Prologue

PROLOGUE

AURORA

December 1st, one week ago…

All good things begin with a bang.

A firework shot up over the modern white cube of a gallery building. Inside that building, my destiny awaited.

The firework cracked in an explosion of color, lighting up the night sky, then fizzled into nothing but smoke and memories.

I exhaled into the frigid air and shivered at this glorious sign from the universe, and perhaps a bit from the cold, too. Tonight’s art exhibition would be a resounding success.

Snow crunched beneath my feet as I marched across the street to bask in the spoils of my labor. I’d personally curated this retrospective on my mentor Bertram’s winter-themed works. He'd requested me, specifically.

To complete the project, I'd traveled half a world away to North Pole Island. This tiny island, boasting an average temperature of forty degrees Fahrenheit, was the favorite destination for Christmas- and winter-loving tourists. Nightly fireworks displays, Christmas-themed scavenger hunts, and singing "elves" were the major draws.

I’d had to give up my apartment for the opportunity. My roommate needed someone who could actually pay for the space for the two months I’d spent putting the exhibition together. After my boss at the craft supply shop denied my request for leave, I’d had to let my job go, too.

Before all of that, I’d spent years saying no to every outing with my girlfriends. I had to—it was the only way I could put in the hours volunteering at a nonprofit and earn my place in the arts community.

I’d missed almost every Bot-a-Saurus Bash during my four years in college, and over the four years since graduating. The dinosaur-themed robot battle competition was pretty much the best thing ever, so forgoing the event had left a raptor-shaped hole in my heart.

I’d crafted as posh a look for myself as I could accomplish on a meager budget. I was rather proud of my aesthetic, which was best described as “Belk clearance rack chic.”

My entire twenty-six years of life had led to this moment, the moment that would prove I belonged in art’s high society.

All of my sacrifices were going to be worthwhile as soon as the first patrons stepped through the gallery’s front doors.

Everyone was going to cheer, in the art-world’s high-brow subdued way. That meant I would receive respectful head nods and thoughtful dissections of every piece.

New job opportunities would present themselves, and I’d have my choice of paid jobs. In my field.

I was manifesting the life I deserved.

My gloved fingers trembled from the cold. Winter made my chest tight and my eyes burn, too.

It wasn’t because I wasn’t breathing or blinking.

It definitely wasn’t because an itty-bitty part of me was terrified that I’d screw up my big moment.

The tightness in my chest constricted again, as if an invisible python had wrapped itself around my ribs. Only one hour left to wait, and the exhibition would open.

As I stepped closer to the building, I noticed far more cars in the lot beside the building than there’d been when I had left for dinner—weird. I knew the show would be big, but I hadn’t expected people to show up early in anticipation of it.

The lights inside the building seemed to be on, which was also weird, because I could swear I had turned them off before leaving.

I reached for the door handle, then sucked in a long and slow breath, before exhaling and plastering a smile to my face. Fake it ’til you make it.

No, I earned this. I already did make it. My success was inevitable.

I opened the heavy door.

Cinnamon spice punched me in the nose. The gallery was meant to smell clean and sterile, like fresh snowfall, the way I’d left it an hour ago.

Worse, I could swear I heard voices.

Every one of my muscles contracted. The invisible python that had been squeezing the breath out of me made its way into my stomach, twisting and swirling.

People were inside the building, which meant someone could have stolen Bertram’s art.

I raced toward the spot where I’d hung the first painting.

A man in a suit brushed past me, looking over the art. There were others, people perusing the exhibit. None of them should be here.

The first painting was exactly where it was meant to be, but that did nothing to ease the storm of tension building up inside of me.

I froze.

Something was very wrong.

My eyes could not comprehend the sight before them. I knew every single brush stroke of every painting as well as I knew my own face. My brain could not process the huge swaths of red spray paint dripping down the surface of the canvas.

Someone had broken into the gallery.

They’d defaced Whispers of Frost.

