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“It is.”
“Because I think you’re frustrated and agitated and you’re looking for some kind of comfort. Kissing me is not going to bring that for you right now.”
I closed my eyes.
“You know I’m right. The best thing you can do is make a coffee and take some time alone while I try to get the trucks out.” Nicholas slowly extracted us from one another and took a step back. “All right?”
I rubbed my hands down my face and blew out a long breath. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I pick a side and stand by it? “Yes. You’re right. I’m—I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He smiled, and it was so warm and genuine. So real.
He didn’t care.
And that was the worst thing, wasn’t it? I knew he wanted something casual, but my heart was betraying me.
It’d been days.
Literal days.
Tomorrow marked a week since he’d walked through the grotto door.
I leaned back against the counter and wiped my hands over my face and through my hair, fisting it firmly. I was so frustrated, so annoyed, so ready to explode at everything around me.
It’d been coming.
This emotional burst had been building in me for so long, and I needed to get rid of it somehow.
Crying was not the one. This was not my bedroom, this was not my bed, this was not a place for me to cry.
I didn’t cry.
Ever.
But I needed to.
I wanted to.
I had to explode somehow.
I eyed my phone.
I grabbed it and opened Spotify and searched my most hated song.
Then I hit play.
The little fucking jingle bells just pissed me off, and when the music hit, I pinched the bridge of my nose.
I knew more about what Mariah wanted for Christmas than I did myself.
The upbeat jingle beat hit, and I raged. I screamed and shouted that I didn’t care what she fucking wanted, because nobody cared what I wanted.
How could they when I didn’t know myself?
There was no worry about wishing for snow because I was trying to get rid of it.
I didn’t want mistletoe. I hated mistletoe.
St. Nick wasn’t getting any kind of letter because I had my own Nicholas who was driving me insane.
And Santa was not going to bring me anything I needed.
I dropped onto a chair.
I knew what I wanted for Christmas.
This whole song, this horrible fucking irritating overplayed song had beat me over the head with it, and I buried my head in my hands again.
I wanted a little bit of happiness.
I’d had the worst year. I’d been through legal issues with my old boss and assumed the pseudo head of the family while my mom looked after everyone else. I’d all but taken over the family stall through the summer and the holiday season and now I was running the grotto, and the one person I’d ever allowed to really hurt me had burst into my life and was now someone I couldn’t help but have feelings for.
Shit.
Fuck.
I had feelings for Nicholas. Mucky, messy, muddy feelings. But feelings were feelings, and he was leaving again.
He was going.
He’d come back for this house, but it wasn’t enough, was it?
Erin was clearly starting something with Oscar, and my sister was about to give birth again, and I was out here spending hours every single day watching Nicholas be the best damn Santa to kids he had no obligation to.
And now I was here. Stuck at a house he’d probably sell within a year.
I ran my fingers through my hair and looked around.
What the hell was I supposed to do now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The last kid passed through the grotto doors, and I stared after her as she went, giggling and clutching her wrapped book.
Nicholas looked at me with his eyebrows raised. “Is that the last one?”
I nodded. Somehow, yesterday, thanks to Michael and Denny, we’d managed to get out of Nicholas’s grandma’s property before we had to open the grotto. We’d delayed the opening to allow us to shower and change and get ourselves ready—something that had happened at the farm for us both due to his boiler issues.
The pipes were now clear, but the boiler seemed to have woken up and said, “No, sir, not today.”
Given that it still wasn’t fixed, it was looking more like, “No, sir, not this week.”
I was hoping Denny could fix the boiler. He’d insisted on going back to the house last night, and I didn’t enjoy the idea of him being in a house without heating beyond an open fire.
It was a recipe for disaster.
“Is it really only four days until Christmas?” Nicholas asked, pulling off the hat and Santa beard. “Or am I imagining it?”
“Nope, you’re not.” Unfortunately. “We’re nearly there. Any luck with your boiler?”
He shook his head. “No. I think it might be dead-dead.”
“Oh. Well, that’s shit.”
“You can say that again.” He unbuttoned his Santa jacket and looked over at me. “On the bright side, my mom said there are funds to fix the boiler, but it can’t really be done until the new year, so that sucks.”
