Chapter 8
Eight
Tarryn
I’m late. The day’s already running ahead of me, and I still need to head out to pick Christmas trees for Paradise Hill before the next storm rolls through.
I’m halfway out the door, juggling gloves, a clipboard, and a coffee that’s already gone cold when Declan appears out of nowhere, like the universe has a cruel sense of timing.
He looks like he’s just stepped out of a memory I haven’t quite forgiven.
“Where are you going?” he asks, voice casual but eyes too sharp, too knowing.
“I’m off to pick up the Christmas trees,” I say, keeping my tone clipped, professional. Like this is business. Like my pulse didn’t just skip a beat.
“Who’s going with you?”
“I can do this on my own.” I shove the clipboard into my bag a little too hard, trying to sound sure of myself, but it comes out brittle.
“Wouldn’t it be more fun with company?” His mouth curves, and for a second, I remember what that smile used to do to me. “Plus, a storm’s coming in.”
I glance past him to the window. Heavy gray clouds sag low over the hills. He’s right, but I’m not about to admit it. “I’ve lived here my whole life. I can manage.”
“I’ll join you.”
Of course he will.
“Fine,” I mutter, though it sounds nothing like fine. My pulse beats hard in my throat as I brush past him toward the door. The cold air hits, sharp and clean, but it doesn’t do much to cool me down.
The storm hits hard enough to turn the gravel road into a white blur. The windshield wipers keep time with my pulse. I grip the wheel and lean forward like a few extra inches will change what I can’t control.
“Bad idea,” I mutter to the glass. “Great idea,” I add under my breath. “Pick trees in a storm. Brilliant.”
Declan shifts in the seat beside me. “Say the word and we turn around.”
“We need three trees—one for the restaurant, one for the tasting room, and one for the employees.” I tighten my grip on the wheel. “Decorations go up tomorrow morning. I promised Elise we’d have them ready. We stick to the plan.”
He studies the road like he can will it to clear. “You promised. I’m here to keep you alive.”
“Drama.”
“Accurate.”
I pull into the farm’s long lane. The lights at the entrance flicker, then hold.
A wooden sign hangs from a chain. Evergreen Ridge.
The letters are edged with frost, and the snow piles on the crossbeam like powdered sugar.
The parking area is three rows of pale mounds and a hut with a string of bulbs that hum.
Someone has plowed a path, which is the first good omen of the day.
“We make it quick,” I insist. “One tall, one wide, one with personality.”
“Like us.”
I choke on a laugh. “Which one am I in that list?”
“Tall and wide are taken. Leaves you personality.”
I roll to a stop near the hut. A man steps out bundled to his eyebrows. He waves, then points toward a grove with numbered stakes.
“We’re late,” I mutter. “They usually close at four.”
Declan opens his door, and the wind grabs it. “Let’s make friends fast.”
We hurry to the hut. The man’s breath fogs as he talks.
He introduces himself as Hank, warns the storm is drifting faster than forecast, and says we can pick from rows seven through ten where he did a fresh shake-down this morning.
His words are chopped by gusts. He glances at me, then at Declan, then at the truck like he’s calculating how fast we can haul a tree and still beat the whiteout.
He hands me a battered tag gun and a stack of red ties.
“Cash inside when you’re done,” he adds. “If the lights go out, I’ll be here with a lantern.”
“Deal.” I tuck the ties in my coat pocket, nod at Declan, and aim for the path painted by his flashlight.
Snow needles sting my face. I keep my eyes on the dark shapes ahead.
Trees huddle in rows like crowds after midnight.
I love this part, the hunt for the right size and shape, the way you tilt your head to imagine a star at the top, the way it changes a room just by existing.
Christmas trees are decisions you can touch.
“Goal,” I shout over the wind. “Find the restaurant tree first. We need height. Ten feet. Dense branches. Photogenic.”
“Got it. Something that won’t shed if Beckett pokes it,” Declan calls back.
“He doesn’t poke. He critiques.”
“Same thing.”
We stop at row seven. Declan swings the light up a trunk and into a triangle of green that looks perfect even under a layer of white. I circle it, check the lower spread, the leader branch, the gaps.
“This one,” I announce.
“That was fast.”
“I know what I want.”
He lifts a brow. “That an all-purpose statement.”
“It fits our stand.”
I tag it. He loads it on the sled. We keep moving.
My boots sink past my ankles. The grove is quiet except for wind and the slap of lights on wires.
The path bends toward the slope that leads to the lower rows.
