Chapter 7

CYAN

On the third day of Christmas, I confront my bias

I keep my promise to Vale, rising with a yawn and a few grumbled, holiday-themed curses. We write together over coffee, encased in our very own snow globe. The wind buffets the glass, and I can’t see a goddamn thing outside, but it doesn’t matter.

Vale makes faces when he writes, frowning as he scribbles down a line on his wrist. Grinning as he jots another into his notebook. Laughing shamelessly as he types something on his laptop. He’s a treasure, always holding his coffee in one hand and making magic with the other.

I excuse myself around lunchtime, scouring the house for Frost and coming up empty-handed. Aspen and Crispin are in the office with their manager, doing some dance challenge thing for TikTok. Working even though they’re trapped by a blizzard. Hope the internet holds up for ‘em.

Is Frost hiding from me? I wonder, making a cup of hot cider and stirring it with a cinnamon stick. A splash of brandy wouldn’t hurt. I indulge myself, careful to put the bottle back so my parents don’t find out. My dad loves to day-drink, but both he and my mother will mock me relentlessly for doing the same thing.

“He’s in the garage, working out.”

I whip around to find Vale in the kitchen doorway, the swinging door propped open by his body, a knowing smile on his face. He gestures with a hand covered in writing, indicating the hallway that leads to the utility room and the garage beyond.

“I wasn’t—” I start, but I cut the words short. I was. Vale knows it, and so do I. “Want some cider? It’s spiked.” I hand the mug over before Vale can reply, and then I practically sprint in the direction of the garage.

This is my chance.

I burst into the room, unsure what I’m going to say now that I’ve finally got the chance to be alone with Frost.

What the actual fuck?

I nearly fall down the stairs and die on the squeaky clean epoxied floors.

Frost Manderach is shirtless, dressed in a pair of white joggers with a sprig of mistletoe embroidered on one pocket. He’s showering rapid blows down on a punching bag with Santa’s face on it. Guess he’s getting coal in his stocking.

“Look at you, working your way onto the naughty list,” I say, and Frost stumbles forward, snagging the punching bag to keep himself upright. He turns a shocked look over his shoulder and finds me standing there in a pair of pink fuzzy pajama pants with gingerbread men on them. Again, should’ve gotten properly dressed, huh?

“Cyan.” Just that, my name. He’s panting, voice hoarse from his workout, sweat running down the naked, inked planes of his chest. He tugs the boxing gloves off and tosses them aside. Frost looks around like he’s searching for something, snatching up a washcloth with Mrs. Claus’ face on it and using it to wipe himself down.

Mrs. Claus, you lucky bitch, I think as Frost swipes at his neck, drags the fabric over his taut nipples, and then chucks the rag onto a workout bench. He picks up a matching crewneck sweater and yanks it over his head. The neck is too wide, revealing more of his shoulder and left pectoral than I can properly handle.

“Your brother said I could use his equipment,” Frost begins, moving up to stand in front of me.

The garage floor is heated, warming my bare toes as I peer up at the man who hate-fucked me on his bus. But … we don’t really hate each other. I think we might have a bit of a thing. It sounds too good to be true, but I’d be an idiot not to pursue it while I have the chance. When will I ever have the opportunity to be alone in a room with this man?

“Yeah, he’s a bit of a Chad,” I say with a small smile and a laugh. “He sets all this up just to workout for a few days over Christmas break.” I hesitate, realizing my mistake too late. “Not that you’re a Chad for working out during Christmas break or anything. I know it’s your job and all that, so …” I sound ridiculous.

“Huh.” Frost combs his dark hair back from his sweaty face, evergreen eyes narrowed on me. “You’re not the easiest person to track down, Cyan.” His turn to pause. “Unless you’re Vale, that is. He seems to have no trouble getting your attention.” Frost narrows his eyes as I widen mine. Feels like I’m in trouble here. “Why did you hide behind that hideous plastic Santa and pretend to be asleep?”

He folds his arms, and I know for sure that I’m in trouble now.

“Oh, that?” I force a laugh, trying to ignore the way Frost smells. Like cinnamon rolls. Like the guilt of eating too many cinnamon rolls. Like fresh sweat and balsam fir. “I … was nervous, I guess.” My cheeks heat as I scratch at the back of my neck. “I’ve been trying to find a moment with you since yesterday, but you’re a busy man.”

