Page 12 of My Sweetart Holidate

11

Charlotte

“Excuse me,what?” I say to the strange man standing beside Maggie Parsons.

“I’m bachelor number seven. Dustin. You must be bachelorette number seven.” It’s as if this man doesn’t even register that Kash is standing beside me, holding my hand. He reaches out a hand, as if he’s happy to meet me, but I don’t take it.

“Maggie, what’s going on?” I search the famous matchmaker’s expression, hoping that I can catch a playful twinkle in her eye or a smile she’s fighting. Because this has to be a joke. One big practical joke. Kash is my match. Not this stranger who materialized out of nowhere and claims to be part of the event two days late.

“There was a slight… mix up,” Maggie admits.

“Maggie’s my sister,” Kash explains.

I recoil, as if I’ve been slapped. I drop his hand and narrow my gaze to the same laser focus he turned on me the very first time we met. “Yoursister?”

The magazine journalist hovers a few feet behind us. I don’t know where the hell she came from. Probably some superpower to sniff out a good story.

I couldn’t care less in this moment. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” I ask.

“Ordinarily, yes,” Maggie interjects. “But he didn’t apply. Dustin went MIA—”

“Sorry, I was out of the country. Caught in a big storm.” Dustin’s casual smile doesn’t fit the tension of the conversation. “Couldn’t call to tell anyone I was running behind.”

“How did—” I gulp a swallow. Shit. Is my throat closing? Why can’t I breathe? Am I allergic to the truth? A dull roar is filling my ears, anger filling my chest and replacing the unrestrained joy of exactly two minutes ago.

“I asked Kash to fill in,” Maggie explains in a rush, glancing at her brother and then back to me. “It’s all my fault. I basically begged him to—”

I can’t listen to any more of this conversation. Each new confession is rattling me more than the last.

I storm out of the dining room, feeling Kash on my heels. I turn and glare at him hard. “Don’tfollow me.”

He stops as if he’s hit an invisible barrier. I catch a glimpse of his remorseful expression before I spin and march toward the elevator.

God I’m such an idiot!

How the hell did I think Kash was my match? My soulmate? We arenothingalike. He’s the grumpiest, grouchiest man I’ve ever met. He thinks love is a made-up fantasy that gets exploited on Valentine’s Day more than any other holiday. The man doesn’t even like whiskey for crying out loud. All the signs were there from the moment I nearly ran him over with my car.

Maggie’s brother.

I shake my head in disbelief, but it doesn’t stop the tears from coming. She had tobeghim to spend time with me. Probably had to beg him to tolerate and entertain me. Was any of this real? I’ve never felt so embarrassed and betrayed. This is so much worse than all the horrible blind dates I’ve endured.

Why couldn’t she just tell me my match was a no-show? It would’ve sucked, but I wouldn’t be utterly heartbroken. I’d have gone back to Fairbanks with my tail quietly tucked between my legs and gotten back to my career.

I yank my phone off the nightstand. One I haven’t had the urge to check since we went snowshoeing. There’s fifty unread work emails and a string of texts from my cousin about her stupid wedding and my RSVP. I laugh out loud when she offers to set me up with a date.

No. Fucking. Thank you.

I plop on the bed, trying to get my head on straight. But all the thoughts are coming too fast. It’s worse than being drunk.

Kash was late twice. Did his sister have to beg him to come back after that dinner? A dinner I thought went really well. So well, in fact, that I invited him into my room. He must’ve thought I was a real sucker.

And who the hell is the real bachelor number seven? Not that it matters. KashParsons—I should’ve known it was suspicious that he never offered up his last name— has ruined me for any other man. Maybe I was just a good time in bed for him. But my stupid feelings are real. I can’t just turn them off now that my actual match has shown up.

With blurry eyes, I stuff clothes into my suitcase. To add insult to injury, I find my red lace bra dangling from a lamp and my matching panties draped on the corner of the headboard. The whole fucking room smells like sex.

I grip the offending, once beloved, red bra and give it an accusatory shake. “I’m burning you,” I promise, anger dissolving into a swallowed sob. I bite my lip. What the fuck am I supposed to do? How do I erase the memory of what we shared?

All this time I was falling in love with a lie.

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