Page 76 of Stay this Christmas
Sam and I crunched through the gravel lot toward Vanderpool Farm’s main buildings Sunday morning, the rich smell of pine needles drawing us closer. The day had turned out perfect for tree-hunting—crisp enough to see our breath but dry enough we wouldn’t have to walk through mud. I’d bundled up in an old college sweatshirt, jeans, and big green rubber boots, with a scarf and hat I’d crocheted. Warm enough to keep me cozy, but nothing I’d be sad to get dirty.
Ignore what everyone’s Christmas cards try to tell you—cutting down your own tree is a messy, sap-covered business.
My eyes skated over Sam, and my stomach nose-dived for the fourth time this morning. Seeing him in work boots, old jeans, and layers of thick flannel did something visceral to my insides, like my ovaries had started an interpretive dance in his honor. He looked ready to chop down every last tree on the farm, and I was here for it.
“We don’t have to do everything they offer.” Maybe I should have warned him. For someone Christmas-averse, Vanderpool’s might have been a bad option.
They had an ornate sleigh tucked away in the heart of the cluster of buildings, with Jolly Old St. Nick listening to kids’ wish lists as parents snapped pictures. The line snaked past the bonfire where sticky-fingered families roasted marshmallows, past the gift shop crammed top to bottom with handmade ornaments, all the way to the little building with an order window in the side where they served up coffees, caramel apples, and the ubiquitous cocoa. They had a bouncy castle shaped like a gingerbread house, a rustic shack full of handmade wreaths, and topping it all off, two snow machines worked overtime pumping out short-lived ice crystals.
He shot me a sideways look. “Like you’re not going to want a s’more.”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
We headed that way first and popped marshmallows onto skewers, quickly roasting them over the blazing fire. Reaching past the little kids crowding the s’mores assembly table, we grabbed a few graham crackers and chocolate sections for our own gooey confections. I immediately took a bite of mine and was grateful I’d dressed appropriately, since the marshmallow and chocolate oozed onto my fingers.
“You said this place wouldn’t be too crowded.”
Sam ate a quarter of his s’more in a single bite, which shouldnothave been sexy but absolutely was. Chewing? Totally not a sexy activity, either, but weirdly did it for me today.
“The other weekends, we wouldn’t have even been able to find a spot around the fire.” I nodded toward the lean-to where the tree farm attendants passed out hand saws. “Let’s grab one of those and go find our tree.”
Sam took one of the old metal bow saws and followed me away from the central crowd. Leaving the noise of the snow machines and the tree baler behind, I marched toward the massive fields of Virginia Pines. I loved the smell of pine tree and dirt out here. This late in the season, the acreage had been pretty well picked over, with mostly smallish trees, too-tall trees, and awkwardly shaped ones left behind, but we would find a good one eventually.
“How big a tree are we looking for here?” Beside me, Sam popped the last of his s’more into his mouth.
“Six or seven feet is enough for my house.” I finished up my last bite of s’more and tried to clean up my chocolatey hands. I should have grabbed wet wipes at the assembly table or something, but the single napkin I’d stuffed in my pocket would have to do.
“Some of these are looking pretty sad.” He gestured at a tree that must have been hit by one of the four-wheelers the farm attendants used. It had a big bare patch where lower branches had been broken off, and some of the remaining ones were skewed at weird angles.
“That’s the peril of getting a tree late in the season.”
“When do you usually get yours?”
“The weekend after Thanksgiving.” I walked around a tree that looked promising, but its needles were turning orange. Must have had some kind of disease. Even getting it this late, that thing would be bald by Christmas Day.
“Should have called it.”
“It’s when they have the best selection.”
He grinned at me over a three-foot tall tree. “Yeah, because normal people don’t rush out to buy their Christmas tree the minute they clear Thanksgiving dinner off the table.”
“Those are fighting words, Samuel.”
He maneuvered closer until we stood toe to toe. I rested my hands on my hips so I wouldn’t put them on his chest the way I had last night, hoping like heck the expression on my face saiddefiantand notcompletely smitten.
Even if completely smitten was accurate.
“I don’t want to fight you, Harps.”
His low voice snaked through me, warming me up from my toes to the top of my head. He raised one hand, his fingertips skating along my jaw, his thumb stroking at the edge of my mouth.
“You’ve got chocolate…right here.”
Chilly embarrassment fought with the heat that wanted to burst to life on my cheeks and neck. Of course I’d got chocolate everywhere. I probably had strings of marshmallow hanging from my chin.
But Sam didn’t look too concerned. In fact, his eyes hadn’t left the spot where his thumb grazed the skin by my mouth. Those tiny touches shifted, and he rubbed his thumb over my bottom lip in a move that I’d only read about in romance novels. My stomach flipped, and I shuddered in a way that would have been embarrassing if his eyes hadn’t been so full of heat. Mine traced his full mouth, registering the tiny gap between his stubble and the line of his lips.
Lips I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing.
