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“What do you mean?” I ask, stopping to inspect a promising tree. It’s nearly perfect, but a touch too tall for my living room.
“I mean, you’re looking awfully dolled up for trudging through the forest.”
“I’m not dressed up. And it’s only because you’re helping me that I’m not going to make fun of you for using the phrase ‘dolled-up,’?” I say, halting in front of a tree.
No, the tree.
“This one.”
Mark stands beside me and gives it a skeptical once-over. “What about that patch of dead branches in the middle?”
“Beauty mark.”
“The way the top curves to the right?”
“She’s curvy.”
“?’K. What about the dead bird on the left?”
I gasp and frantically look for the dead bird, then sock his shoulder when I realize he’s joking. “Wait, one more thing…”
I dig my key chain out of my coat pocket, giving my travel Magic 8 ball a quick shake.
It is certain.
I show the response to Mark, who rolls his eyes.
“Come on. Let’s get cutting,” I say, shoving the key chain back in my pocket.
“Oh yes, let’s.”
He doesn’t move, and I turn to see what’s up.
Mark’s watching me with a little smile. “I said I’d help. Not that I’d cut it down all by myself while you watch.”
I frown a little. “But you always—”
“Times are a-changing, Byrne,” he says, using the saw to indicate the frost-covered ground. “Here, get down. I’ll walk you through it.”
“I can’t lie on the ground in this,” I say, glancing down at my faux-fur parka. My white faux-fur parka. And my best jeans, the ones that, even half off, are far too expensive for rolling around in the dirt.
“Thought you weren’t dressed up,” he says, tucking his tongue in his cheek.
Oh. Ohhhh. So that’s how this is going to be.
If I had even a lick of sense I’d just tell him that I dressed up because I know Joey Russo, high school boyfriend extraordinaire, is working the checkout stand today and I need to look my best.
But there’s nothing—and I mean nothing—more insufferable than letting Mark get his way when he’s got that smug, I-outsmarted-her look on his face.
So instead I smile prettily and lower myself as gracefully to the ground as I can, considering my jeans are tight from too many holiday treats and my boots have a three-inch heel. A chunky heel, but still.
He blinks in surprise, and it’s almost worth the dirt I’m getting on my outfit.
I’ve called his bluff.
A gentleman would extend a hand and haul me to my feet, tell me he was just joking, and that of course he’ll cut down the tree for me. Mark’s a gentleman.
He hands me the saw.
