She rolls her eyes and says, “Smooth.” But there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.
I’m not kidding.
We wander around for a while, and when it seems like Ginger might never find what she’s looking for, she stops and studies one particular tree. Medium in size, it’s fuller on one side than the other.
“This is the one,” she declares. “It’s got personality.”
I nod. “And a slight lean like it’s had too much spiked eggnog.”
She laughs. “Then it’ll fit right in with Pops.”
“You sure this is it?”
“Positive. The leaner side can go against the wall, and no one will even know. Give that bell a ring.”
I shake it, and the sound peals out through the evening air. Somewhere in the distance, we hear someone call out,” I got it.”
Ginger beams at me. “Mission accomplished.” She raises her cup and takes a sip of cider.
“Do you think Pops is gonna like it?”
“I hope he will, but he doesn’t have a choice. We could’ve put up the fake tree we used the last couple of years, but he wanted a real one.”
We hear the sound of snow crunching before a brawny young man joins us. “Which tree did you choose?”
Ginger touches a branch. “This beauty.”
He hands her a ticket. “Follow the signs to the red barn, and they’ll ring you up.”
She smiles. “Thank you.”
He smiles back a little too eagerly. “No problem. Enjoy your night.”
“We will.” I place my hand on her back, guiding her away.
As we follow the trail toward the front, we see parents with small children skipping about, and hand-holding couples moving at a leisurely pace. For a moment, I’m envious of what they have. If Ginger and I were in a relationship, I’d have snuck in some kisses during the tree search. And when we got home, I’d strip off her clothes and use our combined body heat in all sorts of inventive ways to warm her up.
“Okay, this is the best tree farm I’ve been to,” she states, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s officially my favorite.” She tosses her cup in the trash barrel on the side of the path.
“Good. I’m glad I didn’t pick a dud,” I say, dropping mine in also.
She laughs. “Even if you had, it still would’ve been fun.”
I aim a skeptical glance at her. “You think so?”
She nods. “I know so. You’re someone who makes everything more enjoyable. I don’t want to say you’re the life of the party, because that sounds so trite and shallow, but you have this natural way of setting others at ease and engaging them. It’s a wonderful quality to have.”
“Thank you, but I think you’re giving me more credit than I deserve. Most of the time I’m entertaining myself.”
She sends me a dubious side-eye. “Don’t downplay my compliment. I’ve known you my entire life, Jordan Thorne. If you think I don’t know who you are by now, you’re an idiot.”
I laugh. “I’m an idiot, for sure, but not for that reason.”I’m an idiot for not appreciating what’s been right in front of me all these years.And for wasting time sleeping with other women when we could’ve been together.
We keep walking, our breath expelling in small white puffs and our boots crunching over snow dotted with pine needles. We hear an occasional bell ring as trees get chosen.
“This place is kind of magical,” she says. “It looks like it’s straight out of a fairy tale.”
I drag in a breath through my nose, taking in the scents of pine, fresh air, and fire. “It smells like it too.”
