“Getting the ornaments from the shelf.”
“One problem with that. We don’t have a tree.” Frustration tightens his features.
“So let’s get one.”
He stares at me and I stare back, the silence heavy. The tension? Radioactive.
“I want a tree, Hank,” I say, staring wistfully at the corner where it should go.
Once again, I’m hit with that stern cowboy frown. The one he used to give the horses when they escaped their pens. Dusting his hands of crumbs, he eases closer. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing in front of me. “You’re not getting a fucking tree, Bell.”
“Please?” I push my lower lip out into a well-practiced pout, one he could never say no to.
His face falls, but he regroups quickly.
Hank Blue’s always been a stubborn cowboy.
“That’s not fair,” he growls, leaning in. Every atom in my body tenses, simmering with heat. “You don’t get to do that anymore. Pout.”
“Fine.” I turn my back to him, storm for the door and pluck my jacket from its hook. “I’ll get one myself.”
Papa Blue and Hank taught me the correct way to cut down a Christmas tree. I can do it on my own. No man needed.
He follows me, his long legs eating up the distance between us. When one of his big hands palms my hip, spinning me around to face him, my breath rushes out of me. “Bell, there’s a fucking blizzard outside. You’re not going out there.”
“The snow’s stopped.”
“Do you see the clouds?” he fires back. “If we’re lucky, we have an hour before the storm ramps up again.”
Of course I saw the clouds. But at this moment, I don’t care. All I want is a tree. All I want is for Hank to stop being so stubborn. Why does he suddenly hate Christmas?
Why do I fucking care?
I inhale deeply, wishing I could forget it. But I can’t. I have to know. “I don’t understand,” I say, my voice more pleading than I’d like. “You’ve always loved Christmas.”
“Not anymore.”
“But why?” I’m horrified when tears fill my eyes. But when he looks at the toes of his boots rather than responding, I persist. “But why, Hank? Why—”
“Why?” Voice raw, nearly feral, he catches my wrist and pulls me toward him. “Christ. Because of you, Bellamy.”
At that tiny touch, sparks, so many sparks, crackle between us. Hank’s everywhere. Haunting the past, my heart. Hands on my thighs, his lush mouth sweeping over my throat, gravelly morning voice.
“You don’t mean that.” I flatten my hand on his broad chest and push him hard enough to separate us.
“I do mean that.” He steps forward, his eyes sharp as steel. “Because it hasn’t been the same since you left.” His chest heaves. “Nothing has been the goddamn same since you left.”
My insides twist into a hundred knots of confusion, of desire.
I search for a response, a reassurance. Because Hank without his Christmas spirit is like hot cocoa without marshmallows, but all that comes out of my mouth is a pathetic, whimpered noise.
His laugh is angry now. “So if you’re askin’ why I’m actin’ like an asshole, like some fuckin’ scrooge, it’s plain and simple. I hate Christmas.”
“You don’t mean that.” I clutch my hands to my heart. He might as well take a knife and gut me.
“I do.” His jaw ticks. “Fuck Christmas.”
I gasp, stagger back a step. “Take it back.”
