Page 3 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

This is not going to slide. I’ve put three years into a relationship with Holly to secure a future for us. Just because she’s having a nostalgic weekend with Santa’s son over there means nothing to me. This time next year, he’ll be a mere blip on my memory.

Holly Honeyford will be my wife.

I jab a finger into his pec, annoyed at how muscular it is. The man barely flinches. “I’ll be seeing you again.”

Chapter Two

Christmas Eve

Indy

I hold it together as I slip back into the B&B, greeting guests with a warm, friendly smile. Wishing them a Merry Christmas as they hop toe-to-toe and warm up by the stoked fire in the lobby. The cracked leather armchairs are worn in, well-used, and utterly ancient. My mother purchased them secondhand years ago, but they’ve become a staple fixture in the business she started when I was just a kid.

The Christmas tree in the corner of the room is perfect. Not a single bauble clashes; the lights are twinkling and distributed evenly among the pine needles. The star on top is flawlessly aligned as it should be. I want to rip it down, drag it up to the roof, and shove it star-first down the chimney.

James MacIntosh is a narcissistic, obsessed-with-himself asshole. I click through the accounts behind the reception desk. I could go to my office, but if I don’t work out a way to calm down in the next twenty minutes, I’m going to spiral and end up getting shit-faced until New Year's.

He, the aforementioned asshole, invited me to that party. And yet there he was, bringing cheer and joy to another woman in front of the whole goddamn town, like I’d dreamed up the entire thing. Well, I haven’t dreamed that he’s been slipping around my cottage for the last ten months, telling me how beautiful I am, how obsessed he is. All the while keeping our relationship a secret. Tonight we were going to finally come out publicly as a couple. I was going to be shown the respect I deserve. Because that’s what I’m realizing: these last ten months have been nothing but a pattern of disrespect. The second Holly Honeyford came back into town, I was dropped. Well, aside from two nights ago when he slipped into my bedroom and came inside me. I should have known her being here would give him second thoughts about us. But I had something to prove, and if I deviated from our norm, he would have known something was wrong. My stupid heart’s addled logic thought that if I didn’t acknowledge her coming home, then neither would he.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

I jab the mouse and click on a customer’s email.

Five-star review, so grateful, winter wonderland, we’ll be back next year.

I skim the words like they mean nothing. As if my focus shouldn’t be on my mom’s legacy instead of a shit-for-brain pencil dick literal Christmas tree farmer who can frankly go suck a—

“Hi, I need a room.”

I look up and see the man from the party. The one I didn’t recognize but grabbed his champagne and downed in one, thrusting the empty flute back at him. I’d hoped not to see him again the second I stalked away because who is unhinged enough to do something like that? To a stranger? His dark brown hair is cut short on the sides, the top long enough to start curling at the ends. The long slope of his nose draws down to full lips. He’s got enough stubble to make me believe he hasn’t shaved for a few days, which surprises me given the tailored suit he’s wearing. Even now, less than an hour after I stole his drink, he’s looking considerably more disheveled. His tie askew, specks of—is that blood on his shirt? His eyes are wide, his nostrils flaring. It’s like looking into a mirror. And despite the warmth radiating from his deep brown eyes, this guy is stone-cold.

“We’re fully booked for the holidays,” I say as his jaw tics.

“There must be something. I’ll take a broom closet for all I care,” he snips, running a palm over his mouth. His knuckles are red and split.

“Let me get you some ice for your hand.”

A gust of wind flows into the lobby as the front door opens. Henry arrives, snowflakes billowing around him as he flicks his scarf down, points directly at me, and screeches.

“You left too early, Miss Winters. Too damn early. Because James-Mommy-issues-MacIntosh just got his ass handed to him by the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life. A jawline that could cut glass. A suit that looked as if he were sewn into it. The muscles, the tension, the right hook on this man. Santa came early for you, and luckily, I caught it on camera. Let’s get into our jammies, make some popcorn, and play this on repeat. You’re gonna wanna charge your vibrator.”

My mouth gapes, and I give a clenched smile to the guests who have turned their heads to see what all the fuss is about. Henry is often inappropriate in front of guests, but this is taking the gingerbread biscuit.

“It was a left hook actually,” the deep voice of the man gripping my front desk says, not dropping eye contact with me.

“Oh my God, you’re here. Are you staying with us?” Henry says excitedly.

“Henry, can you get the gentleman here some ice?”

“Oh, anything for this hero. I’ll be in your debt. This is my solemn oath—"

“Henry!” I snap.

He winks at me, mouthing you should fuck him behind the guests' backs and slipping down the corridor toward the kitchen.