by Bridget Snow
“Mhmm,” said Kyle, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, making no effort to help his brother ready the tree for its new holiday home. “She’s a ditz because she dressed pretty?”
“My mansion has such high ceilings,” Mason said, mocking her voice, though his deep baritone didn’t come close to Melody’s soprano. “I’ll just break a hundred dollar bill like it’s nothing.”
“Real piece of work,” Kyle said, rather noncommittally.
“With her flashy red heels, and lips the same color, painted like a walking poinsettia plant.” His upper lip twitched as he rattled off Melody’s shortcomings. “Those are poison, you know.
“And you should have heard her,” he continued, carrying the tree to the machine that would wrap it in netting, nice and tight. “Rambling on about how she has no one, and she can’t wait to offload this town’s most historic property so she can fly home to the big city and go back to being all alone.”
Mason hauled the tree to his pickup truck and tossed it into the cargo bed with a grunt, leaning the excessively tall top half against the roof.
“What city is that?” Kyle asked.
“Does it matter? They’re all the same, and so are women like her, waking up at four a.m. like robots to sweat through an early yoga class, or spin, or whatever big city girls do to make up for sitting their asses in chairs all day long.” He reached for the handle to his driver’s side door.
“Hey,” Kyle said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Sorry, man. I can’t work the tree lot tonight, I promised Grover I’d help with inventory. I need the extra hours.”
“You’ve just bagged up our best nine-foot Douglas fir. It’s almost a three-hundred-dollar tree.”
“That no one in Pine Corner can afford, so it will be mulch by next month,” Mason said.
“Then come back for it in January,” Kyle said. “Or buy it.”
“I’m one of the two Archers that own this farm. Just take it out of my earnings.”
“You partly own this farm,” Kyle said, “and it’s a small part at that. If you want earnings to subtract from, you need to spend more time on the business. This year’s crop are misshapen and stunted after too many hard winters and dry summers in a row. No one is buying them here, but if you took them to Billings—”
“I’m not losing all that time at Grover’s.” Mason threw some twine over the truck’s roof and Kyle caught it, but didn’t pass it through the open door just yet.
“Hear me out,” Kyle said. “Small trees are perfect for apartments, and Billings has them. Even if we move these trees at a discount, it might be enough to keep the lights on.”
“They’re not just small, they’re ugly,” Mason said. “Bald patches, slanting trunks. Charlie Brown’s tree was like Rockefeller Square compared to these.”
“All the more reason,” Kyle said, tossing the ball of twine through the cab, “you can’t just steal the prettiest tree on the lot because you’ve got the hots for some city girl.”
Mason squeezed the twine ball hard after he caught it. “That’s not what it is. Grown men don’t get the hots, and you know I have no interest in finding a woman until I can support her.”
“You and your hang-ups. Is that what’s wrong with her? Traveling from New York to visit her inheritance, expensive clothes, large bills in her purse. She doesn’t need a man to pick up the tab, so she’s useless to you. You’ve got this weird ‘provider’ complex.”
“You were too young to see it,” Mason said, flicking open his trusty pocket knife to cut the twine and tie down the portion of the resting on his truck’s roof. “Every time Dad skipped work to drink beer all day. Every time he snuck another twenty out of Mom’s purse. He was a deadbeat, and I won’t turn into him. I’m in no position to start dating. Period.”
“Then why exactly are you delivering this magnificent tree instead of the fake plastic six-footer she actually paid for?” Kyle crossed his arms and aimed an I’ve-gotcha glare at his brother.
“Grover’s cheap plastic trees are a fire hazard. What if she digs up old Christmas lights that run hot and burns down the Hansen House the first night she’s here? I won’t have that on my conscience.”
“I don’t buy it. Give me a better reason.”
“Because it’s Christmas, Kyle.” The pretense and frustration melted away from his face, leaving an expression that was equal parts pleading and sincere. “Let the girl have a nice tree.”
