Page 31 of The Duke Who Saved Christmas
Thomas sighed, and I walked back to the table without turning around. Ireallydidn’t want to get involved in his family drama—organising my sister’s wedding was enough family drama for me—and I certainly wasn’t going to be his shoulder to cry on.
I was sorry about his dad.
I was sorry about the fact his fiancée left him.
I was sorry his sister was struggling and channelling her grief in a way that hurt the people who loved her.
But that was none of my business. None of it.
So why the fuck did I feel awful about walking away from him just now?
More specifically, why did I want to find out more about that mystery fiancée of his?
Why did I even care?
CHAPTER SEVEN – THOMAS
If I heard Mariah Carey’s song one more time, I was going to throw myself into the nearest pond.
Considering four inches of snow had fallen overnight and all the ponds nearby had frozen, I was relatively confident it would finish the job off.
It was on every Christmas playlist known to man, and those were insufferable at the best of times.
No, I didn’t want to be fucking happy.
I didn’t want it to be Christmas every day.
I didn’t want to see ‘mommy’ kissing Santa Claus.
And I certainly didn’t care about the aforementioned gentleman coming to town.
If I had it my way, I’d make like a bear and hibernate for the entire winter. Gorge myself on food, hide in a cave, and emerge when the weather was warmer.
They had it all figured out.
I unwound my scarf from my neck and kicked off my boots. If Mum wanted to spend hours in the snow with Danny, she was more than welcome to. I’d just make sure Heath had his fresh tomato soup still warm in the slow cooker for them to eat when they came in.
I walked into the kitchen and looked around. Heath was nowhere to be found, but as he’d promised, the slow cooker was ticking over on the counter, and the rich scent of tomato soup filled the air.
So did fresh bread.
There was a big basket next to the pot, and I lifted the cloth that was covering it.
Ah. Thick, fresh, crusty bread.
I got a bowl and scooped out some soup, then grabbed some bread on a side plate and sat down at the kitchen island to eat, only to be glared at by a seven-foot-tall green tree.
Why the fuck was there a Christmas tree in my kitchen?
I had one rule for my mother.
She could put trees everywhere she wanted, but the kitchen and my bedroom were off-limits.
That did, of course, mean we had approximately sixteen Christmas trees dotted throughout the interior of Castleton Manor, the seat of the Dukedom of Castleton, but it was fine.
My mother loved Christmas.
My father had loved Christmas.
