He leans in, voice low and dangerous. “Fine. I haven’t been the warmest personality, and I might have come across as cold at first, but you have a very interesting recollection of the last twelve months, Gabriella. Because from where I’m standing, you spent the past year repeatedly perceiving practical changes in business operations as personal attacks, resenting me for doing the job I was hired to do, to make this shop more efficient and profitable, all the while—or so I thought, until quite recently—dating the fucking competition.”
I open my mouth, but he presses on, his breathing harsh, his eyes burning. “As for your little ‘bargain’ over who ends up running this place, yes, I agreed. But you’re forgetting a rather important detail, Miss Di Natale: this was your idea, your terms, your ultimatum. You never once considered a different outcome or solicited my opinion on the methods to achieve it. Because in your eyes, all we could ever be is spiteful, petty opposition.” Leaning in until his breath is soft at the shell of my ear, his mouth so close, I could turn and our lips would brush, he whispers, “Who’s the real villain here?”
Anger floods my body like lava, molten hot, burning through me. The audacity he has— The jingle of the back door chime makes us wrench apart. Mrs. Bailey’s humming to herself as she walks in, all smiles when she glances up. “Good morning!”
Both of us manage stilted Good mornings in response as she shuts the door behind her and shucks off buttery black leather gloves. Her smile falters as she peers between us. “Everything all right?”
Jonathan clears his throat and sets his hands in his pockets. “Just fine, Mrs. Bailey.”
“Yep.” I force a smile. “Just fine.”
Peering up at the sprig of mistletoe hanging over us, she sighs. Then, without a word, she steps around us toward the bookkeeping room.
I’m still staring after Mrs. Bailey when Jonathan storms over to his coat hook, grabs his jacket and gloves, and is out the back door in a gust of arctic wind that follows in his wake.
While Mrs. Bailey deals with whatever bleak financial reality awaits her in the bookkeeping room and Jonathan remains strangely absent—not that I’ve kept an eye out for his return or anything—I stay busy.
My usual headphones on, I drown out the replay of Jonathan’s embittered words, because if I think too long about them, I start to panic.
What if I was wrong about him? About us? About so much?
I push back against that growing fear and tune out the world with holiday music while I rearrange the window displays, redo the outdoor easel’s chalk art, then send an email to our subscribers about the Big Sale Event on our last open day, December 23, featuring unprecedented discounts, the local bakery’s best seasonal pastries, homemade holiday gift crafting, and live music.
When my stomach starts to spasm with hunger pains, I emerge from my deep focus long enough to wander into the break room and inhale a mint chocolate protein bar. I had all of two sips of my peppermint hot cocoa before Trey scared it right out of my hands, and I haven’t had anything since.
Just as I’m finishing my last bite, Mrs. Bailey pops her head out of the back room and says, “Gabby, dear—my office, please?”
“Of course,” I tell her, trying very hard not to catastrophize as I follow her into the bookkeeping room, where I’m met with the sight of a cluttered desk that makes Jonathan hive.
Gesturing to the chair across the table, she says, “Please have a seat.”
I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. In which case, I want my partner in crime getting handed the same talking-to.
“Is Jonathan joining us?” I ask.
“I’m not sure Jonathan will be back. I called his cell phone and told him to take the day off if he needs it.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
He’ll lose a day of sales. And besides that, Jonathan’s such a hard-ass, he only misses work if he’s on-death’s-doorstep sick. It’s happened twice in twelve months, and he was gone a grand total of one day each time.
“I wouldn’t worry,” she says.
Except I am worrying. Because since he left this morning and despite my best efforts to distract myself, I’ve been replaying every word of Jonathan’s tirade. The foundation I’ve stood on since the day he started here feels like it’s crumbling.
What if I wasn’t just wrong about my seduction suspicions? What if I’ve been wrong about Jonathan himself? What if the man I saw this morning, whose behavior upended my perception of him and our dynamic, isn’t a stranger so much as someone I rarely saw?