Page 56 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
‘Are you sure you’re supposed to feed him after midnight?’
‘What, because ofGremlins?’ Noel laughs and when he looks up at me, there’s something soft in his eyes that look closer to blue than green in the harsh light of the bare bulb above us. ‘You’re the only person I’ve ever met who loves that film as much as I do.’
‘It’s a Christmas classic. I used to watch it every year.’ I reach over and give Gizmo’s back a rub but he turns away from me, protecting his biscuit in case I want to steal it. ‘They turn into little monsters if they eat after twelve.’
‘Well, Giz is already a wee monster, aren’t you?’ He rubs the back of the dog’s neck and the affection in his voice is palpable as he hands him a few more biscuits and Gizmo returns the look of love as he munches them happily.
When he’s finished and checked us both over for signs of crumbs, he resigns himself to both his and our biscuits being gone and gets down from the sleigh to trot across the barn for a few laps from his water bowl. There’s a soft-looking basket filled with cushions and he climbs into it, turns in a few circles and then curls up. Noel puts his mug down on the bench, takes the fleece blanket that was between us, and goes over to cover Gizmo up with it. ‘He’ll have to have a lie in tomorrow to make up for the late night. He’d stay in bed all day if he could.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I mutter.
‘Oh, me too.’ He groans as he stands upright again and walks back over to the sleigh.
‘Don’t you have too early a start to be up this late?’
‘Yep, so do you.’ He jumps into the sleigh and settles back against the bench again.
I can’t help the nervous flitter at the thought. Or maybe it’s how close he’s sitting now that Gizmo’s not between us, or maybe it’s the fact that ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ comes on the radio and he’s humming along under his breath without realising it, or how the scent of sawn wood mixes with the charred cinnamon of his aftershave, and the proximity makes it even sexier. I suddenly want nothing more than to rest my head on his shoulder and breathe him in.
‘C’mere, you’ve got wood dust in your hair.’ I have to swallow a few times before the words come out without a wobble in them.
Instead of getting up and shaking it out like I thought he might, he shifts closer and turns slightly to the left so I can reach the back of his head.
His hair is thick and full of volume, with straight bits that stick out before they hang down and thicker wavy bits that give it its length. It always looks the perfect mix between scruffy and styled, and the temptation is too much to resist.
I slide one hand into the dark strands and brush away the little patch of dust from the wood he’s been sanding. It’s only a few grains and it disappears easily enough, but running my fingers through his hair feels surprisingly nice. Even when the wood dust is long gone and I should stop, I keep doing it. He’s cradling the mug of tea on his lap and he lifts it for another sip and his piercing clinks against the china, and if my fingers tighten in his hair, it’s a completely involuntary reaction. His eyes drift shut and he breathes out slowly, putting the mug down on the bench beside him. One hand drifts across until the back of his knuckles is resting on my thigh, and I take it as a sign that he doesn’t want me to stop yet.
I stroke his hair a bit harder, making it obvious that I’m stroking it rather than brushing out wood dust that was gone at least five minutes ago, and he sinks down against the bench and lets out the most ridiculously sexy moan that sends a tingle right the way through me.
‘What are you doing to me?’ he mumbles under his breath, his voice sounding ragged. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep losing myself around you, and it’s so unlike me, but I don’t want it to stop.’
I know exactly what he means. Everything is so easy with him, just being with him, spending time with him … When I’m close to him like this, when his walls aren’t up and he lets himself go a little bit, itiseasy to get lost in the moment, to believe that whateverthisis … it’s something that could be more.
His palm is facing up, open and inviting, and I let the index finger of the hand that’s not in his hair trail across it. His fingers close around it, entwining with mine. It makes me smile, and when I risk a glance at his relaxed face, the same smile has crept across his mouth too.
I realise I’m sitting here smiling at him for no reason, which is probably weirder than having one hand tangled in his hair and the other held in his fingers, and no matter how much I try to tell myself how weird it is, I can’t stop myself letting my fingers drift through his hair and shifting nearer to him every time he leans a bit heavier against me.
‘We should get together and watchGremlinssometime.’ His voice sounds distant, like an ethereal whisper.
‘You could always come over one evening. Bring Gizmo and some of those pumpkin spice popcorn kernels you’ve been selling at the market. I haven’t seen it for a few years now and Gizmo makes me want to watch it again.’
He lets out a guttural groan of longing. ‘That sounds perfect. On your twelve-inch CRT TV. In black and white.’
I stretch out the fingers that are linked with his and use them to whack his leg. ‘It’s not black and white.’
He lets out a low, contented laugh. ‘How can you tell with all the lines and static you get?’
I nudge his leg with my knee. ‘The TV isn’t my priority. I need to read books about Christmas tree farming, not watch TV.’
‘It’s good you have books, but you can ask me anything. I’ll always be happy to help, no matter what. It’s nice to feel needed.’ He rolls his head along the back of the bench until he’s looking up at me and his hair flops over his face. ‘Even if you only want me for my Christmas tree knowledge. I know when I’m being taken advantage of.’
I know he was taken advantage of before, no matter how much he blames himself for it, and there’s something underneath his playful tone of voice, a hurt that still hasn’t gone away, a silent plea that his knowledge isn’t the only thing I want him for.
I disentangle my fingers from his and reach up to tuck his hair back from where it’s fallen across his face. He lets out a breath and closes his eyes again, and my fingers go from tucking the same bit of hair back over and over again, to stroking across his earlobe, and trailing down the side of his face, my thumb brushing his stubble. I let the backs of my fingers dust across his cheeks, draw a line down his nose, my little finger tracing the outline of his lips, grazing across his piercing, and he shivers, but it’s definitely not in a bad way.
His lips part as he lets out a breath, his tongue wetting them, shifting the piercing, making it press against the skin of my fingers as I dance them across the curve of his upper lip again and again.
‘Please kiss me.’ His voice is barely a breath. I feel the words against my skin rather than hear them. It’s the most raw, vulnerable, unguarded thing anyone has ever said to me, and it makes my chest ache with longing.
