Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Betty
Narrator: Painful, dreadfully painful.
Max thought all he had to do was show up and talk to her, but what he forgot was he didn’t know what to talk to her about. Nor did he realize that he’d be talking to someone who rambles just as much as he does.
Leaving their conversation a painful experience.
However, Frank and Leslie are having the time of their lives, even recording some of the conversation to listen to on the way back to Idaho Springs. They came for the fruitcake and are leaving with an awkward conversation to relive over and over again.
I owe him nothing. I can leave.
I can stand up from these bleachers right now and just leave without a farewell. Without even a glance in his direction.
After the whole naked thing—still feel like I’m going around in circles over that—I don’t think he’d blame me if I left. I think he’d probably welcome it, and then he could kick back with Frank and Leslie over there and talk about what a disaster the last twenty minutes have been.
I think if I just stand, say excuse me, and take off without looking back, this could all just change within a blink of an eye. I can run to the local Myrrh-cantile, grab some alcohol, and try to wash away this day.
Maybe some cookies from Warm Your Spirits.
Perhaps some ice cream as well.
And some more two-liters, just in case he plans to stalk me again.
So then it’s settled. I’m going to put everyone out of their misery and make my move.
On a deep breath, without saying a word, I stand from the bleachers with all the fortitude I can muster, and I’m about to turn to walk past Atlas when, to my dismay, he stands at the same time.
What the hell does he think he’s doing?
He glances at me, looks me up and down with a confused expression, and in that briefest of moments, we silently stare each other down.
An unofficial challenge settling in between us.
Is he . . . is he bolting before I can bolt?
Before I can even ask, he turns and says, “Excuse me, Frank.”
Frank and Leslie move out of the way, giving him a clear path of escape.
Insult thrashes through me as I watch his retreating back.
Oh no, he doesn’t!
He thinks he’s about to just walk out of here without a word, without saying goodbye?
Sure, I was going to do the same thing, but let’s call a spade a spade. He’s been nicer in this entire situation, and therefore, I hold him to a higher standard. Yes, I know. I heard it too, but I’m outraged, and you can’t reason with someone who’s outraged.
So before I can stop myself, I follow right behind, taking every step down the stairs that he’s taking until we’re both on the gym floor, heading toward the exit.
When he turns around to find me, his pace picks up.
Therefore, my pace picks up.
Together, we walk shoulder to shoulder, heading straight for the exit only for him to say, “Are you following me?”
“No.” I walk past him and make my way out of the gym and into the chilly air.
“Then what are you doing?”
“Uh, I should ask you the same thing. What are you doing?”
“I was going to grab us a treat from the vendors. What are you doing?”
He . . . uh, what now? “Ummm . . .”
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t leaving.
Maybe I’m the ass in this situation.
But hasn’t that been the case the entire time?
“Betty . . . what were you going to do?”
Smiling like I’m a freaking horse, showing off my teeth, I say, “I was going to . . . uh . . . help you?”
He tilts his head to the side. “You were going to help me? All huffy and puffy like that?”
“Puffy?” I ask, blinking.
“Uh, like breathing puffy, not like puffy, you know, puffy referring to size. Just huff and puff, blow your house down kind of thing.” He scratches his jaw. “But bringing it back to you. Why were you leaving?”
“I wasn’t leaving.”
“Yes, you were.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Then why did you stand up when I stood up?”
Great question.
“Getting a better view. Really wanted a look at those fruitcakes going in the oven, because after all, that’s where the magic happens, isn’t it? Some people say magic happens in the bedroom. Not me.” I shake my head. “I say magic happens in the bedroom, I mean . . . oven. It happens in the oven.”
“Is that the truth?” he asks, looking genuinely curious.
“About magic happening in the oven?” I ask.
“No, about wanting a better view.”
“I want to say yes.” He eyes me suspiciously, so I clear my throat and bring it back to him. “Were you honestly getting us a treat from the vendors?”
“I want to say yes as well . . .”
I gasp and then point at him. I knew it! “You were going to leave, weren’t you?”
Flummoxed, he shoots right back, “Uh, so were you.”
“Only to give us a reprieve from the mind-numbing conversation.”
“Mind-numbing is a little harsh, don’t you think?” he asks.
“What would you have called it?”
“Awkward and painful.”
“How is that better?”
“Because I said it with charm, whereas you said it with disdain.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Wow, you’re arrogant.”
