Page 2 of Healing Hearts at the Christmas Inn
And then a voice. Terry's voice was low and teasing. "You're terrible."
Simon's reply was a murmur Holly couldn't quite make out, but the tone was unmistakable. Affectionate. Familiar. The kind of tone you used with someone who knew you, who mattered.
Holly's heart slammed against her ribs.
She reached the doorway. Looked inside.
Time fractured.
Simon was there. And so was Terry.
They were standing close. Way too close. His hand was on her waist, her fingers resting against his chest. Their faces were turned toward each other, eyes locked, mouths curved in expressions Holly had never seen before. Expressions that belonged to a world she wasn't part of. A world that had existed, she realized with a sickening lurch, right under her nose.
Terry leaned in and pressed a kiss to Simon's jaw, soft and lingering, and his hand slid higher, possessive and sure.
Holly's breath caught, sharp and painful, like she'd been punched in the chest.
And then Terry's gaze shifted.
She saw Holly.
Her eyes went wide, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp. She stumbled back, her hand flying up as if to ward off the reality standing in the doorway.
Simon turned.
His face went white.
"Holly—"
The sound of her name shattered the moment. Holly sucked in a breath, ragged and too loud, and the room snapped back into focus. The music was still playing. The scent of his colognemingled with Terry's perfume. The half-empty glasses of wine on the desk. The way Terry's lipstick was smudged at the corner of her mouth.
"Holly, I—" Simon's voice stammered, grasping for words that wouldn't come. His hands lifted, then dropped, useless. "This isn't—I didn't mean?—"
Terry's hand covered her mouth, and tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Holly, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted?—"
But Holly couldn't hear the rest. The words were just noise, meaningless and distant, like they were coming from underwater. Her chest felt tight, her lungs refused to fill, and the edges of her vision blurred.
She took a step back.
"Holly, wait—" Simon moved toward her, his hand reaching out, but she flinched away.
"Don't."
The word came out harder than she meant it to, sharp enough to stop him in his tracks. He stood there, his mouth open, hands hanging at his sides, and for the first time in thirty-five years, Holly didn't recognize him.
She turned and dashed away.
Down the hallway. Through the entryway. Past the pastry box still sitting on the console table, its ribbon now fully limp. Out the front door and into the suffocating heat.
Her keys were in her hand. She didn't remember grabbing them, but she clutched them tight enough that the metal bit into herpalm. She got into her car, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway without looking back.
Behind her, through the rearview mirror, she saw Simon appear in the doorway. He was calling her name, but she couldn't hear it over the roar of blood in her ears.
She turned the corner, and he disappeared.
The rain started a few blocks later.
It came fast and hard, the way summer storms always did in Miami, turning the windshield into a blur of water and light. Holly drove without thinking, without seeing, her hands gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles ached. The city streamed past in smears of color. Red taillights, green streetlights, the neon glow of storefronts and signs.
