I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen for a long moment, wondering why I didn't just go with the guys to their concert. It would've been fucking phenomenal, I bet. Maybe even one of the best nights of my life? But I didn't want to reward myself with that. Why? Because I lost the bookstore? Because I failed my grandmother?
She passes away and I destroy the legacy she left me?
With a sigh, I close the lid on my laptop and check my phone for messages. I never gave the Inked Pages boys my number, so they have no way of contacting me. Fuck. I didn't even think to give it to them before I left! I find Frost's crumpled number in the bag and look at it for a while. Now, I'll have to be the one to call them.
How stupid, Cyan.
I shove the napkin back in my purse and call the realtor back, the one I listed both the business and the apartment with.
“Hey, Cyan!” she says, sounding far too cheerful for someone who just got interrupted on Christmas Eve by a client. “Good news!”
“The apartment or the store,” I choke out as people start to fill up the church. Outside, it's finally dark again. From here, I can see outside the upper windows, big white snowflakes drifting down out of the darkness.
“The store! We have an offer,” she says, and I can just feel her grinning over the phone. “It's a good one, too. I'll email you the details and we can talk about it after the holidays.”
“Sounds good,” I say, trying not to choke on tears. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Cyan.” She hangs up and I sit there in silence, people slowly crowding the pew on either side of me. I'm surrounded by them, but I've never felt so alone. Now that I'm sitting here though … I see that at least part of that is by choice.
I let myself be lonely because it's what I know, because it's what I understand. Because sometimes, putting yourself out there is hard.
I put my phone and computer away—my bag is big enough to shove them both into—and then sit back to wait for the sermon to start. Is it still a sermon if it's at an agnostic church? I have no idea; it doesn't really matter to me. That's not why I'm here. I'm far from close to taking up any major religion. I just … want to sit here and remember my grandmother.
A few minutes later, the lights dim in the rest of the church but brighten around the stage.
Finally.
I take a deep breath and sit up, folding my hands in my lap.
The strum of a guitar is the first sound I hear, and although the note itself is soft, melodic, there's a certain level of cruelty behind it, a sinful snap that I'd recognize fucking anywhere.
I'm a big enough Inked Pages fangirl to know when Frost Manderach is playing.
“There's no celebration without your heart,” a voice croons from the shadows, just before a flickering spotlight—hey, these guys run a local church not a stadium—highlights the singer, the drummer behind him, the guitarist, and the bassist. “Unthawed and rescued from the storm,” Aspen Carver sings, moving forward with his sapphire eyes scanning the crowd. “If I stoke the flame, will you sit by the fire?” he continues as the audience murmurs, excitement flickering through the pews. “This year, I won't even get a tree because, baby, you're the only gift I need.”
Vale hits his drums nice and slow, an even, steady rhythm that makes my foot bounce in time with the beat.
“Please come home and stay, warm your icy heart, and tell me you're here for me.”Aspen pauses when his gaze catches on mine, the corner of his lip curving up in a smile. “When I wish upon that Christmas star, the only thing I want to see … is your face, your lips on mine, and all your smiles in between.”
Aspen trails off and taps the mic against his other palm, swaying in time with the crowd as Crispin and Frost strum their instruments, bringing the song to life and making my heart flutter inside my chest. I can't for the life of me figure out what they're doing here or how they found me.
“There isn't a peaceful moment anyway, just broken moments, like bulbs fallen from a fucking tree. Without you, there's no Christmas and never, ever will there be.”
The song is slow and melodic, the perfect tune for a dark and snowy Christmas Eve. And as they play … as Vale hits his drums, Frost strums his guitar, and Crispin teases his bass, they all join Aspen in staring at me.
They're so not subtle about it, that by the time the song ends and the room breaks into reverent applause, there's enough space on either side of me for two guys.
“Hello Cyan,” Aspen says, sitting on my right with Crispin next to me. Frost is on my left, Vale on his other side. As they take their seats, the first speaker of the night picks up the microphone and starts to talk.
I don't listen to a damn word of the presentation.
