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“We’ve got you,” Tara said, squeezing her hand. “I’m sorry he isn’t who you thought he was.”
Merry startled, wondering how she knew about Clark, but realized her friend meant in general. That Woodsman wasn’t the sweet, funny guy he seemed online. How the heck could he be Trip? No morals. Lack of empathy hidden under a smarmy, albeit handsome face. Trip was a non-homicidal version of Ted Bundy.
He was leaning against the bar alone, waiting for Ricki Takini to notice him and take his order.
With a deep breath, she tapped his shoulder. He turned her way, his gaze traveling over her and a lazy smile stretched over his lips, revealing perfectly capped teeth.
“Merry. You need something?”
“Yes. I felt like I owed you a face to face explanation.”
“That’s sweet.” He leered at her, an expression that made her palm itch to smack him. “I like that you got dressed up to do it. That dress makes your rack look hot.”
“Thanks.” Why did I think this guy deserved human decency? He really is a pig.
“Anyway, I know we said a lot of things the last couple of weeks, but you get why this—” She pointed to him and then her—“isn’t going to work.”
“It won’t?”
“No. Even if you hadn’t put hands on Noel, we aren’t interested in the same things.” Trip lost his smile, his eyebrows dropping over his eyes in a scowl. “In fact, it’s pretty dishonest to click long term relationship when I doubt those are your intentions with all of this.”
Trip straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest. “First of all, I didn’t put hands on her like I hit her or something. I just held her arm so we could talk.”
“Doesn’t make it better.”
“And second, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t talked to you in months. You’ve got the wrong guy, babe.”
“You don’t…like woodworking?”
Trip snorted. “What the fuck, am I eighty?” He chortled at his own joke and Merry stood there, frozen.
“What can I get you, Trip?” Ricki glanced her way, her eyes silently asking what she was doing with Trip. Even the women who slept with Trip knew what a jerk he was, but after his treatment of Noel, most women in Mistletoe wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.
But she’d thought he was Woodsman.
“Have a good night,” she murmured, turning away. She weaved back through the people and took her seat again.
“It wasn’t him?” Noel asked, pushing a creamy shot toward her.
“Nope.”
“Thank the Lord,” Sally said.
“So we’re still looking for a Woodsman in a blue shirt.” Holly rubbed her hands together.
Merry knocked back the shot, the sweet liquor streaming down her throat. “We are.”
“Do we know anything else about him? Eye color? Hair?”
“No. I only know details about his personality, his past, his likes and dislikes. I don’t know how I could have even entertained the thought he was Trip. The Woodsman is sweet. Intelligent. Funny.”
“Huh.” Tara was staring at something over Merry’s shoulder. “Clark just walked in.”
Her pulse picked up speed. “Is he…”
“I can’t tell if his shirt is blue because he’s got his jacket on.”
Merry wiped her damp palms on her skirt as she twisted around, catching Clark’s slack-jawed expression. His work jacket was zipped all the way up without a hint of blue in sight, but this couldn’t be a coincidence. Clark never went out, especially to the bar, so it had to be a specific reason he’d come out tonight.
