Holiday Hire (The Cartwright Family #2)

Chapter 27

27

Alexander

B lood covers Lance's face, but it doesn't make me want to let him off the hook with just one punch. I pull my hand back again.

"Alexander, stop!" Phoebe cries out.

I freeze, then curl my fists tightly at my side and turn my head.

Shit. What are they doing here?

Phoebe's standing near the door with Willow, her eyes wide in horror, her face pale. Willow has her arm around her waist. Paisley's standing on the other side of her.

Great, now my sisters know about us.

"Don't. Please stop," Phoebe begs again.

Mason steps beside me, suggesting, "I think that's enough now."

"I've got the rest of this," Jagger claims, and grabs Lance's arms.

"She's mine," Lance mutters, his cheek swelling so badly his right eye's shut.

I squeeze my fists again.

Mason grabs my arm, murmuring, "Enough. Easy, bro," as he nods at the women. Then to Jagger he orders, "Get him out of here."

Jagger drags Lance toward the back exit.

The patrons step aside, making an aisleway. They cheer as Jagger and Lance pass them.

I don't move.

"Alexander, go take care of business," Mason commands.

I glance over at Phoebe. The blood's drained from her cheeks. Worry fills her expression.

I need to get her out of here.

I take a deep breath before I make my way across the bar to her.

"Let's go," I say to Phoebe.

She doesn't move.

My sisters stay planted as well.

"Willow, step aside," I demand.

She shakes her head at me but steps back.

I put my arm around Phoebe's waist, leading her out of the bar and to my truck.

"Alexander," she says, but I don't answer.

I open the passenger door, commanding, "Get in."

She obeys.

I shut the door and go to the driver's side, sliding inside and trying to calm my anger. I start the truck and veer onto the road, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.

"Alexander—"

"I'm not ready to talk yet," I tell her, trying to calm down. I'm still pissed Lance is in town, waving her photo around the place as if he somehow has a claim to her. He acted like she was his and not mine. And I heard her tell him to leave her alone, so he's got a lot of balls doing that in my town.

I'm not mad at Phoebe. Well, I tell myself I'm not, but part of me is upset with her.

How could she get so pissed at me about Cheyenne when he was still contacting her and she never even told me?

Neither of us speaks the entire way home. I drive past the ranch.

Phoebe questions, "Where are we going?"

"Away from everyone," I say, turning down a dirt road.

I go into the field we stopped at the night of Christmas trivia, park the truck, and turn off the engine. I sit back, taking deep breaths, staring out the window.

She breaks the silence, asking, "Are you going to say anything?"

I slowly turn to look at her. "Why didn't you tell me he was calling you?"

"Why would I tell you?" she questions.

" Why? You want to make a big stink about Cheyenne and then you keep that from me?" I spout.

Her eyes narrow. "What was the point? I wasn't taking his calls. I told him it was over. Why would I tell you when I assumed I'd never see him again?"

"You should have told me."

"Why, so you could get angry like you are right now?"

I don't reply, staring at her, wanting to reach out and kiss her, but I'm too mad. I can't let it go.

"Why exactly are you mad at me? Is it because my ex-boyfriend's calling me or because something's still happening with you and Cheyenne, and it's your way of covering your guilt?"

I sarcastically laugh. "You've got to be kidding me."

"It's a fair question. You're acting like a lunatic when I've done nothing wrong," she asserts.

"A lunatic? Because I beat up your boyfriend for being a douchebag?"

She glares harder at me. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Yeah? Then don't make accusations about Cheyenne and me when you know damn well the only person I'm into is you."

She glares daggers at me. "That goes both ways, Alexander. Nothing is going on between Lance and me either. So why am I supposed to believe you, but you don't have to believe me?"

I blurt out, "I didn't say I didn't believe you."

She scoffs. "You just accused me of still being with him."

I try to take deep breaths, but the capacity in my lungs seems to have shrunk. The air turns stale. She's right, but I'm also a proud man. So I hurl out, "I told you to watch the boys."

Her eyes widen, then her cheeks turn red. She points at me. "Don't even act like you're upset because I'm not watching the boys right now."

"I am. I told you to watch the boys. You weren't supposed to be in town."

She huffs. "Why? So I couldn't see you create a bloody mess in a bar with my ex-boyfriend's face?"

My heart beats faster. I grip the wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. I question, "Why does that bother you so much?"

"I'm not a big proponent of violence," she declares.

All the stress makes me chuckle until my eyes water.

"Why are you laughing?"

"You're in Texas now, not California. This is how we do things here. You man up or you don't survive."

"So you would've killed him if I hadn't come into the bar and Mason made you stop?" she questions.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, then maybe you should stop being ridiculous." She crosses her arms and locks her challenging gaze on mine.

I don't flinch. "This isn't about me being violent. You're upset I hurt your little boyfriend."

"Don't you dare twist this, Alexander. And stop calling him my boyfriend!"

"I'm not twisting anything. He stood on the bar with your photo in his hand, claiming you were his!" I cry out, more anger and jealousy flaring within me.

She shakes her head. "Are you listening to yourself right now?"

"Yeah, I'm hearing this whole conversation loud and clear," I reply, even though I wish I could stop being angry and make things right between us.

But I can't.

The rage swirls inside me, mixing with jealousy, until I feel like I'm going to explode.

I hate the thought of her with him. I've loathed it ever since I heard about him when she first told me they were on a break. But the minute he stepped on the ranch with his cocky grin and his arrogant ego, a new level of hate took over.

