Chapter 6

CYAN

On the second day of Christmas, marked safe from bathroom incidents

Frost and I run into each other in the hallway a few hours later, his hair sleep-tousled and his eyes bleary with fatigue. The band is so busy that it’s probably rare that he gets to sleep in this late.

“I, uh, hi,” I say, and he nods at me, staring at a painting on the wall that my parents purchased at an auction in New York. It’s red and green. That’s … that’s it. Red and green splotches on a white canvas. It’s titled Holiday Spirit, and I don’t understand it, but that’s okay.

I don’t want to understand it.

“Hi.” Frost keeps his attention on the painting. My palms itch, and I force myself through several slow breaths to gather my courage together.

“Your number,” I start, resisting the urge to drag my robe closed and cinch the tie. Frost turns to me, wearing the same clothes from earlier. Big, soft white sweater over sleeping shorts—with reindeer on them. Boxers? Are those boxers? I make myself look at his face. “You gave it to me.”

“Uh, yeah?” he says, like he’s confused. There’s a bit of color on his neck, like he’s not as cocksure as he appeared on the bus. “What about it?”

My dad appears behind Frost, inserting himself into our private conversation.

“Beautiful, don’t you think?” Dad begins, beaming with pride. Frost blushes, still staring at me, like our sex wasn’t a little like a hate-fuck. Shouldn’t he be swaggering around like it’s nothing? I’m transfixed. Hours of writing beside Vale didn’t calm the heat in my skin. It spread like jam. I’m sticky with it. “Mirasol and I were lucky enough to meet the artist.”

Both Frost and I turn to see that John is straightening the Holiday Spirit painting with reverence. Frost appears surprised that Dad wasn’t talking about me, but I knew from the start that he wasn’t. I remain unfazed.

“It’s stunning.” Frost looks back at me in the space between words, so that I’m not sure if he’s talking about the painting or about me. My turn to blush.

“Cyan, I need you with me today. We have dozens of presents that need wrapping.” Dad pushes past and heads in the direction of the kitchen as I sigh.

Dozens of presents for my nieces and nephews most like, all of which I’ll have to wrap by myself.

“Frost.” It’s his manager, gesturing at him to join her in my mother’s study. She’s allowed the band to set up a makeshift office in there. “Gather the guys. We need to have a hard discussion.” She retreats, leaving us alone for a brief few seconds.

I want to ask Frost why he gave me his number, if it’s just a sex thing or if he wanted to talk or … I don’t know. Vale appears behind me, so I turn, keeping one guy on either side of me. Wouldn’t that make for a fun time? All I want for Christmas is group sex. Hah. If only.

“So this is where you disappeared to,” Vale says, his voice and smile confident enough for the three of us. Frost seems flustered. I’m obviously out of my mind. But not Vale. He’s comfortable enough to say how awesome it’d be to have sex with me, and also ask for coffee in the same breath.

“Did … you want to talk to me about something?” Frost asks, clearing his throat.

Both men look at me expectantly.

“Mornin’.” It’s Crispin, shirtless, hair wet like he’s just hopped out of the shower. He has a towel with embroidered gold snowflakes tossed over one shoulder as he eases up next to Frost, earning himself a bit of a disgruntled look in response. “I had no idea there was mistletoe shampoo. Works great though.” This man has the audacity to run his fingers through his wavy hair, tumbling the damp strands around his handsome face. “If the mistletoe’s in my hair, does that mean I deserve a kiss any time we pass by each other?”

I stare at Crispin like he’s insane, and the only thing that’ll come out of my mouth is this crap: “The company calls it mistletoe shampoo as a gimmick. Really, it’s only cedar, sandalwood, and peppermint.”

“Ah, that so?” Crispin asks, expression softening as he looks down at me.

Aspen comes barreling down the hall from the opposite end, and I soon find myself trapped with two gorgeous dudes on either side. This is every fangirl’s dream, isn’t it? I might keel over from hotness overload.

