Page 102 of Fumbled Into Love

I’ve been itching to decorate since Thanksgiving, since that’s when the holiday officially starts, at least in my calendar, but I’ve waited a respectful three weeks and am decorating in mid-December.

It feels wrong to have waited so long, but this is Deon’s home, not mine, and I was unsure of his opinion on Christmas decorations. When I finally worked up the courage to ask before he left for practice, he shrugged and said, “Whatever makes you happy is fine with me.”

He’s not allowed to say that!

He’s supposed to make it harder to fall for him, not easier. Instead, he’s telling me I can decorate however I want.

Does he realize how dangerous that is?

Using the couch as a ladder, I climb and stretch my arm to reach the higher parts of the tree and gently place the ornaments onto the fake branches.

I’ve spent years crafting the perfect collection of ornaments, and hunting through the clearance section of craft stores for discounted ornaments is nearly as exciting as Christmas morning.

“What are you doing?” Declan asks, surveying the storage boxes thrown around the room. “It looks like Santa threw up in here.”

He lifts a piece of tinsel, scowls, and drops it like it burns him. That’s not the Christmas cheer we want.

“Let me get on your shoulders,” I say, ignoring his jab.

It’s festive. There is a difference.

“Why?”

“So I can reach the top.” I leave out theduh, but I know he hears it.

With a sigh, Declan sits, and I crawl onto his shoulders. I point at an ornament, and he hands it to me to put on the tree. We follow the same routine until the tree is perfectly decorated, each ornament placed perfectly.

“You’re kinda heavy,” Declan says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. He jerks, and we jostle. I scream, grabbing onto the strands of his hair for stability.

“Agh!” He screams, and I scream in response until we’re both heaving with laughter.

It’s healing to have this moment with him. I miss his easy smiles and teasing. He hasn’t been himself, and I don’t blamehim. I can’t imagine what he’s going through, but this small moment with him is a victory.

“Ahem.” A voice is cleared behind us, and Declan spins to face a bemused Deon, who holds a massive bouquet in his hands, pink and orange flowers bursting against the green and red of the decorations.

“Oh, hello,” I say with a sophisticated but highly inaccurate British accent. “Out of curiosity, how long have you been standing there?”

“About the time you called Declan a ‘buffoon’ for suggesting to put a small ornament on the bottom of the tree.” He bites his lip, and my stomach tingles. God, I love his subtle cocky smile.

“You heard that?” I tap Declan’s head. “Take me to the kitchen, please.”

“I am not a horse,” Declan spits but walks to the kitchen anyway. Deon forces back a laugh. “Not a word, Adams.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” Declan responds, standing right in front of Deon.

I look down at my fake boyfriend, who is fighting a goofy, boyish grin.

“What are these?” I ask, gesturing to the massive bouquet in his hands. “Did someone send you flowers?”

I snicker at the thought of someone sending Deon flowers. He would much rather have a bag of his special pretzels or a fruit basket. He is a man of simple things. Those things are food.

Both Deon and Declan look at me like I’m an idiot. What did I say?

“Nathalie,” Declan whispers, head tilted up to look at me, where I still sit on his shoulders, “I think they’re for you.”

“For me?!”

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