Arielle didn’t just walk away.
She escaped.
One moment she was behind the holiday ornament display pretending to rearrange snowman figurines; the next she was storming through the back door with a panic-level speed only seen in nature when animals flee predators.
Except her predator wasn't claws or fangs.
It was feelings.
Warm, dangerous, heart-twisting feelings.
She stepped into the alley behind the bookstore, breath fogging in the cold air, the snow falling in slow, lazy flakes—mocking her, honestly. Even the weather seemed calm while her insides were a scrambled mess of jealousy, insecurity, and the kind of fluttering that made her want to scream into a gingerbread house.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no. I’m not doing this. Absolutely not.”
