Chapter 3
Sunday, December 2
By mid-Sunday morning, Anita and I had finished breakfast and were seated on our squishy sofa, the second Advent calendar surprise—the first task—still wrapped and perched on my knees. The box was round and sounded like a drum when I tapped it with my fingers.
“Go on, open it,” Anita urged.
I ripped into the jolly Santa paper, discovering a cookie tin. When I lifted the lid—already suspecting there wouldn’t be any gooey goodness inside—I found red tinsel, silver garland, and a few green ornaments of various shapes and sizes. My eyes scanned her handwritten note.
Today’s mission:
We can’t deck our halls without the perfect tree.
Time to hunt for one…
“We’re decorating the apartment for the holidays?” I said, my heart sinking a little.
“We have to display our old ornaments somewhere,” Anita said. “It’ll be cool.”
As she set her mug on the coffee table, I reminded myself I could always take it all down in a few weeks once she left for Pineville. Besides, Anita wasn’t shunning Christmas. I couldn’t spoil the season for her any more than my decision not to go home for the holidays with her already had.
“Call me a psychic because I’m sensing you’re not happy about today’s calendar task,” Anita said.
I opened my mouth to protest, but she knew me too well. “It might be a bit pointless, seeing as I’m not celebrating, and you’ll be with Mom and Dad.”
“Let me argue my case as to why it’s a great idea.” My sister counted on her fingers. “One, Christmas always has and always will be our favorite season. One crappy year, and Oliver, shouldn’t have the power to spoil that.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Have you been talking to Mom?”
Grinning, Anita held up another finger. “Two, remember how you promised to fully immerse yourself in the Advent calendar challenge?”
“I do.”
“Well, if you bail on the second day, you’ll leave me no choice. There will be no treats, I’ll set you up on a dozen dates over the next week, and I’ll pester you daily about coming home for the holidays.”
Throwing my curmudgeon hands in the air, I capitulated. “All right.”
“Great, let’s get the tree.”
“Your fake one?”
“No, that broke during my New Year’s Eve party last year. I want a real one like Mom and Dad always have.” She disappeared into the hall, calling out, “Let’s go. No time to waste.”
“Can I borrow your new Steve Madden boots again?”
“One of the eyelets broke already, so they’re being repaired. Come on.”
Once we’d pulled on our shoes, jackets, hats, and gloves, we headed outside. A light dusting of snow had fallen overnight, turning Fallbrook into an even prettier town and making it feel as if the recent transition from November to December had leveled up the collective cheer.
A few people had stopped in the street to chat with one another, their bags overflowing with gift-wrapped packages, and when a couple walked by with paper cups in their hands, I caught a waft of peppermint-spiced coffee. It seemed impossible to escape the unmistakable holiday buzz in the air, and I suddenly pictured myself sprouting green fur all over my body, transforming into the Grinch.
“One of the local charities is selling trees at Forster Park,” Anita said as we crossed the street. “We should still be able to find a good one this early.”
Five minutes later we arrived at the parkette in the middle of town, which was about a quarter of the size of a football field. It was only a little after nine thirty, but the place already teemed with eager holiday shoppers.
The Christmas tree offerings were set up in rows according to height and type, with signs reading Balsam , Douglas , and Fraser , and the staff all wore Santa or elf hats along with red-and-green striped aprons. Holiday music played softly in the background, but as soon as I recognized “Like It’s Christmas” by Jonas Brothers, my mood soured a little more.
Oliver and I had listened to the song on a loop when it was first released. We’d danced to it at parties. Kissed to it under the mistletoe. My heart hurt as I wondered if I’d ever feel that much in love again. How would I even begin to trust someone after being so badly hurt?
“You okay?” Anita asked.
There was no chance to fib about how everything was fine because her phone rang. She pulled it from the depths of her coat pocket, made a face, and said, “It’s my boss. Want to find a tree while I take this?”
I made my way around a beverage table that held paper cups and three thermoses marked Coffee , Tea , and Hot Chocolate . As I walked past the neatly lined up tree offerings, I thought about how this was supposed to be fun. Then I remembered that although Anita had tasked me with decorating the house for the holidays, there was no actual rule saying how .
The thought made me grin. Some good-natured defiance would satisfy me, and undoubtedly amuse her, given her penchant for rebellion. If our situations were somehow reversed, Anita would for sure break my rules, and I snickered as I pictured presenting a sad, Charlie Brown–type tree to my sister with extra flourish.
Buoyed by my new mission, I continued down the aisle and passed a few excited kids impatiently pulling on their parents’ sleeves. After another family went by, the crowd thinned out, and as it did, I noticed a man standing about fifteen yards away.
