Page 37 of The Christmas You Crash

I gently hip check him. “Told you I was a master tree-picker. I can’t believe you doubted me.”

“Doubt you? Never.” He bumps my hip right back. “I’d never bet against you, Lexi Cross. I know a winner when I see one.”

My heart pulses with a glow similar to the lights on the tree. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Enough with the sweet talking. Let’s decorate this baby, so I can see those boxers of yours. I need to know what all the fuss is about.”

The groan Ryder lets out fills the room, but he digs through the bin full of ornaments with me. He picks out one of the silly homemade ones I created in grade school. His big, strong fingers handle it carefully as he twists it around to admire every angle. “This is cute. You had a real gift with elbow macaroni.”

Hand on my chest, I gasp in faux outrage. “Had? I’ll have you know, I’m still a wiz with the macaroni. I just tend to cook it these days.”

“Sure, sure. A likely story, Miss Cross. A likely story.” He hangs my little macaroni rainbow front and center before pulling a red frosted glass bauble out of the bin. “I bet you have a whole craft room at your place with different colored pasta and shelves lined with Elmer’s glue.”

“You’ve got me all figured out.”

I pull a pretty framed wedding photo ornament out of the bin, and my chest squeezes. My parents. It’s difficult to remember that they were happy once. The arguing and contention of the last decade seems to have overwritten all the happier memories that came before. Noticing my gaze, Ryder’s big body appears behind me. His broad chest brushes against my back as he looks over my shoulder.

“Wow. Hard to believe Coach was ever that young.”

Harder to believe he ever looked that carefree and happy.

“Yeah. I guess it’s a good thing we’re putting these up. If one of my parents had come across this, they probably would have thrown it away.” I debate keeping it in the bin but finally hook the ribbon loop around a branch. “Maybe I’ll take it with me when we leave.”

I’ll probably just shove the ornament in a box or a drawer myself, but even though I’m pissed at both of my parents for the way their marriage ended, I can’t bear the thought of all their memories being discarded like trash. As though they never meant anything.

“Do you have a favorite ornament?” Ryder asks cheerily. He’s trying to keep me from spiraling, and I appreciate it. He’s much more observant than I would have guessed. It’s hard to get much past him.

“I do,” I tell him. “But it’s not here. It’s in the box of ornaments at my mom’s house. I don’t know if she put up a tree this year.” Imagining her decorating a tree with Jeff while theyplay house makes me feel a little nauseated. Don’t get me wrong, I want my mom to be happy, but does it have to be with Jeff?

“Tell me about it.” Ryder hangs another bauble. He’s cute. While I would have expected him to place the ornaments randomly on the tree, that’s not what he does. He studies the area and makes sure there’s enough space between ornaments, so they don’t look crowded. I’m starting to suspect he shows the same care with all the fragile things in his life.

The girls he dates are lucky.

Pushing that depressing thought straight off the cliff of my subconscious, I picture the cute little ceramic ornament my grandma bought for my first Christmas. She’s gone now, so it holds even more sentimental value. “My grandma gave me this adorable little bear hugging a candy cane for my first Christmas. The colors are muted and soft, and it’s just so sweet and pure, you know? Plus, she wrote my name and the year I was born on the bottom of it, so that’s special. Every time I put it up, I trace her shaky writing and remember her.”

“That’s sweet,” Ryder says, offering me a gentle smile as he hangs another ornament.

“What about you?”

He’s quiet for a moment. His sky-blue eyes go hazy, as though he’s seeing something a million miles away. “My mom liked to crochet. I have a few hats and blankets she made, but my favorite project she ever did was this silly little ornament. I was obsessed with the Ninja Turtles as a kid. Michelangelo was my favorite. I had this orange strip of fabric with eyeholes cut out of it, and I’d wear it everywhere. I tried to wear the thing to kindergarten a few times, but she caught me before I could leave the house in it.” He chuckles at that, and my heart squeezes. There’s an achingly soft quality to his expression and tone. Like the memories of his mother are precious secrets he doesn’t reveal to anyone. They’re jewels he hoards like a dragon.

I want to hear everything he’ll tell me.

“Anyway.” He shakes his head, dislodging the memories. “That year, she crocheted an ornament of Michelangelo’s face for me. It was amazing. I have no idea how she shaped it and captured his expression so well, but she did. Every time I hang it on the tree, it feels like she’s giving me a hug. Like she’s standing there beside me, telling me she loves me.” He peeks at me from the corner of his eye. “It’s silly.”

“No,” I say gently. “That’s not silly. Not at all.”

We stare at each other for what feels like several minutes before his lips quirk into a thoughtful smile. He looses a gust of breath between his pursed lips and shakes his head. “How do you get me to spill my guts like that? It’s a spell, isn’t it?”

He’s not the only one spilling his guts this week. I’ve opened up to Ryder more than I’ve opened up to anyone, outside of my best friends, Rachel and Adam, in a long time. I’m not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, I feel inexplicably comfortable around Ryder. There’s this sense of safety he exudes. It’s rare to experience that with someone, and I want to explore it more. On the other hand, if I indulge this, I’m setting myself up for pain and disappointment.

Right now, we exist in an icy, untouchable bubble. But bubbles always pop. The plows will come through, the roads will once again be passable, and this week will end. I’m not delusional enough to believe that whatever this is will survive those plows. It can’t.

But I’m tired of fighting myself and these damned conflicted feelings. How often do you get snowed in with an incredibly handsome man who makes you forget the rest of the world? Never, that’s how often. Which means I’d be an idiot to ignore this strange little gift fate has given me. It’s the moment I decide I’m going to enjoy the rest of my week with Ryder Hanson. I’ll try not to think about the future or what might happen if I allowmyself to give in to temptation. I won’t dwell on how much it will hurt when Ryder inevitably prioritizes hockey over me. I won’t harbor a secret hope he’ll pick me. Because that way lies madness.

Maybe he’s right. There’s some kind of spell in the air, but it’s not of my doing. I’m just as enchanted as he is.

Hoping it comes off as flirty and mysterious and not just weirdly demented, I flash Ryder a coquettish smile and bat my eyelashes. “A spell? Are you saying I’m magical?”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “You’re definitely magical. Now, let’s finish this tree. I’m ready to get in that hot tub.”

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