Chapter 5

CYAN

On the second day of Christmas, I also find my muse

A knock at my door wakes me up around five-thirty in the morning.

Squinting at my phone for the time, I curl my lip and stomp to the door, ready to murder whoever it is that’s lurking on the other side. I automatically assume that it’s one of my siblings—I have four older ones after all, and even though they range in ages from twenty-four to thirty-two, they have nothing better to do than harass me.

“What?!” I snarl, flinging the door open to the warm glow of white string lights and that backlit Mother Mary in a party dress holding baby Jesus in a Christmas onesie oil painting that my mom keeps around because—and I quote— the controversy makes for good, intelligent debates between friends.

It’s fucking Vale Connor.

“What … are you doing here?” I ask, my scowl falling away as I bat my lashes stupidly at him. Eggnog hangovers are the literal worst. “I thought … didn’t you guys leave last night?”

Vale steps forward and I don’t reflexively step back, so he’s just all of a sudden up in my face and looking slightly surprised by it.

“Oh?” he breathes, like he isn’t sure what to make of me as I blink up at his face, my palms suddenly on his chest. He’s wearing a pale blue t-shirt with the words Inked Pages, Heat the Frost Tour on the front, white snowflakes dancing behind the logo. “That must’ve been some strong eggnog,” he says, his voice slow and lazy and warm.

“What are you still doing here?” I ask again and Vale takes a step back, dressed in pj pants and slippers … like he’s been sleeping here. Admittedly, I don’t remember much of last night, so I wouldn’t know. Wishing on a Christmas star that I didn’t embarrass myself in front of the band (for the hundredth time).

I meant to grab some alcohol, make an appearance to appease my mom, and then hide in my room with the door locked. Binge-watching A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, and Elf would’ve been a much better use of my time than … whatever it was that I was doing. Getting drunk and drooling on a designer pillow with a high thread count case, apparently.

As per usual, my father decorated my room before I arrived—gold and white comforter covered in stars (stars are a big thing in my family), matching sheets and pillowcases, a horde of decorative pillows covered in beads and bits that I’ve tossed all over the floor because they’re uncomfortable as hell, and lights, lights, lights.

A fire crackles in my fireplace (yes, I get one of the rooms with a fireplace because I’m the baby of the family and everyone treats me like shit), giving the space this homey feel that makes being away from the bookstore just a little bit easier.

“We were snowed in last night,” Vale says, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, his beautiful blonde-blue-silver hair falling over his forehead. The colors remind me of a morning sunrise over a snow drenched landscape, the golden beams of sunshine bouncing off the white powder, the sky a soft but brilliant blue. He smells suspiciously of sugar cookies.

“Snowed in?” I ask, blinking at him and wondering why in the fuck he’s standing at my door at five-thirty in the morning to tell me this. “There are only ten days until Christmas,” I add, as if the drummer for Inked Pages doesn’t know his own concert schedule.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” he says softly, his golden eyes boring into mine, arms covered in his own black cursive writing. Vale has a quiet intensity to him that makes my skin feel tight and hot, like I’m trapped inside my own flesh. The only way to escape the feeling … is to let somebody else in. “Your parents offered to let us stay in the house for a night or two until the storm clears.”

“And you woke me up to tell me this … why?” I inquire gently, and Vale smiles softly, his face this angelic little mask that I don’t buy for a second. His quiet sweetness, the furtive glances, the adorable smiles, it’s all part of his man-whore package.

“ Screwing random girls is Vale’s thing, not mine; I don’t want this getting out.”

Frost’s words aren’t far from the forefront of my mind as I put my palm up against the doorjamb, right next to Vale’s shoulder. In his blue t-shirt, I can see that he’s got some ink, too, just one tat on his right hand and a few across both knuckles, but it’s quality work for sure. It draws my attention away from his sickeningly handsome face and those gold eyes of his. I mean, they’re not really gold, just a pale, pale brown kissed with hazel, but they look like stars in a dawn sky. So pretty.

“I was thinking,” Vale muses, fluttering his lashes. Like, holy mother-flipping Christmas star, he seriously bats his freaking eyelashes at me, “if you were interested in pursuing those strong feelings from last night …”

“Strong feelings?!” I squeak, and then a harsh laugh escapes my throat. “Are you fucking serious right now? Thought because I screwed Frost that I was easy?”

I’m on the defensive, I know that. I’m too used to every word being a slight of some sort.

Vale’s chill smile never falters, and he shakes his head, using his tattooed hand to brush fingers through his thick, blonde hair.

“I’d never presume something like that,” he says, but I’m already slamming the door in his face and flicking the lock.

