“But seeing as there is no such thing as GingerbreadVanderbilts”—he eyes the multiple sheets of gingerbread house pieces I made in triplicate cooling on my racks—“you’ve done enough.”
I don’t have much of an argument. Because he isn’t wrong. Ihavegotten more done this year than last. Both for the gingerbread competition and normal day-to-day orders for the bakery. Since Jack began working out of my bakery, I’ve even been able to sleep more than six hours a night. And for any baker during the holiday season—small shop or Ritz—that says a lot.
“So what?” I pretend to be put out. “You want to play Martha Stewart now?”
“No.” He straightens, his cheerful expression back in place. “Martha has taste. I have… enthusiasm.” He picks up the bags again—this time from the bottom. “We’re decorating our tree.”
Ourtree.
Grateful he can’t see what I am sure is a very goofy and lopsided grin on my face—the massive bags conveniently blocking his view—I guide him toward my apartment entrance in the back. “Fine. But only because it may actually be criminal in Hideaway to abandon a tree in such a sad, naked state.”
“Exactly.” His voice is softer, muffled behind his mountain of holiday spirit. “We wouldn’t want the town gossips judging you, now would we?”
I scoff, thinking of how little Eileen would care about my undecorated tree but how much she’d salivate over the idea of Jack dusting it in tinsel.
Minutes—and a few stumbles—later, we’re in my apartment,straightening our cut-your-own Pine & Dandy special in the new tree stand Jack bought.
Satisfied with how it looks, Jack tears into his bags, pulling out boxes. “Lights first.”
I squint at the labels. One hundred LED lights. Ten different settings. User friendly.
I’m starting to sweat.
“Then decorations.” He attacks the second bag by simply overturning it—spilling tinsel, ornaments, and a tree topper onto the sliver of rug not already swallowed by the circumference of the six-foot tree.
I sift through the pile. “Is this a Larry the Lobstah ornament?”
Jack nods, prying open the first box of lights. “Yeah. I got everything in town.” The neatly coiled strand immediately knots itself when he yanks on the wrong end. “Between the Christmas market and this insane holiday store next to the bookshop, I may have blacked out and panic-bought trying to get us everything we need.”
I eye the ceramic flamingo in a Santa hat cozying up to the delicate blown-glass angel in its little coffin of bubble wrap and think ‘need’ is a very generous word.
Jack, not done exploding Christmas in my apartment, hooks up his phone to my speaker.
“All right.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s do this.”
And do this we do.
We untangle lights, burst packages of tinsel, and use enough electrical connections to worry a fire department—all to the soundtrack of Jack’s curated holiday playlist that consists of Dean Martin, Mariah Carey, and the Beastie Boys.
It’s eclectic to say the least.
Just like the tree.
“So.” I eye his placement of a giant glitter pickle. “Did you have a theme or something in mind when you picked out the ornaments?”
Jack grins, a ribbon clamped between his teeth. “You mean besides Christmas?”
I roll my eyes and hang a red velvet bow next to the Santa Astronaut ornament that’s chrome painted. “Yeah, besides that.”
He rolls his eyes back at me. “I didn’t realize trees needed a theme.”
Stepping back, I assess the ornament composition. “Well, what does your tree usually look like?”
He hangs a strand of tinsel over an ornament of a teddy bear dressed as an elf. “I don’t have one.”
When he bends down to grab another decoration, I remove the tinsel and drape it over the end of a branch. “Really?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” His eyes narrow on the teddy bear ornament before placing the bow—this one leopard print—next to a turquoise ball. “You didn’t have one either.”
