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)
But I know better.
Even before he takes the gazebo steps two at a time, stopping inches away as he whispers, “Can we talk?” I know he’s here because he feels it, too. This connection between us, this certainty that if we walk away from what we started last night we’ll regret it every Christmas for the rest of our lives.
I’m not going to make this easy for him, though. He did bolt on me this morning while I was, with great dignity, wiping whipped cream off of my breasts in the town hall bathroom.
He deserves a little dose of his own grumpy medicine.
“I’m actually super busy,” I tell him, using a broom to sweep away a tumbleweed of fur left by an Irish setter. “I’m a VIPP today. Very Important Pet Photographer.”
“You just said pee pee!” a little boy yells at me as he runs past the gazebo. His face is smeared with a brown stain and when he sticks his tongue out at me it’s a horror show of peppermint and what I hope is fudge.
I’m tempted to shout back that he has dookie on his face, but I refuse to spoil what I’m anticipating is about to be a significant moment in the Life and Times of Holly Jo. I sense there will be groveling and then a heart stopping confession and hopefully lots and lots of make-up kissing.
I send out a quick prayer that my Christmas wish is about to come true.
Luke is briefly distracted by the interruption but then he turns back to me. “This won’t take long, I promise. Here, let me help you.”
He makes as if to take the broom from me but I stubbornly resist, gripping the handle tightly.
“I’ve got it. Nice threads,” I add. “Did you find that in the town hall donation box this morning? Considering I still have your suit jacket you must have sneaked out wearing something. Kind of cold on a snowmobile without a coat of any kind.”
“My brother brought an extra one.” Luke winces. “But that’s why I’m here. I need to apologize for leaving without saying goodbye.”
I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else. I raise my eyebrows. Luke looks like he’s in a tropical heat wave, not Vermont in December. He’s sweating and his skin is…ruddy. Even in the throes of our Holly Jolly good time last night he didn’t look this flushed.
“So, apologize,” I finally say, trying to encourage him. “I have a four o’clock with a boxer who doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I thought that was the apology,” Luke says, rubbing his jaw. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”
That makes me snort. “You’re right, you’re not good at it at all. That was a vague reference to your poor behavior. Not an apology.” Exasperated, I shake my broom handle at him. “You really hurt my feelings, Luke! Look, I know the deal. You don’t want a relationship. That’s fine.” It isn’t, but for the sake of my point, I need to maintain that front. “But only buttheads walk out on a woman without saying goodbye.”
Luke’s eyes widen. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I was a butthead. I am a butthead. I’m so sorry I didn’t say goodbye. I’ve done some stupid things in my life, but that was wrong and rude and I am genuinely so sorry that I hurt you. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way, Holly. You’re an amazing woman. The best woman.”
Touched, but not wanting to show it too much yet, I nod. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Apology accepted.”
“I have a hard time with my emotions,” he says, his brow adorably furrowed.
My tone softens. “I know.”
“That’s why I left this morning. I was afraid of what I was feeling. What I am feeling.”
My heart flips and my belly is once again full of starlings. This time when he tries to take the broom from me, I let him. He props it up against the railing of the gazebo. Then he puts his hands on my shoulders and massages them softly.
“What are you feeling?” I ask, my hands trembling by my sides. I’m valiantly fighting the urge to fling my arms around him and kiss him, thus preventing him from saying super romantic things, which I’m desperately craving. “Besides regret in your wardrobe choice, that is?”
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even acknowledge the loud sweater he’s wearing. They could land planes at the airstrip with this sweater, but he acts like it doesn’t exist.
“What I’m feeling is true gratitude for last night.”
I’m thankful for those orgasms as well, but this isn’t what I’m looking for, longing for. I want more than gratitude. I want him to admit that he’s feeling all the things I’m feeling as he stands in front of me, looking like everything I’ll ever want or need, from this day to my last day and every one in between. I’m about to make a quip making that clear but force myself to keep my mouth closed instead.