Page 48 of Grump Hard
For dropping my guard so ridiculously fast. For mooning around the mansion like a teenager with a crush in front of my siblings. For dancing the night away with Holly in the village pub, proving to everyone just how desperate I secretly was to be cared for.
To be loved…
My throat locks down, threatening to trap my last sip halfway down.
I force myself to relax and pour myself another drink, hoping it will take the edge off the shame threatening to reduce my internal organs to pulp.
In another hour, maybe slightly more, Bran’s headlights sweep across the pines as he turns up the driveway. I should go greet my siblings. Or hurry up to my room and shut the door to make my “sick again” lie more believable.
Instead, I stay in the dark study, alone with my whiskey and my walls.
I rebuild them brick by painful brick, until they’re even higher than they were before. Thicker. Reinforced with regret and mortared with shame.
This time, they’ll hold. This experience has been invaluable, really. It’s proven that I was right all along. Hope is for fools and those under the protection of someone willing to do whatever they have to do to keep their family safe.
Hope is not for men like me.
Neither is Christmas.
There is no “magical season” for those who see the world as it truly is. Once you’ve awakened to the chilling reality that even a wealthy man is only as safe as his ability to outplay the even wealthier, more evil men at the top, you can’t go back to dreaming of sugarplums and happily ever after.
My only real mistake was forgetting that, even for a moment.
And I won’t forget again.
Fourteen
Holly
The “Home for the Holidays” Pet Adoption Drive is exactly the kind of event that usually warms my cockles in the deepest way.
The community center parking lot has been transformed into a wonderland of hope—colorful banners flutter in the December breeze, and portable heaters circle the pavement like sentries, guarding our charges against the cold. There are older dogs and puppies tumbling over each other in fenced-in play areas, kittens batting at dangling toys in the cat encounter pavilion, and even a pair of rabbits who seem deeply unimpressed by all the fuss.
Hopeful pet parents wander the lot, their faces lit with that special glow that comes with knowing they’re about to add a new member to their family. Just in time for Christmas.
It should be perfect. And it would be, if my stomach wasn’t currently doing its best impression of a rock.
A stressed-out rock, considering hurling itself into the frozen river across the street and sinking to the bottom…
“Stop chewing your thumbnail,” Candy says, appearing at my elbow with two cups of cider. “You’re going to draw blood.”
I drop my hand guiltily, accepting the hot drink. “How long was I gnawing?”
“At least five minutes. The entire time I was in line for drinks.” She gives me that look, the one that says she can see right through me. “He’s going to show up, Holly. And when he does, everything will be fine. I’m sure he’s just been busy the last couple of days. That’s all. He’s a billionaire, girl. You don’t get that filthy rich without being a workaholic.”
I want to believe her. So badly.
But Luke’s texts since Wednesday have been different. Shorter. More formal. The kind of messages you’d send to a business associate, not someone you danced with until midnight and super-steamy-kissed on their front porch.
Thursday morning, on my way to another vet photo shoot in Bellows Falls, I texted him good morning with a coffee emoji and a heart. Then, a few hours later, I sent over several shots from my session.
He responded six hours later with—Looks like it went well.
That’s it! No commentary on the cuteness of the cats or the puppy with one blue eye and one brown eye. No sharing about his day.
No heart emoji in return…
Then, this morning, I shot over a meme about gingerbread houses and asked if he wanted to grab lunch before the event. He replied—Attending to some urgent email. Will meet you at the community center at two.
