Healing Hearts at the Christmas Inn (Lights of St. Augustine #1)

Chapter 1

HOLLY

The delivery truck never showed.

Holly Bennett stood in the back room of her shop, phone pressed to her ear, listening to the apologetic voice on the other end explain that the mahogany sideboard she'd been waiting on for three weeks wouldn't arrive until Friday.

Something about a mix-up at the warehouse.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and told them it was fine, even though it wasn't, and ended the call with more grace than she felt.

The afternoon stretched before her, suddenly empty.

It was barely past one o'clock, and the June heat had already turned Miami into a sauna.

Through the shop's front windows, she could see the sidewalk shimmering, heat rising in waves that made the palm trees across the street look like they were dancing.

The cicadas were singing their relentless summer song, a buzz that seemed to seep through the walls and settle into her bones.

Holly glanced around the quiet shop. No customers. No deliveries. No reason to stay.

She could go home early to surprise Simon, as he’d said he was working from home today.

The thought came with a flutter of something warm in her chest—excitement, maybe, or just the pleasure of doing something unexpected.

They'd been ships passing in the night lately, both of them buried in work, their conversations reduced to quick morning coffees and tired goodnights.

When was the last time they'd had an evening or a few hours together?

Really together, not just sitting in the same room while he worked on briefs and she sketched restoration plans?

She couldn't remember.

But today, this afternoon, things could be different.

She could pick up his favorite pastries from that little Cuban bakery near Coral Gables.

The one with the guava pastelitos that made his eyes light up like a kid's.

She could stop by the market, grab something fresh for a late lunch.

They could eat on the back patio, watch the birds and the lake that was at the bottom of their property, and talk about something other than work for once.

The idea took root, growing into something she couldn't shake.

Twenty minutes later, she was locking the shop door behind her, the pastry box balanced carefully in one hand.

The ribbon was mint-green and already beginning to wilt in the humidity, but the smell wafting from inside was divine.

Butter and sugar and that hint of guava that always reminded her of summer nights and promises made under string lights.

She drove with the windows down, letting the hot wind tangle through her hair, and hummed along to the radio without really hearing the music.

Her mind was already home, already planning.

She'd marinate chicken in that lime marinade he loved.

Slice mangoes. Open a bottle of the sparkling non-alcoholic wine and have some alone time before she had to fetch Trinity from ballet at four.

It would be perfect.

By the time she turned onto their street, she was smiling.

The smile faltered when she saw the car in the driveway.

A silver sedan, parked just behind Simon's SUV. It was sleek and polished, and she knew instantly whose car it was—Terry Brown's. Holly’s lifelong best friend.

Holly's foot eased off the gas, and she coasted to a stop beside the sedan, her mind already working to make sense of it.

Terry was supposed to be in Tampa. She'd said so that morning when they'd talked on the phone. A client meeting was the reason they couldn’t meet for lunch.

Something about staging a penthouse. She'd been running late, frazzled, apologizing for having to cancel their lunch date for the third time that month.

So why is her car here?

Holly cut the engine and sat for a moment, the pastry box resting on the passenger seat beside her. The cicadas were louder here, their song rising and falling in waves that seemed to press against her ears. The air was thick, electric, like the sky was holding its breath before a storm.

She told herself it was nothing. Maybe the meeting had been rescheduled. Maybe Terry had stopped by to drop something off. Maybe Simon had called her for advice on a case. They did that sometimes, didn't they? Especially now that Simon’s firm was representing Terry’s company.

But the flutter in her chest didn't settle.

She grabbed the pastry box and stepped out into the suffocating heat. The front path seemed longer than usual, each step weighted with something she couldn't name. The door was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped inside, into the cool dimness of the entryway.

Music drifted from somewhere deeper in the house.

Something low and jazzy, the kind Simon liked when he was unwinding, making her realize they must be in his study. She stopped as she drew closer and tilted her head as she heard the unmistakable sound of laughter.

Holly froze.

