Page 31 of New Hope, Old Grudges

“Yeah, I thought so,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “So we’ll drink together, and I’ll keep an eye on you.” He nodded to the living room. “I’m sure there’s a Christmas movie on in there, if you’re the kind of woman who likes that on Thanksgiving night. I figure your mom may be one for traditions, but I don’t know how traditional she is.” There was even more smile in his tone. More warmth.

I didn’t want to smile. But I couldn’t help it. He was talking about my mother with a fondness that should’ve pissed me off. He was right. My mother did not seem like someone who would go the traditional route on Christmas. And in a lot of ways she was decidedly more pagan.

But she was traditional in some ways. As was I. I loved Christmas movies. And it was a rule in our house that we always decorated the tree after Thanksgiving dinner, with music playing and one of our movies on in the background.

I thought of the empty tree in our living room, the box of decorations my mother had set down earlier today with a wide smile on her face.

Something sharp stabbed me in the stomach.

“A movie,” I relented. “No talking. Opposite sides of the sofa.”

Brody pressed his lips together as if he were suppressing a smile. “You’re the boss.”

My stomach didn’t hurt with those words. No, it dipped. All the way down to my panties.

I scowled at him as I stomped around the table in order to make it to the living room … Going the long way so I didn’t have to get close to him.

Except I had no choice but to be close to Brody Adams. I was stuck in this house with him. And I was getting more and more turned-on by him.

ChapterEleven

WILLOW

Night had fallen.The bottle of wine sat on the coffee table between us. The fire was roaring, the dog curled up in her bed in front of it.

Home Alonewas playing on his flat screen TV. I couldn’t help but notice Brody’s lack of Christmas decorations.

Then again, it was only just Thanksgiving. And he was a man presumably living alone—he wasn’t likely to decorate.

I thought about his father, wondered if he’d grown up in a home with Christmas traditions. With joyful Thanksgiving dinners.

Something told me he hadn’t.

I glared at the TV. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Brody, his childhood, and I certainly shouldn’t have been feeling bad for him.

It seemed like the man at the other end of the long couch—not long enough with his large body folded into it—was having similar thoughts to me since he spoke for the first time since the TV had flickered on and he’d asked me what I wanted to watch.

“I’m sorry,” he broke the silence. “For what I did to you when we were kids.”

My heart stuttered. Another apology. A simple one. Spoken softly after a semi-dramatic rescue, after the warm bath, hot cocoa, the meal, the pie, the crackling fire, the cute dog.

“We’re not talking about that,” I stated firmly, staring at the TV.

Macaulay Culkin was no longer screaming on screen. I glared at the remote in Brody’s hand.

“Turn it back on,” I demanded.

Brody didn’t turn it back on. He tossed the remote on the end table, out of my reach, then positioned himself on the couch so he was closer, facing me.

“I swear to God, Will, I did not understand the weight of what was happening to you.” His tone was full of regret. “And that’s not an excuse. I should’ve. I was a stupid fucking kid full of anger. I was so self-absorbed, so fucking determined to be better than him, when in reality, I was him. A bully.”

It wasn’t hard to guess who he was talking about. My mind went back to that day, that horrible day. I thought about the sound of the slap, the sneer of disgust on his father’s face, the tears in teenage Brody’s eyes.

“My dad hated me,” he continued. “Because I reminded him of my mom, I think. Because I was the one who killed her.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, forgetting that I was supposed to be avoiding meaningful conversations. “Your mom died giving birth.”

I knew the story. Everyone in New Hope knew the story. It was tragic. His mom died in childbirth, so his heartbroken father raised him by himself. He was at every one of his games, was by all accounts the perfect father to the town’s golden boy.

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