Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“Diabolical,” he mutters again, a new respect in his gaze that makes my blood feel a little bubblier than it did before.
Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s finally stopped glowering. With his silky brown hair and intelligent blue eyes, Luke is gorgeous, even when he’s grouchy.
But with a hint of humor in that deep, rumbly voice, he’s…
Well, he’s also diabolical, but in a totally different way. A way I should be wary of, considering I have no interest in getting involved with a grumpy, holiday-hating man.
But for some reason, I’m not wary. I’m actually looking forward to the next few weeks and the chance to find out if that sweet boy I once knew is still in there somewhere, beneath the designer suit and bad holiday attitude.
“Think on it,” I finally say, reaching into the pocket of my reindeer costume and pulling out a business card. “You can reach me by email or text. If I don’t hear from you by this time tomorrow, I’ll assume you’ve chosen suffering over cheer, and reach out to Alice.”
He takes the card, brows lifting as he reads aloud, “Pet photographer?”
“Pet photographer extraordinaire,” I correct. “But I’m booked solid for the season, so I’ll have to fit you and your fur baby into my holiday portrait schedule next year.”
“I don’t have a fur baby.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say, heart aching for him again.
“Fine. As you wish, Holly Jo,” he says, starting toward the door, clearly having no idea that he just let the cat out of the bag.
He remembers what everyone used to call me when we were kids!
And I’m betting he remembers more than that…
But why pretend he doesn’t? Is he that desperate to hold his happy childhood memories at a distance?
And if so…why?
Better question: Can I heal this grumpy man’s emotional wounds before Christmas? Or is it going to take more time—and potentially prolonged exposure to puppies, fudge, and holiday magic—to turn Luke’s frown upside down?
I don’t know, but I intend to find out, or my name isn’t Holly Jo Hadley, the Diabolical, a woman who’s always secretly wondered what happened to the boy who got away…
Three
Luke
As I step outside, the cold hits me like a slap in the face…which is exactly what I deserve.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the problem.
I was drunk and maudlin and behaving like a petulant child, and now I’m being blackmailed by a woman in a reindeer costume.
A woman whom, despite my protests to the contrary, I remember very well.
Holly Jo Hadley, the little girl with the perpetually sunny disposition and gap-toothed grin, who followed me around every summer vacation and Christmas holiday. Any time my brothers and I came down the mountain to play, she instantly became my shadow. The local boys used to tease me about my “little girlfriend,” but I didn’t care. She was a sweet, funny kid, and I had a little sister, one much younger and harder to play pretend with than Holly Jo.
And though I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, I looked forward to seeing her nearly as much as she seemed to look forward to seeing me. But then, hero worship is a heady thing. And as a boy who often felt like the farthest thing from a hero, I was far from immune.
As a child, I would have slain dragons for the girl who called me “Wooke,” the entire first year I knew her. (At four, she still had trouble making “L” sounds.)
As a grown man, I pretended not to know her, clearly hurting her feelings.
Why the hell did I do that, I wonder as I trudge through the snow toward the town square where Arthur is already waiting.
Why did I lie?
The question needles at me as I cross the bridge, my breath fogging in the frigid air and my toes slowly going numb. My shoes are soaked through—of course, I would wear Italian leather loafers to get drunk and commit theft in the wilds of Vermont.
It’s been one stupid decision after another since the moment Elliot picked me up at the train station in Bellows Falls earlier today.
I could have simply said, “Yes, of course, Holly. I remember that we played together as children. I hope you’ve been well.”
Simple. Polite, but impersonal. Done.
Instead, I stood there scowling and grunting at her like something worse than a Grinch.
But then, admitting I remembered would have opened the door to all those things I’m doing my best not to think about. About the boy I once was. About the innocent, naïve version of myself that existed before my father decided I was old enough to learn that there are no heroes in the real world.
There is only the bottom line and ravenous corporate greed, and people scrambling to hoard as much for themselves as they can before the earth is barren and the riches all gone.