Page 21 of Fa-La La-La Land
Halloween’s not big in Australia, and Thanksgiving doesn’t exist at all, but I’ve been here long enough to know Americans love both.
“No, I’ve decorated for Halloween.” She points to a picture of a little girl in a long white dress with a red ribbon at the waist, a ring of candles on her head, smiling like she’s won Christmas.
It’s obviously Stella—the smile gives her away. What’s less obvious is how it isn’t another Christmas decoration. “What does that have to do with Halloween?” I ask.
Stella looks from me to the photo like it’s obvious. “I’m in my Halloween costume. I went as a little Swedish girl.”
“To be clear, you’re dressed as a little Swedish girl at Christmas—for Halloween?”
Stella nods enthusiastically, and I swallow a laugh.
“I love Christmas. What can I say?” she says with a smile and a shrug.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Of course you’d think it’s weird, but who doesn’t love Christmas? Besides, you know, people who don’t celebrate it for religious reasons.”
“You mean like half the world?” I grumble, lifting an ornament from the box. “Where do you want this?”
“It’s got to be more people than that, right?” She points near the top of the tree where she can’t reach. “I mean, I don’t think many people celebrate Christmas in China or India, and there are billions of people there. So, you know… Santa deserves to have at least one superfan to make up for all the people who’ve never believed he existed.”
I hook the ornament on a branch, then face Stella. “And that superfan is you?”
Her lip quirks. “Jealous I’ve moved on from being arabid fanof yours?”
I search her face, looking for a clue to what she’s getting at.
“That’s what you called me the first time we met—in the hallway outside Dex’s apartment—a ‘rabid fan.’”
That gets a proper laugh out of me. “I’d forgotten that. Reckon I owe you an apology.”
She lifts a shoulder, not quite meeting my eye. “Ireckonwe’re even since you hooked me up with VibeHouse.”
I grab an ornament to put on the other side of the tree, where she can’t see me smiling. “ReckonI am a bit jealous I’ve been replaced by a guy who’s fictionalandolder than dirt.”
Stella peeks around the tree to give me a stern schoolteacher look. “Rhys, it’s October. We’ve entered the Season for Believin’. Any talk of Santa being fiction will be ignored and/or mocked.”
I scoff, but there’s no holding back my grin. Somehow, Stella’s worked her usual magic, and every bit of hurt and irritation I lugged in is gone. What’s left is the fizz of champagne bubbles in my chest. Her excitement over the simplest things is contagious. If I didn’t love Christmas before, I’m getting there now.
I might not even hate “Fa-La La-La Land” quite so much, knowing it makes her happy.
Chapter Eight
Stella
Idon’t know what weirds me out more: Rhys James in my living room—technicallyhisliving room—decorating my Christmas tree or Rhys James wearing normal clothes.
I think it’s the clothes. Not that I’m complaining about the way his dark jeans hang a little loose on his hips or the way his blue T-shirt makes his eyes even more magnetic. But I’m used to the bell-bottom onesies—with matching hats—and other crazy outfits he wears on stage. Sometimes he’ll wear pants and a vest. Usually no shirt. Always some variation of onesies and vests that shows off his chest.
He looks good in that kind of get-up, especially when a shirt isn’t involved. But I have to say, he looks just as good in jeans and a plain old T-shirt. Smells good too. Whatever he’s wearing has a musky sandalwood scent that blends nicely with the pine tree candle I’ve lit to create the illusion my Christmas tree is real.
To take my mind off how good he smells, how close he is, and the way his shirt rides up, giving me apeek at his firm stomach when he stretches to reach the highest branches of the tree, I talk. A lot.
“At home, we always put up a real tree but not until December.” I drag my eyes from his abs to the inside of his biceps. His shirt sleeve partially hides a tattoo I haven’t noticed before. I try to make out the words inked there while letting my mouth run like a car without a driver.
“The fake tree, though, goes up October first.” I hand him another ornament and point to a higher branch…because I have no willpower when it comes to rock stars with incredible stomach muscles.
“Mom sent me a box of ornaments so I’d have decorations for my own October tree. But I hope I can make it home to help her put up the live tree in December.”
