Chapter 13
“One little hint?”
“No,” Eben says with a smirk. His eyes radiate so much mischief and pride at keeping me on the edge of my seat that I can see those baby blues sparkle—even though the truck is dark and the road is even darker.
“You could be kidnapping me.” I pout and slouch down in my seat.
“If I were kidnapping you, there would be definite signs.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” he says slowly, “it would be at night, I’d be very secretive about where I was taking you, the roads would be very dark so that nobody could see us, and I’d make sure our cell service was limited. Oh, wait.” His smile turns wicked.
I glance down at my phone: one measly bar, barely hanging on.
“I don’t see any rope in here,” I say, a little breathless. I’ve warmed him up—I can tell by the way his hips shift, trying to keep his eyes on the road. His knuckles tighten on the wheel, his breath stutters, and I have to resist the urge to lean in and whisper in his ear.
Eben clears his throat; his voice drops, huskier. “Santa always has some tinsel rope on him, doesn’t he?”
I feel my soul leave my body. I cross my legs to keep from lunging across the console.
We drive in sizzling silence for a minute until he makes a sharp right turn off the rural road and into a parking lot.
My heart flutters. A huge backlit sign—“Celestial Gardens” in a swoopy cursive—glitters with stars.
My jaw drops.
“No way,” I murmur.
By day, Celestial Gardens is a charming botanical garden featuring colorful daisy fields, lush rose beds, and a thick oak grove.
During the holiday season, the gardens host a nightly botanical light show and art exhibit called GLOW.
Gorgeous light installations by local artists are arranged throughout the grounds, turning the already beautiful rural oasis into a spectacular, fairy-tale forest. A miniature train station houses a small replica steam engine train that picks up guests on the hour, complete with a whistle and an “all aboard!” from the conductor (a.k.a.
the herbalist who tends the indigenous plant garden).
Eben throws the truck in park, and I slip out of my seat belt, smiling.
“You picked a Christmas activity?” I squeal.
“Nope,” he says, grinning, pleased with himself. “It’s a secular art-and-light demonstration.”
I glance toward the entrance—lights everywhere. Granted, they shine a full spectrum of colors, not just Christmas red and green. And no Bing Crosby or Mariah Carey—just eerie fever-dream soundscapes. But still!
He opens my door. (Who said chivalry is dead?)
“They sell hot chocolate,” I argue. Eben holds out a hand to help me down.
“Everywhere sells hot chocolate. It’s December. In Ohio.” His brow furrows as I slip my bare hand into his. “Where are your gloves?”
The answer is somewhere under a pile of clothes in my closet, but I don’t tell him that.
I zip my coat to my chin and then shove my hands into my coat pockets, ignoring his question. He shakes his head, and his hand settles at the small of my back, guiding us toward the entrance.
We walk side by side through the dirt lot, and his shoulder brushes mine. The warmth is a jolt to my system. Now I’m shivering for a very different reason. He searches his phone for our tickets.
As soon as we’re through the gate, Eben reads my mind and beelines right to the concession stand.
In addition to the cutest gift shop in the world (which absolutely carries Christmas items—botanical ornaments, gingerbread candles, and snow globes, thank you very much), Celestial is home to my favorite hot chocolate of the season.
Though getting your hands on it is always an adventure.
The holiday staff is the same as the off-season garden staff, so the introverts who love talking to plants are suddenly forced to chat with holiday-loving extroverts in LED necklaces and light-up snowflake crowns. It’s painfully obvious they’d rather be gossiping with a rhododendron.
I can hardly blame them.
We approach a little log cabin concession stand, where a chalkboard outlined with twinkle lights lists the limited menu. Hot chocolate or apple cider (spiked is optional), churros, caramel corn, candy apples—and pepperoni pizza, because Amurrica, I guess?
The two employees are deep in debate when we step up: a middle-aged woman insisting winter jasmine blooms better than camellias in the snow, and her coworker—an awkward, acne-plagued teen—dying on the hill that snowdrops are the quintessential winter plant.
“Two hot chocolates, please,” Eben says—to no response.
The botanical brawl escalates. Eben—towering at an impossible-to-miss six-foot-and-change—is being hard-ignored. He looks at me, stunned.
“Sorry.” I laugh. “The face card doesn’t work on plant people.”
