismissively in Aspen’s direction and trying not to let my hormone-addled body notice how gorgeous he is. Hair like hot cocoa, thick and velvety brown, dyed with a green and red stripe (part of that charity thing again). His focus is sharp now, like he’s seeing me for the very first time. I really wish he’d tug his shirt down, cover his navel and the sprinkle of hair beneath it. “She couldn’t care less about decorating and holidays, although she does like all the schmoozing and connection-making that goes on at my dad’s infamous parties.”

“Sounds fun,” Frost grumbles dryly, tapping tattooed fingers on his equally inked bicep. He’s sweating. His white t-shirt is stuck to his chest. He picks at it with long fingers, tenting the fabric for some airflow.

I will myself to ignore him.

“Yeah, uh, we watch the Heat the Frost concert every year. I mean, it’s on during my dad’s party anyway. So … as thanks for the ride, I’ll take a break from the spiked eggnog to watch you guys perform.” I make myself smile, but all I can really think about is how I can’t wait to escape this fucking bus and retreat to my childhood bedroom.

And the only reason I can’t wait to get off the bus is because I suddenly don’t want to get off the bus at all. Not good. It was easier when I sort of hated these guys for a hot minute. I’m back to remembering why I’m such a huge fan in the first place, and it’s blurring boundaries in my brain.

I need a minute to process that ridiculously sexy rendezvous with Frost, and I could really use a nice hot—or in this case, maybe cold— shower. Change of clothes. Moment to brace myself for the onslaught of … shudder … family.

“Well, it’ll be a pleasure to know you’re out there watching, Sugar Plum.” Crispin takes the mug of tea over to Aspen, dropping a candy cane into the hot water in place of a spoon. Vale stirs at the movement beside him, lifting his head and uncapping that black pen again. He searches for a spot to write, gives up, and steals Frost’s arm instead, scratching out musical notes across a polar bear tattoo.

“Sugar Plum?” I ask with a raised brow and Crispin gives me this adorable good ol’ boy smile. My heart skips a beat, and I take a forced sip of my cocoa. Please don’t sit next to me again, and force me to feel the heat from your muscular thigh. I only have so much self-control.

Once, I drove all the way to Oakland in rush-hour traffic to buy some special edition cereal box with these guys’ faces printed on it. Wheaties, maybe. Could’ve been Cheerios. They resell those things on eBay now for like fifty bucks each, I’ll have you know.

“Too forward?” he asks, chuckling and ruffling up his hair with a big sun-kissed hand. “Yeah, you’re right. My mama would slap the manners back into me if she heard that one. So, Miss Fallon, was it?”

He sits next to me ( no! ), crowding my space, legs splayed and elbows on his knees. Crispin rests his face in his hand, like some sort of angelic tree topper. His left thigh is lined up with mine, and Frost is staring at us while Vale continues to turn him into human sheet music.

My eyes find that one, special hole in Crispin’s jeans. He’s tanned everywhere, isn’t he? I want to know if he has any tan lines at all. I bet even his dick looks like a Hawaiian vacation. Mele Kalikimaka, Crispin Fox.

“Sugar Plum is fine,” I blurt, because the man is wearing a gray wifebeater and jeans with gray leather boots, and fuck, he really does look like Chris Hemsworth (better than honestly). Why did I just tell a complete stranger he could call me Sugar Plum? I pause for a moment and squint down into my cocoa. And why did I just let a complete stranger screw me not once, but twice in the bathroom?

“Well, you’re as sweet as sugar plum pie, so it fits,” Crispin purrs and I seriously can’t tell if he’s full of shit or if he’s actually a nice guy. Remember the fan cams, Cyan. But does it matter if he’s nice to everyone if he’s also being nice to me?

At least he’s not as confusing as Vale Connor. The beautiful blonde is enigmatic, like slouching there with his sexy bedroom eyes is a trick to make people more interested in him, in all the secrets he’s hiding. His hair hangs over his forehead, streaked with pale blue and silver. He peers at the ceiling, tapping the pen against his lips, apparently unaware that it’s uncapped and drawing lines on his plush lower lip.

So fucking cute. And sexy. He’s that horribly irresistible combo, like a sugar cookie with my dad’s pretty-but-inedible glaze. Sweet underneath, a hard, impenetrable layer on the top.

Heh.

Hot men and holiday metaphors.

Yep, as soon as I get home I’m pouring myself a heaping glass of eggnog. Well, half-rum/half-cognac with a splash of eggnog.