He was roughly my age and appeared to be choosing between two trees. Intrigued by the look of intense concentration on his face, I watched him for a moment, letting my gaze drift across his rugged leather boots, up his jeans that skimmed his muscular legs, over his khaki jacket, and all the way to his head.
Deep brown hair protruded from beneath his black beanie, on which the embroidered logo read Donut Panic , the O from donut depicted as one of the sweet treats. My laugh came out louder than I’d intended, and the man looked up, his gaze meeting mine.
Concerned he may think I was laughing at him, my cheeks burned so hard, it was a wonder all the trees in the vicinity didn’t spontaneously combust. Breaking eye contact, I turned sharply, not seeing the young kid who’d been coming up behind me with a full paper cup clutched in his hands until it was too late.
Before I could move out of the way, the boy slammed into me. As (thankfully tepid) hot cocoa splattered all over my jeans, I took a step back, tripped over one of the tree trunks, and landed squarely on my butt. I groaned, thinking this was all too reminiscent of the day in elementary school when I’d earned myself another nickname, Calamity Callie, after I’d spilled my juice box all over my pants right before our winter concert.
Thankfully, the kid I’d just collided with hadn’t hurt himself, and after turning lobster pink, he said a hasty but heartfelt, “S-sorry,” and dashed into the crowd. Meanwhile, my face remained equally fiery as the man with the punny beanie came my way.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice deep. “No damage?”
“Only to my pride,” I muttered.
As I looked up, and now with the man only a few feet away, I noticed his eyes were almost the same intense shade of green as Dazey’s. A cute smile played on his generous lips, which were framed by a three-day stubble, and when my gaze dropped to the opening of his jacket, I spotted a star-shaped freckle on his neck.
“May I help you up?” he asked, holding out a hand.
I swallowed and accepted the offer, surprised by the strength with which he pulled me to my feet. When I was finally in an upright position, I realized he was at least six feet tall.
“Thanks,” I said, wondering why I suddenly sounded so breathless. Not wanting to be written off as 1) a klutz, or 2) the classic damsel in distress, I pointed to his hat. “Love the beanie. It’s a-glaze-ing .”
Option 3) ridiculous dad-joke lover. Nailed it.
He laughed, and the soft sound coupled by the sight of his dimples warmed me, the involuntary kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach taking me entirely by surprise.
“Are you picking out a tree?” he asked before grinning and rolling his eyes. “What else would you be looking for at a Christmas tree market? Have you found one you like?”
“Not yet. I’m trying to get the saddest, most pathetic-looking one I can find.”
His lips twitched. “You’re not a fan of the holidays?”
“Typically, yes, but not this year. You?”
“Huge fan, every year. I was working on a recipe for eggnog fudge this morning, but it isn’t right. I needed a break. This place seemed ideal to happily procrastinate.”
“Did you say eggnog fudge?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m a chef, and desserts are my favorite thing. You like eggnog?”
“Only enough to drink it all year round.”
“I’ve thought about that.” He rubbed a hand over his stubble. “I’m worried I’ll get sick of it by Easter and never touch the stuff again.”
“Impossible,” I said gravely. “Everyone knows eggnog’s all it’s cracked up to be.”
He burst out laughing again. “I’m always eggstatic for eggnog.”
“Because it’s eggsquisite ?”
“All right, I surrender. You win.”
“You put up a valiant fight, Eggnog Man,” I said.
He chuckled and put out his hand while keeping my gaze. “Also known as Marco.”
“I’m Callie.” I slowly fit my hand into his, and it was difficult not to notice the strength of his grip, or how fine laughter lines had appeared at the corner of his eyes, making him even more handsome. Trying to convince myself I hadn’t noticed, I gave my head a slight shake, and said, “Anyway, thanks again for your help.”
“Don’t mention it. Hey, hold on…” He pointed over my shoulder. “There’s a bit of a desperate-looking tree. Is that what you had in mind?”
The scraggly thing behind me was five feet tall, curved generously to the left, and had so few branches you could almost see the entire length of the trunk.
“It’s perfect,” I said, walking over and grabbing it at the same time as Anita appeared.
“Tell me you’re joking,” she said, hands on her hips. “ That isn’t a tree.”
“It’s not too bad,” I said.
“Yes it is,” Anita scoffed. “It’s a hundred percent ugly. No, wait. A thousand.”
“You could say it’s so ugly, it’s almost beautiful,” Marco offered.
Anita turned to him, one eyebrow raised as she tilted her head and smiled. “Who are you, and why are you trying to sell my sister this crappy thing?”
“I don’t work here, but I’m Marco.” He put a hand to his chest. “Marco Lancaster. And you are…?”