She lowers her voice. "I don't control other people, especially Lance. I told him we were done. I broke up with him. It's not my fault he showed up."

"He claimed you were his fiancée!"

"You know I never was, so why are you letting that bother you?"

I take another deep breath, then slowly release it. I admit, "I thought he was out of our lives."

"So did I."

"But he's not, is he?" I accuse.

"He is," she insists.

Tense silence grows between us. I can't get the vision of her with him out of my head. I toss out, "How could you even have been with him? He's a loser."

Her head jerks back. "Don't you dare question who I dated in the past while you've tramped all over town with your 'friend with benefits.'"

I seethe, "There you go again. Judging me like you're a perfect saint."

She blinks hard and turns away. "You're out of line, Alexander."

I start the engine. "This conversation isn't going anywhere."

She turns back toward me, asserting, "No, it's not. Take me home."

"Gladly." I drive down a few more dirt roads and then go through our back gate. I pull through it and make my way toward the house.

As soon as I park, Phoebe jumps out of the truck and stomps into the house.

I sit in the cab, lean against the headrest, and close my eyes.

I need to fix this.

She should have made it clear to him she's not his anymore.

She did. It's not her fault.

He was showing her picture all over town.

It's still not her fault.

I don't know how much time passes before I finally go inside the house and into the kitchen.

Phoebe sits at the table with a first aid kit, bowl of water, and towel.

She softly states, "You're bleeding. Sit down."

My fist throbs in pain, and it's covered in blood. So I sit down but stay quiet.

She takes a washcloth, dips it in the water, and carefully cleans my knuckles. Then she puts ointment on my broken skin and wraps gauze around my hand. She asks, "What are you telling the boys?"

"About what?"

She motions toward my hand. "About why you have gauze around your fist."

"I'm going to tell them I pummeled your ex-boyfriend," I state.

Anger flashes in her eyes. "You're going to tell them you pummeled my ex-boyfriend, but you won't even tell them about us?"

"I was being sarcastic," I admit.

"Yeah, of course you were."

"Don't start with me about the boys, Phoebe. You know the deal."

She scoffs.

"Want to explain that reaction of yours?" I demand.

She glares at me. "The deal. The deal for what purpose?"

I groan. "You know what the deal is. I don't want my boys hurt."

She challenges, with disgust in her tone, "Right, so you can toss me aside when my employment is up, correct?"

"I didn't say that."

"No? Are you sure about that? Because from where I'm sitting, that's what it feels like," she claims.

"So, that's all you're thinking about every day?" I question.

She stays quiet.

"You really don't know anything about me, do you?"

She glances out the window, answering, "I guess not."

I add, "Well, that's too bad. I thought I've been trying to show you who I am."

"Yeah, well, who I am must not be good enough for you," she replies.

Frustrated, I rub my hands over my face. "Why would you say that?"

Her voice grows louder. "Really, Alexander? Do I have to spell everything out for you?"

"Apparently, you do, because you're talking in some poetic language that I can't understand," I insult.

She glares at me. "Don't act dumb."

"Then speak English," I snap, harsher than I should.

Hurt fills her expression. She blinks again, and her eyes turn watery.

"Don't cry," I say, meaning it sincerely, but it sounds nasty.

She rises and picks up the bowl and rag. She goes to the sink, tosses the water down the drain, then steps into the laundry room. She reappears without the rag and then leans against the wall, crossing her arms.

I don't say anything.

She continues to glare at me, which angers me further.

"I'm still waiting for you to tell me what you're so mad at me about besides hitting your boyfriend."

"Stop it! He's not my boyfriend," she claims.

"He seems to think he is," I repeat, knowing I'm digging myself deeper in the hole, but I can't stop. All I can see is that bastard waving her photo in front of everyone.

"This isn't going anywhere," she states.

I think she's talking about the conversation, so I reply, "I totally agree."

Sadness washes over her face. She swallows hard, then blinks and turns toward the window again, muttering, "Good to know."

"Exactly," I say, still thinking we're talking about our fight and not realizing she means something else.

More time passes. All I hear is the ticking of the clock.

I break the silence, upset with myself she saw me hit Lance. I know Phoebe hates violence. She's a teacher, after all. Plus, I'm frustrated we're fighting. I soften my tone, repeating, "You shouldn't have left when I told you to watch the boys."

She snaps, "Your mom was watching the boys. They're perfectly fine. You can dock me some pay if you want."

I shake my head. "Don't make this about money."

"I'm not making anything about money. Isn't that what you're insinuating, that I'm not doing my job?"

"I didn't say anything of the sort."

She huffs. "But didn't you? Is there anything else you want to get off your chest about how I perform my duties?"

I grind my molars.

She takes deep breaths, her chest rising and falling faster, not looking at me, continuing to stare out across the yard.

I don't know what to do. I want to turn back the clock to when we were painting and having fun—before she got those phone calls. Now that we're in this argument, I can't seem to find my way out of it.

I've never felt so helpless. I need to make this right, yet right now, I can't see straight.

She walks toward the door, announcing, "I'm going to go see how the boys are doing. You can punch me back on the clock."

"I didn't mean that, Phoebe."

She spins to face me. "Yeah, you did. In fact, I think you meant a lot of things that you said."

Tense silence builds between us once again.

She shakes her head. "I'm going to go now." She opens the kitchen door.

"Wait," I call out.

She stops, then slowly turns. I can see the hope on her face, and it's the moment I should seize to make everything better.

But instead, I say, "What did you tell my sisters about us?"