Page 31 of Tinsel & Timber
While I am looking through all of their unique, handmade wares, I find a single ornament that stops me cold: a small, hand-painted house, snow dusted on the roof, tiny red door. Looks almost exactly like hers.
I buy it, and a few others, without hesitation.
I make one final stop at Dockside Cafe to pick up two peppermint mochas for us both, and then I head to Mara’s place.
I back into the driveway, and put the truck in park. Mara is standing on the front porch, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed over her chest and a warm smile on her face.
“Graaaaham,” she draws outmy name when I climb out of the truck. “What are you doing?”
I hold up the cup carrier. “I brought coffee.”
“Uh-hu. And what’s that in the back of your truck?”
I grin and glance toward the bed. “What does it look like?”
Her eyes widen. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did.”
“Graham Whitlock, did you just bring me a Christmas tree?”
“Yes. But in my defense,” I say, circling around to the tailgate, “I figured every old house deserves a proper tree. Especially one with as much history as this.”
She bites her bottom lip, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”
“Persistent,” I correct.
Mara descends the porch steps, her boots crunching lightly in the snow. “Persistent would be texting me about it first. This is borderline presumptuous.”
“Presumptuous is my middle name,” I say, deadpan.
That earns me a laugh—the kind that hits low in my gut.
She stops beside me, hands on her hips, and glances at the tree. “You really did this,” she murmurs, softer now.
“I wanted to surprise you,” I admit.
She glances up at me, her expression shifting from teasing to something gentler. “You did.”
“Here.” I hold out the coffees. “Why don’t you take these inside and I’ll get the tree?”
She accepts the cups, her fingers brushing mine for just a second—barely there, but enough to short-circuit my focus.
“Careful,” I murmur. “They’re hot.”
“So are you,” she says under her breath, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
I glance up sharply. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes wide and playful, and for the first time all morning, I forget how to breathe properly.
“And I’m going,” she adds quickly, turning toward the house. “Before I start saying anything else embarrassing.”
“Too late for that,” I call after her, smiling to myself.
The truth is, I don’t mind her unfiltered. Not one damn bit.
As I maneuver the tree through the doorway, the scent of coffee mingles with the sharp, fresh pine. Once it’s upright and secure in the stand, I step back and wipe my hands on my jeans.
She hands me my coffee. “You have sap on your face.”