“So, what do you do for a livin’, Sugar Plum?” Crispin asks, looking down at me with those big brown eyes of his, the colors a glorious striation of espresso brown, auburn, and chestnut. The way he drags his tongue over his bottom teeth should be a criminal offense.

“Professional stalker?” Aspen wonders, but he smiles to soften the joke. Oof. There’s that leader-of-the-group special crowd-pleasing smirk. I’m dead. Officially dead. “Kidding. If you are a stalker, you’re terrible at it. Are you sure you’re a fan of our music?”

“I …” The words start to come out of my mouth, but I snap them off and take a quick sip of my cocoa to gather my thoughts. I don’t really feel like mentioning the bookstore because then I have to mention why I no longer work at the bookstore, why I’m now … irrevocably unemployed. Vale seems to notice my hesitation, sucking on the freshly capped tip of his pen as he fixates on me with golden eyes. “Between jobs right now,” I whisper, and I swear to fuck if one of these guys makes a joke about me being unemployed, I really will take that mental threat and throw the hot cocoa in his face.

“Been there, done that,” Aspen says with a long sigh, standing up and blinking squinted eyes at me. “I was at this twenty-four-hour mall in my hometown,” he continues, moving over to the cabinet and digging around inside. I notice he has a pair of angel wings on the back of his neck, right underneath that gorgeous auburn hair of his. “Sleeping there on a bench. I’d just been told to get up and go by one of the security guards when I saw the audition table.”

He pulls out a box of sugar cookies and tears the plastic away, offering them up to the rest of us. Vale takes one, but I just shake my head. I haven’t heard this story before and I’m curious. Aspen’s spoken to interviewers before about how he was discovered in a mall, but never the rest of it. Trust me: I’d know. I’m a member of the Inked Pages’ fan club.

“I walked up to the table, signed my name, and stood there and sang my ass off in front of those judges. They sat there and scowled at me … for about thirty seconds. And then a crowd started gathering and they had no choice but to look at the smelly kid in the ratty clothes a little differently.”

Aspen’s nostrils flare, his hair shimmering red-brown under the sea of Christmas lights tacked near the ceiling.

“What I’m trying to say,” he continues, his Bethlehem-blue eyes focused on my face as I change my mind and reach out to grab a cookie, “is that it gets better. There’s nothing a human being can’t come back from.”

“Inspirational, as always,” Vale agrees in a devout whisper, sitting quiet and stoic on his couch cushion. He finishes the cookie, licks the sugar from his lips with a naughty tongue, and goes back to sucking on that teeth-marked Sharpie cap. His honeyed smile makes me believe in Christmas miracles all over again.

I shove my own cookie into my mouth, trying not to compare it to the ones my dad bakes. Failing. My dad is an ass, but when he wants to, he can light up a tray of cookies with magic.

Frost sniffs loudly to catch my attention, our eyes meeting across the room with an almost tangible flicker of power in the air. Damn. I’ve never felt this level of instant attraction before in my life. Great. The first man I ever meet that really gets me purring and growling like a beast and he’s completely and utterly unavailable. He’d be the perfect fuck buddy. Or boyfriend.

I blush, and he huffs out a hot breath. I can’t look away. I should say something. I should—

The bus slows to a crawl and then … stops.

My inner fangirl starts to sob. Not me though. I’m not a crier.

“Looks like we’re here, Sugar Plum,” Crispin says, sounding disappointed, lower lip tucked under his teeth. He seems genuinely bummed to be kicking me off the bus.

Me, too. Aww. I was actually starting to enjoy my time hanging out with these boys.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Donner says, and I jump, screaming like a little bitch and sloshing the red hot chocolate all over my leggings. Oh, fuck my life. I’d forgotten the butch bodyguard was even there.

All of the men laugh at me in varying degrees: hearty guffaws from Crispin, an understated chuckle from Vale, a cocky snicker from Aspen, and a scoffed heh from Frost.

“Snow melts, Cyan,” Aspen says, nodding his head at me, still squinting and sniffling. “It might feel like winter is going to last forever, but it doesn’t. You’ll find another job, a better job.” He grabs a roll of paper towels off the counter, rips a few off the end and wets them, handing them over so I can dab off my ruined white leggings.

Dad is going to be thrilled to see me in this disheveled state in his perfect house. How fun.

