Page 81 of I'm Your Guy
That’s a thing?
Sadly, it’s a thing.
Maybe that’s what people get when their designer complains that there’s nothing on their walls. Maybe I need one of those signs.
That is not funny.
I buy some gift wrap, because Tommaso will need some to wrap his mom’s present. The weighted blanket I helped him pick out has recently arrived.
In the checkout line, I actually find myself humming along to “Silent Night”—the Stevie Nicks version.
This is the most optimistic I’ve felt all year. I can’t wait to pick out a tree and decorate it with my favorite hockey player. I like him so much.
Even if we’re only ever friends, I’ll take what I can get.
TWENTY-NINE
Tommaso
I can’t wait to get back to Colorado. The moment the plane pulls up to the gate, I’m on my feet and down the jetway.
Leaving the airport in my SUV, it’s a temptation to speed. Carter is waiting for me, and I’m running late because I’d forgotten to account for the jet landing at the Denver airport on this trip.
But there’s a light snow falling, and I’m not an idiot. I slow down and make my way safely to the tree lot in Boulder, which is adjacent to a garden center. The moment after I park, I’m scanning for Carter. I hate the idea that he’s freezing out in the cold, looking for me.
The garden center is open, and when I don’t spot him lingering among the trees, I head for the entrance.
When the double doors slide open, I’m dazzled. The place is practically dripping with greenery and Christmas lights. It smells of greenhouse flowers and potting soil.
But the real reason I’m dazzled is Carter. He’s leaning casually against the rustic wooden checkout desk, chatting up an employee. He’s wearing tight jeans, and a puffer vest with a soft-looking sweater underneath.
That’s it. One glance, and some of the tightness inside my chest eases. I’ve been looking forward to this for days, and only partly because I like Christmas trees.
I like Carter even more. But I slow my roll so that I can watch him for a moment longer. He’s talking to a slender guy wearing a rainbow beanie and a lot of tats. They’re both smiling, which means Carter probably said something self-effacing and funny.
Then Carter turns to look over his shoulder, and his smile widens. “Hey! You made it!” He gives the guy at the counter a half wave and sort of bounds in my direction. “Are you ready for this?”
“Totally,” I say, my smile inevitable. “Let’s pick the best one.”
“I scoped out the Fraser firs already,” he says as the doors part to expel us into the cold. “There are some beauties. But you want to keep it under eight feet.”
“How high is my ceiling?” I ask, although I really should have considered this question sooner.
As always, Carter is ready with the details. “Your living room has a nine-foot ceiling. But the stand takes up some space.”
“Got it.”
Still, when he shows me an eight-foot tree, I don’t like it as much as its nine-foot friend. “Can’t we get this one? We’ll just trim a few inches off the bottom.”
“Don’t you want a star on top?” he presses.
“But it’s so big and bushy.”
“That’s what he said,” Carter murmurs. Then he bites his lip.
I laugh. “Come on, we can make this one work.”
“We could,” he agrees. “But the eight-footer would fit better. It’s more proportionate to the room. It only looks small in comparison to its taller friend. And because we’re outside.”
