Page 54 of The Crush of Christmas Past
She jerks away. “Save it. I don’t want to hear it. Ican’thear it.” Her voice quivers, but her eyes blaze. An inhale later, her resolve strengthens. “Forget I said anything.”
Her gaze drops to the Santa shirt clenched in my grip. In a flash, she lunges forward and yanks it from my grasp.
“What are you doing?” I blurt, scrambling to cover myself.
“Getting what I came for.”
She spins on her heel and pulls the door open.
Cold air blasts in, cutting across my skin. The sting is nothing compared to the ache spreading through my chest as I stand there, motionless, watching her walk away.
Her scent clings to me in a cruel reminder of what I, once again, let slip through my fingers.
Or rather…who.
Eighteen
Theo
Despitedressingatsuperhumanspeed—first shirt I pull from my closet shoved over my head, jeans yanked on, hoodie snatched off a hanger—I already know I’m too late.
Years too late.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I hit the ground floor in a heartbeat. Willow is perched on the living room couch with a picture book on her lap and Jovie curled into her chest. She looks up as I barrel past—blonde brows arching, eyes gleaming with interest as she clocks my disheveled state.
“Theo?” she calls over my niece’s head. “What—”
Cursing under my breath, I dash for the front door. My bare feet slap against the floor as I tug my boots on, not bothering with the laces. I forgo my coat to save precious seconds.
The moment I step onto the porch, the cold wind attacks my exposed skin. Thick, heavy snowflakes whip around me, stinging my face.
Even Mother Nature seems eager to punish me for the fuckup.
Through the blur of white, I spot Isla, her red hair a streak of fire lashing through the snowy backdrop. She’s at the edge of the yard, about to be swallowed up by the forest behind the property.
I shout her name as I break into a sprint.
She ignores me. Not that I blame her.
I drive forward, quickly closing the gap. Desperation gripping my throat, every step through the knee-deep snow buries me further into the mess I created.
“Isla, damn it,stop!”
She doesn’t break stride. The only sign she’s heard me is the sharp increase in her pace.
Running at full speed, I’m nearly caught up when she turns, eyes blazing.
“Leave me alone!”
When I don’t obey, she ducks down and grabs some fresh powder. By the time she straightens, a loose, misshapen snowball hurls my way. It hits my chest with a softthud, but the cold barely registers.
“Please let me explain.”
“No, thanks.” She digs into the snow again, throwing another handful, this time striking my arm. “I’m done letting you fuck with my head.” Her eyes flash—not only with anger, but something more vulnerable.
Hurt.
I despise myself for being the cause of it.
