Page 63 of Wintertime Love (Holiday 2)

A part of me is flattered and thrilled. So really, I’m more angry because of that. I stop in the midst of moving the cloth with a frown. It’s so hard to live in my head.

I’m happy. I’m angry. I want to kiss Finn. I want to beat him within an inch of his life.

If I could just decide.

The bell on the door tinkles and without looking around, I say, “Kitchen’s closed. We only got coffee and tea.”

A female voice rises from behind me, “Are you Clara Winter?”

I blink at the unfamiliar accented voice and turn around, still holding on to the cloth in my hand.

The woman standing in the doorway is stunningly beautiful. She’s wearing a deep red furred winter coat, her long dark black hair silky straight like a cascading waterfall. Her eyes are the deepest shade of blue, striking really. Her skin is fair, her lips painted a perfect red. She exudes elegance and class. Standing next to her, I feel like a street urchin, my hair in a disheveled bun, my clothes wrinkled from a day’s work, my lipstick chewed off, and I have what I’m pretty sure are bags under my eyes.

The disparity clings to me for just a brief moment before I straighten up, letting go of the nonsense that just flitted through my brain.

I wipe my hands on my apron, deliberately and ask, “How can I help you?”

Her pretty blue eyes run over me in an assessing manner and her lip curls in a way that tells me I’ve come up short in every way.

I smile mockingly. Because her opinion is so important to me, right?

“So, you are her?” the woman asks, her voice sweet and yet hard, her accent clearly British.

I raise a brow. “Yes. Now, how can I help you?”

She doesn’t answer my question, choosing to look around my diner, a condescending look in her eyes. “So, this is your little shop. How quaint.”

I have a feeling that she and I have different definitions for that word.

The haughty look in her eyes, along with a sliver of disgust, is implying that she feels like she’s walked into a garbage chute.

I narrow my eyes, “Did you come here to buy something, or are you just trying to waste my time?”

She lifts a brow, fixing her eyes on me. “Your looks are quite average as well. Nothing special. My maid dresses better than you.”

Her maid? What the hell is this?

I refuse to get angry over this lunatic barging in and shooting off her mouth. “All right,” I pick up my broom, pointing it in her direction. “Get the hell out of my diner. Move it.”

She gives me an incredulous stare and then scoffs, delicately, “You lower class sure are strange. You should know your place.”

Which era did this woman walk out of?

“Look, lady. I don’t know what you want.”

She draws herself up straight and gives me a piercing cold look. “I want you to stay away from Finn McCarthy.”

This has me freezing and I have an insane urge to act confused, scratch my head and ask, ‘who?’ Instead, I just blink, gathering my wits together at this sudden twist. She’s British. He’s been raised in Britain. Makes sense that they might know each other. Should’ve put two and two together.

But I’ve never been one to allow anyone to bully me so I prop the broom on the ground and lean my arms over the handle my hip cocked out, a smirk on my face. “And just who do you think you are coming around here, telling me who I should see or not?”

She raises her chin, her eyes glittering, her cheeks flushed in anger at my defiant attitude which is clearly biting at her. “I’m his betrothed.”

My vicious anger drains out of me and I give her a bewildered look. “You’re his what now?”

She clearly thinks she now occupies the moral high ground as she states, “He and I are meant to marry each other.”

Now my rage is swift and dangerous followed by an anguish that makes my vision darken for a heartbeat, but I force my voice to remain calm, “So, he proposed to you?”

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