“There it is,” Kyle said. “You look all big and tough, but I swear you’re sappier than these damn pines. It moves me.” He clasped his hands together and fluttered his eyelashes sarcastically.
“So I can take the tree?”
“Yes,” Kyle said. “For two hundred dollars. Family discount.”
“You’re an ass,” Mason said, but he pulled a wad of singles, fives, and tens out of his wallet. “You can have whatever that turns out to be.”
Kyle shook his head and pocketed the money while Kyle climbed into the truck and started the engine.
Chapter Three
Melody
“Seriously, you picked the exact right moment to get out of here.”
“It’s year-end,” Melody said, glancing down at the phone as it leaned against the kitchen backsplash. Lorna’s face hovered on the display, a bright bandana pulling her long hair out of her face and contrasting vividly with the dull gray walls of the office cubicle behind her. “Craig always goes batty until the financials are wrapped up.”
“Well, he’s extra batty this year,” Lorna said.
“We have a whole shipment of panettones from our Italian supplier that won’t arrive until a week after Christmas, and we haven’t moved a single pallet of Christmas crackers yet.”
“That’s because we’re a food distributor,” Melody said. “You were at the meeting when I told Craig — Christmas crackers are not food.”
“He didn’t believe you,” Lorna said. “The system says he put the order though himself that same afternoon.”
“Okay, cancel the panettone and get a refund as soon as possible,” Melody said. “International chargebacks take a longer time to clear and Craig will want that on the books this year, not next. I’m not even touching the Christmas cracker problem though. We have customers that retail novelty goods, but I can’t start that dialogue from here. I am out of the office. Out, out, out.”
“Remind me how you got three weeks off at once? I may have to try that trick. Soon.”
“I went right to HR.” That “R” came out long and unsteady, an involuntary reaction to the persistent freeze seeping into her hands. Her fingers were like ice, washing old dishes in the sink without hot water. In December. In Montana. Eventually, she’d hire someone to tackle that problem, but in the meantime, she needed pots to cook with and utensils to eat with. Selling this house would be expensive, and while her job paid okay enough, she couldn’t exactly order takeout for every meal.
“They let me borrow against next year’s vacation time,” she continued, setting a clean mug on a towel to dry. The dish rack needed cleaning, the counters were grimy, she still hadn’t touched the linens yet — but at least she had the foresight to buy new dishtowels at Grover’s All-In-One. They had little angels embroidered in the corners, each holding a French horn.
“How are you managing all the work while I’m out?” Melody asked. “Did my files make sense? If you need me to jump into the documents and start updating formulas, there’s a café in town. It might have internet.”
“I’m fine,” Lorna said. “It’s a lot, but I’ll manage. You’ve got your hands full. Oh, what happened with the realtor? Was he hot? Single? Is he taking you out in the city? I’m sure Billings is no Manhattan, but—”
“He was bland, at best,” Melody said.
“Your face says there’s more.”
“About Harvey? No. But I did meet this one guy I couldn’t get out of my head, stocking shelves at the local store. A beefy blond with muscles
all over the place.”
“What kind of a store does he own?”
“He doesn’t own it,” Melody said. “He just works there.”
“Okay, so fling material then. I get it.”
“Don’t be condescending,” Melody said. She suddenly felt protective, or defensive, or both. “Mason is a good guy, and he’s delivering my fake tree soon since I don’t have a car and I had enough to carry without adding that to the mix.
“Besides, you know I don’t do flings. Hookup culture? Complete strangers doing the nasty on a moment’s notice? Count me out.”
“You have to count yourself in to something,” Lorna said. “Don’t be so classy that you can’t give happiness a chance. Sometimes, Mr. Right is also Mr. Sexpot. Think about it, Melody, isn’t that the dream?”
“My dream,” Melody said, “is to find a nice, sweet man who will hold me while I watch holiday specials and get emotional.”
