Chapter 4 #2
We lapsed into another moment of silence, but this one felt different. Charged, somehow. Like we were both aware of something humming beneath the surface, but neither of us knew quite what to do about it.
The silence stretched, and I became hyper-aware of how close we were sitting, how his knee was just inches from mine under the table. I cleared my throat, needing to break whatever spell was settling over us. “Well, I should probably—”
“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” he asked quickly. “I mean, if you do, that’s fine, obviously. But if you don’t … you could stay. For a bit. If you want.”
The way he looked at me—hopeful and a little bit nervous, like he expected me to say no but was asking anyway—made me want to say yes.
When was the last time someone had looked at me like that?
Like they actually wanted me to stay, not out of obligation or politeness, but because they genuinely enjoyed my company?
I couldn’t remember.
“I don’t have another appointment until four,” I heard myself say.
“Okay.” He smiled. “Good.”
We talked for another hour or so about Christmas traditions and then about nothing in particular.
Luke was funny when he relaxed, making dry observations that caught me off guard and made me laugh.
And when I talked, he listened with this focused intensity that made me feel like I was the only person in the world.
It was nice.
Really nice.
Which was why I was disappointed when I finally glanced at the clock on the far wall and realized I needed to leave.
“I should head out,” I said reluctantly, standing from the table. “Thanks for the cookies. And the help. And the company.”
“Anytime.” Luke stood too, following me through the house to the front door. “Drive safe, Holly.”
“Will do.”
I pulled on my coat, gave him one last smile, and headed down the porch steps to my SUV.
The key turned in the ignition, but nothing happened.
I tried again. Click click click.
No. No, no, no.
I turned the key a third time, pumping the gas pedal, as if that ever actually helped. The engine gave a pathetic whine and then … nothing.
“Come on,” I muttered, trying again. And again. “Please. Please, not today.”
A knock on my window made me jump. Luke stood there, concern written all over his face.
I rolled down the window, forcing a smile that probably looked as brittle as it felt. “Hey. So. Funny story. My car won’t start.”
“Do you want me to take a look?”
“You know about cars?”
He shrugged, and I wasn’t sure if the pink in his cheeks was from the cold or from confessing the limits of his knowledge. “I know enough to check the obvious things,” he said, already moving toward the front of my SUV. “Pop the hood.”
I did, then climbed out to join him.
Luke peered at the engine, checking battery connections, jiggling wires, doing all the things that I’d seen in movies and on television, but couldn’t tell you the first thing about what it might actually fix. After a few minutes, he straightened and shook his head.
“Battery connections look fine. Could be the alternator, or the starter, or …” He closed the hood gently.
“We should probably call someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
” He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck in that way I was starting to recognize as his tell when he felt out of his depth.
“I wish I could fix it, but I’d probably just make it worse. ”
“You at least looked like you knew what you were doing,” I said. “That’s more than I’ve got.”
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the number for Jerry’s Auto Repair, the only mechanic in Mistletoe Bay. Jerry himself answered on the third ring, and I explained the situation. Thankfully, he was able to fit me in as soon as he finished up another job.
“Forty-five minutes,” I told Luke after I hung up. “I’ll just wait in my car. I’ve got my phone and—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he interrupted. “It’s freezing out here. Come inside.”
“Luke, I’ve already taken up too much of your day as it is—”
“Holly.” He looked at me with those steady amber eyes. “Please. Come inside.”
I hesitated, then nodded. Because honestly? The idea of sitting in a car without power for forty-five minutes sounded miserable. “Okay. Thank you.”
We headed back inside, and Luke guided me to the living room this time instead of the kitchen, where a fire crackled in the hearth. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll make some fresh coffee.”
He disappeared before I could protest, leaving me alone in his living room. I sat down on the couch—which was absurdly comfortable, the kind you could sink into and never want to leave—and took in the space properly for the first time.
This room was different from the rest of the house I’d been shown so far. The parlor I’d be decorating in a couple of days was formal and pristine, while the dining room had the same magazine-quality perfection. But this room? This room actually looked lived in.
