Unwrapping Holly

His lips thinned, and he pushed off the wall. “I just realized something I was a fool to miss. I’ve taken the risk and made myself clear. I’ve told you, you’re the real deal for me, Holly. I’ve said I want you in my bed, where we both know you want to be, too. But in my life? You don’t even want me in your house. Not unless you can write me on your planner first. And baby, we both know that isn’t how this thing with us is. It’s all or nothing, and you just don’t have it in you to give it all.”

“I can. I will.”

He moved toward the door, rigid, unwilling to listen. Helplessness overcame her but she knew she had to do something or he’d be gone. Holly jumped off the counter. She plastered her hand on the hard wall of his chest. “Don’t go.”

Cold eyes met hers, eyes that said he’d made up his mind. He was leaving. “I can’t make this right, can I?” she whispered painfully.

“At the moment,” he said, “it doesn’t appear that way.” He removed her hand from his chest. “I need to think, Holly, and I can’t do that when I’m with you.” He walked out of the room, and she followed, her stomach roiling, as she watched him open the front door and exit without looking back.

Holly resisted the urge to run after him. Words weren’t enough to convince him she was past her temporary insanity. She had to find another way.

***

THREE DAYS LATER, COLE STOOD inside The Tavern with a beer in his hand, and an empty shot glass on the bar. He reached for his beer and swallowed a long slug. After all, he was celebrating. And somewhere up in Manchester, so were his brothers. They’d signed the papers, sold the company, yippee ki yay, and all that stuff. Tomorrow they’d seal the deal on Holly’s family home. He’d talked to the Reddings that day. They were thrilled. His brothers were thrilled. Cole, well, he wanted another drink.

“Another, Joe,” he yelled at the bartender, breaking through the jukebox tune of Garth Brooks’s “Shameless,” a reminder that did nothing to help his grisly mood. Joe arched his brow as if he considered denying him. Cole scowled. “Give me another damned shot, Joe.”

Joe stalked the few steps dividing them and poured the liquor, his lips a thin, hard line. “Drinking away a woman, I take it.” It wasn’t a question, rather a well-versed bartender’s expert assessment.

Cole scowled again and Joe said, “Thought so. Won’t work.” He turned and walked away.

Cole downed the tequila and vowed to make Joe a liar. What insanity had brought him to The Tavern of all damned places, he didn’t know—the place where he’d first spiraled into the abyss, otherwise known as Holly.

He hadn’t heard from her. Told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself the ripping pain in his gut was nerves over the sale of the business. But he knew better; he knew it was her. He’d overwhelmed her, charged at her like everything else in his life. He got that. So he’d backed off, hoping space was the answer.

“You got an answer, all right.” He grimaced, downing the rest of his beer. “Just not the answer you wanted.”

He was about to order up another shot—Joe’s scowls be damned, he’d take a cab home, even walk if he had to—when Joe appeared and poured him one on his own, then discreetly nodded toward the door. “That’s the guy your brother two-stepped with.” Contempt thickened in his face. “Up to his same no-good crap.”

Cole turned to inspect the guy in question who was more punk kid than man. Tall but lanky, hair too long, jeans ripped, shirt hanging half over his belt—a style statement gone wrong. He looked more sixteen than twenty-one as the sheriff had pegged him.

In the corner, trapped by the kid, was a woman curled back against the wall, body tense, her face pale, eyes wide with fear. Suddenly, the kid jerked the woman by the hand and started charging toward the door with her in tow.

“Oh no,” Cole said, downing his shot. “This shit’s stopping here, tonight.” Cole and Joe shared a look.

“I’ll call the sheriff,” Joe said.

Cole charged toward the door, a heartbroken man with adrenaline and tequila pumping through his blood. He pushed open The Tavern door about the time the punk kid reached his truck. Long strides led Cole behind the kid as he reeled back to slap his wife. Cole grabbed the kid and started walking back to the bar, him in tow, shouting, while bystanders hooted and hollered. The kid squirmed but he was the weaker of the two, no match for Cole. A fortysomething female opened the door for them. Cole gave her a short salute. “Thank you, ma’am.”