Page 34 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

One: he found Holly, they made up, and were currently enjoying a family brunch together as I am scrubbing clean one of the bathrooms from a guestroom that’s checking out today. Or two: he passed out at The Bear Den, and Bella left him there to sleep it off.

Either way, he’s not in my cottage, and I should be pleased. I should feel a relief that a near stranger isn’t in my home anymore, that I’m free from the obligation of hosting over the holidays when I’m so busy already. Instead, I’m scrubbing shower tiles with the wrath of the wicked stepsisters after Cinderella hightailed it with Prince Charming. The scent of bleach creates a cloud of fumes to inhale as I scour away any remnants of Mr. and Mrs. Hoff from this bathroom.

The day continues much the same, and I work through my warring emotions with the physical labor of running a B&B. It’s hard work, and by the time I’m done, my hair is frizzy, the shorter strands slipping out of my ponytail and clinging to my damp neck.

“You look like shit,” Henry says, a pout on his face. I glance into the kitchen and spot Scott stomping around, clanging pans together in some newfound language that doesn’t require opening his mouth. I’m pissed. And you’re gonna hear about it.

“Do I need to go and talk to him?”

Henry shrugs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Yesterday we were fine and today . . . today we’re not. I’m tired of getting dicked around, and I let him know that.”

“The guests can’t know—”

He holds up his hand to stop me, his face deadpan. “You know I would never.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m just a little out of sorts. I think Mav spent the night with Holly, and I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Oh, no. Indy, he’s actually—”

More clanging from the kitchen, and I hear Scott cursing loud enough that a guest sitting by the fire turns his head and frowns.

“I’m gonna go and talk to him, catch up later?” I say, squeezing his forearm.

“Yeah, yeah, go and tell him to stop being a big baby.”

“I’m sure that will help.” I roll my eyes and push my way to the kitchen.

Mav

I roll over in a bed that’s too soft, bedding that is too thick, with a smell of nutmeg and cinnamon in the air. Not usually a combination that makes me want to roll over and throw up into a trash can, but there’s a first time for everything.

I drank far too much last night. Far too much. After Indy left with James, I’d garnered some sympathy from Bella, who I found out runs the bar as well as her great-aunt’s affairs. Apparently, she owns half of the town. The remaining half mostly belongs to my future father-in-law.

Bella, after Indy left with James, proceeded to give me shot after shot of tequila until I was announced the Clawmaster, a title befitting only one patron per year, apparently. I lift my hand to my head, and yes. I’m still wearing the plastic gold crown she adorned me with at the knighting ceremony. Christ, had Holly been there too? I distinctly remember talking to her when Charlie and Bella disappeared after the last call.

I look around the room, recognizing the ornate fixtures, the mahogany wooden trimmings, and the distinct cozy style of the B&B. I’m in Charlie’s room, or a room at the very least.

Of course.

Indy went home with James, and the thought of him plowing her like freshly laid snow had my stomach churning more than this hangover. Not after it was my fingers she was coming on hours before. So I took the sensible approach, got drunk, and passed out in my friend's room, allowing her to get railed by the lumberjack in peace.

I roll over, and my heart nearly jumps into my throat, Charlie’s body next to mine, deathly still.

Please don’t be dead.

His chest isn’t moving; he’s not making a sound. All I can think is he must have drunk as much tequila as me and passed out, choking on his own vomit. I don’t have a lot of friends; instead, I used my twenties to build a network of people who can help me build the property empire I’m aiming for. But Charlie is my closest confidant. Sure, I keep him away from my private life like I do everyone else, but he understands why. He understands me. In more than one drunken heart-to-heart, we’ve shared stories of our tragic childhoods and our need to be better than our parents. His trauma, stemming from his fiancée leaving him for his father, manifested itself in the form of moving from criminal justice into corporate law. Becoming a suit, the very antithesis of what he had originally set out to do. Oh, and he’ll sometimes dabble in property purchases for friends.

Mine manifested itself in building so many houses that it will make up for the fact that I didn’t have one as a kid. Who needs a therapist when you can watch snippets of Seattle’s very own Dr. Angel give life advice on social media?

I poke my finger into Charlie’s corpse-like chest and breathe a sigh of relief when I hear a groan.

Thank the innkeeper and the three wise men whilst I’m at it.

He lives.

There’s apparently a resurrection at Christmas this year, not just Easter.

His eyes are scrunched closed, his sweater rolling up and revealing his stomach. The guy is ripped, even after a night of drinking.