“Thanks,” I say, as I clean off as best I can and hand the paper towels back. Aspen throws them in the trash as I set my hot cocoa mug aside and sling my purse over my shoulder. Give them your number. Ask for a picture. See if anyone else wants a go in the bathroom. Stupid inner fangirl. I control her admirably. “Nice to meet you all and thank you for the ride.”

I’d love it if Frost said something. Not sure what. Anything would be nice. Because of the band’s popularity and my unemployed-stalker status, it feels like the burden is on him to speak up.

Crispin stands and engulfs me in this massive bear hug that feels so damn good, I can barely breathe—and not just because he’s squeezing me so tightly. He’s warm and hard in all the right places (except one since he seems to be a gentleman, and maybe I was right about the ladies’ man vibes). Too bad. Ugh, that cinnamon-apple and fucking sunshine smell though.

What is it with these guys, smelling like Christmas and sexy things both? It’s totally throwing me off.

“Take care o’ yourself, Sugar Plum,” Crispin says as I give Vale a little wave and he winks at me. He scribbles the word goodbye on his palm and waves it in my direction, a smug expression pulling at the corners of his lips. Yet again, I’m reminded of pussy. Er, pussy cats. Cats, I’m reminded of cats.

“See you later,” Frost grumbles grumpily, standing up and holding a pinched napkin between two fingers. I take it from him and see that he’s scribbled his fucking number on it in pen. His number. Frosty’s big snowy balls, I just got a pop rocker’s number?!

Told ya I was good in bed.

Before I can figure out what to say to Frost, he’s moving down the hall toward the bathroom and closing himself inside.

Huh.

Donner opens the door for me and cold air literally blasts me in the face, chilling my lips and the wet spot of spilled red cocoa on my crotch, and oh my fuck, it is cold. I decide to slip into my snowman-dick coat when I hear the bathroom door open.

“Forgot that your assistant clogged the shitter,” Frost says and I cringe. What a crude asshole. I greedily tuck his number into a pocket and zip it up, safe from the wind.

“She didn’t clog it,” Vale replies, his voice a calm, soothing melody that just drips sex. It’s like listening to Christmas Canon Rock punctuated with wild orgasmic groans. It’s just that suggestive. “That was you, Frost.”

“Oh, please, piss off,” Frost snaps, pausing and looking at me with a very meaningful expression. “Mind if we come in and use the bathroom real quick? It’s a couple hour drive to Saint Paul from here and I gotta piss.”

Is he trying to fuck me again? Please, let it be true.

“God, such propriety,” I say as I shrug into my Saint Laurent winter jacket and prep myself to make the hundred-foot slog up to the front door. Usually, my father is meticulous about keeping the driveway and the walkway free of snow—and if he can, the street in front of the house—but it’s coming down in such a thick and violent sheet out there that I can’t even make out the walk or the artfully placed hand-carved-by-local-artisans life-size wooden reindeer statues.

Yeah, it’s a mouthful.

“But sure, come on in and … use the restroom.” My voice squeaks a bit.

I can already feel this low tug in my belly, a need and a want for something I know can be mine only temporarily. I hope Frost is implying what I think he’s implying. Or else I’m going to look really stupid when I follow him into the bathroom.

Climbing down the metal bus stairs, it’s obvious how bad the storm has gotten—and how fast. I mean, I knew there was a possibility of winter storms over the holidays, but I grew up in this town. Eighteen years I lived here and I never saw a storm like this. Not once.

The wind howls and yanks at my beanie, trying to drag it off my head as I clamp my palm over the knitted cap and literally step into four inches of snow on the bottom step, and then knee-high and dense as fuck icy snow on the ground.

Yikes.

It looks soft and fluffy, but it’s really the frozen-solid shit, like a rock. I can barely move through it, my slight frame struggling to claw a path through the storm.

“Okay, Sugar Plum, can I help ya out there?” Crispin asks, raising his voice to be heard above the blustering blizzard. When I glance back, I see that the snow hits him at a much more manageable spot. Six-foot-four fucker.

“Help me?” I ask, but it’s so loud out there, the breeze gusting against my face and making me squint. He must think I said help me with no question mark at the end of it.

“Be my pleasure,” he says, scooping me up out of the snow and holding me in his arms like a fairy-tale princess. Oh. I’m not so much into the damsel in distress thing, but … this is nice. Really nice.

I put my arms around Crispin’s neck as he carries me the rest of the way across the yard and onto the front porch. It’s already dark out, so my dad’s famous outdoor white Christmas display is up and on, soft white twinkle bulbs pinned in strategic swags, wrapped around the five red brick chimneys, illuminating the matching wreaths on the double front doors of the house.

