by Amanda Rose
“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 dresse
s, 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 …
My heart skips a beat and I feel just sick inside.
My little bookstore.
Hot Reads for Cold Winters.
I'd borrowed the start-up money from my grandma, made a business plan, bought a building … I did everything by the book and yet … I'd finally had to admit it was over, called a realtor, and left her with the keys when I skipped town yesterday. Now my only hope was that somebody would buy the store—and all the overstocked inventory—before the bank came and took it.
“Hunter Markham,” Miranda says, dragging me up to a group of men in expensive sweaters and khakis, drinks in their hands, warm smiles clearly fueled by said drinks in their hands. “This is my daughter Cyan Fallon,” she says, presenting me … and drawing all eyes to my bright red crotch.
Fuck.
I'd forgotten about the red hot cocoa stain!
“Hunter's the newest hire at our firm and he's single,” my mom says with a bright smile, raising her brows at me. Hunter, on the other hand, is still gaping at my stained leggings.
“Whoa, Cyan …” my brother, Atticus, says as he sneaks up alongside me and points very obviously in the direction of my pelvic region. “You might want to go upstairs and take care of that.”
Sometimes … I hate my life.
“Hot cocoa incident,” I explain with a smile, turning away from Hunter the Douchebag who I wouldn't have an interest in dating anyway—even if he hadn't been staring at my crotch.
Hurrying back through the kitchen and into the foyer, I find the whole of Inked Pages and their crew standing near the front door, waiting for Frost as he comes down the curving staircase.
Damn and fuck.
“Thank you for letting us use your bathrooms,” Aspen says gruffly as Crispin nods his chin, Vale continues sucking on his candy cane, and Frost grumbles something under his breath. But I still have his number in my purse … I still have his fucking number.
“Anytime,” I say, and then it just gets awkward and quiet.
At least none of these people are looking at the truly unfortunate hot cocoa stain.
“Thanks for the ride,” I add, feeling a strange sense of detachment as Crispin lifts his hand up in a slight wave, Vale gestures with his candy cane, and Donner scowls at me.
“Once again, I apologize for what I did in the stall,” Aspen says, looking at me like he wishes he could get to know me better which, like, totally can't be right because he's a famous singer with the voice of an angel and I … walk around in white leggings with gold stars and red hot cocoa stains that look like period blood.
“Nice knowing you,” Frost whispers, cupping my ass he walks by and giving it a squeeze. On impulse, my hand shoots and grabs his dick through his jeans. Nobody sees him touch me, but everybody sees me touch him—including my mom, dad, and brother as they come into the foyer.
Great.
“Nice knowing you, too,” I whisper back, letting go of Frost's crotch and running up the stairs before I can get myself into anymore awkward conversations tonight.
At least … not until I change out of my red spattered leggings …
CHAPTER FOUR
A knock at my door wakes me up around five-thirty in the morning.
Squinting at my cell phone for the time, I curl my lip and stomp to the door, ready to murder whoever it is that's lurking on the other side. I just automatically assume that it's one of my siblings—I have four older ones after all, and even though they range in ages from twenty-four to thirty-two, they have nothing better to do than harass me.
“What?!” I snarl, flinging the door open to the warm glow of Christmas lights and that backlit Mother Mary in a party dress holding baby Jesus in a Christmas onesie oil painting that my mom keeps around because—and I quote—the controversy makes for good, intelligent debates between friends.
It's fucking Vale Kesselring.
“What … are you doing here?” I ask, my scowl falling away as I blink stupidly at him. “I thought … didn't you guys leave last night?”
Vale steps forward and I don't reflectively step back, so he's just all of a sudden up in my face and looking slightly surprised by it.
“Oh?” he says, like he isn't sure what to make of me, looking up into his face, my palms suddenly on his chest. He's wearing a pale blue t-shirt with the words Inked Pages, Saint Paul Christmas Concert Headliners on the front, white snowflakes dancing behind the logo. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” he says, his voice slow and lazy and warm.
“What are you still doing here?” I ask again and Vale takes a step back, dressed in pj pants and slippers … like he's been sleeping here. Admittedly, I only sneaked out of my room once last night to steal spiked eggnog from downstairs, so I wouldn't know.
After my humiliating reintroduction to the Fallon family, I'd hidden in my room with the door locked and binge-watched my way through A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, and Elf before I passed out in the sea of pillows on my bed.
