The asshole left me on read.
He didn't want to tell me, which confirmed my fear. This was a romantic getaway, it had to be. Otherwise, he would have told me who he was going with.
It didn't sit right with me how much this crawled under my skin.
I had zero business pining for my Christmas tree vendor when I’d only just got out of a relationship…and I was only single because I’d run over my last man. Why was I rushing to get involved with another? Hogan hadn’t even been officially declared dead yet.
As if by some universal intervention, my phone rang. My heart sank when it wasn’t Bastion's name on the screen, but the Leavenworth Police Department.
Numbness spread through my body as I answered, and they proceeded to tell me that Hogan had been drinking the night of his disappearance and had passed out while feeding the hogs. The coroner offered me their condolences and invited me out to their place for the weekend since they didn't want me to be alone on Christmas. I politely declined their invitation and hung up.
The notion of spending Christmas alone didn't thrill me, but spending it with random townspeople didn't feel right. They didn't know me.
Bastion knew me.
He'd been the only one to notice something was off when Hogan was alive, the only one to check on me. When he'd suspected something was off, he'd followed me home and when he saw me at my lowest moment, he'd helped me through it.
So if I couldn't spend Christmas with the only person who seemed to give two reindeer shits about me these days, I'd spend it alone. But I couldn't go back to Hogan's farmhouse. Fuck that shit. No, it was finally time to go back to my parents' old cabin. Maybe I wouldn't be so alone after all, with the ghosts ofChristmases past from my childhood... and whatever else lurked in those mountains.
The rest of the week crawled by on its hands and knees.
I'd been sleeping in the shop since I hadn't been able to force myself to sleep at Hogan's. Luckily, some of the local farmers were helping feed the animals until the place was sold, which was a load off my conscience. I hated that farm but it wasn't the hog's fault what happened.
I went back to the farm one last time to pack my things—It wasn't much, a few bags of clothes, boxes of books, cleaning supplies. When I drove away I cast a glance at the rearview mirror and flipped off the "Hogan's Happy Hogs" sign with a terse smile as it shrunk into the distance.
The property would be Hogan's parent's problem now. They'd sell it, and I wouldn't see a penny since we weren't married, but I didn't care. I didn't need shit from that man, dead or alive.
Finally, the end of the week rolled around and I closed the shop for the holidays, hanging a sign on the front door that read "Closed for the Holidays. Open Jan. 2nd."
I took a trip to the grocery store and then, with so much emotion burning like bile in the back of my throat, made the drive up to my parents’ old cabin in the mountains.
The drive through the pass was dicey since the snowfall was heavy—hank fuck for all-wheel drive—but he driveway was clearthanks to the middle-aged couple who lived a quarter mile down the road. They'd lived there for years and had been friends with my parents back in the day. They even had a spare key and were kind enough to keep the pipes from freezing. When I'd texted them that I was moving back, they'd cleared the driveway with their snowplow.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, a wave of nostalgia hitting me with the scent of old wood and dust.
I set the groceries on the counter beside a bottle of boozy eggnog—fortunately not the brand Hogan liked—and a note that said "Welcome home Clare-Bear" with a little doodle of a bear holding an arrangement of poinsettias.
Tears welled in my eyes. Mrs. Birkmire had written the note, but in a way it felt like it was from my mom. She'd always called me Clare-Bear.
I had a good sob over a glass of eggnog before cleaning the kitchen and putting the groceries away. Then, I pulled out the ingredients I'd brought to make cookies for the Birkmires to thank them for looking after the cabin while I was away.
Once the cookies were in the oven, I gave the cabin a light clean, knocking down cobwebs and sweeping away dust until it felt livable again. When all that was finished, it was time to fetch the Christmas tree I’d ratchet strapped to the roof of the car.
The cabin was surrounded by trees and I probably could have chopped one down myself, but I liked the idea of having one of Bastion’s trees. Luckily there’d been one left, like it was meant just for me. It was a little worse for wear, with sparse branches and a crooked tip, but as I set it up and topped it off with a few of my mom’s old ornaments, I couldn’t help but think it was perfect.
The oven beeped and I pulled out the cookies, setting aside one of the gingerbread men for myself. I poured a glass ofeggnog and settled on the couch with my snack and the book Bastion had gifted me.
The spicy retelling of The Nutcracker was quickly becoming one of my favorite dark romances to date. Of course, Clara was a full-grown adult in this version and the rat king was the heart throb.
I’d gotten to a particularly filthy part.
The rat king had used Clara as bait to lure the toy soldier into a trap. With the soldier captured, the rat king told Clara the only way to win his freedom was to make love to him while the toy soldier watched.
I’d always had a thing for monster romance, but this particular author had a way of getting me to question what I thought I knew about myself. A giant rat monster getting Clara off with his tail? It was kind of horrifying, and in a way, that just made it better.
As I read theverydetailed sex scene, my breathing picked up and a radiant heat settled between my thighs.
I hadn’t had sex in well over a year. Hogan always got pissy about it, and sometimes he even threw shit when I refused to have sex with him. Eventually he stopped asking. To say I was starved was a bit of an understatement.
