Page 9 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

He shrugs. “She’s here to stay, Indy. But if she does go back, let’s pick things back up, see if this can really go somewhere, yeah?”

My stomach. Is. In. My. Ass.

Would it be wrong to kick him in the nuts so he’s got a matching bruise?

How dare he? How does a man have the audacity? The balls to sideline me and then suggest we can pick things back up when he’s done with my ex-best friend, whom he was apparently sleeping with when we were in high school, even when she knew how obsessed I was with him.

My mouth is dry as I attempt to swallow down whatever anger I have at this moment.

I want to headbutt him.

“Sweetheart?” Mav calls out. “Beelzebub wants to talk to you. He’s getting nothing from the cat. She’s not interested in speaking with him.”

I slip my hands out of James’s palms, clenching them into a tight fist to stop the shaking. The chair scrapes back against the floorboards as I attempt to put as much distance between us as possible.

“Can I at least use your shower?” He smiles, nodding, as if the thought of me refusing him is utterly inconceivable.

I huff out a laugh and pat him on the shoulder.

“No. Time to leave. I have a seance to attend in my mother’s bedroom.”

I wait for him to stand on his feet. As he reaches the door, his fingers linger on the handle. He looks toward the spare bedroom at the back of the house, and I imagine he’s pausing, waiting for me to change my mind. Waiting for me to confirm that there’s nothing for him to worry about with Mav being in my home. As if I would reassure him that I’m not going to have sex with another man whilst he’s figuring things out with Holly. The feeling of power snakes through me, curling through my toes, providing steely strength to my spine as I square my shoulders.

“Indy, I think—”

“Bye, James.”

I open the door for him, guide him out, and slam it shut before he can speak another word. And then I march straight into my mom’s old bedroom. Mav leans back against the bed frame, one foot over the other, the cat tucked up against his side.

“Beelzebub had to run. He says hi.” He smirks. “He’d love to know what it is you do with your tongue that’s so unforgettable.”

Shit on a candy cane.

He heard every word.

Chapter Five

December 25

Mav

“It’s not very Christmassy of you to withhold information from a guest of your establishment, you know.”

“One, you’re technically not a guest of my B&B; you haven’t paid for your stay. Two, what exactly has given you the impression I’m a Christmassy person? I worked Christmas Day, my home isn’t decorated, I ate leftovers for dinner, and Christmas music is banned for mine and the cat’s own sanity.”

I peer down at her, her creamy cheeks growing rosy from the cold. Even the tip of her button nose has a warm glow to it. Her signature eyeliner is sharp enough to cut, her lashes thick and long. She hasn’t come to play around. She’s dressed to kill. Skintight jeans, knee-high leather boots. She’s dressed all in black. A knitted sweater and a long, fitted coat accentuate her hourglass figure. I had to hold back my compliments as we left the cottage with a plan in tow. I’m not here to flatter the girl I’m trying to get back with James-Dickwash-MacIntosh. I’m here to rile Holly up into a frenzy. Make myself desirable again so we can leave this small-town humdrum life, go home, get married, and cement my reputation as a family man. Someone who starts a deal and sees it through to the end. All with the perfect blonde-haired wife and eventually, my perfect little blond babies who will want for nothing.

Even if my brain has been playing non-stop reels of what exactly Indy does with her tongue. It’s not my business. And I only ask so I can stop imagining all the depraved things it might be; so I can focus on the task at hand.

Our boots crunch through the snow as we trudge, arm in arm, toward the town square. Red brick buildings line Main Street, a cenotaph stands in the middle with the names of fallen soldiers, a Christmas wreath laid at its base. A stage has been constructed, and the church choir hastily bundle together like penguins, each wearing a long puffy jacket over their usual snow-white robes.

“Indira—”

“That’s an Indian name, Maverick.”

“I’m aware. Now, are you ready?” Despite being ninety-nine percent sure her name is Indigo, I’m reluctant to end our guessing game. I like the way her lips curl up when I say her name wrong. I like the way her eyes crinkle. This woman deserves to have little moments of joy, and I’m happy to be the one who temporarily fills that space for her.

She sucks in a breath, her footsteps slowing as we approach what appears to be the entire town for the Christmas Day carols. Her warm breath creates a cloud as she huffs out a laugh.