Never Sleigh Never, page 6
This is my favorite weekend of the year, and after the week I had, I need it. Desperately. The Saturday after Thanksgiving is my day to start prepping for Christmas—I’ll be hand selecting the perfect tree that will spread Christmas joy up until the New Year. I meander down row after row of pines on my quest for the perfect tree. Not too big, not too small, not too bushy, but not bare.
There’s an art to this. Step one: freshness test—no mass needle loss, no brittle limbs, no flimsy “I gave up in July” vibes. Fresh trees will have flexible boughs and an abundance of crisp needles. I’ve spent years perfecting my tree-picking abilities, and every year, it pays off. I run my fingertips over the dark-green needles and shake my head. Sorry, tree, you’re staying here. Step two: sturdiness test—no bowed or crooked bases. I crouch down and peek underneath at the trunk. Slight lean to the left. That won’t do. Rising, I move on to the next row, which features Canaan firs. They’re rich in color with full branches that are great for displaying ornaments. But it’s not my favorite tree, so I move on to the next row and inhale the woody scent of a balsam fir. The scent of Christmas fills the air. While an acceptable tree, the needle retention makes me twitchy, so I move on to the next. I run my hand over the soft, dark-green needles. Now this is Christmas tree perfection. The classic conical shape with compact upward-sloping branches makes for excellent support for all types of ornaments. Be still my tinsel heart. I continue to stroll around the Fraser fir. Step three: scent test—I inhale the crisp, woody pine fragrance as I inspect every branch to make sure it’s flawless. Suddenly, a familiar voice piques my interest. Glancing up, Logan’s wearing a red and white Santa hat while the little girl, who must be his daughter, is wearing a reindeer headband.
She runs past to a tree a few feet in front of me. “Daddy! Daddy! Let’s get this one!”
That confirms my suspicion. Slinking back, I hide behind the dense branches of the Fraser fir. Between the needles, I fix my gaze on Logan as his head drops to the base and lifts up, and up, and up. It’s almost twice his six-foot height.
“I don’t think that one’s going to fit in our living room. Let’s keep looking.” Logan rests his hand on his daughter’s shoulders and guides her to a row of much shorter trees.
Spying on Logan is like gawking at a terrible car wreck. It’s intrusive to stare but impossible to look away. I finally get to see him as Logan, single dad, and not Logan who annoys the hell out of me. Consider it research. Plus, hiding saves me from any potential unpleasant interaction, especially when he’s with his daughter.
As they stroll from tree to tree, I ping-pong along, seeking refuge behind the needles of a white pine.
“Daddy, what about this one?” She points to a Canaan fir.
“Good choice,” I whisper to myself.
“I don’t know. Do you think you’ll be able to put the star on top?” he asks.
“Yes!”
“Let’s see.” Logan picks up his daughter and hoists her above his shoulders. She pretends to place a fake star on top of the tree. “I think that one’s going to be perfect.”
“Me too!” She exclaims.
A tiny sliver of my Logan hate… thaws. Ugh.
He glances over his shoulder—toward my white pine and I duck. Unfortunately, the tree doesn’t offer as much coverage as I’d like. Holding my breath, I send a prayer to the Christmas Gods he doesn’t catch me spying on him.
“Hey Brie! I figured I'd see you here.”
Willa. Shit. I pinch my eyes shut. My cover is blown. I whirl around and promptly hook my right foot behind my left, throwing off my balance. My arms windmill, but it’s useless. Like a lumberjack chopping down a tree, I topple over. Willa lunges to help, but instead of saving me from falling, I grab her jacket sleeve and take her down with me in a tangle of limbs. I take the brunt of the fall. That’s a lie—a white pine took the brunt while I came in a close second. Like dominoes, the entire row of trees crashes onto the snow. Willa cackles while heat flames up my neck.
Mason rushes to Willa’s side. A rumble of laughter escapes his throat. “I can’t take you anywhere.” He stretches his hand out to her and hoists her to her feet.
“Not my fault,” she retorts.
