Page 9 of Tangling with the Christmas
Rhett releases my wrist slowly, reluctantly. "Go save your festival, Miss Festive."
I force a smile, even as my heart cracks. "What about the tree?"
"I'll bring it down." He tips his hat—half grin, half goodbye. "Promise."
Then he's pulling away, taillights disappearing around the bend, and I'm left standing on the side of the road with melting snow at my feet and the taste of heartbreak on my tongue.
The mayor pulls up beside me, window rolling down. "Rosemary! We've been trying to call you. Are you okay? Where's your car?"
"Long story," I say, climbing into his heated sedan. "But I'm fine. And we're getting our tree."
As we drive toward town, I keep my eyes forward. I don't let myself look back at the mountain, at the cabin I can't see from here but can feel in every atom of my being.
And I definitely don't let myself cry.
Chapter 6
Rhett
Thecabin'stooquietwithout her.
No humming. No soft laughter. No cheerful commentary about everything from the weather to the way I stack firewood. Just the creak of the stove and the echo of my own bad decisions.
I try to tell myself last night was a mistake. That I lost control because of the storm, because of the proximity, because I've been alone too damn long. But the truth's worse.I didn't lose control.
I gave it up willingly, desperately, the second she looked at me like I was more than the man who chops wood and hides from the world.
I can still smell her on my sheets. I should wash them, erase the evidence, and get back to my normal routine. Instead, I find myself breathing it in, torturing myself with the memory of her skin against mine, the sounds she made, and the way she whispered my name in her sleep.
The tree. I promised her the damn tree.
I spend the morning selecting the perfect spruce—twenty feet of dense branches and perfect symmetry. It’s a tree that'll make the whole town stop and stare. I tell myself I'm just fulfilling a contract, being professional. But I know the truth. I'm trying to give her something,anything, to make up for letting her walk away.
I grab my coat, load the tree onto the flatbed, and head down the ridge.
The town looks like Christmas threw up all over it. Garland is strung between lampposts, lights are wrapped around every available surface, and giant candy canes are stuck in the ground like peppermint fence posts. Normally I'd hate it, would avoid Main Street entirely during the holidays. Today, it makes me grin. Because I know exactly who was behind it all.
The square's packed with families, kids, and volunteers hauling boxes of decorations. Music blares from speakers hidden somewhere, a jazz version of "Jingle Bells" that somehow doesn't make me want to run for the hills.
And then I see her. My sweet Rosemary. Center stage, clipboard in hand, directing traffic like a general commanding troops.
She's got tinsel in her hair again. Of course she does.
She doesn't see me right away. She's talking to the mayor, pointing toward the empty spot where the tree should go, probably explaining her vision in excruciating, enthusiastic detail. When she finally turns, her smile falters. Just for a second. Just long enough to hit me right in the chest.
I start walking before I can think. People move out of the way. Maybe it's the look on my face, or maybe it's because they know I'm the guy who never comes to these things. Either way, they clear a path.
"Rhett," she says when I reach her. Her voice is careful, professional, like we're strangers making a business transaction. "Tree looks great."
"That all you've got to say?"
She blinks, glancing around at the crowd that's definitely paying attention now. "What else is there?"
I step closer. Close enough to smell cinnamon on her skin, to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. "Maybe that you miss me already."
A few heads turn. Someone snickers. I don't care. I've spent too long hiding from the world; I'm not about to hide from her.
"You don't even like Christmas," she says softly, but her voice wavers.
