Secrets to Hide 2: Naughty Little Christmas by Ella Sheridan Page A

face her boss. “Damien, let me introduce Weekend Washout.” She indicated each member, watching Damien shake hands down the line, exceedingly conscious of Hank’s big hand still wrapped around the curve of her waist. As Damien came to stand in front of them, she turned sideways, giving him access to Hank, who refused to take the hint. Allowing his hand to slide only to the middle of her back, Hank offered his other hand to Damien, whose eyes narrowed as he observed the closeness of their bodies.
    Something about that look—a disapproval he had no business feeling—stiffened Harley’s spine. This was the same man who’d told her business would always take precedence, right? So why did he care if some other man put his hands on her?
    Marc joined them, and the introductions were repeated.
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Damien said, his glance taking in the rest of the band. “Why don’t we adjourn to the bar and make ourselves comfortable?”
    He gestured for them to precede him. Harley advanced, the pressure of Hank’s hand prodding her to take the lead. With every step she was conscious of two things: Damien’s dark gaze on her back and the heat of Hank’s touch. Oddly enough, it was the man who wasn’t touching her that she felt most strongly.
    “Have a seat, gentlemen.” She indicated a large table near the back wall of the bar.
    Chad chuckled. “You don’t have to be formal with us, Little Miss. We go too far back for any of us to take you seriously.”
    Irritation flared briefly. Chad was like that—loud, flashy, seeing everything as something to make fun of. But she was no longer the young, uncertain musician they’d known in years past. She’d grown into a woman with a lot of responsibility and a good head on her shoulders, and it was time the guys noticed that. “You might want to take me seriously if you want the exposure this gig could get you.”
    Hank took the more direct approach. Sitting between Harley and Chad, he smacked the back of his fellow band member’s head.
    “Hey!”
    “Grow up.”
    Harley did her best to stifle a grin. Hank never had been willing to take Chad’s shit.
    Marc stepped up to the seat beside Harley’s. “Little Miss?”
    Harley groaned. “Don’t,” she warned her friends. “Don’t you tell them about that.”
    But none of the musicians at the table had any qualms about embarrassing her, except maybe Hank. This time Drew took a turn. “Sorta like Miss Priss. She’s the princess of the indie world, ya know. Not many girls make it in our profession.”
    “Was,” Harley practically hissed at Weekend’s guitar player. “Was, and no matter what you called me, I could still rock you under the table.”
    “I bet you could, niña ,” Marc teased. His little girl caused a hot flush to rush through her cheeks. She glanced at him, her gaze sliding past to Damien, who pulled out the seat on Marc’s other side. He wore that look again, the one she couldn’t place. Derision, maybe? Anger? He obviously did not like the rapport she had with the band, for whatever reason.
    Too bad. He might sign her paychecks, but she’d known these men years longer than she’d known him. She knew how to handle them. Most musicians just wanted to play music; the whole prima-donna thing occurred only rarely in the indie scene, thank God. Harley treated other musicians like she treated anyone else, and they usually responded well to it. And if they didn’t? Life was too important to put up with a bunch of crap, in her opinion.
    “Can we get down to business now, thank you?” She sat just in time for Rico, one of the bartenders, to approach with a tray.
    “Ah, bearing gifts?” Hank asked.
    “Merry Christmas,” Rico told him as he passed out small, squat glasses of a white cocktail. “Welcome to Once. We thought you might like to sample our signature holiday drink, the infamous eggnog martini.”
    “Hell yeah!” Chad shot back his drink with enthusiasm. “Mmm. It