The pastry box slipped from her hand and landed on the console table with a muted thud. She stared at it for a moment, at the ribbon slowly uncurling in the air conditioning, and then she moved forward.

Her feet carried her down the hallway even as her mind screamed at her to stop, to turn around, to leave.

The corridor stretched before her like something out of a dream and suddenly felt too long, too narrow, the walls closing in with each step.

The door to Simon's office was ahead, halfway open, a sliver of golden light spilling out into the dim.

The laughter came again. Warm. Intimate.

And then a voice. Terry's voice was low and teasing. "You're terrible."

Simon's reply was a murmur Holly couldn't quite make out, but the tone was unmistakable. Affectionate. Familiar. The kind of tone you used with someone who knew you, who mattered.

Holly's heart slammed against her ribs.

She reached the doorway. Looked inside.

Time fractured.

Simon was there. And so was Terry.

They were standing close. Way too close.

His hand was on her waist, her fingers resting against his chest. Their faces were turned toward each other, eyes locked, mouths curved in expressions Holly had never seen before.

Expressions that belonged to a world she wasn't part of.

A world that had existed, she realized with a sickening lurch, right under her nose.

Terry leaned in and pressed a kiss to Simon's jaw, soft and lingering, and his hand slid higher, possessive and sure.

Holly's breath caught, sharp and painful, like she'd been punched in the chest.

And then Terry's gaze shifted.

She saw Holly.

Her eyes went wide, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp. She stumbled back, her hand flying up as if to ward off the reality standing in the doorway.

Simon turned.

His face went white.

"Holly—"

The sound of her name shattered the moment.

Holly sucked in a breath, ragged and too loud, and the room snapped back into focus.

The music was still playing. The scent of his cologne mingled with Terry's perfume.

The half-empty glasses of wine on the desk.

The way Terry's lipstick was smudged at the corner of her mouth.

"Holly, I—" Simon's voice stammered, grasping for words that wouldn't come. His hands lifted, then dropped, useless. "This isn't—I didn't mean—"

Terry's hand covered her mouth, and tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Holly, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted—"

But Holly couldn't hear the rest. The words were just noise, meaningless and distant, like they were coming from underwater. Her chest felt tight, her lungs refused to fill, and the edges of her vision blurred.

She took a step back.

"Holly, wait—" Simon moved toward her, his hand reaching out, but she flinched away.

"Don't."

The word came out harder than she meant it to, sharp enough to stop him in his tracks. He stood there, his mouth open, hands hanging at his sides, and for the first time in thirty-five years, Holly didn't recognize him.

She turned and dashed away.

Down the hallway. Through the entryway. Past the pastry box still sitting on the console table, its ribbon now fully limp. Out the front door and into the suffocating heat.

Her keys were in her hand. She didn't remember grabbing them, but she clutched them tight enough that the metal bit into her palm. She got into her car, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway without looking back.

Behind her, through the rearview mirror, she saw Simon appear in the doorway. He was calling her name, but she couldn't hear it over the roar of blood in her ears.

She turned the corner, and he disappeared.

The rain started a few blocks later.

It came fast and hard, the way summer storms always did in Miami, turning the windshield into a blur of water and light.

Holly drove without thinking, without seeing, her hands gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles ached.

The city streamed past in smears of color.

Red taillights, green streetlights, the neon glow of storefronts and signs.

She didn't know where she was going. She didn't care.

She just drove.

The rain pounded against the roof, drumming out a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of her heart. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, low and ominous, and lightning flickered across the sky in jagged bursts that lit up the streets for half a second before plunging them back into gray.

Holly's vision blurred, but not from the rain, but from the tears that suddenly spilled hot and fast down her cheeks. She blinked them away, but they kept coming, a flood she couldn't stop.

How long?

The question tore through her mind, relentless and unyielding.

How long had this been going on?

She tried to think, tried to remember. When had Terry's divorce been finalized? Two years ago? Three? She'd been devastated, crying on Holly's couch for weeks, and Holly had held her, comforted her, told her she'd find someone better.

Had it started then?

Or before?