Chapter 7 Clüsterfünke
Seven
Clüsterfünke
Brie
This is my favorite weekend of the year, and after the week I had, I need it.
Desperately. The Saturday after Thanksgiving is my day to start prepping for Christmas—I’ll be hand selecting the perfect tree that will spread Christmas joy up until the New Year.
I meander down row after row of pines on my quest for the perfect tree.
Not too big, not too small, not too bushy, but not bare.
There’s an art to this. Step one: freshness test—no mass needle loss, no brittle limbs, no flimsy “I gave up in July” vibes.
Fresh trees will have flexible boughs and an abundance of crisp needles.
I’ve spent years perfecting my tree-picking abilities, and every year, it pays off.
I run my fingertips over the dark-green needles and shake my head.
Sorry, tree, you’re staying here. Step two: sturdiness test—no bowed or crooked bases.
I crouch down and peek underneath at the trunk.
Slight lean to the left. That won’t do. Rising, I move on to the next row, which features Canaan firs.
They’re rich in color with full branches that are great for displaying ornaments.
But it’s not my favorite tree, so I move on to the next row and inhale the woody scent of a balsam fir.
The scent of Christmas fills the air. While an acceptable tree, the needle retention makes me twitchy, so I move on to the next.
I run my hand over the soft, dark-green needles.
Now this is Christmas tree perfection. The classic conical shape with compact upward-sloping branches makes for excellent support for all types of ornaments.
Be still my tinsel heart. I continue to stroll around the Fraser fir.
Step three: scent test—I inhale the crisp, woody pine fragrance as I inspect every branch to make sure it’s flawless.
Suddenly, a familiar voice piques my interest. Glancing up, Logan’s wearing a red and white Santa hat while the little girl, who must be his daughter, is wearing a reindeer headband.
She runs past to a tree a few feet in front of me. “Daddy! Daddy! Let’s get this one!”
That confirms my suspicion. Slinking back, I hide behind the dense branches of the Fraser fir. Between the needles, I fix my gaze on Logan as his head drops to the base and lifts up, and up, and up. It’s almost twice his six-foot height.
“I don’t think that one’s going to fit in our living room. Let’s keep looking.” Logan rests his hand on his daughter’s shoulders and guides her to a row of much shorter trees.
Spying on Logan is like gawking at a terrible car wreck.
It’s intrusive to stare but impossible to look away.
I finally get to see him as Logan, single dad, and not Logan who annoys the hell out of me.
Consider it research. Plus, hiding saves me from any potential unpleasant interaction, especially when he’s with his daughter.
As they stroll from tree to tree, I ping-pong along, seeking refuge behind the needles of a white pine.
“Daddy, what about this one?” She points to a Canaan fir.
“Good choice,” I whisper to myself.
“I don’t know. Do you think you’ll be able to put the star on top?” he asks.
“Yes!”
“Let’s see.” Logan picks up his daughter and hoists her above his shoulders. She pretends to place a fake star on top of the tree. “I think that one’s going to be perfect.”
“Me too!” She exclaims.
A tiny sliver of my Logan hate… thaws. Ugh.
He glances over his shoulder—toward my white pine and I duck. Unfortunately, the tree doesn’t offer as much coverage as I’d like. Holding my breath, I send a prayer to the Christmas Gods he doesn’t catch me spying on him.
“Hey Brie! I figured I'd see you here.”
Willa. Shit. I pinch my eyes shut. My cover is blown.
I whirl around and promptly hook my right foot behind my left, throwing off my balance.
My arms windmill, but it’s useless. Like a lumberjack chopping down a tree, I topple over.
Willa lunges to help, but instead of saving me from falling, I grab her jacket sleeve and take her down with me in a tangle of limbs.
I take the brunt of the fall. That’s a lie—a white pine took the brunt while I came in a close second.
Like dominoes, the entire row of trees crashes onto the snow.
Willa cackles while heat flames up my neck.
Mason rushes to Willa’s side. A rumble of laughter escapes his throat. “I can’t take you anywhere.” He stretches his hand out to her and hoists her to her feet.
“Not my fault,” she retorts.
The sunlight disappears as a dark cloud passes above me.
My gaze drifts up. Not a cloud—Logan. The corner of his lips tip up into a smile, causing his signature sexy dimple to peek through.
He stretches his hand down to me, and I stare at it as if it’s a venomous snake.
I lift my hand to swat it away, but from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of his daughter, eyes glued to us, and I think better of it.
“I don’t bite.” His voice is low, almost seductive.
A montage of Logan’s hands roaming my body, nipping at my heated skin, biting—nope.
