Page 36 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
He drags a hand along the bandage at the base of his skull. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need magic and Santa Claus.”
I huff out a breath. “Well, maybe I do. Need magic and Santa Claus, I mean. Come on, Three. If we’re going to be stuck together for the next few days, we might as well try to have some fun. And besides. It’ll be good for your brain.”
He squints at me. “How do you figure?”
“Because you’re going to have to teach me how to do all this stuff you were talking about.” I splay my hands. “I’ve never made my own advent-calendar chain or strung popcorn on a tree. I’ve never even gotten to pick out a tree, let alone trim it. My mom always has a professional designer decorate our house for the holidays.”
“But—”
“Douglas or noble?” I blurt.
“Huh?”
“Your fir trees. Noble or Douglas? Which do you prefer for Christmas?”
Our gazes meet, and Three tips his head, light flickering behind his eyes. “Wow. You really are persistent.”
A grin splits my face. “That’s the right answer.”
Chapter Fifteen
Three
Humboldt Farms is just over the bridge, about a mile up from the docks at Abie Lake. The sprawling property isn’t really so much of a farm as a few acres where Stanley Humboldt sells seasonal products he has shipped in from upstate.
Pumpkins and gourds in the fall. Christmas trees and wreaths in the winter. Fresh fruit and vegetables in the spring and summer.
This time of year, his best customers are typically tourists and a few less adventurous people living in the areas surrounding Abieville. That’s because most locals go out and chop down a tree themselves—either on property they own, or on land owned by friends or family.
At this point, though, I’m not about to suggest we trudge out to my Uncle Cubby’s place. We don’t have a chainsaw with us, and Sara probably wouldn’t let me exert that much effort anyway.
Not to mention the already-cold temperatures will keep dropping with the sun, and I’m not about to watch Sara shiver out in the woods.
Bottom line: Humboldt Farms and their pre-cut trees are our best bet under the circumstances.
As Sara drives us over the bridge, she keeps her gaze locked on the other side of the lake. At the first glimpse of red barn off to the east, she yelps.
“There!” She points toward the horizon. “That’s Humboldt Farms!”
“Yes, I know where Humboldt Farms is.”
She swings her focus back to the bridge. “It’s just that you don’t seem very excited.”
“Really?” I stifle a snort. “I think I’mjust the rightamount of excited.”
“Well, hopefully they’ll still have some decent trees left to choose from,” she chirps, ignoring my sarcasm. “What do you think we should get? Eight foot? Nine? Taller?”
I shake my head, finally surrendering to a chuckle. “I didn’t measure the ceiling back at the lake house, but we’re not at the Hathaway penthouse. I’d guess nine’s about right. Maybe eight if you want to leave room for the star on top.”
“See?” Sara shoots me a grin. “Thisis exactly why I need you.”
“Hmm.” I grunt, but my heart does a little zigzag in my chest. I like hearing that Sara needs me. A little too much.
No,a lottoo much.
“Thanks for remembering to get a star by the way.” She nods to indicate our haul from the Five and Dime. Bags of tinsel, white lights, ornaments, and the world’s ugliest Christmas tree skirt are in the back with our groceries. Luckily, we didn’t buy anything frozen, so there’s just enough time to grab a tree and get back home.
Another grunt from me.