“Hmm.” That’s it. I have no idea what he’s thinking. He certainly isn’t smiling, but he is standing awfully close. And again, he gave me his number. Asked for mine. All good signs. I wait, but Frost doesn’t elaborate. He does flex his hands which I find much more attractive than is probably normal.

“I know we don’t owe each other anything, but I felt like I needed to come and talk to you.” I drop my gaze when I feel it soften, so Frost doesn’t think I’m the parasocial stalker that he accused me of being. Really. I never would’ve seeked the band out or anything like that. Our meeting was a freak coincidence. “If you wanted to start talking, just getting to know each other, that’d be fun.”

“Talking?” he asks, arms still folded, stance completely standoffish. “That’s what you want to do with me?”

I look up suddenly, and there’s the tiniest gift of a smile flirting around his cranky Grinch mouth. Yes! I knew it.

I shift my weight forward, reaching up a single finger to pick at the excess white fabric of his sweater sleeve, just to see if he’ll let me. He does.

“Since you’re here and everything, we could do … other things. But after you leave, if you want to text—”

I stop talking when Frost moves away to pick up his phone from a worktable, tapping something out on the screen. My phone starts to ring, another one of Inked Page’s songs playing in my back pocket. I rip it out as quickly as I can, and answer Frost’s phone call.

“After I leave,” he begins, and his voice is almost a threat. Deep. Growly. Suggestive. “We can talk.”

I’m so excited that I can’t breathe. This is the only good thing that’s happened to me since … you know. I try and fail not to let the thrill of Frost being into me get to my head.

“Before we go any further, I should just tell you that I sort of, almost slept with Vale.” It’s not easy to say, but I have to get it out there. Frost’s entire body stiffens up, and I wonder how big of a deal this is going to be. Maybe a huge one. Ugh, why did I do that? Why did I invite Vale in when he wasn’t even asking? “It was a misunderstanding. I thought he was booty-calling me yesterday, and I yelled at him.” An awkward pause. “And then I decided, why not? I see now that was disrespectful to you.” Another shitty pause where Frost doesn’t move at all, his dark hair wet and stuck to the back of his neck. “Vale sort of gave me an open invitation to—”

“I don’t care who you fuck,” Frost snaps at me, but like he really does care. He turns around, throwing out what he thinks is a cocky smirk but looks more like a scowl. Aspen can pull those sneaky bastard looks off. Frost just appears angry. “Were you planning on sleeping with that other guy, too? The one that had you cornered the other night.”

“Huh?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, wracking my brain for some clue. It’s there in bits and snatches when I think really hard about it, Hunter getting up in my space. I assumed one of my brothers would come in and find us, maybe beat the shit out of him. They’re mean to me, but only they are allowed to be mean to me—according to them anyway. “I was drunk. I don’t know what he said or did, but I wasn’t planning on sleeping with him.”

“You should fuck Vale. He’s good in bed.” Frost waltzes past me, leaving the garage and giving me little choice but to follow. “Lots of practice.” He tosses that last bit over his shoulder before entering the kitchen, grabbing a cup like he lives here and filling it with water from the fridge.

My eyes find his throat as he swallows, but all of those jitters inside of me have turned to tinsel. I might need emergency surgery like the cat we had when I was in high school. She lived, but my father was furious with her for preventing him from using those glittery strands in his future decorating endeavors.

“What about … like, us?” I ask, and maybe that was the wrong word to use.

“Us?” Frost asks, dropping his glass down and frowning hard at me. “There’s no us. You’re free to do whatever you want. Sleep with Vale. Sleep with Crispin. Grab Aspen while you’re at it. I’m sure they’d all be thrilled.” He slams the glass down on the counter and flees the room like Santa shimmying down the chimney and discovering a fire in the fireplace.

“Hey.” I chase after him, bumping into Crispin in the hallway. He steadies me with his hands on my shoulders, but it’s too late. Frost has disappeared into the no-go zone of the makeshift office.

I can’t decide if I deserve what happened or if he’s being completely unfair.

My inner fangirl is crying again, but not me. I never cry. I might vomit up silver tinsel though, swear to God.

