Page 24 of A Very Merry Enemy
Of course, he watches the bakery, so he can figure out his next stunt to humiliate me. Or maybe watching me struggle or squirm gets him off. Whatever his reason, it’s not romantic. It’s not sweet. It’s Lucas who’s determined to make my life miserable. He’ll do it, too.
We both know he’s capable.
I force myself to look away and finish with the floor.
Seven and a half more weeks of his cousins trying to play matchmaker. Of the town gossiping about us. Of him finding new ways to get under my skin.
But what Lucas doesn’t realize is that I’m no longer that timid teenager he knew so well.
I’m stronger and take less shit.
I can handle it. I survived falling apart in Paris. I survived my engagement ending. I survived living in my own personal hell. And I can survive Lucas Jolly and his petty little games.
When this season is over, I might leave Merryville for good. No looking back. No second thoughts. No letting anyone—especially not Lucas—make me question that decision.
I’ve applied at different bakeries in New York. Emma will give me a reference, and with her connections, I’m a shoo-in.
He’ll get exactly what he wants.
And I’ll try my best to forget every memory I made with him while surviving the season.
It’s as simple as that.
I grab my coat and purse, lock up the bakery, and head to my car without looking back at the tree lot. I don’t check to see if he’s still out there, not wanting to give him the satisfactionof knowing I noticed him, too. He’s probably zeroed in on me right fucking now.
I shake my head, annoyed.
Tomorrow, I’ll bake twice as many cookies. I’ll smile at customers. I’ll ignore every comment about Lucas and me. I’ll prove to this entire town—and to him—that I don’t care because I don’t.
I really, really don’t. And hopefully, if I keep telling myself that, I’ll eventually convince myself, too.
CHAPTER 6
LUCAS
I’ve been up since four thirty, which is nothing new. What is new is spending the entire morning trying to convince myself that the bakery and the stubborn woman inside it don’t exist.
It’s not fucking working.
I hoist another Fraser fir onto the tractor bed, the scent of pine sharp in the cold November air. My breath comes out in clouds, and my hands are numb even though I’m wearing leather gloves. The physical burn feels good, much better than thinking about her.
Each day, I’ve worked myself to the bone.
By eight, the farm’s crawling with families. Kids run around in puffy coats, racing between tree rows while parents sip hot chocolate from our snack shack. A group of teenagers pose for Instagram photos in front of the giant nutcracker statue near the entrance. Christmas music plays from speakers hidden in the trees. Right now, it’s “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” and many are singing along.
Being on Jolly Christmas Tree Farm isn’t just about the trees anymore. It’s an entire experience. Photo ops, food trucks onweekends, a petting zoo with reindeer. This year, Emma’s bakery is the crown jewel.
The farm was my escape. Now it’s become my personal hell.
“You planning to load that tree or just strangle it?” Dean asks, walking up with a clipboard.
I realize I’ve been gripping the trunk hard enough to leave imprints in my gloves. “Obviously loading it.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He marks something off his list. “You’re so convincing.”
He glances toward the bakery—its windows glowing warm against the gray morning, garland framing the glass, and a Sold Out sign already hanging on the door even though it’s only ten a.m. “Wow, Holiday sold out again.”
My jaw tightens. “Good for her.”