“Your dad’s never been the violent type, right?” Aspen asks, his gaze darting to the low lace neckline of my pajama top. It was so romantic and sleepy and private when Vale woke me up in the early morning hours, but now it feels like I might’ve made a mistake by not getting properly dressed. “He was fondling a really big knife in the kitchen just now. Is coffee a thing around here? I would kill for some coffee.”

Aspen runs his fingers through his hair, leaving it to stick up in a dozen different directions.

“Dad only attacks with well-placed quips,” I admit sheepishly, shuffling my feet and feeling that warmth in my belly spread to my toes, to my fingertips, to the tips of my ears. It smells good in this hallway, and that has nothing to do with the cinnamon rolls that my dad just took out of the oven.

Oh dear sweet Tannenbaum, Crispin does not have any tan lines. His sweatpants droop low enough that I can confirm his lower abdomen matches the bronze color of his thigh.

“Guys, I’m not trying to hound you, but this is important.” Their manager is back, white-knuckled fingers wrapped around the sides of her iPad. The band’s assistant stands behind her, dressed in a cute red velvet number with a short skirt and patterned green tights. Donner looms over the pair of them, scowling at me and outfitted in another hideously offensive sweater.

This one has a pug dressed like Santa, and it also lights up. Unfortunate.

I take that as my cue to leave.

“Well.” I dip my chin at the four guys, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear and keeping my attention away from Vale’s knowing expression, Frost’s grouchy countenance, Aspen’s blatant curiosity, and Crispin’s … nipples. “You guys probably have a lot of logistics to work out, so …”

I duck between Vale and Aspen—my body rubs salaciously against both of them—and throw myself into the kitchen where my family’s icy reception is sure to cool the heat and fire dancing across my skin.

“Oh, sorry,” Atticus grumbles, a cinnamon roll in his hand. My parents, my siblings, and their spouses are all in there, eating breakfast and commiserating about the weather. “We thought you’d gotten one already.”

There are no cinnamon rolls left, just the smell lingering in the air the way my dream of owning a bookstore lingers in my mind like a lost cause.

“It’s fine,” I say, snatching an iced nutcracker cookie from a platter. “I didn’t want one anyway.”

That’s a lie: I did want one. But life is easier if I pretend I don’t.

I don’t need a cinnamon roll or a bookstore or Frost or Vale or anything else to be happy.

I can revel in the Christmas spirit all by myself.

I head for the spare room to gather gifts, wrapping paper, and ribbons. I take it all to the home theater and set up at the front of the room, starting my first cheesy Christmas movie of the day. There are dozens of unmemorable ones that pop up every year; I use them as background cheer.

It’s easier to be alone if I can listen to the sappy dialogue in the background.

Crispin appears in the doorway a short time later, dressed in a half-zipped green hoodie with no shirt underneath. What the hell is this? He strolls into the room like he’s in no hurry, pausing with his socked feet only a foot or so away from where I’m wrapping.

Crispin Fox. Bassist for Inked Pages. His socks, fuzzy plaid ones that I somehow wasn’t expecting. The fuzzy, I mean. The plaid I could’ve guessed. He squats down, making the movement look smooth and easy. His arms are crossed over his knees, gaze on my hands as I struggle to untangle myself from a knot of tape.

“Frost is doing an interview with some YouTuber.” Crispin shrugs a single, massive shoulder.

“I didn’t ask about Frost,” I respond coolly, looking over to find him way too close to me. His pants no longer have holes, but I’ve seen it enough to fantasize, that muscular thigh. “No luck in freeing the bus?”

“Seems like we’ll be bunking together for a little while.” Crispin doesn’t sound disappointed, nodding with his chin to indicate the pile of unwrapped gifts.

“Mind if I join you? It’s been years since I wrapped anything.”

I’m surprised, but I nod. He wants to help me wrap? For real?

He takes a seat opposite me, picks a gift up, and tries to suppress a smile. Crispin must find something funny because he looks up at me and turns the box around. It’s filled with anti-aging face creams, hair growth supplements, and some zinc oxide sunscreen.

“Who’s this one for?” he asks as I wish I hadn’t lost my phone in this pile of ribbons and paper. I need it to control the projector that’s playing the movie. The one onscreen is so hokey that I’m embarrassed to be caught watching it.