“Uh-oh. Somethin’ happen, Sugar Plum?” he asks, leaning down like he’s concerned. Crispin even uses a thumb to swipe some hair away from my forehead. Sleep with Crispin. Hah. Maybe I will?

I almost say something weird to him right then, but Frost interrupts us.

“Hurry up and get in here. We’re late,” he growls out, acting like I don’t exist. Crispin frowns, and it’s a much prettier expression on him than it is on his bandmate.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere until—”

“I’m all good,” I chirp with a forced smile, turning and fleeing back to the safety of my snow globe and slumping into the chair in front of my laptop. Vale is still here, and I see that he’s started writing lyrics on my dad’s table.

I can’t decide if John will be thrilled that his favorite musician left a mark, or pissed because he’ll have to order a new custom table to replace this one. Then again, my dad does love spending money.

“Didn’t go well?” Vale asks, still holding his coffee. He’s looking at me with those syrupy eyes of his. Maybe Frost is right? I should just sleep with him. Why not? I don’t know if I’m interested in Frost anyway, not after that.

“He’s a jerk,” I admit, putting my fingers on the keys and losing myself in typing up a storm about how much I hate Frost. How I never should’ve had sex with him. I should’ve laughed when he gave me his number, crumpled up the napkin, and thrown it away.

Vale chuckles and goes back to work, interrupting me only when he’s ready for more coffee.

“Are you sure I can’t make it next time?” he asks, but I shake my head, gathering up our mugs and holding them to my chest.

“Of course not,” I sniff, lifting my chin. “That machine takes a little piece of your soul every time you try for a latte.”

He leans back in his chair, tapping his uncapped pen against his dimple and darkening it with black ink.

“Alright then, if you’re sure.” Vale’s long leg is kicked out, dressed in sage green joggers with his own band’s logo on the side. “Thank you, Cyan.”

“You’re welcome,” I sputter, marching out the door and through the dining room. How do I approach the subject? Should I tuck a condom in the Christmas card he gave me, hand it back to him? Do I just pass over his coffee mug and casually mention that I’d enjoy knowing what his dick feels like? “Why is life so complicated?” I whisper, turning and pushing the swinging door to the kitchen open with my ass.

I spin around, lost in inappropriate winter-themed innuendo. Hey Vale, want to shoot me full of snow? Eek. That’s horrible. Worst one yet.

I’m so busy thinking about Vale that I don’t notice Aspen Carver until I crash into his back, stumbling back and dropping both expensive mugs to the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” I curse as Aspen turns slowly around, glancing down at the shattered glass bits near his bare feet. My eyes lift up from the mess and find a pair of white and red sweatpants, the legs decorated with twisting stripes, like a candy cane. It’d have been funny if the lead singer of Inked Pages was wearing a matching shirt.

Instead, I get a face full of pecs, nipples, and abs. See, that’s the thing about being a short chick around tall men—a lot of the best stuff is right at eye level, tantalizingly hard and smooth …

“Are you okay?” he asks me, grabbing a roll of paper towels from the counter and bending down to help me clean up the mess. I kneel, too, but the first thing that I do as Aspen scoops a big pile of ceramic into a paper towel, is knick my finger.

“Krampus’ balls,” I curse, starting to pull my hand back to my chest. Aspen drops the wadded up shards of mug and grabs my hand before I can stick my finger in my mouth. Blood wells up like one of the shiny bulbs on the small tree in the corner of the kitchen. “I’m fine,” I start to say, but Aspen’s already pulling my finger dangerously close to his lips, like he plans on sucking the blood off the tip.

The thought is strangely arousing, especially when our gazes meet across the broken coffee mugs and I see that his blue eyes are shiny with curiosity. I can see the gold rings around his pupils, too. Yet another masterpiece painted by a skilled and brilliant hand.

“Here,” he whispers, putting the paper towel to the blood. It wicks into the white as Aspen applies pressure and releases my wrist reluctantly. “I’ll clean this up if you get me a cup of coffee? I seriously have no idea how this machine works. I never did get my fix yesterday.”

