Page 16 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

Henry’s ears perk up, his eyes shifting back onto mine.

Make that two minutes.

“How exactly would you do that?” he whispers.

“A carefully placed hand, a low whisper in your ear at the right moment. A lot of innocent things don’t look so innocent, do they?”

He chews on his lip, clearly weighing up betraying his best friend with how much he likes the chef. His eyes flicking back toward the kitchen.

And in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . and—

“Fine. But if you use this information against Indy. If you even so much as inadvertently hurt her, I will find where you live, break into your house, and shit in every single one of your pillowcases. You won’t even know about it until you lay your pretty little head down and feel the squelch.” His eyes are thunderous, and I have to admit, the imagery he’s conjured up from a few sentences is quite remarkable.

“I won’t hurt her. I want her to get what she wants.”

He rolls his eyes. “Right, James. If you could help her change her mind about that one, that would be great. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days side-stepping around that over-muscled tree hugger.”

I knew I liked Henry.

“Come on. How’d she hurt her wrist?”

“How scathing are you willing for me to be about Holly?”

“She invited me to her family home, and my Christmas present was her making out with a part-time arborist who only works the month of December. I’m good to hear some choice words.”

“Excellent. Because I’ll give you some.”

◆◆◆

I slip into the cottage nearly an hour later. Henry spelled out a few truths for me. He could have been making it up, but I genuinely don’t think someone could make up lies as quickly as he talked. It was a forty-five-minute history lesson documenting the frightful high school hell, through the ups and downs of Indy’s mom’s illness, ending, thankfully, at the moment Holly shoved Indy to the ground, spilling one thousand cartons of milk on the sidewalk.

I appreciate the embellishments of the milk, the treachery of James MacIntosh stringing Indy along by some Christmas string lights for months now, and the fact that he’s blond, which I’ve now learned is almost as bad as him ghosting Indy.

Henry has been witness to utter nonsense, and I’ll have to admit, he deserves a break. Helping to get him together with the chef is going to be an absolute pleasure after he gave me a documentary version of Indy Winters.

Bear Hills is a strange place. I’m not sure what I’d expected from this small town, but this certainly wasn’t it. The last few days have been like seeing Holly through an entirely different lens. She’s conceited, spiteful—hell, she’s borderline aggressive. But as it happens, the sting of embarrassment I felt as Henry relayed Holly’s history surprised me. If the city version of me had known she had these traits in her before I set foot in this town, I’d have probably utilized them a lot earlier on. But as it happens, the thought of stepping on those around you, those you’re meant to care for and love, doesn’t sit well with me.

It certainly sends my plan down the drain because I’ve invested a lot of time with Holly. Three years isn’t nothing. But maybe it’s just how she behaves here. Maybe she’s acting out because she’s in a place she hasn’t been since she was a teenager. Maybe she’s regressing.

Whatever it is, my soon-to-be wife needs a lesson in manners, and tonight’s town snowball fight might be the perfect place to inflict some street justice.

“Hey, Indignation,” I call out, hearing the slosh of bathwater. An image of a scowling Indy rubbing her silky leg with a loofah springs to mind, her little toes wiggling as her heel rests on the side of the tub.

“Not my name, Stone!” she yells back.

I chuckle, shucking off my coat and scratching the purring chin of the cat. We’re friends again after I fed her some tuna earlier. Yesterday’s jibe at her reluctant owner, all but forgotten.

I slip down the corridor toward the back of the house, the bathroom door pulled to but not locked. The door doesn’t creak as I step inside, and there lies Indy, eyes closed, humming as she cradles her wrist against her chest. Her arms unfortunately cover her breasts, the bubbles covering the rest of her.

“This is not the time for a bath, Indy.”

She screams, sitting up immediately. A wave of water sloshes over the side and splashes my feet.

“What the hell, Mav? Get out!”

“I don’t think I will. We need to talk.”

“Get. Out.”