Chapter 15
Fifteen
Luke
Four days later…
The numbers on my laptop screen might as well be written in ancient Sanskrit.
I’ve been staring at the same quarterly report for the past forty minutes, and I couldn’t tell you a single thing it says. The cursor mocks me, waiting for me to input something—anything—but my fingers remain motionless on the keyboard.
My mind is elsewhere.
Specifically, it’s trapped in an endless loop, replaying two contradictory scenes like some kind of psychological torture device.
Scene One: Wednesday night. The window at the Reindeer Corners Inn. Holly in that narrow hallway with that man. The way he took both her hands. The way he looked at her. That tight, lingering hug.
Scene Two: Friday evening. The parking lot. Holly’s expression when I made it clear I didn’t want to see her again. The way her smile had frozen, then cracked. The genuine confusion in her eyes. The hurt—raw and unguarded—that flashed across her pretty face before I turned and walked away.
If she was moving on with someone else, if Wednesday night was what I thought it was, then why did she look so devastated?
The question circles through my mind for the thousandth time, wearing a festering groove in my thoughts.
I lean back in the desk chair, scrubbing both hands over my face. My rational, analytical brain, the one that’s built a business empire by reading people and situations with precision, keeps trying to construct a logical framework that makes sense of both scenes.
Maybe she and Hallway Man ended things between Wednesday and Friday?
That could explain her reaction, I suppose. Explain why she was hurt when I pulled away right after she’d cut ties with someone meaningful to her.
But that doesn’t track with her behavior. She wasn’t acting like someone nursing a fresh breakup. She was acting like someone who had no idea why I was being a royal dick.
Fuck.
I try to tell myself I wasn’t a dick—just cool, reserved—but deep down I know better. Deep down, I’m also starting to suspect I’ve made a serious mistake.
Maybe that hug wasn’t romantic at all.
Maybe she and that man are just friends, and I completely misread the situation.
But how do you misread a man taking a woman’s hands and pulling her into that kind of embrace? Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t hold each other like that.
Do they?
I think of Elliot and Nancy, how tender and playful they are with each other, and how—to my knowledge—they have never been anything more than good friends.
Maybe I don’t look at friends like that, but maybe other people do?
Maybe I’m the problem here, as usual?
But Holly doesn’t look at any of the other men she’s friends with that way. She didn’t look at Paulie like that or the accountant who stopped by to say hello at the bar, whom she’d introduced as a “long-time friend.”
And just like that, I’m back to the beginning of the festering thought spiral.
My coffee has gone cold on the desk beside me. The fire in the study fireplace has burned down to embers. Outside the window, grey December clouds hang low over the valley, threatening snow.
I should be working. I have actual responsibilities—board meetings to prepare for, strategic decisions to make. But every time I try to focus, my mind drifts back to that parking lot. To the way Holly’s voice wavered when she said “What?” Like she couldn’t comprehend what I was saying.
Like I’d spoken in a foreign language.
The language of a complete asshole…
A knock on the study door cuts through my thoughts, making me flinch before I call tightly, “Yes? Come in.”
Bran pokes his head through the door, looking as relaxed as I am wound tight. “Hey, I’m running to the Kountry Store for coffee beans. We’re completely out, and Ashton is threatening violence if someone doesn’t restock before the blizzard. You need anything?”
“Why is no one in this house capable of basic inventory management?” I snap, my voice sharp.
“The maids just went to Manchester to restock before the storm yesterday. Coffee should have been on their list. One of you should have made sure it was on there. How are we constantly running out of essentials?”
Bran blinks, clearly taken aback by the vehemence of my response. “Um, okay. So, you don’t need anything? That’s what you’re saying?”
Guilt floods through me.
This isn’t about inventory management. This is about the fact that my brain has been gnawing away at itself for days. And now, I’m taking it out on Bran, who’s done absolutely nothing wrong except want his grouchy older brother come stay at the mansion with the rest of them for the entire season.
“Sorry.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m…wrestling with some things. For work. I’ll go get the coffee. I need some fresh air anyway.”
Bran nods. “Clearly. Get lots of air. And fudge. You need fudge. It’s the only thing with enough sugar in it to sweeten you up again.”
He leaves before I can respond, which is just as well.
I don’t have anything nice to say.
Best if I don’t say anything at all.
The ride into town on the snowmobile is cold and loud, which helps.
The wind whips against my face, numbing my cheeks and making my eyes water. The roar of the engine drowns out thought, forcing me to focus on the mechanics of navigation—the turns, the terrain, the patches of ice hidden under fresh snow.
But once I park behind the post office and start walking toward the Kountry Store, the intrusive thoughts intrude once more.
Now, they’re layered with a fresh coat of guilt about snapping at Bran.
We’ve all been growing closer, especially since the sick spell, bonding in a way we haven’t since we were children.
They were starting to relax around me, to treat me more like a brother and less like the taskmaster guardian who took over ruling their lives after our father failed them.
And now I’ve gone and damaged our progress.
I wasn’t just an ass to Holly. I’ve been a terror to live with since what I saw at the caroling that night.
Or what I thought I saw.
