Free Decked with Holly by Marni Bates Page A

might just have something of quality to show the guys after all.
    Thanks, in part, to Holly.
    I glanced over at her and noted that she wasn’t even slightly perturbed by the music. Once she was out, apparently nothing could rouse her. I yawned hugely as my caffeine buzz faded into oblivion and blearily eyed my watch. Four in the morning. No wonder I was exhausted. The whole reason I had insisted on taking a break was because the long days, and even longer nights, of nonstop work were wearing me down. Yet my first night of official vacation and I had been busting my ass every bit as hard, if not harder, than usual.
    It had to stop.
    So I flipped off the hall light I’d used so as not to disturb Goldilocks on the couch and fell asleep wondering what the guys would think of the new song.
    I woke up only a few hours later to a loud thump and muttered curses from my suite guest.
    I growled and pulled the blanket over my face. I didn’t want to deal with Holly Dayton’s latest disaster. I had played white knight long enough to make amends for the pepper spray. I didn’t care what she needed; I was done.
    â€œNick?” she called out tentatively.
    â€œGo away, Holly.”
    â€œUh, do you mind if I use your bathroom first?”
    Now she was asking permission? Seriously? She was only, oh, about ten hours late on that one.
    â€œSure. Fine. Leave me alone.”
    I heard her mumble something like, “Well, I guess he’s not a morning person,” and fought the urge to snarl in response.
    What I wanted to say wasn’t complimentary.
    I tried to think of the shower as a good sign that she’d be gone soon. I’d probably only have to act semi-polite for another hour, tops, before I could luxuriate in my private suite at last. And if I could just fall back asleep before she stepped out of the bathroom, I wouldn’t have to do or say anything.
    A brilliant plan . . . if Holly hadn’t been a shower singer. It started out quietly enough but then she must have gotten caught up in the song.
    A ReadySet song.
    Maybe it should have been flattering: She had our band shirt, she knew all the words to our songs . . . clearly she was a superfan. And she had no idea she was enjoying a shower in the drummer’s suite.
    But I wasn’t smiling.
    Holly couldn’t sing if her life depended on it.
    She could warble. She could screech. She could make sounds remarkably similar to the yowling of a cat in heat. But singing? Yeah, not so much.
    She was single-handedly butchering all of our biggest hits. It was so painful, I almost yelled for her to stop, but I thought better of it. Knowing her luck, my shout would startle her into slipping in the shower. Then I’d be stuck with a concussed naked girl in my bathroom.
    The naked part might not be so bad if the other factors didn’t exist.
    Factors such as that she was more than slightly unhinged.
    I could still hear her singing brokenly as she used up all the towels I had requested for myself the night before . Then she strolled into the room, wearing her jeans from last night and my stupid Hawaiian-print shirt as if she owned it.
    Well, today Goldilocks was going to get chewed out by the bear.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?” I ground out.
    She looked at me in surprise. “I was about to fold up the couch. I’m sorry, did you want to do that yourself?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t.”
    â€œOkay then.” She walked over to her makeshift bed and started pulling the blankets off.
    â€œThat still doesn’t explain why you’re wearing my shirt!”
    She turned back to me, and while she was looking better than she had last night, that wasn’t saying much. Her face was still too pale and her hair clung together in long wet strands that made her look like a rather destitute, down-on-its-luck rat.
    â€œWhat’s the big deal? It was lying in an ugly heap on the floor. I didn’t think you’d miss