Page 3 of Winter Break Up

Better than anyone should be legally allowed to look in snow-covered jeans and a massive winter coat. Because it’s basically like he’s naked, flexing all those muscles dragging that tree through the powder, when really, he’s covered head to toe.

Or maybe that’s just my imagination deploying any number of the fantasies I dream up about Mercer Russell when I’m deep in sleep and can’t prevent myself from thinking about him. It’s been three and a half years since I saw the boy whose heart I broke before leaving for college, and he’s grown into a man in that time.

Of course, I know that from the sleuthing I’ve done online. But seeing his tall, lean, and honed body in person is a whole different ballgame than the pictures that get posted of him on social media. And I do mean of him because, of course, Mercer is way too cool to keep up his own social feeds. Almost makes him cockier that he doesn’t have a bone in his body that cares about impressing his Internet friends, and the guy always did have a big head to begin with.

Pair those collegiate athlete, soon-to-be professional athlete, muscles with those sapphire eyes, golden-blond curls, and the singular dimple in his right cheek, and yeah, Mercer Russell is pretty lethal to a woman’s nether regions.

As he hefts the Douglas fir that the Corkin family requested, I can’t help but observe that whatever time he’s spending in the gym, or more likely with an expert trainer, is working. Mercer has been a phenom on the soccer field ever since I can remember; from the time we were little, it was like he needed to have that black and white ball surgically removed from his foot he was kicking it around so much.

When my older brother, Charlie, told me that Mercer was being scouted for the league and considered for a roster spot on our country’s national team, it didn’t surprise me in the least. What I didn’t count on was him coming home for our last winter break before the final semester of our individual senior years.

See, Charlie, Mercer, and I all grew up together. Mercer’s family lives around the block from mine in our suburban New Jersey town, and we had an easy childhood. Playdates at the park, ice cream, swim lessons in the summer, homecoming games, and dances in the fall, with all the traditional childhood moments and milestones.

The boys called me Charlie’s little sister because, technically, I am. But only by one month short of a year. I was the oops baby. Or, as my mom likes to say, “the best surprise gift we never knew we wanted.” FYI, that doesn’t make it sound that much better. But yes, my mom and dad got pregnant with me right after Charlie was born, thus sentencing us to a life of Irish twindom and being in the same academic grade.

We’d been the three musketeers until Mercer and I fell in love. It was a tale as old as time, the cliché romance between a sister and her brother’s best friend. Well, up until the point where I broke up with the boy I was head over heels in love with because I didn’t think we’d be able to get through college without destroying each other’s hearts. I just preemptively avoided all that.

“Oh, good, you two found each other.” Mom sends me a sly smile as she looks between my brother’s best friend and me.

I’m going to kill this woman. I mean, I won’t because she birthed me and is one of the best people I know, not to mention I crave her chicken soup too much to lose it, but the murderous twinges she’s evoking don’t go unnoticed.

My mom sent Mercer out here to help me on purpose, forcing our first meeting rather than letting it happen naturally.

“And not a moment too soon, isn’t that right, Em?” The asshole winks at me, that dimple shining like a cocky sexual innuendo.

The way he uses that nickname should not make my stomach flutter with butterflies the way it is right now.

“I was fine,” I mumble, even though I was about to collapse from the sheer effort I had to exert on that tree trunk.

Not working out for two months will do that to you, I suppose, but this holiday season will whip my ass back into shape. The burn of my muscles and cold air in my lungs is a welcome pain as opposed to the mental anguish I’ve been recovering from lately.

“But you were better when I showed up.” Mercer says this under his breath so only I can hear, and a sneaking suspicion tells me he’s not just referring to back there in between the rows of trees. “So, can I make a clean cut for you all and then tie this one up in a bow?”

The way he charms customers is something I forgot, seeing as he hasn’t worked on our family tree farm since we broke up. There was about a week two years ago when he was around, but I’d been on a school ski trip with some college friends, and I think my absence was the reason he helped my parents out. Other than that, we haven’t seen each other since that summer after high school graduation, and it’s disorienting to fall into a conversation with him now. As if no time has passed, and there is no more bad blood about the way we separated.

The truth is, the more—and more—I think about how things ended between Mercer and more, the more I regret them. At first, I thought the freedom was what I wanted. What we both needed. Mercer is going to be a soccer superstar, he’s destined for greatness. The way I loved him was far too great for me to suffer a heartbreak over. I wouldn’t have survived it. That’s why I cut things off before he could.

I saw how girls looked at him back then, like he was a gorgeous meal ticket. I knew what I would have to put up with, the gossip that would come with a long-distance relationship. And it’s not that I’m insecure—I feel quite confident about my body and my looks and always have—it’s just that the thought of maintaining our connection while living separate lives sounded exhausting. I was young, unsure of what I wanted out of the world, and it felt like the smart move to break up.

We were a high school relationship, a teenage love that felt all-consuming in the moment.

At least that’s what I told myself back then and for years after. That it only felt so real and perfect because we had zero responsibilities, and it was a puppy love situation. But with each boy I met and each relationship I got into and subsequently ended, I realized I was chasing something I’d already had.

If I dig deep enough, I’ll have to admit a truth I’ve been burying for a long time: breaking up with Mercer Russell was probably the worst decision of my life, and it seems like he still holds a ton of animosity over it.

Seeing as how he’s never come back, or at least not places where we would bump into each other. And his greeting out there on the farm was nothing close to cordial. It’s why I tried to throw out that détente, to soften his attitude toward me since we are clearly going to be working together this winter.

My damn brother always has to throw me curveballs in life. He used to say he was making up for the fact that I showed up not too long after he did and stole his spotlight, and part of me wonders if he was half-joking about that.

In reality, I have no reason to be annoyed with Mercer. Aside from his aggravatingly gorgeous face, which always looks so smug, I can barely escape it when I go online or turn on the TV these days. But he’s never done anything wrong to me. I was the one who messed us up. Being pissed at myself and taking it out on him isn’t fair, so I need to take some deep breaths and be rational.

The sound of a Christmas tree thunking down on the slab of plywood set atop two table horses grabs my attention. I watch as Mercer easily throws the thing around, ropes it up, gives the bottom a fresh cut, and then offers to tie it to the Corkin’s roof. Actively trying to keep my jaw off the floor, I attempt not to stare as he does what takes me nearly half an hour to do in all of three minutes. And when they try to hand him a tip, the jerk puts it in the community jar.

God, why does he get to look like that and also act like a saint?

“Dude, you trying to show me up on the first day of the season? Calm down.” Charlie walks up to Mercer, and they do that whole bro slap handshake thing before giggling like schoolgirls.

“We going to keep count again this year? Remember the one winter I whooped your ass? Oh wait, that was every winter.” Mercer whistles through his teeth.

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