Frost and Fire (Christmas at Hall Farm #1)
Chapter 1 Bastian
BASTIAN
Post-gig chill is better than post-sex glow. I said what I said.
I’m sure I’d feel differently if I were getting sex on the regular, but I’m not. I can’t remember the last time someone else’s hands, mouth, or dick were anywhere near my body.
So watching my bandmates in the afterglow of a show, when the adrenaline has softened into something mellower but still electric? Pretty perfect.
There’s a special kind of magic in these hours, when we’re all sprawled around someone’s hotel room, or in this case, Mik’s living room, dissecting our favorite moments between bites of takeout.
We’re Hall of Fame: Mik, on the guitar, Fox on bass, Stone on drums, and me, the voice. Four kids scouted to be the best rock band in the country, and we actually made it. And then there’s Nikko, Fox’s younger brother and our tour manager. He’s as much a part of the band as we are.
I sit cross-legged, my back against Mik’s plush couch, watching Fox, the only one of us who put his food on a plate, as he meticulously separates his curry into neat sections. Some habits never change, even after twenty-five years of touring together.
Stone sprawls across an armchair, his perfectly manicured hands gesturing as he recounts the night’s most memorable moment.
“I swear, who requests ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ at a Hall of Fame gig?” Stone’s laugh fills the room. “Like we’re some cover band at a county fair.”
On the floor beside me, Nikko scrolls through his phone, occasionally reading out social media reactions to our impromptu set at The Academy, an old school building turned into a restaurant in the small town of Stillwater, Connecticut, where Mik decided to settle down.
“‘The Hall of Fame secret gig was life-changing,’” he quotes, then snorts. “It was a restaurant gig, not Madison Square Garden.”
“Hey, every show matters,” I say, though my words get partially lost in a mouthful of green curry.
Nikko doesn’t look up from his phone, his thumbs moving rapidly across the screen. “They’re loving the impromptu gig. Small venue performances always get the best reactions.”
The door swings open, and Mik enters with his boyfriend Tyler, their fingers loosely intertwined. Something in my chest tightens at the casual intimacy of the gesture. They look so right together, like a song finally finding its proper key. Mik’s smile is brighter than I’ve seen it in years.
“Room for two more?” Mik asks, though he’s already settling on the sofa with Tyler beside him.
Stone immediately sits up straighter, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, well. Look who’s back already.” He checks his watch with exaggerated concern. “What’s it been, two hours? Two and a half?”
Fox doesn’t look up from his meticulously organized plate, but I catch the slight smirk tugging at his lips. “Record time, really.”
“Hey now,” Nikko chimes in, setting his phone aside to join the assault, “we told you to take all the time you needed. All night, even. But here you are…”
“Missing us already?” Stone adds, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “That’s sweet, Thor. Really. But we thought you’d have better things to do than hang out with your bandmates tonight,” he says, using the nickname we came up with for Mik because of his Scandinavian heritage.
Tyler’s cheeks flush pink, but he’s laughing as he buries his face against Mik’s shoulder. Mik himself is turning an impressive shade of red, running his free hand through his hair in that nervous gesture we all know so well.
“Jesus Christ, you guys are worse than teenagers,” Mik mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.
“We’re just saying,” Fox adds mildly, finally looking up with those sharp amber eyes, “when a man gets the all-clear from his bandmates to celebrate properly with his guy, we expect a little more…commitment to the cause.”
From somewhere near the hallway, a young voice pipes up. “La la la la la!”
Kay, Mik’s teenage daughter, appears briefly in the doorway, hands clapped firmly over her ears, before dramatically spinning around and marching toward the kitchen. “I can’t hear you! I’m getting juice.”
The room erupts in laughter, and even I can’t help but grin. It feels good, this easy ribbing between brothers. Normal. Like maybe we can face whatever comes next without losing the connection we have. Our brotherhood.
We fall into easy conversation about the show, about the way the crowd’s energy filled that small space, about how different it felt from our arena tours.
It’s comfortable, familiar, until Stone suddenly tightens the lid on his container with a sharp snap.
He sits up straighter, his usually playful demeanor replaced by something more serious.
“So,” he says, his dark eyes scanning the room, “are we officially on hiatus?”
The question lands like a stone in still water.
Nikko’s thumb freezes mid-scroll, and Fox’s fork hovers above his plate, his rice dripping onto the curry sauce.
My shoulders tense, the curry sitting heavy in my stomach.
We’ve all known this conversation was coming—hell, I’ve talked to Mik about it and even welcome the change—but knowing doesn’t make it easier.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the soft hum of the heating system. I look around at these men who have been my family for more than two decades, reading the weight of the moment in their faces. Even Tyler, the newest addition to our circle, seems to hold his breath.
Mik breaks the silence first. I envy his certainty, the way he can speak about the future like it’s already written.
“I’m staying put,” he says, his hand finding Tyler’s. “Kay needs stability, and I need…” He glances at Tyler, a smile softening his features. “Well, I need this.”
The weight of everyone’s eyes shifts to me, and I fight the urge to squirm. My calloused fingers find a loose thread on my jeans, worrying it as I speak. “The farm needs me full-time now. Dad’s health isn’t great, and I can’t keep splitting myself between two worlds.”
Fox nods slowly, his amber-brown eyes thoughtful. “Taking time to figure things out isn’t a bad thing,” he says, still methodically organizing his food. “We’ve been running full-tilt for decades.”
