Page 32 of Christmas in Vines

What could I say to that—I was boneless. “Tyler…”

“Hm?”

“Take us home…” I said, “… and when we get there, remind me to return the favor.”

* * *

Cutting the damn tree was one thing, getting it inside her house was a whole other production after dragging it in on a tarp, back up to the house and hauling it inside.

“Tell me again why the tree needed to be this size,” Tyler grunted while he and Ford strained to drag the behemoth tree from one of the many backdoors and into the main room.

“Is someone compensating for somethin’?” Ford grunted.

“Hardly,” I laughed. “It’s just the size that would fit our room. Anything smaller would have looked insufficient.”

When we got to the living room, I could see the shock resonate on Tyler’s face. This place was absolutely cavernous. It could easily be used to film one of those medieval Scottish period dramas as it could easily fit five long trestle tables.

“Now the real work starts,” Ford grunted, nodding to the frame we’d made outside while the tree defrosted.

By the time the two of them had lashed it to the frame and stood it up, got the tree to roughly where I wanted, another hour or so had passed; I felt tired for both of them. Gazing at it, the tree wasn’t too big; it was perfect, fresh and sharp with the sweet, refreshing scent of pine.

“I don’t envy you decorating this monster, Miss Clarkston,” Tyler said to me, trying to be respectable with titles. Then, he eyed me. “Are you decorating it or are you calling in…Martha Stewart or something?”

“No,” I smiled up at the tree. “I get on a ladder and do it myself.”

Ford whistled. “My best to you on that.”

Tyler peeled his hat off. “On that note, I need to go rustle up some grub. I feel like I could eat a horse, and a half.”

I felt a bit guilty that I had kept him out so long and worked him so hard when I knew he was new to this labor life. “I’m pretty sure mess hall is wiped clean by now. I’ll have Lenny set you up with something.”

“Lenny?” he arched a brow.

“Our chef, short of Leonardo,” I said then knowingly added, “And before you go on blabbing about how we’ve got a fancy French chef, you should know he is an all American, Louisiana born, guy.”

“Oh. I want gumbo,” Tyler said instantly. “The authentic New Orleans version.”

“Gumbo?” I narrowed my eyes. “You know that takes up to three hours to cook, right?”

“Is it?” Tyle replied, eyes wide and innocent. “I’ll take a sub while waiting.”

I snorted and headed out of the room before Ford edged to Tyler and whisper-squawked, “Are you really flirting with the boss’s daughter?”

The room was big enough that their whispers echoed.

“Probably,” Tyler replied.

“Second question, did you swallow crazy pills?” Ford asked, “Or did a tree hit you on the head or something.”

“No,” he said, turning back to the tree he’d chopped down. “It’s harmless fun.”

“Until you get massacred with a toothpick,” Ford was about to have an episode. “Dude, you cannot be serious. The boss’s daughter? His only kid? Do you have a death wish?”

Tyler turned to him. “You don’t think I’ve got a shot?”

“I think you’re gonnagetshot,” he said while heading to the door. “I dunno man. When old man Clarkston comes at you with a cleaver, just say I told you so.”

I ducked out of the room and headed to the kitchen, had a quick word with Lenny and when he showed me what was bubbling on the stove, I had to roll my eyes. When I got back to the room, Tyler was alone, slowly circling the tree with awe stamped on his face. Was he thinking about how he had cut it or was he wondering what it would look all covered in ribbons and bows and baubles?

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