“Asshole,” I mutter, ignoring the gentle knocks on my door and climbing back into bed. The warm orange-gold of the flames in my fireplace remind me too much of Vale’s eyes, so I pull a pillow over my head to cover them and try to pretend that I’m not at all tempted by that offer.

A booty call at five-thirty in the morning is just fucking rude. And like, what does he think? That he can have any girl he wants whenever he wants? How arrogant.

Then I remember the Christmas card he gave me, his signature in one corner, a string of pretty song lyrics across the top. The holidays shouldn’t be so hard; I’ll make them easy for you, baby.

It takes me about thirty seconds to chuck the pillow onto the floor and climb out of bed, tiptoeing to the door and throwing it open.

Surprisingly, Vale is still out there, staring at my mother’s controversial painting. He glances over his shoulder at me, a slight look of confusion on his face.

“Fine,” I whisper, jerking my head in the direction of my bed, “get in here.”

Vale turns around slowly, so slowly that it makes my heart thump like crazy. I feel like he’s doing it on purpose, dragging this whole encounter out. He watches me for a moment and then takes a few steps forward, putting his bare toes up against my own. He draws his pen from his back pocket, uncaps it with his teeth.

His fingers are gentle and warm as he takes my hand, scrawling something across the top. Now it smells like sugar cookies and Sharpie, and I sort of love it. He writes: it’s cute, how angry you were that snowy winter morning. Vale releases me, caps the pen, and slips it into the pocket of his flannel pj pants.

“I was going to say,” he continues, the bulging biceps in his arms drawing my attention. Like, holy shit. I knew being a drummer was hard work, but wow … just … wow. His biceps are rounded and firm, straining at the sleeves of his t-shirt. “If you wanted to pursue those strong feelings for writing …”

“Writing?” I ask, scouring my brain for snippets of all the random conversations I had on the bus. I don’t remember mentioning writing. Not that Vale would know, since he was asleep half the time. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at writing fiction. What sort of person opens a brick-and-mortar bookstore in this day and age without having some whimsical, artistic side to them? Of course I’d like to try writing, but I doubt I’d be very good at it.

Couldn’t hack the bookshop thing either. A garland of pain wraps around me, shiny and silver and suffocating. What would my grandma say? I love you, probably. That’s it. Fuck, I miss her.

“I’d be happy to give you advice, if you want.” Vale leans in close to me, so close that I can smell him. Edible and sharp, like sugar and the xylene-laced poetry covering his skin. Another memory hits me, a baseball bat of nostalgia that steals my breath away. Waking up to a hot pot of coffee and baking supplies neatly organized on the kitchen counter. Grandma and I used to bake every day from mid-December to New Year’s.

Vale doesn’t seem bothered when I fall silent, holding his position with an admirable level of patience. He’s bent toward me, lips near my hair. It’s as if he’s waiting for me to say something. I don’t. Not only do I not know him, but I also have no right to complain.

“The reason I woke you up so early in the morning,” Vale continues, exhaling against the side of my neck, “is because your father suggested you were the early to bed, early to rise type, and that if I wanted coffee I should come up and ask for it. He said the kitchen could be hard to navigate for guests.”

“Ah.” I feel ridiculous for inviting Vale into my room. Frost is staying here, too. Wouldn’t that make the situation even more awkward, if I slept with his bandmate? “I’d be happy to make you some coffee.”

I am decidedly not an early to bed, early to rise type. I am a night owl. But my dad either doesn’t know that or else he purposely lied because he wishes I were the sort of daughter he’s describing. I don’t bother saying any of that aloud either.

“Besides,” Vale adds, pulling away from me as my heart thunders and a bead of sweat trails down my temple. He catches it with his fingertip, letting the clear drop jiggle on the edge of a knuckle inked with the letter ‘T’. It feels like he might lick the drop off, but of course he doesn’t. He brushes his hand down the front of his shirt and smiles with closed lips. “I do my best writing in the early morning.”

Vale turns and walks away, leaving me feeling both flustered and turned-on.

Fucker.

With a sigh, I grab a robe, toss it over my shoulders, and head down the hallway behind him.

But not before jogging back to grab my laptop.

Shit, it’s the guy I fucked!

As we’re heading for the stairs together, I spot Frost in the foyer before he spots us at the top of the steps. My hand snatches Vale’s forearm, just like I snagged his wrist last night. He probably doesn’t want to be touched by some random fan, but it’s purely reflexive.

“I’m begging you: tell him I’m asleep,” I plead before diving behind a life-sized plastic Santa (it’s vintage, so my dad allows it in his space, even if he’d normally call this type of decoration trashy).

