Page 27 of Not In The Christmas Plan
“Yup. It’s an extra twenty-five dollars,” the worker says.
Now I know he’s lying, because ain’t no way.
“What do you think of this one?” Grant asks me when I come stomping down the row.
I freeze in my tracks and gawk at the tree he’s holding upright. It perfectly checks off all requirements: color, height, shape, and fullness. It looks like it came straight out of a magazine.
I beam at Grant. “I love it.”
His chest puffs out.
Then, I let the smile slip right off as I turn to the employee.
I should’ve known.
The guy’s face drains as his eyes go wide. Good, he remembers me too.
“We’re interested in this tree,” I say sweetly, “but did I hear right that it’s two hundred dollars?”
If this guy is smart, he’ll think very carefully about his response.
“This one?” His face scrunches up like he’s got a tough deliberation going on in his mind, then nods, having come to some conclusion he missed that should have been obvious. “You know what? I must’ve gotten my trees mixed up. It’s actually one-sixty.”
Maybe I should be pleased, but I’m not. He’s ready and willing to place nice with me, but where was that energy for Grant? He was happy to treat Grant like some big guy with deep pockets and no tree awareness.
I cross my arms. “Uh huh.”
“And, we’re throwing in an extra twenty percent off for couples,” he offers.
“How very magnanimous of you, but we’re not—”
“How much to trim the trunk again?” Grant interrupts.
“No charge, boss! You get it for free.” The employee’s eyes emphatically beg Grant to take the offer.
“Is this the tree you want?” Grant asks me, gently brushing my arm with his free hand. The touch is light and fleeting but sends a small shockwave through me.
I drag my gaze away from the worker to meet his eyes. I’m mad that the employee tried to take advantage of Grant and don’t want to give in, but it’s exactly the kind of tree Dad would have picked. I know Ivy will love it.
When I nod, Grant winks before turning back to the worker. “Alright, we’ll take it.”
Fifteen minutes later we’ve got the tree loaded in the truck bed and are heading back home. The scent of pine fills the cab, blending with the sweetness of the cocoa Grant finagled—free of charge—before we left.
“What’s that smirk for?” I ask Grant as we roll smoothly through an intersection framed with oak trees wrapped in white lights.
“It was nice having your scary scowl directed at someone else for a change,” he teases, eyes glinting with mischief.
“My scowl isn’t scary,” I grumble, even though we both know that’s a lie. I’ve worked on my scowl throughout the years to intimidate opposing counsel and in general to be left alone.
Grant chuckles, a deep, warm sound that vibrates through the cab, but my stomach twists as I consider just how many times he’s been on the receiving end of my scowls. Too many. And for all the wrong reasons.
The heater hums low, filling the silence that follows. Outside, passing storefronts glow with Christmas lights, but I can’t enjoy the festive sight with the weight of guilt settling heavy on my shoulders.
Before we reach the next intersection, I swerve into the nearest parking lot, throw the truck in park, and take a steadying breath. “I owe you an apology.”
“An apology for what?” Grant asks, his brow furrowing at the seatbelt’s sudden tightness against his chest that keeps him from fully turning his body toward me.
“For how I’ve treated you,” I say, though it’s harder to squeeze the words out than I expected. “I know I haven’t exactly been welcoming these past couple of years. I don’t really know how to explain it, but every time I saw you, I was right back to the night you told me about Eddie cheating.”
