Walking in snow was a lot like walking in sand. Emma’s muscles burned as she tugged her wheeled suitcase through the drifts. She could have called for a cab to take her to the studio from Main Street, but she’d wanted the walk, the burn of the frigid air in her lungs.
Today was one of the biggest days of her life.
After leaving Nick and Mike earlier, she’d gone for a walk downtown to cool her temper. She knew why Nick was pushing her away, knew that Mike might never fully come around. Still, the way they’d both treated her—it hurt. But taking in the frosty snow, the jagged peaks of the mountains, the small-town feel of impending holiday excitement with the Christmas decorations she’d already admired, the smell of gingerbread when she walked past the bakery (all right, when she’d gone into the bakery for a snack), the way people greeted each other on the street—it all made her realize that, even without including Nick or Mike in the equation, she was starting to grow. She was starting to discover who she really was and who she wanted to be.
She didn’t want to leave.
Acting on instinct, she had stopped into Hippie Hive again. There was Charlie, making a batch of rolled beeswax candles. She invited her to come help. Emma had gotten lost in the rhythmic process, the heavy honey scent. When Charlie declared her a natural and asked if she wanted a job, Emma had surprised herself by saying yes.
Now she had a job doing something that interested her. She had a tiny apartment, too—Charlie had offered her the use of the studio over the shop.
She was staying. And she was still irritated enough with the two men now in her life that she wanted to inform them face-to-face that she was staying. They’d both think it was because of them, and it wasn’t—at least not totally. If either of them came around, great. But until then, she was going to ride the high of true independence for the first time in her life.
She’d packed up her cabin, gotten a cab ride back to the end of Main Street. Instead of heading straight back to Hippie Hive—straight for home—she’d decided to take a quick detour to the studio.
It wasn’t much warmer inside the studio than it was outside. Still, Nick stood alone at his table, arms bared as he rubbed a wire brush ferociously over a wide metal sheet.
Surprise lined his face when he saw it was her—he must have been expecting Mike. Wariness quickly followed as she entered, dragging the snow and her suitcase with her.
When his gaze landed on the suitcase, he shuttered all emotions. She knew he was feeling something, but it seemed he wasn’t going to let her see what that was.
“You’re leaving.” His tone was completely flat.
“Actually—” She opened her mouth to tell her that she’d decided to stay. She took a grim satisfaction in the freak-out she was about to witness.
“Don’t.” He held up a hand, stopping her cold. “Let’s just call it as it is. We had a fling. We had fun. Let’s not clutter that up.”
“A fling?” His words knocked the breath out of her. She knew he was pushing her away because he didn’t want to get hurt, but she never imagined he’d try to turn the connection between them into something that sounded, with the inflection he put on it, just plain tawdry.
“That’s what it was, baby.” Baby today, instead of Peaches. “Don’t tell me you thought it was something else.”
Setting down the wire brush, he turned to face her. The sudden watery look in his eyes contradicted his words. “I thought I made it clear that that was all I was interested in.”
“You son of a bitch.” She could cry, she could scream, she could leave. All options she would have chosen over confrontation back in Georgia.
She wasn’t in Georgia anymore.
“Don’t you dare try to cheapen what this is.” Leaving the suitcase where it was, she closed the distance between them, stopping when she was close enough to jab her finger into his chest. “Flings don’t have each other’s backs. Flings don’t share the things that haunt them in the middle of the night.”
He paused, eyeing her warily, seeming startled at her outburst. Well, too bad. She was done with behaving properly.
He hesitated, and her hopes rose. Maybe, just maybe, he was strong enough to admit why he was doing this.
“Maybe good flings do that,” he finally managed, gaze dropping to the floor. “This was a good fling.”
A strangled scream caught in her throat, choking her. Nick’s head jerked up. She stared at him, hands opening and then clenching into fists again. She gaped, trying to speak, but couldn’t get the words out.
She’d never been so angry in her entire life—not even when she’d discovered what her mother and Matthew had hidden from her. There was only one person who could pull such deep emotions out of her, and right now she wanted nothing more than to chase after him with his welding torch.
Throwing her hands out, she shook her head when he tried to speak. Instead she spun on her heel, storming to the door, not caring about her suitcase.
He was doing this because he thought she was leaving. He didn’t deserve to know that she’d decided to stay.