Page 75 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“It’s not a mistake,” I say, suddenly frantic. Because she’s going to leave angry—and not angry in the way she’s been for the last week, butactuallyangry.
“Why do you even care?” she asks, her tone cold. “I’m sure you can find some tourist to sleep with. You don’t need to fixate on me just because you know my secret.”
She’s waiting for an answer, her body a taut line now.
But I don’t have one. All I know is that Idocare. I’m interested in her, maybe even a little obsessed. It might have beenher search for a man to sleep with that ratcheted up my interest, but it isn’t the reason for it.
She wants a nice man, though, a man like Hudson. And I don’t want anything else to hold me here in Hideaway.
Still, I say, “I don’t want you to leave like this.”
“But you don’t get to control me, Enzo. I’m going.”
“You’ll let me walk you home. It’s dark out.”
“I won’t. This town practically has a subzero crime rate, and it’s lit up with thousands of Christmas lights.”
“I don’t like this,” I say darkly. “I shouldn’t have done that with Hudson. It was a step too far. But you were taunting me at dinner. I figured it was fair play, a part of our game.”
“Goodbye, Enzo.”
She makes it to the door before I grab my things and stop her with a light hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me right now,” she says, turning to glare at me.
I hand her my scarf. “Please. It’s windy.”
She gives me a bewildered look but takes it, thank God, almost as if it’s reflexive. She’s not a woman to turn away a well-meant gesture. “Only if you promise not to follow me.”
“Call me when you get home.”
Her lips press into an unimpressed line. I’d like to kiss it, but she’s made her disinterest in more kisses clear. “I don’t have your number, and I don’t want it.”
“Call me,” I insist. “I just need to know you got home okay.”
She narrows her gaze. “I don’t want you having my home phone number. I’ll text you. The signal’s been pretty good for me today.”
She holds her hand out, and I grab my phone from my pants pocket and hand it over so she can plug her number in.
“Don’t follow me,” she sneers.
“I won’t,” I promise. “But if I don’t hear from you, I’m going to have to call Eileen, and we both know that Eileen will have plenty to say if she knows we were together tonight.”
“Everyone in town probably does since you insisted on walking in together, through the front entrance,” she says, aggrieved.
“And you’ll tell them you agreed to interview me for your project, angel that you are. And that I was just as much of an asshole as usual.”
She gives me a look I can’t read, then says, “Why were you on the Wishing Bridge last week?”
I’m not sure what answer she’s looking for, but I stick with honesty. She already knows the truth, after all, might as well call it out. “I wanted to save Hidden Italy so I could leave.”
“I thought this place was your family,” she says sarcastically.
“You can love something and hate it at the same time,” I reply.
She nods, her expression serious, then turns on her heel and leaves through the door, disappearing into the night.
If she didn’t want people to wonder if we’re together, she probably shouldn’t have taken the scarf, which most Hidies would recognize as my mother’s handiwork—made from two needles, not a hook. But that’s not the main reason I gave it to her. I have a strange need to know that she’s safe and warm. Protected.