“I’ve got some production offers,” Stone adds, but his voice lacks its usual swagger. “Studios in LA, Nashville. Nothing concrete yet.”
Nikko’s anxiety radiates off him in waves as he sets his phone down. His fingers drum against his thigh. “And what exactly happens to a tour manager when there’s no tour to manage?”
The question hangs there, sharp and uncertain. I watch his features tighten, see the way Fox subtly shifts closer to his brother. Years of reading each other’s cues makes the undercurrent of panic impossible to miss.
“Look,” I start, “this will take some time to get used to. We should see it as an opportunity to evaluate what we want for our future, not just as a band, but as individuals. The farm will always be home to all of you.” I turn to Tyler. “That includes you too, Ty.”
Relief softens Stone’s shoulders while excitement brightens his eyes. He’s always loved the farm’s recording studio. Fox’s expression remains carefully neutral, but I catch the slight uptick at the corner of his mouth.
But it’s Nikko who leans forward, his anxiety finding a new focus. “What exactly would I do there? Tour managing is my thing. Are you suggesting I go into farming?”
“You manage logistics better than anyone I know,” I say, meeting his worried gaze. “A farm is just a different kind of tour. Feeding schedules instead of sound checks, equipment maintenance instead of guitar tech. The skills translate.”
If he could throw daggers with his eyes, I’d be dead, so I raise my hands to clarify. “I’m only joking, but if you want to keep busy while you figure out what’s next, I can help you with that. Or maybe another band?”
“And what about our identities?” Nikko presses. “We’ve been Hall of Fame for so long. Who are we without that?”
The question hits closer to home than I want to admit. I’ve been asking myself the same thing every time I look in the mirror lately, seeing the growing silver in my hair and wondering if I’m more Bastian Hall, the rock star, or Sebastian, the farmer’s son. The answer changes depending on the day.
Kay reappears from the kitchen carrying an armload of snacks that would make a nutritionist weep.
Chips, cookies, candy bars, and what looks like enough sugar to fuel a small concert.
She dumps her haul on the coffee table with the satisfaction of someone who’s just solved world hunger.
“Thought you guys might want dessert,” she announces cheerfully.
A collective groan rises from the room. Stone clutches his perfectly flat stomach with theatrical horror. “Do you know what processed sugar does to a man my age?” he mutters, but his hand is already reaching for a cookie.
Fox shakes his head disapprovingly while simultaneously muttering about how many extra miles he’ll need to run tomorrow, yet somehow, a bag of gummy bears finds its way onto his lap.
Even Nikko, who usually supplies the band with healthier snacks to prevent sugar crashes, perks up at Kay’s junk food selection.
“Finally, someone who understands proper snack distribution.” He grins, already reaching for a bag of chips.
“And before anyone says anything about my choices, I’m still on the right side of forty, my metabolism can handle it. ”
Stone gives him the finger while Fox pushes his brother off the couch.
We’re all getting older, all more conscious of what our bodies can and can’t handle, but none of us can resist Kay’s offerings. Some things never change. We’re still just a bunch of guys who can’t say no to junk food and good company.
Eventually, everyone drifts away to the guest rooms, leaving Mik and me alone. We start gathering empty containers of food and half-eaten bags of chips to take them to the kitchen. I don’t need to see the way he glances at me to know he has something to say.
“Okay, let it out,” I say, nudging him with my elbow as we cross the threshold into the kitchen.
He makes me wait until he’s put everything away and then leans against the counter, crossing his arms.
“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”
I lean against the sturdy oak kitchen table.
One that is clearly meant to have a big family around it, just like the one at my parents’ farm.
“I’ve only ever been sure of one thing: music.
But that was before I was away from home for months on end.
Before I started missing calving season, or hearing that someone else was naming the calves.
Why do you ask? Are you having a change of heart? ”
Mik shakes his head. “Not at all. I need this. Kay needs this. But I do feel guilty that my wanting to settle down has forced this change on everyone.”
“Maybe we all need it, but just haven’t had a good enough reason to do it. If we’d given it a couple more winters, I would be the one doing it. Dad’s health isn’t what it used to be.”
Mik nods his understanding. When we started, we were four kids filled with dreams and zero responsibilities, five when Nikko came to work with us.
Since Kay was born, I’ve known we were on borrowed time.
If we’re honest with ourselves, Mik settling in one place to give Kay a chance at a normal life probably should have happened long before now.
“So,” he says, his tone deliberately casual, “what about the farmer next door?”
The question catches me off guard. “What about him?”
“Last time I was in Vermont, things seemed a little tense.”
“He’s like fucking burdock in the pasture,” I mutter.
I go back to the empty containers I carried in, scraping off every tiny bit of food before placing them in the recycling bin.
Anything to avoid meeting Mik’s gaze, to avoid acknowledging the complicated tangle of emotions that comes with thoughts of Taylen Howard and the way his hostility burns like ice whenever our paths cross.
“I don’t know what that means.” Mik laughs. “I’d love to find out, but I have a sexy man in my bed upstairs and I’ve already left him alone too long. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Sure thing.” I drop the last of the containers into the trash and then wash my hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll make my way home with the knowledge that I’m definitely there to stay. But right now, Vermont feels both too close and too far away, and Taylen… Taylen feels like a storm I’m not ready to weather.