With a graffiti rendition of an anamorphic Christmas ornament.

I felt a strange numbness wash over me, as if my mind had detached itself from my body. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a nightmare conjured by my nervous brain, a worst-case scenario, like showing up for high school naked even though I hadn’t stepped foot in the building in years.

I pulled off my gloves and pinched my wrist.

It hurt.

I didn’t wake up.

Someone said something, though I couldn’t make out the words through the panic surging through my body.

I moved through the small crowd of people who no longer appeared interested in the art. All of them had turned their attention to me. I checked painting after painting, finding one after another completely destroyed, as I made my way closer to the centerpiece.

Nonexistent wind howled in my ears. Ice froze my veins. Numbness overtook my limbs.

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real.

I passed a pug wearing a Christmas tree hat sprayed over a sleepy village. I passed a man with an exaggerated mustache, thick glasses, and a hideous Christmas sweater sprayed over a landscape of a frozen lake.

On-the-nose humor was clearly intended here, right down to the glitter strewn Rudolph winking suggestively at the viewer over what had been another gorgeous snowscape, mocking the years of dedication required to create such beautiful pieces of art.

With every step, my heart beat harder.

With every step, my fear grew.

Displayed at the center of the spiraled path, Icicles and Moonlight was unquestionably a masterpiece. Bertram had spent a decade perfecting every subtle glint of light in oil.

Please, universe, let at least the final piece be spared.

Sure, the big day was the better part of a month away, but everyone deserved a Christmas miracle, right? I’d throw out every ambition for this to be mine.

I turned the final corner, reaching the center of the spiral floor.

Spotlights shone down over Icicles and Moonlight, over what had been a masterpiece, and was now a massacre.

My heart dropped.

Extra time and care were taken here by the vandal. The graffiti showed a perverse dedication to destruction in reds and greens and silvers.

On the canvas, Santa stood in a disco stance, hand in the air holding a phone, stomach protruding almost out of the frame. He’d sucked his cheeks in and pushed out his lips in a duck face. A strategically placed mirror showed he’d dropped his pants too low in the back.

My skin crawled. Every fiber of my being recoiling from the sight. This was beyond repulsive.

What kind of monster would commit such a horrific offense?

I couldn’t think of a single reason anyone would do this, ever.

Someone touched my shoulder.

I flinched and whipped my head to the side.

A woman stood beside me, wearing perfectly blunt bangs and a perfectly blunt pantsuit.

She stroked her chin between thumb and forefinger. She glanced in my direction before returning her attention to the horrific image that would forever sear itself into my brain. “Magnificent, don’t you think?”

My mouth opened, but instead of words coming out, there was only a scratchy incoherent sound.

“Absolutely revolutionary.” She nodded to herself.

The room began to spin.

I was going to throw up.

“Excuse me,” I managed to whisper, or some semblance of it, as I stumbled back the way I came. Each turn in the spiral floor plan added to the dizziness circling my brain, like a vulture waiting to feast on its suffering and vulnerable prey.

More people tugged at my sleeves. More words were spoken. All I could do was flee.

I felt like my skin was on fire. Every nerve ending was screaming.

I flung the door open and ran out into the snowy night. I kept running until my legs burned, and my lungs burned, and I felt like I could strip naked in the snow and still burst into flames.

Fireworks whizzed and cracked in the sky, forming snowflakes and Christmas trees and other festive sights. They sparked the kindling that had been building up inside of me.

My body stopped its forward motion.

I bent at the knees and dry heaved.

Nothing came out.

I needed a mint. I needed a magic fairy to show up and roll back time by an hour so I could skip dinner and stop this whole catastrophe from happening. I needed a bottle of tequila.

My life was over. Everything I’d worked for ended in an instant. There was no Plan B. I was absolutely, unquestionably screwed.

“Rough night?” a deep voice said, with a touch of an accent.

Startled, I stood upright, wiped the non-existent barf from my lips, just in case, and twisted on my heel. “You have no idea.”

