Page 35 of The Holiday Games

I press my lips together for a beat, but finally confess, “Because Vivian refused to allow it in the apartment. I bought some at the farmer’s market as a joke one time, but she was afraid Greg would eat it and die. She made me take it to the compost bin two blocks over to be safe.”

“It’s so wild that she left him behind,” Caroline says, her brow wrinkling. “I used to tease her that she liked him more than her boyfriends. She doted on that cat.”

I nod. “Yeah, she did. But she doted on me, too…until she didn’t.”

Caroline turns, lifting her chin. “I’m sorry she hurt you.”

“It’s fine.I’mfine. Truly. We never would have made it long-term; I see that now. It’s just…” I pull in a breath and hear myself confess something I haven’t told anyone, “It’s just the way she made me doubt myself that drives me crazy. I used to think I was good at reading people, that I was a solid judge of who I could trust. I thought I could smell a lie at ten paces, but when Vivian left… When I realized she’d told so many liestome andaboutme…” I sigh. “It shook my faith. In myself.”

Caroline rests a hand on my chest, making me wish I didn’t have my lapels buttoned all the way up. I’d like to feel her hand through just my sweater.

I’mthatdrawn to this woman.

Even an innocent touch through my clothes would be enough to make my damned day.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I haven’t had much time to think about Chris and the Rockette situation, but once I do, I’m sure it’ll mess with my head, too. I really thought he loved me. Or at least loved theideaof me. My sense of humor was always a mystery to him, and he couldn’t understand why I spent so much time reading, but…I thought I checked all his boxes. I was local, fourth generation mountain stock, attractive, liked hiking as much as he did, and had a job that gave him free access to the best hot tub in Southern Vermont.” She shrugs. “And he was always around. I’d barely catch my breath after work on our mid-week date night, and he’d be downstairs, asking what we were going to watch on Netflix or if I had lunch meat for a sandwich. I honestly have no idea how he had time to carry on a fling with a woman in the city. Seemed like he was always underfoot.”

“Underfoot,” I echo wryly. “Sounds like you two were a match made in heaven.”

She laughs, the full-throated, husky laugh I love. “I know. I’m awful, but half the time, he drove me crazy. It felt like I was his after-hours concierge, not his girlfriend. We weren’t long-term relationship material, either. I’ve known that for a long time.” She makes a thoughtful face. “Maybe that’s why we couldn’t tell that they were lying?”

“Because it wasn’t meant to be?”

“No, because we were lying, too,” she says. “To them…and to ourselves.”

My brows slide up my forehead. “Insightful, Ms. Cane.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fenton,” she says, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes the urge to kiss her almost unbearable. “I’m tired of lying to myself. From now on, I want to tell the truth, even if it’s hard.”

“Sounds scary.” I tuck a lock of her swirling hair behind her ear. “And brave.”

Her lips part, but before she can speak, the older woman beside us at the railing cries out and darts sharply to the left, flapping an arm over her head. I glance up to see two seagulls fighting over the pretzel she still clings to with one hand as she flails at the birds with the other.

Launching into motion, I shoo the birds with large sweeps of my arms as I bellow, “Hey, get outta here! Get your own snacks, you greedy little shits. Scram! Buzz off!”

On my third swoop, my fingertips brush the feathers of the closest bird, and they both flap away with outraged screeches, cursing my name as they swirl into the sky.

“Are you okay?” Caroline asks, slipping an arm around the woman’s shoulders to help hold her steady.

The woman brushes the back of her hand across her face. “I’m fine, thank you.” She exhales a shaky laugh. “I don’t know why I kept holding on. It’s not like I want to eat a pretzel after a seagull’s had it, I just…couldn’t seem to let go.”

“I think we all have that problem sometimes,” Caroline says kindly. “You want a hand downstairs to the main deck? They said the snack bar would be open the entire trip. You can grab another pretzel.”

The woman smiles and pats Caroline’s hand. “Oh, no thank you, honey. We’re almost there. I bet they’ll have better things than pretzels at the fair. Are you a crafter? I’m a quilter from way back. Nearly thirty years now!”

“My grandmother is a quilter,” Caroline says. “She tried to teach me when I was in high school, but I could never get thepieces cut straight. I learned to crochet, instead. I make crochet elves for my inn’s winter wonderland display every year.”

“How fabulous! What fun, I love an elf.” The woman’s eyes sparkle as she turns to me, “And what about you, handsome? You look like more of a knitter to me.”

I grin. “Nah, nothing with needles for this klutz. Can’t be trusted not to impale myself. I stick to watercolor in the park on weekends.”

Caroline’s brows lift. “Yeah? You paint?”

“I’m bad,” I warn her. “Really bad.”

“I want to see,” she says, looking no less excited.

“I’m serious,” I insist. “The one time I posted one of my paintings on social media, I lost half of my followers.”

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