He grins, and the butterflies multiply. “Give me two seconds.”
He jogs back to the guest house to drop off his drugstore bag, then meets me at my beat up Honda. As we both climb in and I start the engine, I realize this is the first time we’ve done something together that wasn’t directly related to our fake relationship arrangement. I don’t quite know what to think about that, but I’m definitely not mad about it.
“So what brought on the tree shopping?” he asks as I navigate the winding road toward town, windshield wipers working to clear the light snow.
I gesture to the winter wonderland developing outside. “This. I know it sounds cheesy, but even though Christmas in other places is nice, nothing has ever quite compared to snow falling in my hometown. There’s something about it that just puts me right into the holiday spirit.”
“I can see that. It does look pretty picturesque out there.”
“I usually don’t decorate much when I’m living in apartments,” I continue, warming to the topic. “It never feels worth the effort when you know you’re probably going to move again in a year. But being here, in a real house with a fireplace and everything, it feels different.”
“I usually don’t decorate for the holidays at all,” he admits, adjusting the heat as the car warms up. “Never really have time during the season, and it doesn’t seem worth the effort for just me.”
“That’s so sad!” I make a face. “Christmas decorations aren’t just for other people. They’re for you too. There’s something about transforming a space, making it feel warm and magical. My mom used to let me help with the whole house when I waslittle, and I’d spend hours arranging ornaments and making sure everything was perfect.”
He chuckles at my enthusiasm, and the sound washes over me in the small space of the car. “You really get into it.”
“Guilty as charged. I’m one of those people who starts listening to Christmas music in November and has to resist the urge to put decorations up right after Halloween.”
“What’s your favorite Christmas song?”
“Oh, that’s easy. ‘White Christmas’ by Bing Crosby. Classic, timeless, perfect. What about you?”
“I don’t really have one. Like I said, not much of a Christmas person.”
“Well, we’re going to have to fix that,” I say with mock seriousness. “I can’t have a fake boyfriend who doesn’t appreciate the magic of Christmas music.”
The McGuire Christmas Tree Farm is busier than I expected for a weekday afternoon. We pass families wandering between the rows of evergreens, couples debating the merits of different varieties, and kids running around with hot chocolate from the concession stand that the lot owners have set up. As soon as we get out of the car and start walking around, I become acutely aware of people looking at us.
It’s subtle at first. Glances that linger a little too long, whispered conversations between couples as we pass by. The small-town gossip network has definitely been working overtime, and people recognize Asher as a professional hockey player.
I flush a little, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry about this. I know you were trying to keep a low profile while you’re in town.”
He glances at the people checking us out, taking in the attention with what seems like practiced ease. “I’m pretty sure they’re looking at you, not me.”
“They’re looking at me because I’m with you,” I protest. “You’re the famous one here.”
“Maybe they’re looking at me because I’m withyou,” he counters.
I laugh and roll my eyes, feeling heat creep up my cheeks at the implied compliment. “Right. Because I’m such a head-turner.”
He doesn’t answer with words, but the look he gives me only makes my blush deepen.
We wander through the neat rows of trees, breathing in the crisp scent of pine and listening to Christmas music playing from speakers hidden throughout the lot. I take my time examining different options, running my hands along branches to test needle retention and stepping back to evaluate shape and fullness.
“This one,” I say finally, stopping in front of a Douglas fir that’s got perfect color and the kind of full branches that will showcase ornaments nicely.
Asher studies it critically. “It’s crooked.”
“Notthatcrooked,” I insist. “Look at that amazing green color, and see how full the branches are? It’s going to look perfect in the living room.”
“If you say so. You’re the expert here.”
Mr. McGuire, an older man who runs the lot with his wife, comes over to help us. He’s got the weathered look of someone who’s spent decades working outdoors, and he greets me with a familiar smile as he gives Asher a polite nod.
“Found the perfect tree, did you?” he asks, sizing up our Douglas fir with an experienced eye.
“We did,” I say. “What do you think?”