“It took us forever to find you,” Frost whispers roughly, putting his hand over mine and squeezing. “There are a fuck load of churches for such a small area. And you didn't tell us which one you were going to.”
“There aren't many non-denominational churches,” I whisper back and Aspen sighs.
“We came here first,but we didn't see you,” he says, giving me a look.
“Oh,” I say, feeling a flush color my cheeks. And I am not fucking a blusher. I'm just … a little overwhelmed at the moment. “I stopped at the store on my way over here; you guys must've beat me here.”
“Yeah, well, Cherry Pie, we checked every other church in town and then decided we'd give this one another shot. Thank the fucking stars we did.”
“And you brought your instruments with you?” I ask and see Vale's lips curve up in a smile. I can barely look at the four of them, so I just keep staring straight ahead and up, at the stained glass windows of flowers and birds and trees silhouetted against a dark, snowy sky.
“Yeah, well, we're musicians,” Aspen says, taking my other hand in his, “we let our music do the talking.”
And that line is totally going in the book I'm writing … I think with a small smile.
“Give it to her before you plum forget,” Crispin says, nodding his chin. Aspen pauses for a moment and then smiles, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. “We made an offer on your bookstore before anyone else could. Of course, if you want us to just give you the money for the mortgage, we could do that, too. Either way, it's yours to keep.”
Aspen hands me an email from my realtor, one that details their offer—and it's a generous offer, too.
“Your choice,” Vale tells me, leaning forward and putting an elbow on his knee. “Take the money and start fresh. Or you can keep your store. It's our Christmas present to you.”
I hold the email to my chest and try to fight back tears.
They come anyway.
“Don't cry, Cyan,” Aspen says, reaching out to wipe the tear from my cheek. “If we've just started our new relationship and you're already crying … well, that doesn't bode well for us, does it?”
“I'm just … a little overwhelmed is all,” I say and then laugh, loudly enough that the entire congregation glances in my direction. I sniffle and wipe at my nose with the Frost-phone-number-napkin.
He raises a dark brow at me.
“So … this is your confession of love? Because I don't believe in love at first sight,” I whisper and Aspen lets his lips twist into a cocksure smile, like he doesn't believe me. I'm not sure I believe myself either.
“We want to date you, Cyan. So, what do you say? You want to give it a shot?”
“I want to run my bookstore,” I whisper, heart thundering as I turn my head and watch snowflakes falling outside the window, “I want to write book, and … I want to be your girlfriend.”
“His girlfriend?” Frost growls. “Or our girlfriend?”
“Yours,” I whisper, closing my eyes and leaning my head against Frost's shoulder. He stiffens for a moment and then relaxes, smelling like Balsam Fir incense and the musky scent of sweat from his performance. “All of yours.”
And that … that was the merriest fucking Christmas I'd ever had in my life.
One b
lizzard, four bastards, the start of a brand-new relationship.
I was looking forward to it.
C.M. STUNICH
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Description
After securing a job as Santa’s Little Helper in a swanky ski resort, all I needed to do was show up, do my job, and hopefully win the Candid Moments Photography Exhibit. Sounds easy, right?
When elf slippers, ice and an out of control snowboarder combine, I’m forced to watch while my dreams slip through my fingers and shatter at my feet.
Things rapidly turn from bad to worse, when I lose my job and then my home. What other choice do I have, but to accept help from the ones who started this whole mess? The Kings of Snow.
Four of the most elite snowboarders ever to step foot on the snow—notorious for their party boy ways and disposable women—suddenly want to help me. But who am I to warrant such attention?
I’m just Mila, the Elf.
To Craggy Range Sofia, for helping me write on the plane!
CHAPTER ONE
"Ho, ho, ho," I deadpanned and rolled my eyes at the pimple-faced teenager that yelled out a lame your mom's a ho! joke, to the sheer delight of his cackling friends. No matter how many times I tried to tell Santa that the elves didn't say ho, ho, ho he still insisted on it. No two ways about it: Santa was a prick.
