Page 38 of Take Me Home

“That’s not what I meant. I’m not a snob about—I mean, I wouldn’t automatically reject a—” She gestured at him vaguely.

Ash clutched his chest. “Hold up. I’m not a pity tree.”

“I didn’t mean you, specifically. I have no idea what you’ve got going on—”

“It’s notA Charlie Brown Christmasin there, I can tell you that.”

A vision of him in the Lovebird Suite, his sweatpants tented by his morning erection, made Hazel cover her face with her freezing hands. “Oh my God. Why are you like this?”

“What am I like?” When she uncovered her eyes, he was still smiling, his dark eyes burning amber.

She rubbed the waxy needles of a nearby branch between her thumb and forefinger. “What’s this one?”

He watched her for a moment, refusing to follow her subject change. What did he want her to say? Between the models and his ambitious workload and the music he’d only ever played because the CD was jammed, she didn’tknowwhat he was like, not like she thought she did. He reminded her of a magic trick she’d seen as a kid: a book with totally blank pages, suddenly filled with black-and-white images, then colorful ones with two simple waves of a wand.

He licked his lips, made her wait before his gaze finally shifted over her shoulder. “That’s a Leyland cypress. Nice shape. Doesn’t really have a smell.”

Hazel leaned in and breathed deeply. He was right. It had no scent. She faced the opposite line of trees. Ash hadn’t been totally off the mark about the kind of tree she would have chosen for herself—small and unique. But for her peace offering she needed something impressive.

“You’re the expert,” she said. “What’s the most classic tree?”

“Can’t go wrong with a Douglas fir.” He pointed at the end of the walkway, where a batch of trees leaned against the outer wall of the lot.

She could smell the sweet, earthy aroma before she reached them. Yes, this was the Christmas smell she was after.

“They’ve got sturdy branches. Good for decorating.”

“This is more like it.” She muscled one out and stood it up. But it barely surpassed Ash’s height, maybe six and a half feet. She leaned it back and righted another, then another. “They’re all short.”

The lot wasn’t as full as the ones she remembered wandering through as a kid, tugging her dad along behind her. But maybe that was because everything looked bigger from a kid’s vantage point. Then again, they also usually got their tree well before Christmas.

Ash confirmed her suspicion. “The best ones go early.”

“So, these are all the leftover trees no one wanted?”

“No,” he said slowly then again with more confidence. “No, sometimes the good ones are hiding behind all the basic, traditional trees that everyone picks first.”

“You just said the best ones go early.”

“I meant the ones everyone thinks are best.”

She squinted, blinded by the midday sun behind him. “Are you saying there’s some weird, artsy, emo tree with quiet, overlooked beauty tucked in a corner? Hair in a bun, dorky glasses?”

He grinned. “Yes.”

“I don’t know, that still sounds like a pity tree to me.”

They wandered to the other side of the lot, where a teenager emerged from a trailer and asked if he could help them find anything in a tone that begged them to say no.

“We’re looking for a tree that would be into Sylvia Plath,” Hazel said.

“Actually—” Ash pointed at a menu on the side of the trailer and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

She laughed. Even his wallet was duct-taped.

“Can we get a couple hot chocolates?”

“You don’t have to pay,” she said, remembering his tight finances. “This is my errand I dragged you on.”

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