Page 3 of Tangling with the Christmas
She plants her hands on her hips. "That's not soon enough. The lighting ceremony is Saturday, and without that tree—"
"Not my problem."
Her mouth drops open, and I see the exact moment she switches from charming to stubborn. "Not your—? You'reliterallythe tree guy!"
I should send her right back down the mountain. Should tell her the road's clear enough if she drives slow. But when she shivers, rubbing her hands together, small fingers red from the cold, I curse under my breath and grab another log for the stove.
"Sit," I say, more gruff than I mean to. "You're soaked."
"I'm fine."
"You're stubborn." I toss the log into the fire, and sparks leap up like tiny stars, casting dancing shadows across the walls. "If you catch pneumonia up here, you'll ruin your precious festival for real."
She glares, jaw set, but she sits. Snow melts off her boots and drips onto the rug. Her hair's a mess of dark waves, flecked with silver tinsel that catches the firelight. There's a freckle at the corner of her mouth that I can't stop looking at.
I grab a towel from the bathroom and toss it her way. She catches it one-handed. "Dry off before you turn into an icicle."
"Bossy," she mutters, but her smile says she doesn't mind. She dabs at her hair, and I try not to watch the way her fingers work through the tangles.
While she dries off, I pour coffee into two chipped mugs. She takes one, fingers brushing mine—soft, warm, too damn distracting.
"Thanks," she murmurs, voice softer now. "For not leaving me out there."
"Didn't do it for you," I lie, moving back to the stove because I need distance. "Did it for my conscience."
She grins, settling deeper into the couch, tucking her feet under her. "Sure you did."
We drink in silence for a while. The fire pops and hisses. The winter storm rattles the windows, wind howling through the pines like something alive. Every now and then she hums under her breath—Christmas music, of course.
"Let me guess," I say, breaking the quiet. "You decorate for Christmas before Thanksgiving."
"Obviously." She wraps both hands around the mug, steam rising between us. "The day after Halloween, actually. Why wait?"
"And you probably have an opinion about fake trees."
"They're an abomination." She says it so seriously, so absolutely certain, that I can't help it—I laugh.It's rusty, unused, scraping out of a chest that hasn't had much reason for joy lately.
The sound surprises us both.
"There it is," she says softly, eyes bright with something that looks like victory. "A smile."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late." She takes another sip, watching me over the rim with an intensity that makes my pulse kick up. "I think I already am."
The wind howls hard enough to shake the door, rattling the frame. She glances toward the window, biting that bottom lip, leaving a small indent that makes me think about things I shouldn't.
"It's really coming down out there," she says.
"Storm'll trap you here tonight." The words come out before I can think them through.
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating in the firelight. "Trap me?"
"The road’s probably buried in snow and ice already. You're not getting down until morning." I move to the window, checking the thermometer mounted outside. Temperature's dropping fast. "Even if we could dig your car out, which we can't, it's not safe to drive."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then she looks up at me, and there's something in her expression I can't quite read—half-panicked, half-thrilled. "So... it's just you and me? Up here. Alone."
"Seems that way."
