Tyler enters the house last, carrying the tree on his shoulder like some kind of office lumberjack, pausing only to slide off his shoes at the door.
“Where do you keep the decorations?” he asks after he’s set the tree in front of my living room window. “If you haven’t gotten them out, I can do that.”
“In the attic. The door’s in the hall ceiling. I haven’t dragged it all down yet. It’s a pain in the ass.”
“It’s not a problem. I’ll get it.”
Without another word, Tyler strides down the hallway, pulling the hatch so the folding ladder extends to the floor. He disappears into the darkness, emerging minutes later with a plastic Rubbermaid bin labeledChristmas Shit.Yep, I got real creative with my labels a few years back. He reads the label, looks up at me, and shakes his head with a snort.
He takes it to the living room, sets it by the tree, and ascends the rickety stairs, back into the ceiling hauling out box after box.
While Tyler quietly works, Abby, Jay, and I secure the tree into its stand and fill it with water. I hear a muffled thump and what sounds like a hushed curse word from the attic, so I rush over callingout to him.
“You good up there?”
Tyler’s low chuckle sounds. “I hit my head. Didn’t realize how low the ceiling was in this corner,” he calls down to me.
He descends the stairs, holding the last box, and sure enough, there’s a cut on his forehead.
“You’re bleeding,” I quickly say. “I’ll grab the Band-Aids.”
Tyler waits while I run to the bathroom to grab the box of Band-Aids and an alcohol swab from the medicine cabinet.
I poke my head into the hallway. “Tyler, come in here.”
He appears in the doorway, and I jerk my chin for him to come into the bathroom. Closing the toilet lid, I grab him by the arm and push him so he’s sitting. Stepping between his open legs, I tear open the alcohol swab.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m cleaning your cut. It’s only superficial, but it might still sting.”
Brushing his soft hair back from his face, I position his head how I need it, forcing my focus on his cut and not how his hair feels between my fingers. Instead, I work to steady my heart while I get his cut cleaned up.
Tyler doesn’t flinch when I swipe the blood, using both sides of the swab. I lightly blow on it to dry the alcohol before covering it with the Band-Aid. The whole time I’m working, Tyler’s eyes are trained on me, but I avoid his gaze.
Then he lifts a hand, fingers brushing my curls. He picks up a strand, mimicking my earlier motions, giving it a soft tug and letting it spring free.
“I like your hair like this.” His hand drops back to his lap.
“Yeah, well…I’ve never liked my curly hair. You wouldn’t believe how much time I put into straightening it. If I could afford it, I’d get a keratin treatment, but they’re like two hundred bucks.”
“What’s a keratin treatment?” Tyler’s brows furrow with the question.
“It’d make my hair permanently straight. Well, not permanently. But for like, two months.”
“No, don’t do that.” Tyler’s voice goes soft like the thought pains him. “I love your curls.” He reaches again, giving the strand a gentle tug, but this time he doesn’t drop his hand right away. With his forefinger, he twirls it, hazel gaze flicking to my mouth and then up to my eyes. A stretch of silence fills the space between our bodies, allowing shallow breaths to float between us. It takes every stubborn bone in my body not to lean in and take what I want, but at the last second I snap out of the trance we’ve fallen into.
“Well, your cut is all better.” My voice trembles as I step back from his nearness, busying myself cleaning up the first aid supplies. Being that close to him, feeling his fingers in my hair had my mind drifting to dangerous places. Like closing the space between us, or sending my kids to friends’ houses so I could drag him to my bed.
Good grief alive. Cut it out, Josie.
Glancing over at him, he looks as flustered as I feel. “That tree isn’t going to decorate itself. We better get back out there.”
I need my kids around so I’m not alone with this man, who jumped in to coach so my son could play basketball, who keeps on showing up, day after day, moment after moment.
And dammit, he loves my curls.
I am not a woman who lacks confidence. Sure, I have the occasional thoughts every female has. But the one thing I’ve always hated about myself is my curly locks. I’ve fried my ends more times that I can count, flat ironing my hair straight. But hearing Tyler say he loves my curls. Well, for some crazy reason, it makes me want to march straight to my bedroom and toss that flat iron in the trash.