“Anita, Callie’s sister,” she replied. “Are you the one who ruined Callie’s pants?”
“ Anita ,” I said. “I bumped into a kid who was carrying a cup of cocoa. Marco helped me up, and he had the decency not to mention my jeans.”
“What’s wrong with them?” He gave me a wink.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling more appreciative of his graciousness while trying to ignore how Anita kept looking at Marco and me as if she were watching a tennis match.
“Anyway,” he said. “Now that you have your masterpiece, I’ll go hunt for mine.”
“You want the second-ugliest tree?” Anita asked.
“Definitely not. I could do with a bit of joy these days,” Marco replied, eyes twinkling. “It was really nice meeting you both.”
“Good luck,” I said. “I hope you find something treemendous .”
He chuckled, and after another grin and a wave, he disappeared into the crowd while Anita burst into song. “All Callie wants for Christmas is a new pair of jeans—”
I elbowed her in the ribs and grabbed the tree. “Help me carry this abomination home. You said decorate. I’m decorating.”
“Fine, I’ll allow it,” she said, and as we lugged the tree to the cash register, added, “That guy was cute, huh?”
“Was he?”
“Seriously, Callie? Didn’t you see those green eyes, great lips, and awesome dimples? You should ask him out.”
“ You ask him,” I spluttered.
“If only he were my type.” Anita looked at me and tilted her head. “Did you get his number? Because I’ve been saying for ages what you more than desperately need is to get—”
“This Christmas tree,” I said, waving the salesperson over before my sister could finish her sentence.
—
As Anita and I carted my sad tree up the stairs and into our living room, Dazey took one look at us and darted to my sister’s bedroom, clearly unimpressed. After a quick change of my pants, we got to work on the decorating.
At first, my Charlie Brown tree looked sadder than ever against the bright white walls of our apartment, but once we added the ornaments and garland from the tin Anita had given me earlier, the branches appeared decidedly less sparse.
“Don’t forget our old decorations,” Anita said, picking up the box of childhood arts and crafts and passing it to me. “You do the honors.”
I opened the lid and chose the star-shaped ornament made from clothespins we’d painted red and green.
“How about I make us a hot chocolate you actually drink?” Anita said. “I’ve got marshmallows and sprinkles.”
I glanced at my sister. Hot chocolate, marshmallows, and sprinkles was a combination Dad had typically made for us as a pick-me-up when we still lived at home. “Is something wrong?”
Anita sighed and dropped herself onto the sofa. “It’s work.”
“Do you have to go in today?”
“Not today, but my colleague who was the second-in-command of the new build in Orlando needs emergency hernia surgery. My boss asked if I could fly out Wednesday and stay.”
“For how long?”
Anita grimaced. “Until December twenty-third.”
“You’re going for three weeks?”
“I’m so sorry, Callie. It’s a huge opportunity for me, but I know this sucks, especially considering how I’ve planned all the Advent calendar tasks for us.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, laying on the disappointment, thinking that while I’d be sad not to see her for almost a month, it would get me out of the Advent calendar challenge. “Oh, well. We can save it for next year.”
Anita held up a hand. “Not so fast. You promised to participate, so you’ll have to continue without me.”
“Are you joking? We’re supposed to do the tasks together.”
“I never specified they had to be with me exclusively ,” she argued. “You can tackle them alone or with your friends.”
“What friends?” I asked. “I don’t know many people in Fallbrook. None really except for Hazel, and she’s often busy with Mikey. Being a single mom can be tricky.”
“In that case, you’ll need someone else to help out.” Anita patted my shoulder. “Starting with tree guy from the market. Ask him to do the tasks with you every other day. What was his name again? Martin Lannister?”
“Marco Lancaster,” I said.
Anita pointed at me. “Gotcha! You are into him.”
“No, I’m not. I’m good with names.”
“Then how come you were hanging on to his every word, making puns?”
“It’s called being polite, and what you’re being is called ridiculous,” I said, taking a breath as I remembered the color of Marco’s eyes, the sound of his laugh, and the fact that I’d dubbed him Eggnog Man. He was undeniably good-looking, but if I told Anita that, she’d never let it go.
“Anyway,” I added quickly, making sure she didn’t jump in. “I can’t ask a stranger to help with the tasks.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no clue what quests you’ll send me on, and there’s no way I’m about to rope a stranger into embarrassing himself with me. If I’m doing this, it’ll have to be on my own.” I paused and stared at Anita, knowing none of this was convincing her. “Also, I don’t have his number.”
With that mischievous twinkle in her eyes, Anita said, “People are easy to find these days. Who knows what could happen if you looked.”