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“You a little bit lost?” the man called down from the bucket loader. He smiled handsomely through a layer of dark stubble. “Or do you just like big trucks?”
I emerged from behind the fir tree, where I’d been watching him shovel pea-gravel into a concrete holding pen for the past thirty seconds. He killed the engine and jumped down.
“Sorry,” I said, turning six different shades of red. “I was watching to see which direction you came from.”
“You wandered off the path, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“Well there aren’t any trees down this way,” he smiled. “This is the edge of the masonry yard.”
The man wasbig,at least six-foot four and built like every lumberjack I’d ever seen in a movie, TV show, or on a roll of paper towels. He was much better looking, however than the guy with the handlebar mustache that dominated the toiletries aisle.
“What you wanna do is head back that way,” he pointed with one great arm. “Stick to the fence, and when it ends turn left. The line of Christmas trees begins there, and you can backtrack…”
He stopped mid-sentence, eyeing me over. His grin widened as he nodded toward the bucket loader. “Hell, just jump in and I’ll drive you down there. Wouldn’t want something this pretty getting run over.”
With a wink he gestured toward the series of black corrugated steps that led into the loader’s cage. Thanking him, I hopped up and slid across the seat.
“Youarelooking for a Christmas tree, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I admitted. “A tall one.”
He started the machine up again with the push of a big button, then grunted over the noise it made. “Good. We’ve got plenty of those.”
Our thighs touched as the machine bumped its way over the frozen mud, heading back in the direction I’d come. I was here because the apartment was feeling especially empty, and I suddenly wanted a tree of my own. I’d gotten angry that my last tree — as beautiful as it had been — was now a compacted, splintered mess rotting away in some landfill.
And my anger was all directed at Drake.
Fuck Drake.
It had been my mantra for a whole week. Did Drake have a Christmas tree right now? No doubt he did. So why the hell couldn’t I have one?
Seeing the once-decorated corner of my loft so empty and devoid of decoration had made me furious last night. So much so that it was affecting my art.
So get a tree, bitch.
The answer had been so obvious I nearly bit off my own inner tongue.
What the hell are you waiting for?
And so here I was, wandering the biggest Christmas tree lot I’d ever seen in my life. Looking for a tree that would be even bigger, better, and more badass than the one I’d dragged in anger to the curb.
Oh yes, and sitting next to a mountain of a man. One who was so ruggedly handsome yet uncannily gentle, he could’ve been plucked from any of the last ten rom-coms I’d immersed myself in.
“I’m Kade, by the way,” the man said, extending a naked hand.
“Sloane,” I smiled. I pulled my glove off and shook with him, noticing how warm and perfect his calloused palm felt. “Nice to meet you.”
The machine rumbled on, rolling slowly along the fence. The lines of Christmas trees came into view again — hundreds of them, laid out in neat rows and columns. Immediately I could see where I’d made my wrong turn.
“Sloane, I’m going to put you on the biggest trees we have,” said Kade. “In fact… hang on.”
He killed the engine again, then put two fingers into his mouth and whistled. It was that loud, crazy whistle I’d always admired people could do. I’d tried it in the past, but could never do it.
Two men came over, both wearing the same sherpa-lined work jackets Kade had on. The Carhartt logo on the pocket was unmistakable.
“This is Sloane,” Kade said. “She needs a tree.”
