Page 9 of Snowed in with a Grinch

“Sawyer? Are you OK?”

The sight takes my breath away. Beyond the workshop lies what can only be described as a winter wonderland—if winter wonderlands came with humidity gauges and grow lights. Rowupon row of exotic plants fill the glass-enclosed space, their leaves creating a tapestry of greens and purples. Condensation beads on the glass panels above, catching the glow from carefully positioned grow lights and creating a constellation of tiny stars.

But it's Sawyer who catches and holds my attention. He's moving between control panels, his jaw clenched as he checks readings. The soft lighting in here casts shadows across his face, highlighting the worry etched in his features. His ridiculous Christmas sweater stretches across his shoulders as he works, and despite the situation, I can't help but appreciate how the damp air has caused his hair to curl slightly at the nape of his neck.

“The ambient temperature is plummeting,” Sawyer mutters, his gaze fixed on the rapidly dropping digital readout on the main control panel. “The backup generator's struggling, and the humidity's already below the critical threshold for thePaphiopedilum sanderianum.” He slams a fist against a control panel, and the alarm's shrill shriek echoes through the greenhouse. “Damn it.”

I step closer. “What can I do?” I ask, my voice barely audible above the alarm.

Sawyer whirls around, his eyes wide like he’s surprised I’m here “Noelle, you shouldn't be in here. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Too late. I'm already here, and you clearly need help, so teach me.” I plant my feet, crossing my arms over my light-up reindeer. “Put me to work, Mountain Man. I’m a fast learner.”

For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Then another alarm joins the first, and his shoulders slump slightly. “Fine. But you do exactly what I say when I say it. The air in here is saturated with moisture, and these plants are incredibly sensitive to temperature fluctuations. A sudden drop couldcause irreparable damage to their delicate root systems. And these plants are worth more than your car.”

“Evenwiththe custom Rudolph hood ornament?”

“Noelle...”

“Right. Serious business. Got it.” I mime zipping my lips, which earns me an eye roll.

He points to a stack of blankets. “Those are Mylar emergency blankets,” he explains. “But we need to use them strategically. ThePhalaenopsisare relatively hardy, but thePaphiopedilums, especially thesanderianum, are particularly vulnerable to chilling injury. We need to create microclimates to trap as much residual heat as possible.” He demonstrates, carefully draping a blanket over a scaffolding supporting severalPaphiopedilum rothschildianum, securing it with specialized clips that won't damage the plants. “The key is to maintain air circulation while minimizing heat loss. We need to prioritize the most vulnerable specimens first.”

“I can do that.” I grab more blankets and follow him to a section filled with orchids that are unlike any I've seen before—exotic and almost alien-looking, with complex patterns and colors.

“Like this.” His hands move with surprising gentleness for someone so large, and I’m again caught wondering how they’d feel wandering over my body... “We need to trap what heat we can until I can get the system stabilized.”

“Trapped heat. Sure.”

Working together, we move through the greenhouse, covering sections of plants. The space between the rows is narrow, forcing us to brush against each other as we work. Each time his arm grazes mine, or his chest presses briefly against my back as he reaches past me, electricity shoots through my body. The humid air makes his sweater cling to his shoulders, and Ifind myself repeatedly distracted by the play of muscles under the fabric.

“Careful with that corner,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he guides my hands to properly secure a thermal blanket. His larger hands envelope mine, showing me the exact pressure needed. “These specimens don’t like being knocked about too much.”

The proximity is intoxicating. Even in crisis mode, there's something intimate about the way we move together, anticipating each other's movements like we've done this a hundred times before. His voice grows softer, more passionate as he explains each plant's specific needs, and I find myself drawn in by his obvious devotion to his work.

“These are Paphiopedilums,” he says as we reach another elaborate display. He steps closer, one hand resting on the small of my back as he points out different features. “I’ve spent three years cultivating them. They were finally about to bloom.” The worry in his voice makes my heart ache, but there's also pride there, and maybe a touch of vulnerability.

“We'll save them,” I assure him as we carefully drape the thermal blanket over the delicate plants. Our hands meet at the corners, and neither of us pulls away immediately. “They're not giving up after three years, and neither are we.”

Sawyer's eyes meet mine as he gives me a nod. His passion for these plants transforms him, softening the hard edges I first encountered. As we work, he continues to explain each variety, his voice growing animated the more he shares their stories.

“This one is a Catts,” he says as we approach a particular orchid. His whole demeanor changes as he talks about it, like he's sharing a secret with a trusted friend rather than instructing an amateur. The orchid isn’t like the others, with vibrant colors that seem almost otherworldly. “It's one of my favorites, despite its... difficult nature.”

“Difficult how?”

Sawyer chuckles, a deep and resonant sound that sends shivers down my spine. His hands move expressively as he explains, and I find myself drawn more to his enthusiasm than the actual plants. “It's not always easy to work with. It has specific requirements, and if those aren't met, it will let you know in the most dramatic fashion.” He looks at me, his green eyes gleaming. “Kind of like you and your need to decorate for Christmas, I suppose.”

I laugh, finding his gentle teasing endearing. “There’s no harm in having specific requirements, Sawyer. Mine are about spreading holiday cheer, and your beautiful orchids are just trying to spread cheer in their own special way when they bloom, I guess.”

He pauses in his work, looking at me with a small smile. “You have a point there, Noelle. We're all just trying to create our own little world of joy and happiness.” He gently adjusts the blanket around another delicate plant. “It's just how we choose to do so that varies.”

“Is this how you find your joy?” I ask in an almost whisper. “Taking care of your plants?”

His eyes drop to my mouth, then return to my eyes as he nods. “It was.”

Was.

The word seems to stretch between us, charged with an unspoken understanding. I can feel the warmth of his body as he inches closer, the air thick with an earthy scent, and something electric that thrums beneath my skin. The humidity makes everything feel more intense, more intimate, as if we're wrapped in our own private world among his precious orchids.

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