I’m so lost in rumination that I don’t register the voices coming from beside the Kountry Store until I’m almost on top of them. But then I hear a strained voice beg, “Let’s just take a breath. Maybe she just needs a minute to calm down and realize she’s safe here.”
I recognize the sweet, patient tone immediately.
Holly.
It’s her professional voice, the one she uses to great effect to soothe both anxious pets and owners alike.
I glance around the corner, spotting her in the space between the Kountry Store and the art gallery, where the light is nice and even, and a mural of Silver Bell Falls in the 1950s forms a perfect backdrop for an outdoor portrait.
It looks like she’s shooting a couple—late forties, expensively dressed in a way that screams “five-star ski resort”—with a small, traumatized terrier. The dog is trembling hard enough to lift its small body off the ground, its ears pinned back, trying desperately to hide behind the woman’s legs.
It makes Daisy, the beagle, look calm by comparison.
“Come on, Colette, don’t do this again,” the woman grits through clenched teeth. “I swear, Kyle, this dog is impossible.” She gives the leash a sharp jerk, making the small dog yelp in pain as she drags it forward by the neck.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“Here, why don’t I give her a little something to distract her?” Holly moves forward, a treat in hand, but the man—Kyle—shifts to block her path.
“She doesn’t need treats. Our trainer discourages bribing the animal.” His voice drips with condescension. “Colette knows how to behave. She’s just being stubborn because she didn’t want to leave the room and go out in the cold.”
“Well, it is chilly today,” Holly says, wincing slightly as Kyle roughly adjusts the dog, ignoring her whimper of distress. Her professional tone is strained as she adds, “And I understand that some trainers have that philosophy, but in a new environment, away from home, dogs often need—”
“We’re paying you for photos, not training advice,” the woman cuts her off with a put-upon sigh. “Can we please just get this done? We have dinner reservations at six, and we need time to get back to the lodge and change.”
Holly’s shoulders tense, but she nods. “Of course. Let me see what I can get.”
She moves back, bringing the camera to her face with one hand as she gently wiggles her free fingers at her side. “Hey, sweetheart. Hi, Colette, can you look up here for me, princess? That’s right, just a little—”
The man jerks the dog’s collar again, attempting to force her chin up toward the camera. The terrier lets out a sharp bark of protest, her claws scrabbling on the pavement as she makes a desperate attempt to run back toward the parking lot behind the store.
“Colette, stop!” the woman snaps. “Sit! Now.”
“Sit!” Kyle roars, making everyone flinch, including me.
The dog cowers, trembling harder as she leaves a small puddle beneath her.
Holly sounds sincerely shaken as she begs, “Please. I think we need to take a break. She’s clearly—”
“We don’t have time for breaks,” the man says flatly. “Just take the damned picture.”
The dismissiveness, the barely concealed contempt, are all too familiar. God willing, this motherfucker will never have children.
If he does, I’m sure he’ll “parent” exactly like my father.
Holly takes a breath, nods, and raises her camera again.
I should leave. This isn’t my business. Holly is working, dealing with difficult clients the way every professional must sometimes. She doesn’t need me lurking in the shadows, watching her struggle.
But I can’t seem to move.
Watching her try to maintain her composure, watching her swallow her obvious discomfort and sympathy for that terrified dog… Watching her be treated like a servant rather than a skilled professional doing her best in an impossible situation…
It makes me sick. Physically ill.
And suddenly, all my circular reasoning and questions and confusion seem as stupid as these cruel, arrogant people.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it.
Whether Holly’s in love with someone else or just friends with that man or whatever the truth actually is—none of it changes the fundamental reality that’s crystallizing inside me now.
I care about her.
I care about Holly in a way I haven’t cared about a stranger in longer than I can remember. And she’s not a stranger anymore. She’s a kind, genuine, funny, hardworking woman who has never treated me with anything but generosity and warmth, even when we were children.
Even when she was blackmailing me.
And I absolutely, categorically refuse to cause her pain, not ever again.
The realization hits with the force of a Christmas ghost, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I’ve been so focused on protecting myself, on building walls to keep the hurt out, that I became the one doing the hurting. I took my own insecurity and weaponized it against a good person who absolutely didn’t deserve that.
I was, as I suspected, being a fucking dick.
Now, I need to decide how to make up for what I’ve done.
The couple finally seems satisfied—or more likely, simply tired of screeching at each other, the dog, and Holly. They gather up the still trembling Colette and start back toward Main Street without so much as a thank you.
“The photos will be ready by Tuesday,” Holly calls after them.
The woman waves a hand dismissively without looking back. “Just email them.”
And then they’re gone, leaving Holly alone in the wide alley.
I watch as she tucks her camera back into her over-the-shoulder bag, then stands there for a long moment, unmoving. Slowly, her spine slumps forward, and her features begin to crumple.
She raises her hands to her face, pressing her palms against her eyes as her shoulders begin to shake.
The moment is so raw, so vulnerable, I feel it like a knife between my ribs.
I can’t leave her like this.
I won’t.
I have to remind her that the world isn’t always this awful, and I have to do it now. Before it’s too late.