by Nancy Naigle
Needed to help him.
Not that he looked as if he needed help. Now that he was out of his Santa suit, he looked tough, handsome—a bit dangerous, even, as if he could take on the world and win.
He wore the standard black uniform pants and a polo shirt with the firehall emblem over his heart and short sleeves that accentuated his muscles. His dark brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense short style. His eyes—a Siberian Husky pale blue with a darker, deep blue rim—flashed with intelligence, curiosity, and annoyance.
On the outside, Cole was a good-looking, well-put-together firefighter who had probably started more than a few fires in the hearts of Pine Hill’s female population. Hadn’t she noticed him at the picnic and every time their paths had crossed since?
But now, Sophie knew the heartache his handsome exterior hid.
Catching her not-so-sneaky peek in his direction, Cole’s brow rose. “Did I misunderstand you a minute ago? Are you here to pick something up from me rather than give something back? I told the lady on the phone I’d drop the money for the poinsettias by the nursing home. Did they need the check right away?”
Poinsettias? He was the one who had donated the money to buy the poinsettias for the nursing home residents? She’d heard someone had, but—
Sophie half-tripped over her own feet and almost face-planted on the concrete firehall floor. She steadied herself in time that she didn’t think he noticed her lapse as they stepped outside into the sunshine. Or if he did notice, he didn’t let on.
A soft mid-November breeze blew, tickling her face with her hair.
“I’m not here about the poinsettias or money,” she began, tucking the stray strands behind her ears in hopes of keeping them at bay. “And you didn’t misunderstand me. I found something that belongs to you, and I’m here to return it.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out his journal that had the Christmas card tucked inside it.
“This is yours, isn’t it?”
Cole’s gaze dropped to what Sophie held. A sucker punch rammed into his stomach, knocking his breath out of him and leaving him going-to-retch-his-insides-out nauseated.
He could stare down an enemy holding an AK-47 and not flinch, but the book that Sophie held made his knees weak.
“Where did you get that?” he growled, barely managing not to snatch the book from her hands to hurl it aside, like a grenade that needed to be thrown as far away as possible for everyone’s safety.
For his safety.
Sophie winced. He felt a pang of regret over the harsh tone he’d used, but he couldn’t formulate words to apologize. The beauty from the BBQ had his journal.
“I found it at Pine Hill Church in a box of books.”
The sinking sickness pitched back and forth in his stomach, making him wish he’d forgone his protein shake that morning. His journal had been in the stuff he’d dropped off at the church?
“I, well, when I realized whose it was…” Her nervousness was palpable as she sank her teeth into her lower lip and looked up at him with hesitation. “I knew you’d want it back.” She gave a little shrug of both shoulders. “So here I am.”
“You were wrong.” Bile rising in his throat, he gestured to the abomination she held. “I don’t want that.”
Further confusion darkened her eyes. “But…”
“Look.” He ran his fingers through his hair, still not completely used to having anything more than stubble after years of keeping his dark hair buzzed. “I’m sorry you wasted your time. You should’ve just thrown it out. That book’s nothing but garbage.”
Lots and lots of scribbled garbage a chaplain had suggested he get out of his head by pouring it into the journal the man had gifted to Cole. Not for the first time, Cole regretted giving in to that advice. Seeing everything written out just made him more disgusted with himself, causing the memories to hang even heavier on his shoulders.
Why hadn’t he burned the book rather than packing it with the things he’d brought with him to Pine Hill? The mere act of destroying the journal might have gone further in annihilating his memories than putting them onto paper ever had.
“But,” Sophie began again, her eyes wide and her voice a little trembly. “But it’s…I mean, well, it’s—”
“Garbage,” he repeated, cramming his hands into his pants pockets and clenching his short nails into his palms as deeply as they’d go. He just wanted away from their conversation, away from the book that felt like his personal Achilles’ heel—the weak spot in his defenses that could ruin everything good he’d patched his broken life with. “Throw it away.”
“I…”
At her indecision, understanding dawned.
“You read it, didn’t you?” Cole felt a fool for not immediately realizing. A new wave of nausea spread through him, popping sweat beads out over his skin despite the crisp November air.
Wide-eyed, her lips parted but no sound came out. No matter. She didn’t need to say the words. The truth was written all over her face.
One of the things Cole most enjoyed about being in Pine Hill was that no one knew of his past. Chief had some idea, and the guys had picked up on a little thanks to Cole’s occasional nightmares, but none of them were in on the nitty-gritty details.
In Pine Hill, he was seen as a man who volunteered his time and energy to everything the firehall was asked to participate in; a man who put his life on the line to save others.
If, while out battling those fires, he fought inner demons, trying to quench them the way he and his crew squelched nearly uncontrollable blazes from time to time, well, no one needed to know that but him.
Only, Sophie had read about his bleakest moments—and his biggest mistake. She knew the truth.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking truly remorseful that she’d pried between the pages of his private hell. “I opened it thinking I might find a name so I could return it, but there wasn’t one.” Grimacing, she continued. “And, well, the truth is that once I started reading, I couldn’t stop.”
She’d read it all. Of course, she’d read it all. She probably thought him a monster.
As much as he wanted to look away, he didn’t. Jaw locked tight, he kept his gaze unyielding as it met hers. He could handle whatever judgement she placed on him.
Lord knew she couldn’t judge him any more harshly than he judged himself.
“How did you figure out it was mine?”
“There was a Christmas card addressed to you inside a crossword puzzle book that came from the same box. I stuck the card there, inside your journal.”
Without looking at the book, he knew the one she meant. Why had he kept the photo card his mother had sent?
“Toss it as well.”
“But…” she paused, “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” He didn’t want the sentimental reminder of the family he’d never felt a part of any more than he wanted the journal. His mother had her new life, as did his father, complete with new families. There wasn’t a place for him in that picture—but at least they were happy. That was enough for Cole.
“I’m so sorry for what you went through,” Sophie said softly, hugging the journal to her as if she was clinging to the book in effort to keep her hands to herself. As if she wanted to reach out to him.
He didn’t need or want her pity. He’d rather she screamed and yelled at him for his failures. Feeling sorry for him? That, he couldn’t take. He wasn’t some emotional charity case needing her Christmastime goodwill.
He was fine.
Frustration and anger that she’d read his journal burned, taking hold and quickly consuming him. The rational part of him knew it was his fault for not realizing the journal was in the donated box, but in this moment, rational thinking didn’t matter. That book had never been meant for anyone to read, and especially not the bubbly, full-of-goodness woman he’d met
over the summer. She never should have been exposed to the pure ugliness marring the pages. Marring him.
When he spoke again, he kept his voice low and steady. “I get that you didn’t know who the journal belonged to, so you read it. Fine. Go back to your life-is-a-bed-of-roses existence and forget everything you read.”
Wincing a little, she shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
Surprised at how her gaze hadn’t wavered from his when he’d expected her to walk away and never waste another breath on him again, Cole frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her chock-full-of-emotion gaze studied his. “I won’t forget what you wrote as long as I live.”
“Then I’m the one who’s sorry.” No one should be subjected to his failings. Not in real life. Not in writing. “But that doesn’t mean I want the book back. Thanks, but no thanks.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at the journal clutched to her chest, much less to touch the worn leather book.
“Do the world a favor and throw the thing in the trash. Or better yet, burn it.” Even Superman has his Kryptonite, he reminded himself, determined he would not let this drag him down into a place he never wanted to return to. “I don’t care so long as you get rid of it because I never want to see that book, or you, again.”
Read the book!
Wrapped Up in Christmas Joy is available now!