“I donothave a crush on your cousin.”
“He wasPeople Magazine’s sexiest man alive.”
“Sexiness is subjective,” I say. “Areyouchanging the subject so you don’t have to talk about your work?”
Something flashes behind Noah’s eyes, and his jaw flexes before he raises a hand and runs it across his beard. “Iworkat Stonebrook Farm,” he says, like it is not up for debate, then he breathes out a sigh. “Which is why I know exactly where to find you the perfect Christmas tree.”
I don’t miss the way he saysyou.Like he’s doing this for me, in particular.
Something flutters inside my ribcage, a pulse of longing that’s growing stronger and stronger every second we’re together. It’s maddening to feel so much attraction when there’s still so much I don’t know. But for now, I’m content to let him win.
I take a step toward him, dropping my defensive posture and opening my hands, making it clear I’m accepting defeat. “Okay. Then let’s go get a Christmas tree.”
Eight
I expectNoah to lead me to his truck, but it turns out the perfect Christmas tree is within walking distance of the farmhouse. We take a slight detour past a toolshed for Noah to retrieve a wide-tooth saw, then we walk to a hillside maybe fifty yards behind the house. We stop in front of an enormous fir tree, its wide green arms stretching toward the sky.
I don’t know a ton about fir trees. We always used a fake tree growing up because it was what we had, but this one looks like it came out of a children’s picture book.
Perfect Christmas tree shape. Perfect deep green needles.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I say as we approach the tree. “This is just…growing out here? Right beside the house?”
Noah clears his throat. “It isn’t here by accident.”
I look around the hillside and notice that there is only one tree like this one. “No?”
He walks to the tree and circles it, then leans in and pushes on the trunk like he’s testing its sturdiness.
“I was maybe eight or nine,” he eventually says, “and my family came to the farm just like we always do. Uncle Ray took me and Flint up to Thomson’s to pick out a tree. They had a giant tent up with dozens of trees inside, but this one was in a planternear the entrance. It was only a couple feet tall, and it wasn’t for sale—it was just there for decoration—but I got it in my head that I wanted to buy it.” He shakes his head and breathes out a little chuckle. “Flint and I argued about it. He wanted the tallest tree he could find and didn’t understand why I was so hung up on this one.”
“Why were you?” I ask, and Noah shrugs.
“Who knows? Maybe I just liked being contrary. But I think a part of me liked that it was still alive. It had roots, dirt. It could keep on living even after the holiday was over.”
“That’s a nice thought,” I say. “So they let you buy it?”
“Eventually,” Noah says. “I don’t know what Uncle Ray said or if they tried to refuse. I just know we brought this tiny two-foot tree home right beside the big one we bought to go inside the house. It sat on the front porch, and I tended it the whole time we were here like it was my pet. Flint thought I was ridiculous, but after New Years, Uncle Ray brought me out here, and we planted it together.”
“And you think I’m going to let you cut it downnow?” I ask, because honestly, has he lost his mind? The tree has to be ten feet tall at this point. With a history like that, he can’t really want to cut it down.
“I wouldn’t,” Noah says as he steps closer to the tree. “Except, it’s not thriving anymore.” He motions me forward and points toward the base of the tree, bending down to push the branches aside. “Down there close to the root, there are a couple of soft spots on the trunk. I had an arborist come out and look at it last week. It’s not a good sign.”
“There isn’t anything you can do?”
Noah shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. It hasn’t gotten any taller the past few years. Apparently, we aren’t at a high enough elevation for it to thrive. The ground is too wet. The air is too humid. It’s probably lucky to have lived this long.”
“So you’re saying it’s dying?” I ask, and the thought makes me sad.
“Something like that,” Noah says. “It might hang on a few more years. But I don’t think it’s happy here.”
I rub my hand across one of the branches, finally noticing the dry, brown needles clinging to the tips of several boughs. There aren’t many, but for a tree that’s still in the ground, I’m guessing there shouldn’t be any.
“Noah, I don’t need a Christmas tree today. Or even one at all. If the weather doesn’t clear, the Peterson family might not even come for a reunion. I don’t want to cut down your tree for nothing.”
He looks up at the tree, one leg propped onto a rock, the saw hanging loosely from his fingers. Out here on the hillside, with his canvas jacket and his beard and a freaking saw in his hand, his alreadyverymasculine vibe has practically doubled.
I’ve been in the city the past three years, so I haven’t seen this level of rugged in too long. Overall, it isreallyworking for me.
