Page 25 of Grump Hard
“Right, and since when do you volunteer to help at holiday functions?” Elliot turns his bullshit seeking radar my way with the precision of a submarine captain. “You hate Christmas. You always have.”
Being unable to tell my siblings why I’m actually “volunteering” puts a dent in my ability to defend myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.
“I don’t hate Christmas,” I insist.
It’s half true.
I didn’t always hate the holidays, just since they were ripped away from me as a child, along with my sense of wonder. That sense of wonder Holly seems to be stoking back to life with alarming ease…
“So why were you mooning over her again today, then?” Bran asks, a hint of his usual mischief creeping into his eyes. “Out by Willow’s woodpile?”
I nearly choke on my terrible bourbon. “What? How did you?—”
“Farmer Johnson saw you two canoodling while he was out feeding his cows,” Elliot supplies. “He texted Gladys at the post office, who told Nevil Newson, who was at the desk mailing a package at the time. Then, he texted his brother, Leonard, who was picking up fudge at the Kountry Store, and Leonard told the checkout girl, who told her supervisor, who told Nancy, who told me.”
“The mind reels,” I mutter, truly stunned. “Don’t any of them have something better to do?”
“No,” Elliot says pleasantly. “According to Nancy, the entire town is very invested in Holly Jo’s love life. They’re ready to see Silver Bell Falls’ resident sweetheart happily settled down with a man who isn’t her jerky ex, Philip.”
“Or some guy named Kevin,” Bran adds, “who’s allegedly a total pain in the ass. Nancy thinks their first date was a pity date on Holly’s part, but no one wants to encourage a second. All parties involved agree she’s too good for him.”
I stare at him. “Involved? How is anyone but Holly, and this alleged douchebag, involved in that?”
“So, I guess you don’t want to hear about the message Willow posted on the town digital message board, then?” Elliot asks, looking more amused with every passing second. “The one where she swore you two would have kissed if Holly’s dad hadn’t interrupted and encouraging people to respect the universal flow of romantic energy?”
I drop my head into my hands. “This fucking town.”
“Her dad hearted the message, though,” Bran says, making my shoulders hunch closer to my ears. “Looks like he’s planning to be more mindful of what he’s interrupting in the future.”
I drag my hands over my hair, bringing them to rub at the increasingly knotted muscles at the back of my neck.
“It’s not a big deal,” Elliot says in a gentler voice. “You like her! That’s great. And it seems like she’s into you, too. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that she’s a sweetheart,” I say, the words coming out more forcefully than intended. “The sweetheart. And I’m…from out of town,” I say, instead of any of the other words on the tip of my tongue.
For some reason, my siblings don’t seem to realize just how broken I am, and I intend to keep it that way. I’m the closest thing to a real father they’ve had since they were teenagers. It’s important to their own well-being to continue believing I’m fine. Cranky and closed off, especially during this time of year, but otherwise emotionally functional.
Bran’s brows snap together. “And? You have a car.”
“And a driver,” Elliot agrees. “You could leave the office early on Friday, work on the way to Vermont, and spend the entire weekend with your new lady without missing a single meeting or urgent email.”
“There’s no future in it,” I say. “And I’m not looking for casual connections at this point in my life. If it doesn’t have long-term potential, I don’t have the time.”
“The time for what?” Elliot leans forward. “Fun? Happiness? A woman who makes you stare at her like a lovesick teenager?”
“I do not?—”
“You do,” both my brothers interrupt in unison.
I take another sip of terrible bourbon, the burn welcome. Do I stare at her like that? I suppose I could demand photographic evidence, but the chances that someone in town might have already posted something of the sort on the message board keep my lips firmly shut. If I’ve been paparazzied by a matchmaking local, I don’t want to know about it.
All I really want to know is, “But how?” I demand.
“How?” Bran echoes.
“Yes, how?” I say, throat tightening as I add, “How do you tell a woman that you’re almost certain that you’re incapable of meeting her needs, but… Well, maybe you’d like to have a drink or something.”
The table goes quiet. Around us, the lodge continues its jovial celebration of another day survived on the slopes, but in our booth, there’s just the weight of my question. The one that likely reveals I’m not as “together” as Bran and Elliot might have assumed.
