Page 3 of Home for Christmas in July

I don’t flinch at the old nickname, though I want to. He’s the only one who’s ever called me that. “What?”

“I can’t. I can’t do it. I miss her so much.” He scrubs a hand over his face, and my heart seizes.

I reach out and wrap my hand around his upper arm. “I know,” I whisper.

“You don’t,” he rasps. “You can’t imagine.”

“I don’t have to imagine. She was my best friend, long before she even met you. Idoknow. I miss her every day.”

“It’s not the same.”

He’s right, of course. It’s not. It’s so much worse. Not because I think the way I loved my friend is remotely the same as the love the two of them shared, but because, at the very end, I lied to her. I can’t say any of this to him, though.

It takes me several seconds to wrangle my emotions under some semblance of control. He stares at me, his gaze curious and steady, while I focus on my breath and try to hold back the tears that once again are building behind my eyes.

“Do you need help with the open house?” I finally manage, chickening out from saying anything more meaningful.

He swallows and shakes his head. “We’re not having one.”

“What do you mean you’re not having one?”

The Inn at Mistletoe Mountain has been hosting an open house to kick off the Christmas in July festival for as long as I can remember. Since before Nick and Carol took it over.

“It’s canceled this year.”

I gape at him. “You can’t just cancel it. I’m happy to lend a hand if you need help.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want a house full of people. Not this year.”

Abdicating the role of Santa is bad enough. He can’t get rid of the open house, too. The summer open house was, handsdown, Carol’s absolute favorite holiday event. My mind spins as I try to find the words to convince him not to do this. “Nick, it’s a tradition, but it’s more than that this year. It’ll be a chance for the whole town to come together and celebrate Carol. Don’t take that away from them. From me.”

“Sorry, Noe.”

And then it happens. A fat teardrop leaks from my left eye. I turn and flee ... running into the library. Behind me, I hear Nick calling my name, which only inspires me to pick up my pace. I dodge a pack of preschoolers trotting over to the gazebo with their music teacher to rehearse their song for the festival and run like a man trying to abscond with a frosted cinnamon roll.

CHAPTER 2

Nick

Noelle’s stricken expression stays with me all morning, keeping me company on my circuit through town running the errands necessary to keep the inn going. Her horrified reaction was outsized, I tell myself, trying to eradicate the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I pull into the parking lot at the mill. It’s just a party, I insist, as I back the truck into a spot near the door, hop out, and lower the tailgate. My inner monologue isn’t working to dislodge the image of her bright green eyes filling with tears.

When I walk into the small retail shop attached to Marino and Sons Millworks, the tangy scent of baking bread fills my nostrils, and my stomach growls appreciatively.

“Morning, Nick,” the flour-dusted young guy behind the counter says.

“Morning, Enzo.”

The youngest of the Marino brothers wipes his hands on his apron and heads to the cash register. “We already pulled your order. Want me to give you a hand loading it?”

I almost say no, but I’ve got a twinge in my back from sleeping poorly and this kid’s half my age. I feel ancient. I bet Josh Morgenthal could beat me in a foot race.

“Sure, that’d be great.”

He rings up the purchases. “Your total comes to one hundred and fifty dollars.”

I blink, and peel a third fifty from the roll of bills I already have out of my pocket. “Did your dad raise his prices?” A fifty percent increase is steep. I might need to start sourcing my flour from another supplier.

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