“Eyes on the tree, sweetheart,” Chris says, but his gaze lingers a little longer on me before he turns back.
They finally get it positioned over the heavy-duty stand waiting in front of the massive windows in the corner of the room.
Noel braces the trunk upright, both hands wrapped around the bark, forearms flexing. Kane crouches to adjust the screws at the base, jaw working as he tightens each one. Chris steps back, circling, squinting at the angle like he’s personally offended by the concept of it being slightly crooked.
“Left a bit,” Chris instructs.
“That’s whatyousaid last night,” Kane mutters.
I choke on absolutely nothing. Noel snorts, trying and failing to hide a grin. Chris goes still for a beat, then very deliberately doesn’t look at me, which only makes it worse because now I’m imagining what he’s not saying.
“Up,” Chris says, voice a little rougher. “Just a hair.”
“That’s what—” Kane starts.
“Noel,” Chris cuts in, deadpan. “Please hit him for me.”
Noel obliges with a sharp elbow to Kane’s ribs. “Behave. There’s a lady present.”
My face is blazing. “Pretty sure that ship sailed the second someone started makingknotjokes.”
Kane flashes me a wicked smile but lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you’re the one who said we were good with wood.”
“I didnotsay that.”
“You werethinkingit,” Noel adds mildly.
I absolutely was.
Eventually, Chris straightens, gives the trunk one last assessing look, and then nods. They all step back. The top of the tree stretches for the ceiling, leaving enough space for a star.
“God, it’s huge,” I breathe, staring up at it.
Silence.
I canfeelthe way all three sets of eyes land on me in unison. The air charges, something electric and shameless crackling between us.
Kane is the first to crack. “That’s what you said last night,” he blurts, this time with zero shame, and looks unreasonably pleased with himself.
Noel groans. Chris finally looks at me, heat and humor tangled in his gaze, like he’s picturing the same things I am.
My stomach swoops. I roll my eyes, desperately trying to claw back some dignity. “You know, at some point, one of you is going to say something that doesn’t sound like it belongs on late-night cable.”
“Doubtful,” Noel says.
“Not when you keep setting us up like that,” Kane adds.
Chris’s mouth tilts, that slow, dangerous smile that grabs my attention. “Careful, Hannah. Keep talking about how big it is, and we’re going to start thinking you’re flirting.”
I stare at the tree instead of them, heart racing, ridiculously aware of every inch between us, and every place I suddenly wish therewasn’tdistance at all.
They disappear into what I assume is storage, returning with multiple boxes stacked in their arms. I watch them unpack strings of white lights still in their packaging, wooden ornaments that look handmade, dried orange slices that smell like Christmas, cinnamon sticks tied together with twine, those hand-wrapped chocolates Noel mentioned, candy canes still in their wrappers.
Chris moves to a sound system I hadn’t noticed, and music fills the room, classic Christmas songs, Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole, the kind that makes everything feel warm and nostalgic.
Then he disappears into the kitchen, and soon the smell of baking apples fills the entire house, sweet and spiced with cinnamon and maybe nutmeg, making my mouth water.
We all start decorating the tree, beginning with lights. Then we hang ornaments of wooden reindeer, carved snowflakes, some that look like they might be from their childhood based on the worn edges and faded paint.
