Quinn squeezed his fists together, feeling totally not zen. He needed wine. Or whisky. Or a punching bag. Or a whisky-dispensing punching bag in a winery.
Pacing now, Quinn knew the anger was so much more than Noah. All of his life, he had never stood up for himself. He feared what others might think of him or thought about other people’s feelings rather than his own. He watched people flourish, progress, find happiness, and where did appeasing others get him?
Here, on a stormy winter’s night, losing everything.
Being made a fool of by hot authors and their model ex-boyfriends.
Being pitied by the locals.
The fight wasn’t over yet. Screw Noah Sage. He didn’t need him or his perfect body with the V-line. Or his poetic mind. Or his intellect. Or his immense talent, and kind, warm personality.
There were three more days before Christmas. Three more days to save his shop.
The party, the protest: they were the next milestones. Both fell on the same day. Looking up at the castle, as rain fell from the sky and battered its stone exterior, he knew this was his last chance. Either he could build himself back up from disrepair, or he would lose the fight.
Quinn typed out emails, not only hyping people up for the protest and the party, but trying to convince himself that there was something to look forward to. He swallowed his pride as he started the emails with apologies for letting them down that the signing didn’t go ahead. He decorated his shop as much as he could for the party, ordering some last minute items. He made a list, and checked it more than twice, of things he would need to buy: party food, alcohol, and mistletoe.
Because everyone needed mistletoe at a Christmas party!
Tomorrow, he could rest. He could open his shop and tell any customers that they were welcome to the party. He’d prepare his own sign that he would parade at the protest.
A small, niggling feeling of excitement came from within, and he nourished it like a caveman to the first flame.
Noah was but a man. A man carved from marble and listed in the dictionary as an example of handsome, sure, but despite that, a mere man. Quinn vowed not to allow himself to waste any more time on him. Guys like Noah were make-believe.
Getting to his feet, ready to leave the shop, Quinn decided he needed a bottle of wine and to watch a good Christmas romcom in his flat. He would witness someone else’s Christmas happy ending, and all would be right in the world.
Hell, maybe even a night with a vibrator. Why not? Go wild.
His email pinged. He considered not looking, sure it would just be someone confirming their attendance, but curiosity got the better of him.
His heart plummeted.
Noah.
One simple response.
I’m sorry.
Sorry? Was that it? Seven letters? Two words?
Sorry?
The anger came rushing back to him like an avalanche of killer snow. He could almost feel himself get engulfed in flames, sure that if Noah were here now, his glare would burn him. He typed, slamming his fingers into the keyboard, his eyes not leaving the screen.
Never have I felt so disappointed. Sorry doesn’t cut it. You may have let me down, but I don’t care. I can move past it. But I can’t forgive how you let down a huge amount of people who had been waiting at the shop, in the melting snow and freezing rain, just to get a moment to meet you, get their books signed, and spend some time with you. To meet the boy who grew up in Hay, back at last. To meet you, all of you, but you let them down. You should be ashamed, Noah. I thank you for your help so far and your donation. I hope London is everything it’s meant to be.
Send.
No regrets.
No other thoughts.
From this moment on, Quinn’s own romantic story ended. Life wasn’t a romcom. There were no happy endings here.
ChapterThirty-Five
‘God, you look terrible,’ Daniel said as Quinn walked into the bookshop.