It opens before I can even think to have Crispin put me down, and there’s Dad, dressed in a white Christmas sweater with very subtle gold stars, khakis, and a frown. He pushes his gold glasses up and looks at me in the arms of a strange man, his expression darkening.

“What happened to your leggings?” is the first thing he asks me, and I glance down to see the red stain on my crotch.

Fuck.

I have no idea what my dad’s making of that, but it can’t be anything good.

“Dad, this is Crispin Fox,” I say, and Crispin nods his head, flashing a big grin.

“Wonderful to meet you, sir,” he says, letting me down easy and then reaching over to brush some bangs from my forehead, nice and slow and sensual. “Sorry, Sugar Plum, but you had a big icy snowflake stuck to your brow.”

I force my attention back to my dad, who’s now looking at the giant silver and blue bus parked in front of his house. He redirects his attention to the crunching of footsteps coming from behind me.

“Which one of you punks is the one who made me think my daughter was kidnapped and assaulted?” my dad asks as the sound of Michael Bublé comes drifting out of the house, his beautiful voice crooning It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas . I can hear clinking glassware and genteel laughs oozing from the living room.

Uh-oh.

“Are you having a party?” I squeak, but my dad’s not listening to me, looking at the four men … and their weird bodyguard lady with narrowed green eyes. Yep, almost as beautiful as Frost’s. Almost. Both my older brothers and both my older sisters have those green eyes. My mom and I are the only ones with brown, but she’s tall and curvy and so damn commanding in presence that it doesn’t matter.

“Well?” my father asks, crossing his arms over his expensive designer sweater. I swear, I can see a sparkle of light reflect and shimmer off the corner of his gold glasses with the glittery white snowflakes on them. Like a warning. No, like a threat.

“That was me, sir,” Aspen says, stepping up beside me, framing me between his massive form and Crispin’s. It’s not a terrible place to be, honestly. He lifts his chin up, like he’s preparing to take a punch. “Aspen Carver. And I apologize for it.”

“What happened to my daughter’s nose?” Dad asks, flicking his gaze to me, his fingers tightening on the thin stem of his champagne flute.

“An accident,” Donner calls out from behind me, and when I glance back at her, I see her raising her hand and chewing her gum. Quick flick of my eyes back to Dad and I see his attention lock onto her Christmas sweater. “She was coming out of the bathroom; I was going in.”

“Oh, and I accidentally … shot holiday-themed pepper spray into Aspen’s eyes,” I add, just so my father has the whole story. “This is Inked Pages,” I continue before he can say anything else, gesturing around at the men and their bodyguard. Oh, and the driver, the manager, and the assistant. All freezing, shivering, rubbing their hands together.

Guess the gang’s all here, standing in the snow behind us as the song changes to White Christmas , still Michael Bublé but featuring Shania Twain. My mom’s favorite.

“The band,” I add, giving my dad a look . “The headliners of the Heat the Frost concert.” Mr. John Fallon is a huge Inked Pages fanboy, but I’m trying to spare him here. “The toilet on their bus is clogged, so can they come in and use the bathroom?”

“I’ll just show myself back to the bus,” Aspen murmurs, turning away. He seems genuinely chagrined, a quality I didn’t see coming. It’s nice. Rare. Most people refuse to admit when they’re wrong, and the overwhelming majority of apologies seem to come with a but. Aspen throws a handsome look over his shoulder. “Again, I’m really sorry to you, your family, but mostly to Cyan.”

Aww. I like him, bathroom stall crawler he may be.

“Just take this as a life lesson, son,” Dad says, stepping back and holding his arm out to welcome the band and their staff into his home. “Think about how much hurt you caused me when you were acting like a cocky little bastard.”

Aspen’s nostrils flare, and he nods briskly, moving into the house and waiting underneath the tasteful chandelier with the real crystal snowflakes dripping off the ends. My mom makes a lot of money as an anti-piracy lawyer and my dad … he spends it well.

“If you could show me to the restroom,” Aspen says gruffly, gaze fixed on the floor with a generous dose of humility. He lifts his eyes and catches mine, a slight smile pulling at his lips. I almost fall over when he reaches up and tugs his trapper hat off, leaving a sexy muss of tousled brown hair stuck to his forehead.

Pitter-patter. My heart sounds like the hooves of Santa’s reindeers, having an orgy on the rooftop.