As per usual, my father decorated my room before I arrived—gold and white comforter covered in stars (stars are a big thing in my family), matching sheets and pillow cases, a horde of decorative pillows covered in beads and bits that I've tossed all over the floor because they're uncomfortable as hell, and lights, lights, lights.
A fire crackles in my fireplace (yes, I get one of the house's three fireplaces because I'm the baby of the family and everyone treats me like shit), giving the room this homey feel that makes being away from the bookstore just a little bit easier.
“We were snowed in last night,” Vale says, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, his beautiful blonde-blue-silver hair falling over his forehead. The colors remind me of a morning sunrise over a snow drenched landscape, the golden beams of sunshine bouncing off the white powder, the sky a soft but brilliant blue.
“Snowed in?” I ask, blinking at him and wondering why in the fuck he's standing at my door at five-thirty in the morning to tell me this. “There are only six days until Christmas,” I add, as if the drummer for Inked Pages doesn't know his own concert schedule.
“Terrible, isn't it?” he says softly, his golden eyes boring into mine. Vale Kesselring has a quiet intensity to him that makes my skin feel tight and hot, like I'm trapped inside my own flesh. The only way to escape the feeling … is to let somebody else in.“Your parents offered to let us stay in the house for a night or two until the storm clears.”
“And you woke me up to tell me this … why?” I ask, and Vale smiles softly, his face this angelic little mask that I don't buy for a second. His quiet sweetness, the furtive glances, the soft smiles, it's all part of his man-whore package.
“Screwing random girls is Vale's thing, not mine; I don't want this getting out.”
Frost's words aren't far from the forefront of my mind as I put my palm out against the doorjamb, right next to Vale's shoulder. In his blue t-shirt, I can see that he's got some ink, too, just one tat on his right hand and a few across both knuckles, but it's quality work for sure. It draws my attention away from his sickeningly handsome face and those gold eyes of his … I mean, they're not really gold, just a pale, pale brown flecked with hazel, but they look like stars in a night sky. So pretty.
“I was thinking,” Vale says softly, fluttering his lashes. Like, holy motherflipping Christmas star, he seriously bats his freaking eyelashes at me, “if you were interested in pursuing those strong feelings we had on the bus …”
“Strong feelings?!” I squeak, and then a harsh laugh escapes my throat. “Are you fucking serious right now? Thought because I screwed Frost that I was easy?”
Vale smiles softly and shakes his head, using his tattooed hand to brush through his thick, blonde hair.
“I'd never presume something like that,” he says, but I'm already slamming the door in his face and flicking the lock.
&
nbsp; “Asshole,” I mutter, ignoring the gentle knocks on my door and climbing back into bed. The warm orange-gold of the flames in my fireplace remind me too much of Vale's eyes so I pull a pillow over my head to cover my eyes and try to pretend that I'm not at all tempted by that offer.
But …
A booty call at five-thirty in the morning is just fucking rude. And like, what does he think? That he can have any girl he wants whenever he wants? How arrogant.
It takes me about thirty seconds to chuck the pillow onto the floor and climb out of bed, tiptoeing to the door and throwing it open.
Unsurprisingly, Vale is still out there, staring at my mother's controversial painting. He glances over his shoulder at me, a slight look of confusion on his face.
“Fine,” I whisper, jerking my head in the direction of my bed, “get in here.”
Vale turns around slowly, so slowly that it makes my heart thump like crazy. I feel like he's doing it on purpose, dragging this whole encounter out. He watches me for a moment and then takes a few steps forward, putting his bare toes up against my own.
“I was going to say,” he continues, the bulging biceps in his arms drawing my attention. Like, holy shit. I knew being a drummer was hard work, but wow … just … wow.His biceps are rounded and firm, straining at the sleeves of his t-shirt. “If you wanted to pursue that love of writing …”
“Writing?” I ask, and then remember one of the random side conversations I'd had with Aspen while we'd driven, about how Vale wrote most of the band's lyrics. I'd been interested in knowing more because I'd always had a passion for writing myself, but the bastard had been tight-lipped, slouching in his corner of the couch and smiling at me like a satisfied kitty cat.
“I'd be happy to give you whatever advice you want.” Vale leans in close to me, so close that I can smell him. He's both sweet and musky, like sugar cookies and coffee. Yet another memory that reminds me of my grandmother. She always had a nice fresh, hot pot of coffee on when I went over to bake with her.
I miss her so badly it hurts. She gave me the seed money for my business, a business that I'd failed to keep afloat …
