Snow and Seduction: A Steamy Reverse Harem Winter Collection

by Amanda Rose

  But as soon as I get downstairs … I feel my heart drop into my stomach, shattering like a chunk of ice … melting like the snow outside the open front door.

  As I stand there gaping, Tina moves past me, dragging her eight year old son by the hand while he screams. I figure he's probably shouting because he's dressed in the most hideous Christmas outfit I've ever seen, decked out in a neon green sweater with a maniacal Santa Claus on the front (he looks like a goddamn serial killer), red pants with snowflakes, and boots with giant puff balls that jiggle as he walks.

  One look at it and I know—it's all Gucci.

  Designer name … but still ugly.

  “What happened?” I ask, holding my computer close and trying not to feel sick.

  “While you were sleeping in …” Tina groans, yanking the child to the door and pushing him outside into the rapidly melting snow. His father intercepts and takes him the rest of the way down the freshly shoveled walk to the waiting minivan. “Sorry,” Tina says, pulling her brunette hair into a ponytail, “but we're taking the older kids to pick out gifts for the younger ones.” She rolls her beautiful green eyes like this is the worst possible hardship, taking your kids out to buy presents for your other kids. “It was their idea, but now that it's time to leave, the fit throwing starts.”

  “While I was sleeping in …” I prompt, waving my tattooed hand for her to continue. “What?”

  “I don't know weather,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “but some kind of … warm front or something came in and voilà, we're free to go about our business. Oh, Mom already left to put in some time at the office, but she'll be back later.” Tina pauses and then moves over to the door, screaming outside at her husband.

  She forgets we're even having a conversation and storms out, slamming the door behind her.

  “Oh.” That one, simple syllable, dripping with sex, but somehow soft and sweet at the same time, draws my attention around and I find Vale standing on the stairs, one tattooed hand on the banister, his golden eyes watching me. “The storm's stopped.”

  “Yes, the storm's stopped,” Donner says, parading into the room in the worst Christmas sweater of all time. This one has a giant felted wreath on the front with actual ornaments dangling off of it, swaying with her movements as she comes into the foyer and gives me a raised eyebrow before flicking her attention to Vale. “I went to wake you up, but you weren't in your room. Guess I know why now,” she mutters under her breath and I glare at her.

  “It's Christmas Eve, for fuck's sake. Are a you a bitch everyday of the year?”

  “Everyday except Mother's day,” she quips, giving me a fake, bitchy smile and ruffling up the frosted spikes of her white-blonde hair. “Go wake the other boys up; we need to get on the road if we want to make it before it gets dark. There's a chance the storm could start up again.”

  That icy feeling in my chest … intensifies.

  Seriously?! Fucking seriously? I finally find some friends … fuck buddies, oh whatever the hell you want to call them … and the goddamn storm can't last just a day or two more? That's all I wanted. I never expected this to last forever.

  “Are you okay?” Vale asks, but my throat is tight and I'm decidedly not okay. I don't want them to go, not yet. You could always go with them, I tell myself, but it's Christmas and even if my family is made up of rude assholes that ignore the shit out of me … I need to stay. I know my grandma would've wanted me to.

  “I'm fine,” I tell him, moving into the living room and staring up at the twenty foot Christmas tree soaring above us. It's decorated not with fun, eclectic ornaments collected over years, but with a very specific set of themed bulbs in my father's color choices for this year—gold and white. Boring. I can see Vale moving up behind me in the reflection of a shiny gold bulb.

  “It's the mass thing?” he asks, and I keep my attention on the tree for a long moment before I turn to face him. “We promised,” he adds, as if I'm doubting that they'd go now that there's a chance to make their concert.

  I am, obviously, but it's an irrelevant point because if even if they would stay, I wouldn't want them to. One of the biggest holiday concerts in the United States? Or going to some tiny non-denominational church to sing songs and eat a potluck dinner?

  Easy choice.

  “You guys should go,” I tell him, and Vale's lips purse. “Seriously. Your concert is about a million times more important than one random church thing. I'm not even religious, so it's not like it matters.”

  “Why don't you come with us then?” Vale asks, raising an eyebrow and ruffling up his silver-blonde-blue hair. “You can watch the concert from backstage, go to New York with us for a few days, and then we can take you back to San Francisco.”

  “I should stay with my family,” I say, and I know I'm making this purposely difficult for myself. I should just go with these guys. Honestly, I'd probably be a hell of a lot happier that way. But my family's always walking out on me and Idon't want to do the same to them. If I can't keep my commitments and promises, then how can I expect anyone else to? Besides, keeping the family together was one of the most important things to my grandma. Those last few years in San Francisco, I think they just about killed her, being separated from my mother like that.

  But I know why she did it.

  It's easier to move away and be forgotten than sit around and become a ghost in your own home.

  Still, if my mom hadn't flown back to DC already, then that was a good sign; I needed to stay.

  “Call me when you get back to San Francisco,” I say, knowing that later, after the holidays are over, if they do call … I'll go. Just not right now. I smile and hold my arm out to give Vale a one-armed hug.

  He gives me a look.

  “Let me just talk this out with the boys,” he says, giving me the hug and burying his face in my neck for a moment. When he pulls away, I smile and wait as he moves up the stairs and disappears into my room.

  I follow after him, but instead of going into my room, I slip into Tina's and borrow one of her Dad-supplied Christmas dresses. My sister's a bit curvier than me, but I find a gorgeous white and red sleeveless dress with a deep-V neckline that fits me well. The slip portion of the dress is tight-fitting and ends at the knee, while the gauzy and beaded outer layer flares out from the hips, an ombre of white to red, ending in a near crimson layer at the bottom.

  Tina and I might not share many physical attributes, but at least we're the same shoe size.

  I find a box of gold heels with Wear with Red/White Dress scribbled on the top. Aaand, that would be my father, micromanaging our clothing the same way he micromanaged every degree my siblings ever earned, the careers they chose, their spouses.

  I'm the only one that ever voices dissent.

  After I'm dressed, I take my computer, head downstairs and slip into a black wool coat.

  I tell myself I'm not running away, that I'm just being realistic. The guys should go to their concert and call me later, when they get to San Francisco. That makes sense. But at the same time, I can't even imagine that scenario happening. As soon as they leave here, they'll forget me. Why shouldn't they? Everybody else does.

  Without even asking, I take my father's keys, borrow his black SUV, and drive myself to the church.

  I'm early, hours early, but it doesn't matter. The interior of the non-denominational church I found online is decked out in lights, garlands, wreaths. They even have their own tree in the front left corner. It's a peaceful place for me to sit and write, my MacBook balanced on gauzy knees, light from the stained glass windows coloring my hands all sorts of different colors as I try to explain what I'm feeling inside.

  Er, what my character is feeling inside. Because she … she isn't me. I write her the way I wish I were, with the strength and self-confidence that I know I'm lacking.

  You're torturing yourself, punishing yourself on purpose, but the question is why? You don't have anything you need to make reparations for, silly.

  I stare a
t 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 everyother 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 blizzard, four bastards, the st
art 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.