The Mistletoe Motive(5)

But it wasn’t until our summer sale, when I was running around busily, that Jonathan realized who it was when he saw Trey’s name come up on my phone.

I’d watched him point at my cell, then pin me with that arctic glare. “Who’s that?”

“Not that it’s any of your business…” I’d snatched my phone off the counter. “But it’s the guy I’ve been seeing.”

“That’s who you’re with,” he’d said, his voice hard and dripping with disdain. “Trey Potter. Son and heir to Potter’s Pages, our number-one competitor, who’s trying to buy us out.”

I remember my heart thundering in my ears, humiliation flooding me as the world dropped beneath my feet. Trey had told me he was related to the Potters but never that he was the owner’s son, never said anything about a hoped-for buyout. Neither had the Baileys, who by then confided in Jonathan much more than me about the financial nuances of the business.

I stood under Jonathan Frost’s disapproving glare, reeling as the pieces slipped into place—Trey’s questions about the bookshop, about my relationship to the Baileys, his unwillingness to show his face here, his request that we keep our relationship private. Shocked, pride wounded, I lifted my chin defiantly and used every ounce of willpower not to cry as I gave Jonathan the silent treatment and stormed right by him.

That night, I confronted Trey and ended things with him. He’d pleaded with me to believe he loved me, that while he’d been tasked with “exploring a relationship with me for its strategic possibilities”—which, after talking with my best friends, I decoded to mean, “see if I could be romanced over to the Potters’ side and persuaded to encourage the Baileys to sell”—he’d fallen for me in the process.

I can’t live without you, he’d said. You can’t leave me. I’ll never get over you.

Here’s the thing about reading romance: it’s taught me an appreciation for a good grovel, but it’s also taught me to recognize a toxic character when I see one. Trey, I realized, had toxic written all over him.

Since then, I’ve considered setting the record straight with Jonathan countless times, telling him he’d assumed the worst of me that day when he had no idea what I did or didn’t know. That while I hate how he told me, I’m grateful he dropped that bomb. That because of his brutal honesty, I unearthed Trey’s true motives, ended things with him, and told the Baileys exactly what had happened to be sure they knew my loyalty was wholly to them and this place.

But what stops me every time is this: discussing our personal lives isn’t done in this battle for the bookshop, let alone confessing vulnerable feelings. That would require lowering our guard. In our never-ending battle for the upper hand, that’s a risk I can’t take.

In my most charitable moments toward Jonathan—and maybe they’re also moments where I cared a tiny bit about his good opinion of me—I’ve hoped he’d put two and two together. That Jonathan would realize Trey was history, when months went on and no buyout happened, when my relationship with the Baileys remained warm and familial and there was no sign of my ex. Clearly, that’s been too much to expect.

And now I know why. Jonathan Frost has only ever thought the worst of me. And maybe, deep down, I already knew that. But now that it’s glaringly obvious, right in my face, the perverse delight I’ll derive in proving him wrong far outweighs the legitimate vulnerability of what I’m about to admit. I can’t do it anymore, can’t take it a second longer, letting him be so damn smug and sure about exactly the kind of person he’s decided I am.

So, staring up at Jonathan, I tell him, “It’s definitely something Trey would do. Except he hasn’t been my boyfriend since I broke up with him six months ago. You were, in fact, the one who enlightened me, Jonathan, but of course, you assumed I already knew about the buyout, instead of considering that since you got here, I’ve been shouldered out of important financial meetings, and that I had no clue. Thanks to you, I realized Trey was with me for my influence with the Baileys, hoping he could get me on his side and persuade them to accept the Potters’ buyout offer.”

The sting of embarrassment over what I’ve just said is swallowed up by glee as I watch color leech from Jonathan’s face. His mouth parts. His hand drops from the flowers to the counter with a stunned thunk. I’ve rendered Jonathan Frost speechless.

Delighted, I flash him a satisfied smile. “Maybe it’s time to switch to police procedurals, Mr. Frost. Your sleuthing skills are slipping.”

On that triumphant note, I pirouette away from the counter and sweep up my homemade decorations.

Time to make this place a winter wonderland.





Chapter 2


Playlist: “Greensleeves,” Mountain Man


Eight hours later, I’m greeted by twin shouts of “Welcome home!” as I shut the door behind me.

June and Eli, my best friends as well as roommates, are stationed in their positions when our free evenings line up—Eli on the sofa, waiting to share a weighted blanket, June, the solitary ruler on her recliner throne. Throwing a marshmallow at the TV, June boo-hisses as Michael Cain’s Ebenezer Scrooge walks on screen. The holiday movie marathon has commenced.

“Food,” I mutter blearily, toeing off my boots. I tear away my winter gear and leave it behind me in a soggy trail through the foyer of our apartment.