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 wouldn’t,” Luke says.
I blink. “You wouldn’t what?”
“I wouldn’t survive if my breakfast were a couple hours late. I get very cranky if my breakfast is served one minute past seven,” he says. “I also once fired a man for wearing mismatched socks and nearly killed my driver tonight.”
“You did not,” I say, determined to defend him, even from himself.
Maybe especially from himself.
“I did. Elliot told me he barely made it home on the bad roads. I should have called an hour ago. Instead, I was only concerned with myself. My grudge against that stupid peg leg, my disdain for all things festive, my need to ravage you in a children’s play area…all while an innocent man was putting his life on the line waiting for me to meet him in the square.”
My lips turn down. “That’s not great.”
“No, it’s not.”
“But he’s safe and you won’t make the same mistake again.”
“No, I won’t,” he says, the weight of the words making me think he’s referring to more than the situation with his driver. He confirms the hunch as he adds, “This can’t happen again, Holly. As much as I’d like to see more of you, as charming and beautiful as you are, I’m not in a position to give a woman like you what she needs.”
I’m tempted to inform him that he has no idea what I need, and that I should be the one to decide what I will tolerate from a man I’m dating or screwing or whatever it is we’d be doing, but my stomach is already sinking. My tongue is tight at the back of my throat and my heart is a sad, bruised little knot in the center of my chest.
Often, the body knows things before the mind catches up.
My mind insists that we can win Luke over—that we must win Luke over because one night with him is never going to be enough—but my body knows it’s too late.
This is a lost cause.
Luke is a stubborn man who prides himself on his self-control. He’s usually the master of all he surveys, but tonight he’s been thwarted by whiskey, a snowstorm, a peg leg, a woman in a reindeer costume, and his own hormones. He’s desperate to restore order to his universe and that means pushing all disorderly things—like women who tempt him to throw caution to the wind and get busy in a children’s play area—far, far away.
And yes, I could probably convince him to change his mind, at least for tonight—he’s proven vulnerable to my particular breed of persuasion—but he is who he is. If he’s pushing me away now, chances are he’ll do it again, and I’m not sure I can survive that. Not from Luke. I already adore him. In one night, my childhood crush has become something so much more.
Something that could rip my heart into tiny pieces when he finally succeeds in pushing me away…
Besides, I don’t want to be some eager puppy, jumping at his heels, desperate for whatever scraps of affection he’s willing to give. I want someone who thinks I’m special, who looks at me and thinks—that’s my someone. That’s the weirdo I’ve been looking for my entire life. Only he won’t think I’m weird. He’ll think I’m perfect.
To me, Luke is perfect, peg-leg-induced grouchiness and all.
But one-sided regard isn’t enough. That isn’t why I filed for divorce and have been stubbornly single for seven years.
Yes, Jingle Bell Junction is a bit of dead zone when it comes to romantic opportunities, as well as cell service, but I’ve had opportunities to date. I could have gone to dinner with Brian, the historical barn expert with the collie who adores me or hooked up with one of the many ski experts who breeze through on a seasonal basis, shredding powder and local pussy, before they depart in the spring.
But I haven’t. Because I want more. I want real love, real passion. I want the dream, and if I can’t have it, I’d rather have nothing at all.
No, not nothing…
I’d rather have more time for puppies and friends and family and finishing the matching elf costumes I’ve been knitting for Geppetto and Andy in time for the Christmas parade on the twenty-first.
Knitting is way more fun than banging a reluctant billionaire who will be gone as soon as his six weeks in holiday hell are over.
I grimace and mutter aloud, “No, it’s not.”
“I’m sorry?” Luke says from the other side of the door.
I swallow past my misery-cramped tongue and say, “Don’t be sorry. I get it. It’s fine.”
“It is?” He sounds surprised, but not relieved, a fact that soothes my wounded sex goddess vibe.
He’s doing what he feels he has to do, but he doesn’t seem all that happy about it, which is good. Misery loves company, after all. And mine loves it so much that the cramp in my heart is already softening, making it easier to breathe as I assure Luke, “Of course it is. But that doesn’t mean we have to spend the rest of the night being sad and gloomy. We’re still friends, after all.”