Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Kat
Later in the afternoon, I’m pouring my favorite caramel creamer into my second cup of coffee, needing the extra pick-me-up after a morning of sketching that didn’t go quite the way I wanted, when my phone buzzes with a text from Samantha.
SAMANTHA: About to head out on a shoot, but I’m dying to know what you meant by “strange development.” Spill. And don’t give me some vague bullshit answer.
I stare at the message, debating how much to admit. Part of me is dying to tell someone the truth about this whole fake boyfriend situation, but how do I even begin to explain it without sounding completely unhinged?
Hey, remember how I was dreading coming home because of my ex? Well, funny story, I accidentally acquired a fake boyfriend who happens to be a professional hockey player and looks like he stepped off the cover of a magazine.
But this is Sam. We’ve been best friends since elementary school art class, when she used to steal my good erasers and I’d retaliate by mixing her paint colors together into muddy brown disasters.
If anyone’s going to understand why running into Daniel and his perfect new fiancée at the airport made me temporarily lose my mind and do something this impulsive, it’s her.
I quickly do an internet search for Asher’s name and scroll through images until I find a good one—a Philadelphia Strikers promotional shot where he’s looking right at the camera, his dark hair perfectly tousled and a serious look on his face. I screenshot it and send it to her.
ME: This man is currently staying in the guest house.
I stare at the message for a second, then type out another one before I can chicken out.
ME: Oh, and also, everyone thinks he’s my boyfriend.
I know I probably won’t get a response for a while since she’s heading out on her photo shoot, but my heart races a little now that my friend will know the truth. I’m dying to talk to her about it, to get her perspective on this whole bizarre situation I’ve found myself in.
I take my coffee to the window and look outside, noticing it’s started snowing.
Just light flakes drifting down like something out of a holiday movie, but it’s so festive and cozy that it puts me right into Christmas spirit.
The snow catches the afternoon light, making everything look soft and magical.
I look around the cabin, remembering how festive it used to look around the holidays when Sam and I would come here to spend time with her grandparents when we were kids.
Sam’s parents have since moved to Florida for the warmer weather, but I can still picture how magical this place looked with Christmas decorations up.
Twinkling lights in every window, garland draped along the mantle, and always a huge tree in the corner that seemed to take up half the living room.
On a whim, I decide to get a small Christmas tree for the cabin. Since I’ll be here for a few weeks, I might as well make it feel like home. Besides, the place looks a little sad without any holiday cheer, and I’ve always been someone who goes all out for Christmas.
I grab my keys and coat, and head outside. The cold air hits my face immediately, crisp and clean in the way that only happens when it’s snowing. As I’m walking toward my car, Asher comes out of the guest house, and we almost bump into each other on the path between the buildings.
“Hey,” I say, pulling my coat tighter around me. “What are you up to?”
“Just grabbing some stuff I left in the car,” he says, holding up a small drugstore bag. “I forgot I had some toiletries in there. Figured I should actually bring them inside before they freeze.” He pauses, studying my face. “What about you? You look like you’re on a mission.”
“I’m going to get a Christmas tree,” I tell him, gesturing with my chin toward my car. “I know it’s probably silly since I’m just borrowing the place, but…”
“That doesn’t sound silly at all.”
I almost ask him to come with me but hesitate, not wanting to impose. He’s already done so much to help me out with this whole fake relationship thing, and I don’t want him to feel obligated to participate in every little domestic activity I decide to undertake.
Before I can get to my car, he stops me. “Kat.”
I turn around, surprised by something in his tone.
“Want some company?” he asks. “I could help you get it onto your car. Those things can be heavier than they look.”
Butterflies take off in my stomach, and I nod. “Sure. I could definitely use the help.”
He grins, and the butterflies multiply. “Give me two seconds.”
He jogs back to the guest house to drop off his drugstore bag, then meets me at my beat up Honda.
As we both climb in and I start the engine, I realize this is the first time we’ve done something together that wasn’t directly related to our fake relationship arrangement.
I don’t quite know what to think about that, but I’m definitely not mad about it.