“We have … several,” I say, coughing into my hand and shrugging out of my dick jacket. “First one is down this hall on the left.” Aspen nods briskly and takes off, his boots loud against the polished cream marble floors. “There’s another this way,” I say, gesturing toward the study to the right of the front door. “And a few upstairs, too. Frost, if you want to follow me?” I ask, and Vale smiles knowingly, sucking on a candy cane he probably got from Crispin, his face a mask of lazy, impish delight.

“I’m sure Mr. Manderach is capable of finding his own way to the toilet without your help,” my dad says, grabbing me by the arm. I cringe because he just let slip that he’s so obsessed with Inked Pages as a band that he knows all the members’ names by heart, first and last. How embarrassing. “Please check in with your mother and let her know you’re okay and then you can go and change.”

Dad wrinkles his nose at the big red stain on my leggings and drags me down the hall to the kitchen.

“Mirasol,” he coos as we step through the double doors and into a chef’s dream. My mother is leaning against the sleek white and gray surface of the Carrara marble countertops, looking slick as fuck in a red skirt suit and green heels. Very Christmas-y, but tasteful. As usual. “Cyan’s finally here—and she brought that band with her.”

“Inked Pages,” I say as my dad drags me over to my mother. She’s chatting with the caterer and barely glances my direction. “You know who they are, Dad,” I whisper as he parks me next to my mom and holds me by the shoulders to keep me there.

I feel fifteen instead of twenty-two in that moment.

“Cyan,” Mom deigns to say (finally), waving her right hand in my direction, her nails manicured to match her outfit, shiny and red with green tips, a French manicure Christmas style. “You’re late, honey. Everything okay?”

“Dad didn’t tell—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“Your father was sobbing and sobbing, that’s right,” she says, like she just remembered that my dad believed me to be dead in the snow. Mirasol plays with the gold and diamond Christmas tree pendant around her neck while she peers at me with blatant disinterest. It was a gift from Dad last year, one he bought with Mom’s money. She knows it, too, and doesn’t care. She’s told me many times—starting when I was five years old—that she likes having a kept man around.

“Did you remember to call off the State Patrol this time?” I ask and my father sighs like I’m a child, pushing his glasses up his face with two fingers. To anyone else, that might seem like an exasperated of course . To me, I can tell he’s hedging for time. He hasn’t done it yet. “Please go call off the cops,” I say with a long sigh. Last time my parents called the police on me, after my ex-boyfriend left me stranded on the side of the road with no phone, I’d walked to my friend’s house to spend the night, collapsed into bed and forgotten to call them.

When I woke up, my face was all over the news.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Dad takes off without acknowledging my words, likely to guilt-trip autographs from the guys. Or network. He loves having famous, rich, or powerful ‘contacts’ to throw around during social events. Hopefully, he also calls off the search.

I’m left alone in the kitchen with my mother and Ariana Grande ( Santa Tell Me this isn’t my life now). It smells like cranberry sauce and freshly roasted turkey, of sweet potatoes and deviled eggs. All my favorite holiday foods … elevated. I stare at the platter next to Mom, squares of orange sweet potato topped with a weird glaze and decorated with bits of parsley.

I grab the toothpick sticking out of one and pop it into my mouth.

It tastes like sweet potatoes, but not at all like the marshmallow casserole that grandma cooked every year my entire life. Is Frost still waiting for me in the bathroom? Can I escape this nightmare to go check?

“Hey, Mom …” I start, but she’s already snatched a toothpick herself, popped the orange square in her mouth and is gesturing in my direction.

“Mm, Cyan,” she says, tossing the small wooden stick aside and grabbing my arm. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Crap. The lingerie she sent me did come with an ulterior motive. I knew it.

I feel my skin pebble with goose bumps. All I want to do is let Frost turn my knees to canned cranberry sauce again. Is that too much to ask?

Instead, I get flashbacks of the movie Bridget Jones’s Diary , the part in the beginning when her mother forces her to dress up like a carpet and drags her into the turkey-curry buffet to meet an admittedly delicious single man in the form of Colin Firth.

This is kind of like that, minus the carpet clothing and the turkey-curry.

Mom yanks me through a second set of double doors and into the formal living room of the house, filled to the brim with milling music execs, high-powered lawyers, and politicians. As an anti-piracy lawyer, Mirasol Fallon knows all the best people and even manages to get them to fly from her new home in Washington DC to the house I grew up in, the one my father lives in alone most of the year.

My parents … have an interesting relationship.

