Page 4 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

“Excuse Henry. Nothing happens around here that warrants a video replay.”

“Or a fully charged vibrator,” he quips.

Heat creeps up my neck. Despite the absurdity of it all, watching someone punch James in the face would be a turn-on to be honest.

“Did you make him bleed?” I ask as his eyes widen a fraction before his lips tilt up into a slow smirk.

He leans down to whisper, and I bend forward to meet him. “He fell back onto the couch and cupped his hand under his chin so it didn’t drip on that fuck ugly rug.”

My pulse thumps in my ears. His warm breath tickles my nose. His voice is like gravel as he practically spits the words out. As if James were in the room and punching him once wasn’t enough. “I have a spare room,” I say stiffly, my heart thudding in my chest. “You can stay there as long as you need.”

I pull back, desperate to ease the pull of tension gravitating me toward him. He’s here for Holly. He’s not leaving, which means he’ll be trying to win her back.

Holly Honeyford. Vapid. Selfish. My ex-best friend from high school, who left for college at eighteen and never spoke to me again. Not even when my mother was dying, and I was taking care of her. Not even when my mother actually died. Not a single word. It’s as if we didn’t spend every day of our formative years learning dance routines, talking about boys, or studying hard together so we could both get into Elwood University. The difference between us is that I couldn’t leave, and she did. And she never looked back. And I watched from the sidelines, dreaming about the life I could have had if I wasn’t tied to Bear Hills.

Henry returns, fluttering his lashes and muttering under his breath about perfectly fitted suits and hands that would fit perfectly around his neck. The stranger’s eyes crinkle a little, as if bemused by Henry’s incessant ramblings. I relax as soon as his smile shows a row of perfectly straight teeth. Henry isn’t everyone’s favorite person, mostly because his personality is a little larger than small-town life. But I won’t tolerate anyone being an asshole to him, regardless of whether he threw a punch at my not-boyfriend and has the jawline of a marble statue.

“Henry, hold down the fort? I’m going to take . . . I actually don’t know your name?” I turn from Henry to the mystery man, and he holds out a hand.

“Maverick Stone. But everyone calls me Mav.” He shakes my hand firmly. The calloused palm gives mine a rough squeeze.

“Indy. Indy Winters.”

“Indy Winters? I thought my name was bad.” He laughs. “What’s Indy short for?”

“I’ll give you three guesses.” I smirk, picking up his suitcase until he snatches it back out of my hand.

“Not a guest. Besides, I’m not gonna let a woman carry my shit for me.”

“Suit yourself.”

We circle round the back of the B&B, following the usual gravel path, which is currently covered in three inches of snow, toward the treeline. The cold air whips around my thin satin dress, and I curse for not bringing my jacket. It’s not far. I installed tiny lanterns to light the way during winter, and despite the depth of the snow, they’re lighting up the path just enough.

“Indiana?”

“Like Indiana Jones? Do I look like I have a whip in my pocket?”

He shrugs. “I have no idea what you're into in your free time.”

I tell myself it’s the cool air nipping at my skin that is causing my cheeks to redden.

“It’s not Indiana.”

The wind dies off once we reach the trees, but I pick up the pace regardless. My toes are shivering in the ridiculous heels I’d chosen to wear for James tonight.

My cottage comes into view. Well, my mom’s cottage. I inherited it when she died, but I still stay in my old room, leaving the master bedroom vacant. It’s technically a guest room, but so far, I haven’t let anyone stay in it.

“Thanks for this. As soon as I’ve sorted things out with Holly, I’ll be out of your hair.”

Hearing her name has my neck stiffening. I grunt a response, sliding the key into the door quickly and letting us in.

I switch on the lights, scanning the room to make sure there’s nothing out to cause alarm, you know, like a charging vibrator. Happy with the knowledge that nothing is going to embarrass me further this evening, I throw a couple of rolled-up newspaper pages in between the logs in the fireplace and set them alight. On my hands and knees, I blow gently until the flames catch.

“You’re very practical, India.”

“Not my name either. And you kind of have to be practical when you run a business. Things break a lot.” I give a polite smile. What the hell am I supposed to do with him now? “I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

“No Christmas decorations?”