Smiling, Juliet stuffed her phone in the pocket of her royal-blue peacoat.Finally. “I always loved coming here with Aunt Beverly.”
“Did you visit often?” He parked beside a big diesel truck and turned off the engine.
“Whenever my parents were busy and didn’t want to have a kid around. So, basically, most Christmases until I went away to college.”
“Really?” Nate frowned. “Aren’t kids supposed to make the holidays more magical?”
“Not when you have prestigious parties to attend.” The slam of the passenger door punctuated her statement, but her words sounded more matter-of-fact than bitter. Her nonchalant acceptance of her parents’ ambivalence during the holidays made him sad for some reason.
He’d expected to have lonely Christmases growing up in a group home. While most of the staff had cared about him and the other boys and had done their best by them, they had their own lives and families to worry about. The holidays were always the hardest, serving as a blatant reminder that he was on his own. No fun family traditions like he’d seen in the movies. No matching pajamas, hot cocoa by the fire or singing carols together around a slightly out-of-tune piano. He’d grown accustomed to living without a mother’s and father’s love—without the kind of memories that made Christmas special. But what would it feel like to have two parents in your life who simply chose not to spend the holidays with you?
Oblivious to his melancholy thoughts, Juliet remained focused on the task at hand. “Frank said to get a seven-foot Frazier fir.” She led the way toward a row of full, fragrant trees. Their blueish-green branches stretched skyward, revealing a slightly silvery sheen underneath. He’d never seen anything quite like it. But as beautiful as they were, he wasn’t ready for the tree shopping experience to be over so quickly.
“First things first.” He strode toward the quaint wooden stand offering hot chocolate and s’more supplies.
Juliet begrudgingly followed. “We don’t really have time for s’mores.”
“Sure we do.” He slid a marshmallow onto a roasting stick and passed it to her.
She held the stick at arm’s length, as if he’d handed her a live snake.
Nate hid a smile as he made his way to the fire pit. She could use a little Christmas spirit.
The man with the banjo gave a friendly nod without pausing his country-western rendition of “Away in a Manger,” and the two kids scooted over to give Nate some room.
With a huff of resignation, Juliet joined him. She stuck her marshmallow directly into the flickering flames as if she couldn’t get the ordeal over with fast enough.
The little boy, who appeared to be around six years old, snickered. The girl—presumably his older sister by a few years—jabbed him with her elbow.
“What?” the boy cried. “She’s doing it wrong.”
Nate suppressed a chuckle, glancing at Juliet to see how she’d react. He expected her to be offended. Or annoyed. Or both.
Instead, she told the boy, “You’re right. I’m a little rusty at roasting marshmallows. Do you have any tips?”
He brightened, pleased to be called upon for his expertise. “Sure! You gotta hold it over this part. Watch.” He hovered his marshmallow over a patch of smoldering coals and embers. “It takes longer this way, but your marshmallow won’t get all burnt up.”
“That’s great advice. Thanks.” She followed his lead. “You’re really good at this.”
“I taught him,” his sister interjected, not wanting to be left out.
“Then you’re an excellent teacher,” Juliet told her, which made the little girl beam with pride.
Nate gawked at the exchange, completely dumbfounded. Miss Proust liked kids? More than that, she was actually good with them. Between agreeing to rewrite the middle school play,and nowthis, she’d thrown him off-balance. Was it possible he’d made one too many assumptions about her?
They roasted a few more marshmallows, chatting with the kids, who told a funny story about finding a deer mouse in their Christmas tree—that staunchly refused to vacate its cozy home—so they came back with their parents to exchange the tree for one that was rodent-free.
During the lively conversation, Nate tried not to notice how stunning Juliet looked when she smiled, how her dark eyes appeared lit from within. Or how her laughter sounded prettier than a thousand church bells.
Ugh. What a sap. Get ahold of yourself, Nate.You can admire her from afar. But that’s all. Got it?
He reiterated the mental pep talk several times as they finished their s’mores and made their way back to the row of Frazier firs. But no matter how adamantly he mentally reinforced the invisible boundary line, he couldn’t resist the urge to stick a toe across it. Juliet intrigued him in a way no other woman had. In truth, women and dating had fallen off his radar since he’d joined the military, when every waking moment revolved around the current mission—and making it home alive.
Lost in her own thoughts, Juliet brushed her fingertips across the feathery branches, her expression wistful, almost reverent. “‘My woods—the young fir balsams like a place / Where houses all are churches and have spires.’” The familiar words escaped her lips in a soft murmur, and Nate did a double take, certain he’d misheard.
Juliet’s eyes widened, and she blushed, as if she’d just realized she’d spoken aloud. “Sorry. The trees made me think of an old poem.”
One he knew well. “‘I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas trees. / I doubt if I was tempted for a moment / To sell them off their feet to go in cars / And leave the slope behind thehouse all bare, / Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.’” He quoted the next few lines of the Robert Frost poem “Christmas Trees”—the poem he’d recently put to memory.
