Page 42 of A Very Merry Enemy
And they do. Her face goes white, then turns red after a few seconds. Her hands curl into fists, and for a minute, I think she might actually knock me the fuck out. I’d deserve it.
“You want to know why I left Paris?” Her voice shakes. “Because I was engaged to a man who controlled every aspect of my life. Who told me when to work, what to cook, who to talk to, and what to wear. He made me feel like I was never good enough, never talented enough, never enough, period.”
She steps closer, and there are tears in her eyes now, but her voice is steel.
“And you know what the worst part is? The way you’re acting reminds me of him. He also tried to make me feel like I was abandoning him, betraying him, choosing my dreams over him. It’s funny that when some people can’t get what they want from you anymore, they say you’re the selfish one, when maybe they are.”
She’s breathing hard now,and so am I.
“So yeah, Lucas. I failed at being engaged. I failed at a lot of things. But at least I can also say I tried. At least I took the risk instead of hiding and pretending the world doesn’t exist beyond the tree line of the farm.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I can’t breathe or think. Her words ricochet through my head like bullets.
The way you’re acting reminds me of him.
He treated her like he hated her. The thought makes my jaw clench tight.
“Now leave,” she says, her voice breaking. “I can’t do this.”
“Holiday—”
“No. I need you to leave. Right now. Before I say something I’ll regret.”
I should argue and defend myself. Should explain that I never meant to make her feel that way.
But I can’t. Because some part of me knows she’s right.
“Glad to be done,” I say. I pause at the door, my hand on the handle. “I meant what I said about breaking you. I will keep trying until you quit this competition or leave town. Hopefully both.”
I walk out before she can respond.
The November air hits me like a freight train. I suck in a breath, trying to clear my head, but all I can smell is burnt sugar and vanilla and remember the feel of her hand on mine.
I climb into my truck and sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel. My heart is racing. My chest feels tight. And I can’t shake her words.
She was engaged to a man who made her feel like she was never enough.
Did I do that to her? I never wanted her to choose between me and her dreams. But I guess she did in the end.
Through the bakery window, I can see Holiday. She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, and her shoulders are shaking.
She’s crying.
Because of me.
I should apologize. I should tell her I didn’t mean it, that I was hurt and angry and lashing out.
But I don’t. Because seeing her cry just makes me angrier—angrier at myself for being the asshole, angrier at her for making me feel guilty, angrier that after all these years she can still get to me like this.
A few minutes later, after she’s finished cleaning up, my phone buzzes.
Holiday
I’m not quitting this competition or leaving town right away. You better get used to seeing my face during the holidays.
I stare at the text. Even after everything, she’s not backing down.
