Page 50 of Mistletoe and Mayday
But his pacing stops. For a second. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“Don’t.” His voice cracks on the word. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t be nice. I can’t...” He swallows hard. “I can’t handle nice right now.”
My fingers twist in my lap, itching to reach out, to fix something that can’t be fixed. To make it better, even thoughI know I can’t.
“Okay then,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “I’m not sorry. I think she’s an idiot. And I hope she gets bedbugs.”
He doesn’t smile. The muscles in his jaw work beneath his skin.
?And fleas. And head lice. And those microscopic face mites that live in your eyelashes and have sex at night." I’m on a roll now, the words tumbling out faster. “I hope she gets a paper cut between her fingers where it really hurts. I hope her socks are always slightly damp. I hope every public toilet she uses for the rest of her life has run out of paper.”
His lips twitch. Encouraged, I continue.
“I hope she steps on a Lego every night for the next decade. I hope her phone charger only works at a specific angle that requires a structural engineering degree to figure out. I hope she gets those weird hiccups that make your butthole clench.”
A snort. Not quite a laugh, but progress.
“I hope every time she gets comfortable in bed, she remembers she forgot to brush her teeth. I hope she eternally feels like she’s about to sneeze, but never does. I hope all her autocorrects are inappropriate when she’s texting her boss. I hope?—”
“Bailey.” A genuine smile now, small but there, breaking through the pain like sunrise after a storm.
“What? I’m just getting started. I’ve got fifty more curses involving ingrown toenails and mysterious shopping cart wheels.”
“God, I’m so stupid.” He kicks the second bench. It scrapes across the floor, wood screaming against wood. “All those late meetings, all those work trips. I actually believed her.”
“You’re not stupid for trusting someone you loved.” My voice comes out softer than usual, all the sarcasm strippedaway. “Your heart was in the right place. That’s not stupidity—that’s being human.”
His breathing comes fast and shallow, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Like he’s running out of air. Like he’s drowning in his own anger.
“You know what’s really pathetic?” He stops pacing, staring at the wall, fists clenched at his sides. “I had the whole thing planned down to the minute. The proposal speech, the ring placement, even calculated the exact moment the Northern Lights might appear.” His fist connects with the wall. The cabin seems to shudder. “So much for perfect.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. “How long were you together?”
He’s still staring at the wall where his fist connected, shoulders rigid. For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
“Four years.” His voice sounds hollow, empty.
The firelight flickers across his face, casting shadows that make him look older. Tired.
“You love her.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. Like old coffee. Like regret.
His shoulders tense, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. The firelight catches the sharp edges of his face, and something in my chest twists.
I shouldn’t care. I barely know him. But watching him stand there, perfect posture crumbling, perfect hair messed up from running his hands through it—it hurts. Actually, physically hurts.
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Just stands there, staring at nothing, like he’s replaying every memory at once.
“I thought I did.” His words come out slow and deliberate. “Now, I’m not sure it was ever real.”
My leg protests as I hop toward him, but I don’t care. Hispain radiates off him in waves, and before I can overthink it, I wrap my arms around his waist. He stiffens at the contact, muscles turning to stone beneath my touch. But I hold on tighter.
“She’s stupid,” I mumble into his chest. His heartbeat pounds against my cheek, fast and unsteady. “She’s so incredibly stupid for giving you up.” My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re perfect because you’re not perfect. You fought off wolves. You saved my life.”
His breath catches. The tension in his body shifts, softens. His hand finds my jaw, tilting my face up. His fingers move against my skin, gentle, exploring. Like he’s mapping every imperfection, every freckle.
“You saved mine,” he whispers.
His fingers remain on my jaw, and my brain short-circuits, making my mouth run even more than usual.
