I wanted to defy him, but I knew what would happen if I did.
Reluctantly, I glanced up from the fridge to find Hogan standing in the kitchen doorway. His large frame filled all of it. He used to be handsome, before all the pork took its toll. In high school he’d been every girl’s—and some of the guys too—crush. With curly blond hair and blue eyes. He was different now, in every way. My eyes dropped to the glass of whiskey in his hand. His drinking problem was to blame, but I didn’t dare say that out loud.
I cleared my throat and donned one of my signature fake-as-fuck smiles. “What do you want for dinner?”
“No, you don’t get to fucking do that.”
“Do what?”
His flushed cheeks flamed an angry hue of red with his savage scowl. “Act like little miss innocent. Like you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ididn’tdo anything wrong.”
“Right. You lying bitch. You know, you’re clever, I’ll give you that. Everyone in town thinks you’re so perfect. With your flower shop and your little woe-is-me story about your mom.”
Something inside me flared to life, a rage that I usually suppressed for my own safety. But Hogan normally didn’t bring up my mother. He wasn’t a bright man, but he usually knew to stay away from that topic.
“What do you mean, my woe-is-me story? You mean my mom getting fucking cancer and dying just a few weeks before Christmas? Then how my dad up and left me not even a full two months later for some stranger he met on the internet?”
“Yeah. And it happened two years ago. Get the fuck over it. And when I say get over it, I don’t mean by fucking that tree vendor of yours. If I catch him that close to you again, I’ll kill you both.”
Chapter Three
Clara
Hatred painted my vision red.
I wanted nothing more than to wrap my hands around this bastard’s fat neck and squeeze until the light left his eyes.
Too bad Hogan Humpries was still built like a linebacker even though his high school football days were long gone. And his diet that consisted of 60% honied ham really had a way of packing on the extra pounds.
Meanwhile I was 5’2, and he could snap me in half. When we’d first started dating in our junior year of school, the size difference had made me giddy. Now it just made me sick, knowing I’d never be able to fight him off.
He’d never done more than hit me a few times, but there was a look in his eyes I’d never seen before. Hogan looked at me like I was nothing but a bug, and he wanted nothing more than to crush me beneath his boot.
Which was insane, considering I’d never cast more than a few lingering looks in Bastion’s direction. This didn’t have anything to do with jealousy though. This was about Hogan doing anything within his power to feel bigger than the insignificant, chicken-shit man that he was.
“I’m not going to justget overmy mother’s death, you fucking asshole.”
I wasn’t exactly a stranger to tense domestic situations. Cussing out the man that just threatened to kill you wasn’t exactly a wise move, yet I couldn’t seem to make myself care. The typical surge of fear wasn’t hitting like it usually did. It was like something inside me had finally snapped.
The only thing pumping through my veins now was visceral rage, wound tight with adrenaline. Then cold hard reality slammed into me. This wasn’t the man I’d fallen for in high school. He’d turned into a violent drunk, and he wasn’t coming back from that. If I didn’t get away from this man, one day, he’d kill me. And if I left him, he’d kill me.
What else was there to do?
Clara saves herself.
Hogan struck me, his hand smacking my cheek so hard I saw stars, and my eyes swam with tears. I didn’t allow them to fall as I composed myself. I refused to let him see me cry.
Instead, I forced another of my signature smiles. “I’m sorry. Please. Just let me make you dinner, baby. I’ll make your favorite.”
Hogan glared at me for several barbed seconds before turning to retreat back into the living room. “Fine. Bring me a drink while you’re at it. Some of that boozy eggnog I like.”
“Sure babe.”
I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen until I heard the spring of Hogan settling back into his La-Z-Boy and sounds of the football game filled the living room. I opened a drawer, pulled out my apron—with the words “Christmas calories don’t count” and a picture of a gingerbread man biting the head off another gingerbread man on it—and tied it around my waist.
Placing my phone on the counter, I flicked on some cheery Christmas music to drown out all the horrifying thoughts bouncing around in my brain. I smiled when “Carol of the Bells”, my mom’s favorite, came on.
