“It’s rich pricks like you we’ve tried to avoid our whole lives,” he said. “You don’t think you’re the first asshole to come out here with an offer to buy? You don’t think my father or his father could have taken a big chunk of change before you came along? We didn’t take it then and we don’t want it now. We’d rather go down in flames then take shit from assholes like you.”
“You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face,” I murmured.
“So be it,” he said. “We’re too proud for your bullshit.”
“I get it.”
“No, you don’t. And I don’t care. Merry fucking Christmas, asshole.”
I wanted to defend myself and explain that it hadn’t been intentional, but what was the point? The damage was done.
“I wish you guys luck with the lodge,” I said quietly. “I really do.”
Brom snorted. “Right. Sure you do.”
He turned back to the fire, dismissing me completely. I took the hint and left.
When I got back to Sylvie’s apartment, I found the front door unlocked. She hadn’t waited for me. I let myself in and locked the door behind me.
She walked out of her bedroom wearing her pajamas. The couch had been made up with sheets, a pillow, and what looked like one of those thick, handmade quilts that seemed to be everywhere in this town.
The gesture was practical, nothing more.
She didn’t look at me, just waved toward the made-up couch. “Get comfortable,” she said.
“Sylvie—”
“Goodnight, Kent.” She was already heading back toward the stairs, tea mug in hand. “Five a.m.,” she reminded me. “I mean it.”
Then she was gone. I heard her bedroom door close with a soft click.
The message was clear. I was not wanted.
I sank down onto the couch, still fully dressed, and stared up at the ceiling. I pulled the quilt up to my chin and closed my eyes, though sleep felt impossible. In a few hours, I’d pack up my things, drive back to the city, and return to my old life, sadder than when I’d left.
CHAPTER 47
SYLVIE
Iwoke to gray morning light filtering through my bedroom curtains and the immediate, sinking realization that I had overslept. I grabbed my phone. 6:47 a.m. Nearly two hours past when Kent was supposed to be gone. The apartment felt different, quieter than usual, but I couldn’t tell if that meant anything or if I was just projecting my own hollow feeling onto the space around me.
I hated that my first instinct was to rush to my bedroom window.
But I did it anyway. I pressed my face to the glass and peered down at the guest parking below. The rental was nowhere to be seen.
He was gone.
Relief and disappointment warred in my chest. Relief that he’d kept his word and left when he said he would. Disappointment that felt entirely too much like loss for someone I’d only known a couple weeks. Someone who had lied to me. Someone who’d made me look like a fool in front of my father.
But just to be absolutely certain, I went out into the living room.
My heart skipped a beat. The couch was empty. The sheets were folded and stacked neatly on the coffee table. The quilt I’d given him was draped over the back exactly as it had been before. Even the throw pillows were arranged exactly as they’d been, as if no one had slept there at all. As if Kent Bancroft had been nothing more than a dream—or a nightmare.
The only sign he’d been there was a faint lingering scent of his cologne, woodsy and so expensive that it didn’t belong in my cozy, lived-in space.
I sank onto the couch, running my hands over the cushions that still held the slightest indent from where he’d slept. Had he slept? Or had he lain awake all night like I had, staring at the ceiling and replaying every word of our conversation in the hallway?
It didn’t matter. He was gone, and that was exactly what I’d wanted. What I’d demanded.
