Page 132 of A Very Merry Enemy
Hearing him say it makes it real.
Holiday doesn’t seem to care. “And?”
He steps closer to her, and I immediately take a step forward. He stops, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just trying to understand. Two months ago, you were planning our wedding. Now, you’re here with him.”
“Two months ago, you were stealing my recipes and making me feel worthless,” Holiday says, and I want to applaud her. “Things change.”
“Do they?” His eyes narrow. “Or were you just waiting to end things? Tell me, is this why you came back to Merryville? For him?”
“I came back because this is my home.”
He sarcastically laughs. “I find it convenient that you’re baking partners.” He looks between us. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“That’s none of your damn business,” I say before Holiday can respond.
“Oh, I think itismy business.” Dominic’s charm is cracking now, showing something uglier underneath. “I came here for you, Holiday. I want to fix what we had. I’m sure you’ve seen the articles about us. I do want you back.”
“There is nothing you can say or do that will make me change my mind, Dominic,” Holiday snaps.
“This is nothing but a rebound.” Dominic’s smile is cruel now. “Come on, Holiday. Remember all the good times. All the mornings we spent tangled together. The trips we took. We were in love.”
My adrenaline rushes, and I ball my hand into a fist, ready to fuck him up. Holiday reaches for me, to stop me.
“You need to leave,” she says.
He straightens his jacket. “Come see me at the inn. I’m in room D.”
“Not happening,” Holiday says. “We’re over, Dominic. There won’t be a second chance.”
“I don’t believe that.” For a second, his mask slips completely, and I see real anger flash across his face. But he controls it, forcing that smug grin back into place.
He looks at me. “Enjoy your little bakery romance. It won’t last.”
He turns and walks away, getting into a black Mercedes. We watch until his taillights disappear.
We go back inside the bakery, and Holiday lets out the breath she’s been holding. “That went well.”
“I’d say so, considering he left without getting his face bashed in,” I say.
I pull her against me, and she buries her face in my chest. I can feel her shaking—not with fear but with anger.
“Ihatehim,” she says, her voice muffled. “I hate that he still has power over me. That he can just show up and?—”
“You shut him down. You didn’t let him guilt you or manipulate you. You were incredible.”
She pulls back to look at me. “He’s jealous.”
“I would be, too,” I admit.
“He’s going to keep showing up, keep trying to?—”
I kiss her to stop the spiral. When I pull back, she’s breathless. “We can handle two weeks of him. And then he goes back to Paris, and we never have to see him again.”
We’re standing in the middle of the bakery kitchen when she kisses me again. It’s soft at first, gentle, but then it deepens, and suddenly, we’re pressed against the counter. My hands are in her hair, pulling it out of that ponytail, like nothing else matters.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her pupils blown wide. “I want you.”
“Here?”
