Grant’s jaw drops. He swivels to me, then to Alex, outraged. “You brought your girlfriend to make everyone coffee? What is she? A barista?”
The room is deadly silent. No one moves.
Grant’s eyes go wide. “Oh, my God. She is a barista! Did you meet her at your coffee shop?”
Heat floods my face, hot enough to scorch. Is it possible to actually die of embarrassment?
“Grant!” Valerie shouts, harsher than I’ve ever heard. “Watch your tone!”
“What?” Grant advances, his glare locked on Alex. I suddenly realize Alex has risen too—positioned right behind me.
“You were so desperate for the bed you hired your barista to come to Hollybrook?”
Mass chaos erupts—Valerie and Dr. Bob are shouting at Grant and Tyler physically restrains Alex, who’s roaring that Grant’s going to pay for insulting his girlfriend.
Mallory watches in horror for two beats before springing into action. She slips an arm around my shoulders and hustles me toward the living room.
“Finley, I am so, so sorry,” she gushes. “I have no idea what’s gotten into him!”
“He’s probably upset about his breakup,” I murmur, but I’m drowning in guilt. Because Grant is spot on. Alex did bring me so he could sleep in the bed. And technically he did hire me since he’s paying for my lost wages. We have a contract, for heaven’s sake.
“That’s no excuse,” she says fiercely, her voice breaking.
“I think I should just go,” I whisper.
She vigorously shakes her head. “No! Absolutely not. You shouldn’t have to leave because Grant’s throwing a temper tantrum.”
The shouting in the kitchen dulls to a low roar. My stomach twists. Would Alex drive me to an outlying town so I can spend the night and catch a flight tomorrow? Or maybe I can find a flight today. It’ll cost a fortune, but I’ll find a way to pay Barb and Mirna back.
I pull out my phone and try to call Barb, but it goes to voicemail.
“Who are you calling?” Mallory asks in alarm.
Ignoring her, I end the call and call Mirna, next. It goes to voicemail too.
Of course it does. It’s Christmas morning and they’re spending it with their families.
“Finley, we don’t want you to go,” Mallory pleads.
I open our group chat—Bad Ass Babes (three guesses who named it)—and type:
Things just took a really bad turn. I need to leave today
“Alex!” Mallory shouts, panic lacing her voice.
Alex storms in, red faced, and wound tighter than a live wire.
“I think she’s trying to go home,” Mallory blurts.
Alex’s face drains of color, and he rushes toward me. “No. We’re both going.”
“No, Alex,” I protest, my tears finally breaking free. “This is your family.”
“I’m not letting him treat you like that. Not on Christmas.” He pulls me into his arms, holding on like he’s daring anyone to pry me away.
“No, you can’t leave too!” Mallory cries.
“Who’s leaving?” Dr. Bob demands from the doorway.
