Chapter 4 #2
I shake my head. “Sorry, what?”
Zelda barks, weaving her way around my legs, like snap out of it, Mom.
His eyes follow mine, up to that star-shaped hook. Then he quickly moves deeper into the cabin and shuts the door.
“How are the animals?” Bent at the waist, I scratch Zelda behind her cold ears.
“Pissed. Hungry. But alive.” He’s business as usual as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing a thick thermal shirt. He shakes off the snow, then hangs his jacket on a hook. Looks at me with a furrowed brow. “What are you doing?”
“I’m decorating.” I crunch the end of the candy cane.
“You ain’t serious.” He rubs his palm across his sharp jaw and peers over my head, sapphire eyes scanning the snow globes scattered across the fireplace mantel.
I tilt my chin at the unhappiness in his voice. “Has anyone ever told you, you lack Christmas spirit?”
“Just the ghost of my past.” He takes off his Stetson and drops it on the entry table.
“What’s with you?” How is it possible that he suddenly dislikes Christmas? First the music, now the decorations. “You’ve always been a sucker for a good nativity scene. And now you’re acting like you’ve been possessed by the Grinch.”
“Yeah, well, first time for everything.”
“Deal with it. I’m decorating.” I give a little shrug. “Especially because you stole my Christmas.”
Hank emits a derisive snort. “Stole’s a little dramatic, ain’t it, Bluebell?”
With a roll of my eyes, I twist, twirling the piece of garland off my shoulders. I press up on tiptoes and weave the faux pine strands between the snow globes.
“That’ll burn.” Hank’s deep voice carries. The floorboards vibrate beneath his boots as he moves closer, crowds my space.
“No, it won’t.” I pull away from him and peer up at his handsome face, at the deep and serious frown. Whiskers shadow his jaw, his skin still tan from the summer sun. “It never has before.”
“I’m tellin’ you, Bell, it will.” Sighing, he reaches around me and tugs the garland down. Then he tosses it onto the leather couch. “You got the fire goin’ too hard. Last thing I need is to worry about you and the cabin burnin’ down.”
As he crouches and fusses with the logs, I back away, arms crossed, frustrated and wishing I was alone.
I’m supposed to be channeling my inner Monet while I’m here. I’m supposed to be having girl dinner and crying into my wine. Nursing hot cocoa and watching rom-coms. Not fighting with my ex while simultaneously fighting the urge to count each and every snowflake in that whiskery scruff of his.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I mutter.
He stands, the big, stiff line of his body twisting toward me.
“I always worry about you.” The words are a heated huff as he storms into the kitchen.
My stomach flips over. I don’t know what to make of that statement. I just know I like it. Too much.
Hands propped on my hips, I study him, befuddled by the man. The only thing more frigid than the Montana air? Hank Blue’s cold shoulder.
’Tis the season for a grumpy cowboy, apparently.
“There’s still coffee,” I offer kindly. But only because I want something from him.
He pours himself a cup, then chops a hunk of zucchini bread. All the while, the wind continues to gust outside, making the cabin vibrate and groan. He eats the sweet treat with a lifted brow, his smug gaze on me, but says nothing.
I blush at having been caught eating his food.
He swallows, then sighs, long and loud. “What do you want, Bell?”
I tug at a lock of hair. Am I really that obvious? “I need help.”
“With what?”
“Getting the ornaments from the shelf.”
“One problem with that. We don’t have a tree.” Frustration tightens his features.
“So let’s get one.”
He stares at me and I stare back, the silence heavy. The tension? Radioactive.
“I want a tree, Hank,” I say, staring wistfully at the corner where it should go.
Once again, I’m hit with that stern cowboy frown. The one he used to give the horses when they escaped their pens. Dusting his hands of crumbs, he eases closer. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing in front of me. “You’re not getting a fucking tree, Bell.”
“Please?” I push my lower lip out into a well-practiced pout, one he could never say no to.
His face falls, but he regroups quickly.
Hank Blue’s always been a stubborn cowboy.
“That’s not fair,” he growls, leaning in. Every atom in my body tenses, simmering with heat. “You don’t get to do that anymore. Pout.”
“Fine.” I turn my back to him, storm for the door and pluck my jacket from its hook. “I’ll get one myself.”
Papa Blue and Hank taught me the correct way to cut down a Christmas tree. I can do it on my own. No man needed.
He follows me, his long legs eating up the distance between us. When one of his big hands palms my hip, spinning me around to face him, my breath rushes out of me. “Bell, there’s a fucking blizzard outside. You’re not going out there.”
“The snow’s stopped.”
“Do you see the clouds?” he fires back. “If we’re lucky, we have an hour before the storm ramps up again.”
Of course I saw the clouds. But at this moment, I don’t care. All I want is a tree. All I want is for Hank to stop being so stubborn. Why does he suddenly hate Christmas?
Why do I fucking care?
I inhale deeply, wishing I could forget it. But I can’t. I have to know. “I don’t understand,” I say, my voice more pleading than I’d like. “You’ve always loved Christmas.”
“Not anymore.”
“But why?” I’m horrified when tears fill my eyes. But when he looks at the toes of his boots rather than responding, I persist. “But why, Hank? Why—”
“Why?” Voice raw, nearly feral, he catches my wrist and pulls me toward him. “Christ. Because of you, Bellamy.”
At that tiny touch, sparks, so many sparks, crackle between us. Hank’s everywhere. Haunting the past, my heart. Hands on my thighs, his lush mouth sweeping over my throat, gravelly morning voice.
“You don’t mean that.” I flatten my hand on his broad chest and push him hard enough to separate us.
“I do mean that.” He steps forward, his eyes sharp as steel. “Because it hasn’t been the same since you left.” His chest heaves. “Nothing has been the goddamn same since you left.”
My insides twist into a hundred knots of confusion, of desire.
I search for a response, a reassurance. Because Hank without his Christmas spirit is like hot cocoa without marshmallows, but all that comes out of my mouth is a pathetic, whimpered noise.
His laugh is angry now. “So if you’re askin’ why I’m actin’ like an asshole, like some fuckin’ scrooge, it’s plain and simple. I hate Christmas.”
“You don’t mean that.” I clutch my hands to my heart. He might as well take a knife and gut me.
“I do.” His jaw ticks. “Fuck Christmas.”
I gasp, stagger back a step. “Take it back.”
“I have more work to do,” he grits out. Almost like he’s talking to himself rather than me. “I don’t know why I’m fuckin’ here anyway.”
“Then go.” Tears burn my eyes. Heart pounding in my ears, I edge backward. “You never stayed when things got hard anyway.”
A ragged breath escapes him, his face paling, his expression so pained that it steals the air from my lungs.
It was a low blow. A lie. If I could take it back, I would.
But he doesn’t give me the chance.
He snatches his Stetson and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
I curl my fingers into fists, feel the sharpness of my fingernails as they make moons in the heel of my palm.
I’m getting a damn tree if it’s the last thing I do.