The farm stretches wider than I remember.
We picked here when I was a kid. Dad bought the tallest tree on the lot and declared it a tradition, even when we had to shimmy by it to get to the dining room.
We find a wide tree for the corner of the tasting room near the bottom of row nine, and Declan quickly loads it with the other. It has generous arms and a crown that will hold the big star Elise loves. I tag it and step back.
“That’s two,” Declan notes. “One to go. Personality.”
“Something scrappy. Employees will name it. They always do.”
He shines the light toward the fence at the far edge. The storm thickens. The bulbs along the path flicker. We’ve got maybe thirty minutes before even the path vanishes.
“Cut through there,” he suggests. “Fewer drifts.”
I nod. We angle toward the fence where the disheveled ruts of the lot live and I find the perfect tree.
I tag a third tree with long limbs that flare out and a top that corkscrews like it woke up surprised. “This one is fun.” It would make Charlie Brown proud.
“Perfect.” He says as he loads the final tree on the sled.
We pivot toward the path. The lights blink again. The wind rises like a train coming around a bend. A thud sounds behind us. I turn, but all I see is white.
“Hear that?”
“Fallen branch. Move. Storm’s closing in.”
We make it back to the hut, dragging the sled, and my mind jumps without permission to another winter.
The year after Declan and I ended. I skipped the tree entirely.
I pretended it didn’t matter, but every room felt hollow.
The year after that, Elise insisted I put one up at the cottage, and I let her, but I couldn’t bring myself to decorate it.
Just lights, no ornaments, no story. I glance at Declan now and wonder if he remembers, if he noticed the way I avoided the square that season. He probably did. He notices everything.
Hank appears with a clipboard and a knit cap that has a pom on top. He reads the tag numbers and writes the sizes with quick marks.
“Can you help us load?” Declan asks.
Hank points at his knee brace under his pants. “Can’t lift much in this weather. Use the sled. Back your truck to the ramp. I’ll tie them down.”
I glance at the lane. It’s already filling. The plow passes, throwing a wave. For a second the lot is bright and then it’s dim again.
“Let’s go.”
We drag the first tree on the sled to the truck.
Snow slides off in clumps. The needles are cold and wet under my gloves.
We hoist it, wrestle it into the bed, and push it forward until it thumps against the cab.
Hank tosses a rope like he used to rodeo.
We repeat the steps for the second tree.
My breath saws. My scarf clings to my mouth.
I keep my focus small. Lift. Slide. Tie.
The third tree is lighter. It bumps over a rut in the path.
The wind knifes through my coat, and I grit my teeth and keep moving.
“Last one. You good?”
“I’m freezing and I love it.”
He huffs. “Only you would love this exact level of suffering.”
“It’s festive suffering.”
We get the third tree into the bed, and Hank ties it down. He steps to the driver window and leans in. “Road will be bad for a bit. Storm’s due to peak in twenty minutes. You might want to wait it out in the lot for a half hour.”
“We have chains.” I shake my head. “We can crawl.”
He shakes his head. “You’ll slide at the first turn. Stay put. I’ll bring cocoa.”
I consider the clock in my head. We were supposed to be back in an hour. We were supposed to drop the trees at the cottage and then head to the tasting room to set up the stands and lights. We were supposed to be on schedule.
Declan watches my mouth as I calculate. “We can spare thirty. We’ll still make your morning decorating party.”
I hate being trapped. I hate losing ground. He knows that. He leans in a fraction and waits me out.
“Fine. Thirty. Then we go. Hank, don’t worry about the cocoa. You can get warm in your house.”
Hank tips his hat and plods to the hut. Declan rubs his hands and nods at the truck.
“Cab or backseat?”
“Cab.” I slide behind the wheel. He climbs in, shuts the door, and the sudden quiet is startling. I didn’t notice how loud the wind was until it stops. For a second, the world narrows to the tick of cooling engine parts and the sound of us breathing.
He pulls off his gloves and sets them on the dash. “I’m turning on the heater.”
“My hero.”
“Say that again after I dig us out later.”
He gives the heater a minute, then holds his hands over the vents. The tip of his nose is pink. His hair is damp with melted snow. He looks like winter got in a fight with him and he won. I stare a beat too long and then turn to the windshield.
“You can’t fix this by standing between me and whatever this is. I don’t want to be another target you care about, and I don’t want to be the reason you get hurt.”
“So you’d rather I stop showing up?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
“That a real yes or a protection yes?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
I breathe in steady. “You’re getting too close, Declan.”