Page 77 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
And, okay, I’m definitely enjoying the show way more than I should be.
Kane grips the long-handled saw with Noel on the other end, boots planted in the snow as they line it up against the trunk, thick as my thigh. The first drag of the blade bites in with a harsh rasp, metal teeth chewing into wood. Kane’s shoulders bunch beneath his jacket, his whole body working with the motion like he’s done this every winter since before he could drive.
They fall into a steady push-and-pull, breath fogging the cold air, the saw singing through the tree in rough strokes. It doesn’t take forever, but it takes long enough. Noel adjusts his grip, jaw set, as he leans into the next pull, boots sliding just a fraction before he steadies.
By the time the blade is almost through, my fingers are numb, but the rest of me is embarrassingly warm. With a final, brutal pull, the trunk gives. The tree cracks, a sharp, splintering sound, and the whole thing tips away from where I’m standing. The guys are already moving, hands braced, guiding it down so itfalls cleanly into the snow without crushing the lower branches. It lands with a soft, muffled thud, sending up a puff of white, and just like that, our Christmas tree is down.
“You three sure you weren’t lumberjacks in a past life?” I call as they start hauling the tree toward the trail, and I turn, staring at the tip of the tree leaving a neat groove through the snow.
A snowball nails me square between the shoulder blades.
I yelp, spinning around. All three of them freeze mid-step, identical innocent expressions pasted on like they rehearsed it.
“Cowards,” I accuse. “Own your crimes.”
Kane shrugs, completely unbothered. “You started it. You throw around compliments like that, we’re gonna get cocky.”
“You were already cocky,” I mutter.
Chris’s mouth curves. “She’s not wrong.”
They drag the tree back to the truck together. I’ve got one hand on a branch, more for moral support than actual help, but no one calls me on it. Every time I stumble, one of them steadies me with a hand at my elbow or the small of my back, and my dignity slowly dies a festive, glittery death.
At the truck, they hoist the tree up to the roof rack in one smooth surge of muscle that makes my stomach go warm. Chris tosses the rope over, then sets to work tying it down. The knots he makes look complicated, the rope cinching tight around the trunk.
“Show-offs,” I say under my breath, but I can’t stop smiling.
“You love it,” Kane tosses back, not even looking up.
He’s not wrong.
“Don’t worry,” Noel adds, glancing at me from under his lashes as he checks the last strap. “We’ll teach you to tie knots eventually. Hands-on lesson.”
Heat pricks the back of my neck. “I can tie knots.”
Chris’s gaze drops to my mouth for a beat too long. “We’ll test that theory another time.”
We pile into the truck. A blast of hot air hits, and I groan in relief. My cheeks are numb. My fingers ache as they thaw.
“That was incredible,” I admit, peeling off my gloves and shoving my hands as close to the vents as I can. “I’ve never cut down a tree before. Never even thought about it. I feel like I’ve committed a very specific form of Christmas crime, and I like it.”
“First of many traditions,” Kane says from the front.
The drive back feels faster. Maybe because we’re all buzzing from having successfully wrestled a tree out of the forest.
Back at the house, they manhandle the tree inside with the same unbothered strength they used in the forest. “Hold up,” Noel states, and they pause on the porch to shake off the snow. Needles rain down in a fragrant green shower, the scent of pine punching through the cold air.
Then comes the doorway. They angle the trunk, tilt, shuffle, reverse, try again. Noel walks backward, one hand on the bark, calling out directions, while Kane and Chris do most of the lifting.
“Watch the top,” Noel warns.
“Iamwatching the top,” Kane grunts. “The top is fine. The doorway is the problem.”
“Try not to remodel the house with the tree,” I offer helpfully, hugging my arms around myself.
Three heads swivel toward me at once. For a heartbeat, they all just… look. Snow in their hair, cheeks flushed from the cold, big bodies filling the entryway like this is the most natural thing in the world, like I belong here, standing in their foyer, bossing them around about Christmas décor.
Something tightens in my chest.