The sunlight disappears as a dark cloud passes above me. My gaze drifts up. Not a cloud—Logan. The corner of his lips tip up into a smile, causing his signature sexy dimple to peek through. He stretches his hand down to me, and I stare at it as if it’s a venomous snake. I lift my hand to swat it away, but from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of his daughter, eyes glued to us, and I think better of it.
“I don’t bite.” His voice is low, almost seductive.
A montage of Logan’s hands roaming my body, nipping at my heated skin, biting—nope. Not today brain. Instead, I reach up, placing my hand in his. As soon as my skin connects with his, an unfamiliar feeling races through my body. It’s warm, almost comforting. Before I can think too much into it, he effortlessly hoists me to my feet.
“Are you okay?” The words are soft as they tumble off his lips. His fingers still wrap around my hand, our bodies inches from touching.
Physically, yes. Mentally, hell no. “Yeah. I think so,” I squeak out. His gaze skims down my body, and I’m not sure if he’s searching for wounds or checking me out, but as his lips part, I’m leaning toward the latter.
He brushes a hand down my arm and stalls at my hip. “I’ll, uh… let you get that.”
Glancing down, a smattering of snow and dirt cover my thigh and around to my butt. Why does a part of me wish he had brushed it off himself?
I wipe it off. “Thank you,” I mumble.
He leans in a fraction, giving me a front row view of his dimple. “What was that?”
“Thank you,” I grit through a fake smile.
“You’re welcome.” He steps back, and the air loosens its grip on my lungs.
“I guess the rumors are true,” Mason says to Logan.
Ice slides into my stomach. What rumors? What has he heard? My underwear? The coffee incident? Has Willa said anything to him?
Mason releases Willa and covers the distance to Logan in two easy strides. “It’s good to see you again. I thought the rumor mill was drunk, but here you are. Nice hat.” He flicks the pom on Logan’s Santa hat.
Logan laughs. “It gets me into the holiday spirit.”
The little girl from earlier barrels over and tugs his hand. “Daddy! I found the perfect tree!”
Logan wraps his arm around her shoulder and tugs her to his side. “And this one picked it out for me.”
Willa crouches down. “And who is this cutie?”
“I’m Josie. This is my dad.” She points to Logan.
“Hi Josie. I’m Willa.”
Logan gestures between us. “These are my friends: Willa, Mason, and Brie. This is my daughter, Josie.”
Friends is generous, but I let it slide. I squat beside Willa. “Josie, do you like candy canes?”
She bobs her head up and down. “Yes.”
“Would you like one?” I pull a red and white striped candy cane from my pocket and hold it out to her. Surprisingly, it’s still in one piece.
She glances up at Logan for a brief second, and then her hazel eyes, a spitting image of Logan’s, meet mine. “My daddy says I can’t take candy from strangers.”
We all chuckle.
“Finally, something I tell her sticks,” Logan says with a chuckle. “It’s okay. You can take it.”
Josie snatches the candy cane from my hands. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
She peels the wrapper and pops the end in her mouth. “Daddy, can I look at the trees over there?” She points to a cluster of white pines.
“Yeah, but stay where I can see you,” Logan says.
“Okay.” She skips to a tall, full white pine.
“You have an adorable daughter,” Willa says.
“Thanks. She gets everything from her mother.”
“Except she has your eyes.” Shit. Heat flames over my cheeks. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
Logan’s gaze hooks mine; his mouth almost—almost—tips into a smile before he turns to Mason. “I hear you’re a firefighter.”
“Yep, protecting the fine folks of Mount Holly. He wraps an arm around Willa. “Especially this one.”
While they talk, Logan flicks glances over Mason’s shoulder to make sure he can still see Josie. My ovaries wave balloons and shoot off party poppers, wanting to invite the single dad standing in front of me to the party. Traitorous ovaries.
Willa lifts a finger. “That was only one time.”
“Twice actually.” Mason chuckles.
She winces. “Right. The flambé incident. But you were already at the diner, so I didn’t call you.”
“If I hadn’t been there,” he says, “the Jolly Biscuit might be a crispy biscuit.”
“You’re insufferable.” Willa shakes her head but laughs.
