Page 3 of The Make-Believe Marriage

“That’s basically it.” I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something she’s hiding. Maybe she’s not great at interior design, or the thought of having to kiss me bothers her more than she lets on. Maybe I read the situation wrong. “If you don’t want to?—”

“I do. You have a deal.” She holds out her hand, and I shake it. My boss invited himself and his wife over for Friday night, and I don’t have the time to be choosy. I’ll deal with whatever Krysten is hiding if it becomes a problem.

“This place is as stunning inside as it is outside,” Krysten says halfway through the tour of the place.

“Thanks.” The house is my pride and joy. Restoring it and turning it into the sanctuary it is today is what kept me sane in the months after the wedding disaster. But according to my sister, I need a little help brightening the place up. And I haven’t been in the mood to put up a tree or anything else remotely Christmassy.

“Where do I stay?” she asks, spinning around in the hall when I point to the door that leads to the guest room.

“Over here.” I open the door and motion for her to enter the room. It mirrors my bedroom with a similar ensuite bathroom. The only reason I’d chosen the other room was the view. This one overlooked the street, while my room had a view of the walled garden that’s the true gem of this place. Especially when the plants wake from their winter slumber.

“It has a fireplace,” Krysten’s voice rises, and she crouches down to peek into it, practically disappearing into the space.

“It works too. I’ll bring some wood up once we get your stuff moved in. If you’re still game.” I hold my breath and wait for her to turn around.

When she does, she has a small soot smudge on her nose. “Absolutely. Let’s do this.” Her eyes spark like the flames that will flicker in the fireplace tonight.

It doesn’t take us long to move her meager belongings from her place to mine.

“We can stick these boxes in the garage if it isn’t stuff you need. Same goes for any furniture you want to keep.” I put the box I’m carrying down in the entryway.

“There’s nothing worth keeping, aside from my plants. Garage works for the books in these as long as it’s dry and critter-free.”

Two trips later and enough green plants to fill a small greenhouse, and she’s moved in.

I’m dead on my feet. The boost of energy the chai latte gave me is long gone.

“Hungry?” I ask when we’ve found a spot for the last of the plants. Who knew they could be so needy? Some required full sunlight for at least six hours a day, while others preferred indirect light. Others yet needed a humid environment and were now staying on a small shelf in her bathroom. I’d promised to find something wider for them to sit on tomorrow.

“Starving. Do you want me to fix you a sandwich or something?” she asks, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “I just happen to be the world’s best sandwich maker.”

I shake my head. “How about pizza?”

By the time the delivery guy shows up, we’re both ravenous.

I grab paper plates, and Krysten serves us each a slice piled high with every type of meat the pizza place downtown has to offer.

“The first thing you need is a Christmas tree,” Krysten says, digging into her food and washing it down with a glass of water.

“Right. I hope they’re not completely sold out.” Christmas is still a week away, but most people snatched theirs up in early December or sooner.

“The lot down by the shopping center still had a few left earlier today when I drove by. They might still be open.” She glances at her phone.

“I guess we should go grab it while we have the chance.” I shove the rest of my pizza in my mouth and wipe my hands on a napkin.

We get lucky and come back with a decent tree and a whole bag of ornaments and lights Krysten insisted we’d need when we stopped for a tree stand on the way back.

“Ready to set this up?” she asks, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Let’s do it.” I’m surprised by how much fun I’m having. The thought of decorating the house had seemed like such a chore, but Krysten’s excitement is rubbing off on me.

“Alright, step one. Let’s get this tree into the stand.” She pulls the forest-green metal contraption from the box and puts it together.

Getting our five-foot Douglas fir into it is another story. “Watch out.” A branch slaps across my face, the scent of the tree engulfing me, along with the sticky substance that covers both of my hands.

“Sorry. Let me just nudge this a little farther back ...”

Thirty minutes later, we finally have the tree in place, and after some trial and error, it passes Kyrsten’s inspection.

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