Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
“I was just agreeing with you,” I add. “You’re right, no one in town needs to know what happened last night. Mums the word, and I’ll see you in the town square this afternoon for pet pictures.”
“You should let me drive you home on my snowmobile, sweetheart,” Misty says, clearly ready to embrace forgiveness this holiday season. “There’s no way you’re getting your car down the hill without an accident. The plow hasn’t been through town yet, just the main roads.”
I nod. “Okay, thanks. Just let me clean up a little downstairs and grab my ingredients for the dog treats. I wasn’t able to bake any, but I can make do with popcorn. Dogs love popcorn, too.”
“They do,” Misty agrees. “And you’re great with rolling with the punches. Nothing keeps a Hadley down and don’t you forget it.”
“Thanks,” I say, fighting the urge to cringe again as I hurry downstairs.
Myopic or not, Misty is better at reading a room than I would have given her credit for before this morning. Just a few minutes was enough to make it clear to our half-blind mayor that I’m crazy about Luke and Luke is not crazy about me.
I’m sure the fact that he couldn’t get out of here fast enough was a solid clue.
And the fact that he didn’t even say goodbye…
“He could have at least said goodbye,” I mutter, fighting tears as I start to shove ingredients into my grocery bag, jumping half out of my skin when I find Andy asleep behind the thankfully still sealed sugar bag.
“Crap, you scared me,” I say when he jumps onto my arm and scrambles up onto my shoulder, sniffing the entire way. “Yeah, I know,” I say. “I stink of the sour dairy and bad decisions.”
He emits a tiny sneeze. I take it as agreement that I’m a mess, but a lovable one, a fact he proves by snuggling against my neck for a beat before leaping back onto the table and scurrying down the leg. I watch him disappear through a small hole in the molding under the kitchen counter, knowing I should plug it before something more vermin-like than a chipmunk makes its way into the town hall kitchen, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
It’s freezing outside and Andy might need to get in from out of the cold again.
And what are we here for if not to help keep each other warm?
“I’m ready,” I tell Misty at the top of the stairs, flicking off the basement light and following her out to her snowmobile, deliberately avoiding looking toward town or the Ratcliffe mansion high on the hill.
It was a beautiful night, but it’s over.
Like it or not, it’s time to move on.
Hopefully that doesn’t involve Misty driving us into a pine tree.
It’s possible that just might hurt more than Luke’s leaving without saying goodbye.
Chapter Eleven
LUKE
The moment I step through the door, my sister, Ashton, pounces on me, wrapping me up in a tight hug. “Don’t ever scare us like that again! I thought you were dead in the snow.”
“Not such a bad way to go, though,” I say, patting her back. “Peaceful, at least. Or so I’ve heard.” She pulls back, shooting me such a fierce glare that I instantly backtrack. “I’m sorry. Bad joke. I promise, no more irresponsible behavior. I will dress appropriately for the weather, avoid being out in storms, and be careful not to put myself or others at risk.”
She narrows her eyes and lifts a tiny hand, with one finger stuck out. “Pinkie swear. I’m not letting you off the hook until you pinkie swear.”
Fighting an eye roll, I link my pinkie through hers, trying not to think about the fact that Ashton is the same height as Holly, though much thinner. Ashton has always been the runt of the family. No amount of maple fudge or triple cheese sandwiches seem capable of putting meat on my sister’s bones, whereas Holly is all curves and softness and beautiful abundance.
Just another reason she should avoid a miser like me.
It’s good that we left without saying goodbye. Necessary, even.
“Not sure how much that pinkie swear is worth,” Elliot says, handing his coat and scarf to the butler waiting to accept our outdoor gear and tuck it out of sight in the large, walk-in closet reserved for snowy things.
My grandfather insisted we keep his entire staff on payroll, even including a trust to pay their salaries for another decade, though I seriously doubt most of them will last that long. Pierre, the butler, is eighty if he’s a day, but still seems to love his job. He beams as he gathers Bran and Elliot’s coats and promises to be back for their snow boots in just a moment.
Elliot thanks him and turns back to my sister, “He just ghosted Holly Jo.”