Page 7 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“We both know Dad has stocked the shed with enough lumber to last through an apocalypse. We’re only here because you want to escape Isla.”
“I—”
Don’t think about her. Don’t youdarethink about her.
You’ve done enough damage.
“Fuck off.” Reverberations travel up my arms as I bury the blade into another slab.
My brother and his childhood fr—girlfriend—had barely set their bags down before my mom and sister whisked Isla to the living room to gush over the surprise development in their relationship.
The idea of sticking around and subjecting myself to the saccharine drivel made my skin crawl, so I swiftly volunteered to replenish our firewood supply.
“I didn’t ask for your company,” I remind Asher.
His smile fades. “You never ask for anything.” He shakes his head. “Besides, someone had to make sure you didn’t bolt.”
I ignore the heavy weight behind his words.
“Funny how you didn’t mention your relationship with Isla when you dropped by my office last week,” I say instead. “Not a single word about your hasty whirlwind romance.”
“Funny how you didn’t mention coming home for Christmas for the first time in half a decade,” he fires back. His stance softens, sincerity threading through his words. “Not a single word about gracing us with your presence.” There’s a quiet pause before he adds, “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”
I focus on the next round instead of the earnestness in his voice.
“The ass kissing doesn’t change the fact that I’m onto you. There’s no way you’re dating Isla.”
“Are you demanding proof?” He cocks an eyebrow, a glint of mischief returning to his expression. “Interested in a little under-the-mistletoe show? Or maybe the dirty details of our sex life?”
“That’s it.” I materialize in front of him before I even realize I’ve moved.
“Damn.” Asher takes a step back, hands lifting in mock surrender. “What’s the plan, Teddy? Gonna chop your babybrother into little pieces?” He may have assumed a defensive stance, but his smirk spells outdare.
“Half-brother.”
He flinches at the word. And my tone.
Rightfully so.
I haven’t called him that since the angry, out-of-control version of me needed to hurt someone just to feel something.
Cursing, I step back and lower the axe. The wind cuts through my jacket, but the sting on my skin is easier to endure than the ache clawing at my chest.
My brother holds my gaze and smiles. “Look…” He leans forward, as if trying to reach straight into me. “If you want to talk—”
“No. There’s nothing to talk about.”
Isla is off-limits.
Always has been. Always will be.
Six years ago, she bared her soul to me. Trust and hope blazed in the gold flecks of her hazel eyes as she stood in front of me, heart in hand, bravely offering it to the wrong person.
What did I do?
Crushed it, tossed it into the snow, and ran the fuck away.
It was for the best.