I turned toward the man the voice belonged to.

With one glance, my first impression was of his vibe—relaxed, self-assured, bright—the male version of everything I used to think being an artist would feel like. He made me nostalgic for a time that never happened, one I’d wished for and even expected.

The mussed set of his dark hair, the lime green color of his pants, and the tattoos spiraling up his for-some-reason bare arms all added to his aesthetic.

Wait, how was he not freezing? He wasn’t wearing a coat.

He was wearing a thick and fluffy scarf, but there was no way that could combat this polar level of cold.

Then there was his mouth, surrounded by a perfectly trimmed beard that contrasted so wildly to his hair that I couldn’t help but stare at it. Or maybe I was staring at his lips—full and perfect and exactly what I’d pick if I were painting the perfect human.

He was too perfect to see me so broken.

And yet here we were.

I’d been staring for far too long. Instead of a once-over, I’d given him a lecherously lingering hundreds-over. I felt my cheeks heat at my realization, but he didn’t seem bothered.

He asked, “Want to talk about it?”

Want to talk about what? Oh, right, my rough night. I’d been so lost in my creepy staring that I’d forgotten what we were talking about.

And just like that, my night came rushing back.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to get completely smashed, pretend I’m an entirely different person, and?—”

With a bang and a sizzle, a Christmas gift firework burst overhead, dissolving whatever words I’d been about to say. Maybe this was my sign, or maybe I was grasping at straws to try and salvage what little sanity I had left.

“Let’s bang,” I said.

The words surprised me, as I had never ever had sex with a stranger before, or even propositioned a man I hadn’t spent a couple of weeks dating first. Then again, like most things in my life over the past few years that weren’t my work, I’d made almost no time for relationships.

A smile spread across his face. It was a gorgeous smile, and as I didn’t know him at all, I had no idea what it meant.

“Don’t laugh if you’re not interested,” I said.

“I never said I wasn’t interested.”

What was his accent? It sounded almost Australian, but different. Maybe that was my ignorance because I didn’t know the differences in regional dialects.

And…he implied he was interested in my proposal. A little thrill of excitement lightened the weight that I carried.

“Okay then,” I said. “No talking about our days, our jobs, or anything that matters.”

“All right.”

“No last names.”

“Do I get to know your first name?”

“Aurora.” I held out my hand, because that’s what you do when you meet someone. I was actually holding myself together like this whole situation was totally normal.

Was I actually doing this? Could I follow through?

“Foster.” He captured my hand in his long, warm fingers.

How was he so warm? How had a simple handshake sparked an entirely new kind of storm inside of me?

It felt like being on a beach in the southern hemisphere instead of on an island in the Arctic. It felt like relief and fun and possibility, like letting go of everything I’d told myself I had to be.

This was absolutely, positively a wild and completely-unlike-me idea.

“Would it be all right if I make a suggestion as well?” Foster asked.

Breathless, I nodded.

“Let me take you for a walk through Christmas Village.” He gestured to the joyful-looking town under the fireworks. “We skip the drinks and talk about everything that doesn’t matter.”

I hadn’t made time to explore the town, and it did look kinda magical. Plus, he was still holding my hand, and my skin was lighting up like the sky because of it.

“I want to say yes. I’m so used to saying no to everything I want. But I might be too chicken to do this”—I gestured between us—“without some liquid bravery first.”

“I won’t touch you, Aurora, unless I have your consent.”

That was the hottest thing anyone had ever said to me. How sad was that?

“And when I do,” he continued with the raise of a dark brow and a flash of the most gorgeous smile to ever grace a pair of lips, “I want you completely present for every moment of pleasure.”

For the love of lemon, I was going to combust right here, right now.

“Would you like a mint?” He offered me my favorite—the chocolate and spearmint kind that melts on the tongue.

This was definitely a sign. And yep, I was internally combusting in a ball of nervous and excited anticipation.

“Yes,” I said to all of it. “Please, yes.”