A Very Grumpy Lumberjack Christmas

6. The Mistletoe Grinch

6

THE MISTLETOE GRINCH

N oel flinches as if I’ve physically hit her, her back stiffening, shoulders tensing visibly even under the heavy pea coat she wears.

Hell.

I shouldn’t have said anything.

If I had been smart, I would have just stood there across the street and watched her soaking in her joy in her favorite spot in town.

It would have been the right thing to do—for both of us. To give her peace and ensure my own by maintaining distance between us.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

I never could with this woman.

Even when I was too young to know what it was, I was drawn to Noel like a moth to a flame.

In the classroom. On the playground. Anywhere she was—that was where I wanted to be. That never changed as we aged. If anything, that tether that kept me bound to her only strengthened until even a few hours apart became physically painful .

Noel always owned my heart and held it in her hands.

She cared for it. Nurtured it. Made promises to protect it.

And now, there’s nothing left of what once beat for her.

Yet, I’m still drawn to this woman who broke me. I can’t stop myself. Even with her reaction to my statement, the clear body language screaming that she wants nothing to do with me, I still inch closer until I can smell her light peppermint scent in the wind.

She remains stock-still for a moment before she slowly turns to face me, gripping a small box in her mitten-covered hands. Her blond hair spills out across her shoulders from under the matching cream-colored beanie with the little fuzzy ball on top that is far too adorable on her. “What are you doing here? From what I hear, you never come into town, especially now…”

While nothing she said is wrong, the judgmental tone stings worse than the flakes blowing into my face.

I scowl at her and cross my arms over my chest, then stare up at the tree that might be a true masterpiece. “My dad isn’t feeling well. I came to the pharmacy to grab a few things for him. And believe me, I would have sent my mother to do it if I didn’t think the roads were getting too dangerous. But the last thing I need is her sliding off into a ditch .”

Lowering my gaze again, I meet hers, knowing full well what I just said will set her off.

Those icy-blue eyes of hers narrow, filling with a fiery heat I know all too well. “I told you; it was the rabbit’s fault.”

“Mmhmm.”

Are we really going to have this argument again?

It wasn’t what I intended when I came over.

Actually, I’m not sure what I intended.

I just walked, needing to be closer to her on the one hand while, on the other, knowing it was a dangerous prospect to approach after what happened yesterday .

Now, I’ve gotten us right back to where we were when we stood in the middle of that road—with the storm blowing around us and our annoyance with each other overshadowing everything. Even the shared history that should, at the very least, allow us to be civil in public.

She finally pulls her glare away from me and returns her focus to the tree, releasing a long sigh, as if she’s letting go of that anger she just directed at me with the puff of air. Searching for her center and calm place. Something she always did, even as a child. “I hope your dad feels better.” Offering a tight smile, she peeks over her shoulder at me. “Tell him he picked good this year.”

“Picked what?”

Noel points up, balancing the small box in her other mittened hand. “The town tree.”

“I would, but the compliment would be going to the wrong person because I picked it.”

Her brows rise. “ You did?”

I incline my head, watching for her reaction given the new information.

After what was just said, it wouldn’t surprise me if she flipped a switch and withdrew the kind words, knowing they were now meant for me.

Her gaze bounces between the tree and me. “But your dad always picks the trees, every year…”

Shit.

She doesn’t know.

Acid burns my throat, and I run a hand over my snow-dampened hair, swallowing it down as I glance at my boots rather than at her when I reveal this. “No, my dad has never picked the tree.” Gathering all my remaining strength, I look back up to her, hoping her reaction isn’t what I expect. Hoping I don’t crush her. “ Your dad always did.”

Her soft brow furrows. “What?”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Noel. I thought you knew. Your dad would come down to the farm, and they’d go out all around the property until they found the perfect tree. Sometimes, they’d spend days searching. My dad would point out the ones he liked, but it was always your dad’s call. He personally picked every tree that’s been in this town square since…God, before either of us was born.”