“Oh, I didn’t buy any of this stuff. My parents did.” I grab another box. It’s some VR thing for my nephew. “I think the one that you’re holding is for my twelve-year-old niece.” I point at the anti-aging cream and Crispin’s smile droops into a frown.

“You’re fuckin’ with me?” he asks, and I blurt out a laugh.

I’m trying not to freak out here, but my favorite musicians in the entire world are staying at my house. After that initial scare at the rest stop, it seems that more than just one of them is nice. More than just one of them is naughty, too.

“I am. She’s actually only eleven. She won’t be twelve for another two months.” I toss him a roll of tape and he catches it. The characters in the movie are kissing now, and my cheeks flush. Not sure why. Because I invited Vale into my bedroom? Because he offered to fuck me? Because I slept with Frost and he’s in my house and yet I still can’t talk to him?

“Do you really love wrapping other people’s gifts?” Crispin asks, but like he already suspects that’s not the case. He drags his fingers through his wavy hair, releases it and lets it flop gently against his forehead. I’ve seen him with a military cut in the past, but this is my favorite length he’s ever had. I will fight the fandom on that one.

“I do it every year, wrap all the gifts. When I was younger, I told everyone how much I loved it because I wanted to participate, to watch Christmas movies with them. Once I was old enough to do it myself, they all stopped wrapping with me.” I cut a new sheet of paper, wrapping it around the gift and doing my best to make it perfect. If I don’t, my dad will bitch at me.

Crispin doesn’t do a terrible job, but he wraps twice as fast as I do because he doesn’t smooth each crease ten times after he makes it. He doesn’t care if the tape crinkles when he presses it to the paper. Something about the way he’s doing it makes me want to shift gears, too. Why am I trying so hard at this? I start to forgive all the small mistakes I’m making and just wrap.

I tear the next sheet of paper while I’m tugging it around the edge of a large box. Normally, I’d toss the ruined paper aside and start fresh. Crispin leans forward and presses a piece of tape to it with his finger, sealing the hole with a murky Scotch stripe. Mr. Fallon would not approve.

“There. All fixed,” he says, and my breath catches. Imagine that, somebody helping me fix a mistake like it’s no big deal. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Crispin’s smile is knowing as he studies me, lifting a finger as if in warning. “Don’t do it, Sugar Plum. You’ve done enough. The kiddos will survive a little extra tape, don’t you think?”

I feel fucking liberated, diving into my wrapping with gusto as the characters on the movie confess their undying love to one another. And when that crappy movie ends, we pick another together.

Aspen finds us a few minutes into the next riveting piece of cinema, walking right up and taking a seat opposite the screen. We’re still wrapping gifts because my parents try to buy everyone’s affection with money. Except mine. I am immune to that one.

“I don’t want your family to hate me,” Aspen admits, picking an item at random and hitting the wrapping game hard. He’s wearing a red cardigan over some cream-colored pants. Bare feet for him. He has this boy-next-door vibe with just a dash of cocky bastard. It’s easy to see why I picked him as a favorite. “What are we watching?”

“Lord only knows. They’re in Scotland, and there are castles. Somebody will fall in love, they’ll break up near the end, but it’ll all finish in happily ever after.” Crispin slaps a tag on the next box, writes down the name I tell him with what could be Vale’s Sharpie.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Aspen is smiling as he selects a colorful paper, green with sparkly trees. The glitter dusts across his fingers as he handles it. “I watch these kinds of movies on my phone every Christmas. On the bus. Backstage. The only downside is how there’s no—”

He stops talking, and I look up, a pair of scissors in my hand.

“No sex?” I ask, smirking. Aspen grins, like he didn’t expect me to finish that sentence for him. “That’s what Christmas books are for.” I slide the scissors down the length of the paper, shearing off a proper-sized piece. “Sucks that you guys got stuck though, especially here.”

“Especially here?” Aspen echoes, staring at me with that green and red stripe in his hair spiked up in a tuft. “In your parents’ mansion with amazing food, comfortable beds, and beautiful decorations?”

