Page 16 of Yuletide Acres

I snatch the envelope, dumping out the contents. There are photos of me, my body twisted around a pole as I dance. Oh Christ, it figures someone would dredge up this nonsense. “This was nine years ago.”

Dylan crosses his arms over his chest, his expression flat, save for the fire dancing in his dark eyes. “How many men have you let touch you?”

I want to vomit. Hurl all over his boots at the hate falling from his lips. Instead, I dig deep, allowing my anger to overtake the pain. “That’s none of your damn business. I’m a grown ass woman. If I want to screw a thousand men a week, it has nothing to do with you. And nothing to do with my business.”

He cracks his knuckles, his foot tapping the floor. “But your business has to be approved by this town, and me in particular. You need us. We don’t need you.”

The tears win, spilling down my cheeks. “You bastard. You hate me, and I have no idea why. You left me, remember? I was pregnant, with your baby, when you skulked away in the middle of the night, never to return. If anyone has a right to hold a grudge, it’s me. Not you.”

His face pales at my admission. I never meant for it to come out like that. Hell, I never meant for it to come out at all. The miscarriage of our baby was the most painful event I’ve endured, save for losing D. “You were pregnant?”

I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand, my heart beating like a freight train. “I lost the baby. But considering how much you detest me, I’m sure you consider it a good thing.”

Dylan stands, raising his arm in my direction. “Poppy—”

“Don’t,” I shout, holding my hands up to ward off his advance. “I don’t need your fake show of sympathy. All I need is a fair shake. Just like everyone else. But I won’t get that here, because you’ll make sure of it.” I whirl around, stomping to the door. My hand freezes on the handle. “Why didn’t you tell me goodbye?”

I’m not sure why I ask the question. I highly doubt I want to hear his answer. But maybe, just maybe, hearing how little I meant to him will make it easier for me to relegate my memories of D to the ‘do not disturb’ section of my memory banks.

“I checked my email that night and my Dad had taken a turn for the worse. I couldn’t waste any more time and I knew you wouldn’t want to come with me. God forbid, you miss New Mexico. But I missed saying goodbye to my father. He died a few hours before I arrived home. I made a promise, that day, that I would never let down the people I care about again.”

“I guess I was never one of those people. I didn’t even rate a phone call.”

There’s nothing left to say. He’s made his point clear.

I’m not welcome. Not in his life. Not in his town.

I storm to the exit, Dylan close on my heels.

“Poppy, wait.” He spins me around, and I feel the eyes of his co-workers on us. Enjoy the latest episode of Home on the Range, folks.

“Uh-uh-uh,” Susan titters, pointing above our heads. “Kiss and make up, you two. It’s tradition.”

What the hell is this crazy woman babbling on about? I glance up and groan. A huge sprig of mistletoe hangs above our heads, all neatly wrapped with a bow.

Well, isn’t that just the most wickedly adorable torture in the world?

“Not now, Susan,” Dylan barks, and for once, we’re in agreement.

“Mr. Mayor, it’s been a tradition in Yuletide Acres for decades. Besides, anger doesn’t look good on anyone, especially not you. It’s the holiday season. Come on, a kiss makes everything better.”

No, I can guarantee that Dylan’s kiss will not make anything better.

Not even if it’s soft and sensuous and delicious.

Especially if it’s soft and sensuous and delicious.

It’s not even ten in the morning, but I’m going to need a bottle of liquor once I leave here. If I ever can leave here. “Just kiss me, so I can get out of here. This is beyond painful.”

Dylan’s tongue skims his lips as he clears his throat. I’m fully prepared for another verbal onslaught, reminding me how unclean I am and how he wouldn’t touch me if his life depended on it.

I’m not prepared for the feel of his lips against mine. It starts out hard and forced, but immediately melts into the soft welcome I always knew in his arms. His beard grazes my jaw and cheeks, offering the most delightful tactile sensation against my skin. But it’s the feel of his tongue, skimming along the seam of my lips that jerks me back to reality.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want me. Judging by the cruel statements uttered earlier, he’ll gladly use my body. But he doesn’t want a damn thing to do with my heart.

A catcall sounds in the office and we break apart—both of us flushed, our breathing harried.

Then, with a defeated shake of my head, I press my fingers to my lips and storm out the door.

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