Billionaires, Boarders, and Bastards: A Limited-Time Collection of Reverse Harem Romance Novellas

by C. M. Stunich

  “Well, it'll be a pleasure to know you're out there watching, Cherry Pie.”

  “Cherry Pie?” I ask with a raised brow and Crispin gives me this adorable little good old boy smile.

  “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, Cyan Fallon it was, right?”

  “Cherry Pie is fine …” I say, because the man is wearing a gray wife beater and jeans with gray leather boots, and fuck, he really does look like Chris Hemsworth. Why did I just tell a complete stranger he could call me Cherry Pie? 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 cherry pie, so it fits,” Crispin says and I seriously can't tell if he's full of shit or if he's actually a nice guy.

  At least he's not as confusing as Vale Kesselring. The beautiful blonde is enigmatic, like slouching there in the corner with his heavy-lidded eyes is a trick to make people more interested in him, in all the secrets he's hiding. His blonde hair hangs over his forehead, streaked with pale blue and silver.

  So fucking cute. And sexy. God, 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 you do for a livin', Cherry Pie?” Crispin asks, looking down at me with those big brown eyes of his, the colors a glorious striation of espresso brown, auburn, and chestnut.

  “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. “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 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 candy canes 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 on any online gossip blog before and I'm curious as fuck.

  “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 sapphire eyes focused on my face as I change my mind and reach out to grab a candy cane, “is that it gets better. There's nothing a human being can't come back from.”

  “All true,” Vale purrs, sitting quiet and stoic on his corner of the couch, just sucking and sucking and sucking on that candy cane. He smiles at me when I look at him, and my skin prickles with goose bumps.

  Frost sniffles and looks at me again, our eyes meeting across the room with an almost tangible flicker of power in the air. Wow. 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. Not that I think Frost Manderach is good boyfriend material or anything, but as an occasional lover … okay, frequent lover … he'd be quite nice. The perfect fuck buddy.

  The bus slows to a crawl and then … stops.

  “Looks like we're here, sugar pea,” Crispin says, sounding disappointed.

  I realize after a moment … that I am, 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, sloshing red hot cocoa all over my leggings. Oh, fuck my life. I'd forgotten the butch bodyguard was even there.

  “Good luck with the job hunt,” Aspen says, nodding his head at me, still squinting and sniffling but no longer glaring at me. 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. “Nice to meet you all and thank you for the ride.”

  Crispin stands up 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 hard. No, he's just warm and hard in all the right places—except one since he seems to be a gentleman—and he smells like gingerbread and fucking sunshine.

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

  “Take care o' yourself, Cherry Pie,” Crispin says as I give Vale a little wave and he winks at me, flicking his tongue against the curved end of the candy again. Yet again, I'm reminded of pussy. Er, pussy cats. Cats, I'm reminded of cats.

  “See you later,” Frost says, 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. Holy fucking snowballs, 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 cocoa on my crotch, and oh my fuck, it is cold. I decide to slip into my coat when I hear the bathroom door open.

  “Forgot that your assistant clogged the shitter,” Frost says and I cringe. Wow. What a crude asshole.

  “She didn't clog it,” Vale says, 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, fuck off,” Frost says, 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.”

  “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.”

  I can already feel my nipples pebbling, my sex throbbing with need. 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 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 on
ce.

  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.

  Wow.

  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, Cherry Pie, can I help ya out there?” Crispin asks, raising his voice to be heard above the storm. 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 fairytale 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 starting to get dark, so my dad's famous outdoor white Christmas display is up and on, soft white twinkle bulbs pinned in strategic swags, wrapped around the three 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 he 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, Cherry Pie, but you had a big icy snowflake stuck to your brow.”

  I swallow hard and 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 raped?” 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.

  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 one that's heading to the Saint Paul Christmas Concert this year? 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 says, turning away.

  “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, trying not to look at me. Ouch. Wow, I thought he was just another cocky asshole type, a bad boy clone like Frost. But … there's a shame and a chagrin to him now, a level of humility that I did not expect.

  “We have … several,” I say, coughing into my hand and shrugging out of my 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 at me, still sucking on his candy cane, 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.

  “Miranda,” he says 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 leaves me there.

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

  “Cyan,” she says, 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, playing with the gold and diamond Christmas tree pendant around her neck. 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 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 road with no cell phone, I'd walked to my friend'
s house to spend the night, collapsed into bed and forgotten to call them.

  When I'd woken up, my face was all over the news.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Dad says, moving away and leaving me in the kitchen with my mother. 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.

  “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.”

  I feel my skin pebble with goose bumps. All I want to do is head upstairs and see if Frost is still waiting in the bathroom for me …

  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, Miranda 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 …