“Oh, hey,” Frost grumbles at Vale, sleepy and raspy and sexy. I feel those two words in my lower belly, a spreading heat that infuses every inch of my body. “Was Cyan awake?”

“Mm-mm.” Vale murmurs a murky denial, tucking his hands into his pockets as he descends the steps one easy footfall at a time, leisurely and relaxed. He puts his hand on Frost’s shoulder and gives it a pat. “Go back to sleep and get some rest. Unexpected time off is a rare blessing.”

“True …” Frost doesn’t seem convinced, lifting his gaze up in the direction of my bedroom, like he knows exactly where it is. I shrink back against the wall until he looks away again, scratching at his temple with a single finger and yawning. “Could you wake me up if you see her?”

Vale nods, waiting in the foyer next to the Nordmann fir. Once the coast is clear, he turns to me and gestures with two suggestive fingers. These ones have the letters O and D on them.

I breathe out a heavy sigh of relief, jogging down to join him and then leading the way to the kitchen.

“Frost doesn’t bite, you know,” Vale promises, but that’s a lie. Frost does bite. I know because his mouth was on my breast. He gave me his number, and now he’s here. And I was willing to sleep with Vale, too? I should talk to Frost, but I’d love to get some caffeine first. Steel myself for a conversation I never expected to have.

The coffee maker is this big, hulking beast that costs too much money and requires a frigging master’s degree to operate. I manage to wrangle both Vale and myself some coffee—some espresso —and end up in the sunroom at the back of the house.

The blizzard has so thoroughly coated the windows that it feels like we’re trapped in here together alone. Just me and Vale Connor and nobody else.

We’re sitting across from one another at one of the many bistro tables in the fancifully decorated room. My parents focus every aspect of their holiday decorating on parties, so lots of small tables work way better than a single large one. There’s a flocked tree in here, too, its branches dripping with shiny gold tinsel. Fake taper candles glow at the ends of each branch, the light catching in Vale’s hair.

I lift my eyes from my laptop screen, watching as he sips his coffee with one hand and writes with the other.

His handwriting is smooth and easy, curvy and beautiful, a hell of a lot neater and more legible than my own. He alternates scribbling things in a notebook and typing out a few sentences on his MacBook. But he never puts down his coffee. Nope. Just types one-handed.

My own computer rests in front of me, but sitting here and staring at the blank page is making me nervous. Who am I kidding? I couldn’t even keep my little indie bookstore afloat. How the hell am I supposed to craft a fucking novel?

“If you don’t start writing something then you’ll never write anything,” Vale says mildly, his voice as soft as the angel wing art piece above his head. All real feathers, of course, decorated with lights, the wingspan—carved of solid wood beneath the white downy outer layer—stretches from one side of the room to the other. That’s my dad for ya. Can’t just put an angel tree topper on. Nooooo. He has to have a realistic human wingspan. I’m not even kidding—he paid a company to run some tests to determine how wide the wings would need to be in order to work (assuming a person had hollow bones like a bird).

Ridiculous.

And this is how your family uses money, like it’s disposable, like it’s fucking toilet paper. Yet, when you need it the most, when you come crawling on hands and knees … they won’t lend you any. Nobody comes to see you when Grandma dies. Nobody offers to help with anything.

I turn my attention to my laptop.

Putting my fingers on the keys, I look out at the storm. Well, I try to anyway. But the ice that’s coated the windows obscures my view, giving me an entire wall of glass speckled with the spiderweb fingers of frost, almost like snowflakes plastered against the panes. Licking my lips, I start to type.

What is the threshold for pain? When is it worth feeling, and when is it something that should be pushed aside?

Uh. It’s Christmas. What the hell am I writing? I went full-on Charles Dickens there for a minute. A Christmas Carol is so dark, it’s practically horror. No way I’m going down that route.

I pause for a moment, staring at the words that’ve just flown out my fingertips. Delete, delete, delete. I start over. Comedy. A rom-com. I’ll write a rom-com. A smutty one. My mouth twitches as I try to suppress a grin.

One day, a cold, awful day in December, the eco-friendly graduation present my parents gifted to me breaks down on the side of the road.

And along comes a tour bus.

And on that tour bus, a veritable sex god.

“Writing about Frost?” Vale asks, snapping me out of the moment. I look up and meet his eyes. The implication is there, in the glint of his irises. In the little divot near the right corner of his lips.

I invited him into my room when he wasn’t asking to come in. It’s an effort not to think about it.

