Christmas At Prescott Inn. Cathryn Parry
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He shook his head sadly. “Maybe I was under your spell.”
That had hurt her cruelly.
There had been pain in his eyes, too. “I’m trying to say, Emilie—not very well, I realize—but please try to understand what I mean. Working at sea isn’t permanent, at least not to me. I need to go back home and make something concrete of my life.”
“I don’t agree with you that our life here can’t be permanent,” she’d said, equally stubborn. “After I finish performing, I hope to choreograph. That is a concrete goal. You’ve made a huge, wrong assumption about me. It’s as if you’ve never even met me before.”
“So, that’s what you want to do in your future?” he’d asked, looking miserable. “Choreograph cruise ship shows?”
“Yes, Nathan.”
“Can you at least come and spend a year with me and see how you like it?”
“I can’t.” Wasn’t he hearing her? “I just got promoted. People are counting on me. I can’t leave them.”
“They’ll be fine without you.”
“No, they won’t.” Her voice was rising.
“So, when does it end?”
“When everyone is happy and taken care of.”
His jaw had hardened. A subtle movement, but it was there. He was impatient with her.
And it had hurt. Because he was belittling her and discounting her needs.
“You care more about your inn than you care about us,” she realized.
He’d stared at her, but Emilie knew that it was true.
And suddenly, the bubble had popped. There was such a fundamental difference in what they each wanted, and there was no talking this out.
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