“Dammit,” I mutter, my breath turning to white fog in the air as dread dumps into my bloodstream.
Less than twenty-four hours into my second chance with Lucy and I’ve already made her cry.
But this can’t be the end. Surely if I explain that I hadn’t made a decision on the property yet, and that now that the nature of our relationship has changed, I absolutely would have discussed the purchase with her before committing, she’ll understand. And forgive me.
Though, in my experience, forgiveness doesn’t come easy to Lucy after a betrayal.
I have to do more than talk. I have to do something to show her that she’s my first priority.
Unfortunately, whatever that “something” is doesn’t come quickly to mind, so I settle for a text—Please, Lucy. Come back and talk to me. This isn’t what you think.
But she doesn’t respond. Not to my first text or my third or my fifth.
Hours later, I’m at the local cannabis dispensary looking for something to help me sleep and mentally composing my sixth text, when the man behind the counter asks, “Anything I can help you with, bro?”
My heart lifts for the first time since Lucy ran from me this morning, and I instantly know how to begin making amends.
“Yes,” I say, eyes narrowing on the man’s familiar-looking Santa hat. “I think there is something you can help me with. Thank you.”
7
Lucy
Emma meets me at her front door, wrapped in a big white throw blanket that she immediately whips off her shoulders and swishes around mine. “Oh, honey. No offense, but you look awful.”
“I’ve been crying,” I say in a clogged voice.
“I can see that.” She stands back, circling one hand. “Come in. I have a fire going in the living room and some whiskey with your name on it.”
“No whiskey, thank you,” I say, kicking off my muddy boots by her door and shuffling into the living room. “Whiskey makes me cry, and I’m already doing enough of that.”
Emma tuts sympathetically beneath her breath. “Poor thing. Then how about some peppermint tea with honey?”
I sniff hard and collapse onto the plush cushions on Emma’s sinfully comfy couch. She still has boxes from her recent move littered throughout the house, but this room is an oasis of cozy amidst the chaos. “Yes, please.”
“Coming right up.” Emma starts toward the kitchen but pauses in front of the picture windows overlooking her vineyard and the softly rolling hills beyond. “Are you sure this isn’t another misunderstanding? I was having a hard time hearing you on the phone at the end, but—”
“Because I was crying,” I say, still sounding like someone packed my nose full of tissues.
“Yes,” Emma says gently. “Which is totally understandable, but it sounded like maybe Lawrence was just getting the details on this property. He hadn’t put in an offer yet, had he?”
I shake my head. “No, but he was going to. According to Mr. Reed, he’s been plotting this for weeks. And Lawrence didn’t say a word about it last night, not a single word.” I sniff again. “He’s probably down at the real estate office right now putting in an offer, ensuring he’s the biggest and best Christmas tree provider in the county and leaving me in the dust.”
“Biggest isn’t always the best. We both know that. And you can’t be sure that he was definitely going through with it. He might have decided to pass on the property. Or he might have intended to discuss it with you before he made the purchase but didn’t get the chance. You need to talk to him, Lucy.”
I shake my head and wiggle deeper into the cushion, hoping it will swallow me whole. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Emma crosses back to the couch, leaning her hip against the side. “From everything you said, it sounds like you two already lost a year of good times because you were afraid to be honest with each other. Do you really want to waste more time? Especially if you think this thing with Lawrence could be something special?”
“I thought it could be last night,” I whisper, “but now I don’t know what to think. I’m just so sad and disappointed. And I know I said I wanted to come over and talk, but I don’t think I want to talk anymore if that’s okay.” I pull in a shaky breath. “At least not until I stop feeling like I’m about to start bawling like a baby at any second.”
Emma sighs. “Of course that’s okay, babes. I’ll get tea, and we can turn on the TV and watch something dumb until you feel better. My sister came up to visit last weekend, so I have a ton of trashy reality television loaded in my queue.”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile as Emma bustles out of the room. But as soon as I’m alone, the miserable sinking sensation in my gut returns with a vengeance.