Chapter Twenty
Holly
T he air is filled with the scent of pine, cinnamon, and roasting chestnuts as Mark and I stroll through the market.
It’s my favorite scent of all time. Warm, soft, comforting. The twinkling fairy lights strung overhead, the small stalls selling handmade ornaments, woolen scarves and warm, delicious food making me feel like a kid again. I can’t help but smile as I take it all in, a rush of excitement coursing through me.
Mark, however, is walking beside me, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “How the hell did you rope me into this?” he mutters, his breath puffing out in a little cloud.
“Because you love me,” I tease, grinning up at him.
He blows out a breath, shaking his head.
“Look how pretty everything is, Mark. You need to appreciate the beauty.” I gesture around us at the glittering lights and festive decorations.
He turns his head to look at me and I catch a glimpse of something soft in his eyes as they meet mine. “I am appreciating the beauty. ”
I roll my eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re barely looking around. You’re missing all the magic.”
He clenches his jaw, then sighs heavily before glancing up. “It’s just lights,” he mutters.
“Pretty lights,” I correct him. “I love Christmas markets. They make everything feel so festive and warm.”
He makes a face, blowing out a breath. “I fucking hate them.” I let out a laugh, and Mark looks over at me with a raised eyebrow. “What?”
“It’s just funny,” I say with a shrug. “How opposite we are. I love everything about Christmas, and you hate it.”
Mark tilts his head slightly. “Does it bother you?”
I shake my head, noting how he seems genuinely curious about my answer. “No,” I tell him. “I like a challenge.”
He arches his brow, leaning a little closer. “Is that what I am, sweetheart? A challenge?”
The nickname on his lips makes my face flush with heat, but I nod, forcing my body to act normally as I meet his eyes. “I’m going to make you like Christmas, Mark. Just wait and see.”
He chuckles a low, grumbly sound that makes my belly do flips. “Trust me, not even you can get me to like this holiday.”
“Come on,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward a stall selling hot drinks. His hand is warm in mine, and even though he grumbles, he doesn’t pull away.
“Where are you taking me now?” he asks .
“I want a hot chocolate,” I tell him, dragging him into the line at the stall.
Mark lets out a sigh, but doesn’t say anything as we wait in line. By the time we finally get to the front, I can tell Mark is frustrated as his eyes widen at the menu. “This is ridiculous.”
“Hot chocolate is never ridiculous,” I tease with a smile.
He raises an eyebrow, turning to face me. “There’s no reason milk and powder should cost ten bucks.”
He might be right about that, but I shrug anyway. “I don’t expect you to pay. You’re my friend, not a date.”
His jaw tightens, and something crosses his face that I can’t quite read. “I’m paying.”
My brows dip as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
“Don’t fight me on this,” he says, glancing at me for a second.
“But you just complained about the price,” I point out.
“Yeah, well, you want one, so I’m going to get you one,” he says, stepping up to the counter. “Two hot chocolates, please.”
I smile to myself, knowing this is just a small victory in my plan to win him over to the holiday spirit. When we get our drinks, I take a sip, the warm, sweet liquid sliding down my throat. “Oh my God,” I say, closing my eyes as my mouth fills with the sweet taste. “It’s amazing.”
Mark takes a sip from his own cup, lifting his shoulder a second later. “It’s alright. ”
“Alright?” I repeat, my brows shooting up.
He shrugs. “I’ve had better.”
“Really?” I ask, my brows raising in shock. “I didn’t think you of all people would drink hot chocolate.”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked the dumbest question. “I don’t hate chocolate just because it’s associated with major holidays. I’m logical, not a monster.”
“Of course, my mistake,” I say with a grin. “So, where did you have this better hot chocolate?”
His face softens, a hint of nostalgia creeping in. “Mia used to make it around the holidays,” he admits. “She made it with real dark chocolate, not this powdered stuff.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I hate dark chocolate.”
“Of course you do,” he says, shaking his head.
I tilt my head at his expression. “What does that mean?”
He gives me a look as he drags his eyes down my body. “You’re sweet as sugar, Bambi. Of course, you’d love the sweet chocolate.”
My brows shoot up and a hint of a smile tugs at my lips. “Did you just compliment me?”
“Did I?” he replies, playing dumb.
“I think so,” I say, nudging him.
“I don’t remember,” he says as he takes another sip.
I roll my eyes but can’t hide my smile. “You’re not such a grump after all, are you?”
He gives me a dry look. “The sugar’s getting to your head. Is it time to go home now? ”
I smile at the way he says “home.” Not “my house” or “our house,” just “home.” It makes my heart feel warm. I’ve never belonged anywhere. After my parents died, every place I ever stayed at was temporary, and even though Mark’s place isn’t mine, it feels like I belong. It feels like home when I’m there.
