Page 34 of Merry with Me

“I don’t actually have a tree.”

“What?” she gasps. “You don’t have a tree? As in, you get a real one and have not bought one yet, or you don’t own a tree at all?”

“The second one.”

“You don’t put up a Christmas tree?” she asks, appalled.

“I don’t.”

“Why?”

I can feel her stare, but I keep my eyes on the road. “It’s just me. My parents go over the top every year, but I can’t see the point of all the decorating when it’s just me. Besides, as you know, I’m not a fan of the holiday.”

“What did Christmas do to you?” I can hear the disbelief in her tone. She’s having a hard time with this, just as I knew she would.

“It wasn’t exactly the holiday itself, but this time of year,” I confess. I don’t know why I admitted that to her. I don’t talk about my past. I left it there, buried deep. I expect more questions. What I don’t expect is her hand to land on my arm in silent support. “It’s in the past,” I tell her. Unable to help myself, I take one hand off the wheel and place it over hers. Her hands are chilled, so I change hands on the wheel and turn the heat up, pointing it toward her.

“I’m not cold.”

“Your hands are icicles.”

“My hands are always cold this time of year.”

I don’t reply, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her sit back in her seat. Her head is turned toward the passenger side window.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. I don’t know what happened to make you hate Christmas, but I’m sorry. It’s a magical time of year, and my heart hurts for you that you don’t experience the magic.”

I slide my hand to her thigh and squeeze gently. “Long time ago,” I repeat.

“What about before?”

“Before what?”

“Before whatever happened in the past? Did you love Christmas then?”

“Yeah.” My lips twitch with a grin. “My mom goes all out, and my parents have held an annual holiday party every year since they’ve been married. This year will be thirty-five years.”

“Wow. That’s awesome. I bet your mom and I would be the best of friends,” she says with a chuckle.

My hand is still on her thigh, over the dress pants she wore today, and I have no plans to move it. Instead, my thumb traces small patterns. “Yeah,” I agree. She’s right, my mother would love her. Both my parents would love her. In the short amount of time I’ve been around her, I can’t find a single thing about Blakely Kincaid that I don’t like.

Even her love for Christmas.

“Hey, are we going to your place?” she asks.

“We are. I put dinner in the Crock-Pot before I left for work this morning.”

“Oh, yeah, and what are we having?”

“Roast, potatoes, and carrots. I just need fifteen minutes to bake us some biscuits.” I watch as her eyes widen in surprise.

“You cooked for me two nights in a row. I feel spoiled. Be careful, Ollie, I might end up making your place my new hangout,” she jokes.

I’m okay with that.

The thought surprises me, but I know it’s true. This woman and her bubbly personality are infectious, even to a grumpy, jaded man like myself.

When I pull into the driveway, I hit the button to raise the garage door. After pulling inside, I quickly close the door to ward off the cold weather. She’s cold, whether she wants to admit it or not, and I won’t be a contributor. “Stay put,” I tell her before reaching for my door handle.

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