A laptop sat closed on the coffee table.
A pair of glasses rested on top of a book—something thick with a dark, ominous-looking cover, its title in a bold white font.
A blanket was draped over the arm of a chair by the fireplace, and the mantel held a few framed photos instead of carefully curated decorative objects.
This was where Luke actually spent his time. Where he let his guard down. He’d brought me here, to his space, instead of making me wait in one of the showpiece rooms. I wasn’t sure why that felt significant, but it did.
I leaned back against the cushions, letting myself relax for just a moment.
But then reality crashed back in—my car, broken down in his driveway and waiting for a mechanic who may or may not be able to fix it. Who would definitely charge me money I didn’t have.
I pulled in a slow breath, trying to talk myself out of the spiral I could feel coming on. Only, my brain wouldn’t let me.
I couldn’t afford a major repair right now. Between paying rent on my workshop and trying to build back my savings, my bank account was less than healthy.
My throat felt suddenly tight.
Don’t cry. Do not cry in Luke Byron’s living room, you ninny.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing the burning sensation to go away, which was when I heard footsteps in the hallway.
I dropped my hands and blinked rapidly, trying to compose myself.
By the time Luke returned, I’d mostly pulled myself together. Mostly.
“Hey,” he said softly, and something in his tone made me look up. His brows were drawn together, his expression concerned. “You okay?”
I cleared my throat. “Fine. Just thinking.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push either. He just handed me my coffee and settled into the armchair across from me.
“Thanks,” I said, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.
“It’s just coffee.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the fire crackling. Outside, I could hear the wind picking up, rattling the old windows in their frames. Luke didn’t try to fill the quiet with small talk or pointless reassurances, and somehow that made it easier to say what came next.
“This has been a really long year,” I said finally.
“I imagine it has.”
I laughed, but it came out sounding slightly hysterical rather than the light, breezy tone I’d aimed for. “Sorry. I’m just … I’m trying really hard not to have a breakdown in your living room, and it’s not going great.”
“You can have a breakdown if you need to,” Luke said quietly. “I won’t judge.”
And that simple statement delivered with such sincerity was what broke me.
“Last December—” I paused, took a breath.
I wasn’t quite sure why I was telling him this, but I seemed unable to stop.
“Last December, I was living in this gorgeous Queen Anne Victorian with my fiancé. Planning our wedding and running my shop—the one my parents opened in the sixties, and I’d taken over five years ago.
I had dinner with them every Sunday. Coffee dates with my best friend.
Everything was … it was good. You know?”
Luke nodded, saying nothing.
“And now?” I gestured vaguely with my coffee mug.
“Now I live in a house with shag carpet from 1952, and I work out of an attic space that definitely has mold. My best friend is in Barcelona with her boyfriend. My parents are in Florida playing golf. And my fiancé is …” I swallowed hard.
“Wherever he is. With someone who’s not me. ”
“With his sister’s best friend,” Luke said, his voice tight with something that sounded like anger.
I blinked at him. “How did you—?”
A faint flush crept up his neck, and he rubbed the back of his neck. There was that tell again. “I hate gossip,” he said quietly. “But I asked about you—professionally, I mean—and well … you know how small towns can be. I’m sorry you had to go through that so publicly.”
Right. Of course. Everyone in Mistletoe Bay knew how Eric had suddenly realized he was actually in love with a woman he’d literally known her entire life.
How I’d already paid for the reception venue, the photographer, and the cake.
How I’d had to stand at the front of the church and tell everyone what had happened.
“It was mortifying,” I said softly. “Standing there in my dress, realizing he wasn’t coming.
Having to face everyone and tell them the wedding was off.
And then … God, then everyone wanted to talk about it.
To offer their condolences as if someone had died.
To ask if I was okay, if I needed anything. ”
“Did you?” Luke asked, his full attention on me.
I wasn’t sure I followed. “What?”
His brows drew together like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Need anything, I mean.”
I stared at him. No one had ever asked me that. They’d offered casseroles and sympathetic looks and advice I didn’t want, but no one had asked what I actually needed.