“Of course.”
“Thank fuck.”
“After we get the tree,” I remind him.
He lets out a low groan but doesn’t argue or tell me no, and I take that as a win.
“It’ll be quick, I promise,” I say, leading him toward the rows of Christmas trees. “You might even enjoy it.”
He steals a glance at me and blows out a hard breath. “Somehow, I don’t believe you,” he mutters, letting me drag him along.
We walk between the rows of trees, and I examine each one, running my hands over the needles and checking for the right shape. “What about this one?” I ask, pointing to a big, puffy tree.
Mark looks at it for a second, then shrugs. “They all look the same to me.”
“They do not,” I protest. “This one is spiky at the end,” I say, pointing at one that’s completely the wrong shape. “And this one over here is more round. There are differences.”
“Sweetheart,” he says. “We’re talking about a tree.”
I love when he calls me that. I don’t know why. I’ve never been a big fan of nicknames, but there’s something about Mark being grumpy and burly and calling me sweetheart with his low voice that makes me shiver.
“This will be your first one, so I want it to be perfect.”
“It’s not my first one,” he corrects me. “My parents had one every year, and Charles and Mia decked out the whole place.” He shrugs, his hands in his pockets. “I’ve just never wanted one in my own place before.”
I note the way he says wanted. As in past tense. As in he wants one now. I don’t know if I’m slowly wearing him down to the idea of Christmas or if he’s just doing this to shut me up, but regardless, I’m so happy right now. I can’t remember the last time I decorated a Christmas tree. I used to love decorating mine with my mom when I was younger, but after she was gone, so was that tradition.
“I think this one is better,” I say, holding up the fuller tree.
“Great, then let’s get this one,” Mark says, clearly eager to get this over with.
“Wait,” I say, hesitating. “But that one is fuller at the bottom.” I point to yet another tree.
Mark groans loudly. “How much longer is this going to take, Bambi?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m starting to regret this whole trip.”
My eyes widen a little. “You are?” I ask. I thought he was enjoying himself here, with me, but maybe I was just focused on how much fun I’m having with him that I didn’t stop to think that maybe Mark isn’t enjoying it like I am .
He looks at me quickly, his eyes softening. “No, Bambi.” He sighs. “Fuck. I was just kidding,” he says, his voice gentler. “I think that one looks great.” He points to the tree in my hands.
“Are you sure?” I ask, wanting him to be part of the decision since it’ll be in his house.
“Yes,” he says firmly.
“100%?” I press.
“Yes,” he repeats.
“Okay, great.” I grin, turning to the vendor, who’s in a sweater and a red Santa hat.
He walks over with a bright red tag in his hand. “Good choice,” he says with a smile, reaching out to attach the tag to the tree’s trunk. “You can head over to the payment booth whenever you’re ready.”
Mark and I walk over to the booth at the front of the lot and he pulls out his wallet, ready to pay when his eyes widen at the list of prices resting on the counter. “Holy shit,” Mark mutters under his breath. “That much for a tree?”
I let out a laugh. “They’re good quality,” I tell him, trying to justify it. “And they smell incredible.”
Mark shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “I have a tree growing outside my house. Can’t I just cut that one down?”
“No, it’s not a Christmas tree,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“It’s just a tr—you know what? Fine, here,” he says, pulling out his wallet and handing over the money.
“Alright, you’re all set,” the woman says, handing him back his card. “You can pick up your tree over there,” she says, gesturing toward the workers .
We head outside, where they wrap the tree in a netting. “Do you need help carrying it to your car?”
Mark shakes his head. “I’ve got it,” he says, reaching out to take the tree. He hefts it onto his shoulder, handling it with ease.
I watch him, my brows shooting in surprise. “Look at you, Mr. Lumberjack,” I tease, falling into step beside him.
He rolls his eyes but there’s a trace of a smile on his lips. “You happy, Bambi?”
I nod, ecstatic that he went through all of this just for me. “I can’t wait to decorate it. It’s going to look so nice next to your fireplace,” I say, already imagining the warm lights filling his living room.
“It fucking better, after it cost me an arm and a leg,” he mutters, grunting as he hoists the tree onto his shoulder. “Let’s just get this home. The quicker we do, the quicker you can start decorating and I can get this over with.”
I laugh, looping my arm through his as we head toward the parking lot. “Deal. But first, you have to admit that you’re having just a little bit of fun.”
Mark doesn’t respond, but as we walk, I swear I catch the edges of his mouth turning up just slightly.