Page 16 of Merry'd to the Mountain Man
She gives me a small, sad smile. And I wonder if she might be feeling a fraction of what I’m feeling. I can’t be falling so hard for this beautiful woman standing in front of me and she doesn’t feel the same way. The universe can’t be that cruel, especially on Christmas.
“Okay,” I say finally, the word tasting like ash. “Let’s do it.”
Her expression hardens again—back to anger for show—and before I can say anything else, she spins on her heel and storms back inside, slamming the door behind her.
I follow a few minutes later, just in time to see her moving through the cabin, gathering up her things. The room feels emptier already.
Ryan lounges near the table, smug as ever, while Marnie sips coffee and watches like she’s waiting for the next act in her favorite soap opera.
Frankie zips her bag and straightens, doing everything she can not to look at me.
“Ryan,” she says, voice sharp but steady. “Can I get a ride back to town? My car’s still there.”
He grins. “Be my pleasure.”
She glances at me, and for a split second—just before she looks away—I see the flicker of something real. Sadness. Regret. Maybe even the same ache sitting in my chest.
It doesn’t take long for Ryan to gather their stuff and help Marnie to her feet. Ryan opens the door for her, smug to the point of glowing. “Merry Christmas, cousin,” he says, that damn smirk plastered across his face.
“Merry Christmas,” I mutter back, my jaw tight enough to crack.
The door shuts behind them.
The cabin feels colder immediately.
And all I can think is that I just agreed to let the only person who ever made this place feel like home walk right out the door.
CHAPTER 13
Frankie
The apartment feels colder than it should.
I drop my keys on the counter and look around at the quiet, empty space. No tree in the corner. No lights. No smell of pine or nutmeg or wood smoke. Just silence and gray walls.
It’s strange how fast a place can stop feeling like home.
I kick off my boots and sink onto the couch. My phone sits on the armrest, screen dark. I stare at it for too long, waiting for something that isn’t coming.
No missed calls.
No messages.
Not that I should’ve expected one.
Cole made it clear this was temporary, a deal, a means to an end. And I agreed to it. I told myself I was fine with that. But the second I walked away, the lie cracked.
I’m not fine. I miss him.
I scroll through my phone just to keep my hands busy, and before I realize what I’m doing—I’ve tapped my parents’ number.
The line rings twice before my mother answers, laughter spilling through the receiver. She’s saying something tosomeone—probably my brother or his wife—her voice bright, happy, whole.
They don’t even notice I’m gone.
The laughter in the background grows louder, and something inside me snaps. I hang up without saying a word.
The sound of the click echoes in the empty room.
