Page 76 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
“Unless you’re planning to cut a hole in the ceiling and turn it into a two-story-tree situation!” Kane replies.
“Don’t tempt me,” Chris says. “I love a challenge.”
Noel pulls a thermos from his pack pocket. “Hot chocolate break?”
“We’ve barely started,” Kane says.
“I’m up for a hot drink.” I’m already heading toward him like he’s holding the Holy Grail, the cold seeping through my clothes.
“Spiked with vanilla schnapps,” he admits, unscrewing the top and pouring into small collapsible cups he produces from another pocket and hands them out.
We stand in a loose circle, warming our hands on the cups. The hot chocolate is perfect, rich and creamy with real chocolate and just enough schnapps to create a pleasant burn in my chest.
“Look over there,” Chris says quietly, voice dropping to barely a whisper. He’s pointing, and I follow his gaze to see two rabbits hopping through the snow about thirty feet away. Their fur is pure white, nearly invisible against the background, and they’re moving in that distinctive stop-and-go pattern.
“They’re adorable,” I breathe, not wanting to scare them.
We watch in silence until they disappear into the underbrush, and there’s something peaceful about the moment, the four of us standing together in the quiet forest, snow falling gently around us, the world reduced to just this.
Kane bends down, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a ball, and he lifts his gaze to me.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, recognizing that look, backing away.
He throws it anyway, but at Chris, who dodges with surprising agility and immediately retaliates with his own perfectly aimed snowball that catches Kane in the chest.
Within seconds, it’s absolute war.
I’m laughing so hard I can barely make snowballs fast enough to defend myself. I’m outnumbered, outmatched, and they’re clearly all way more experienced at snowball combat than I am. Snow hits my shoulder, my back, somehow gets down the collar of my coat, making me shriek.
“Truce!” I gasp, hands up in surrender. “Truce! I’m defenseless here!”
“Winner picks the tree,” Kane declares, brushing snow from his jacket.
“That’s completely unfair! You all ganged up on me! That’s cheating!”
“All’s fair in snowball warfare,” Chris says, grinning unrepentantly. “So we get to choose the tree.”
But Noel walks over, his large hands gentle as he brushes snow off my shoulders and back. “I’ll support whatever tree you choose. Even the odds.”
“My hero,” I say.
His blue eyes hold mine for a moment, something intense passing between us, before he steps back. We keep walking deeper into the forest, debating the merits of various trees we pass. Too sparse. Too short. Too lopsided. Wrong needle color. Branches too weak to hold ornaments.
Then we round a thick cluster of pines, and there it is.
A balsam fir, maybe eight or nine feet tall, perfectly symmetrical, with that classic Christmas tree silhouette. Theneedles are a gorgeous blue-green that almost appears frosted, branches strong and evenly spaced, the whole thing looking like it grew specifically to be someone’s Christmas tree.
“That one,” we both say simultaneously just as Kane and Chris say the same thing, standing several feet away.
The guys share looks, then all three start laughing.
“Unanimous decision,” Kane says, shaking his head. “That’s got to be fate or something.”
“Or we all just have excellent taste,” I counter.
They get to work immediately, and I step back to watch because there’s no way I’m getting in the way of three large Alphas wielding sharp implements.
Chris and Noel clear snow from around the base, using their boots to push it away, revealing the trunk. Kane positions himself with the saw, testing his grip, adjusting his stance.