“Deal,” I say with a slight smile. The infectious charisma in Aspen’s posture is intoxicating. And then on top of it all, there’s this layer of humility that wasn’t there at the rest stop, like he got put in his place by my dad. I’m not saying he seems weak though. On the contrary, he seems like a man that’s smart enough to realize when there’s a lesson to be learned in a situation. “Just stuff the broken bits deep into the can, so my dad doesn’t see. He had those mugs custom painted last year.”

Aspen’s brows go up, but he doesn’t say anything, dutifully cleaning up the spilled coffee and the bits of ceramic.

“A whole day without coffee, huh? That’s grossly unfair,” I say as Aspen gets a sponge from the sink and wipes up the last of the mess. After he’s done washing his hands, I pass over a fresh cup of coffee … the mug smeared with blood. “Shit, I’m sorry,” I blurt, but Aspen gently takes the mug away from me and grabs my wrist again.

“Let’s get you washed up,” he says, tugging me toward the sink.

I trip in my slippers—they’re two sizes too big as usual because nobody in my family seems to realize how small I am—and stumble against his chest.

Oh.

“Excuse me,” I whisper, and my voice is breathy and weak.

Aspen smiles at me, and the effect is instantaneous. Warmth spreads through me as our eyes meet, my breath hitching in my chest. “Grab Aspen while you’re at it.” It was Frost’s suggestion, wasn’t it?

“Nothing to excuse,” he whispers back, guiding my hand over to the sink and turning on the tap. Our gazes stay locked as we wait for the water to warm and then slowly, oh so slowly, Aspen pulls my right hand under the tap and tenderly starts to massage me. He presses his thumb hard in the center of my palm and uses the rest of his fingers to rub my knuckles.

“Mm,” I murmur, my eyes sliding closed as Aspen lulls me into this sleepy, sexy state with just his two hands—one resting on my lower back, warm and comforting, and the other massaging me into a state of sheer bliss.

I’m at the point where I can’t even remember why I came in here in the first place.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” he murmurs, his mouth just suddenly at my ear. I can feel his warm breath feathering against the brunette strands of my hair as I watch his hand tease every pressure point in my palm.

“First aid kit?” I echo, but I can barely remember to speak English. What’s the point? Words are just words, right? Whatever’s happening between Aspen and me, it’s beyond that. We’re communicating with body language.

“I think there’s one under the sink,” I manage to breathe, and Aspen chuckles, his voice warm and confident as he moves behind me, the hardness of his cock teasing me through his sweatpants. I can feel the thick heaviness of his erection against my lower back, and I want it.

“Under here?” he asks, turning the tap off with his tattooed hand, inked feathers etched in sharp relief on his flesh. I feel like if I reached out and touched them, they might be soft.

Aspen slides his left hand around to my front, resting his palm against my belly and then dipping lower … lower … I put my hand over his, squeezing in encouragement before letting go. His fingers tease the edge of my pajama pants and dive inside, finding my silky little panties, a single digit stroking the whole length of my slit, making me shiver.

“Is this where the first aid kit is?” he whispers and I groan, leaning my head back into him and lifting my left arm above my head, sliding it behind Aspen’s and digging my fingers into his hair. Standing this close to him, I smell more than just spruce; I smell the crisp freshness of laundry detergent over a layer of fresh sweat, droplets collecting on his skin as he touches me and his arousal intensifies to the point where he’s gasping and moaning almost as much as I am.

“It’s inside,” I choke out, almost a sob, but not because I’m upset (who the fuck could be upset in my position?) but because it feels so damn good.

“It is?” Aspen whispers, pushing me forward with his hips, trapping me against the countertop, the edge of the marble digging into his arm as he slips that single finger under the edge of my panties and finds me wet and swollen.

What is happening to me? I wonder, but standing in that kitchen with the warm glow of string lights, the aromatic intensity of coffee, and the distant murmur of Andrea Bocelli’s version of White Christmas … I make myself forget all about Frost.

“Inside, huh?” Aspen asks, leaning his body against mine and sighing. He’s draped himself over me and I like it. I feel protected, safe, loved.

And uh, I am aware that my hormones are fucking with my brain. I don’t know this guy for shit.

But the feelings are nice … so nice.

I must be really lonely, huh?

Aspen leans a little closer and spears me with two fingers, opening me up and making me gasp. I spread my legs to give him better access and put my hands on the countertop, bracing myself. At first, the penetration is shallow, just the tips of his fingers teasing sweet lubrication from my opening.

