“I—”
“Annie, let’s go.” Holden stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, my coat in his hands. “I’ve got work to do on the house before a carpenter comes in the morning.” If looks could kill, Holden’s cousin would be on the floor, begging for a tourniquet. “Goodnight, Wyatt.”
“Yeah.” Wyatt straightened from the fireplace. “I should get Camy home.”
I could feel Wyatt’s eyes follow me as I trailed Holden to the door. Wyatt’s parting questions replayed so loudly in my head, I didn’t even hear Betsy calling until we stood outside on the porch.
“I packed up some leftovers for you two.” Betsy handed Holden a large bag. “There’s enough soup and bread to last you a few meals. Oh, and pie, of course.” She hugged Holden tight. “Don’t tell Uncle Phil I gave all our pie away. He’ll be at your house before sunrise.”
“Thank you for dinner, Betsy,” I said. “It was lovely.” And it was. The family was so unlike mine. Casual, welcoming. They laughed merrily, talked boisterously, and teased one another with obvious affection.
“Glad you’re feeling better, Annie.” Now it was my turn to receive another hug. “You let Holden take care of you until you’re completely on the mend. And Holden, I hope you don’t feel pressure about the law firm. If taking over isn’t what you want, then your uncle will understand.”
“There’s plenty of time to decide,” Holden said. “You know I’m here for you.”
She kissed her nephew on the cheek and squeezed his chin. “Such a good boy, this one. Isn’t he wonderful, Annie?”
I smiled at my pretend husband. “He’s really is.” Which was totally botching things up.
Holden helped me into my side of the truck, then got in. Was it my imagination or did he jab the key into the ignition with a little more aggression than necessary?
Five minutes down the road, I had my answer.
“What was that about?” Holden turned down the radio playing “O Holy Night.”
“What?”
“You and Wyatt.”
“We were talking.”
“It looked intense.”
“Your jealousy’s intense.” But what if Holden hadn’t interrupted when he did? Where would my conversation with Wyatt have led? I didn’t get to ask him if he ever thought about us or imagined what our lives would’ve been like if I’d said yes all those years ago. “I’m excited Wyatt has an in with Mitchell Crawford.” Holden shot me a look then fixed his eyes back to the dirt road. “Is there something you’d like to say?”
“No. I just think…never mind.”
“I want to hear this.”
“Forget it. You’re certainly welcome to talk to my cousin if you want.”
Then why was it a problem? “As long as we’re being nosy, what’s the deal with you taking over your uncle’s firm?”
“Seemed pretty clear to me. He retires in a year, and I resume ownership.”
“But that’s not what you want.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. It was written all over your face. Tell me what’s going on with the job.”
“It’s…it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
Holden turned up the heat. “If I take over the firm, then it leaves little to no time for Thomas and Company Construction.”
“If you don’t want to buy out your uncle, then don’t.”
“Oh, is it that easy? I had no idea telling my uncle—who took me in and practically raised me—that I don’t want to be a full-time attorney anymore was so simple.”
“Why are you so angry tonight?”
“Because…” He turned left, and my body bumped into his. “Because it’s hard being this close to you all the time, yet know you’re completely disconnected. Then I see you warmed up to Wyatt like we’re back in college, and I’m the third-wheel roommate. And when I’m not sleeping on the couch, tossing and turning over thoughts of you, I’m envisioning my own forty years of running that firm.”
“And you don’t want to.”
“I’m not sure. What I do know is I owe my aunt and uncle everything, and I’m not going to let them down.”
“But if being an attorney isn’t where your heart’s at…”
“I don’t have any doubt where my heart’s at.” Pulling into our driveway, the lights of the property illuminated the cab of the truck and the tense lines on Holden’s face. “I think the better question tonight is—where is yours?”
Chapter Fifteen
“The company Christmas party is canceled.” Selma delivered the ominous news as soon as I walked into the break room Thursday morning. “Scrooge struck again.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a sip, digesting the caffeine and her not-so-startling statement. I’d had coffee with Holden this morning in our kitchen that was still dim and chilled from a winter night’s sleep. He’d surprised me by packing my lunch, and it was hard not to warm at the rough heart drawn in the center of the paper bag. Inside he’d written “Don’t forget how hot you think I am.”
I might not love Holden, but I could admit I liked him. He was constantly doing thoughtful, adorable things, the bugger. I needed to focus on Wyatt. Single Wyatt. One-who-got-away-and-was-my-destiny, Wyatt.
“Annie, did you hear me? Mr. Strickland cut the party. If it were up to him, he’d probably cancel Christmas and make us all report to work.”
I pulled my wandering thoughts away from my confusing love life and tuned into the woman who always stood entirely too close. “The party’s next Friday,” I said. “It’s been planned for months, so how can he simply cancel?”
“Apparently we didn’t go through the proper channels to get permission to hold it here at the museum.”
“It’s always at the museum.”
“That’s what I said. Strickland told me we’d have to hold it off-site.”
“It’s next week. We’ll never find a place this late.”
“If you think he cares about that, you’d be wrong.”
“What are we going to do? The party’s a tradition. It’s our bonding time. When we bring our gifts for the toy drive. And when we—”
“Get our bonuses. Yeah, we can kiss those goodbye.”
“We have to have a party. Strickland told me I could pitch my new exhibition idea there while everyone chugged eggnog and played stupid holiday games.”
“Hey, I’m in charge of games.”
“And they’re lovely ones.” Last year’s activities included wrap your partner in one-ply toilet paper until she looked like an abominable snowman and stuff as many marshmallows in your mouth as you could while saying “Santa eats yellow snow.” As long as you cared nothing about your dignity or air passages, it was rollicking fun.
“This isn’t happening.” The lingering bump on the back of my head throbbed like a warning signal, a blinking light in a fog of despair. “I’ll talk to him.”