“Are you free sometime this week?” Logan asks Mason. “I’m working on a few things and thought you might be interested in participating.”
“Yeah. Call me,” Mason says.
While Logan and Mason continue to talk, Willa nudges me with her elbow and whispers, “Did you thank him for your present?”
“No,” I mouth. I regret telling Willa about the dryer sheets. Since yesterday, she’s been hounding me about the meaning behind giving someone dryer sheets. I told her there is no meaning. They’re dryer sheets, but she insisted you don’t give just anyone dryer sheets. He was thinking of me or my underwear and brought them to my house. I reiterated Logan is cocky and probably did it for his own amusement. “There’s no reason to—”
Willa blurts out, “Brie says thank you for the dryer sheets!”
Logan turns around, brows raised in amusement. “You’re welcome.”
I give him a tight-lipped smile with a shrug. “I’m static-free today.”
“Glad to hear,” he says.
Henry races over, hands raised in disbelief. A dark gray trapper cap with light tan, wool ear flaps sits on his head. It’s kind of ridiculous but oddly fitting for Henry. It matches his black and gray flannel jacket, so he’d be stylish if he were to model for the Great Northwoods magazine.
“What the he—heck happened here?” Henry sensors himself when he spots Josie. His gaze follows the line of destruction.
“The trees wanted to play dominoes,” I say, aiming for adorable and landing somewhere near guilty golden retriever.
Logan leans down and whispers, “While you were secretly spying on me.”
I glare at him. Unfortunately, it’s true. My gaze meets Henry’s. “I’m so sorry. It was an accident. I lost my balance and took the trees and Willa with me. I’ll help you pick them up. And if there are any damaged ones, I’ll pay for them.”
After we right the fallen trees, Josie leads Logan, followed by Henry, down the pathway to show them the perfect tree she found. Logan chases after her, and Josie’s squeals of laughter fill the air. When she’s within arm’s reach, he scoops her up, a beaming smile covering his face.
Willa bumps my arm. “You’re staring.”
“No, I’m not. I’m—I’m assessing needle retention on that balsam fir to determine if it’ll last until Christmas.”
Willa mock coughs into her hand. “Liar.”
Slowly, I turn toward her and glare. All she does is smirk. “We’ll chat later.” She waves as she saunters off with Mason to pay for her tree.
I’m now the proud new owner of three additional Christmas trees. Luckily, my SUV has plenty of roof rack storage, so transporting them wasn’t difficult. Unloading them was a different story. If it were nighttime, I’m sure Vana, the county sheriff, would be knocking on my door, questioning me about the body bags my neighbors told her I was dragging through my front door. While I love Christmas and I’m enthusiastic about every aspect of the holiday, I never imagined I’d be the person with four trees in their house, but there’s a first for everything. Maybe this will be the start of a new tradition. The silver lining: my home now smells like a high-end pine candle. After scouring through bin after bin of all my Christmas decorations, I find two extra stands, but I’ll have to purchase a fourth one. In the meantime, I fill a five-gallon bucket with water and prop the tree against the wall in my spare room until I can place it in its proper home. In the kitchen, I fit the smallest tree. Another is set up in my bedroom, and the crème de la crème of trees is front and center of the picture window in the living room for all passersby to enjoy.
Unlocking my phone, I cue up my Christmas playlist. “Last Christmas” by Wham! floats through the air. I sashay from one side of the room to the other as I meticulously place boxes of ornaments by color on the floor. Every year, I switch up the decorations. I’ve done scattered, random colors everywhere, and even candy cane stripes, but this year I want to try an ombre effect. Lifting a box of light pink ornaments off the floor, I hold them up to the tree. As I twirl to the opposite side, I contemplate whether I want to go light to dark or dark to light. With the box still in the air, I rest a hand on my hip. The smooth, rich voice of Dean Martin as he croons “Silver Bells” flows through the speaker, and I become one with the tree, letting the holiday music lead my way. As soon as he hits the chorus, I nod. “Yes. The perfect ombre effect with the dark ornaments starting at the bottom. Thanks, Dean. You always have the answer.” I set forth to make my Pinterest-worthy Christmas tree.
