Page 73 of A Very Naughty Christmas

Pain at his betrayal knifed through her and she wrenched her arm free. “So what am I, your latest project? I appreciate the offer, but I can finish school on my own, without having to spread my legs to earn my tuition.”

It was as if she’d slapped him, but she was too livid to care. He had come right out and acknowledged what the two shrews had told her. She whirled to go, before she cried, or got sick. But he was too quick and spun her back around, his fingers firm on her upper arm.

“Whoa. Stop right there. What do scholarships awarded by the foundation have to do with you, school, and sex, for that matter?”

“You said you helped them get into school, these old girlfriends.”

“No, I said that’s whatwedo, the Prescott Foundation. It’s the charitable arm of my father’s business. I’m on the board that awards educational grants and scholarships, but anytime I know someone who has applied, I recuse myself from the decision to avoid a conflict of interest. All the board members do.”

It was her time for her jaw to go slack. “The Prescott Foundation,” she repeated.

“Yes, do you honestly think I’d exchange a scholarship for sex, Dixie?”

“I think I messed up.”

“You did. And they set us up,” he said coolly. “A fake call to get me away from yourside so they could go in for the kill. My money is on Marcy or Trisha. Or Aunt Barb. They’re all bitches.”

“I think you’re right,” she whispered.

“You think me that low? I thought we were past that.”

“Think about where we are—a freakin’ Vanderbilt mansion. And here I stand, a greasy spoon waitress playing dress-up. Can we ever get past the wall of money, power, and influence that separates us?”

“You’re the one hiding, Dixie. And the wall you’ve built is high, deep, and impenetrable; granted from twenty-eight years of hard times, but also from resentment and a narrow-mindedness of your own making.” She barely contained a flinch at his words, and as he stared down at her, the expression on his face was achingly familiar. It reflected the same sadness and disappointment it had in her craft show booth three weeks earlier, the day he’d walked away. “I’ll have the car brought around and drive you home.”

She dropped her gaze, unwilling to let him see the tears that burned her eyes, or the pain and regret for what might have been. As he escorted her down the hall, words of apology sat like a lump in her throat, choking her, but she didn’t say them. What was the use? Maybe it would have been different if they hadn’t been born into such vastly diverse circumstances, two widely diverse social sets, with family and friends who would never look at one another with acceptance.

Yet she knew that too was a bunch of bull. It all boiled down to her father, a player who had walked away from her mother, leaving her broken, and his five children messed up, unable to love unconditionally, or trust in something without always waiting for life to come crashing down in a bitter end. Maybe it was better for this to end now, before they both got in deeper and her skewed, fucked-up view of men and relationships caused them both more pain.

Chapter Nine

A few days later, following a long, turbulent, and tear-filled week, she woke to see more snow falling outside her window. It reminded her of the brief time she’d spent with Kyle, cozy, protected, just the two of them isolated from the world and falling in love, like in her dreams. But like so many of her dreams, in the morning, when reality crept in, the memory was quick to fade.

Downcast, she pulled the covers over her head, blocking out the pretty sight and the emotions stirring inside her. She couldn’t summon the strength to lift her head off her pillow, let alone force herself to get up and get ready. And after lying there well past the time she should have been out the door, she did something she’d never done in all the years she’d worked for Pete. She called in sick.

In hindsight, it would have been better to go into work, because left with only her thoughts to occupy her, she replayed the terrible gala evening and how they had left things.

After a silent drive home, Kyle—ever the gentleman—had walked her to her door. There he’d said goodnight with only a halfhearted promise to call.

“Not tomorrow,” he added. “I have the day off, but this past week wiped me out and I need to sleep. Next week.”

He didn’t kiss her, simply walked away with a quiet finality. Dixie suspected what that meant for their future, but as the days passed, and no call came, she came to the realization that it was over.

And why did that hurt so much, after such a short time together? Only a week… No, less. It really came down to the forty-eight hours when they were snowbound.

On Monday, when she didn’t hear from him, she tried to convince herself it was for the best, although she held her breath every time the phone rang at the diner.

No call came on Tuesday, either.

Now it was Wednesday and she didn’t think she could take another day of sympathetic looks from Janice, or of Pete shaking his head in disgust. Mrs. G. was due in today and she couldn’t face more questions or another explanation of how she’d messed up one of the best things that had ever happened in her miserable life.

Though guilt ridden for leaving them shorthanded, she still called her boss, relieved when Lester answered instead. Although when he scolded her for mooning over a jerk who didn’t have the sense to recognize the prize he had in front of him, and then proceeded to offer to hunt his ass down and set his head on straight, she wished Pete had picked up. Somehow, she dragged herself to the kitchen to feed a protesting Lucy, who was besideherself that her breakfast was late. She also managed to shower and dress, but had climbed back in bed when her phone rang later that morning. It wasn’t Kyle. Yet, the call snapped her out of her funk and sent her speeding down the mountain to Asheville.

Within an hour, she was rushing into the lobby of County General.

Winded, she hurried to the information desk where a white-haired lady in a pink coat sat squinting at a computer screen.

“Emmaline Goodwin,” she began between ragged breaths. “She was brought in today. What room is she in, please?”

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