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“One can never be too careful.”
“There are so many things I could say right now, but you asked me to behave.”
I mock gasp. “What? You mean you’re going to do something I asked?”
With a shake of his head, he nudges me ahead of him. “Such a ballbuster. Let’s go,” he says when I start laughing.
As we walk side by side toward the entrance, our hands brush, and for one brief second, Jake’s fingers grip mine before letting go. The connection sends a bolt up my arm and lands in my chest.
We head off to the rows of cut-your-own Christmas trees. The cold air around us smells like evergreen and pine. It makes me smile, thinking back to Christmases of my childhood.
Row after row of firs, pines, and spruces surround us. Tall ones, short ones. Big full ones that remind me of the huge tree fromChristmas Vacationand skinnier ones that are half that size.
Jake walks ahead of me, glancing side to side at the trees.
“Are you even looking at them?” I call out to him.
“Yep,” he calls back over his shoulder.
I roll my eyes, my boots crunching on the ground as I walk faster to keep up with him. “You’re hardly even looking at them.”
He stops and faces me, bringing me up short. “I know what I like when I see it.”
That look in his eye says he’s not just talking about trees. Heat rises in my face and I step around him.
“What about these?” I motion to a couple of the pencil-thin trees.
“Too skinny. Santa needs a big-ass tree.”
“Santa will have a big-ass tree. But these would look great around the front door. Don’t you think?”
He raises a hand. “Hold on, Gray. I thought we were just decorating the inside.”
I place my hands on my hips. “Jake Henderson. Did you really think you’d get away with having the plain old, normal-looking outside? The packaging is the most important part. We’ve gotta do the outside too.” I hold my hands like I’m praying against my chest. “Please?”
He blows out a breath and scratches his cheek. “Alright, fine. Let’s get someone to tag these while we find the real tree.”
I smack his chest with the back of my hand. “These are real trees, you goob.”
“If you say so.”
We flag down one of the lot workers, who tags the two trees with red “sold” flags, and continue the hunt for the larger tree.
It’s another twenty minutes and numerous rejections before we finally find an eleven-foot Douglas Fir that makes us both stop and stare.
“This is the tree,” Jake says, looking up at it.
“This is the tree.”
Eyes wide, he turns his head to me. “We actually agree on this tree?”
I smile, nodding. “We agree.”
“Well, holy hell. Make a note of this date for posterity.”
“You are such a smart-ass.” But my words are said through laughter.
“Yeah, I still got it.” He winks and his grin is infectious as he walks away backward. “We’re going to need some help with that monster.”
