Unwrapping Holly(36)
THREE DAYS LATER, COLE STOOD inside The Tavern with a beer in his hand, and an empty shot glass on the bar. He reached for his beer and swallowed a long slug. After all, he was celebrating. And somewhere up in Manchester, so were his brothers. They’d signed the papers, sold the company, yippee ki yay, and all that stuff. Tomorrow they’d seal the deal on Holly’s family home. He’d talked to the Reddys that day. They were thrilled. His brothers were thrilled. Cole, well, he wanted another drink.
“Another, Joe,” he yelled at the bartender, breaking through the jukebox tune of Garth Brooks’s “Shameless,” a reminder that did nothing to help his grisly mood. Joe arched his brow as if he considered denying him. Cole scowled. “Give me another damned shot, Joe.”
Joe stalked the few steps dividing them and poured the liquor, his lips a thin, hard line. “Drinking away a woman, I take it.” It wasn’t a question, rather a well-versed bartender’s expert assessment.
Cole scowled again and Joe said, “Thought so. Won’t work.” He turned and walked away.
Cole downed the tequila and vowed to make Joe a liar. What insanity had brought him to The Tavern of all damned places, he didn’t know—the place where he’d first spiraled into the abyss, otherwise known as Holly.
He hadn’t heard from her. Told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself the ripping pain in his gut was nerves over the sale of the business. But he knew better; he knew it was her. He’d overwhelmed her, charged at her like everything else in his life. He got that. So he’d backed off, hoping space was the answer.
“You got an answer, all right.” He grimaced, downing the rest of his beer. “Just not the answer you wanted.”
He was about to order up another shot—Joe’s scowls be damned, he’d take a cab home, even walk if he had to—when Joe appeared and poured him one on his own, then discreetly nodded toward the door. “That’s the guy your brother two-stepped with.” Contempt thickened in his face. “Up to his same no-good crap.”
Cole turned to inspect the guy in question who was more punk kid than man. Tall but lanky, hair too long, jeans ripped, shirt hanging half over his belt—a style statement gone wrong. He looked more sixteen than twenty-one as the sheriff had pegged him.
In the corner, trapped by the kid, was a woman curled back against the wall, body tense, her face pale, eyes wide with fear. Suddenly, the kid jerked the woman by the hand and started charging toward the door with her in tow.
“Oh no,” Cole said, downing his shot. “This shit’s stopping here, tonight.” Cole and Joe shared a look.
“I’ll call the sheriff,” Joe said.
Cole charged toward the door, a heartbroken man with adrenaline and tequila pumping through his blood. He pushed open The Tavern door about the time the punk kid reached his truck. Long strides led Cole behind the kid as he reeled back to slap his wife. Cole grabbed the kid and started walking back to the bar, him in tow, shouting, while bystanders hooted and hollered. The kid squirmed but he was the weaker of the two, no match for Cole. A fortysomething female opened the door for them. Cole gave her a short salute. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Inside The Tavern, Cole rotated the kid around, then lifted him with two hands. Bingo, he hit his mark. The kid’s belt hooked on a coatrack just low enough to leave his feet dangling.
The kid spat at Cole, spraying a disgusting mess all over his face before blustering a collection of curse words, some of which Cole doubted Webster’s had yet to define. Somewhere in there was a promise to press charges. Grand. Just. Fucking. Grand.
Someone handed Cole a napkin, and he wiped his face off, sauntering back to the bar as Joe filled his glass. “Figure you’ll need that one when the sheriff gets here.”
“Can always count on you to tell it how it is, can’t I, Joe?”
IN HER PARENTS’ HOUSE, HOLLY sat at the kitchen table, talking with her sister and her mother about her brother, Mason, arriving the next day, but her mind was elsewhere. Because tonight was the night she was going for it—she was going to show Cole how much he meant to her.
She had everything all planned out perfectly. She’d called Abe and found out today the sale of their business had been made final. She knew the sale of the house was being finalized the next day, thanks to her mother. She had something planned for later that evening when Cole arrived home from Manchester; waiting in her car was a bottle of champagne, his favorite chocolate cake from the bakery up the road—the one he drooled over every time he passed it—and balloons. All to celebrate the sale of one business and the purchase of another.