“So what brought on the tree shopping?” he asks as I navigate the winding road toward town, windshield wipers working to clear the light snow.
I gesture to the winter wonderland developing outside. “This. I know it sounds cheesy, but even though Christmas in other places is nice, nothing has ever quite compared to snow falling in my hometown. There’s something about it that just puts me right into the holiday spirit.”
“I can see that. It does look pretty picturesque out there.”
“I usually don’t decorate much when I’m living in apartments,” I continue, warming to the topic. “It never feels worth the effort when you know you’re probably going to move again in a year. But being here, in a real house with a fireplace and everything, it feels different.”
“I usually don’t decorate for the holidays at all,” he admits, adjusting the heat as the car warms up. “Never really have time during the season, and it doesn’t seem worth the effort for just me.”
“That’s so sad!” I make a face. “Christmas decorations aren’t just for other people.
They’re for you too. There’s something about transforming a space, making it feel warm and magical.
My mom used to let me help with the whole house when I was little, and I’d spend hours arranging ornaments and making sure everything was perfect. ”
He chuckles at my enthusiasm, and the sound washes over me in the small space of the car. “You really get into it.”
“Guilty as charged. I’m one of those people who starts listening to Christmas music in November and has to resist the urge to put decorations up right after Halloween.”
“What’s your favorite Christmas song?”
“Oh, that’s easy. ‘White Christmas’ by Bing Crosby. Classic, timeless, perfect. What about you?”
“I don’t really have one. Like I said, not much of a Christmas person.”
“Well, we’re going to have to fix that,” I say with mock seriousness. “I can’t have a fake boyfriend who doesn’t appreciate the magic of Christmas music.”
The McGuire Christmas Tree Farm is busier than I expected for a weekday afternoon.
We pass families wandering between the rows of evergreens, couples debating the merits of different varieties, and kids running around with hot chocolate from the concession stand that the lot owners have set up.
As soon as we get out of the car and start walking around, I become acutely aware of people looking at us.
It’s subtle at first. Glances that linger a little too long, whispered conversations between couples as we pass by. The small-town gossip network has definitely been working overtime, and people recognize Asher as a professional hockey player.
I flush a little, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry about this. I know you were trying to keep a low profile while you’re in town.”
He glances at the people checking us out, taking in the attention with what seems like practiced ease. “I’m pretty sure they’re looking at you, not me.”
“They’re looking at me because I’m with you,” I protest. “You’re the famous one here.”
“Maybe they’re looking at me because I’m with you,” he counters.
I laugh and roll my eyes, feeling heat creep up my cheeks at the implied compliment. “Right. Because I’m such a head-turner.”
He doesn’t answer with words, but the look he gives me only makes my blush deepen.
We wander through the neat rows of trees, breathing in the crisp scent of pine and listening to Christmas music playing from speakers hidden throughout the lot.
I take my time examining different options, running my hands along branches to test needle retention and stepping back to evaluate shape and fullness.
“This one,” I say finally, stopping in front of a Douglas fir that’s got perfect color and the kind of full branches that will showcase ornaments nicely.
Asher studies it critically. “It’s crooked.”
“Not that crooked,” I insist. “Look at that amazing green color, and see how full the branches are? It’s going to look perfect in the living room.”
“If you say so. You’re the expert here.”
Mr. McGuire, an older man who runs the lot with his wife, comes over to help us. He’s got the weathered look of someone who’s spent decades working outdoors, and he greets me with a familiar smile as he gives Asher a polite nod.
“Found the perfect tree, did you?” he asks, sizing up our Douglas fir with an experienced eye.
“We did,” I say. “What do you think?”
“Good choice. This one’s got excellent needle retention, and the trunk’s nice and straight… er, mostly, anyway. It’ll last you through New Year’s, easy.”
He and Asher work together to load the tree onto my car, Mr. McGuire providing the expertise while Asher provides the muscle. I watch them secure it with bungee cords, making sure it’s not going to slide off into traffic on the way home.
When they’re done, Asher pulls his wallet from his back pocket before I can even ask Mr. McGuire about the price. “What do I owe you?”
“That’ll be forty-five dollars.”