“I don’t need friends. And I don’t need you.”

“Clark. Please don’t…”

“You know what, Kate Buckner.” He spit her name. It would be the last time it ever crossed his lips and he wanted her to know how much he hated it in the deepest pits of his being. Once it was spoken, he straightened, pulling on the hems of his coat to give him a more dignified, regal appearance. He was once again the Clark Woodward of this morning, the Clark Woodward he would be forever. “You did make me believe in something today. Love or whatever you want to call it is just as fake as Christmas. And I don’t want anything to do with it. I was right when I said I didn’t care about you. I wish I’d listened to my gut.”

“You’re just saying that to hurt me,” she said, though the defense, like the flicker of compassion in her eyes, was weak. He turned his back on her. His car lay less than fifty yards away; he’d use it to head straight for Woodward House. Tonight, he could remain in the terribly decorated manor, a reminder of his failures, but tomorrow he would depart for Dallas and send an assistant in his stead. His direct involvement in the Miller’s Point branch of Woodward Enterprises could easily be handled by anyone on earth besides him. He’d never come back to this place. They didn’t deserve each other.

“And you just said everything you said to use me. If I hurt you, well. I guess we’re even now.”

He imagined she would follow him. Stay persistent. Turn him around and kiss him full on the mouth because she really did love him and he was being too stubborn or too blind to see it. He imagined a last-minute reprieve from the pain of losing her this way. It didn’t come. A little voice almost got lost in the wind, and the crack of her boots against stray twigs and leaves signaled her departure from the scene and from his life. A fact he should have been glad for.

“Fine.”

This time, when she went into the deep, dark forest of the back forty, Clark did not follow her. She and her stupid holiday could jump into a hundred icy rivers for all he cared. He was going home. He was going to take down the decorations. And he was going to go back to his lonely life. He would be alone, but at least he would be safe.

Being alone meant never having to open up to anyone. Being alone meant never having to take care of anyone. Being alone meant security. Tranquility. Ease.

Being alone meant no one could see tears trickling down his face.

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen