Page 11 of Make You Mine This Christmas (Holly Ridge #2)

Brody

The ride over to Winterberry Glen and Austin’s house is silent. I know small towns are known for their scheming, but forcing Austin to take me in really feels like a bridge too far. My mouth lifts in a smile as we literally cross the bridge while I have that thought.

“You know, we can call some hotels. I’m sure someone, somewhere, has a room. You didn’t have to say yes.”

“You play Santa, not Jesus. I don’t think you understand how big of a deal this festival has become, even more so over the past few years. Now with the expansion, so activities take place in both towns, the area hosts even more people. Those hotels have waiting lists double-digit names deep.”

I exhale deeply as we crawl down Main Street of Winterberry Glen. The trees lining the streets are strung with lights, each lamppost home to a colorful holiday design, and the sidewalks teeming with people. He’s right—this is way bigger than the festival we went to all those years ago.

“Okay, well still, if—”

“I’m a big boy, Brody. I can say no if I need to, and I didn’t, so just drop it, okay?” His voice is sharp, like there’s nothing more in the world he wants than to stop having this conversation.

We fall back into our uneasy silence. Austin finally turns off the main road, and squeezes into a resident-only parking spot along the sidewalk.

“Parking is hell. Visitors don’t really seem to care about resident-only signs, and the city doesn’t want to put off tourists by towing or giving tickets. We got lucky this time.”

I know he’s trying to make peace, but I don’t have anything to contribute that doesn’t sound absolutely asinine in my head, so I keep my mouth shut. I snag the garment bag holding my suit and follow Austin to the front door of a small apartment building.

He looks down at the bag in my hand, and his face takes on a look of worry. “Oh shit, your suits. Are they going to be okay?”

I can’t help but smile at the honesty in his concern.

“I keep them in checked-bag caliber garment bags even when they’re in my closet in case of emergencies like this one.

They’ll probably need a trip to the dry cleaner because of all the moisture once we can get in, but as long as it’s only a few days, it should be fine. ”

Austin unlocks the front door, nodding in satisfaction with my answer, and leads me inside. “I did see temperatures are supposed to be back in the teens by the beginning of the week. Hopefully, warmer days and direct sunlight are enough to melt the ice on the steps.”

We head up one level to the second floor, and Austin unlocks the door to Unit 203. I’m hit with the smell of vanilla and spice—pure Austin—as soon as we walk into his apartment. It’s going to be hell staying here, especially if he refuses to talk about the other night.

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” he says, scrambling to grab plates and scattered mail. “I wasn’t expecting company this weekend.” I watch as he heads to the kitchen to drop off his armload. Hell, and yet, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

“Your room is down the hall, second door on the left,” he yells over the water running in the sink. “I’ll be back in a second to find you something to sleep in.”

I look around, taking in his place as I slowly move to follow his directions to the room I’ll be staying in.

I’m struck by the lack of toys or anything to indicate Austin’s kid spends any time here.

I forgot to check for a car seat, so focused instead on not vibrating apart that Austin and I were going home to the same place. Maybe he and the mom aren’t together?

The hallway I walk down only has three doors.

One for Austin’s room, one for the bathroom, and one for this spare room.

I turn into the room he indicated and find a cushy armchair, a desk, and some bookshelves covered in photos and knickknacks.

I stand in the doorway, confused. Not only is there not a place for a child to sleep, but there’s also not a bed for an adult to sleep in. Surely he doesn’t expect . . .

“Why are you in the doorway?” Austin steps up behind me, able to see over my shoulder with his few extra inches of height. “Oh, right. I’ll need to grab some sheets and . . .”

“Do you have a kid?” I blurt out at the same time he finishes his sentence, “Make up the pullout.”

“Wait, what?” I turn around to face him. “Why do you think I have a kid?”

My face heats. “When I got the stuff out of your Bronco the other day, you had a car seat in the back. And then you told Marty you had to leave early to pick someone up from grandma’s so . . .”

Understanding dawns on his face. “Oh, no. I mean, yes, there was a car seat, but only so I could go get one of Cole and Blaire’s twins from her parents’ house.

Blaire is out of town and one of the girls was sick, so they took Cassidy to Blaire’s mom for the day.

Her parents had tickets for a show or something, so I volunteered to go grab her so Cole didn’t have to leave the house. ”

“Oh. That’s really nice of you,” I finish. Calling it nice seems inadequate, but it’s all I can manage as I recalibrate. He doesn’t have a kid.

“He’s my best friend. Well, they both are. There’s nothing more to it,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’ll go grab some sheets and we’ll get the chair pulled out. The base slides out, so it’s pretty firm and comfortable, no sharp springs or flimsy mattress.” He turns to go get bedding.

I make my way further into the room and over to the bookshelves, wanting to take a closer look at what means so much to Austin he would want to display it.

I expect the pictures of Cole and Blaire and ones of his mom.

Pictures with people I don’t recognize—people who entered his life after I left it.

And then there are the other photos. Photos of Austin dressed as a Pilgrim to help out at a Thanksgiving food drive.

Holding up the finish line tape at the county marathon, on the same Main Street we just drove down.

Dressed as a scarecrow with his arms around two other people wearing big grins and Sullivan’s Farm T-shirts, the sky cornflower blue in the background.

I keep looking and see the paper clippings, the plaques for outstanding service or recognition of achievement. All from things he’s done to make his community and the town he lives in better.

He comes back into the room behind me, and I hear the squeak of the chair as he pulls it out to make a bed. I take the coward’s way out, not turning around before I speak, but right here in front of me demonstrates what I so royally screwed up last night.

“This. This is why I couldn’t let you come with me to New York,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. He’s silent and still for a while, his movements halted.

“What is?” His tone is wary, like he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. And suddenly, I have to turn around. I have to look at him.

I do and gesture to the shelves now behind me.

“You are this town, Austin. You’ve worked in every business on Main Street, are a key link in the phone tree, and are the first person every old lady calls to clean their gutters, fix a light bulb, or change a smoke detector.

And now what you’ve done with the festival and bringing the towns together?

I needed to go, but I couldn’t be the only reason you left too. ”

He swallows, and I watch it travel down his throat. “But what if I wanted to be more than this town? What if I wanted to be there for you, see what we could be together?”

I shake my head. “You needed to want that for you. Not because of me. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I had taken you away from this town, the people who needed you, just because I didn’t want to lose you.

So, I left.” Emotion clogs my voice, and my vision of Austin, white as a ghost, blurs with unshed tears in my eyes.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I have to go check something.”

And this time, he’s the one to walk away without looking back.