“And a beautiful girl,” Crispin adds, and I blush again. Ladies’ man. I look up at him, but I don’t make it to his face. I end up staring at the bit of bare chest showing between the unzipped halves of his sweatshirt. Vale offered to fuck me, but he offers to fuck a lot of people. Crispin is flirting, but he flirts with a lot of people. Does it matter?

They’ll be here for like two days. That’s it. Why not enjoy myself?

Vale and Frost come in together, making things weird for me. The former has a word etched in black marker on his right cheek. Anticipate. Did he write that? Did Frost?

They take the pair of theater seats closest to us. Vale tucks his knees up and pulls his sweater over them, wearing a single earbud and writing lyrics on wrapping paper scraps. He watches me from the corner of his eye the whole time. Frost pretends to be engrossed in the wretched film.

Why did I ask about the napkin-number first? Why did I lead with that? I can only imagine how Frost interpreted what I said. He only looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice. I do anyway. How could I not?

“Hey Cyan, do you—” Frost begins, and then my sister, Tina, is in the doorway, bitching about how we’re late for dinner.

Thwarted, once again. Fuck! How do I find a minute alone with this guy? To talk. Or have sex. Maybe both. Hopefully both.

Dinner is stupid early, arranged by my father and supplied by trays of catered food from the industrial fridge in the kitchen. It’s all been perfectly reheated and plated with garnishes. Red taper candles burn in the magnificent centerpieces, surrounded by real garland (probably a fire hazard) and decorated with carved doves and shiny gold bulbs.

The band joins me, making the far end of the table feel a little less lonely than it usually does.

Everyone that’s trapped in the house is present, stretching the formal dining table to its limit.

Inked Pages, me, their manager, assistant, driver, and Donner. Ugh. My parents, of course, as well as my siblings and their spouses. An assortment of nieces and nephews (eight of them). A sprinkling of cousins.

It’s stilted and awkward, filled with complaints about the weather or blatant attempts to schmooze the band.

Afterward, I try to approach Frost as he stands up from the table, but his manager grabs his arm to show him something on her iPad. My mom is right there to distract from my end.

“So, Hunter Markham, the man I introduced you to?” she begins, and I nod, even though I’m not really listening. She takes me by the elbow and leads me away from the dining room and into the kitchen. I used to be afraid of the kitchen when I was little. Is it any wonder?

It’s only when my grandma started baking with me that I learned to love it again. Kitchens are not supposed to be this cold. They should be warm, cozy, full of good food and even better memories.

“What about him?” I ask finally, when it’s clear that Marisol isn’t going to let it go. Her lips are pursed, and it’s clear that I’ve upset her. I think the bright red lipstick she’s wearing is called Shark Attack. Seems appropriate.

“He’s staying next door. Tomorrow, take a pie or something over to him.”

I gape at her, but she’s dead serious.

“You … want me to walk out in the blizzard to deliver a pie?” I’m not sure how to process that suggestion. “It’s so dangerous out there that a world-famous music group has to bunk here with their own stalker.”

“Excuse me?” My mom doesn’t follow, waving her hand to dismiss my words without paying one iota of attention to them. When I moved to San Francisco with my grandma, I thought I was done with this shit forever. I cannot even believe that I had to come back here. “Hunter is what you need to turn your life around, Cyan. Give the man a chance. The house is right next door. It’s hardly a walk.”

She struts away without waiting for a reply.

I decide to see for myself, heading to the front door and peeling it open. My entire body goes rigid with the burst of extreme cold. It doesn’t look like the modern world out there right now, the road piled with several feet of snow. I can’t even see the house where Hunter is staying. Too windy. Too dangerous.

I slam the door and lock it, turning just in time to see Frost disappear into the office with the rest of Inked Pages and their team.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Fuck Kris Kringle and the reindeer he rode in on!

Frost will be here another few nights, Cyan. You’ve got this.

I nod, curl my hands into fists, and head up the stairs to my room. No matter what happens, I am not walking through a blizzard to deliver a pie.

I’d rather screw a rockstar instead.