Not today brain. Instead, I reach up, placing my hand in his.
As soon as my skin connects with his, an unfamiliar feeling races through my body.
It’s warm, almost comforting. Before I can think too much into it, he effortlessly hoists me to my feet.
“Are you okay?” The words are soft as they tumble off his lips. His fingers still wrap around my hand, our bodies inches from touching.
Physically, yes. Mentally, hell no. “Yeah. I think so,” I squeak out. His gaze skims down my body, and I’m not sure if he’s searching for wounds or checking me out, but as his lips part, I’m leaning toward the latter.
He brushes a hand down my arm and stalls at my hip. “I’ll, uh… let you get that.”
Glancing down, a smattering of snow and dirt cover my thigh and around to my butt. Why does a part of me wish he had brushed it off himself?
I wipe it off. “Thank you,” I mumble.
He leans in a fraction, giving me a front row view of his dimple. “What was that?”
“Thank you,” I grit through a fake smile.
“You’re welcome.” He steps back, and the air loosens its grip on my lungs.
“I guess the rumors are true,” Mason says to Logan.
Ice slides into my stomach. What rumors? What has he heard? My underwear? The coffee incident? Has Willa said anything to him?
Mason releases Willa and covers the distance to Logan in two easy strides. “It’s good to see you again. I thought the rumor mill was drunk, but here you are. Nice hat.” He flicks the pom on Logan’s Santa hat.
Logan laughs. “It gets me into the holiday spirit.”
The little girl from earlier barrels over and tugs his hand. “Daddy! I found the perfect tree!”
Logan wraps his arm around her shoulder and tugs her to his side. “And this one picked it out for me.”
Willa crouches down. “And who is this cutie?”
“I’m Josie. This is my dad.” She points to Logan.
“Hi Josie. I’m Willa.”
Logan gestures between us. “These are my friends: Willa, Mason, and Brie. This is my daughter, Josie.”
Friends is generous, but I let it slide. I squat beside Willa. “Josie, do you like candy canes?”
She bobs her head up and down. “Yes.”
“Would you like one?” I pull a red and white striped candy cane from my pocket and hold it out to her. Surprisingly, it’s still in one piece.
She glances up at Logan for a brief second, and then her hazel eyes, a spitting image of Logan’s, meet mine. “My daddy says I can’t take candy from strangers.”
We all chuckle.
“Finally, something I tell her sticks,” Logan says with a chuckle. “It’s okay. You can take it.”
Josie snatches the candy cane from my hands. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
She peels the wrapper and pops the end in her mouth. “Daddy, can I look at the trees over there?” She points to a cluster of white pines.
“Yeah, but stay where I can see you,” Logan says.
“Okay.” She skips to a tall, full white pine.
“You have an adorable daughter,” Willa says.
“Thanks. She gets everything from her mother.”
“Except she has your eyes.” Shit. Heat flames over my cheeks. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
Logan’s gaze hooks mine; his mouth almost—almost—tips into a smile before he turns to Mason. “I hear you’re a firefighter.”
“Yep, protecting the fine folks of Mount Holly. He wraps an arm around Willa. “Especially this one.”
While they talk, Logan flicks glances over Mason’s shoulder to make sure he can still see Josie. My ovaries wave balloons and shoot off party poppers, wanting to invite the single dad standing in front of me to the party. Traitorous ovaries.
Willa lifts a finger. “That was only one time.”
“Twice actually.” Mason chuckles.
She winces. “Right. The flambé incident. But you were already at the diner, so I didn’t call you.”
“If I hadn’t been there,” he says, “the Jolly Biscuit might be a crispy biscuit.”
“You’re insufferable.” Willa shakes her head but laughs.
“Are you free sometime this week?” Logan asks Mason. “I’m working on a few things and thought you might be interested in participating.”
“Yeah. Call me,” Mason says.
While Logan and Mason continue to talk, Willa nudges me with her elbow and whispers, “Did you thank him for your present?”
“No,” I mouth. I regret telling Willa about the dryer sheets.
Since yesterday, she’s been hounding me about the meaning behind giving someone dryer sheets.
I told her there is no meaning. They’re dryer sheets, but she insisted you don’t give just anyone dryer sheets.
He was thinking of me or my underwear and brought them to my house.
I reiterated Logan is cocky and probably did it for his own amusement. “There’s no reason to—”
Willa blurts out, “Brie says thank you for the dryer sheets!”
Logan turns around, brows raised in amusement. “You’re welcome.”
I give him a tight-lipped smile with a shrug. “I’m static-free today.”