Those pale-pink lips of hers open and close a few times. “How did I never…I guess I just assumed your dad…”

She swallows thickly, her already pale skin going as white as the snow falling around us.

“This year, my dad…” Shit. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. “He couldn’t bring himself to go out without your father. Said it didn’t feel right to make that decision without him. So…I picked it.”

Wondering every second what Russell Jolly would have thought.

Hoping I got it right.

For him.

And for the woman standing stunned, speechless in front of me.

Tears start to shimmer in her eyes, but she quickly turns away to stare back at the tree before they fall. “Oh, well, then…you did a good job.”

A vise wraps around my sternum and squeezes so tightly that I have trouble breathing in the frosty air. I force myself to inhale, then blow it out before I respond—not with what I truly want to say. “Thanks.”

An awkward silence settles between us, broken only by the squeals of delight from the children covering the rinks and the square and the ever-present Christmas music filling the air that I try so desperately to tune out.

This never used to happen .

She was the one person in the world I could spend hours with in silence and never once feel uncomfortable.

Everything was always so easy with her.

So effortless.

But now the tension is so thick it rivals the driving snow.

If I don’t break it soon, it will break me.

“What are you doing in town? Are you and your mom ready for Christmas?”

She turns back toward me, gripping the open box in her hands. “Um, I guess…”

Her eyes dart up to meet mine like she wants to say something else and is gauging whether she should or not, but instead of voicing whatever she is thinking, she shifts the box from one hand to the other—the one farther away from me.

Almost like she doesn’t want me to see it.

“Did you buy something?”

“Shit.” Though muttered under her breath, I catch the curse before she continues. “No, actually I—”

I step forward and look down into the box, and even with the lid partially closed, I recognize it instantly.

The pain that hits me is like the dozens of shards of glass inside it being shoved through my skin at once.

Red-hot betrayal flares through my blood. Something I didn’t think she could make me feel again, but here it is, just as thick and vile as the night she ended things. “Trying to get rid of all evidence I ever existed, huh?”

She glances up at me, eyes wide. “What? No, Luke, it isn’t like that—”

“Don’t bother.” I retreat a step, then another, holding up a hand to stop her protests. “I think you made it very clear how you feel about me yesterday. There isn’t any use in us pretending just because we once had a thing.”

Her jaw drops. “A thing ?”

Hell.

Regret at my knee-jerk-reaction choice of words slams into me.

Six years is a hell of a lot more than a thing.

Planning out your wedding is a hell of a lot more than a thing.

Talking about having kids and growing old together is definitely a hell of a lot more than a thing.

But I had to say it.

I had to be dismissive of what we shared because if I admitted how much she meant to me, how much she hurt me, I’m not sure my legs would keep me upright in this moment.

Not staring into her fathomless blue eyes.

Not watching her hair blow in the wind.

Not seeing the way snowflakes cling to her impossibly long, thick lashes and wanting to kiss them away so badly.

Her wide eyes stay on me as I retreat, but before she can say anything, I turn and walk away as quickly as my feet will carry me.

Across the street…

Dodging traffic and angry horns…

I duck into the pharmacy and release a shuddering breath, pressing my back against the door for a second to try to regain some semblance of composure I so easily lost out there with her.

Shit.

The door is glass, and she can probably see me.

I lurch forward, trying to find cover behind anything I can to avoid her witnessing how shaken I really am by a simple conversation with her.

Who are you kidding?

There’s nothing simple about that woman.

Or my feelings for her .

Noel Jolly is the only person on this planet who has ever had this effect on me. Who can make me feel so much love. Who can cause so much agonizing pain—

“Luke?”

Shit.

Mr. Pierce peeks around the side of the aisle. “Can I help you find something?”

“Yeah.” I force myself to focus my attention on him instead of out the front windows that overlook the square. “My dad has a really bad cough with a bit of a fever.”

