Chapter Five
When I opened my eyes on Christmas morning I stared straight up at my own reflection. Even the ceiling of the bedroom was mirrored.
My hair was stuck up at all angles. Falling into a deep, exhausted sleep after our fun in the bathroom and with it still damp had ruined my sleek new look. The gray duvet was twisted around my waist and my nipples poked upward. My lips were bruised and swollen, as if I were pouting at myself.
I ran a hand over my breasts and reminded myself of Tim and Dean touching me. Of how glorious they’d made me feel. As my nipples beaded at the memory, the low strum of a guitar rumbled from the living room.
I spread my hands over the sheet, one on each side of me, and sensed lingering heat.
The men hadn’t been up long.
I sat, rubbed my eyes and padded into the bathroom. I showered in the same sweet gel we’d used the night before, found a toothbrush still in packaging and dragged a comb through my hair. Briefly I searched for my panties then remembered the last time I’d seen them they were abandoned and twisted on the kitchen floor. I glanced at my tight skirt and sweater in the corner of the bathroom—not really what I wanted to squeeze myself into this morning.
Making a sudden decision, I pulled on Dean’s t-shirt. It smelled of him, musky and woody, slightly smoky. It hit halfway down my thighs and hung loose on my shoulders and over my breasts. That would do: the apartment was tropically warm and it felt nice to be free of stiff clothes, a holiday feeling.
Placing my hand on the door handle to the living room, I hesitated. Would things have changed between the three of us? What we’d shared last night had been intense, mind-blowing. We were no longer band and artist relations manager; we were something new, something uncharted.
I swallowed a lump of nerves and pushed open the door. I would have to face them sometime, so may as well get to it.
Dean sat alone on a soft leather chair in black jeans, his feet and chest bare and his hair shower damp. His shoulders and neck were hunched over a sleek silver guitar. I paused in the doorframe to admire his golden skin and the intricate swirls of his tattoo.
He strummed several notes and then lifted his face. “Hey, sexy,” he said. “Happy Christmas.” He smiled, flashing white teeth and sending creases darting from the corners of his eyes.
“You too, Happy Christmas.” His smile told me everything was good between us. Very good. I inhaled the scent of roasting coffee and glanced at the giant windows. “Hey, it snowed,” I exclaimed.
“Yep, all night by the looks of it. Good job we were warm and cozy in bed, eh?”
Blinking at the dazzling brightness, I stepped up to the window. The staggered rooftops of London were coated in a deep blanket of pristine white snow, as if they’d been doused in icing sugar. St Paul’s Cathedral, in the distance, sparkled against a crystal clear blue sky. Several ribbons of sooty smoke snaked from pot-shaped chimneys and below me, parallel tire tracks lined the—for once—quiet roads.
“It’s magical,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” Dean replied. “The perfect Christmas morning.”
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
I turned at the sound of Tim’s voice. Like his brother he wore only faded black jeans as he strolled out of the kitchen. He was carrying a tray laden with coffee mugs and Danish pastries.
“I made breakfast,” he said, placing the tray on a low table strewn with newspapers and copies of New Music Express.
“I’m ready for a coffee,” I said, admiring the way the muscles and tendons in his back rippled as he stooped.
He walked over to me, a big red mug in his hand. “Merry Christmas, honey,” he said, pressing a kiss to my cheek and the mug into my palm.
My heart fluttered at his closeness. His hair was damp. He too had showered. His eyes sparkled with a new depth to them. It had changed between us but it was good change. I could tell, I could feel it radiating from them both.
I took a sip of coffee.
“We made page three of The Daily Herald and page five in News Today,” Dean said, pulling a pencil from behind his ear and scribbling on a piece of paper that lay between his feet.
“What do you mean?” I glanced up at Tim.
A small crease formed between his eyebrows. “We probably shouldn’t have hinted that we both liked the same girl on The Claudia Tate Show.”
“Oh, it was only a bit of banter,” Dean said.
Tim gave an amused huff. “Yeah, we know that.” He reached down for a newspaper, flicked it open and handed it to me. “It’s just every damn thing is taken and twisted and played with. That’s why I keep bloody quiet most of the time.”
I looked down at page five. “Could sibling rivalry signal the end of Britain’s biggest band?” the headline read. There was a photo of Tim and Dean facing each other on Claudia’s couch—each had a belligerent, determined expression on their face as Claudia leaned forward gleefully.