Page 134 of The Holiday Hate-Off
I wish I knew where you are, if you’re anywhere.
I love you.
Enzo’s arms tighten around me as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
But there’s a little voice in my head, one that sounds unfortunately like my mother, that asks if he’s already starting to say a long goodbye.
CHAPTER 31
ENZO
Dinner tonight was loud, chaotic, and probably very stressful for Nico, who made us all lasagna. It was also a couple of the best hours of my life.
Lucy agreed to stay at my apartment, in my bed, and it feels like a victory. Not over her, but over myself. I was so reluctant to come home, so convinced Hideaway Harbor would feel like a cage. But I was wrong. I’m not usually grateful to be wrong, but I’m happy to make an exception.
It feels right to have her here, in my space, tucked in next to me in bed.
It also makes me realize how much I’ve held back—how little I’ve made this place mine. Maybe it’s time to give up the apartment in New York and bring my things here. It doesn’t have to be forever, even if a voice in my head whispers that it might be okay if it is. That this life I’ve been running from for years might be better than the one I had in New York.
I drift off to sleep, my arm around Lucy, and rouse to find her wide awake, her eyes full of sadness and worry.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, immediately on full alert. “Did something happen to Eileen?”
Or my grandmother? But I can’t speak that fear to life.
“Oh, everything’s fine,” she says. “Sorry. I just… Did you call that guy in New York?”
“No.” I settle back into my pillows. “God, you gave me the fright of my life.”
“You should call him,” she says.
“Right now? He might not thank me for it.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll call on Monday.”
“What if it’s important?”
“It can’t possibly be. If it’s my super and there’s a leak in my apartment, he can let himself in to fix it.”
Her lips try to form a smile but don’t quite make it. “What if all your fancy suits got wet?”
“What use do I have for them here, anyway?”
“You know it’s not your super. This is about your old job. They probably want you back.”
She’s clearly nervous about that possibility. I trace a finger over her lips, then say, “Usually you don’t get invited back after you call your boss names.”
“What’d you call him?” she asks, her mouth lifting at the corners.
“An asshole with poor vision.”
She shrugs. “You could have done better.”
“It wasn’t my best work. I meant he had poor vision metaphorically, but he thought I was making fun of his glasses.” I caress the side of her face. “I won’t lie to you. I think it probablyishim. Calling on the weekend and demanding an immediate response is just like him, even though he knows me too well to think he’ll get what he wants. The thing is, I don’t care if he wants to give me my old job back. I don’t want it. I’m done doing things his way.”
“Firing people.”