His eyes widen. “I’m arrogant?” He points to his chest. “I’ve been nothing but civil toward you. Besides”—he holds up his finger—“that night I was trying to peek in, but I learned my lesson. So drop that.”
“What about chasing me around your farm?”
“My God, it’s like talking in circles with you.” He pulls on his head. “For the love of God, realize that you’re the one in the wrong in this scenario.”
“What scenario? The leaving unannounced or . . .”
“The entire scenario that we’re in.” He flails his arms around. “The one where you’re trying to steal ideas from my farm and use them as your own.”
“I’m not stealing ideas. I’m making sure not to make the same mistakes.”
“What mistakes?” he shouts and raises his hands in the air. “Please, tell me what mistakes we’re making. Because as far as I see it, we’ve been in business for an exceedingly long time.”
“Well, since you asked,” I say, holding out my hand and ticking my fingers off as I list the mistakes I’ve seen.
“First and foremost, not having a paved parking lot. Dirt and snow create mud. Mud gets everywhere, even on the tree when you’re dragging it out to your car.
Also, not having fully paved sidewalks. There are some but not a lot, and if you want people to be able to access everything, you should really pave all avenues.
Not to mention your suppliers are robbing you blind with extra charges, which is why you have to up-charge the fake trees.
That’s fine now, because you’re the only place to get them besides Baubles and Wrappings, but even they have to up-charge.
There are other, more earth-friendly suppliers that will provide more profit margin.
Also, you serve one treat. Gingerbread. That screams a lack of knowledge of the Christmas treat industry.
Sure, your vendors have some baked goods, but as the owner and proprietor, you should treat it as a Disneyland situation, providing customers with several options.
And make them seasonal.” I cross my arms over my chest, proud of myself.
“That’s just to name a few things I’ve noticed so far. ”
He stares at me, blinking. Unsure of what to say, because he knows I’m right.
I’ve looked at what Evergreen Farm offers, and although it’s a cute farm, there’s so much more potential.
Not having competition has made them complacent and, dare I say, lazy.
Why implement alternatives when what they’re doing seemingly works?
I bet they haven’t done a market analysis or research into other Christmas markets in years. If ever.
“Well . . . that’s . . . informative,” he says, his eyes racing as I can practically hear his brain attempting to calculate everything I said.
“Brother, what are you doing? Didn’t think we’d see the reigning king at a Christmas Kringle competition until the passing of the crown,” a guy who looks nothing like Atlas says as he comes up behind him. “Oh, who is this?”
I can see Atlas grow tight in the shoulders as another man walks up behind him.
“Who is who? Oh.” Weathered eyes land on me, and a smile passes over his lips. “Yes, who is this?”
Atlas shakes who I’m going to assume are his brothers off him. “Ansel, Felix, this is Betty. Betty, these two morons are my brothers.”
“Betty, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Ansel.” He takes my hand and shakes it but lingers a little longer than normal, causing Atlas to tug his brother’s hand away.
And it’s odd, because the man I was just talking to—the man chatting about naked shows—is not the man that I’m looking at right now. There’s a darkness in his eyes, strength in his shoulders, like someone stuck a rod down his back and straightened him up to his full height.
There’s a protectiveness about him.
It’s . . . God, I don’t even want to say it, but it’s extremely attractive.
“Don’t fucking hold her longer than normal,” Atlas says.
“I wasn’t.” Ansel winks, and Atlas catches it.
He pushes his brother to the side. “And don’t wink at her.”
“Oh . . . are you two an item?” Felix asks, moving his fingers between the two of us.
“No,” Atlas and I say at the same time.
“No?” Ansel asks. “Then why so protective?”
“Not protective. Just don’t be a fucking fool around her, okay?” Atlas tugs on his hair, looking irritated. “Anyway, come on, Betty.”
Come on?
Are we going somewhere?
Somewhere I don’t know about?
“Where you going?” Ansel asks. “And can I get your number? Wouldn’t mind taking you out on a date.”
Atlas pauses and turns to his brother. “She wouldn’t want to date you even if you were growing on her ass. Now get the fuck out of here.” Then he takes my hand in his, enveloping my palm, and tugs me toward the parking lot, not giving me much chance to keep up with his long strides.
Umm, okay.
What’s going on?
Because I have questions.
First of all, why are you holding my hand, sir?
Second, why are you so protective?
Third, and this one is for me, why do I like it?
When we are out of earshot, he mutters, “Where’s your car?”