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“Of course.” I sip my coffee. I’m trying to learn to drink it black to cut calories, and it’s awful.
“And how exactly were you going to chop down the tree and get it into the truck by yourself?”
I grin. “I wasn’t.”
Mark sighs. “I’m going with you, aren’t I?”
“Yup.”
“And that was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”
“Definitely.”
He sighs. “Fine. Let me finish my work.”
“No problem,” I say, sitting back and propping my sock-covered feet on one of the other chairs.
When I quietly sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” I sing all the lines rather than just the first line over and over, so as not to drive him nuts…and wonder whether or not I should mention that I’d heard through the grapevine that my high school boyfriend works at Holly Tree Farm.
December 17, Sunday Afternoon
“No, not that one.”
“What’s wrong with this one?”
I turn around to where Mark stands stubbornly beside a tree that is so not the one.
I take in the seven-foot, impressively symmetrical evergreen. “It has no character.”
Mark crosses his arms, the tree saw dangling just slightly threateningly from his hand. “How do trees have character?”
“You know, quirks. Flaws. Bald spots. I never trust anyone that’s too perfect.”
“I’m perfect.”
I smile at his matter-of-fact tone. “Yes, honey. Maybe that’s why we’ve never dated, you see? You’re too smart, too good-looking, too confident.”
He narrows his eyes, as though trying to gauge my level of sarcasm, and the thing is…it’s sort of true. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before now, but Mark is, well…hot. Like, super-hot. As in, when we were seniors in high school, I’d dragged him to the mall so I could get shoes for homecoming, and a modeling scout from Manhattan had practically forced Mark to take her card.
He still gets mad whenever I bring it up, but the truth is he’s even better-looking now than he was back then. The jawline’s even more defined, the little chin dimple even more compelling. Add in the slightly crooked smile, intense eyes, and perfect amount of scruff, and, well…
He’s far more beautiful than I.
In lipstick, Spanx, a push-up bra, and high heels, I’m a 6½. In his wool coat, scuffed work boots, and cheap jeans, Mark’s a 10. I’ve seen him in a tux once, for his brother’s wedding, and my head nearly exploded.
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I friend-zoned myself before he had to.
Rigby comes bounding through the trees with a muddy stick in his mouth, and I bend down and wrestle the stick away, hurling it—okay, fine, awkwardly tossing it—so he can go chase it.
“I’m still pissed you put a sweater on my dog,” Mark says, trudging after me through the trees.
“Our dog,” I corrected, “is wearing his holiday outfit.”
I went with a snowman motif this year. Much better than last year’s reindeer sweater, which Mark had rightly argued made the dog look like a turd.
“Speaking of clothing choices, what’s going on with yours?”
