Vlad held up a roll of wrapping paper. “Wrapping party, remember?”
Fuck. Colton had, in fact, not remembered. He sat up, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”
“It’s eleven o’clock, fuck stick,” Noah said. “That’s what time you told us to come over.” His hand dove into one of the bags he carried, and he pulled out another set of antlers. “We got some for you too.”
“How’d you get in?” Colton groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
“You gave me a key and the security code,” Vlad said.
“That was for emergencies.”
“This is an emergency,” Vlad said. “Elena wants presents wrapped early to see if they’ll all fit in my Santa sack, and if they don’t then we have to figure out something else.”
Mack snorted. “Santa sack.”
Noah backed away from the couch and cast a gaze around the room, taking in the chaos left over from last night. Scraps of paper were all over the floor by the piano bench, some crumpled. Four empty bottles of water were lined up along the rim of the piano. Leaning against the legs, two of his guitars.
“Rough night?” Noah asked.
“I was up late writing.” Which felt like the world’s biggest understatement. He’d been possessed last night. As soon as Gretchen left, he’d sat down at his piano, and the songs had poured out of him. He didn’t stop until he passed out on the couch sometime before dawn. He hadn’t been that inspired in years. It was as if some great dam in his mind had been cleared of debris and the river of words began to flow again. Which was so shitty of a metaphor that he’d be ashamed to use it in a song, but still . . . it fit.
Noah patted his shoulder. “You wrote another new song? That’s great, brother.”
“Three,” Colton corrected.
“Three?” The guys said it together in a harmonized holy shit pitch.
“You wrote three songs last night?” Yan said, apparently just to clarify.
“That must be some kind of record,” Vlad said, plopping down on the opposite end of the couch. His reindeer antlers jostled back and forth with the movement. “Will you play them for us?”
“No.”
Vlad pouted. “Why not?”
“Because they’re just first drafts.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Noah pointed out.
True. But this was different. For the first time in his life, he was well and truly terrified that people wouldn’t like his songs. And not even just because of what happened with the label, but because these new songs were a total departure from what he’d written before. They were the most honest things he’d ever written.
Colton stood, stretched his arms over his head, and stifled another yawn. “I’m going to go take a shower. Help yourselves to the kitchen.”
The sound of a stampede followed him as he jogged upstairs. When he came back down twenty minutes later, he found them all gathered around the kitchen table with plates loaded with ham, potatoes, and squash—all the things he was supposed to serve Gretchen last night.
Mack grinned, fork halfway to his mouth. “Damn, dude. You had a whole-ass meal in the fridge.”
“I made it for Gretchen last night, but we didn’t get a chance to eat it.” He’d belatedly remembered to put the food in the fridge an hour after Gretchen left.
Malcolm coughed and recovered. “Okay, there is so much about what you just said that requires further explanation.”
“Yeah, starting with why the hell you made Gretchen a ham?” Gavin laughed.
“Because ham is the superior Christmas meat!” God, why did everyone have some kind of vendetta against ham?
“Dude, chill,” Mack said. “We’re just trying to get details.”
Colton dragged his hands over his wet hair. “Fine. Gretchen came over last night to decorate my Christmas tree—”
“Is that a euphemism?” Del interrupted.
“No.”
Malcolm shushed everyone’s laughter with a single look. They settled down as if scolded by the teacher. “Please continue, Colton.”
“We literally decorated my Christmas tree, or, I mean, we started to. And we were going to eat afterward but we got interrupted.”
“By what?” Yan asked.
The most amazing kiss of my life. “A song in my head.”
“You wrote the songs with her here?” Noah said.
“But you won’t play them for us?” Vlad added.