“So your perfect man is a cat,” Lorna said. “Why do I waste advice on you, Melody? You’re smart, and pretty, but too careful. Let loose every now and then. If you’re such a Christmas angel, climb on top of his Christmas tree and puh-roove it.”
“As inspiring as this conversation is, I have to get going,” Melody said, tilting her head toward the window as the snapping of twigs and the hum of an engine got louder. “I think that’s him now.”
“Good luck, lady,” Lorna said. “Time to stuff that stocking!”
“You’re so gross,” Melody said.
“Love you too, girl!”
Melody ended the call, dropped the phone onto the marble countertop of the kitchen’s massive island, and rushed to the front entry. After adjusting her shirt and brushing her long, brown hair over one shoulder, she opened the double doors — just as Mason was preparing to ring the bell. He stood there with his pointer finger an inch away from the ringer with a tree propped over his shoulder. One arm curled upward to secure the tree, with his large bicep muscle flexing up against the flannel of his shirt. His jeans had fresh dirt stains, and his work boots were caked with mud and pine needles.
“You must be real excited for Christmas,” Mason said. “I didn’t even ring it yet.”
“I heard the car pull up,” she said. “Wait, that’s not the tree I bought.”
“I did you one better,” he said. “I… own a Christmas tree farm. You can kiss that plastic dwarf tree goodbye.”
“This is going to shed all over the place,” Melody said, glancing down at the foyer’s floors. “I just swept up the whole house…”
“Look, if you don’t want it—”
“I do,” she said, catching the look of frustration that flashed across his face. “I’m sorry, you just took me by surprise. Let’s put it in the foyer. The entryway, I mean.”
“I know what a foyer is,” Mason said, stepping into the house while Melody stood in the door frame, the wind gone from her sails. She was trying to avoid sounding pretentious, but inadvertently insulted his intelligence.
Sigh.
“Sweet mother of God,” Mason said, laying the tree on the ground. “It’s colder inside the house than out.” He whipped out a pocketknife — because of course, he just carried around a four-inch blade everywhere — and cut the netting open, allowing the tree’s branches to spring outward. His hair fell out of place again as he bent over that tree, releasing a few mid-length strands of dirty blond hair that swooped toward his eyebrows.
“I couldn’t figure out the furnace,” Melody admitted. “I’ll hire someone tomorrow, assuming I don’t freeze to death overnight.”
“Or by early evening,” he said, glancing toward her chest. Melody crossed her arms then, realizing too late that the icy air had hardened her nipples, forcing them to poke up against the thin blouse she wore.
“I’ll check it out,” he continued. “It’s just a furnace, it shouldn’t take long.”
Melody felt her face light up and she clapped her hands together. “I’ll make hot cocoa!”
Mason shook his head. “I can’t stay. I’ll just work on the basement and—”
“It’s Grandpa George’s recipe. No one turns down this hot cocoa, and I’ll owe you something warm after all that time spent in the cold, dark basement. Please, stay for one cup.”
“Maybe another time instead,” he said, turning toward the hallway that led to the basement door. He vanished into the basement as Melody wandered toward the kitchen.
“Cocoa for one,” she muttered. “As usual.”
She got to work whipping the heavy cream and set a pot to boil on the stove. It didn’t take her long to pour a single serving of her favorite winter beverage and give it a good, solid stir. She plopped a dollop of cream on top and set it swirling in circles atop the chocolatey brew, caught in the riptide of the drink’s inertia.
The mug warmed her hands and the scent of hazelnut filled her lungs. Before she could take her first sip, a loud rumbling echoed through the walls, starting deep beneath the house and clanging upward toward the roof.
She hurried to the basement stairs and climbed down, careful not to spill her drink.
“Mel,” Mason said.
So she was ‘Mel’ now?
“Furnace was on,” he continued, “just set real low to keep things above freezing. I fixed the boiler too. These old buildings require a close eye, but I’ve seen the likes of these units before.”
