Chapter 9
Nine
It’s possible, as we drag the Christmas tree back to the house, that I fantasize a tiny bit about Noah and me decorating together, listening to music, drinking eggnog while we hang ornaments on the tree like we’re in some sort of holiday romance movie. He did say he was available to help.
But after the almost kiss on the side of the mountain, I won’t be surprised if he makes his excuses the minute the tree is inside.
But he doesn’t do it. Once the Fraser fir is secure in its stand, we work together to move all the decorations downstairs, then he builds a fire in the fireplace and gets to work weaving lights through the branches of the tree.
I turn on some Christmas music, and before long, I am fully engrossed in the magic of turning the Stonebrook Farm farmhouse into a winter wonderland. Olivia said I could keep things low key, but honestly, once I start, it’s hard to stop.
A tiny village with snow-capped houses. Garland trimmed with twinkle lights.
Ornaments in every color of the rainbow.
There are scented pinecones that smell like cinnamon and a beautiful nativity scene and a set of hammered copper Christmas trees that I set up on the hearth where they reflect the flickering firelight.
The afternoon isn’t exactly movie-worthy. There is no kissing under the mistletoe or snuggling by the fire. But we do exchange a few lingering looks. And every time he moves past me, he touches my arm or my shoulder or the small of my back.
Every time, fire shoots across my skin, crackles of energy that heighten my awareness of him.
The longer we’re together, the more he starts to relax, enough that I start to wonder if I actually do have him figured out.
He’s quiet and a little bit intense. He appreciates his solitude, and he doesn’t like small talk.
Which means he’s happy to have people think he’s grumpy because that means he’s often left alone.
But the more I get to know him, the more I’m seeing his kindness.
He’s thoughtful and intentional and a really good listener.
I find myself telling him things I’ve never told anyone—about what it felt like when my best friend married my brother.
About the bittersweetness of losing a little piece of them both when they fell in love with each other.
We talk about my parents and my friends in New York, and he tells me about summers on Stonebrook Farm, chasing pigs and climbing mountains and eating apples right off the trees.
Somehow, spending time with Noah feels new and exciting and utterly unexpected while also feeling warm and familiar, like I’ve known him all my life.
I have no idea how both things can be true at once, but with him, they absolutely are.
Finally, I hang the last ornament on the tree, then stand in the middle of the room, making a slow circle as I admire our work.
It’s perfect. So perfect, I have to hope the weather allows the Petersons to come.
If not, well, Noah was right. This is where I’ll be spending my holiday, too. It’s nice to have things looking so Christmasy.
“It looks great,” Noah says from the entry into the dining room. He disappeared into the kitchen a few minutes ago, saying something about warming up the spiced cider in the fridge. “As good as it usually does.”
“Does it?” I turn to face him and find him leaning against the door jamb, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looks relaxed and happy and achingly handsome.
“If you wind up hating nursing, you might have a career in holiday decorations.”
I grin. “I’m not going to hate nursing, but it’s nice to know I have a backup.”
“Do you want some cider? It’s almost warm.”
I can already pick up the scent of cinnamon and cloves, and it’s making my mouth water.
“Yes! Definitely. But I’m going to go wrap some garland around the porch posts first.”
Noah nods. “Let me turn off the stove, then I’ll come out to help.”
I carry the box of lighted garland outside and make quick work of wrapping the railings, but there are columns on either side of the stairs and I would love to continue the garland up each one. I might have to find a ladder to do it.
Unless—
I test the sturdiness of the railing. It’s wide and flat and feels perfectly solid. Definitely sturdy enough to hold my weight. I hold the garland between my teeth and use both hands to hoist myself up.
It takes me a second to find my balance, but once I’m steady, I stand upright and carefully wrap the garland around the left porch column.
There’s even a tiny hook at the top, like this has been done before and the hook is there for just this purpose.
I secure the end of the garland around the column with a satisfied sigh. “Perfect,” I say.
Then my foot slips and I lose my balance, falling forward off the railing and onto the snowy front lawn with an audible oof.
I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that I fell forward into the snow instead of backward onto the porch. The snowy ground is a couple of feet lower, but the snow at least cushioned my fall.
At least, I think it did.
