“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.
Fuck Christmas.
My words echo in my head, heartless, thoughtless, as I slam into my workshop behind the cabin.
It was an asshole thing to say. Bellamy looked like I had just told her I strangled a litter of kittens.
I didn’t mean it. I blame my bad temper on the debt we’re trying to get out from under.
In four days, we lose everything.
I start up the wood-burning stove, eyeing the slightly open door every few seconds, waiting for Zelda. She doesn’tshow. Fucking perfect. My goddamn dog would rather be with Bellamy.
Tension tightens my neck. I roll out my shoulders, huffing in frustration, my breath a white cloud. I wish I’d grabbed my jacket, but I’d rather freeze to death than go back for it. I need some goddamn time away from Bellamy. Away from what she’s doing to me.
I want her. So goddamn bad it hurts.
I’ve spent so long thinking about taking this chance, and now that I have, now that I’m here, I feel like an idiot.
What the hell was I thinking coming here? I knew it was her weekend, and foolishly, I came anyway. And for what? Some harebrained notion that I could get her to stay? That I could tell her I miss her, I love her, I can’t live without her?
Instead, all we’ve done is bark and bite at each other.
My fault. I brought up the past, took my anger out on her. Hell, I told her I hate Christmas, even after I brought along all her favorite Christmas dishes.
I don’t hate Christmas.
I just miss her.
Miss her in a way that’s feral and greedy and damn near makes me insane. Knowing she’s on my ranch, back in our Christmas cabin, is torture. She’s here but she’s not mine. She’s close but I can’t touch her.
How many dreams have I woken from still tasting that perfect pussy, those breasts? With that giggly laugh echoing in my head? Those small hands running up my chest, her candy-apple-red mouth parting to say, “I love you, Hank.”
With a pained grunt, I shake my head, trying my damnedest to dislodge the memories.
Needing a task to keep me busy, I heft an old saddle from the rack and settle at the workbench. I get out a needle and thread and begin to stitch up a tear near the front of the seat.
I haven’t been the same since she left.
I could have rallied. Could have gotten my life together, seen my friends, moved on. Instead, I pulled away, shut down. I couldn’t forget her.
Because Bellamy Blue is still mine.
I stick myself with the needle, my hands too unsteady, and curse. Exhaling, I lift my head and focus on the painting hanging over my workbench.