His bushy white eyebrows rise over his thick-rimmed glasses. “Oh, well, I can certainly help you there…”

He keeps talking, rattling off information about different over-the-counter treatments and pulling boxes from the shelf to show me.

I don’t hear a word of it.

My gaze and all my attention keep drifting to the blonde across the street, still standing frozen in place, as if my words have rendered her unable to move. Kind of like what she said to me that night left me unable to move forward with my life.

“Just give me whatever you recommend, Mr. Pierce.”

If I let him keep going, he’ll talk for an hour, and I can’t deal with being in town any longer.

The goddamn Christmas music infiltrating everywhere.

The smell of gingerbread and baking pies.

The bright, happy lights and smiles of anyone I pass on the street.

The stupid cheer everywhere I look.

All I want to do is get home, give this to Dad, go back to the cabin, and lock myself in it until after New Year’s when Noel will be long gone—and all these feelings with her.

I follow Mr. Pierce to the register, still keeping my eye on the woman who I know will continue to haunt my dreams, even when she leaves Mistletoe.

She finally shakes her head as if she needs to clear it, then stares back up at the tree for a moment before she turns and makes her way toward her shitty rental car parked on the street.

Mr. Pierce rings me up, the click of his fingers on the old-time register loud enough to break through my obsessive stare. “I hear you had some excitement out your way yesterday.”

You have to be kidding me.

I look over at him as I pull out my wallet. “Not sure what you mean.”

He motions to the window and Noel slipping into her car directly across from us. “Noel have a little fender bender?”

Shit.

I clear my throat, trying to forget that moment of panic when I realized it was her and thought she might be hurt. “Nothing serious. She just hit some ice and slid off the road.”

He raises a brow over his glasses. “Really? I heard it was a rabbit.”

This is exactly why I don’t come to Mistletoe anymore. The gossip is as bad as the music. And knowing that Noel is back, I won’t make this mistake again.

I have enough supplies and books to last me weeks in the cabin, and if I desperately need anything, Mom and Dad will come get it for me rather than get into yet another argument with me about how I need “social interaction.”

“No rabbit.” I toss a twenty at him, grab the bag, and move toward the door.

“Wait, Luke, your change!”

Waving a dismissive hand, I push out onto the sidewalk. “Donate it.”

I let the door close behind me and jog down in the opposite direction to my truck as Noel pulls away from the curb. Her tires slip on the thick snow accumulating on the road—falling far too fast for the plows to keep up.

My breath catches, watching her regain control and make her way to the stop sign.

I climb into my truck and fire it up.

Don’t do it, Luke.

I need to let her go, let her drive home in peace.

But envisioning the way she went off the road yesterday makes that impossible.

Only twenty-four hours ago, I threatened to follow her home to ensure she got there safely, but then I was so damn angry that I let her drive away and pushed aside that feeling in my gut that she needed my watchful eye.

Today, I’m not so sure I can ignore it again.

I tighten my hand on the wheel and pull out behind her.

She drives through the intersection of Main and State Street and starts to head out of town, back up the mountain. Where the roads are only going to get worse…

As is my anxiety.

I try to stay close enough to her that if there’s any sort of issue, I can prevent her from killing herself in that stupid thing, but the shattered ornament in the box flashes through my head.

The pieces so representative of what she did to me.

She doesn’t want your help, Luke.

She doesn’t want anything from you.

She never did.

That old pain returns, the one that’s always there but that I’ve somehow managed to push into the background over the last eight years without seeing that woman.

But that’s impossible now.

Now that I’ve touched her, smelled her, felt her again.

“Fuck!” Before she can notice I’m following her, I slam my palm against the steering wheel and pull off to the side of the road. I throw the truck into park, watching her brake lights disappear into the snow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

This is why I don’t do Mistletoe.

This is why I don’t do Christmas.

This is why I don’t do Noel Jolly.