“Thanks, Mace,” she said, challenging him to refuse his own nickname. Though it lacked the impact of his given name. Mason made her think of brick walls. Immovable. Strong. Rough. “I didn’t know you’d be so handy.”
She rounded a corner to find him shirtless in the low light and she halted abruptly. A few industrial-looking bulbs in wire mesh cages hung from rafters in the basement ceiling, illuminating Mason’s muscled torso. His blond chest hair caught the light at odd angles, casting thin shadows across the bands of pec muscle that stared back at her, smeared with black grease from the basement’s ancient machinery. His plaid shirt was folded on a work table nearby, sparing it the grime of a mechanic’s hard work.
Melody’s — Mel’s — knees went weak at the sight of him.
“Store worker, tree farmer, carpenter, handyman,” he said. “In a small town, you can’t be just one thing. I underestimated the cold though. I’m about to freeze solid.” He crossed the basement as he spoke, stopping inches from where she stood. He took the mug from her hands and drank a small sip before she could react.
“This is… wow,” he said, going in for more. “So rich, and sweet. Is that hazelnut?”
“It is.”
“It’s not too overpowering.”
“That’s just the whipped cream,” she said. “I only flavor that with hazelnut and a touch of vanilla, so the drink has its own distinct flavor. That’s got a little sea salt. Cinnamon. Almond extract.”
In the basement’s low light, the mug tipped toward the ceiling, draining its contents completely. Mason’s head tilted back, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A trail of hot chocolate dripped slowly down the side of the mug when he pulled it away from his face, but he licked it clean.
Oh, to be that mug, she thought.
“That cocoa was something else,” he said. “Where’s yours?”
“You just drank it. You said you weren’t staying, so I only made one. I can make more though, enough for both of us.”
He looked down at the mug, then back at Mel. She pressed her lips together and waited, smiling only once she saw him do the same.
“Now that I think about it,” he said, “I should stick around to make sure there are no hiccups with the boiler. Tricky things, old boilers.”
“I’m sure,” Mel said, her smile widening. She nabbed his shirt from the work table and gestured for him to lead the way. She folded the plaid button-down close to her body so she could smell the scent of pine so strongly absorbed into the fabric. When they got back upstairs, she set it on the kitchen island next to her cell phone, then lit the
stove.
Mason’s heavy footsteps sounded behind her, but she kept her eyes on the stove and the mixture she had set to a simmering heat.
“There must be something else,” he said, towering over Mel from behind and watching over her shoulder as she added cocoa powder to the saucepan. “Some magic ingredient in this potion you’re brewing.” He pulled his shirt on now but didn’t button it.
“Are you calling me a witch?”
“More like a powerful sorceress,” he said.
“That’s more like it,” Mel replied. She faced the stovetop and smiled, content to perform for this audience of one. She scooped in just the right amount of sugar, then stirred the pot of simmering chocolate, adding a few flavorings here and there from memory. Her grandfather had made this cocoa every year, and she was the only one he trusted with the recipe. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out why he left her this old house though, not when he left so little to his other grandchildren.
She kept thinking about the old man as she poured cocoa over the rim of the pot it had warmed in, and into a pair of clean mugs. Grandpa George wasn’t an old man when he called this house home, he had been a young boy. Maybe his own mother had made this very winter drink, at this same gas range stove.
When Mel spun back, mugs in hand, she forgot how closely Mason stood behind her. She startled, sloshing the drinks in both hands before steadying herself.
Mason looked down at her, his shirt still open and his powerful chest inches from her face. Her heart raced.
“It’s so warm, all of a sudden,” she said.
“You did just spill hot chocolate on yourself.”
“I what? Oh no!” A pair of brown streaks ran down the front of her red blouse, darkening the silk.
Mason grabbed the mugs to free her hands, and she quickly started to unbutton her shirt. When she glanced up at him, he arched an eyebrow before turning around and affording her some semblance of humility. She appreciated his modesty, though she lacked that level of self-discipline. She had already proven that, sneaking glances at his worked-out muscles every time they were on display.