But then Aspen withdraws his hand and I whimper as he trails wetness up and along my hip bone, across my lower back, and then dives into my pants from behind. He uses his right hand to encourage me to lean forward, and then cups my heat with his left.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he instructs, and I choke.

“Stop?” I ask, like that’s the dumbest word I’ve ever heard in my life. “Keep going, please,” I beg and bite my lip hard as he pushes my panties aside and thrusts three fingers into me this time. I swear, my eyes are going to roll back into my head and I’m going to pass out right fucking here.

“Your wish is my command,” Aspen says, and I can feel him grinning against the back of my neck, some of that cocky asshole I saw in the bathroom taking over him again. I understand him a little bit better now, after hearing his story and seeing him with my dad. This is a man who grew up in a hard life, earned himself a better one, and discovered that he has worth—and he fucking knows it.

He’s also a good man. I caught a glimpse of that the last two nights. Apologizing. Thinking things over. Helping me wrap presents.

Aspen puts his other hand into the front of my pants and strokes my clit through my panties, putting his lips against my ear and singing along with the current song— Angels We Have Heard On High.

Holy. Fucking. Jingle bells.

“ Angels we have heard on high, ” Aspen sings, his voice this deep, sultry dream that sells records and drops panties, I’m sure. Having a song sung to me while his fingers are buried deep inside? I can feel an orgasm uncoiling from my lower belly, these harsh, ugly gasps coming from my throat.

I can’t help it.

I feel like I’m coming unraveled.

“ Sweetly singing over the plain, ” he croons, nuzzling against the side of my neck, his voice the perfect complement to the distant murmur of the music coming from the living room. “ And the mountains in reply ,” he continues as my muscles clench tight, and I arch my back, pushing my cunt against his hand. “ Echoing their joyous strains ,” he finishes, trailing off as this violent sob breaks from my throat and I climax hard, ensnaring his fingers in my heat, locking down so tight that Aspen bites my ear in frustration.

The song ends and Tarja’s gothic version of O Tannenbaum starts to play.

“Are you ready to amp this thing up?” Aspen purrs, pulling his right hand from my pants and reaching back to push his sweats out of the way. “Because I’m more than ready to—”

“I don’t have time today, Tina,” my mother snaps, shoving into the kitchen just as Aspen pulls away from me and fixes his pants, his fingers still wet, my body still shaking and quivering and pulsing.

Must be a strange sight, seeing me bent weirdly over the countertop like that, my legs splayed, sweat dripping off the tip of my (admittedly still sore) nose and into the sink.

“Don’t dawdle, Cyan,” my mom says, swatting me with a Frosty the Snowman dish towel. “This is why you lost that bookstore of yours—all this idle sloth time.”

The sweet, soft relaxation Aspen coaxed out of me flees like a gust of icy wind, leaving me chilled in its wake.

“If you think I let the store go without a fight,” I grumble, standing up and averting my gaze from the sexy lead singer of Inked Pages. I can’t look at my mom or sister either, staring intently at the floor. “Then we’re strangers because you don’t know me for shit.”

“Oh, stop being overdramatic,” my mother says, Tina chuckling softly beside her, like they have zero idea of how much they’re hurting me. Hell, they’re killing me inside. My grandmother, who grew up poor and stayed poor to put my mother through school, gave me the last of her money when my parents refused to take a chance on their own daughter. And I opened that store, and I paid her back, and I loved it with everything I had.

Love and business just don’t mix, and in my grief, I couldn’t keep up and I lost the store. But I did try, and it kills me that they don’t understand or care.

I busy myself by making a fresh latte.

“Cyan,” Aspen begins, but I skirt his outstretched hand and disappear through the swinging kitchen door.

I need a moment to think, and I can’t do that with my mother sneering at me, my sister laughing, or Aspen looking at me like he’s interested in knowing more.

I already got my hopes up with Frost, and now I remember why it’s better to be comfortable alone.

People will always disappoint.

Because I don’t want to be like that, I make sure to drop Vale’s coffee off before I hide away in my room. He notices the expression on my face and tries to catch my wrist as I go, but I gently push his hand off and make my excuses with a smile.