“Why would I be writing about Frost?” I ask with a harsh, nervous laugh. Vale just stares at me, smiles tenderly, and looks down at his notebook, scribbling a few more notes. I wait for him to reply to my question, but I guess that’s just not his style. Instead, he lifts his coffee mug—this pale blue ceramic masterpiece with a hand-painted star—to the soft, beautiful curve of his mouth.

The only sounds are the whisper of the wind outside the window, and the sip of liquid as he drinks the milky bitterness of his coffee.

It’s a small movement, but I catch Vale flicking his eyes up to me and then dropping them back to the page. He scribbles some more, and I look down to see that my nipples are hard as rocks beneath the thin tank that goes with my matching gold and white pj pants. Is that what he’s looking at? Or is he just wondering why all my clothing is color coordinated?

Yep. My father has outfits for the entire holiday season lined up and ready for me.

This is what I’ve come home to.

The house is nice, but my family is stifling.

“It’s okay to be sad,” Vale tells me, like we didn’t just meet yesterday. “Even if you think you’ve got it too good to complain. Sometimes, the most difficult prisons to break out of are the ones made of glass. When they shatter, they cut.”

I just stare at him for a moment.

“Is that from a song?” I ask, because nobody says beautiful things off the cuff like that. Vale blinks his pretty eyes at me in contemplation.

“Not yet, but it could be.” He writes something down as I brace myself and summon the courage to do what needs to be done.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, struggling over the syllables. Vale raises his attention, eyes made of honey. Gold, drippy, lazy. I get stuck in them as he stares at me. “For thinking you showed up at my door just to sleep with me.”

He laughs at that, and the sound is a husky whisper that puts me on the edge of my seat, toes curled in my slippers. Vale sets his empty mug down for the first time since he picked up the full one.

Still looking at me, he says, “I’d love to fuck you, but that’s not why I went up there.” He gestures at the table, at our laptops and his notebook, our mugs. “I thought it’d be better to write first, so things didn’t get awkward the way they did with Frost.”

My brain is broken. I reach up a hand and rub at my temple, squinting one eye in concentration. I look back at Vale.

“What did you just say?” I’m sure that I misheard him. Or got confused. He tilts his head at me which is more attractive than it ought to be, his pale hair feathering across his forehead.

“You’re cute, Cyan. If you want to have sex with me, I’d be thrilled.” He smiles again and lifts his mug, like it’s no big deal. “I’d love some more coffee, too. Are you sure you don’t want me to try to make it? I’ve used an espresso machine before.”

“I’ve got it.” I rise from my seat so quickly that my chair almost topples over.

“Perfect.” He makes the okay sign at me, hits a key on his laptop, hums something under his breath. Hums a little louder. Hits another key. He’s recording himself.

I need to get out of here to collect my thoughts (and my hormones).

Snagging both mugs, I hightail it back to the kitchen, my slippers shushing on the floor.

My mom is in there already, sipping an espresso and frowning at her phone.

She’s wearing a pantsuit (it’s seven-thirty in the morning and the storm is too bad to leave the house), but she looks at my pajamas like they’re a personal affront to God himself.

“Dad bought me these,” I blurt, preemptively defensive. Marisol ignores me, turning to my brother Atticus when he sweeps into the room (wearing a suit, like mother like son) and also glares at me. I ignore them both, padding over to make more coffee. I can survive this if I have caffeine.

“They’re saying the storm is going to ground flights for more than a week. Maybe until the day after Christmas.” The thought of not being able to get back to Washington DC at a moment’s notice has my mom in a wild panic.

“Driving is out of the question, too.” Atticus gestures frantically with his phone, like he’s also on the verge of corporate tears. “We’re stuck here for days, at least. Did you hear they’re sending the National Guard in to make sure people have enough food and water to last it out? We’re lucky to have electricity.”

The blizzard gusts against the side of the house, rattling the windows near the front door. I tried peeking out of one on my way past, but there was nothing to see, just a blanket of pristine white.

“What a nightmare.” Marisol puts the screen of her phone against her forehead and closes her eyes. I finish with the coffee and edge out of the room before either of them remembers that I exist. Back to the sunroom I go.

“The weather is getting worse,” I explain as I set the coffee next to Vale’s elbow. He picks it up immediately and goes back to drinking with one hand and writing with the other. “You guys might be stuck here for a few days.”

“Well,” he begins, eyes on his laptop screen. “If you decide to take me up on my offer, let me know.”

“I’ll write with you every morning that you’re here,” I say, almost too quickly.

“I was talking about sex.” Vale sips his coffee, like his offer is no big deal. Maybe to him, it isn’t.

I definitely need to have a conversation with Frost.

Easier said than done.