When I finish the bottom half of the tree, I step back and admire my handiwork. All the pieces are falling together perfectly. The tree anyway. Everything else in my life is a clüsterfünke. Mariah Carey slides in with “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and like a traitor, all my thoughts drift to Logan and seeing him today. It’s hard to deny that single dad Logan is hot. I pinch my eyes shut and scold myself for using “Logan” and “hot” in the same sentence, but it’s true. Warmth skates up my spine. His daughter is adorable, though. The way he was so gentle and patient with her shows me he’s not an asshole all the time, only to me.
Maybe Sloane and Willa were right, and I’m judging him too harshly. Maybe deep down, buried in the bowels of his soul, he has an ounce of friendliness in him. Or it was all for show because his daughter was there. That seems like the most logical answer. Either way, I need to stay focused on the Holly Jolly Festival and beating Logan’s carnival and not on how I want to see him wearing nothing but the Santa hat.
Eight
Said No One Ever
Logan
For two straight days, sunrise to well past sunset, minus the couple of hours I went tree shopping with Josie today, I’ve been at the carnival. The original plan was a two-week run up to Christmas—finish on the twenty-fifth with skating, roasting marshmallows by the fire pits, and families spending the day together. It’s what Brooke always wanted. Unfortunately, I underestimated what all goes into organizing a carnival, and the two weeks of holiday fun is now cut to one.
If there’s a silver lining, work has been a good distraction from thinking about Brie and why she was secretly watching me at Reindeer Ridge. The way my body sparked to life when I pulled her up… yeah. Not helpful.
“What should we start with?” Josie’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. She has been hounding me to decorate the tree since we picked it up, so I promised her we’d spend the afternoon fully immersed in decorations.
“Blue ornaments.” I cue up a YouTube fireplace, playing a soft Christmas melody because our new place lacks the real thing. Ten out of ten for the ambiance. Zero on the heat, or lack thereof.
She pops the flaps on a box and hands me a blue and silver swirled ornament.
I hold it up in the air. “Where should this one go?”
Josie taps her chin as she contemplates the perfect spot. It’s something her mom would always do. She would meticulously place every ornament in the best spot for optimal viewing pleasure.
“How about there?” She points to a spot on the top right side of the tree.
“Perfect.” I secure the ornament to the end of the branch. We fall into a rhythm of passing and placing ornaments on the tree.
At the bottom of the next box, she pulls out one last ornament. A frosted white star edged in gold. “We have one more.”
All the air is sucked from my lungs. I’ve avoided hanging that ornament on the tree for the past two Christmases, and I actually forgot about it, until now. “That was your mom’s favorite,” I say, my voice rough. “She said it reminded her of you— her brightest star.” Every year, Brooke would buy a new ornament for Josie. The instant she saw the star, she knew it was perfect and refused to continue looking. “Where should we hang it?”
She holds up the ornament, tapping her finger against her lips. “I think it should go up there.” She points toward the top of the six-foot tree.
“Alright, you’re the boss.” I hoist her up, and she slides the hook over one branch until it dangles in place. It’s the exact same spot where her mom liked to hang it as well.
Once we’re finished, we place the empty ornament boxes back in the plastic bins until it’s time to take the tree down.
“I’m going to FaceTime Grandma so I can show her the tree!” Josie dashes out of the room, up the stairs, and toward her bedroom.
My gaze wanders over the tree. Brooke would be proud. God, I wish she could see it. Another year, and it still doesn’t get easier.
Josie returns to the living room with her tablet in front of her. “See Grandma? This is the tree.” She turns the screen around. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s so beautiful,” my mom says.
While they chat, I slip upstairs. When I reach my bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed, resting my elbows on my knees and comb my fingers through my hair. They say time heals all wounds, but it’s been three years, and my wounds are still gaping open. I thought moving from the house we shared and closer to my family would help, but so far, nothing. The grief counselor I saw after Brooke passed away told me everyone heals at their own pace. There’s no set time limit, but right now I wish there was and that I’m nearing the end.