He snorts, but an adorable pink blooms over his cheekbones.
“Snowdrops bloom through snow. God, don’t be dense,” the teenager squawks, and the woman looks ready to confiscate his PlayStation and send him to his room.
I shoulder past Eben—shamelessly using our hot-chocolate crisis as an excuse to touch him.
Even through his black puffer, I feel the curve of his bicep.
For a split second, my dirty Santa dream flashes: his strong arms pinning me, the weight of his long, lean body pressing me into the mattress.
The phantom memory triggers a gasp; I disguise it with a throat clear.
“Allow me,” I say, stepping up to the counter. “Excuse me!”
Nothing but bickering.
I lean farther over the counter to get their attention, and the sleeve of my wool trench catches the chalkboard. With one smooth jerk, the whole thing comes crashing down.
That gets their attention.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say—only barely sorry. Not ideal to nuke the menu, but it worked. “We’d like two hot chocolates and a slice of pizza.”
The teen shakes off the spat and rings us up while the woman tries, unsuccessfully, to prop up the chalkboard.
“Shit,” she mutters as it crashes again and clips her foot. Eben leans over to help, and she thanks him with hearts in her eyes.
Really, who could blame her?
“Do you want anything else?” the kid asks, monotone, hoping for a no.
I clock Eben pulling out his credit card and melting a little. Oh, kid—that’s the wrong question to ask me right now.
“Just one more thing,” I say.
The kid hands Eben the hot chocolates and frowns. “Yeah?”
“You’re both wrong. Christmas rose. Helleborus niger. Superior winter plant,” I declare, nose in the air.
His pimply face twists into that barely-lived-and-knows-it-all scowl only a kid could pull off. The woman hands Eben the hot chocolates; I take the slice of pizza. “Look it up,” I add with a shrug, take a hero’s bite of my mediocre slice, and stroll away before he can muster a comeback.
I have a few more bites before offering Eben the rest. He happily swaps with me and polishes off what’s left in two bites.
There’s something strangely intimate about sharing a slice of pizza.
I wrap both hands around my hot chocolate, soaking up the warmth as blood rushes away from my extremities toward my cheeks—and other places.
The air is crisp, and though Eben’s right—the colors reflected on the pond are very secular, lots of blues and pinks and yellows—holiday spirit still lingers.
At least half the crowd is sporting light-up Christmas sweaters or glass-bulb headbands (available at the gift shop for the low price of $25) and definitely didn’t get the “secular” memo.
Holiday or no holiday, it’s cold as hell, and I really am kicking myself for not bringing gloves.
I rotate: one hand toasty on the cup, the other jammed in my coat pocket.
I catch Eben eyeing my hands with interest every time I make the switch.
We pass the LED tulip field—a quarter-mile stretch of pixel-mapped flowers that ripple in synchronized waves, shifting from deep blue to purple to pink to crimson. I could watch for hours. It’s hypnotic.
“How do you know so much about plants?” he murmurs in my ear, leaning down. The place has an art-museum hush—like you’re supposed to whisper, take it in, observe.
I don’t turn. Facing Eben head-on still makes me nervous, so I keep my eyes on the tulips.
“Oh, I don’t. I just know a lot about Christmas. Flowers included,” I laugh.
He inches closer. I can almost hear the sparks crackle between us; the tiny hairs on my neck rise. Heat rolls off him, and my arm tingles where it touches his through our coats. He smells like cinnamon and sandalwood, and I want to spray his cologne on my pillow.
“Why did you decide to volunteer at Forest Park?” he asks.
“Hey, it’s my turn to ask a question,” I pout.
His laugh is husky from the cold. His breath tickles my ear, and I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. I don’t look up. “Fine—what do you want to know?”
I consider, lips pursed. “Why do you hate Christmas so much?”
He sighs and looks back at the shifting tulips.
The colors glisten in his eyes. My heart aches at how pretty he is, even when he's sad.
“For the first few years of my life, Christmas was a happy time. Both my parents loved the holidays. We did all the festive things—cookies, too many presents, decorating the tree, cocoa, classic movie marathons.”
“Sounds idyllic,” I say, almost choking on the words. I can’t help feeling a stab of jealousy when people talk about their childhood holidays. How do you hate Christmas after all that?
“It was,” he says. “Until one Christmas, everything changed.”
Oh.