Page 49 of Christmas in Vines

“Clarkston won’t know what hit him,”Maxwell snarled viciously.

“A motherfucking hostile takeover,” I muttered. “That is what they’re planning… to take over Willow’s company and force them to sit to the side. Fucking assholes.”

A long time ago, I’d learned to treat a business like it was a country and if hostile forces were coming to our borders, we had to repel them. I knew what to do when my hand was forced and this time—for Willow’s sake—I was not holding back.

Grimacing, I logged on to the Clarkston Cider’s website and got to the document page. Grabbing a notepad and a pen, I went to work.

As I worked, the calls began to come in, texts followed and even a voice note from Willow, but I couldn’t take any of them. Hearing her voice would crack me open harder than if you flung an egg into a wall.

I forced myself to concentrate on my work, but the merest twitch from my cell had me aching in tender and vulnerable places.

Half an hour passed before the last call from Willow ran out to voicemail and I slumped over the keyboard with my hands gripping my hair and pulling. My breath was coming in and whooshing out as if I’d just run a marathon and I knew I was on the verge of a panic attack—or a complete breakdown.

“Stay strong, Cole,” I ground out through grit teeth. “Stay strong. If she ends up hating me… at least I did this for her.”

But that only made my heart split in half. How would I go on knowing the woman I loved more than life… hated me?

* * *

Willow

He still wouldn’t answer.

I was staring down at the cell, at the five unanswered calls, the four texts that still had red dots. The voice message was unread as well. The reality of what I was submerged in was getting clearer and clearer—I’d been ditched on Christmas morning by the man I was falling in love with.

What had caused this?

Dropping the cell on the bed, I covered my face and tried to breathe. Maybe this was a big misunderstanding; I had it wrong…but his missing overnight bag told me differently. Tyler had run away from me like I was the plague or something.

Why had he run?

Something tugged at the edge of my mind and as I fought to catch it, I heard Tyler whisper, “Please don’t hate me.”

I bit my lip. That was from this morning, early this morning. For some reason, I thought I’d dreamed it—but no, he had said it. Again—why? The questions kept coming but the only person who could answer them was Tyler. Last night, he had made love to me, and my body still felt the aftereffects of his sweet touches. But this sudden disappearance? It made no sense.

Sighing, I left the bed and headed to the shower. I had to get out of here soon anyway. Stepping into the shower, I felt my heart progressively sink to the soles of my feet. I didn’t even feel disappointed or sad.

I felt empty.

Hollow.

Like a void.

To think that I’d gone to sleep wrapped around a man whose tiniest flicker of his lips made my heart play the maraca. I’d thought…I’d thought that somehow, we could make it work, find a way to be together, even if he was a transient worker.

But I woke up alone.

Had Tyler been playing me all this time? Even those moments when I thought there was more to his gaze when he looked at me. I knew three weeks, twenty-one days, was hardly enough time for anyone to fall in love, but a part of me had hoped.

Now, that hope had burned itself out, just like I knew our relationship would have.

I washed slowly, reluctantly, not willing to wash away Tyler’s scent or touch—but what could I do? He was gone, which meant he had gotten what he wanted and was never coming back. What else was there for me to do but listen to his actions and forget his words?

I washed off, stepped out and wrapped a towel around me. I swiped a hand over the mirror. My reflection was a horror story—pale skin, blank eyes but kiss swollen lips. I left the room in a silent fury, the only sound was thepat, pat, patof my feet on the tile.

As I reached for my cell, I saw a notepad under it. How had I not noticed that? Plucking it up, I saw a note written in a strong, slashing masculine hand.

Willow,

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