I haven’t seen him since I walked away from him in that darkened bar. Not at Holley Ridge. Not during my morning runs. Not even when Dylan, Rowan, and I went out for drinks again this past weekend to the same bar. I’d be lying if I said the chance of seeing him there again didn’t factor into my decision.
But he wasn’t there.
I haven’t so much as peeked a glimpse of him as I’ve stared out my bedroom window like a deranged peeping Tom.
I hate how much I miss him.
Hate how I can’t stop thinking about him.
Hate how my body aches with the memory of his touch.
Hate all the nights I’ve spent with my hand between my thighs.
Hate how I’ve whispered his name in the dark like it’s a secret I can’t stop telling.
Hate how I’ve replayed our one night together as I made myself come.
My cheeks heat from the memory, and I quickly brush it off, focusing on why I’m here. Centerpieces. Carnival. Mrs. McKinley.
But as I pass the rows of pre-cut trees, I notice a familiar figure standing between a few eight-foot Noble Firs.
Declan.
He looks out of place here, surrounded by flannel and fleece and family chaos. His shoes are too pristine. His coat too expensive. His pants too starched.
But it’s not just his clothes that make him look foreign. It’s the way he moves. There’s an air of control about him. A quiet intensity that makes him feel separate. Removed. Like he’s not part of this world but is desperately trying to figure out how to walk through it without anyone noticing.
It makes me want to peel back that cold outer shell and bring back the man I spent a few hours with during a snowstorm in Boston.
But I can’t. Not when he’s Joshua’s father.
So I try to hurry past, pretending I didn’t notice him.
As I do, he lifts his head and our eyes lock. His gaze softens the moment it lands on me, but he still doesn’t smile. Not really. Instead, there’s a flicker of something else. Something warm that sparks in his expression. But just as quickly, his mouth tightens.
“I can come back later,” he says, his voice colder than I remember. He turns, starting toward the parking lot.
“You don’t need to leave because of me,” I call after him, and he pauses, glancing back toward me. “I won’t be long. Just picking up a few things for Holley Ridge.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Really.”
He fully faces me, and I feel like I should say something more. What is there to say?
Instead, I turn from him and head toward the barn, trying to shake off the tension I feel deep in my chest.
Inside, the scent of pine and cinnamon swirls through the warm air. Handmade wreaths line the walls, their red bows bright against the worn wood. Strings of white lights blink lazily overhead, intertwined with garland. It looks and smells like every Christmas memory I’ve ever loved, reminding me of coming here every year with my mother and sister to pick out a tree. But those memories don’t comfort me like they once did.
Because now all I can think about is Declan.
“Claire Thomas,” a familiar voice calls out, full of warmth.
I snap my head up as Mrs. McKinley bustles out from behind the counter, her arms open and inviting.
“It’s so nice to see you, sweetie.”
“You, too.”
