I shrug. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.” But it’s not fine, and the hurt is as raw today as it was all those years ago when we were told our mother died. Especially now that I understand how narrowly we missed child protective services in the last years of my mother’s life. “I was four when cancer took her.”
“Oh, baby.” He’s next to me, his arms wrapping around me in a flash. “No one should lose a parent that young. I’m so sorry.”
I shrug in his arms, but a lonely, traitorous tear escapes my eye. As much as I tell myself this shouldn’t still affect me, it’s a lie. Losing my mom so young fucked me up. But we’re all fucked up in one way or another. Mine just has my mother’s promises that ‘she’ll get better’ and ‘take care of me, no matter what’ connected to it.
“At least you still had your dad and your sister.”
“Just the sister,” I mutter into his shirt. Why is it damp?
He stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“Both Sasha and I are sperm donor babies. Mom was a single lesbian who wanted a family.” And then she abandoned us, with no one to take care of her two daughters. My only role model was my older sister, who, as amazing as she is, was still just a kid herself. She did everything in her power to keep us together. “We ended up in foster care until Sasha was old enough to become my guardian. It wasn’t fair to her, so as soon as I could, I left.”
“So that she could focus on herself?” he asks, hitting the nail on the head.
I nod against his chest.
“I’m sorry I brought the mood down.” I try to push away, but he holds me firmly in his grasp, his chin resting atop my head.
“I hate Christmas, you know?” The short laugh that escapes him is empty. There is something broken in there that makes me instantly stop feeling sorry for myself and focus on his words. “It was a whole big thing. Every news outlet was talking about it. Baby abandoned at a fire station on Christmas Eve. No birth certificate. Hungry and so cold there was frost in his short hair.” He takes a deep breath. “I was known as the ‘frost’ baby. So when it came to naming me, the fire marshal suggested ‘Frost’ as my surname.”
I stiffen. “You mean Frost as in Frost-Frost?”
“The one and only. I hated that name with a passion and vowed to make it count. Vowed for this whole godforsaken place to never think of me as Hayden Frost, the baby who was found on Christmas Eve at a fire station, but Hayden Frost, the man who owns this town.”
“Hayden, I didn’t know.” That’s a loaded statement. How the hell did I miss that this guy is the most eligible bachelor in Bourbon and not just some hot-shot businessman? I suddenly feel like shit for calling his building pompous.
“Not many people do, Sugar. I buried the past with lawyers as soon as I could.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“You shared something raw and painful with me. I wanted to do the same.” He tilts my head up, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “You and your feelings matter, Natasha. Don’t ever forget this. I feel anger and pain towards a person I don’t remember. I feel love and resentment. It’s raw, and it’s dark, but it’s what fuels me to do better. To do more. I only hope I wasn’t so focused on taking over this town that I missed my chance at happiness,” he says just as the oven timer dings. “Ah.” He smiles. “Time to frost my cookies, Sugar.”
ChapterSeven
It’s midnight by the time we finish. As much fun as I’ve had spending time with Hayden, the weariness is still there. And the magnetic pull he has on me is exhausting, specifically because I have to fight it so hard.
And although he is adamant that he wants to woo me, I have my doubts. He’s a multi-millionaire. And apparently, the most eligible bachelor in Bourbon. So what the hell does he want from little old chubby me?
“Can I drive you home?” he asks as I close up shop.
“I’m parked just around the corner.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
I sigh. I could argue, but I’m slowly realizing that arguing with this man is futile. If he wants something, he gets it, partially due to sheer persistence. I have to choose my battles to win the war. And this thing between us is gearing up to be a war. “Sure.”
It’s dark and creepy, and I have to admit to myself I’m actually glad he insisted on accompanying me.
We walk in silence, and when I finally stop in front of my car, he pushes me against the door. His body is so close to mine that a shiver runs through me. Or maybe it’s the frosty air?
“Are you cold, Sugar?” There’s concern in his voice.
I could tell him that it’s him. That he affects me so much I have a hard time collecting my thoughts. Or following the rules I’ve set out for myself since I hit puberty. But lying is easier. “A little.”
“You better get inside the car and warm up, then.” He nuzzles my neck.
To stop myself from embracing him, I grip my keys so hard in my hand I’ll have an imprint for weeks to come.