"I'm Mila, the Elf," I droned in my couldn't-give-less-fucks-if-I-tried voice as a little girl approached with her mother. "Would you like to sit on Santa's knee and tell him what a good girl you've been this year?" I tucked a stray piece of purple-streaked black hair behind my ear and cringed inwardly at this ridiculous line. Fuck I hope this kid says no. Santa was a total leech. If I was this kid's mom, I wouldn't let her within fifty feet of the slightly intoxicated Santa, let alone sit in his lap.
"You're not an elf!" the snotty child screeched. "You're too tall to be an elf!" To drive her point home, she then decided to stomp on my foot and run screaming through the hotel lobby.
Sadly, my felt and polyester elf slippers were no match for little kid ski boots and I felt my eyes well up as I clutched my foot in pain.
"In case you forgot," Santa drawled, standing up from his seat like it was a goddamn fucking throne and he was the king, "your job is to make kids happy, not send them screaming around the lobby like little terrorists."
"No, Gary, that's your job. I just keep the line in order." I mean seriously, I was Santa's Little Helper not the fucking Tooth Fairy.
"Yeah well, great job you’re doing of that," he snorted, as two more wild things burst free from their parents and started climbing all over Santa’s chair. "I’m going for a cigarette. Try to keep shit civilized, yeah?" He paused and took a long look down my cleavage. Stupid fucking too-tight elf costume. "The brat was right about one thing: you are too tall for an elf … Maybe you should spend more time on your knees?" He didn’t wait for my sarcastic response before slapping me on the ass and sauntering away.
"Pig," I muttered under my breath, while shooting daggers at his back. As disgusting as Gary was, I had no choice but to put up with him. He was Gary fucking Ridgemont, cousin to Graham and Louise Ridgemont who practically owned this entire ski village. One bad word from him and I’d be out of a job and out of a home, seeing as all resort employees stayed in staff housing. It was something I quite literally couldn’t afford.
Recently, I’d sunk the very last of my money into a brand-new Nikon DSLR with all the lenses I could possibly need to pursue my dream of becoming a professional photographer.
Now, my goal was simple: spend the winter dressed as Santa’s Little Helper, and hopefully snap a picture that would win me first place in the Candid Moments Photography Competition. If I could manage that then I’d be set. Sounded easy, right?
A piercing shriek cut through my musing and I cringed as an ankle-biter broke free from its keeper—I mean mother—and launched into a howling tantrum about Santa not being there.
Groaning to myself, I heaved another sigh then turned on my happy-elf-smile. Just three hours until the end of my shift, then if I skipped showering or changing, I’d be able to catch the last of the sunlight.
"Hi there, sweetie!" I sang in a voice sweet enough to rot teeth. "I’m Mila, the elf! Santa just had to step out and check his naughty or nice list, but why don’t you take a photo with his reindeer while he’s gone?"
Of course, the mention of the reindeer perked the wailing child right up; it always did. When I'd first found out that the Ridgemonts had gone all-out on their Christmas decorating, and rented actual reindeer, I'd scoffed at them. What a ridiculous waste of money, as if people gave a fuck about reindeer. But those damn deer were the best distraction in this place for stroppy, spoiled children who had never heard the word no in their lives. Hardly surprising given the price tag for a night at The Ridge.
The child took off screaming in the direction of the reindeer stable with her poor mother trailing behind, and I breathed a short sigh of relief. She was Sara, the reindeer elf’s issue now.
Just suck it up Mila, this job is nowhere even close to the worst thing you’ve ever done. Suck it up. Make some money. Take great photos.
But I couldn’t stop the bitterness and anger clawing at my throat. I should never have taken a job in a ski village, but after six long years my subconscious must have been missing the cold. Somehow I’d managed to sabotage every interview except this one, leaving me with no other options.
"Maybe try not to be so obvious when you slack off work, hey Sweet Thang?" Gary’s sleazy voice breathed into my ear as his hand grabbed my ass. The stench of stale cigarettes and whiskey on his breath made my stomach roll. "Let’s get these brats done so we can skip out early and go for a drink. What do you say?" His hand shifted so it was halfway under my too-short elf costume and his sweaty fingers were biting painfully into my ass cheek.
"I say no, Gary. Same as I've said everyday. You’re technically my boss, and it would be inappropriate." Not to mention fucking repulsive. Smoothly, I stepped out of his grip and returned to my position at the little picket gate to Santa’s grotto.
Gary muttered something as he passed me, which I didn’t need to hear. It was the same thing every damn day. I can fix that, Sweet Thang. A thinly veiled threat that he could fire me at any moment.
Just suck it up, Mila. Three more hours.
The second I flipped the cutesy little sign from Santa’s Here! to Santa’s Sleeping!, I was out of there like my tail was on fire. I’d made the mistake of taking my time once before and almost ended up alone with Gary. Just remembering it gave me chills. Some dudes were sleazy but harmless, and Gary wasn’t one of them.
Power walking out of Santa’s Grotto, I looped my bag strap over my neck and pulled out my camera. The last kid had sat on Santa’s lap for way too long, and the light was already fading. If I wanted any usable pictures, I needed to haul ass.
Guests were already off the mountain and hitting their après-ski pretty hard, so I was forced to weave my way through a packed beer garden on my way out of the hotel. My aim was to catch the sun setting over the ice rink, knowing there would be couples out skating.
My own history with skating made it a masochistic choice, but ever since arriving at The Ridge, it'd been like a scab I couldn’t stop picking. Every time I picked up my camera, the ice rink pulled me like a goddamn magnet.
The evening sun cast a red gold glow over the snow, urging me faster, and I fiddled with the settings on my camera as I raced around the hotel toward the ice rink. My flimsy elf slippers slid across the snow and the cold bit into my feet. I really should've put boots on, but I’d missed these shots all week and the competition deadline was fast approaching.
"Watch it!" A sharp yell came with just enough time to save me being plowed down by a way off-piste snowboarder.
Unfortunately for me, elf slippers did not allow for decent grip on hard packed snow and my arms pinwheeled, trying to regain balance and not drop my camera.
"Whoa, I’ve got you," a man chuckled, popping out of fucking nowhere and grasping my waist to save me from falling. A startled scream squeaked out of me and then the whole world seemed to move in slow-motion. My beautiful, expensive, brand-new Nikon slipped from my cold fingers. Panicked, I tried to dive for it but the stranger was still holding my waist so I could do nothing but watch as it hit the ice, bounced, then skittered to a stop against the wall with a crunch.
"No!" I screamed as my camera hit the ground with a sickening crack and I finally broke from the stranger’s grip. "No, no, no, this isn’t happening! This can’t be happening!"
My knees hit the ice and I snatched my camera up and cradled it to my chest, frantically checking it over. Please, please be okay! Sadly though, the power of thought wasn’t going to mend the spiderweb of cracks across the lens, nor would it put the broken housing back together. Fuck. My. Life. Why wasn’t magic real? If I had magic, surely this could be mended with the wave of a hand and some gibberish, right?
"Hey, are you okay? You almost got killed," the husky voice asked hesitantly, and I looked up at the stranger with tears clouding my vision.
"Do I look okay?" I hissed. "You just scared the shit out of me and now my camera is broken! Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost to get fixed?"
"Whoa, babe, I just like … saved you from getting hit by an out of control dickhead. You can’t seriously blame me for this." The guy held his hands up defensively, and I swiped the tears from my eyes in order to better see him as I glared.
"Oh god, of course it’s you," I scoffed with disgust. That devilishly handsome face was unmistakable; it'd been all over billboards and the sides of buses for years and he—along with his three team members—had caused a media circus in The Ridge for the past week.
"I’m sorry, do we know each other?" he, Ryder Bailey, laughed awkwardly then gave me a sultry smile, his dark blue eyes sparkling. "I mean, you look sort of familiar? Hot tub party on Thursday right? You were the one that did that thing with the redhead with the huge tits, right?"
Billionaires, Boarders, and Bastards: A Limited-Time Collection of Reverse Harem Romance Novellas Page 11
