Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice strained and my throat tight. “I don’t know why, I… I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be like Dad.”
“Then don’t be,” my brother says, his tone kind and compassionate, because he’s nothing like our father. He may have been a womanizer earlier in life, but Elliot is never unkind or stingy with forgiveness. He’s a good man, the kind of man I want to be in moments like this, when the icy shell around my heart has melted enough for a bit of warmth to pierce the cracks. “I’ll come pick you up tomorrow morning on the snowmobile and we’ll start fresh. We can still have a wonderful Christmas.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as my stomach cramps tight below my ribs.
Maybe he’s right, maybe we can still have a wonderful Christmas.
Or maybe I’m rotten at the core, just like my father. Maybe I’ll always be the cranky asshole who shits on everyone else’s happiness. The man who never hesitates to remind people that the world is a dangerous place full of horrible, selfish people, and that holding on to hope in a world like that is breathlessly, stupidly naïve.
Either way, I don’t know how I ever thought, even for a moment, that I could be what a woman like Holly needs. Holly is sweetness and light, trust and joy and unbridled love for every creature she meets—man, dog, or weirdly clingy chipmunk. And yes, she has a mischievous side, but she’s gentle to the core. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone endanger the life of an employee because she was having an entitled asshole moment.
I don’t deserve more time with her. I don’t deserve anything good and pure, not until I’ve proven to myself that I can truly turn my life around.
“Thank you,” I tell my brother, ignoring the churning in my gut as I realize what I have to do. “I’m going to try to be a better man. I promise.”
“And I’m going to help you,” he says, gracious as always. “We’ll have fun, I promise. I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“See you then,” I say, ending the call and beginning to run my hands over the counter, searching for the flashlight.
Secretly, I’m hoping it will take a long time—all night, even—and I won’t have to face Holly until it’s nearly time for me to leave. I hate to hurt her, but better a little hurt now than a bigger hurt later, once we’ve had dozens of adult sleepovers and real feelings have started to develop.
But when I find the flashlight a few minutes later, my gut is still protesting my decision with persistent jerks and snarls.
And when Holly calls down, “Luke, are you okay? Bark once if you’re okay, bark twice if you’ve been captured by a serial killer and need to be rescued,” my stomach drops through the floor.
I almost bark. I almost play along, but the decent voice in my head refuses to let that happen. I can’t lead her on anymore, not for another second.
“I’m okay,” I say, my voice echoing hollowly in the empty room. “But we should talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yes.” I sigh. “We should talk.”
“Nope, I don’t think so, not when you sound like that,” she says. A beat later, the door slams at the top of the stairs, plunging me back into utter blackness.
Chapter Eight
HOLLY
I lean against the door, holding it closed until I find the deadbolt and flip it into place, my heart slamming against my ribs the entire time.
What are you doing? You can’t lock a billionaire in a basement until he falls in love with you! This is a rom com, remember? Not a Stephen King novel.
“Shut up,” I hiss to the inner voice. “I’m not locking him in the basement until he falls in love with me. I’m locking him in the basement until he’s no longer a danger to himself or others.”
“I can’t hear you through the door,” Luke calls from somewhere on the stairs. “What’s going on?”
Heart still galloping, I call back, “Nothing, it’s just too close to the holidays for serious discussions. And the moon is in the wrong house and Mercury is probably in retrograde and I haven’t had coffee in nearly twenty-four hours so…best if we just pretend this sudden urge to communicate didn’t happen and circle back on this in the new year.”
“Holly,” he says, now directly on the other side of the door.
And his tone still full of certain doom.
“My friend Kayley always has a fancy sleepover party at her hotel on New Year’s Eve,” I say in a rush, determined to babble until I’ve exhausted his ability to resist my charms (AKA verbal bullying). “I told her I wasn’t bringing a plus one, but I’m sure it’s not too late to change that. We could go together, have a great time, and then discuss whatever’s weighing on your mind the next morning over French toast with locally sourced maple syrup. Kayley stocks the really dark stuff with extra maple punch you can only get in Vermont. We keep all the best syrup for ourselves, you know. It’s a little-known secret, but I’m sharing it with you now in a show of good faith. You can make a similar show of good faith by agreeing to postpone all serious talking until conditions are more favorable and fetching the whipped cream post haste. I’ve decided Geppetto the cat will survive if his breakfast is a couple hours late.”