“Hunter,” she coos, dragging me through a sea of men and women in suits and designer dresses, in Christmas sweaters handwoven by local artisans, enough jewelry around their necks, wrists, and fingers to have paid the mortgage on the bookstore ten times over.

My heart skips a beat and I feel just sick inside.

My little bookstore.

Hot Reads for Cold Winters.

I borrowed the start-up money from my grandma, made a business plan, bought a building. I did everything by the book and yet … I finally had to admit it was over, called a realtor, and left her with the keys when I skipped town yesterday. Now my only hope is that somebody will buy the store—and all the overstocked inventory—before the bank comes and takes it.

Everything is my fault. All my fault. I could barely get out of bed after Grandma died and … Excuses, excuses, excuses, Cyan.

“Hunter Markham,” Mirasol says, dragging me up to a group of men in expensive sweaters and khakis, drinks in their hands, lecherous smiles fueled by said drinks in their hands. “This is my daughter Cyan,” she says, presenting me … and drawing all eyes to my bright red crotch.

Fuck.

I forgot about the red hot cocoa stain!

“Hunter’s the newest hire at our firm and he’s single ,” my mom says with a bright smile, raising her brows at me. Hunter, on the other hand, is still gaping at my stained leggings.

“Whoa, Cyan …” my brother, Atticus, says as he sneaks up alongside me and points very obviously in the direction of my pelvic region. “You might want to go upstairs and take care of that.”

I hate my life.

“Hot cocoa incident,” I explain with a smile, turning away from Hunter the Douchebag who I wouldn’t have an interest in dating anyway—even if he hadn’t been staring at my crotch.

Hurrying back through the kitchen and into the foyer, I find the whole of Inked Pages and their crew standing near the front door, waiting for Frost as he comes down the curving staircase.

Damn and fuck.

“Thank you for letting us use your bathrooms,” Aspen says politely as Crispin dips his chin, Vale continues sucking on his candy cane, and Frost grumbles something under his breath. But I still have his number in my pocket. I still have his fucking number .

“Anytime,” I say, and then it just gets awkward and quiet.

At least none of these people are looking at the truly unfortunate hot cocoa stain.

“Thanks for the ride,” I add, feeling a strange sense of detachment as Crispin lifts his hand up in a slight wave, Vale gestures with his candy cane, and Donner scowls at me.

“Once again, I apologize for what I did in the stall,” Aspen says, looking at me like he wishes he could get to know me better which, like, totally can’t be right because he’s a famous singer with the voice of an angel and I … walk around in white leggings with gold stars and red hot cocoa stains that look like period blood.

“Nice knowing you,” Frost whispers, cupping my ass as he walks by and giving it a squeeze. On impulse, my hand shoots out and grabs his dick through his jeans. Nobody sees him touch me, but everybody sees me touch him—including my mom, dad, and brother as they come into the room.

Great.

“Nice knowing you, too,” I whisper back, letting go of Frost’s crotch and wondering why my palm feels iced-over without his erection cupped in it.

“I—” Frost begins, his attention slipping past me to my family as they crowd around me in the gargantuan foyer with its very own Christmas tree. All white lights, of course. Only heathens use multicolored strands. Frost curls up his lip on one side, snags Vale’s black marker and then holds it out to me. “Yours. I want yours, too,” he scoffs grumpily, garland-green eyes slipping to one side as he gestures with the pen. “Then you can’t pretend to lose mine.”

“Yours?” my mom echoes, confused. Pissed. I’m in big trouble now. “Mine?”

I snatch the pen like it’s the only snowmobile in a blizzard, scribbling my number on Frost’s arm, right next to Vale’s lyrics.

Each word she speaks, like a snowflake. Beautiful until they melt. And then, they’re only tears.

I sniffle. Inked Pages’ music always makes me feel seen, that’s why I like it.

“The song is good so far,” I whisper to Vale as I hand the pen back to him instead of Frost. He takes it, fingers skimming over mine. “I hope you release it one day. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Crispin presses a candy cane into my hand, giving me a squeeze before he steps back.

“Stay sweet, Sugar Plum.”

Aspen meets my eyes, pulling his hat over his chaotic mess of hair.

“Winter is only a season, Cyan,” he reminds me, and that’s it. My miraculous Christmas encounter with my favorite band is officially over.

I race up the stairs to change. It’ll be easier to handle my family’s simmering frustrations if I’m not wearing Rudolph’s red nose on my face and my crotch.