Page 32 of Cross Check Christmas
“Yes. Oh and they’d spoil us. They’d take us to the Christmas markets and buy so much Lebkuchen I’d get a bellyache from eating it all.”
“Sounds nice.”
"It was.” His voice takes on a softer quality I've never heard before. “But the best Christmases were here in Brookking Sound—when we were small. Dad would wake us up at dawn and pile us in the truck to pick out our tree. Ingrid would complain, but she'd be first one in the truck. And Liam—" He chuckles. "He'd get crazy focused about finding the perfect tree."
"Let me guess, you two made everything into a competition?"
"Obviously. But Dad had this rule—we had to all agree on the tree. Liam always wanted the sturdiest tree possible - you know how he is. For Ingrid, it was the fluffiest."
“And you?” I ask. Despite my best efforts to remain aloof, I find myself drawn in.
“The tallest, of course.” His face lights up. “And we'd spend what seemed like hours running through the rows playing hideand seek while Dad pretended he couldn't find us." A gentle smile plays at his lips. "Then we'd all gather at this one spot where you could see the whole farm. And then the perfect tree would always find us. Never failed.”
Something in my chest tightens at the image of a younger Hendrix, cheeks red from cold, playing among the pines with his family.
"After the tree was loaded in the back of the truck, we'd stop at that little cabin shop and Dad would buy us these massive hot chocolates - the kind with real whipped cream and chocolate shavings. I always ended up with cream on my nose." His voice goes quiet. "Those were the best days.”
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, lost in thought. "You know what's funny? The tree was never actually perfect. Sometimes it'd be crooked, or have a bald spot, or be way too big for our living room. But Dad would just say 'That's what makes it special' and somehow... it was."
A lump forms in my throat.
I shake myself out of the spell his story has cast. What am I doing, getting all misty-eyed over Hendrix Ellis's childhood memories?
One sweet story about picking Christmas trees doesn't erase years of torment. Or the fact that he's currently making my life impossible. Or that infuriating smirk he gets whenever he knows he's pushing my buttons.
I glance over at him, still lost in his memories, and my traitorous heart skips.
"Look," he points through the windshield at a family of deer crossing the road ahead. My breath catches at the sight - a majestic doe leading two spindly-legged fawns across the snowy pavement, their hooves making delicate prints in the fresh powder.
As he slows the truck, he rests his arm behind me, his thumb tracing small circles on my shoulder. For a moment, we both sit perfectly still, watching nature's quiet parade in front of us.
I should shrug his arm off my shoulder. I really should. But somehow, I don't. The worst part is how natural it feels - his casual touches, his thoughtful gestures, the way he keeps stealing glances at me when he thinks I'm not looking. It's like he's determined to be Prince Charming, and I'm running out of reasons to resist.
We pull into Sullivan's, parking lot, and Hendrix kills the engine. Before I can reach for my door handle, he's already out and opening my door with an exaggerated bow. "My lady."
"I can open my own door." I hop down, my boots crunching in the snow, heading straight for the rows of trees.
"Let's get this over with."
"Whoa there." He jogs to catch up, his long legs easily matching my determined stride. "We need a plan of attack.”
I immediately spot several sensible trees that would work perfectly for the school dance.
"I know exactly what we need. Six feet tall, full branches, symmetrical shape-"
But Hendrix strides right past them, making a beeline for what can only be described as the sequoia section.
“This isn't just any tree - it needs to be majestic. Regal. The kind of tree that makes teenagers actually want to look up from their phones for five seconds."
"No. Absolutely not." I hurry after him, my heels sinking into the snow. "The budget is two hundred dollars. Total. That includes lights and decorations."
He ignores me and trudges up a path leading far into the thicket of enormous trees. "We need something with personality. Character. A tree that says 'dance under me, young lovebirds!'"
I roll my eyes so hard they might get stuck. "The tree doesn't need to talk, Hendrix."
He stops in front of a monster of a tree that must be twenty feet tall. "This is the one."
"That tree probably costs more than my monthly salary. And how will we get it through the gymnasium doors?"