I lay perfectly still, cataloging the many parts of my body that hurt. I landed on my left hand, and my palm is stinging and cold, and my hip aches, the damp snow already seeping through my pants. But maybe that’s the worst of it?
I shift and try to sit up and…oh, no. I am definitely not okay.
Sharp pain radiates up my shoulder, and a wave of nausea washes over me. I roll onto my back and close my eyes, willing myself not to throw up. This is definitely the throwing up kind of pain.
I breathe slowly, tears pricking my eyes as the shock of my fall wears off enough for me to realize how badly my shoulder hurts. Everything else pales in comparison.
Did I break it? Or break my arm, maybe?
I swear softly, then the front door clicks open.
“Megan?” Noah calls. I hear the moment he sees me, because he swears too, then he races down the steps.
In seconds, he’s crouching beside me in the snow.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“I fell off the railing,” I say without opening my eyes. “I was hanging the garland.”
“Stay perfectly still, okay?” he says gently. Then his hands are moving over me. Touching my legs, my arms, brushing my hair away from my neck and sliding his palms across my collarbone. When he moves outward to my shoulders, I wince and suck in a gasp.
“I think I broke something,” I say. “It really hurts.”
“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” Noah asks as his hand slides down my left arm.
I do as he asks—his confidence makes it very easy to trust him at the moment—but I’m only marginally successful.
I feel my fingers pressing into the snow, but they are tingly and uncomfortable, like they’ve fallen asleep from too little blood flow.
On impulse, I lift my arm to look at my fingers, except… I can’t lift my arm.
At all.
“Noah, I can’t move my arm,” I say, fighting a rising sense of panic that’s only making my nausea worse. I really, really think I’m going to throw up. “Can you take me to the hospital?”
“Just breathe for me, okay?” he says. “You need to keep breathing.” His hands are still on my shoulder, gently prodding, like he’s feeling for something specific.
“What I need is to go to the hospital,” I say. “I’m the one with medical training here. And I’m pretty sure I’ve broken something.”
“You didn’t break anything,” he says, his voice calm. “At least, I don’t think you did. But you did dislocate your shoulder.”
I don’t know why Noah would know, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, I sense that he’s right.
He stands and shifts so he’s crouching behind me, his hands moving to my neck and back to my collarbone. “No pain through here?” he says, prodding gently. There is an efficiency to his movements that gives me pause. It does not seem like this is the first time Noah has asked these questions.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “My shoulder is the only thing that hurts.”
He comes back around to my side. “Can you put your good arm around me? We need to get you out of the snow.”
I do as he asks, because he’s right. I wasn’t wearing a coat, thinking it wouldn’t take long to hang the garland, and the snow has already soaked through my clothes.
“Noah, I need to go to the hospital,” I say. “If I did dislocate my shoulder, a doctor will be able to pop it back into place.”
Noah is quiet while he scoops me into his arms and tucks me against his chest, then carries me into the house, making it look far too easy. I don’t exactly mind being in his arms, but it’s hard to really enjoy it with my shoulder throbbing so painfully.
He deposits me on the couch next to the Christmas tree with my bum shoulder facing out, then he grabs a throw pillow to put behind my head and another to prop under my feet.
“I appreciate this,” I say, wondering if my earlier words just didn’t register. “But I really do need to go to the hospital.”
He sinks back onto his heels. “I’ll take you if that’s what you want to do,” he says. “But if you’re okay with it and you trust me, I think I can take care of you here.”
I narrow my eyes and study Noah’s face.
I do trust him. But trusting that he won’t ax-murder me in my sleep while we’re sharing the farmhouse is not the same thing as trusting him to take care of my medical needs.
Though I’m not opposed to the idea of him taking care of me.
I maybe even like the idea. A lot. But my arm is hanging from its socket like a limp pool noodle.
This feels bigger than just taking care.
“You could pop my shoulder back into place?” I ask. “How would you know how to do that?”
He sighs and rubs a hand across his face, like it’s causing him physical pain to have this conversation. “I know how to do it because I’m a doctor.” He hesitates, storm clouds passing behind his expression. “I used to be a doctor. But I can do this for you. If you’ll let me.”
For a split second, I almost forget how badly my shoulder hurts.