Page 14 of King of the Crease

“Mostly?”

In that moment, I swear I hear my name, someone calling after me. I run into friends and acquaintances in downtown Sourwood all the time.

I turn my head. And apparently my body, too.

The tree swings. Not a lot. Just enough for the stump to clock a guy square in the face.

Shit.

There’s a very undignified oof, followed by a yelp, followed by the sound of a human body losing a fight with gravity.

He goes down backward—right into a slushy pile of snow and salt. I make out a fleece jacket and pair of dark jeans immediately getting subsumed in the gross post-wintry mix.

I drop my end immediately, the tree thudding to the ground as I scramble forward.

“Oh my god,” I say. “I am so sorry. Are you okay? Are you missing any teeth?”

The guy sits up, blinking, clothes equal parts wet and dirty, his dark hair and neatly trimmed beard dusted white. In the middle of his forehead is a big red mark from the stump. Nature’s version of Ash Wednesday. No bleeding, luckily. His cheeks are flushed—either from cold or from being assaulted by Christmas foliage.

He shakes his head and rubs at the mark. That’s when his gaze meets mine.

Two dark ocean blue eyes blink at me, and like many a garbage disposal I’ve installed, they pull me right in. He offers an awkward smile that shows off red, full lips and gleaming teeth. His whole face should come with a warning label. Do not even attempt to operate heavy machinery around a face this gorgeous.

The 20 percent of me that’s bisexual stands at attention.

I came looking for the most beautiful Christmas tree, and instead I might’ve found the most beautiful man.

I just hope I didn’t give him long-term brain damage.

5

NICK

“Are you okay? Did I break your nose? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Let’s try one question at a time, Hank.”

“You’re right. On a scale of one to ten, how litigious would you say you are?”

I blink slowly, the bright winter sun and blue sky coming back into view, the bars of “Jingle Bells” filling my ears.

The searing cold of half-melted snow seeps into my jeans. Or Adam’s jeans, I should say. A tied-up Christmas tree sits on the curb behind two men who are in a heated discussion, standing above me.

One of the men stands tall, staring down at me with his right eye. His eyepatch makes me wonder if I had a run-in with a gang. Gangs are a thing in America, right?

“I am so sorry about that, pal,” says the other man, squatting down to my eye level. His shaggy dark blond hair, boisterous smile, and bulging midsection stir something in me.

Men in Ardenia generally look like me: tall and slim. Narrow hips and waist, compact shoulders. Several Ardenians have gone on to walk runways in Paris and Milan. Perhaps being around men like that my whole life has made me immune to them. There’s something about a large, hardy American guy that has always lit a fire in me. The kind that eats hot dogs and potato chips and uses a hammer, who doesn’t give a fuck about serving forks or palace protocol. Guys with big guts you can sink into while watching American football together on the couch, who can pick you up and throw you over their shoulder and take you into the bedroom.

God or Millie certainly has a sense of humor. The day I decide to stay in Sourwood, I meet my ideal guy. Either that, or this is a delusion brought on by a skull fracture.

Please let this be real.

“Hey, you battled a Christmas tree and won.” His smile is goofy and endearing and immediately puts me at ease. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He holds up two fingers. I hold up two fingers to mirror him back.

“I am really sorry about that. I thought someone was calling my name, and I turned, and bam.” He presses his hand lightly to my forehead, sending a bolt of heat through me. Followed by pain.